A Little Story before I Die

March 21, 1923

Dr. Camp felt it. The years crushed down on him, leaving him with the unbearable loneliness that comes from losing one’s lifelong companions and the physical pain that an adventurous life gave him. The nurses would give him morphine, but never enough to eradicate the physical pain, never enough to ignore the loneliness.

Truth be told, the good doctor was ready to die. Yet…yet he wouldn’t. Not yet. He had one more tale to write, one more story that had to be penned before he would let himself move on to whatever came next.

“I don’t know, matron. He writes, then he rests. He writes, then he rests. All day long for the past three days.”

Matron Blume nodded thoughtfully. The doctor’s sudden resurgence of strength and spirit bothered her. She had seen it before, though. A man’s final burst of energy right before succumbing to death.

Nurse Dilling prepared a dose of morphine for Dr. Camp; he waved it away irritably. Shrugging, she put the syringe away. He’ll need it tonight, poor dear. How the man stays alive is beyond me.

The day crept on, the only sound in the small sitting room was the scraping of Dr. Camp’s pen. The setting sun filtered through cheap curtains, allowing the doctor to continue with his writing without the aid of a candle. He finally finished, sealing up his writing in a large, thick envelope and having a nurse lock it away. He gave the nurse some specific instructions on what to do with the envelope. She blanched at his words but nodded her assent.

Dr. Camp then accepted the morphine. The drug instantly invaded his bloodstream, causing his face to relax and his body to lose its tenseness. Smiling faintly, he went to bed, whistling as he climbed the stairs.

He would not wake up.

April 22, 2023

Lillith placed the package on the kitchen table and inspected the sender’s address. She began unwrapping the package as her husband came to the table with two mugs of coffee and a pack of cigarettes. Both followed the same ritual: three sips of coffee, followed by the lighting of a cigarette.

“What’s that?” Kirk watched as Lillith opened the package.

“From a law firm in London. Coombe and Tracey.”

“Well, well. And do we know anyone in London?”

Lillith shook her head, taking out the single sheet of paper that lay on top of a sheaf of papers tied together with ribbon. She read through the contents before passing it over to her husband.

“Hmm. Seems like this is from your great-grandfather. Odd.” Kirk handed the sheet of paper back to Lillith and watched as she unwrapped the sheaf of ribbon-bound papers. They were old, yellowed with age, and filled with the type of handwriting that was non-existent in this century.

“Raymond Camp. He was a doctor,” Lillith said. She wondered why she would receive something so old and unique. She had met Dr. Camp’s son, her grandfather, but he died when she was ten years old. Lillith remembered him as a jovial old man, very fat and always with a red face. Dad says he was a drunk, and I believe it. Still, a nice old man who always had a candy bar for me.

“Soooo…what’s it all say?” Kirk got up and poured out more coffee for them. He lit another cigarette and leaned back, waiting for Lillith to answer. Sunday mornings are for pleasure, and I doubt that whatever Lillith is reading is pleasurable. She seems…what...agitated? No, that’s not it. A little intensity in the face, for sure. Ah! Purposeful. That’s it.

 Kirk waited, but Lillith kept on reading – and ignoring him. With a sigh, he got up and grabbed a leash.

“Jasper and I are gonna go for a walk. Be back later, ok?”

Lillith nodded absently as she continued reading.

Yeah, Kirk thought, and I’m gonna get one of those almond croissants, and maybe even a lemon tart. And just because you’re ignoring me, I’m not gonna bring anything back for you. Ok, that would be wrong.

“C’mon, Jasper. Let’s leave mommy alone,” Kirk said. Jasper was a willing dog, ready to be hooked up and walked.

Kirk left his wife alone with her old papers. Jasper looked forward to watering fire hydrants and the odd bush. Only the four-legged member of the family was completely happy.

Kirk returned to a surreal scene. Lillith was staring into space, a glass of Scotch in one hand and the old papers in the other. She didn’t look up when the duo returned from their walk-pastry excursion.

“Um…you’re drinking Scotch at ten o’clock in the morning?”

Lillith looked up and handed Kirk the papers.

“Read this. Get a glass of Scotch first. You’re gonna need it, babe.”

Lillith walked out and stood on the balcony, staring at the back yard.

Kirk poured out three fingers’ worth of Scotch and sat down to read. After the first page, he realized that he may not have enough Scotch.

March, 1923

If you’re reading this, then that means you are my nearest living relative. You, whoever you are, will be the only person to know the truth about certain matters relating to the best and wisest man I ever knew. What you do with this is entirely up to you. One hundred years have passed, so no living soul can be hurt by anything I wish to disclose.

I was a writer, known to the world as Dr. John Watson. Yes, the Dr. Watson who chronicled many of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes. I say this with the belief that he is still relevant. Maybe he has been forgotten by now. Maybe you have no idea who he is. If not, I suggest you go to the nearest library and do some research.

It is my wish to clarify a few things concerning our life together, and to let you know of his most famous result as a consulting detective. The secrecy surrounding these events, I expect, can be done away with. At the time, it would have been too much for my friend to cope with.

Sherlock Holmes was my friend, and I was his protector. As such, I often misled the public about my role in his life, and I also made it a particular point to mislead the public about his personal appearance and his personal life.

Sherlock was tall, to be sure, but he was burly. He never wore a deerstalker hat, never smoked a pipe, never denigrated women. A necessary ruse. Sherlock hated publicity, and he needed his anonymity to be effective in his career. That’s where I came in.

We met in 1881. We began to share rooms in 1882. I began chronicling many of his cases soon thereafter. Our goal – as this was a collaboration – was that I would supplement my income through the writing of his cases while also keeping his identity safe. This wasn’t my idea, splendid though it was; Holmes had a distinct knack for manipulating events to his advantage, of which this subterfuge is a supreme example.

Mrs. Hudson was not Mrs. Hudson, our landlord; she was ultimately Mrs. Holmes. She and Sherlock had three children (two girls, one boy), and we never lived at 221-B Baker Street. They married in 1887.

Let me go further. Inspector Lestrade was, in reality, Chief Detective Inspector Bennet. In real life, he was an astute and effective detective, and the liaison between Holmes and Scotland Yard. He and the Home Secretary were the only ones who knew Holmes and his association with solving crimes that Scotland Yard couldn’t solve.

Most of Holmes’ cases were conducted with private individuals. He became the intimate of kings and prime ministers. The most powerful men in Europe called on Holmes to help them, and help them he did. Along the way, he became rich and respected. The added benefit of being allowed access to all the most important houses and halls in Europe played a part in his most famous case. The Ripper case.

Holmes’ help led to the cessation of the Ripper’s deeds in Whitechapel. Simply put, he deduced the identity of the killer with only a few clues and a lot of abduction – though I chose to call it deduction. I didn’t know the difference at the time.

The clues: grapes, laudanum, absinthe, sugar cubes, knife, brutality, strength of killer, type of woman victimized. All these clues were known to the police, and to the general public, in time. There was one clue, however, that Holmes found, one item of evidence that was dismissed as unimportant. Hay.

Hay is hay, CDI Lestrade said to Holmes. Not worth noting, something that littered every street in Whitechapel. Holmes disagreed. Holmes was right, as was his habit.

The hay in question came from a particular region in Surrey, and only a few of the wealthy families of England used this strain of hay. The Rothschild family was one such.

Holmes determined, through incessant reconnaissance and shadowing, that a groom from the Rothschild stables was the culprit. He would not, however, face a trial. When Holmes confronted him, he attacked my friend with savagery and hate. Holmes, of course, was prepared. He was always prepared.

The groom attempted a frontal assault on Holmes, rushing at him with a knife. Holmes sidestepped the man and turned to him cooly, imploring him to “give up this futile effort, man. You cannot hope to better me.” The groom rushed Holmes again, this time to be met with a sharp, efficient strike to the throat. The groom died, drowning in his own blood. Holmes wouldn’t let me try to save the man. “He is a poison, Camp. I shall sleep better tonight knowing that such a monster has gone to meet his judgment.”

That was it. Such a simple case for Holmes, yet it had tremendous ramifications.

I was shocked and saddened by Holmes’ actions and decisions, though, in my heart, I understood them. This led to a semi-estrangement that lasted for the better part of a year. In the end, I forgave my friend, though he had no need of forgiveness. He did what he considered was just; he could not be swayed from this path.

Over the course of our friendship, Holmes solved 842 cases. I published sixty of them, always careful about any detail that could identify my friend. That was my role, and I was honored to have been a part of his life.

Holmes died three years ago. My own beloved Mary had died in 1910. Mrs. Emma Holmes, Sherlock’s lovely and vibrant wife, died a mere month before her husband. I have outlived all the people most dear to me, and that is my curse. I have a daughter, but she rarely visits. I don’t blame her for this, but it rends my heart to know that she has dismissed her father as a senile, doddering old fool. I live with memories now, and ghosts that visit me all too often.

I have enclosed some details about the Ripper case that will validate my story. The proof is there, from the photographs of the groom’s collection of macabre body parts to the secret report from Scotland Yard. The very particular types of killings stopped in Whitechapel and Spitalfields when Holmes killed the culprit, further adding validity to the events about which I have written on these pages. The public was never informed for various political reasons, most crucial of which is the success of a consulting detective where the entire London police force failed. 10 Downing Street made sure of this.

My end is imminent. I can feel it, now that I have finished my last tale involving the great Sherlock Holmes. I believe that my life had worth and justification, but it is time to see what lies beyond the veil. Perhaps the Holmeses and my sweet Mary are waiting for me. Sometimes, at night, I think I hear them calling for me. All I can do is sob into my pillow and wait. The morphine helps; I can now understand why Sherlock loved it so much.

You have my blood in you; my daughter, Sarah, will probably be your grandmother or great-grandmother. I wish I could have known you, but it is not the way of the world. In my next life, if I am allowed to do so, I will be watching you with great love and affection.

The night is drawing in, and I am forced to light a candle to finish this before I retire for my final repose. I can hear the ghosts calling me to come, faint ephemeral voices that sound like the soft sighs of a lover. The voices are sweet, and I am exhausted by this life. It is time to go where I belong. Godspeed.

Kirk and Lillith sat in silence as the day continued without them. Faint sounds of kids playing and cars passing by filtered through the windows and walls. The summer sun had passed its zenith for the day, washing the neighborhood in glaring light and uncomfortable heat. Dog owners were being walked by their dogs, pausing in the shade so that the dogs could do their business and the owners could check their phones.

“We could have this authenticated,” Kirk said, breaking the heavy and oppressive silence.

Lillith nodded.

“It feels real, babe. This,” she held up the old manuscript, “will be worth millions.”

“And it’ll rock the world. The Ripper case, the truth about Sherlock Holmes. All of it.”

“The find of the century.”

“Easily, Lil. I mean, think of it. The Sherlock Holmes mythology, exploded. The Ripper case, solved. And we’ll be rich and famous.”

Lillith shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.

“Yes. Quite. Or we could burn it and let the world have Sherlock as he is.”

**************

Lillith and Kirk watched the papers curl, darken, and burn. The charcoal grill glowed with the embers of the manuscript and the charcoals that had burned down to red-hot briquettes.

“You know, I never thought it possible,” Kirk said, “to love you even more.”

Lillith smiled and sliced tomatoes.

“Do tell, husband. What brought this comment on?”

Kirk laid the patties on the grill, creating an instant sizzle. Smoke curled from the patties, casting an aroma over the neighborhood.

“We gave up millions, and for what?”

“You said it earlier. Leave Sherlock Holmes as is.”

“Well, sure. It’s easy to say but hard to do.”

“But we did it, babe,” Lillith said. She began chopping lettuce and slicing onions.

“That’s the point. You gave up millions because…” Kirk pointed his spatula at Lillith.

Lillith looked at Kirk and smiled. She tossed a piece of lettuce at him. It fell on the grass and was snapped up by Jasper. He chewed on it a while but lost interest in it, dropping it by Kirk’s feet and looking up. Kirk declined to give Jasper a piece of cooked meat. Lillith gave him a doggy snack.

“Because,” Lillith sighed and gathered her thoughts about her like an uncomfortable dress, “we shouldn’t mess with it. Any of it. Let history be what it is. And besides, do we really need millions of dollars?”

“It wouldn’t hurt.”

Lillith shook her head.

“It might.”

Kirk looked at his wife quizzically.

“I mean,” she continued, “we’d become different people with money. We’re not the type that can handle instant wealth. Think about it, babe. We’re Americans. You’d buy stupid shit and have an affair. I’d drink and have a revenge affair, probably with the pool boy.”

“We don’t have a pool.”

“But we would. I like things the way they are. We do ok. We have a good life. Why mess with that?”

Kirk flipped the burgers and put his spatula down, facing his wife.

“Will you marry me again?”

“After we eat. I’m starving.”

The night, like so many nights before, passed comfortably for Kirk and Lillith. They watched a “Father Brown” episode after washing up. They talked about old Mrs. Johnson across the street and how they thought she might get married again, even though she was well past seventy. Kirk mentioned the new menu at work and what inspired him. Lillith suggested that he add ceviche to the menu because no one in the area served a decent ceviche.

A breeze picked up and offered some coolness to the couple as they went to bed. Lillith listened to the whispers of the breeze as it made its way through the live oaks. The smell of jasmine wafted through the open window, lulling the couple to sleep.

Tomorrow would be a new day. Sherlock was safe, the Ripper case remained unsolved, and the couple sleeping upstairs would continue to live a life that didn’t include pool boys and the purchase of stupid shit.

Some couples are just lucky that way.