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holmesticeTitle: The Truth of the Musgrave Ritual
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mundungus42
Author:mydwynter
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (ACD Canon & Granada Series)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings/Kinks/Contents: First time, case fic, romance.
Summary:
It is my custom, you may have noticed, to save those little cases which we have solved until such time as danger to those involved has passed, or until Holmes otherwise suggests I may write about them.
The happenings at Hurlstone Hall, however, received a very different treatment indeed.
It is my custom, you may have noticed, to save those little cases which we have solved until such time as danger to those involved has passed, or until Holmes otherwise suggests I may write about them.
The happenings at Hurlstone Hall, however, received a very different treatment indeed.
At the time, I feared writing up the case. The circumstances of its investigation were so inextricably entangled with our personal circumstances that I had no idea how to describe the mystery without betraying us to the public. I thought it was better, then, to couch it as a tale told to me by Holmes alone, effecting a healthy separation between me and the events that took place. It seemed safer. It seemed wiser.
It is only now nearing the end of our life together, when Holmes is out walking the downs or examining the ejecta from the channel, that I find myself at liberty to transcribe the true events of that case which I eventually entitled, "The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual." My reasons for this are two-fold: the first, so that I may once again easily traverse the hills and valleys of my memory, remembering a time which has taken on the halcyon glow of the past now that my joints have all but failed and this mortal envelope cannot hope to keep up with the inspiration of my soul.
As for the second reason, it is my fondest wish that some kinder future will find this letter and look with sympathy upon us in a time when two life-long partners such as we can live our lives without fear of censure or gaol. I would wish them to have the truth of what happened during that particular, fated, world-changing trip to Sussex.
It was a cold and chilly autumn day when we set out. Holmes had been using himself quite a bit harder than I should have liked, and it had all caught up with him. He was desperately in need of respite, so when his collegiate acquaintance Reginald Musgrave wrote to him I was allowed to bully him into a bit of a holiday.
At this time he and I were friends, no more and no less, though I admit in my heart of hearts affection had been steadily burning away at my margins and turning my steadfast nature to ash. In quieter moments when we were in our sitting room together, I at my writing desk and he in his chair, when the ticking of the clock marked our domestic seconds, there was a calm sense of completion in my chest that I knew no other could inspire. It drove me to find secret joy in the small things. Even such a tiny gift as a glance or a smile could warm me from the inside out, and it was an everyday fact of life that I lived from such moment to such moment.
On that morning that we travelled from our cozy home in Baker St. to the damp and draughty manor of Hurlstone, for example, we were sitting in a dog-cart on the last leg of our journey. The morning air was crisp and lacking in fog, but it was a great many degrees cooler out in the country than in the city. We were bundled up together for warmth—Holmes under a horrid shawl he had found beneath the seats—and we talked of the journey ahead, but I admit the most of my attention was drawn by the sensation of his thigh against mine. Whomever reads this may not have read my stories in the Strand, so may not have a clear picture in his mind about the strength in that thigh, or its grace or its length, but let it be known now that Holmes's legs were beautiful. Everything about him was beautiful.
It is possible I have misapprehend the degree of my regard for him at that time. Or perhaps our years together now colour every inch of memory, and all is tinged with the rosy glow of romanticism. I do not know, and I'm not sure I care.
As I remember it, Holmes's cheeks were reddened by the crisp wind, and his eyes sparkled as he spoke. It was relief to see him so after his illness. "Musgrave is a scion of one of the oldest families in England." He shifted, and briefly his thigh pressed harder against mine. "He was not generally popular among the undergraduates, but it always seemed to me that what was set down as pride, was really a cover for extreme natural diffidence. Indeed I never think of his pale, lean face and the poise of his head without associating him with gray archways, mullioned windows and all the venerable wreckage of a feudal keep."
I informed him that it he disliked Musgrave so entirely he shouldn't have accepted his invitation. We bickered playfully for a moment—a welcome sign that Holmes was not nearly as ill has he seemed—before he propped his heels on the trunk at his feet. They contained, I was informed, records of his early work.
Now, he and I had spent some time together, and I prided myself on our closeness. I was hurt, then, to find that there were records of his earlier cases and that he had never shared them with me. Even if he hadn't wanted me to write them up formally, would dearly loved to have read them.
"The case of Vamberry the wine merchant, the adventure of the old Russian woman, a full account of Ricoletti with the clubfoot and his abominable wife, and the singular affair of the Aluminium crutch."
"Aluminium crutch?"
"Now that was something a little recherché."
I don't mind admitting that I stewed in my hurt almost until we reached the house. Records! Of his early cases! And for some reason, a reason known only to Holmes himself, he had been keeping them from me.
We pulled up to find waiting for us the lean, dark, lime-creamed form of Brunton, the butler. He was exactly as Holmes described: a schoolteacher out of place, though not as young as I was expecting, with a deference that one could sense stemmed only from training and not from natural inclination.
Musgrave, on the other hand, was not so bad as all that. He was a bit brighter of eye than I had expected, a bit fuller of form, though there was something of the haddock around his mouth. Perhaps over the years he had changed. Perhaps Holmes found him changed as well. In any event, he greeted us warmly and seemed genuinely glad to receive visitors. I was impressed to hear he was a member of parliament, though, I must admit, not surprised; Holmes did seem to float among the most variable of social circles. It was not uncommon for him, after all, to meet with a visiting dignitary in the morning and to enjoy the company of a band of Irregulars in the afternoon. It had almost become a fact of our life together.
(When I think of it now, it is strange that I should even have noted his social standing at all. I suppose I can chalk it up to the ego of youth.)
He left me with our bags and Brunton as he wandered off to reconnect with his friend.
"Holmes tells me you're a musician?" I asked Brunton, trying to steer him off from an incipient conversation about the cut of the stonework or the year they had to level the ground for a flowerbed. I fancy myself I can fake interest with the best of them, but it had been a long day of ushering Holmes and baggage here and there. I was worn out.
Brunton bowed a nod and tucked his hands behind his back. "I am, sir."
"What instrument do you play?"
"Nearly all that are found in the contemporary orchestra. I find joy in all of them."
It took most of my remaining strength not to roll my eyes at him. "Is that so?"
"I must admit, however, if pressed, that the flute is by far my favourite. I once came across a rare piccolo which I judge was made in the year—"
Fortunately, a housemaid emerged like a spectre from the shadows, and Brunton's face shuttered. "What is it, Rachel?"
The girl scowled at him and spun away.
Curious, I studied his expression for some clue as to what had just occurred, but could discern nothing. His composure was noticeably shaken, however, and rather than continue his lecture on the history of the flute he simply instructed the porters to take the bags up to our rooms. I was left standing on the front portico to pay the driver and wonder to where Holmes and Musgrave had disappeared.
I found Musgrave in the courtyard, having a turn about the paths with a contemplative expression on his face.
"Doctor Watson," he said, inclining his head to me. "Holmes has been shown up to his room. He's been ill, I trust?"
Not wanting to worry his old friend, I smiled. "Only a bit of influenza. Nowhere near as troublesome as it could have been."
"And no match for you, I expect. A trusted source tells me you are a splendid physician."
I blinked. "Well, thank you." I wondered where he could have heard that. I'd thought that my skills had been atrophying since the day I took up with Holmes. Particularly in those days, I spent far more of my time with a revolver in my hand than a stethoscope. "If I may ask, was this a former patient with whom you've come into contact?"
His eyebrow quirked. "Why, I heard of it from Holmes himself. I'd thought that obvious." He didn't smile, but the tiniest bit of twinkle shined in his eye. I thought this might be the natural diffidence of which Holmes had spoke. "That was my intended joke, at any rate."
"Ah." I looked at him, then around at the courtyard, not quite knowing what to say. "He flatters me."
"I'm sure he doesn't."
I caught a look from him, an amused thing that told me he knew Holmes better than Holmes had let on. I quirked a smile. "No. He doesn't."
"Not to your face, I'm sure. But that's how Holmes works of course. He keeps all the most important things to himself."
"Strange. He said something similar about you." To this day, I don't know why I said it. The words came tumbling out of my mouth and I immediately wished I could snatch them back. I anticipated a sharp look, but instead Musgrave just granted me a curious smile and led me into the manor.
"I expect he did."
I found Holmes on the second floor, in a spacious room with the fire already blazing. He was huddled up in another blanket and staring into the flames. I entered the room without knocking and sat down on the other chair.
"You've been tattling."
Holmes tilted his head to indicate he heard, but his gaze never left the fire, and all he said was a quiet, "Hm?"
"You've been speaking with Musgrave."
"Hm?"
I studied the side of his head. He'd been running his fingers through his hair. "Holmes. What could possibly be the matter?"
Finally his head swivelled and he glared at me as if I'd insinuated he'd set fire to Musgrave's bull pup. "Nothing's the matter. Why would you think something was wrong?"
I raised an eyebrow at him.
He huffed, flung himself almost sideways in the chair in a petulant flurry of blankets, and gestured imperiously. "I don't know how I'm going to survive in this place."
"You can't possibly be too cold, Holmes. The fire is throwing off enough heat that the entire front of this seat is warm to the touch." I stood and pressed my hand to his forehead, as if that would indicate a thing, then insinuated it along the side of his neck between his skin and his collar. It was far too warm, but then, he was sitting right in front of a blaze.
My investigation was pulled to a staggering halt when he looked up at me with a strange, guarded expression in his eyes. I realised I was taking liberties with his body, certainly, inventing an intimacy that went too far even for us. The sweat from his neck clung to my fingers as I pulled back, so I wiped them on my trouser leg.
He continued to stare at me even as I backed away and sat back down. I stared back in return, but my mouth was dry and I couldn't find words. So I once again stood.
"Musgrave mentioned on the way up that supper is served precisely at seven o'clock. Brunton gets cross if he's made to wait, so. Please be dressed."
I thought he was going to speak, but instead he turned his head and addressed his gaze at the flames. I sighed, and slipped from the room to read before supper.
Just before seven, I called at Holmes's door. There was only the sound of splashing water so I dared to enter without invitation, expecting to find him already dressed and washing his face. The room was empty. My gaze fell upon the box which had been operating as a footrest in the cart, now open, its contents open to the perusal of any curious party—myself included. Keeping an eye out for Holmes's emergence from the bath I snuck into the room to take a peek.
I picked up a bundle of ribbon-tied documents. My mouth fairly watered with anticipation; how long had I been wondering about those early cases? How long had I been trying to prise details out from between those thin lips? Before I could read anything, however, I looked to a small table on the side and my heart sank, the papers forgotten.
Gathered into a small, distressing pile were a bottle of cocaine, a tourniquet, and one of his discharged glass syringes.
It is no secret that I disapproved of the methods he had of destroying his mind and body. Many of my colleagues recommended cocaine for various ailments, it's true, but I much preferred he find a different manner of keeping himself stimulated during the lull in his work. I cared about him too much to take it lightly, even before the events of the weekend came to pass, and I knew that degradation of his mind must have been one of his chief nightmares. I wondered if he'd ever thought about how it felt to me to see that beautiful mind tossed, artificially sharpened, and cutting itself to bits on cocaine. When he partook he said he felt more himself than ever, but in truth I barely recognised him at all.
When Sherlock Holmes was carried away, I missed him.
It was with a deep, gnawing sense of sadness that I stood and slipped from the room before Holmes could see me there. I didn't want to have a conversation with him about the cocaine yet again, and I was going to need a moment to myself before supper. I would need all my gathered strength if I planned to swallow down a meal while facing a much-altered Sherlock Holmes.
Supper was just about as much of a trial as I expected it to be. Holmes cackled at everything Brunton did, from the littlest turn of his head to the manner in which he pronounced the word "jus". And I, I began to have suspicions about our host.
That Musgrave and Holmes knew each other at university, it was a known fact. Holmes had led me to believe it was barely more than a passing acquaintanceship. The signs I saw at supper, however, indicated that Musgrave knew Holmes far better than I had previously understood.
There was an understanding in the way he ignored Holmes’s' poorly-timed bursts of laughter which first made me curious. It was as if he were used to the bizarre tenor of Holmes's jests and, while he didn't welcome them, he knew perfectly well what they were about. Any other man would have questioned Holmes after the first half-hour of strange giggles, but Musgrave only pressed his fishy lips tighter together and continued to eat his cutlet. He followed up Holmes's outburst about the colour of the curtains with a gracious nod of his head and only turned to inquire after the state of my practise.
All in all, it led me to this conclusion: Holmes had partaken even when at university, and Musgrave had experience related to this fact.
So when Holmes, with a spectacular shiver, quit the table, I stayed and tried to form my mouth around the words which would elicit the answers I craved.
"Watson, chap. There's no need to choose your words carefully around me. Or apologise, for that matter. I know perfectly well what is going on."
I stared at him, and I'm afraid I blinked rather stupidly in my shock.
"He's still seeking comfort in the cocaine bottle, I see? I must say, I'd expected different. If only because he now has a completely different medicine in which to indulge when things become a bit strained."
"I'm afraid I don't—"
"It was the same when we were in our college. More than one of us tried to rouse him out of his humour in other ways, as you can expect, but none of us were particularly successful. He had only eyes for his work and his bottle, and only rarely could anyone pull his attention toward anything else that might lift his spirits or ease his lethargy."
"Is…is that so?"
"Arousing him became a challenge that we all attacked in our various ways. Some of us more eagerly and with more physical enthusiasm than others."
I began to feel I had lost the thread of the conversation.
He leaned forward to whisper to me after glancing around to make certain we were alone. "You see, I, too, am a bachelor in perpetuity. Many of our cohorts have since married, but I'd rather not, and have never been fortunate enough to find a…partner with whom to spend my bachelorhood, as he has with you. You two are very lucky."
I did not believe what I was hearing. "Do you mean to tell me that you… That Holmes…"
Rather than fear that he might have given himself away, he simply inclined his head. It was as if he knew implicitly that I was a safe locker in which to lodge his secret. He seemed to trust me far more than I trusted myself.
"But I— I don't— I don't understand." I shook my head to underline this fact.
"I'm sure you do," he said.
"Holmes and I…share our residence. We do not…"
"Share anything else?" He examined my face, which felt both flushed and pale at the same time. My palms were damp and my stomach roiled, and I didn't know which way my thoughts were tending. "Doctor Watson, if you are finished with your cheese perhaps you'd like to join Holmes for some brandy? I might recommend it. If you don't mind me saying, you look as if you've had a bit of a shock."
It was an understatement if ever I'd heard one. Not only was Holmes inclined to enjoy physical comfort from his fellows at college, but it seemed Musgrave was also to that inclination. Did he just confirm that he…? Did they…? I blushed, finished my cheese, and allowed myself to be led into a discussion of the history and artefacts of the Musgrave family as we made our way to the study.
I examined Holmes when we arrived. This was the man I'd always known, of course, but now that I knew more—Holmes had always been partial to the needle, Holmes had always been partial to other vices as well—I could not help but see him in another light.
If you'd asked me my opinions on the use of cocaine, I would have an answer based upon the evidence of science and my observations as a professional. I was aware my objections to Holmes's use were chiefly selfish. However, if you'd asked me about the latter issue, that of dalliances between men, I would not have a clear answer. My specialties were not of either the heart or of ecumenical teaching, and I knew perfectly well the prevailing winds of morality and the law, but I also knew about the comforts men will cling to in the shattering, echoing loneliness of wartime, of the way war knits unnatural closeness, of the blessing a friendship can be. I knew all these things, yet I remained still a man divided, torn by fact and experience and the sudden, desperate yearnings I felt rise up in my chest.
Holmes's profile was beautiful and beloved, and when it cracked into giddy laughter I fled to the safety of a chair.
That evening, before bed, I found myself at Holmes's room again. Toward the end of our time in the study I noticed the tell-tale signs of Holmes's drop into post-cocaine misery, and though he covered it with the grace of a long (longer than I had presumed) practitioner, a close compatriot knew. His habits were as familiar to me as my own.
"Holmes," I said as I knocked on the door and pushed it open a crack. "Holmes, can I get you something?"
Prone on his bed, his dinner jacket draped across his face, he groaned and twitched a foot.
I entered the room and pulled a chair up to to his side. He jerked away from my hand where it snaked under the jacket and started stroking his hair, but he seemed to think better of it and relaxed into the touch. I thought about what I was doing; it was the sort of thing I had long done to soothe him, but it took on a different light when I thought about the activities he had likely indulged in at university. I didn't know what I was doing, but it seems I was doing it anyway.
His forelocks were still sticky with pomade, but the hair near the back of his head was soft. He sighed and rolled over, so, taking the hint, I carded my fingers through his hair and gently kneaded the muscles of his neck before speaking.
"I do wish you wouldn't do this, Holmes."
There was a long moment of silence, but finally he did reply. "I know you do."
"Yet you do it anyway."
"Yes."
"You've always done it."
He was quiet. "Musgrave told you."
"Yes. Musgrave told me."
For several weighted seconds Holmes seemed to process this, then he fumbled back and wrapped his fingers around my arm. He simply grasped it, breathed a few times, and pulled.
"What are you—" I started, but in this as in other things I followed his lead. I clambered onto the bed, shoes and all, and when he tucked my arm up against his stomach I let him.
He seemed to relax. I was the one on edge. I sat on the edge of the mattress and waited to see what was going to happen next, if he was going to let go or not.
Instead he growled, "Lie down, Watson, for God's sake," and hugged my arm more firmly against his chest.
My mind spinning, I simply did what he asked. I allowed myself to be fitted up against his back, and when I was stretched full-out he sunk back against my body and heaved the sigh of the deeply-relieved.
I did not know what was going on. Which is to say, I knew in very practical terms what was happening—Holmes was coming down from the chemical ecstasy, which always made him a curious combination of cantankerous and sad, and he was using my body for warmth and comfort—but as to the 'whys' and the 'why nows', I could only presume that my knowledge of his activities at university and my apparent acceptance had seemed to give him permission to take liberties with my person which he had not done before.
The question left tumbling through my mind was: what was I going to do about it?
The answer, it turned out, was to myself sigh and press myself closer against his back. It appeared that his relief was transferrable from body to body through skin and clothing, because I felt myself relax into the most gorgeous feeling of calm, of serenity, of peace I had felt in an age. Pressed so against Holmes I imagined we were melting into one being, and I had never been more whole. Filled with these fanciful thoughts, I tilted my head forward and pushed my mouth against his shoulder in a sort of dry kiss. In return, he only held my arm tighter to his ribs and melted into me.
'Please', I remember thinking over and over. 'Please.'
I cradled him, am not ashamed to say I held him there, as the drug slipped from his system and his brain tortured him into a restless, shifting sleep. When he had finally dropped off I detangled myself from around him, covered him with blankets, stoked up the fire in the grate, and went back to my own room.
My bed was very, very cold.
In my fiction for The Strand, I conveyed the state of the second housemaid, Rachel, through the storytelling efforts of Musgrave. In truth, however, I was far more intimately acquainted with her status.
When I came down to breakfast the next morning Holmes and Musgrave were already there. I tried to catch Holmes's eye but he would not look at me, instead sitting and smoking and wearing another infernal knitted shawl he'd likely found somewhere on the Manor grounds. If we were at home I would have made a bid for his attention, but as Musgrave was right there and servants were circulating, I simply found my seat and waited for tea to be poured.
My heart was beating just a bit quicker than usual, no doubt; I'd slept fitfully, uneasy about what had passed between Holmes and I in the quiet hours of the previous evening. More than once I wondered what it would have been like simply to allow myself to fall asleep next to him, listening to his breath, stroking his hair when he whimpered, lulling him back to sleep. No doubt it was largely the medical man's desire to soothe and heal that kept me awake, but I would be lying to myself if I did not admit to just a little bit of greed as well. Caring for Holmes has been, always, one of my cherished gifts and, I felt, rightly so: as much as I'd had to doctor to him in our years together, his presence in my life was a balm which healed me just as much in return.
His chin was held too high as he glanced at the activity going on around him. It looked to me as if he were compensating for the lethargy and depression which usually follow his chemical indulgences. Too, I wondered even at the time if he did not know something about Rachel or if his natural curiosity were simply aroused by Musgraves stories after supper, for his eyes followed her more than any other person in the room.
More than they followed me, at any rate.
My story in The Strand plays havoc with the timeline as it actually occurred. If this has not already become apparent, it will be more so as this narrative continues. However, it might do for me to point out now that in the fictionalised version, Holmes comes into the investigation long after both Brunton and Rachel are gone. In truth, as you have seen, both were still attending their master when we arrived, and when we sat down to breakfast I did not believe that fact had changed. I had no hint of what was to come.
Which is why I was so confused by Holmes’s expression as Rachel came round to pour my tea. From the quirk of his lip, I knew he was going to say something before he said it, but I had no idea that the question he would ask would be, “Where’s Brunton this morning?”
Pity he chose to enquire just as Rachel began to pour. I narrowly escaped scalding due to a combination of reflexes and woolen trousers, and wondered whether Holmes had done that on purpose. Was this some punishment for our indiscretion last night? But he had been the one to instigate…
My accusatory thoughts were interrupted by Rachel falling into a faint, and from then on I could spare no time for Holmes or his machinations. I caught her, but only barely. She cried out something about Brunton being missing—I believed it a delusion brought on by fever, and therefore without merit—and I shuttled her to her room for doctoring. As far as I knew the luckier Holmes and Musgrave disregarded the outburst, finished their breakfasts and moved on to other, rather more social, activities.
Or so I had thought. But after some searching, and a cold bit of toast, a servant directed me to what I was told was Brunton's room. When I arrived I found Holmes and Musgrave there, and Rachel’s story was confirmed: the butler was, indeed, missing.
I made my report on Rachel’s status, rubbing the fresh scratch I had received by her at her aid. I wish I'd known what else could be done besides the obvious—sleep and constant care—but I could make no sense of her bursts of activity mixed with the catatonia of deep horror. It reminded me not a little of Holmes in one of his fits, and I suppose that made me judge her just a bit more harshly than I should have. "A fine Welsh temper" is not a very scientific diagnosis, after all.
My small wound did serve some purpose, however; it seemed by that point that Holmes was in a far better state than he had been, and when he saw that I had been scratched he clasped my hand in support and expressed some regret for my injury. I had honestly expected to be locked out of his notice for the entire day, so to have his attention even for a few moments eased the tightness in my stomach not a little.
We, Musgrave and I, left Holmes and went for a shoot, and I found myself in a much better humour than I had any right to.
Musgrave's friends were congenial, and the walk was refreshing, and I even managed to take down a pheasant. All in all it was an excellent shoot, and when I found Holmes resting on a bench outdoors my heart lightened even further.
Both Musgrave and I parted from the rest of the party to head over to where Holmes was sitting; Musgrave had just begun to tell me of something which had occurred the night before, and he desired a bit of advice from Holmes. This is where the story about Brunton's spying in the library had come out, and it had only happened the previous evening, not several days before Rachel's distress as I had reported in The Strand.
The rest of the story fell out almost exactly as I have written. Brunton had been caught looking through the family papers in the drawer of Musgrave's desk—perhaps he thought that, Holmes and I in residence, his master would be too busy to visit his own study—and had been subsequently let go. He had stuffed a paper in his pocket before leaving the room, but had left another paper behind: the paper bearing the curious cadence of the ritual passed down from generation to generation of Musgraves. Brunton had seemed most eager to stay in the household instead of being immediately sent packing, which is why his sudden departure was such a mystery. We theorised then and there that, having been dismissed, rather than stay for the agreed-upon week he would stage his disappearance immediately.
We all three of us trooped into the library to study the document.
"This is a strange catechism," said Holmes, and he was right.
"Whose was it?
His who is gone.
Who shall have it?
He who will come.
Where was the sun?
Over the oak.
Where was the shadow?
Under the elm.
How was it stepped?
West 8 by 8. South 7 by 7. West 6 by 6. South 5 by 5. And 2 by 2, and so, under.
What shall we give for it?
All that is ours.
Why should we give it?
For the sake of the trust."
Holmes read the call and, with only a bit of prompting, Musgrave and I read out the response. It reminded me quite a lot of school. When we finished, I smiled. "Why, it's a treasure hunt!"
Bearing umbrellas against the threat of rain we went to examine the first on the list of clues, the patriarch among oaks which stood on the edge of a field. It was a splendid example of the breed, but as we examined it it became obvious that, if this were the oak in question, with generations of Musgraves following the directions the treasure would surely have been found already.
As the joy of discovery wavered in me, my skin was prickled by the electric rise of the oncoming storm. No matter that we could proceed no further that night, still I was filled with a strange certainty that something nonetheless was going to happen.
The Truth of the Musgrave Ritual - Part 2
Recipient:
mundungus42Author:
mydwynterCharacters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (ACD Canon & Granada Series)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings/Kinks/Contents: First time, case fic, romance.
Summary:
It is my custom, you may have noticed, to save those little cases which we have solved until such time as danger to those involved has passed, or until Holmes otherwise suggests I may write about them.
The happenings at Hurlstone Hall, however, received a very different treatment indeed.
It is my custom, you may have noticed, to save those little cases which we have solved until such time as danger to those involved has passed, or until Holmes otherwise suggests I may write about them.
The happenings at Hurlstone Hall, however, received a very different treatment indeed.
At the time, I feared writing up the case. The circumstances of its investigation were so inextricably entangled with our personal circumstances that I had no idea how to describe the mystery without betraying us to the public. I thought it was better, then, to couch it as a tale told to me by Holmes alone, effecting a healthy separation between me and the events that took place. It seemed safer. It seemed wiser.
It is only now nearing the end of our life together, when Holmes is out walking the downs or examining the ejecta from the channel, that I find myself at liberty to transcribe the true events of that case which I eventually entitled, "The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual." My reasons for this are two-fold: the first, so that I may once again easily traverse the hills and valleys of my memory, remembering a time which has taken on the halcyon glow of the past now that my joints have all but failed and this mortal envelope cannot hope to keep up with the inspiration of my soul.
As for the second reason, it is my fondest wish that some kinder future will find this letter and look with sympathy upon us in a time when two life-long partners such as we can live our lives without fear of censure or gaol. I would wish them to have the truth of what happened during that particular, fated, world-changing trip to Sussex.
It was a cold and chilly autumn day when we set out. Holmes had been using himself quite a bit harder than I should have liked, and it had all caught up with him. He was desperately in need of respite, so when his collegiate acquaintance Reginald Musgrave wrote to him I was allowed to bully him into a bit of a holiday.
At this time he and I were friends, no more and no less, though I admit in my heart of hearts affection had been steadily burning away at my margins and turning my steadfast nature to ash. In quieter moments when we were in our sitting room together, I at my writing desk and he in his chair, when the ticking of the clock marked our domestic seconds, there was a calm sense of completion in my chest that I knew no other could inspire. It drove me to find secret joy in the small things. Even such a tiny gift as a glance or a smile could warm me from the inside out, and it was an everyday fact of life that I lived from such moment to such moment.
On that morning that we travelled from our cozy home in Baker St. to the damp and draughty manor of Hurlstone, for example, we were sitting in a dog-cart on the last leg of our journey. The morning air was crisp and lacking in fog, but it was a great many degrees cooler out in the country than in the city. We were bundled up together for warmth—Holmes under a horrid shawl he had found beneath the seats—and we talked of the journey ahead, but I admit the most of my attention was drawn by the sensation of his thigh against mine. Whomever reads this may not have read my stories in the Strand, so may not have a clear picture in his mind about the strength in that thigh, or its grace or its length, but let it be known now that Holmes's legs were beautiful. Everything about him was beautiful.
It is possible I have misapprehend the degree of my regard for him at that time. Or perhaps our years together now colour every inch of memory, and all is tinged with the rosy glow of romanticism. I do not know, and I'm not sure I care.
As I remember it, Holmes's cheeks were reddened by the crisp wind, and his eyes sparkled as he spoke. It was relief to see him so after his illness. "Musgrave is a scion of one of the oldest families in England." He shifted, and briefly his thigh pressed harder against mine. "He was not generally popular among the undergraduates, but it always seemed to me that what was set down as pride, was really a cover for extreme natural diffidence. Indeed I never think of his pale, lean face and the poise of his head without associating him with gray archways, mullioned windows and all the venerable wreckage of a feudal keep."
I informed him that it he disliked Musgrave so entirely he shouldn't have accepted his invitation. We bickered playfully for a moment—a welcome sign that Holmes was not nearly as ill has he seemed—before he propped his heels on the trunk at his feet. They contained, I was informed, records of his early work.
Now, he and I had spent some time together, and I prided myself on our closeness. I was hurt, then, to find that there were records of his earlier cases and that he had never shared them with me. Even if he hadn't wanted me to write them up formally, would dearly loved to have read them.
"The case of Vamberry the wine merchant, the adventure of the old Russian woman, a full account of Ricoletti with the clubfoot and his abominable wife, and the singular affair of the Aluminium crutch."
"Aluminium crutch?"
"Now that was something a little recherché."
I don't mind admitting that I stewed in my hurt almost until we reached the house. Records! Of his early cases! And for some reason, a reason known only to Holmes himself, he had been keeping them from me.
We pulled up to find waiting for us the lean, dark, lime-creamed form of Brunton, the butler. He was exactly as Holmes described: a schoolteacher out of place, though not as young as I was expecting, with a deference that one could sense stemmed only from training and not from natural inclination.
Musgrave, on the other hand, was not so bad as all that. He was a bit brighter of eye than I had expected, a bit fuller of form, though there was something of the haddock around his mouth. Perhaps over the years he had changed. Perhaps Holmes found him changed as well. In any event, he greeted us warmly and seemed genuinely glad to receive visitors. I was impressed to hear he was a member of parliament, though, I must admit, not surprised; Holmes did seem to float among the most variable of social circles. It was not uncommon for him, after all, to meet with a visiting dignitary in the morning and to enjoy the company of a band of Irregulars in the afternoon. It had almost become a fact of our life together.
(When I think of it now, it is strange that I should even have noted his social standing at all. I suppose I can chalk it up to the ego of youth.)
He left me with our bags and Brunton as he wandered off to reconnect with his friend.
"Holmes tells me you're a musician?" I asked Brunton, trying to steer him off from an incipient conversation about the cut of the stonework or the year they had to level the ground for a flowerbed. I fancy myself I can fake interest with the best of them, but it had been a long day of ushering Holmes and baggage here and there. I was worn out.
Brunton bowed a nod and tucked his hands behind his back. "I am, sir."
"What instrument do you play?"
"Nearly all that are found in the contemporary orchestra. I find joy in all of them."
It took most of my remaining strength not to roll my eyes at him. "Is that so?"
"I must admit, however, if pressed, that the flute is by far my favourite. I once came across a rare piccolo which I judge was made in the year—"
Fortunately, a housemaid emerged like a spectre from the shadows, and Brunton's face shuttered. "What is it, Rachel?"
The girl scowled at him and spun away.
Curious, I studied his expression for some clue as to what had just occurred, but could discern nothing. His composure was noticeably shaken, however, and rather than continue his lecture on the history of the flute he simply instructed the porters to take the bags up to our rooms. I was left standing on the front portico to pay the driver and wonder to where Holmes and Musgrave had disappeared.
I found Musgrave in the courtyard, having a turn about the paths with a contemplative expression on his face.
"Doctor Watson," he said, inclining his head to me. "Holmes has been shown up to his room. He's been ill, I trust?"
Not wanting to worry his old friend, I smiled. "Only a bit of influenza. Nowhere near as troublesome as it could have been."
"And no match for you, I expect. A trusted source tells me you are a splendid physician."
I blinked. "Well, thank you." I wondered where he could have heard that. I'd thought that my skills had been atrophying since the day I took up with Holmes. Particularly in those days, I spent far more of my time with a revolver in my hand than a stethoscope. "If I may ask, was this a former patient with whom you've come into contact?"
His eyebrow quirked. "Why, I heard of it from Holmes himself. I'd thought that obvious." He didn't smile, but the tiniest bit of twinkle shined in his eye. I thought this might be the natural diffidence of which Holmes had spoke. "That was my intended joke, at any rate."
"Ah." I looked at him, then around at the courtyard, not quite knowing what to say. "He flatters me."
"I'm sure he doesn't."
I caught a look from him, an amused thing that told me he knew Holmes better than Holmes had let on. I quirked a smile. "No. He doesn't."
"Not to your face, I'm sure. But that's how Holmes works of course. He keeps all the most important things to himself."
"Strange. He said something similar about you." To this day, I don't know why I said it. The words came tumbling out of my mouth and I immediately wished I could snatch them back. I anticipated a sharp look, but instead Musgrave just granted me a curious smile and led me into the manor.
"I expect he did."
I found Holmes on the second floor, in a spacious room with the fire already blazing. He was huddled up in another blanket and staring into the flames. I entered the room without knocking and sat down on the other chair.
"You've been tattling."
Holmes tilted his head to indicate he heard, but his gaze never left the fire, and all he said was a quiet, "Hm?"
"You've been speaking with Musgrave."
"Hm?"
I studied the side of his head. He'd been running his fingers through his hair. "Holmes. What could possibly be the matter?"
Finally his head swivelled and he glared at me as if I'd insinuated he'd set fire to Musgrave's bull pup. "Nothing's the matter. Why would you think something was wrong?"
I raised an eyebrow at him.
He huffed, flung himself almost sideways in the chair in a petulant flurry of blankets, and gestured imperiously. "I don't know how I'm going to survive in this place."
"You can't possibly be too cold, Holmes. The fire is throwing off enough heat that the entire front of this seat is warm to the touch." I stood and pressed my hand to his forehead, as if that would indicate a thing, then insinuated it along the side of his neck between his skin and his collar. It was far too warm, but then, he was sitting right in front of a blaze.
My investigation was pulled to a staggering halt when he looked up at me with a strange, guarded expression in his eyes. I realised I was taking liberties with his body, certainly, inventing an intimacy that went too far even for us. The sweat from his neck clung to my fingers as I pulled back, so I wiped them on my trouser leg.
He continued to stare at me even as I backed away and sat back down. I stared back in return, but my mouth was dry and I couldn't find words. So I once again stood.
"Musgrave mentioned on the way up that supper is served precisely at seven o'clock. Brunton gets cross if he's made to wait, so. Please be dressed."
I thought he was going to speak, but instead he turned his head and addressed his gaze at the flames. I sighed, and slipped from the room to read before supper.
Just before seven, I called at Holmes's door. There was only the sound of splashing water so I dared to enter without invitation, expecting to find him already dressed and washing his face. The room was empty. My gaze fell upon the box which had been operating as a footrest in the cart, now open, its contents open to the perusal of any curious party—myself included. Keeping an eye out for Holmes's emergence from the bath I snuck into the room to take a peek.
I picked up a bundle of ribbon-tied documents. My mouth fairly watered with anticipation; how long had I been wondering about those early cases? How long had I been trying to prise details out from between those thin lips? Before I could read anything, however, I looked to a small table on the side and my heart sank, the papers forgotten.
Gathered into a small, distressing pile were a bottle of cocaine, a tourniquet, and one of his discharged glass syringes.
It is no secret that I disapproved of the methods he had of destroying his mind and body. Many of my colleagues recommended cocaine for various ailments, it's true, but I much preferred he find a different manner of keeping himself stimulated during the lull in his work. I cared about him too much to take it lightly, even before the events of the weekend came to pass, and I knew that degradation of his mind must have been one of his chief nightmares. I wondered if he'd ever thought about how it felt to me to see that beautiful mind tossed, artificially sharpened, and cutting itself to bits on cocaine. When he partook he said he felt more himself than ever, but in truth I barely recognised him at all.
When Sherlock Holmes was carried away, I missed him.
It was with a deep, gnawing sense of sadness that I stood and slipped from the room before Holmes could see me there. I didn't want to have a conversation with him about the cocaine yet again, and I was going to need a moment to myself before supper. I would need all my gathered strength if I planned to swallow down a meal while facing a much-altered Sherlock Holmes.
Supper was just about as much of a trial as I expected it to be. Holmes cackled at everything Brunton did, from the littlest turn of his head to the manner in which he pronounced the word "jus". And I, I began to have suspicions about our host.
That Musgrave and Holmes knew each other at university, it was a known fact. Holmes had led me to believe it was barely more than a passing acquaintanceship. The signs I saw at supper, however, indicated that Musgrave knew Holmes far better than I had previously understood.
There was an understanding in the way he ignored Holmes’s' poorly-timed bursts of laughter which first made me curious. It was as if he were used to the bizarre tenor of Holmes's jests and, while he didn't welcome them, he knew perfectly well what they were about. Any other man would have questioned Holmes after the first half-hour of strange giggles, but Musgrave only pressed his fishy lips tighter together and continued to eat his cutlet. He followed up Holmes's outburst about the colour of the curtains with a gracious nod of his head and only turned to inquire after the state of my practise.
All in all, it led me to this conclusion: Holmes had partaken even when at university, and Musgrave had experience related to this fact.
So when Holmes, with a spectacular shiver, quit the table, I stayed and tried to form my mouth around the words which would elicit the answers I craved.
"Watson, chap. There's no need to choose your words carefully around me. Or apologise, for that matter. I know perfectly well what is going on."
I stared at him, and I'm afraid I blinked rather stupidly in my shock.
"He's still seeking comfort in the cocaine bottle, I see? I must say, I'd expected different. If only because he now has a completely different medicine in which to indulge when things become a bit strained."
"I'm afraid I don't—"
"It was the same when we were in our college. More than one of us tried to rouse him out of his humour in other ways, as you can expect, but none of us were particularly successful. He had only eyes for his work and his bottle, and only rarely could anyone pull his attention toward anything else that might lift his spirits or ease his lethargy."
"Is…is that so?"
"Arousing him became a challenge that we all attacked in our various ways. Some of us more eagerly and with more physical enthusiasm than others."
I began to feel I had lost the thread of the conversation.
He leaned forward to whisper to me after glancing around to make certain we were alone. "You see, I, too, am a bachelor in perpetuity. Many of our cohorts have since married, but I'd rather not, and have never been fortunate enough to find a…partner with whom to spend my bachelorhood, as he has with you. You two are very lucky."
I did not believe what I was hearing. "Do you mean to tell me that you… That Holmes…"
Rather than fear that he might have given himself away, he simply inclined his head. It was as if he knew implicitly that I was a safe locker in which to lodge his secret. He seemed to trust me far more than I trusted myself.
"But I— I don't— I don't understand." I shook my head to underline this fact.
"I'm sure you do," he said.
"Holmes and I…share our residence. We do not…"
"Share anything else?" He examined my face, which felt both flushed and pale at the same time. My palms were damp and my stomach roiled, and I didn't know which way my thoughts were tending. "Doctor Watson, if you are finished with your cheese perhaps you'd like to join Holmes for some brandy? I might recommend it. If you don't mind me saying, you look as if you've had a bit of a shock."
It was an understatement if ever I'd heard one. Not only was Holmes inclined to enjoy physical comfort from his fellows at college, but it seemed Musgrave was also to that inclination. Did he just confirm that he…? Did they…? I blushed, finished my cheese, and allowed myself to be led into a discussion of the history and artefacts of the Musgrave family as we made our way to the study.
I examined Holmes when we arrived. This was the man I'd always known, of course, but now that I knew more—Holmes had always been partial to the needle, Holmes had always been partial to other vices as well—I could not help but see him in another light.
If you'd asked me my opinions on the use of cocaine, I would have an answer based upon the evidence of science and my observations as a professional. I was aware my objections to Holmes's use were chiefly selfish. However, if you'd asked me about the latter issue, that of dalliances between men, I would not have a clear answer. My specialties were not of either the heart or of ecumenical teaching, and I knew perfectly well the prevailing winds of morality and the law, but I also knew about the comforts men will cling to in the shattering, echoing loneliness of wartime, of the way war knits unnatural closeness, of the blessing a friendship can be. I knew all these things, yet I remained still a man divided, torn by fact and experience and the sudden, desperate yearnings I felt rise up in my chest.
Holmes's profile was beautiful and beloved, and when it cracked into giddy laughter I fled to the safety of a chair.
That evening, before bed, I found myself at Holmes's room again. Toward the end of our time in the study I noticed the tell-tale signs of Holmes's drop into post-cocaine misery, and though he covered it with the grace of a long (longer than I had presumed) practitioner, a close compatriot knew. His habits were as familiar to me as my own.
"Holmes," I said as I knocked on the door and pushed it open a crack. "Holmes, can I get you something?"
Prone on his bed, his dinner jacket draped across his face, he groaned and twitched a foot.
I entered the room and pulled a chair up to to his side. He jerked away from my hand where it snaked under the jacket and started stroking his hair, but he seemed to think better of it and relaxed into the touch. I thought about what I was doing; it was the sort of thing I had long done to soothe him, but it took on a different light when I thought about the activities he had likely indulged in at university. I didn't know what I was doing, but it seems I was doing it anyway.
His forelocks were still sticky with pomade, but the hair near the back of his head was soft. He sighed and rolled over, so, taking the hint, I carded my fingers through his hair and gently kneaded the muscles of his neck before speaking.
"I do wish you wouldn't do this, Holmes."
There was a long moment of silence, but finally he did reply. "I know you do."
"Yet you do it anyway."
"Yes."
"You've always done it."
He was quiet. "Musgrave told you."
"Yes. Musgrave told me."
For several weighted seconds Holmes seemed to process this, then he fumbled back and wrapped his fingers around my arm. He simply grasped it, breathed a few times, and pulled.
"What are you—" I started, but in this as in other things I followed his lead. I clambered onto the bed, shoes and all, and when he tucked my arm up against his stomach I let him.
He seemed to relax. I was the one on edge. I sat on the edge of the mattress and waited to see what was going to happen next, if he was going to let go or not.
Instead he growled, "Lie down, Watson, for God's sake," and hugged my arm more firmly against his chest.
My mind spinning, I simply did what he asked. I allowed myself to be fitted up against his back, and when I was stretched full-out he sunk back against my body and heaved the sigh of the deeply-relieved.
I did not know what was going on. Which is to say, I knew in very practical terms what was happening—Holmes was coming down from the chemical ecstasy, which always made him a curious combination of cantankerous and sad, and he was using my body for warmth and comfort—but as to the 'whys' and the 'why nows', I could only presume that my knowledge of his activities at university and my apparent acceptance had seemed to give him permission to take liberties with my person which he had not done before.
The question left tumbling through my mind was: what was I going to do about it?
The answer, it turned out, was to myself sigh and press myself closer against his back. It appeared that his relief was transferrable from body to body through skin and clothing, because I felt myself relax into the most gorgeous feeling of calm, of serenity, of peace I had felt in an age. Pressed so against Holmes I imagined we were melting into one being, and I had never been more whole. Filled with these fanciful thoughts, I tilted my head forward and pushed my mouth against his shoulder in a sort of dry kiss. In return, he only held my arm tighter to his ribs and melted into me.
'Please', I remember thinking over and over. 'Please.'
I cradled him, am not ashamed to say I held him there, as the drug slipped from his system and his brain tortured him into a restless, shifting sleep. When he had finally dropped off I detangled myself from around him, covered him with blankets, stoked up the fire in the grate, and went back to my own room.
My bed was very, very cold.
In my fiction for The Strand, I conveyed the state of the second housemaid, Rachel, through the storytelling efforts of Musgrave. In truth, however, I was far more intimately acquainted with her status.
When I came down to breakfast the next morning Holmes and Musgrave were already there. I tried to catch Holmes's eye but he would not look at me, instead sitting and smoking and wearing another infernal knitted shawl he'd likely found somewhere on the Manor grounds. If we were at home I would have made a bid for his attention, but as Musgrave was right there and servants were circulating, I simply found my seat and waited for tea to be poured.
My heart was beating just a bit quicker than usual, no doubt; I'd slept fitfully, uneasy about what had passed between Holmes and I in the quiet hours of the previous evening. More than once I wondered what it would have been like simply to allow myself to fall asleep next to him, listening to his breath, stroking his hair when he whimpered, lulling him back to sleep. No doubt it was largely the medical man's desire to soothe and heal that kept me awake, but I would be lying to myself if I did not admit to just a little bit of greed as well. Caring for Holmes has been, always, one of my cherished gifts and, I felt, rightly so: as much as I'd had to doctor to him in our years together, his presence in my life was a balm which healed me just as much in return.
His chin was held too high as he glanced at the activity going on around him. It looked to me as if he were compensating for the lethargy and depression which usually follow his chemical indulgences. Too, I wondered even at the time if he did not know something about Rachel or if his natural curiosity were simply aroused by Musgraves stories after supper, for his eyes followed her more than any other person in the room.
More than they followed me, at any rate.
My story in The Strand plays havoc with the timeline as it actually occurred. If this has not already become apparent, it will be more so as this narrative continues. However, it might do for me to point out now that in the fictionalised version, Holmes comes into the investigation long after both Brunton and Rachel are gone. In truth, as you have seen, both were still attending their master when we arrived, and when we sat down to breakfast I did not believe that fact had changed. I had no hint of what was to come.
Which is why I was so confused by Holmes’s expression as Rachel came round to pour my tea. From the quirk of his lip, I knew he was going to say something before he said it, but I had no idea that the question he would ask would be, “Where’s Brunton this morning?”
Pity he chose to enquire just as Rachel began to pour. I narrowly escaped scalding due to a combination of reflexes and woolen trousers, and wondered whether Holmes had done that on purpose. Was this some punishment for our indiscretion last night? But he had been the one to instigate…
My accusatory thoughts were interrupted by Rachel falling into a faint, and from then on I could spare no time for Holmes or his machinations. I caught her, but only barely. She cried out something about Brunton being missing—I believed it a delusion brought on by fever, and therefore without merit—and I shuttled her to her room for doctoring. As far as I knew the luckier Holmes and Musgrave disregarded the outburst, finished their breakfasts and moved on to other, rather more social, activities.
Or so I had thought. But after some searching, and a cold bit of toast, a servant directed me to what I was told was Brunton's room. When I arrived I found Holmes and Musgrave there, and Rachel’s story was confirmed: the butler was, indeed, missing.
I made my report on Rachel’s status, rubbing the fresh scratch I had received by her at her aid. I wish I'd known what else could be done besides the obvious—sleep and constant care—but I could make no sense of her bursts of activity mixed with the catatonia of deep horror. It reminded me not a little of Holmes in one of his fits, and I suppose that made me judge her just a bit more harshly than I should have. "A fine Welsh temper" is not a very scientific diagnosis, after all.
My small wound did serve some purpose, however; it seemed by that point that Holmes was in a far better state than he had been, and when he saw that I had been scratched he clasped my hand in support and expressed some regret for my injury. I had honestly expected to be locked out of his notice for the entire day, so to have his attention even for a few moments eased the tightness in my stomach not a little.
We, Musgrave and I, left Holmes and went for a shoot, and I found myself in a much better humour than I had any right to.
Musgrave's friends were congenial, and the walk was refreshing, and I even managed to take down a pheasant. All in all it was an excellent shoot, and when I found Holmes resting on a bench outdoors my heart lightened even further.
Both Musgrave and I parted from the rest of the party to head over to where Holmes was sitting; Musgrave had just begun to tell me of something which had occurred the night before, and he desired a bit of advice from Holmes. This is where the story about Brunton's spying in the library had come out, and it had only happened the previous evening, not several days before Rachel's distress as I had reported in The Strand.
The rest of the story fell out almost exactly as I have written. Brunton had been caught looking through the family papers in the drawer of Musgrave's desk—perhaps he thought that, Holmes and I in residence, his master would be too busy to visit his own study—and had been subsequently let go. He had stuffed a paper in his pocket before leaving the room, but had left another paper behind: the paper bearing the curious cadence of the ritual passed down from generation to generation of Musgraves. Brunton had seemed most eager to stay in the household instead of being immediately sent packing, which is why his sudden departure was such a mystery. We theorised then and there that, having been dismissed, rather than stay for the agreed-upon week he would stage his disappearance immediately.
We all three of us trooped into the library to study the document.
"This is a strange catechism," said Holmes, and he was right.
"Whose was it?
His who is gone.
Who shall have it?
He who will come.
Where was the sun?
Over the oak.
Where was the shadow?
Under the elm.
How was it stepped?
West 8 by 8. South 7 by 7. West 6 by 6. South 5 by 5. And 2 by 2, and so, under.
What shall we give for it?
All that is ours.
Why should we give it?
For the sake of the trust."
Holmes read the call and, with only a bit of prompting, Musgrave and I read out the response. It reminded me quite a lot of school. When we finished, I smiled. "Why, it's a treasure hunt!"
Bearing umbrellas against the threat of rain we went to examine the first on the list of clues, the patriarch among oaks which stood on the edge of a field. It was a splendid example of the breed, but as we examined it it became obvious that, if this were the oak in question, with generations of Musgraves following the directions the treasure would surely have been found already.
As the joy of discovery wavered in me, my skin was prickled by the electric rise of the oncoming storm. No matter that we could proceed no further that night, still I was filled with a strange certainty that something nonetheless was going to happen.
The Truth of the Musgrave Ritual - Part 2
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Date: 2013-12-04 04:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-05 08:05 am (UTC)