The Case of the Headmaster's Terrier

Epilogue

The terrier proved extraordinarily long-lived, surviving long enough to meet my dear friend Dr Watson. Upon his reaching the end of his existence, I even allowed him the final honour of playing a part in the first case I shared with the Doctor, which he has fancifully entitled "A Study in Scarlet". I had been prevaricating, putting off a horribly unpleasant task so long that Mrs Hudson took to nagging Watson to provide the merciful lightning bolt. I knew the poison would act quickly, and, absurdly, I had the distinct impression my disreputable companion would have approved.

When my childhood friend had given one last convulsive shiver, but shown no distress, I had wiped the sweat from my forehead, immensely relieved I had not miscalculated and condemned him to a painful end. I had allowed myself the luxury of closing my eyes for a brief moment, and there he was, the picture in my mind as he raced across the quad towards me perfect in every detail. For a moment, I was twelve years old again, with scabby knees, grubby hands and tousled hair.

I opened my eyes, the years fell away, and I was again Sherlock Holmes, the world's first Consulting Detective, about to close a case, and make an arrest.

As we left the room with our prisoner in tow, I hung back for a moment. I ran my hand along the little dog, and whispered "Thank you, Odysseus. Good-bye". I then caught up with my companions, and we descended the stairs together.

OoO

I had thought, with Odysseus gone, that I would have no further reminders of my schooldays. It fell out that I was wrong in my assumptions.

Some three years later, I was intent upon a study into the effect of various metallic soil elements upon decomposing flesh. Watson was, perhaps understandably; uncharacteristically opprobrious regarding the effect this had upon the atmosphere of our sitting room, and had insisted I work directly beneath the wide open window.

The, I confess, overpowering offensive smell, and the clatterings and rumpus of a busy street below, distracted me from the sounds of a guest being admitted to our chambers, and not until the newcomer had been ushered inside did I register his presence. I looked up with eyes somewhat watering from the miasmic properties of my experiment, and so his outline was subtly blurred. Enough that the lines etched into the planes of his face, and the streaks of grey hair, were not immediately apparent.

Again, I experienced that sensation of the years falling away, and the sensation was not a pleasant one. The intervening year between tyranny and departure was evidently not my uppermost abiding memory of the man standing before me, and, before I could gather my wits, I had blenched, and my suddenly shaking hands dropped the glass beaker I was holding, so that it cracked along its base. The sharp sound recalled my senses somewhat, and I automatically placed the beaker into another receptacle to prevent the contents spilling.

The distraction did not prevent my noticing that I may have well struck my visitor in the face as reacted the way I did. His stricken expression was quickly smoothed over, and he crossed the room with his hand outstretched and his face impassive. I crossed to automatically return the gesture, my mind whirling with surprise.

"Mr Rangaford. It has been a long time, and I see you have prospered in the tropics, and that you are very recently returned. Pray excuse me. I surmise you do recall our prior acquaintance, but we have not met as adults before;, I did not immediately recognise you." He inclined his head towards me. "This is my friend and colleague Dr John Watson; Watson, may I present Mr Tobias Rangaford, who had the dubious honour of teaching me in my schooldays."

I could almost feel the curiosity, and very slight enmity, exuding from my companion as he regarded the little tableau. I am not naturally inclined to wear my heart upon my sleeve, yet I was rattled, and visibly so. It is not every day one's childhood bogeyman emerges into one's sitting room.

Rangaford shook Watson's outstretched, and spoke in the same quiet, deep tones I remembered.

"Good morning, Gentlemen. As you surmised, I have not long returned to the country of my birth, and I do not intend to make a long visit. However, there were certain duties I felt it incumbent upon me to discharge, and I should like to speak with you, Mr Holmes, if I may?"

Despite the contained manner of his speech, I detected a faint, imploring expression cross his features. I was not so churlish as to maintain my ancient grudge and refuse his plea.

"Of course, Sir. Would you care for some tea?"

I saw him hesitate minutely, and his eyes flickered to Watson for a split-second. Watson, whose own observational skills are considerable when they concern the emotional behaviour of his fellow man, rose to his feet.

"I hope you have no need of me, gentlemen? I have an errand to run for a patient of mine, and I must not tarry."

I knew he had no such obligation, but was grateful for his tact. Normally, I would ask for his involvement in my cases, but I had the distinct impression this interview was to be of a personal nature. I summoned Mrs Hudson to provide tea for two persons.

My former professor turned to me as Watson left.

"A staunch friend you have there, Mr Holmes. There is something about him of young Epsom, is there not?"

"Indeed, Sir. I place considerable value upon his company."

He looked me up and down.

"I would not have thought you had it in you to be so well-grown. You were the smallest in your class when I left the school."

"Yes, Sir. My growth followed the slow and steady wins the race principle until my fifteenth birthday, then appeared to come in for a strong finish."

It was a bizarre sensation. I had been terrified of this man for years, yet now he stood, barely taller than I, and appearing awkward and uncomfortable. He did not seem at all formidable, as he made rather gauche small talk, evidently screwing up his courage to come to a point.

Mrs Hudson appeared with the tea tray, and I poured a cup for my guest and myself, settling us both down in front of the fire. I smiled inwardly as I realised I was still too constrained to reach for my pipe.

It appeared Rangaford was struggling to address the purpose of his visit. I helped him out a little.

"I gather this is not merely a social call, Sir?"

"Yes and no, Mr Holmes. It is not for professional reasons I sought you out, although I am pleased to hear you are building a considerable name for yourself. It is a personal matter."

"Indeed? Please, do continue."

"I have been conscious, for many years, of a great debt hanging over me, which I owe you." I must have stared at him in bewilderment for a moment, as he continued, evidently distressed: "Please do not deny that, for a long period, I treated you abominably."

Composing myself, I inclined my head slowly in acknowledgment, but added:

"Perhaps at first, Sir, but your treatment of me in your final year of school did not brook criticism, and I remain ever grateful for the analytic skills you taught me."

"I have no doubt you would have realised those skills independently, given time. You were a startlingly apt pupil. But the fact remains, my treatment of you was sufficiently harsh to cause you to scream in terror at the sight of me when you lay ill, and it took such a horrible reminder – a young child, petrified at my very presence – to bring me to my senses. I could not help noticing even today you paled a little at my entrance. Shameful in the extreme."

"Please, Mr Rangaford, this degree of self-immolation is not necessary. I accept your apology, and no further is needed", I protested, embarrassed. He held up a hand to me, his eyes closed momentarily, as if recalling pre-set lines, and gathering his determination.

"I feel in some ways, I am begging an indulgence of you; to unburden myself. I have remained deeply ashamed of my treatment of you to this day. I am relieved you seem to have prospered despite it. Realising what your home background must have been, I feared you may have been permanently damaged."

"You do become personal, Sir", I replied, a trifle stiffly, feeling a flush beginning to rise across my cheeks.

"Forgive me. I speak only the truth, though. And I wished to explain to you a situation which may not have been clear to even such a perceptive child as you yourself were.

"Are you aware that I had some acquaintance with your mother before she was married?"

"Yes."

"And you are aware that your father and I were both suitors for her hand?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "And you are aware that she left your father for several months before you were born?"

I resisted the urge to leap to my feet and leave the room. I nodded curtly.

"Do you know to where she went?"

I stared at him, then, with a sense that a revelation was pending which would shake even my complacency, I shook my head.

"She came to me. It pains me to say that your father's lifestyle… ah, I see you are aware of it. It was a source of great distress to your mother.

"I would like to say that I loved her with a purity that recognised a strong-minded and righteous soul, but it would not be entirely honest. I think, perhaps, by that time, your mother's mind – forgive me, alas! – was not altogether her own, and her illness was already beginning to show, but I was young and ardent, and did not perceive it to be so. I felt I was offering her shelter from her spiritual trials, but having her near me awakened all the old feelings I had sealed in my breast for almost eight years.

"Then, her husband made to take her back. At first, he used only right-minded persuasion, but I believe he became frustrated, and there was… an altercation. I was not present, I was not nearby, but I believe… something occurred which your mother never forgave him for, and which, I am sorry to say, conferred lasting dishonour upon him, even though she were his wife."

I stared at him in horror. What right had this man, who had tormented me mercilessly as a child, to confound me with such disclosures, not to mention the implications for my own conception. If he suspected such bestiality of the part of my father, in what possible way could inflicting the knowledge upon me be seen as redeeming himself? For all his pompous hyperbole, this was making nothing better for me. I believe he read these thoughts from my expression, as he winced and apologised.

"Such things were more common than they are today; even though less than thirty years have passed. I am sorry if it distresses you. However, I felt it may help you to understand why your mother felt such lasting shame and antipathy. It was not directed at you personally, but at the circumstances of your birth. For, following her ordeal, your mother turned to me for comfort, and for once, her high-mindedness faltered and she gave in to her passionate nature that she had always so firmly suppressed."

"You mean you –ed her?" I spoke coldly, angrily employing an Anglo-Saxon word to puncture the cloud of verbiage with which he cloaked his meaning. He gasped in shock, then visibly sought to bring himself under control. When he began speaking again, he was clearly moderating the floweriness of his language.

"Yes, I am afraid so. It was wrong of me, of us. We both suffered for it. She felt there was nothing for it but to return to her husband, and try to repent. I hated that decision, but had no choice but to abide by it. I wasted much of my life hopelessly idolising her, hoping she would come back to me.

"You, I am sorry to say, were a reminder of all I had lost, a symbol of the reunion of your mother and her husband. I took out my despicable disappointments and frustrations on you, a helpless child. It was not until your accident whilst recuing the headmaster's dog that I saw myself for the monster I had become. And it was not until I realised that your mother approved my actions in tyrannising you that I saw her for what she had become, and what a dreadful waste it all was.

"I have since been fortunate enough to build a new life for myself, far from my homeland. I toiled, in penance for my sins. I emerged a better man, and met and married a good woman, who has borne me three children. She knew about my past. I felt I had moved beyond the damage I had done.

"However, I have recently been diagnosed with a heart condition. I do not know how long my health will endure. I determined to return to set my affairs in order, and came to the realisation that my treatment of you had been paining me for years. I could not leave it unexplained, my apology unsaid. I wished to tell you that I wish for you to prosper. And I wish for you to try to understand your mother, and perhaps forgive her also."

I smiled, grimly, at him. "You have obviously rediscovered your religious faith in your new life, Sir."

"Indeed. Our Good Lord forgives all, and wishes us to extend his good word to others."

"Apart from those he condemns to fire and brimstone for all eternity. However, I will take your words into consideration, and please be assured you have my forgiveness. As you see, I have moved beyond my childhood tribulations, and believe myself to be unscathed."

I was speaking quite automatically now, wishing only to get the man out of my house, so that I could sit and think and smoke my pipe. He did not appear to notice. He followed with more extravagant verbosity, thanking me for my generosity, and assuring me I had allowed a troubled soul to rest and the like.

I ushered him from the room, and lit my cherrywood.

Whenever Mycroft spoke of our parents, his words were always "our mother" and "my father"; never "our father". I was amazed I had not made the differentiation before.

It was by no means certain. The man who had raised me and Rangaford were physically similar, and I took after my mother in many respects.

It certainly did explain why my mother seemed to see sin in everything I did. She can never have been certain, either.

It is disconcerting to find one's place in the world suddenly shifted. However, as I inhaled the rich, twirling vapours, I found my consternation dispersing, like the smoke from the pipe as it thinly spiralled to the ceiling.

Footsteps sounded upon the stairs, and the door opened to admit Watson.

"Holmes. Is all well, dear fellow?"

I smiled, and felt more relaxed.

"Yes, thank you, Watson."

"I gather that man must have meted out some harsh treatment of you in the past?"

I stared at him. "However did you deduce that?"

"You were distracted just before he entered, so the sight of him took you by surprise – you then looked alarmed, and your hand ghosted towards those scars upon your backside. I was the recipient of similar chastisement myself on many an occasion, but I have no visible reminder of it, ergo, harsh treatment."

I roared with laughter. "Watson, you improve immeasurably. You are quite correct; he was a martinet."

"I hope his visit was not disturbing in any way?"

I thought about Rangaford's revelations, then noticed my friend's steady gaze upon me, and suddenly, I found I did not much care.

"Not really. It may be that what's past is prologue, but I find the present and the future somewhat more compelling. Come, my friend – carpe diem – a stroll around the park followed by a bite at Giovanni's should take care of both!"

o-o-o-o-o-o-FIN-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Well, that's that! Only took 13 months to write the epilogue! Started ages ago, just never got around to finishing. Hope you enjoyed it.

I felt I had to make sure I can still do the Victoriana-speak after using modern English in my BBC-Sherlock fic! (Apologies for anyone waiting for that in the meantime, but Victorian Holmes was feeling neglected).

Please do read and review – always appreciated.