The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture
No. 6: Winter 2018
“the most intimate domestic ties” The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex http://retiredbeekeepers.tumblr.com [email protected] Copyright © 2018 by The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex All Rights Reserved Copyright to individual articles, fiction, and art is retained by their own authors and creators. Number 6: Winter 2018 Cover image: “Then he stood before the fire.” Illustration by Sidney Paget. A Scandal in Bohemia, 1891. Spot illustrations by Basil Chap Editing and layout by Elinor Gray The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018
Contents Foreword .………………………………………………………………… 2 Art by Holly …………………………………………………………… 3 A Dissection of the Cyanea capillata by Ariana Maher …………………… 4 “There’s always two of us” by Angela Lusk …………………………. 15 A Guest, I Answer’d by BrewsterNorth ………………………………… 16 Art by Katinka Rohard Hansen ……………………………………… 21 Ingredients of Love by Marleen Donovan ………………………………… 22 Art by Ili ………………………………………………………………… 29 The Secret Sculptor by Dee Storrow ……………………………………… 30 Art by Ernest …………………………………………………………… 47 Contributors ……………………………………………………………… 48 Afterword ………………………………………………………………… 50
1 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex
Foreword
“… he sat gazing for a moment in silent amazement at a small blue book which lay before him. Across the cover was printed in golden letters Practical Handbook of Bee Culture.” — “His Last Bow,” 1917.
hank you for buying/downloading/printing/sharing the Retired TBeekeepers’ latest issue of The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture. If you enjoy this issue, please pass it on to a friend! If you really enjoy this issue, please consider donating to the Retired Beekeepers. We are an entirely volunteer-run organisation and do not charge any membership or meeting fees, but we do have some small operating costs, including the publication of this journal. We appreciate your support in whatever form and denomination it appears. If you would like a print copy of this journal, please visit retiredbeekeepers. tumblr.com/handbook for information on how to obtain one. The theme of this issue is domesticity and home life. See the Afterword for info on submitting your work to future issues and follow us at retiredbeekeepers. tumblr.com for updates on RBS projects. As always, thanks for reading. Believe us to be, dear Bees, Very sincerely yours, The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex
2 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018
3 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex
A Dissection of the Cyanea capillata
Ariana Maher
WATSON: Holmes? HOLMES: My dear chap? WATSON: Forgive me, but… this really is how you spend your days? HOLMES: Yes. WATSON: That’s incredible. Look, I have to say it — I’d die of boredom inside a week. You’re not offended? HOLMES: No, no… You know, your visit was singularly ill-timed. WATSON: It was? HOLMES: You really should have been here ten days ago. WATSON: Oh? HOLMES: If it’s excitement you’re after. WATSON: Why, what happened? Some of your bees escape, did they? HOLMES: Not exactly. There was a murder.1 — “The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane,” BBC Radio, 1996
A Dissection hen Bert Coules, the head writer of the BBC Radio Sherlock Holmes Wseries,2 was asked about the essentials for writing a good Sherlock Holmes story, he had this to say: “A good quote about writing a Sherlock Holmes story is, ‘It doesn’t need to be a good detective story, but it does have to be a very good story about a detective.’ I think that’s a clever distinction.”3 With that in consideration, “The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane” may be a rather good detective story, but when I first read it, it fell short of being a good Sherlock Holmes story. I am a novice in Sherlockian study. It was just two years ago when I watched an episode of the BBC television series Sherlock on a whim. It was such a fascinating episode, I watched more. Then I dived into the canonical books and read each one in order, starting with “A Study in Scarlet.” I’ve since discovered that more than a century’s worth of creative pastiches, essays, movies and other media adaptations featuring the great detective exist. This passion continues to grow, and these works serve to feed that passion. I loved so many of Sherlock Holmes’s cases once I read them and yet, out of all of the accounts of the great detective, “The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane” was one I disliked more than any other. After reading through the
4 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 complete cases, I looked back and found this one lacking. It was a unique story with an unanticipated culprit and a stormy sea of pretty red herrings, but I could not connect with it for several reasons, especially when compared to many of the other cases. I felt adamant about my dislike for this story until this past August, when I took it into my head to exercise more during a brief but warm summer. I began walking the two and a half miles of my morning commute instead of taking the bus. The walk turned out to be an hour in each direction, so I had two hours a day with nothing to do but enjoy the sun. I took up listening to podcasts, audiobooks, and radio shows until finally I learned about an extraordinary radio adaptation of the Sherlock Holmes series by BBC Radio 4. With its opening words recorded on October 9, 1989, and its final words uttered on May 26, 1998, the BBC Radio adaptation was completed in just shy of a decade.4 During its run, the dramatization became a popular broadcast that managed to accomplish one thing that so many projects had sought to do but never actualized: dramatize every single story in the Sherlock Holmes canon with the same two lead actors as Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson throughout. Each of the four novels was composed of two hour plays, while each of the short stories became forty-five minute episodes. This format was perfect for my daily walks. I could listen to one story on my way to work and one on my return. I became absorbed rather quickly and would take long detours on my way home just to fit one more mystery into my afternoon. One episode from the series was so exceptional that it effectively changed my view of “The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane.” After listening to it just once, a story I disliked transformed into one of my favorites. Coules, who also happened to be the writer for this episode of the radio series, said, “Any dramatization is an interpretation.”5 So does a fresh interpretation of an original account of events have the ability to upend one’s view of the original? This was certainly the case for me. Is that proof of the skill of the production team, the approach of the writer, or a shift in the underlying themes? I propose that it is a combination of all three.
An Original “At this period of my life the good Watson had passed almost beyond my ken. An occasional week-end visit was the most that I ever saw of him. Thus I must act as my own chronicler. Ah! had he but been with me, how much he might have made of so wonderful a happening and of my eventual triumph against every difficulty!”6 — Sherlock Holmes, “The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane”
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riginally published in 1926, the case detailed events that took place Oin 1907, which was during Sherlock Holmes’s retirement in Sussex. No longer handling mysteries nor in the company of his biographer, he encountered the gruesome death of a young man whose dying words appeared to be “lion’s mane.” I will mention little else about the meat of the case for the sake of those who may have forgotten the details or have not yet read it through. It’s worth the time to experience it first hand, though I did not feel so strongly about this until after I listened to the BBC Radio interpretation of these same events. While considering “The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane,” literary agent Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stated that the story was “hampered by being told by Holmes himself,” which, as he put it, “cramps the narrative.”7 This was a reasonable assessment, since Mr. Holmes avoided much of the sensation of immediate peril and sweeping drama found in Dr. Watson’s writing style. When seen through Holmes’s eyes, he set out to overlook passion in favor of fact, leaving little to no room for sentiment. However, Doyle added that “the actual plot is among the very best of the whole series.”8 When I first read the story, I found it difficult to agree with his assessment. There were certain elements to the story that bothered me from the outset. I found it disheartening that my favorite character, the loyal and steadfast Dr. John H. Watson, rarely saw his old friend during his retirement and was thus not a part of this adventure. Although Henry Stackhurst took up the role as friend and sounding board to Holmes in the duration, he was too personally involved with the intrigue to act as an objective witness and, unlike Watson, there was little that Stackhurst did which motivated or inspired Holmes in the process of his deductions. Unaware of the leisurely attitude Holmes seemed to adopt while living in Sussex, it surprised me at first to see him decide to return home for breakfast after an initial assessment of the victim’s brutal death, since his younger self would have forgone his meals until he had solved the case to his satisfaction. It was even more startling that an entire week passed after Holmes exhausted the initial lines of his investigation without identifying a culprit: “A week passed. The inquest had thrown no light upon the matter and had been adjourned for further evidence. Stackhurst had made discreet inquiry about his subordinate, and there had been a superficial search of his room, but without result. Personally, I had gone over the whole ground again, both physically and mentally, but with no new conclusions.
6 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 In all my chronicles the reader will find no case which brought me so completely to the limit of my powers. Even my imagination could conceive no solution to the mystery.” 9 Without his friend to spark his imagination and a passion for his former work to drive him, it took a week and an unfortunate incident involving a mourning pet to set Holmes on the correct path. Even then, what he required to solve the mystery was not a vital clue, nor a sharp deduction. Holmes solved it by wracking his great mind until he finally dislodged a forgotten fact that fit the disparate clues into a unifying answer. No longer the sparse, organized attic as illustrated in “A Study in Scarlet,” the retired Holmes described the interior of his mind as “like a crowded box-room.”10 The struggle of recalling something that had drifted away from his grasp disturbed him deeply: “You have known what it was to be in a nightmare in which you feel that there is some all-important thing for which you search and which you know is there, though it remains forever just beyond your reach.” 11 When Holmes eventually solved the mystery, the local authorities were quick to praise him and his formidable mind. Yet by the end of this case he felt discouraged with himself. “I was slow at the outset — culpably slow,” he insisted.12 It was this admission at the denouement of the adventure that illustrated the stress involved in lifting up a younger ideal for himself that he no longer felt he matched.
A Dramatization t the opening of the BBC Radio dramatization of “The Adventure of Athe Lion’s Mane,” actors Clive Merrison and Michael Williams hold a conversation between Holmes and Watson that is strangely stilted and caricatured when compared to their usual dynamic. In this scene, Watson (Williams) is paying a visit to Holmes (Merrison) and has brought along a copy of William Gillette’s play, Sherlock Holmes: A Play in Two Acts. It takes a moment for listeners to realize that the two are reading out their self- named parts in the play together and so the entire interaction feels odd on purpose. The scene soon transforms into a brilliant nod to interpretations of the Sherlock Holmes canon in its varied forms, as well as an opportunity to introduce a central theme for this particular approach. HOLMES: ‘Oh, this is elementary, my dear Watson! Child’s play of deduction!’ This is rather good, isn’t it? WATSON: You think so?
7 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex HOLMES: Why? Don’t you? WATSON: I do practically nothing but ask questions, when I’m in it at all. HOLMES: Bide your time, Watson. You’ll get your moment in the spotlight one of these days.13 In fact, this installment of the radio series becomes precisely that: a spotlight upon Michael Williams as he puts forth one of his strongest performances as Dr. Watson. In any form of entertainment, be it theater, television, or radio, a case may be executed well by a fine Sherlock Holmes, but an even more exceptional performance occurs when there is a clever and loyal Dr. John Watson present in the story as well. Modern audiences, including myself, may no longer feel satisfied with the straight man/funny man double act that was a mainstay when Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce took up the iconic roles. By seeing through Watson’s eyes, one doesn’t want to feel a fool any more than the doctor himself would wish. So for the latter end of the 20th century and the early years of this one, we’ve come to favor a Watson who is truer to the canon. We prefer to see a man who is clever and quick by any normal standards, so that when we encounter Holmes’s brilliant mind we can relate to Watson’s sense of awe and wonder. Any less than that is a poor use of a Watson, both for storytelling and for realism. As Clive Merrison put it, “It’s no good to me having a Watson who only says, ‘Good Lord, Holmes, how do you do it?’ — absolutely no good at all… No, there’s no dynamic if Watson isn’t really there as a very real person — which is what Michael [Williams] has done.”14 Just as we know Holmes to have a singular mind, the BBC Radio series reminds us of the good doctor’s singular heart. As David Stuart Davies mentioned in his book Starring Sherlock Holmes, “[Michael] Williams carried out a difficult balancing act, revealing Watson’s humanity and warmth while at the same time assuring us of his intelligence and independence of thought.”15 Throughout the radio series, Watson is portrayed with as much facility for dry wit and foul temper as he is for deep affection and unwavering loyalty. His attitudes contrast with Holmes’s in a way that humanizes the extremes of the detective’s personality: whenever Holmes’s enthusiasm overlooks social niceties, Watson’s easy sarcasm can diffuse his bombastic proclamations; and whenever Holmes sinks into fits of melancholia, Watson offers him the most empathetic words one could wish to hear. The quality of a proper Watson can be determined by his ability to whisper “Norbury” in Holmes’s ear before marching into folly. By this proposed rubric, Michael Williams crafted one of the finest Watsons in the good doctor’s history of canonical adaptations.
8 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 Bert Coules once explained this interpretation of Dr. Watson: “There are many of the stories in which Watson brings a level of knowledge and intelligence that Holmes is not capable of bringing. Watson is the public face of the partnership, Watson is the one who interacts with the clients far more than Holmes does. And although he doesn’t have the same sort of intelligence and insight as Holmes does, he is a perfectly intelligent, insightful man in his own right.” 16 The writing for the series readily affirms this by elevating Watson from his old radio caricature of comedic foil to an equal partner that Sherlock Holmes can respect and in whom the detective can easily confide. This accommodation is not jarring to its audience. In fact, a fan of the good doctor can see this as an inherently organic and welcome development, particularly in comparison to previous radio incarnations. It is a common practice in this modern radio series to eschew dry and distant narration in favor of active dialogue and thrilling action. Certain lines that once belonged to Holmes as some of his more obvious and reasonable observations in the canon now fall into Watson’s domain. This allows for a more kinetic running exchange between our two protagonists during the course of a case. As a result, Watson firmly establishes himself as no mere Boswell, but as a capable and intelligent partner who does well to complement the daunting skills of Sherlock Holmes. In July of 1991, noted Sherlock Holmes expert Nicholas Utechin interviewed Clive Merrison and Michael Williams at the BBC’s headquarters, Broadcasting House, where they were participating in the final day of recording for The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. During the interview, Merrison did well to describe what it felt like to strike all of the right notes during their radio performances when he said, “…if we’ve got a scene that’s well written, Michael and I, we can play a bit of jazz, which isn’t bad for the Victorian era.”17 Several years later, as they recorded their 55th adventure and were nearing the end of the Sherlock Holmes canon, the jazz they played was a refined and melodic tune. Bert Coules seemed aware of how well the two leads worked together and how their actual friendship as actors strengthened their performance while recording. This inspired him to craft “The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane” into a two-man play and take it in a new direction by completely involving Watson in the tale. As he put it: “Having brought Watson in, it occurred to me that it would be amusing to take everybody else out and make the piece a two-hander for our stars. Actually, the idea had been in the back of my mind almost since 9 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex the beginning of the whole project. Sitting in the studio between takes inevitably meant listening to Clive Merrison and Michael Williams swapping jokes, stories and mock insults (at least, I always assumed they were mock) and those exchanges had been the sparking point for quite a few of my scenes between their two characters - but could I extend the idea to an entire forty-five minute script?”18 Indeed, Coules proceeded to do just that: adapt a case with a diverse range of characters and conflicts into a story related by two men relaxing by the sea. The idea shouldn’t work. In fact, with a lesser production team, writer, and cast, it would have been disastrous. However, through this team’s hard work, this became a story of friendship and loneliness infused with a fascinating Sherlockian mystery. They created, as Merrison put it, jazz. HOLMES: I could give you the basic facts, show you the evidence, take you round to the sites, and you could try to solve it. WATSON: Are you saying that it hasn’t been worked out yet? HOLMES: No, no, no, no! I’ve cleared the whole thing up. WATSON: So you’re proposing that we traipse around together and I make a fool of myself while you look on, is that it? HOLMES: No, of course not. If you’d rather, we’ll forget the whole thing. It’s just that… WATSON: What? HOLMES: Well, I… I hoped you might rather enjoy it. I thought it might be… fun. WATSON: Fun? HOLMES: Mm. I didn’t think that my bees would grip you for very long. I didn’t want you to be bored. WATSON: Oh, my dear chap… HOLMES: Of course, if you think that it might be beyond you… WATSON: That is the most transparent bit of persuasion I’ve heard in a long time. HOLMES: I’m not surprised. I’m somewhat out of practice.19 And so begins their grand game. Watson and the audience are swept up by Holmes’s enthusiasm as he guides us through the case. While strolling by the shore and through the town, Holmes describes clues and scenes in minute detail as Watson steps forth on our behalf to ask the right questions and speak our minds on where these threads could lead. Throughout this exercise, Holmes and the listening audience share in the exultant joy of watching Watson prove that he possesses a remarkably shrewd and brilliant mind. 10 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 As Holmes once famously said to Watson, “You know my methods. Apply them.”20 It is a pleasure to see Watson take those words to heart. It is by this point in the story that one can hear the true brilliance of Clive Merrison as the voice of Sherlock Holmes. The eccentric personality of the famous detective was adapted true to the canon by Coules and the several other talented writers for the BBC Radio series, but it is Merrison who breathes life into the written word to create a vivid man with an exceptional mind. Through him, we picture Holmes as if he were a well-cut diamond, where every facet along his surface reflects something distinctive and fascinating about him.His is a Holmes with joviality, dark moods, childlike curiosity, caustic wit, and a wry sense of humor coupled with a unique and riotous laugh. With so many facets shining in the light, Merrison dazzles his listeners and, to those who pay attention, reveals glimmers of Sherlock Holmes’s great humanity. In “The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane,” Merrison shows us a rare quality of Holmes’s that I had at first overlooked in the original written version of events. During their romp through Sussex, we can picture Holmes in a state of comfort and, one would even say, happiness. On this particular day, he has his grumpy old friend, his lovely bees, and he even has a fascinating mystery to share, so one can deduce from his spritely voice that he is happy. With happiness comes relaxation and with relaxation, a candid state of mind. At certain moments of the radio dramatization, such as when he relates to Watson the beauty of one Miss Maude Bellamy, he allows himself to open up and show his more elusive and ever-present humanity. Holmes is caught up in a moment of reverie and Watson’s bristly attitude softens as he turns a sympathetic ear. It is here that Holmes speaks of the somber import of dedicating oneself to the Work: HOLMES: I’ve devoted my life to exploring the dark side of humanity… what have I missed? WATSON: There’s no way to answer that. HOLMES: No logical way, perhaps. And my brain has always governed my heart.21 At this point in their lives, according to the radio series, Watson has remarried and owns a practice in the city. When he goes home, there will be love and warmth waiting for him. Holmes, on the other hand, is aware that his refusal to march to the beat of the common man’s drum is not without consequences. Sherlock Holmes conquers mysteries that would cow any other man, yet the mystery of love is one that can strip a great mind bare and vulnerable, therefore making it too daunting for him where so many fearlessly tread. He is a lonely man, but a lonely man well aware of the result of his
11 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex decisions. Near the end of the adventure, as Holmes sees his old friend off at the train station, Watson insists that they must meet again soon. Holmes politely sidesteps the topic with a joke, though the way he does so is quite telling of what he believes he must provide in return for these treasured visits. HOLMES: Heh… I can’t promise you another murder.22 This is a curious line. Watson was only there for the weekend and considering how much he wished to see Holmes, he likely came at the very first opportunity after receiving an invitation. Holmes says he knew that his bees would not hold Watson’s attention for long, so it is a possibility that he invited the good doctor after the lion’s mane incident because he finally had something with which to entertain and challenge his friend’s mind. We who read the canon know of the warm friendship between Holmes and Watson. We know that it was an indomitable partnership of a great mind and a great heart that solved countless mysteries over the course of several decades. Yet when Holmes retired to Sussex, they barely saw each other for many years. I believe that this adaptation reveals that when Holmes turned to bees and the countryside, he no longer felt that he was engaging with anything that would interest Watson, a man who loved to experience grand adventures and incredible mysteries. If Holmes had nothing of interest to share in his quiet new life, would he be hesitant to send an invitation? Sherlock Holmes considered the opinion of his friend of great value to him, so perhaps he did not wish to be deemed boring, even if that meant stark isolation from his former life. There is a moment early on where Watson makes an admission to Holmes that is both as telling of the doctor as it is unintentionally painful to the detective. WATSON: You know, Holmes, in many ways I envy you. HOLMES: Hm? And in others? WATSON: … I don’t mean to be rude. HOLMES: My dear chap. WATSON: Well, it’s not a life I could lead - not for long. The isolation would get to me. HOLMES: To each his own.23 With that scene in mind, one can see how Bert Coules interpreted the legendary detective. As he put it in his own words: “Holmes is dysfunctional, brilliant, tortured, heroic and frightening. And lonely.”24
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A Conclusion hile reading through a book recently, I came upon a remarkable Wphotograph. It was a snapshot taken of Clive Merrison and Michael Williams in the studio as they were recording, fortuitously, “The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane.”25 I found it quite touching that even while decked out in modern shirts and sweaters, these two actors not only appeared identical to how one would picture their 1907 counterparts at this stage of their lives, one could see a reflection of two old friends who enjoy working together. Indeed, even before they began to work on the Sherlock Holmes radio series, Merrison and Williams were known to be good friends and experienced actors.26 They were the perfect Holmes and Watson from the start. Since the first time his name appeared in print, Sherlock Holmes has sparked hundreds of fresh iterations that seek to depict him and his fascinating adventures. A number of the greatest actors in the past century have taken on this challenge to the delight of many, from Basil Rathbone and Peter Cushing to Jeremy Brett and Benedict Cumberbatch. Given time, any fan of the stories will likely find their own particular “Sherlock Holmes” brought to life for them. It happens to be that it was an incredible BBC Radio team which allowed me to find my very own Sherlock Holmes in Clive Merrison. When I first listened to this radio dramatization on a quiet morning walk, I discovered a mystery that provided me with a tale of reunion and friendship, and of lost opportunity and loneliness. My family has grown apart in recent years, what with my father retired in the Philippines, my mother in Brazil, and my brother living in Maryland. Held in the middle of these three points of light, near Seattle, Washington, I tend to feel adrift in a sea of unknown faces. The ache I feel for my family can be devastating at times, and so I treasure all the more the few but dear friends I have near me. It was at such a low moment of reflection that I first listened to “The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane.” The warmth and excitement that I found in the performance provided me with the very best sort of story — the sort which could satiate my mind and fill up my heart in the spaces it felt lacking. Now, when I sit and read a Sherlock Holmes adventure, it is the voice of the late Michael Williams who sits by me to narrate the tale in his gruff, sincere tone, as if we were sitting by the glowing hearth of 221B Baker Street. And whenever I read “The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane,” I reflect on the radio dramatization and know that this is now one of my favorite stories in the canon.
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References
1. Coules, Bert, 221 BBC (The Northern Musgraves, 1998) 60. 2. Information about the radio series, including interviews, accessible formats, photos, and production credits for each episode, can be found at www. merrisonholmes.com. 3. Kelly, Ann. “Bert Coules: Sherlock Holmes Interview.” September 2005. BBC. January 2014.
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15 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex
A Guest, I Answer’d
Brewster North
t was not a purifying east wind that blew the night Sherlock Holmes and I Irenewed our acquaintance, but a punishing, icy gale out of the north. All that could be said in its favour was that it blew too strongly for any enemy forays by air over England itself, and that it carried the noises of war far away from the ears of beleaguered civilians. I could well imagine the plight of the soldiers at the front that night, trying to shield themselves from that wind. As for me, I was doing what could be done, by hook or by crook, to bring this ordeal to an end. It was this quest, among other things, that had brought me to Holmes’s door. He did not meet me there: that was to be expected, after the exertions of his most recent case. I was surprised, however, to find him toiling away in the sitting-room among a large collection of boxes and papers. The smell of dust lingered faintly in the air, and the furnishings had been covered in white sheets. Holmes, himself, was seated on the floor cross-legged, like some Japanese clerk, re-arranging the disordered collection. He did not look me in the eye, at first, but gestured to me to sit. I took a seat in a nearby armchair with care, resting my walking-stick close at hand. The roaring fire in the hearth was cheering and welcome. I could not help but wonder what had been burned in it, other than coal and kindling; incriminating evidence in a bygone case, perhaps, destroyed in the name of a justice greater and truer than law. I returned to studying Holmes. It was not only his seated attitude that resembled a Japanese illustration, but his manner of dress, too: not buffoonish and bizarrely angled like a costume from The Mikado, but fluid in its layered folds, like a courtesan’s. I would once have been anxious to see him dressed like that when not in the midst of a case, for it would have pointed to symptoms of nervous prostration that would have tried the skills of a stranger, never mind the strength of a friend. I had come, however, to understand his changes in dress as part of his unique character. It was a means for him to ease his body the better to let his thoughts flow, and I rejoiced to see how easily, how gracefully he stood and moved in his robes. He looked as beautiful in them as in the precisely made and precisely worn suits he donned to pass through the outward civilisation of men. Here, secure within his own walls and shielded by the discretion of his housekeeper, he was navigating his way towards a new civilisation of his own. The closer he got to his destination, the more I
16 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 observed his spirit begin to unfurl into a healthier shape, nourished a little less by his old bad habits. I spoke up to make some feeble joke to Holmes about spring-cleaning in midwinter. He did not rise to the bait, as he would once have done. I sensed that the curation of his archives had little to do with the seasons of his bees, and more to do with acknowledging the turn of the year, and perhaps the approach of his own mortality. Such thoughts had been preying on my own mind of late, with the march of time and with the reading public’s perennial, almost insatiable fascination for Holmes’s past cases. In going over my sketches for a new series of stories for the Strand, drawn from as-yet-unpublished cases, I felt as though I had spent at least as much time with the literary Holmes in the past few months as with the flesh-and-blood one, but the two had grown apart considerably over the years. Someone who had seen Holmes the character in a theatre or at a picture-house would scarcely have recognised Holmes the man, even at close quarters. The next item that Holmes pulled from the collection was a welcome distraction from such businesslike thoughts. It was a hat of rather peculiar shape, with flaps curling up from the brim, lined on both sides with dense, grizzled fur, to keep out a winter’s chill far colder than one found in Sussex. He grinned absurdly as he put it on, and we both laughed at its ridiculous appearance. “From Tibet, I take it?” I said. “Indeed it is,” said Holmes, “as was this.” From the same box as the hat, he withdrew and unfolded a plain white silken scarf, fringed at either end with white satin threads. “A present to our mutual friend Sigerson, from the Chief Lama at Lhasa.” He lifted it a little into the light from the fire, balancing it reverently on his slender fingers, and peered at it gravely. It bore little in the way of ornament — some symbols woven into the fabric at either end, in thread of the same white as the scarf — but its simplicity made it appear all the richer. He held it up for me to look at. “It’s beautiful,” I said. Unlike the hat, it suited him admirably. I wanted to settle it over his shoulders, as it should be worn. As he must have worn it, once, during those three years of adventure when every man living, save one, had given him up for dead. In hindsight it had clearly been at some point in those three years, and quite possibly in the weeks or months spent in Tibet, that the slow but fundamental change in him had been set in motion. I only wished I could have seen the wonders that he had seen in those years, all of those strange places and extraordinary people he had encountered that had imprinted themselves upon him. I wished I could have documented it, if only
17 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex for our benefit: Holmes had admitted more than once that his memories of his cases had benefited from my records. Perhaps it was just as well that I had been absent. The observer could not have been present without having an effect on the observed; that was as true for Holmes as for the people he had met on his travels. “You think so?” said Holmes. “Then, take it. It’s yours.” “My dear fellow,” I protested, “it was a gift to you.” “No, Doctor,” Holmes said coldly, “it was given to Sigerson. A mere fiction, an entirely conventional hero from one of your romances, who wheedled his way into hallowed dwellings with a cock-and-bull story about his humble upbringing among the fjords and fishing-boats of Stavanger. He was a means to an end. He was not, and never could be, I.” “No more than was Altamont of Chicago,” I said. “For the little that it may be worth, I objected with some vehemence to the way you were treated by the Von Bork case, however necessary it may have been to our national defence. I would not even give my readership the satisfaction of reading my own words about it.” “Indeed?” said Holmes. “I thought it lacked your usual touch.” “The fellow who carried it out made a decent job of it, I thought, in the circumstances. Of course, a great deal had to be altered or omitted altogether.” “Too bright for our infirm delight/The Truth’s superb surprise. Then you have some unexpurgated notes on the case?” “Naturally, under the strictest security. And on all the others, under similar security, until such a time as the whole truth may be a source of joy, and not derision. None but you and I know they even exist, and I intend to maintain that state of affairs for as long as possible.” Holmes looked almost contrite. “Then take the scarf in token of that trust.” “Very well,” I said, “I will.” I took it from his hands, and put it on him. “I will leave it in your hands for safekeeping.” I let my hands rest on his shoulders for a moment: he had lost weight again. “All I ask is that you put it in a place where you will be able to find it more than once per year.” I will treasure highly Holmes’s expression of consternation in that moment, among his many gifts to me down the years. Finally, his features settled into that wry, half-cynical smile I knew so well, that few of Holmes’s impersonators had been able to emulate. “Outmanoeuvred,” he said at last, “and by you of all people.” “I had rather more guile than you credited me for, particularly during the Culverton Smith case. A little cunning is necessary in a physician’s business, you know.” “And, of course, you have had cause to practise that little cunning in your career as a writer, too.” 18 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 “It is not the only string to my bow, but yes.” I cleared my throat, and got to my feet. “I should apologise for not accepting your very gracious invitation before now.” “I have been lost without you. But you have been rather pressed of late.” Holmes rose with surprising ease from his half-kneeling position, and took a step towards the sitting-room door. “About that scarf,” said I a little hastily, “I understand the Tibetans call it a khata. I have seen some examples of it before.” “In Afghanistan?” Holmes said, with interest. “The old Silk Road passes through it to the north. There are still pilgrims who come through from the east to pay their respects at a place called Bamiyan. The cliffs there have been carved into vast statues of the Buddha many times the height of a man. One of those pilgrims told me how the holy men of the monasteries give these scarves to guests, as a kind of visible blessing. My distinct recollection is that the honour of the scarf is not with the one who receives it, but the one who gives it. If I give the scarf back to you, it is not a snub, but a repayment of your compliment.” “In that light,” Holmes said, smiling a little ruefully, “I accept both your apology and your compliment. And let us say no more about Tibet, or Sigerson, or Afghanistan.” “Sworn,” I said, and we shook hands on that vow with fervour. There had been a part of me that had been lost without him, also. I would embrace him with that same fervour, later — but not yet. “Then, pray,” Holmes said, “take the hat. I fear your ears have more need of it than mine. Unless,” and here his eyes took on a mischievous glint, “the hue of your ears indicates you have something you wanted to tell me?” “A little of both,” I admitted, accepting the hat and its grateful warmth. “I know how much you loathe to be idle. There is a case that might appeal to your criminal expertise as much as to your criminological one. It would not oblige you to go into the field, unless, of course, you wanted to; but it would call upon you to share your knowledge with someone else.” “Permit me one moment to secure this scarf,” said Holmes, “and you will have my undivided attention.” “Certainly, my dear fellow.” “I perceive from the aroma that Mrs McKinnon has prepared something nourishing, and is mere minutes from announcing its service. Shall we discuss your most intriguing case over dinner?” “If you believe that we may do both the meal and the case justice, then by all means.” “I am not so beholden to the myrmidons of Society,” said Holmes with 19 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex mock-severity, “as to forswear discussion of business whilst eating. You may keep the hat on, if you like. It rather becomes you.” “Gladly,” I said, with a laugh, “in the interests of my health. And one thing more, Holmes…” “Yes, Watson?” “Many happy returns.” “Thank you, my friend,” murmured Sherlock Holmes.
20 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018
21 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex
Ingredients of Love
Marleen Donovan
“Mrs Beeton must have been the finest housekeeper in the world; therefore Mr. Beeton must have been the happiest and most comfortable man.” — Arthur Conan Doyle
t happened on an ordinary day in October towards the end of the century. IAfter lunch, Holmes had returned to his chair and had picked up the newspapers. He was smoking his pipe and sipped from time to time at a cup of tea. I, sitting opposite Holmes, tried to concentrate on a novel, but my thoughts meandered. With every minute ticking by, my eyes wandered more to the flickering flames of the fireplace than the words on the page. Autumn had reached London and with it cold nights and foggy days. The temperature had dropped considerably and so had my mood. My joints ached horribly, and if it was not my old shoulder wound that reminded me of the terrors of war, it was the approaching All Hallow’s Eve, that brought the unpleasant memories of war and death upon me. Only from afar, I registered that the clock on our mantelpiece had struck the hour. All of a sudden, Holmes exclaimed: “Come along, old boy!” “What? Where are we going?” I asked, but there was no reply. I expected him to usher me out of our living room, to hurry me with getting my coat, hat and walking stick, to maybe even hear Lestrade’s carriage approaching 221B; in short, our daily routine. Imagine my surprise when Holmes instead took me by the hand and led me downstairs, all the seventeen steps into the entrance hall, and into Mrs Hudson’s work and living space. As we entered, I remembered that Mrs Hudson had left the house earlier. If I remember correctly, there had been the plan of going to the shops and looking at the new fashions for the season. I would not have put it past Holmes to not only conspire with Mrs Hudson, but also fund the time off. For what purpose, I wondered. Never before had I set foot into the relatively large room in broad daylight. After all, the kitchen and the household management were not the domain of gentlemen. If I had to estimate, I would guess it had the measurements of our living room, with a tiled floor, a large wooden table in the middle, one cupboard for the dishes, and the better china on display, as is the fashion
22 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 nowadays. Another cupboard held the kitchen utensils, and some shining copper pots and pans were hanging up. There was the kitchen range, cleaned until it was spotless, even though the years of daily use were apparent; here the sink, which I knew Mrs Hudson was particularly proud of because indoor plumbing was still uncommon. The cast iron stove was the heart of the room, just like in every other kitchen. “Holmes, what is the meaning of all this? Is it for a case? The abominable baker who was reported in last week’s newspaper to have tampered with the dough to expand his profits at the horrible risk of its buyers? Is this why you brought us here?” “No, Watson.” “An experiment?” “No.” “What is it then, Holmes?” “Think, Watson. It is neither a case nor an experiment. We are both in the kitchen, alone. Observe and deduce. What can it be?” “Something…” I realised that my cheeks had heated. I cleared my throat and lowered my voice, even though we were alone, “… of a more personal nature.” “Close, Watson. Although, I confess to a more…” Now it was Holmes who searched for words. “… emotional motive.” I looked at him expectantly. “We are going to bake a cake: a seed cake, to be precise. A very good version, as Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management assured me.” For a moment I was not sure if I understood him correctly. Was I, were we, truly standing in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen? Was it really the cold surface of the kitchen range I felt against my back? I knew that Holmes’s interests were peculiar, but household management seemed so outlandish. I could not rein myself in, and started to laugh. Holmes looked at me, irritated. “Apologies, Holmes. It is just… we have done so many unusual things, and I have invaded Afghanistan, but the two of us in a kitchen! Oh, the things you get me into, old man!” “This is what you call unusual, Watson? Should I remind you of all our unique encounters and little adventures? You have written them down and sensationalised them for your tales in The Strand.” “Oh, hush, Holmes. You know all too well that we share, one might say, a certain peculiarity. I tamper with the truth in The Strand to protect the life we have chosen. It should sound so astonishing that the reader would never imagine how we are behind closed doors. Let them have their flights of fancy.”
23 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex “… So you can fancy me.” We shared a boyish grin. As I saw him extract a piece of paper from the pocket of his trousers, which I assumed to be the recipe of this very good version of caraway seed cake Holmes had mentioned. “So, you really intend to bake a cake, Holmes? You were not speaking in jest?” “Since when do you know me as a man to jest? And with you, of all people, John.” “But Holmes… why?” Holmes did not answer in words. He only fixed me with a stare, I looked into his beautiful eyes, and there I could read the truth in plain, simple words: because he saw me wallowing and wanted to cheer me up. Because he was afraid of the demons that plagued my soul, demons he knew far too well. Because he loved me. The cake was a gift. Something simple, something extra. I had to kiss him, and so I did. Before we got carried away and truly used one of Mrs Hudson’s kitchen surfaces, or, God forbid, the wooden table in the middle of the room, for more personal use, I put some physical distance between us. “I believe that we have a cake to bake.” We got to work. Holmes ordered me around, taking out this and that from Mrs Hudson’s larder. (We would be scolded like schoolchildren later at the mess we left behind.) At his request, I got butter out of the icebox and eggs out of the cupboard store. Sugar and flour were easily found as the tins were labelled; yes, Mrs Hudson was a good housekeeper. I was not sure whether or not I could spot the difference in sugar and salt, and what a difference it would make! My mother’s recipe surely had the caraway seeds, but nothing as extravagant as nutmeg or even a wineglass of brandy. I have to admit I thought for a moment that the latter was for drinking and not for baking! Holmes took great joy in the whole process. Unlike his chemical experiments in which I mostly only got a “Hush, Watson” or “Help!” when something went amiss, here, today, I was like a laboratory assistant. “Do you know what one could deduce from a common seed cake, Watson?” “I am not sure, Holmes, what one could deduce from a common seed cake, but I am certain you will tell me in time.” “The seed cake is one of Britain’s oldest recipes. However, it stopped being popular in the early years of our Queen’s reign. The common seed cake is therefore typical of rural baking. For centuries, it had the status of a luxury
24 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 item for special occasions, like harvest or the holidays. As you know all too well, with the industrial revolution, people came to the cities and transformed our society forever. Cheap bread would feed the ever-growing nation, and ‘seed cake’ would never be produced again. You yourself were drawn to the melting pot of London when you returned home from war. Even today, with the new century approaching, the wheel will not turn back — as if it ever would. You can spot it easily in the habits and appearance of my brother Mycroft. You have seen him in his Diogenes Club, Watson. He is enormous. Of course, a man like him will never go personally to one of the new shops on Kensington High Street. There is no place any more for something so common as seed cake, not even the very good version we are making today. It is time for pastry and all the new recipes named after our Queen. Which means, my dear Watson, that one can identify time and location from something as simple as a seed cake. Seed cake is so typical of the beginning of Queen Victoria’s reign and in particular the English countryside and the North of our country, that knowledge of its existence, taste, and even recipe, can reveal a great deal about one’s biography.” “This is all very informative, Holmes, but how does it work in practice?” Holmes smiled at me, warm and affectionate. It was his private smile, the one that only I can see, and only on rare occasions. It is the face of a man who loves to share his knowledge with a rapt audience. And I am, after all, his Boswell. “Take ourselves, Watson. If I had not deduced your origin by your brother’s watch, then your eating habits would have given me insight into your past. You lost your accent after years spent at university, later in the army, and now, alongside me in London. Your clothes and most of your personal belongings are gone. However, your eyes lit up with recognition when I presented you with the recipe a few minutes ago. You know it so well, that you do not even need to taste it, your memory works in your, or should I say, the detective’s, favour. You cannot get the seed cake nowadays, so you could not have got a taste for it after you moved to London. You, old boy, know the seed cake because for years you have seen it made, and maybe, because the flour bags are very heavy and you have a curiosity, had even helped to prepare it. You can barely make out one of my experiments in the lab, but you did not even have to see all the ingredients of this recipe to deduce its name. So: John Watson, country-bred, from the North of England, born before 1870s. How did I do?” “Splendidly as always, Holmes.” “And, Watson, you could deduce something about my heritage as well. Or, maybe about my occupation. Do you want to give it a try?”
25 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex “You knew about the seed cake because otherwise you would not make the connection. There are two possible conclusions: one, that you knew about the existence of the cake for the same reasons I do: childhood memories. Or, you learned about it in your line of work. I do know that you have an index and your mind palace and God knows what else to store all the little titbits of our world. Most people would probably choose the latter because they would assume — as I wrongly did — that you are not from the countryside. However, and I hope that you were not deceiving me, Holmes, you said that your family are country squires. They were the preferred consumers of such baked goods and as I am well aware that you and your brother alike — don’t scoff, Holmes — are very fond of those, it would make a solid thesis to assume that you know about seed cake — just like me — from your childhood days.” “Bravo, Watson. You know me well.” We got back to work, sharing the space around the wooden table. Holmes ordered me to beat the butter to a cream. I dredged the flour. I added the sugar, mace, nutmeg and caraway seeds to the dough. I was well aware that Holmes ordered me to do the mixing, and possibly even prolonged the task a bit, because he personally enjoyed the play of my muscles. I will admit that whisking the eggs can be a tease, and I will leave it to my reader to imagine what one could make out of such a line. I will only report that it made my dear Holmes blush, because oh, he definitely isnot the country boy. I was even bolder: I suggested that when I had stirred the brandy into the cake and had beaten it for another ten minutes, we indulge in a drink. After all, our only remaining task was to put the dough into a tin lined with buttered paper and wait for it to bake. The kitchen had become hot with the heat of the oven; to escape for some time into the cooler rooms upstairs seemed heavenly, and, who knows, if Holmes wished for some heat, we could surely think of something… Holmes did not openly speak about such matters. However, his actions speak volumes — more than I could ever report. He might not say it, but days like that day show me how much he loves me. Simple things, unremarkable for some, that make the difference.
he world could never find out. It might be such a small thing, a simple Tcake, but it had such a strong connotation. I knew the moment we left the kitchen, when we ate the cake, and when we shared it with our family of choice, it would be unspoken that a woman had made it. Let it be a grateful female client or patient, Mrs Hudson or her maid who had baked it. Alternatively, it had been bought, though even in the case of a common seed cake that would
26 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 be a lie unwise to tell. Therefore, it would probably have been Mrs Hudson, who was much more than a housekeeper, who would have seen me miserable because of the weather and had, as society expected from a competent and skilled woman, taken matters into her own hands and presented me with a seed cake. Only for less than half an hour preparation time, could Holmes and I be a household on our own. Only behind closed doors and with the house empty of the other residents could we be a unit: two men who shared good days and bad days, and who not only lead a public, professional life together, but also a private one. While the cake was in the oven, we shared not only conversation, companionship and perhaps more carnal relations, but also the common undertaking of household chores. Even when we retire to the countryside, somewhere on the Sussex Downs, as we have spoken about already, there will be a woman from the village to cook and clean. Two men living together might be raising suspicion already, but two men doing basic household chores? It is the housekeeper, the wife, the maid — it is never a man. Not even when you are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson can you take such liberties in the open. But I know that he is a wicked man and I am a hopeless romantic, so I suppose we will not only take the memories of our respective youth and our shared lives in 221B with us to retirement, but also the recipes. Moreover, when the thrill of the chase is over and a dark mood befalls one of us, or both, and Mrs Hudson is not close at hand (and no place for a doting wife!), it will be the smell and taste and sight of a common seed cake that will bring us comfort. It will sit unassumingly at the table and none will be the wiser.
27 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex
Holmes’s recipe:
A VERY GOOD SEED-CAKE (1776)
INGREDIENTS — 1 lb of butter; 6 eggs; ¾ lb of sifted sugar; pounded mace and grated nutmeg to taste; 1 lb of flour; ¾ oz of caraway seeds; 1 wineglass of Brandy.
Mode — Beat the butter to a cream; dredge the flour; add the sugar, mace, nutmeg, and caraway seeds, and mix these ingredients well together. Whisk the eggs, stir to them the brandy, and beat the cake again — for 10 minutes. Put it into a tin lined with buttered paper, and bake it from 1½ to 2 hours.
Cost — 2s 6d
Watson’s mother’s receipe:
COMMON SEED-CAKE (1775)
INGREDIENTS — ½ quartern of dough, ¼ lb. of good dripping, 6 oz. of moist sugar, ½ oz. of caraway seeds, 1 egg.
Mode — If the dough is sent in from the baker’s, put it in a basin covered with a cloth, and set it in a warm place to rise. Then with a wooden spoon beat the dripping to a liquid; add it, with the other ingredients, to the dough, and beat it until everything is very thoroughly mixed. Put it into a buttered tin, and bake the cake for rather more than 2 hours.
Time — Rather more than 2 hours.
Average cost — 8d.
Seasonable at any time.
www.mrsbeeton.com/35-chapter35.html
28 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018
29 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex
The Secret Sculptor
Dee Storrow
he aftermath of the Felderson case, which resulted in the absolute pardon Tof Miss O’Bryan, was not entirely without its problems. Felderson put up a significant fight once he realised that his demise was imminent. He was ultimately the worse for such an action, but not before he had done his damnedest to add Holmes to the death toll. The resulting stab wound was not particularly severe; in fact, it was the blow to his head which proved the source of greatest concern. Holmes passed in and out of consciousness several times whilst under observation at St Bart’s. When aware of others, he complained of fractured vision, waves of pain and a worrying inability to keep anything other than thin broth in his system for more than half an hour. His life hung in this peculiar balance for five days. Watson refused to leave him during this time, other than to collect items from their rooms at Baker Street and to keep a fretting Mrs Hudson informed of the changing circumstances. He dozed in a purloined chair by the bedside and endeared himself to the nursing staff by personally attending to as much of Holmes’s care as he could, thus lessening their load by one. The nights were the most challenging. Holmes’s perception of time was muddled; he railed against the demand that he remain in bed during his spells of relative lucidity. Defeat was admitted, however, after his second bid for autonomy left him in a puddle of incoordination in an outer corridor. “I am perfectly fine,” he snarled to Watson upon waking on the fifth day of his incarceration. “I have answered all that has been asked of me, and have kept what passes for breakfast here within my system, despite its revolting texture. My wound continues to heal to the satisfaction of Stamford and his medical acolytes.” He levered himself closer to Watson, who found that his greatest friend had somehow transformed from the saviour of London to the persona of an overgrown and bored child. Watson remained outwardly stoic, even though his sympathy was clear. “You will return to Baker Street when and only when physicians other than myself deem you fit to leave.” His smile had a regretful tinge. “I am of the opinion that you will be discharged to my sole care in the very near future, providing that all the conditions of such a release are met.” He leaned in closer to Holmes, as if to inspect the bruising on his skull.
30 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 His lips were perhaps an inch from Holmes’s ear. “To lose you now would fracture me.” Holmes angled his head until he could respond in a similar fashion. “My apologies. I did not expect that you would have been so affected.” “Even a brain such as yours misses a cue from time to time, especially when such emotions and ideas are not immediately observable.” A long-fingered hand grasped his elbow tenderly. “Understood. I shall endeavour to present my most charming face if it means that I return to our own domain the faster.” “Good man.” Watson’s smile was as genuine as his relief in seeing Holmes’s temporary acquiescence. “I will be back later this afternoon. Lestrade has been asking about you, and promises to send some of his more convoluted cases which he feels would benefit from the application of your wisdom, but only if your discharge is secured, and your progress continues. Otherwise you will be stuck with my dramatic renditions of the lesser-known Dickens.” “Tempting.” A brief smile lit his face. “I would hear you speak of other things, but not here.” He waved a hand at Watson in mock dismissal. “Off with you, then, so that you return before the boredom reclaims me.” Watson nodded. “As you wish. Until later.”
atson’s temporary abandonment of Holmes allowed him the Wopportunity to prepare 221b for Holmes’s return. He disposed of the rotting experiments cluttering the workbench while Mrs Hudson changed the bedlinens and laid out fresh towels. She was grateful for his help, but recognised his need for fresh air, and sent him on an errand. He was duly returning from Mr Merrick’s shop on the corner when he fancied he felt himself under close observation. He glanced back, and at first saw nothing unusual. Then there it was. A black-clad figure in the farthest corner of his vision, head bowed and intent on reaching him. Watson cursed the stupidity of leaving his gun locked in his desk. Damn and blast. The figure drew closer, enabling him to discern a flash of white atthe man’s throat. He caught the man’s gaze and prepared for confrontation. The sharp neigh of a startled horse and the frantic tattoo of unfettered hooves took his attention at the crucial moment. The oranges he had bought fell from his grasp and spattered underfoot. He felt himself jerked violently backwards as the brewery dray cart thundered uncontrollably past where he had just been standing. “Sir, sir, are you quite all right? I did not mean to startle you, but that seemed a close call.”
31 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex Watson spun around. A handsome man, perhaps just touching forty, stared down at him by the advantage of two or three inches. He was dressed in unremitting black, save for a band of clerical purity at his neck. Watson smiled at him with an odd relief. “Thank you, Reverend, for the speed of your reaction. I am quite unharmed, even if, alas, my oranges are not.” “Ahh.” His eyes glinted with an odd recognition. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Dr Watson, the renowned colleague of Mr Sherlock Holmes?” Watson nodded and held out his hand. “You do, and I thank you for your attention to my welfare.” He looked curiously at the clergyman. “And you are..?” “Reverend Fosset, vicar of St Mary of the Lanes, Whetstone.” They shook hands. “I came into town with the hope that I might engage the services of Mr Holmes in assisting me in a somewhat intriguing matter which would benefit from his discretion.” The edge of Watson’s smile frayed slightly. “Mr Holmes is currently away from Baker Street, although he is expected to return in the next day or so. Would it be possible for me to contact you once he is able to consider your case?” Reverend Fosset nodded. “That is most kind. I can be contacted at the Vicarage. Here is my card.” Watson slid it into his waistcoat and nodded. “I will relay your request as soon as Mr Holmes is available. And thank you again for your assistance today.” Fosset inclined his head. “The pleasure was all mine.”
s expected, St Bart’s relinquished its bodily hold on Holmes later that Aafternoon, albeit on the strictest of conditions; namely that he strayed no further than the confines of his rooms for at least the next day, and extending to the possibility of sedate walks thereafter. Holmes found himself settled briefly on the chaise as Watson knelt at his feet to unbutton his shoes. There was a distinct amount of sotto voce grumbling going on, but, as it was accompanied by the brushing of long fingers through his hair, Watson knew he had been forgiven. “I’d be lost without my Boswell,” was whispered to the air, a moment before Mrs Hudson bustled her way in. “Right, Mr Holmes.” Her basket found a decisive home on the sideboard. “There’s beef broth and scones for now, plus some of my fruitcake for later, but only if you rest up.” She surveyed him on the chaise and nodded her approval at the rug Watson spread across his legs. “There’s a fresh scuttle of
32 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 coal there, and I laid that fire myself, so mind you make the most of it. I’ll be back in later for the dishes.” “Very gracious of you,” replied Holmes. “You are a star of the upper firmaments.” “And mind you look after the good doctor,” she huffed good-naturedly. “He’s been run near ragged while you’ve been up the road.” “I will do my utmost.” Watson turned his head to hide his grin, pretending to straighten the pillows on the chaise. He waited until he heard the latch click behind her before his arms encircled Holmes. He leant into Watson’s shoulder with a sigh as his lips found a home on his cheek. “I am most sorry for every scrap of worry and grief I have caused you,” he mumbled. “How did I come to deserve you?” Watson returned the kiss. “By taking me out of that hovel on the Strand and repurposing me for your own ends. That remains reward enough.” Holmes’s hands travelled down his ribs and into his waistcoat pocket. He encountered the neat card and liberated it from its silken lair. “And what is this?” He waved it in front of Watson’s face. “It was given to me by a quick-thinking clergyman, whose actions saved me from a runaway cart earlier today. He claims to have a case for you.” Holmes twisted the card into the light and examined it, before placing it on the occasional table. “Interesting. Describe him for me.” Watson closed his eyes and pictured his rescuer. “Perhaps five or seven years my junior. Between our heights, although closer to favouring yours. Fox- brown hair, with light-toned and changeable eyes.” Holmes kissed him again, this time between his brows. “Hmm. Curious. Send a telegram to invite him here tomorrow morning. I believe I would like to hear what your mysterious reverend has to say.”
olmes cracked open an eye as the first slices of light crept under the Hblind in his room. There was a vague memory of being guided to the bed and shuffled under the blankets several hours ago, but nothing more. He reached out over the edge of the mattress and tugged sharply at Watson’s sleeve. Watson jerked awake with some alarm before realising that the only danger lay in the glinting eyes of his companion. Holmes frowned at him. “And why do you believe that a chair can offer a better night’s sleep than the remaining half of my mattress? You will curse your shoulder later.” Watson returned the look. “I am not a calm sleeper, and you are not in a fit state to be jostled by my parasomnia.” 33 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex “Pish tosh.” Holmes shifted to the far side of the bed and held out his hand. “Enough of your misplaced gallantry. You need as much rest as I do, and sod propriety.” “But about Mrs Hud—” Holmes waved his hand. “Martha Hudson has eyes and ears, but she is ruled by her heart. I doubt the suggestion that we might innocently share a bed would startle her into moral panic. Come on, you great fool. Lie down in the warm. There are two locked doors between us and the outside world, and what should you fear? Surely not me?” Watson calmed a little. “I wouldn’t have returned to live in this house if I was, but I fear for your reputation. The world is an increasingly cruel place, especially after the Wilde case.” “True,” Holmes admitted. “But neither of us are corruptible young men rebelling against the bigotry of their elders.” He sat up, grasped hold of Watson’s arm and yanked him into the bed. “Careful of your stitches!” Holmes raised the edge of his pyjama jacket. “See? No disturbance to the wound. Now settle yourself.” He pushed Watson onto the softest section of the mattress and fitted himself comfortably behind. “Mrs Hudson won’t be in to disturb us with breakfast before nine. Sleep.” He received no response other than the soft, deep breathing of a man too far from waking to provide an appropriately articulate response. Holmes twitched the bedclothes over them both. “Oh, you blessed idiot,” he huffed into Watson’s neck, before drifting off once more himself.
olmes deliberately waited until Fosset was comfortably ensconced in the Hsitting room before making his appearance. Mrs Hudson fussed with the coffee tray, but her smile broadened as he caught her arm as she left the room. “Good morning, Reverend,” he said, striding across to meet him, hand outstretched. Fosset seemed startled at the approach. A jolt of recognition passed between them. Holmes’sface lit up with an oddly placed smile. “Victor…” Fosset grinned back. “Sherlock…” They stood and held each other at arm’s length, eyes locked. Watson felt suddenly awkward at what was a significant and unexpected reunion. They remained oblivious to his presence for several moments as each drank in the other’s features. It wasn’t jealousy as such, but the sense of unease that their single glance that swept all others aside. A curl of misery grew and began to unfurl in his gut. The fire cracked in the grate and the spell was broken. Holmes blinked and dropped his arms. 34 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 “How I forget myself,” he exclaimed. “Please sit down,” gesturing to Fosset. ”I understand that you met Dr Watson yesterday in my absence.” Fosset nodded. “He was good enough to pass on my card.” He turned to Watson with a smile which seemed almost apologetic. “Please allow me to explain myself more fully. My surname is Fosset now, but until I was seventeen I was known as Victor Trevor.” Watson nodded sharply. “Such a thing is not unheard of,” he replied, although clearly wanting a more detailed explanation. He took out his notebook. Fosset took a breath before continuing. “Sherlock and I know each other through the trials of surviving the English public school, although we have not seen each other for over twenty years. I had to leave without notice when my father’s business affairs declined in such a way that my education could not continue at Harrow. My mother remarried swiftly after he died by his own hand. And I found myself with a stepfather prepared to offer the protection of his name and fortune to myself and my sister, which went some way to alleviate the public shame of being the offspring of a bankrupt suicide. This involved the completion of my studies at another (if slightly less prestigious) school and then on to Oxford. My stepfather was a good-hearted man who treated my mother with great kindness. His generosity was also extended to my sister, who was similarly enabled to complete her education, albeit one which ended at the schoolroom door rather than the lecture hall. His only stipulation was that all traces and connections to our previous life and of my father were swept away and never mentioned again. “When I took holy orders, Amelia left the family home and took up a role as my housekeeper and assistant as I moved between parishes until I was offered the living at Whetstone eighteen months ago. We settled into parish life quickly, and once again found ourselves amongst good people. “It was then that Amelia met and grew close to Dr Lovellan, a young doctor keen to make his mark on the profession. He was a kind, calm and human soul, very similar in some ways to our stepfather, and he seemed to make her very happy.” Fosset smiled at the memory. “Indeed, when he approached me for permission to ask for her hand, I was delighted. An announcement was made and the banns were read, in preparation for a late spring wedding. And then…” His face greyed. “And then?” prompted Holmes. “Lovellan undertook to a journey to Devon to visit an old friend about a month before the wedding. Amelia saw him off at the station, expecting that the separation would only be for at most a week. But he never came back.” He took a long draught of his coffee before continuing. “On the day he was 35 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex due to return, the railway line near Dawlish was ripped apart by the elements in the worst storm for a generation. “When Lovellan did not return as expected, Amelia smiled bravely and hoped that he would only be delayed by a day or so. But news arrived of the train crushed under the rubble of the sea wall, its carriages swept out to sea, with the loss of almost all trapped inside. “Amelia fell into a mute panic from which she could not be rescued. I made desperate enquiries on her behalf, only to discover that Lovellan had been on that train, much to the distress of those who loved him. A memorial service was held once it was confirmed that there could be no hope for his return, in place of the much looked-for wedding. Amelia withdrew even further into herself, almost never leaving her room or even her bed. She grew increasingly pale and listless, and I truly feared that I would lose her.” The room hummed with unspoken sympathy. “Then, three weeks ago, she rediscovered a fraction of her herself, and went into the church. I found her in a pew adjacent to Lovellan’s memorial plaque. She had been sitting there in odd contemplation for some time when the parish ladies came in to refresh the altar flowers. They invited her to join them, which she did, albeit still as a muted shade of whom she had been.” “You must have been relieved to see this improvement,” suggested Watson. Fosset nodded. “She began to spend more time in the church, gradually taking back more of her previous duties. Last Wednesday afternoon, however, I came into the vestry to find her in a state of wordlessness, quite unable to articulate or explain what had caused her distress to reappear so violently. I bid her stay whilst I made a quick search of the building, but found nothing. I thought perhaps we had been visited by a vagrant. True enough, there was a set of mismatched footprints leading to one of the back pews, but nothing more. I returned to Amelia to assure her that nothing was amiss. She reluctantly accepted my findings, but felt unable to return. “The next morning, I was opening the church for morning prayer when I heard an odd scraping sound coming from the body of the church. It was a dank, grey morning, wreathed in a fog which engulfed the porch. I called out, asking our guest to make themselves known, only to hear the clank of metal on stone and the uneven scuffle of feet hurtling through the shadows and through the side door and into the churchyard. The collection box was undisturbed, as was the silver plate. It wasn’t until I approached the middle of the church that I discovered the damage.” Fosset fumbled in his jacket pocket and produced a lumpen handkerchief. “Lovellan’s memorial plaque had been grievously damaged via the judicious application of hammer and chisel.” He unfolded the parcel and spread the crumbled fragments onto Holmes’s outstretched palm. 36 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 “Ah,” Holmes responded. “Do you have any idea who might wish to obliterate Dr Lovellan’s memory? He seems to have been a much respected member of the community, from all the evidence that you have presented.” Fosset shrugged. “Indeed, I am somewhat at a loss to understand the reasoning behind such an unthinking and callous act.” “Might I ask how your sister reacted when she heard of this?” “She fainted, and had to be taken upstairs, from where she has barely stirred since. Her room is adjacent to mine, and I took the precaution of leaving my door ajar in case she had need of me in the night.” Holmes nodded sadly. “As any devoted brother would.” “I attempted to provide whatever comfort and solace would be accepted, but nothing could shift her from her grief. She barely spoke, or ate, drinking only water. I continued to stay as close as my parish duties allowed. And, then, on Sunday night, I was in my study when I heard a dreadful scream and a thudding coming from her sitting room. Naturally, I ran up the stairs, dreading what I might find.” Watson pressed a small tumbler of brandy into Fosset’s hand, which he downed readily. “What had occurred?” asked Holmes, still working the fragments of stone between his fingers. “Amelia was throwing herself against the window casement as if intending to burst through it. It took almost all my strength to enfold her safely in my arms and guide her to her bed. Her eyes remained fixed and unseeing, and she kept repeating ‘He did not die, he is not dead, why does he not come?’ over and over. This did not cease until a doctor was summoned to sedate her.” “And what was his professional opinion regarding your sister’s condition?” asked Watson, as gently as he could. The light that appeared in Fosset’s eyes was so desperate that neither he nor Holmes could bear it for long. “He expressed a genuine concern that the grief of losing the future for which she so longed with Lovellan had stolen her rationality and that there was very little that can be done beyond her removal to a more suitable environment.” He swallowed as if to make the idea more palatable. “She was the brightest light in my life before this tragedy unfolded, and while it tears at my heart to see her so changed and in so much distress, I am increasingly convinced that the current situation cannot continue.” Holmes rewrapped the fragments of stone and set it aside. He placed a conciliatory hand on Fosset’s arm, and his eyes grew soft. Fossett looked up into them. “I am glad you found the courage to find me again, after all these years.”
37 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex Fosset nodded. “You remain the cleverest soul I have ever had the opportunity to encounter, and I am sure that you will be able to unearth the truth behind this sorry tale. For once, my faith is of little use; I need your rationality so that I can ensure my sister has the greatest opportunity to recover herself, as far as she is able.” “But of course,” replied Holmes. “It is an intriguing case, and one that I am glad to undertake on your behalf.” Fosset’s relief was palpable. “I cannot express sufficient thanks for your engagement in this matter. Grief is a monster which has the ability to destroy the most balanced of souls. I have to believe there are other avenues to be explored before I am forced to entrust my dear Amelia to the hands of others, no matter how caring and professional.” “I will accompany you to Whetstone while Dr Watson completes some research here,” announced Holmes. “If you could excuse us for a moment?” Fosset nodded mutely as they went into the hallway. “I require you to go to the Newspaper Archives to find out all that you can about the Dawlish calamity, with particular attention paid as to where all of the male casualties, dead or alive, were taken.” He pressed a telegram pad into Watson’s hand. “I believe these might come in useful.” Watson tried not to bridle at the menial request, which would normally have been well within the remit of one of the brighter Irregulars. He could not disguise the reluctant track of that thought across his face. “Watson, I merely wish to take the opportunity to speak privately with Vic— Fosset, as he is now, as I feel that there are elements of this case which he would only reveal to a friend, even one he has not seen for half a lifetime. There is no avenue of life in which I would exchange you for another,” he whispered. “Be assured of that, if nothing else.” The sharper edges of Watson’s expression were blunted at his words. “As you wish,” an enigmatic reply from a man wishing to believe what he had been told, but not entirely trusting to hope it was the truth.
olmes waited until the railway carriage to Barnet was empty before he Hspoke. “You have failed to tell all that you know, Victor.” The Reverend looked up at the use of his Christian name. “Remember I know you of old, and can spot omission as quickly as fabrication.” Fosset focussed on the unending streets of houses as they rumbled through the outer reaches of London, and it took him several minutes before he felt sufficiently brave to look directly at Holmes once more. “It remains a matter of extreme delicacy which I was loath to discuss, even in the presence of Dr Watson.” 38 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 Holmes regarded him with caution. “I do hope that you realise that there are no secrets between the good doctor and myself. I have perfect and utter trust in him, and he in me.” “As we once did?” asked Fosset. Holmes nodded. “We have been companions for most of the past decade, through fair times and foul, and I am confident that this will continue for the rest of our lives.” “He is a fortunate man.” Holmes huffed. “However distant I might appear to the populace, do not doubt the regard I have for those who eventually manage to break down the walls I constructed to keep the wider world at bay.” “And what of someone who was forced by circumstance to sever such a connection? Is all hope lost?” “‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds’,” he replied. “You were not in any position to go against your stepfather’s dictats, especially when the welfare of your mother and sister were at stake. Losing your companionship was my first experience of grief, lessened by the fact that I knew you lived on elsewhere. I never stopped hoping that we would meet again when we had greater agency over our own lives.” He leant forward until he was almost within reach of Fosset’s hands. “But we live in an era of increased suspicion, where emotions must be concealed in order to protect them.” Fosset looked directly at him. “I did not seek you out to reclaim my stake in your affections,” he replied softly and without regret. “Time moves and changes all who survive its ructions. I would never wish to disrupt the friendship of two connected souls such as you and Dr Watson.” Holmes acknowledged his admission, before his expression shifted a little. “But what of the connection which your sister shared with Lovellan? Your description of the grief which continues to threaten her seems to have struck much deeper than anyone could have expected.” The assertion was rewarded with a curt nod. “My work amongst the dying and bereaved has made me almost professionally immune to grief, because to be otherwise exposes the self to incalculable damage. And yet…” He paused, as if searching for the words. “And yet, the fracturing of Amelia’s spirit when she heard about Lovellan’s death seemed more akin to that of a recent bride rather than that of an untried girl.” Holmes’s eyes widened at the implication of his words, but he nodded in agreement. “There are some secrets which are not shared between siblings, no matter the strength of their bond.” His hand touched Fosset’s. “If that is the case, she is battling more than grief. She is living in fear of your reaction,
39 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex especially now that the one with whom she had planned to share her life and its developments cannot protect her.” Fosset paled. “I never would have thought that Lovellan could have left her in such a position. I would never have granted him her hand if I had thought—” Holmes interrupted him. “Old friend, that goes without saying. Perhaps what occurred was not the theft of virtue taken under dubious circumstance, but instead the gift of affection freely offered in the sure and certain understanding of the shared life that was to follow.” “But if this was a suspicion, then why did the doctor who was called say nothing of this? I know that he was most thorough in his questioning of her.” “It is most likely that her hysteria and anxiety masked all other symptoms for him. And it is also possible at that time, that she herself was unaware of the subtler signs of her condition. He saw what he chose to see, and made a judgement which best fitted his observations.” Their train approached its destination. Fosset remained fixed in his seat. “Come on, Victor. Take me to the Vicarage, and allow me to find a solution amongst these tangled ends.”
atson completed his research in an efficient manner and took the next Wtrain through the northern suburbs. The day had bloomed into soft sunshine and the air felt coolly fresh in the pleasant lane leading from the station. The Great North Road awaited at the top of it, and he spotted the modest spire of St Mary’s in the distance. His heart felt glad that there were still such places amongst the encroaching sprawl of the city. He heard a half-familiar step behind him and glanced out of the corner of his eye. Holmes tipped his hat, fond and eager all at once. “What have you uncovered?” Watson handed over his notebook. “The newspaper archive was particularly helpful, as were the registrars at Somerset House. As ever, you appear to be on the mark.” Holmes grinned. “Your compliments nourish my soul.” He flicked through the relevant pages, a brightness shining in his eyes. “Interesting, and not without promise.” He patted Watson’s arm. “Before we visit the Fossets, I believe that the church may furnish further information. But be prepared for anything, including violence,” he warned. “We may yet witness the dead walk amongst us.” Holmes guided him into the church via the side door and pulled him down into a pew. “Keep your eyes on the far wall, just beneath the middle window.” 40 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 “There’s no-one there,” hissed Watson. “You are mistaken.” “I believe not. I observed his tracks in the dust. Our secret stonemason is there.” They remained in absolute silence for several minutes, their eyes trained on the space under the window. At first there was nothing, then the faintest sound of metal against stone. Watson strained his eyes and could just make out the furtive movements of a figure intent on chipping away at the damaged memorial plaque. “Now!” They sprang up and advanced, stopping a hand’s breadth away. The figure, dressed in pitiably stinking rags, dropped his tools and attempted to flee. Holmes blocked his path. “Explain yourself,” he said gently, “and no harm will come to you. Pass over your tools.” The man sagged in defeat, then obeyed. “Good man.” “I am not a good man.” The stranger’s head was bowed and his speech slurred. “They lied about me and I did not stop them.” “It was not your fault.” Holmes’s voice seemed to temper the man’s fear and self-loathing. “Assumptions were made without the appropriate evidence. Now come with us and all will be solved. There will be a warm bath, a clean bed, good food and new clothes waiting if you come with us now.” “I- I cannot return… They will think me the worst form of coward and liar.” Watson held out his hand. “I am a doctor. I will see to it that you receive the assistance you require, but you cannot stay here and continue as you are now. We have the means and the will to set your world back on its axis.” “B-but I am a thief, and a desecrator.” The man’s eyes grew ever wider with fear. “I do not deserve such kindness…” Holmes was emphatic. “Your current state is down to a lack of sleep, inadequate nutrition and the fracturing of nerves. Come with us. I may not be the Lord, nor do I wholly accept the doctrines of organised religion, but I do believe in the potential goodness of the human heart. If I did not, I would not have been able to have followed my life’s path. Now, can you walk unaided?” “Slowly.” “Good,” said Holmes. “So come with us, and all will be well.” The visit to the Fossets was postponed for the immediate time. They left the church just as they had entered it. Holmes kept a wary eye focussed on the vicarage, and remained assured that their departure had gone unnoticed.
41 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex he return to Baker Street was an uneventful one, taken in a cab driven by TWiggins. They stopped once to pick up a stout parcel at a modest address off New Oxford Street. Holmes ushered their guest upstairs and into their bathroom. “Leave your things here,” he said, unfolding a sheet of brown paper onto the floor. “I will dispose of them for you. Run a bath and make what use you wish of whatever you find. The water is hot and plentiful. Everything you might require is here. Dr Watson is also on hand if you require his services.” The man nodded in bewildered thanks. Holmes leaned over the bath, secured the plug and set forth the flow of hot water before leaving him to it. Watson stood in front of their dining table, setting out the contents of the parcel as Holmes joined him. “I still have a number of questions, Holmes, not least the identity of the wretch we have just rescued. Are the Fossets aware of this development?” “All in good time, Watson. Our immediate concern is the welfare of our guest. All the answers that you require will be revealed in the near future. Now be a good soul and ask Mrs Hudson for another portion of her excellent soup. I doubt that our guest has eaten properly in some time.”
he man who emerged from the bathroom in Holmes’s least-favoured Tdressing gown bore little resemblance to the beggar they had transported from Whetstone. The restorative heat of the bath had straightened his back and uncrabbed his hands. His hair and beard were fine and soft, albeit lacking in a certain level of tidiness. Watson gave him a welcoming smile. “You are looking considerably more restored, sir. I have some soup for you.” He took in the welts and scratches on the man’s hands, and the pain he attempted to conceal while walking. “May I examine you?” “Thank you.” The man’s voice crackled with hesitation. Watson turned to Holmes, who was staring out of the sitting room window. “Holmes, would you leave us for a few moments so that I can conduct a consultation?” The question startled Holmes out of his thoughts and he looked almost affronted for a moment, before remembering his manners and presenting a more reasonable version of himself. “As you wish. Some topics are better discussed between professionals.” He swept out, an odd light shining in his eyes, as he ensured that the door closed with an audible click. The man sagged onto the chaise. Whatever courage he had previously summoned melted into the air. Watson watched him with no little compassion,
42 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 and took the opposite seat. “Please remember that you are amongst allies here, and that anything you say within these walls remains here unless you explicitly state otherwise. Now let me see how I can help you. Shall we start with your leg?” He moved the dressing gown aside. Watson saw how the jagged welts on his leg looked as though it had been attacked by a monster. There was more evidence of healing than putrefaction, but when Watson gently palpated the area, his fingers encountered evidence of an unwelcome heat. “I will dress this now, and give you something which should work towards the fever, but only once you have eaten.” The patient acknowledged the diagnosis. He allowed Watson to position the injured limb in such a way that it could be anointed and bandaged more suitably. “All done,” said Watson. “Now have some more soup, just a little at a time. Once I am confident that you can keep it down, I will allow you more. Then you must sleep.” “I cannot take your bed, Doctor.” Watson fixed him with a friendly glare. “I insist. You must know as well as I do that a few hours rest will make a great deal of difference. I believe Holmes has every intention of disentangling this situation sooner than you think.” “I am doubtful that he will be able to.” He looked into the mug of soup. “It would have been better for all if you had not found me. I am not deserving of such support.” Watson sighed. “I will take your unfounded doubts as the wanderings of an exhausted soul, and nothing more.” “Yes, sir.” He drank from his cup, then swallowed the tablets that were offered to him. Watson guided his patient into the bed. The comfort of fresh, clean sheets and a soft mattress claimed him long before he could object. Holmes had already reclaimed the chaise when Watson returned. “And how is our man?” Watson busied himself with repacking his medical kit. “Rational to an extent, but bewildered as to how or why he should accept our assistance. He should recover from his physical injuries, but his nerves are quite another matter. He harbours great uncertainties about what the future might hold, and if I were in his shoes, I would have been in quite a similar frame of mind.” “Your sympathy is both notable and admirable. I have sent a message to Whetstone, and they will be expecting us between about eleven and noon.” “And this will be the end of the matter?” “Absolutely.” He rested his chin on his templed fingers and looked sideways at Watson. “Years ago, the very best of men reminded me that the heart has twice the power of the brain.” 43 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex “Because a fragment of my own being entirely refused to accept your demise at Reichenbach, even when all logic pointed elsewhere?” “Precisely.” Holmes swung himself up on his feet. His lips graced Watson’s forehead with a hot, soft kiss. “And this is why I would not be without you.”
leven o’clock again found them in Wiggins’s hackney amongst the soft Egreenery of Whetstone. It was a silent, watchful journey for all concerned. Watson kept a close eye on both of his companions, who each in their own way had spent a restful night and had consumed suitably fortifying breakfasts. Their guest had allowed Holmes to carefully and efficiently remove his beard with a cutthroat razor, much in the demeanour of one mutely preparing for sacrifice. They pulled up on the lane where the church and its vicarage were nestled. Holmes sprang out first and turned to Wiggins. “Thank you for your service.” He pulled out a folded note. “Give my thanks to the rest of the Irregulars.” Wiggins folded the note into his coat, then tipped his hat. “Pleasure, Mr Holmes.” He waited until all of his passengers had alighted before executing a neat turn in the lane and rattling back towards the city. “I am not sure of this, sir. I do not feel that I would be welcome here. I am at best a bounder and at the very least a liar.” Holmes put a guiding hand on the man’s arm. “Come now. You are Lazarus, and not the prodigal son. There are two people in there who are desperate to reclaim your acquaintance. They have waited long enough.” His eyes glowed with encouragement. “I know how terrifying it is to return as if from the dead, but love and genuine regard will always find the means to override any obstacle if hope allows them to grow.” “M-May I ask… have you ever been in love, Mr Holmes?” Holmes smiled at the memory. “Once happily, once less so, but all concerned continue to live and thrive, which is better than living in the shadow of unremitting regret.” Watson remained silent, allowing Holmes’s words to flow around him. He may not have been the primary audience, but the message struck home as potently as if they had been safely private elsewhere. He strode up to the porch and tapped at the door which swung open at his touch. “Morning. May we come in?” “Certainly,” came Fosset’s voice. “Please come through. You said you had some news?” They found him in the kitchen, washing his hands at the sink. Holmes approached and laid a hand on his arm. “Victor,” he said quietly. “We have solved your mystery, and have someone with whom you need to speak. Dry 44 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 your hands and turn around.” Fosset started at the use of his Christian name. He looked at the man standing awkwardly next to Watson and blinked. “Lovellan!” he gasped. He turned to Watson, and then back to Holmes. “Can this be true?” Lovellan advanced slowly. “I am no ghost, and am continuing to recover from my injuries, thanks in no small part to these gentlemen here.” A floorboard creaked above his head. His gaze flashed towards it. “How is Amelia? I feel I have done her a grievous wrong.” Fosset shook his head. “You are back with us, in body as well as spirit. Let me fetch Amelia…” “No need.” Holmes looked towards the door, where a wan-faced young woman stood, her face filled with equal amounts of fear, joy and confusion. “Edmund?” she whispered, before crumpling suddenly. Watson darted back and caught her. He felt for her pulse and found it comfortingly regular. “Just the shock,” he announced to the room. “All will be well in a while.” He eased her into a sitting position. “Holmes, if you could assist me?”
ater, once Miss Fosset had recovered herself, they gathered in the modest Lparlour whilst Lovellan recounted the tale of his misfortune and return: the train which had crashed into the sea after the track was pulverised by a vicious spring storm; being washed up on a beach farther up the coast, lacking everything but the clothes on his back and a few coins in his pocket; his mind feeling as blank as though it had been washed by the waves; the label in his coat which suggested a London origin; how his journey was funded by begging and the charity found in churches along the way. “Slowly my memory returned,” Lovellan continued. “But when I reached my former lodgings, I found them locked and empty. I stumbled into the church, more dead than alive. My eyes fell on the plaque erected by the parish, and I wished that I had never returned, and that the waves had claimed me. I slunk into the shadows, exhausted and broken. Then I saw Amelia and the extent of her grief, and the guilt ripped me apart. She was perhaps twenty yards away, but in my current state, it might have been a distance of a thousand miles. I was reduced to nothing… a homeless wretch who had lost all that he had once valued.” “But why did you deface the plaque?” asked Fosset. “What purpose did you hope it would serve?” Lovellan looked him squarely in the eye. “Because it was the physical embodiment of a lie,” he replied. “I borrowed the hammer and chisel from
45 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex the vestry, and attacked the plaque by night, sleeping wherever I could find shelter.” He turned to Miss Fosset. “I did not wish you to see me in this state, and yet I couldn’t leave without seeing you again, even though I knew there was nothing I could offer you. My funds, such as they were, were tangled in bureaucracy, and alone I lacked both the means and the influence to access them.” But Miss Fosset was undeterred. “I will have no husband but you.” Her eyes glittered with determination. “We will find a way.” She looked towards Holmes, who had a thoughtful look in his eye. “Despite what you may have erroneously believed, your death certificate was never issued, as proved by Dr Watson’s unstinting research.” Holmes smiled wryly. “I do have some personal experience in social resurrection, and I offer my help in returning you to society.” Lovellan was a prisoner released from chains. “I would be honoured to accept your assistance.”
f all the cases they took on that year, Watson’s mind kept wandering back Oto the wretch huddled next to the desecrated plaque, and the resulting resurrection of a decent man. His notes were never formally written up into the casebook. In their place, two clippings remained, both from the Barnet and Whetstone Chronicle. The record of a quiet family wedding in early May, followed by the christening of William Hamish Lovellan in December, just before the year turned. Life at Baker Street continued with its mixture of calm, danger, calamity and adventure, powered perhaps by the mutual affection shown by those who lived behind its twice-locked doors. There would be no banns published, nor any fluttering of legal certification for them. But the love and regard expressed therein lacked none of the sincerity of a more conventional marriage.
46 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018
47 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex
Contributors
Angela Lusk is 30-odd years old and lives with her husband and two cats in Texas. She is a graphic designer but her heart is in illustration and painting. You can find more of her fan art and original illustrations on Instagram and Tumblr as “ajanuarylark”.
Ariana Maher is an active member of the Sound of the Baskervilles, a society that meets monthly in Seattle. She is also known as “Carla” from the online John H Watson Society and designs The Watsonian, a journal that is published twice a year and which can be found at: http://johnhwatsonsociety. com/shop/.
Brewster North is a long-time fan with a particular fondness for Bert Coules’ BBC Radio adaptations. Zie lives (and tries to write) in New York City with two cats. Mostly, zie can be found on Twitter at @brewsternorth, or at im-in.space/@brewsternorth.
Dee Storrow credits the Sherlock Holmes fandom with the preservation of her sanity and the reawakening of her creativity. She lives in Cambridge with her husband, under the watchful eye of Friday the Feline Dictator.
Ernest is 21, literature student by profession, loves to play the violin and draw Holmes’s nose.
Holly is a classics student currently at Warwick who occasionally dabbles in creative pursuits. She can also be found reviewing comics on Broken Frontier. She spends most of her time trying to find new purple watercolour paint. Known online as iliadtea.
Ili recently graduated university specialising in theatre and costume design, her work is currently focussing more on digital illustrations and character
48 The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture No. 6, Winter 2018 design in general. She is available at slowbees.tumblr.com.
Katinka Rohard Hansen is a young creative soul. She spends her time working with drama, art, music and creative writing and she is sure to stay artistic for the rest of her life. In what way is yet to be discovered. If you are interested she shares some of her art at fire-and-fog.tumblr.com.
Marleen Donovan (“a_different_equation” on Ao3) has been a fan of Arthur Conan Doyle since first reading “Silver Blaze” nearly 25 years ago. She loves Johnlock in all universes. You can find her at a-different- equation.tumblr.com. She’s a queer one.
49 The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex
Afterword herlock Holmes called his Practical Handbook of Bee Culture with some SObservations upon the Segregation of the Queen, “the fruit of my leisured ease, the magnum opus of my latter years!” We hope to continue to publish this Handbook, but we can only do it with your help. Submissions are always open, and the Handbook accepts fanworks of any and all varieties: fiction, non-fiction, meta, essays, poetry, scripts, radio plays, visual art… anything you could print out and hand to a fellow Holmes aficionado. Check our website for the theme of the upcoming issue. The Handbook is in black and white and while we accept colour submissions, please bear in mind that they will have to be edited to fit the rest of the content. Also, please keep all submissions under a PG-13 rating. Exploration of gender and sexuality is encouraged but we can’t publish graphic sex or violence. If you have any questions about, suggestions for, or comments on the publication, get in touch! We look forward to hearing from you.
he Retired Beekeepers of Sussex are an all-inclusive Sherlock Holmes Tenthusiasts’ group and we want to extend an invitation to members of the LGBTQ+ community specifically. To find out more information about us, you can join our Facebook group (The Retired Beekeepers of Sussex), subscribe to our Tumblr (retiredbeekeepers.tumblr.com), follow us on Twitter (@SussexBees), or email us at [email protected].
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