Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The (6 page)

In 1880, after my return from Afghanistan, I was invalided out of the army where I had been serving as a medical officer and was granted a pension, awarded because of the wound I had received at the Battle of Maiwand.
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Uncertain what to do or where to go, I decided to settle in London, which at least was familiar to me from my old days at Bart’s,
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and a year or so later I found lodgings at 221B Baker Street which I shared with Sherlock Holmes. However, until my relationship with him had developed into a real friendship, rather
than a mere acquaintanceship between fellow lodgers, I felt rather at a loose end and, as Holmes was frequently absent, occupied with various activities about which I knew nothing at the time, I drifted about looking for diversions and trying to decide what I should do with the rest of my life.

It was during these inconsequential rambles that I came across the Kandahar Club in Sutton Row, a turning to the north off Oxford Street. It was a modest, rather shabby establishment, founded specifically for junior officers in the Indian army, like myself,
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for minor officials in the Civil Service, and for a handful of undistinguished explorers, mostly bachelors, who liked to spend their leisure time travelling through the more far-flung and exotic regions of the British Empire.

Unlike the grander clubs in Pall Mall such as the Army & Navy, and The Travellers, which cater for the upper echelons of these disparate groups, the fees at the Kandahar are more moderate and the food plain and unpretentious, the kind of English fare that you might be served at home or at school, such as beef steak casserole and rice pudding; the type of food, in fact, that Mrs Hudson, our landlady at Baker Street provided, although for those members who had a taste for a genuine curry, the Kandahar could also serve up a very good vindaloo,
hot enough to take the skin off the roof of one’s mouth.

It was here that I met Thurston,
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with whom I soon struck up a friendship. Like me, he was retired, in his case from his post of deputy chief accountant in the Public Works Department, and his connections with Afghanistan were civil rather than military. Apart from occasional tours of inspection, he was based at the department’s main offices in Calcutta and was what we army men used to refer to rather disparagingly as a ‘desk-wallah’,
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although, unlike many of us, he had learned Hindi, a necessary requirement demanded by the Civil and Military Examination Board. He had also come to love the country and took an active interest in its history and culture. A bachelor of forty-one with few close friends, he had a pleasant, easy-going nature and, like myself, was rather lonely at times, I suspected. We soon found we had several interests in common, in particular billiards, a game which I had taken up as a student at Bart’s. Although billiards is not my first choice of sports, rugby being my preference,
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the injury to my leg had made it impossible for me
to take part in any vigorous games and, as billiards requires only a minimum of physical exertion in the way of running about and tackling one’s opponent, I accepted Thurston’s invitation to play. I was, by the way, a fairly competent player, having had plenty of practice while I was in the army and while recovering from my wound, both at the hospital at Peshawar and later at Netley.
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From that time on, we used to meet once a fortnight at the Kandahar for lunch, followed by a game of billiards.

It was during one of these fortnightly meetings that Thurston introduced me to Colonel Godfrey Carruthers, a new member of the club.

Having arrived a little early, I was waiting in the bar when Thurston arrived accompanied by a tall, upright, handsome man in his fifties with sandy hair and a small, neatly clipped moustache who was wearing a patch over his right eye. Judging by his bearing and the eyepatch, I assumed he was a former army man who had been wounded on active service.

As Thurston introduced us, Carruthers shook my hand with a firm, manly grip. At the same time, I was aware that he was scrutinising me with a keen, blue gaze.

‘Thurston tells me you served in Afghanistan,’ he
remarked. ‘I was there myself; at least my regiment was part of the army under Major General “Bobs” Roberts which relieved the siege at Kandahar.’

‘Were you indeed!’ I exclaimed enthusiastically. ‘Then I and all my army colleagues owe you a great debt of gratitude. Without your troops, we might have been defeated and suffered the same fate as our comrades at Maiwand.’

‘You are referring, of course, to the
ghazis
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and their rather unpleasant habit of dismembering anyone left on the battlefield, whether alive or dead?’

‘Indeed, I am. And it was not just the men; their womenfolk joined in with just as much gusto.’

‘A bad business,’ Carruthers commented, pulling a wry face.

Something about his voice and demeanour warned me that he preferred not to discuss the subject any further and I respected his reticence. I myself still find it difficult to put into words some of the horrors I had witnessed during that particular battle. He, too, must have suffered much the same experiences in that forced march of three hundred and twenty miles across the mountains from Kabul to attack Ayub Khan’s camp where, by putting the rebels to flight, Carruthers and his comrades had lifted the siege of Kandahar.

However, I was left with a number of questions
I would have loved to hear the answers to, such as: When was he wounded? Was it during that lifting of the siege? I knew over one hundred and ninety of our men were among the casualties. Perhaps, like me, he had been transferred to the base hospital at Peshawar. If so, I wondered if he had come across Lieutenant Wilkes or Captain Goodfellow, both fellow patients. And what about that formidable ward sister with the totally unsuitable name of Dear, who was almost as terrifying as a sergeant major and about whom Wilkes had made up a rather saucy ditty to the tune of ‘Do ye ken John Peel’?

But I dismissed such questions from my mind and instead remarked, ‘Let me buy you and Thurston a drink. What would you like?’

Waiting at the bar to be served, I glanced back over my shoulder and, seeing Thurston and Carruthers chatting together like old friends who had known each other for years, I experienced a strange and unexpected sensation.

Even now I find it difficult to describe it exactly. It was not quite jealousy, although I confess to feeling a little piqued that Carruthers, a total stranger, should seem so much at ease with Thurston who was my friend. There was also a touch of professional animosity that Carruthers had taken part in that heroic forced march to relieve our beleaguered forces while I had been struck by a bullet when carrying out
the much less dramatic role of tending the wounded.
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The fact that he was a colonel while I was a mere lieutenant also rankled, much to my shame. Mixed up with this general feeling of animosity was a more vague disquiet which I could not rationalise and which I dismissed from my mind as just another symptom of my resentment.

Trying not to let these unworthy thoughts show in my face, I made an effort to smile and to assume a friendly expression as I walked back across the bar towards them.

Thank goodness, he did not join us for lunch, as evidently Thurston had expected he would, but instead he made some hurried excuse that he had suddenly remembered a prior appointment with an old army friend and, shaking hands with us both, he left, much to Thurston’s disappointment, as I could see from the look on his face. As for myself, I was extremely relieved not to have to share a table with him and to join in reminiscing with him about our mutual experiences in Afghanistan.

However, there was no respite from Colonel Carruthers, even in his absence, for hardly had we sat down to luncheon in the dining-room than, like Banquo’s
ghost at the feast,
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his name came up. It was Thurston who introduced it.

‘Interesting man, don’t you think?’ he remarked.

I knew whom he was referring to but, in a futile attempt to kick the subject into the long grass, so to speak, I replied with feigned ignorance, ‘Who do you mean?’

‘Why Carruthers, of course!’ Before I had time to say anything more, Thurston continued enthusiastically, ‘I thought you would take to him. As soon as I was introduced to him, I said to myself, “That’s someone who my old friend Watson would like to meet.” You have so much in common: the Indian army; Afghanistan; both wounded …’

‘Yes, it is quite a coincidence,’ I agreed. ‘Does he play billiards?’

‘Probably not. After all, he only has one eye,’ Thurston pointed out with a touch of sharpness in his voice that drew attention to my foolishness in asking such an obviously ridiculous question, and, at the sound of it, my antipathy for the wretched man grew even stronger.

It took all the pleasure out of our game of billiards after luncheon. I could not concentrate and, in consequence, Thurston won hands down, another
blow to my self-esteem and another reason to dislike Carruthers even more, a quite unfair reaction on my part, as I shamefacedly admitted to myself at the time.

I was therefore not in a good mood when I returned to Baker Street, a state of mind that Holmes, with his usual acuity, was aware of from the moment I entered the room.

‘So what happened this afternoon to put you in such low spirits?’ he inquired.

‘Nothing,’ I replied.

‘Oh, come, my dear fellow! I have shared these lodgings with you for long enough to know your moods almost as well as my own. Despite women claiming that they alone possess the powers of intuition, we mere men can be just as sensitive – more so in some cases. Was it Thurston who has put you in this frame of mind?’

Without intending to say anything specific, I heard myself replying, ‘No; it was a new member of the club, a man called Carruthers – Colonel Godfrey Carruthers.’

‘And?’ Holmes persisted, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

‘That is the trouble, Holmes!’ I burst out. ‘I just do not know why I have taken such a dislike to the man.’

‘Is it because he is a colonel?’ he suggested gently.

‘And I am just a lieutenant? I do not think so, Holmes; at least, I hope it is not so. All I can say in the way of explanation is that there is something not quite pukkah about him.’

I used the word involuntarily, dredging it up from my
memory of Anglo-Indian words and phrases which had been familiar during my army days, and I was surprised by this and also by Holmes’ apparent knowledge of the meaning of the word.

‘And how is he not quite genuine?’

‘That is the trouble. I do not know. I just felt …’

And here I broke off, unable to offer a coherent explanation.

‘Ah, your intuition again!’ Holmes exclaimed. ‘But behind all these intuitive reactions, there must be some rational explanation. At least, that is my belief. So let us examine your feelings as one would dissect a body, looking for the causes of a medical condition. Was it his demeanour which was not genuine?’

‘No, not really. He looked and behaved much as any former army officer.’

‘His manner of speech, then?’

‘That, too, seemed quite normal.’

‘Did you take into consideration his reason for joining the club?’

It was a new and unexpected aspect of Carruthers’ disposition to which I had not given any thought and I hesitated before replying.

‘Well, I suppose he wanted to meet up with former army men like myself …’

‘But is not he a colonel? Is it usual for officers of such a high rank to become members of the Kandahar?’

‘Not really, I suppose, now I come to think of it. They
are usually captains or majors at the most …’

‘Then does not his decision to join your club strike you as a little strange? Not that I am casting any aspersions on the Kandahar, Watson. I am sure it is an excellent establishment. But even so …’

‘I just assumed that, as a pensioned officer, which he must be, he could not afford the fees anywhere else. It is a perfectly respectable place, Holmes.’

‘Of course it is, my dear fellow. I do not doubt that in the least. It just occurred to me that the reason you find him not quite pukkah is because …’ He broke off here to exclaim with a smile and a shrug, ‘Oh, this is ridiculous, Watson! Here we are, going round and round in circles discussing an individual whom you have met only once and I have not met at all. The answer to the dilemma is more information. Therefore I suggest that the next time you meet the colonel at the Kandahar you find out as much as you can about his background, in particular about his military career.’ Seeing my doubtful expression, he added, ‘It is one of the basic tenets of investigation when your suspicions are aroused. You must quietly and discreetly search out the trail he leaves behind him and follow it to its logical conclusion. You know my methods. Are you prepared to put them into practice on your own behalf? I shall be at hand, of course, to advise you on any aspect of the situation you find disturbing.’

Knowing that Holmes was at the time involved in
several important cases including the Barnaby-Ross case and the mystery of the disappearance of Lord Penrose’s private secretary, I agreed immediately, feeling somewhat ashamed that I should burden him with my trivial concerns and very grateful for his offer of help. So it was agreed that on Wednesday week, the date of my fortnightly appointment with Thurston at the Kandahar, I would confer with Carruthers along the lines that my old friend had suggested and then report back to him on the outcome of the interview.

In the event, however, I did not see the colonel on that particular date. Thurston was there at the club but Carruthers was absent. On my inquiring into his whereabouts, Thurston replied that he did not know.

‘I have not seen him since the last time we met here.’

‘Oh, what a pity!’ I remarked with more honesty than Thurston could possibly have realised. ‘I was looking forward very much to seeing him again.’