"Holmes!" I shouted, brandishing a length of red flannel at his surprised, and annoyed, yet still infuriatingly supercilious face. "What is the meaning of this?"

Holmes pushed his chair away from his chemical apparatus, probably so that if I hurled something at him it would not upset the experiment he was conducting.

"Now, Watson--"

"No! No, wait a moment," I said. "I will deduce the importance of this strange phenomenon for myself!"

"If you would let me explain..." Holmes went on, but by now he could see it was no use.

"Observation: My flannel underclothes have appeared in the trunk I had packed for our holiday on the continent," I said. "I did not place them there myself. Inference: they were surreptitiously introduced into it by one Sherlock Holmes."

"You gave me leave to include anything I thought we were likely to need--" Holmes protested.

"Fact: the weather in the south of France is far too warm to require flannel underclothes at this time of year. Furthermore, it is highly unlikely that this fact has escaped the notice of the great Sherlock Holmes, encyclopedic compendium of all useful knowledge. And yet, Sherlock Holmes has placed this garment in our trunk, along with sundry other articles of clothing adapted for use in a cooler climate, because he thinks we will be likely to need them. Inescapable conclusion--"

"My dear fellow--"

"Inescapable conclusion," I shouted, "Sherlock Holmes knows that we are not going to the south of France at all!"

The underclothes streamed in a red flannel arc from my outstretched hand, striking him about the face. He tossed them impatiently aside and rose hurriedly from the chair, perhaps in order to impress me with his superior height.

I was not impressed, however. "We are not going on our continental holiday, are we, Holmes?"

"Watson, I was afraid you would cause a scene like this if I told you--"

"--if you told me that your master plan was to decoy me to the railway station with promises of warm sun and inexpensive wine, and then inform me that we are going back to that miserable northern hole known as Stoke Moran?"

Once again, I was gratified to witness the rare and precious sight of Sherlock Holmes standing dumbstruck and dumbfounded. But my joy was short-lived.

"This is all your fault, Watson!" Holmes retorted.

"My fault?"

"If you had not insisted on introducing me to that horrible American brat--"

"Miss Varegia is my poor departed sister's only living issue. I wish you would not use such vile language when you speak of her."

"I don't believe she is related to you at all. I have never heard you mention a sister, in all the years I have known you, and any name as outlandish as Ophidia Varegia must be an alias."

"As I have explained to you, Holmes, my poor sister Lamia was devoted to herpetology--"

"--which is how that child comes to be an expert on poisonous snakes. The entire situation is highly suspicious, and if I had not looked the information up myself I would not believe a word she said. Indeed, I suspect her of having looked the information up on purpose simply to humiliate me."

"Holmes, I will not have this. I know how you hate to be wrong, but you must simply accept the facts. There is no such thing as an Indian swamp adder, and even if there were, it could not physically have lived in that safe, heard Roylott's whistle, drunk the milk you found near it, or climbed down that bell-rope."

Holmes began cursing to himself under his breath as he paced the carpet.

"It is not your fault that you have not made a special study of the habits of exotic reptiles. You cannot be expected to know everything."

He looked at me as if it were the first time anyone had suggested this to him.

The expression on his face softened my anger, as I had known he eventually would. It was clear to me then that whatever the world might expect of him, Holmes himself expected much more. Holmes believed that he could--that, for some reason, he had to--know everything. And that was why it was more important to him to go back to Stoke Moran and find out what had really happened than to come with me to the south of France. I found this knowledge--like so many things I was learning about Holmes--simultaneously tremendously touching, and ineffably frustrating.

"Holmes," I said. "You saved Miss Stoner--excuse me, Mrs. Armitage--from her stepfather's rage, and helped to bring divine vengeance to a man who had undoubtedly murdered his other stepdaughter for the most mercenary reasons imaginable. Do the details matter so much?"

Holmes slumped onto the settee, dejected.

"Watson," he said, wearily. "You have no idea what this has done to me."

I sat down next to him. "They why not explain it to me."

"I was absolutely sure that my theory was right," Holmes went on. "Absolutely sure. As I have been absolutely sure so many times in my career. If I can be absolutely sure, and still be so horribly wrong...how will I ever know, again, that I am right?"

I finally felt, looking at him, the pain that underlay all of his blustering about poor Ophidia, all of his rants after that ill-fated dinner about how it was a mistake to educate women, and his burning desire to go back to Stoke Moran and make himself equally absolutely sure that he had finally found the right answer.

I was willing to go with him, now that I felt all of these things. But I would not go without apprehension. I had been a doctor and I knew--if Holmes did not--that there was not always a right answer. And I was afraid that this journey might force Holmes to realize that not every mystery had a solution.

He had investigated cases that were never solved--because there was insufficient information, because a suspect eluded detention, because the client had terminated the investigation under circumstances that did not allow him to disregard the client's wishes. But never before had he suddenly discovered, years after the fact, that one of the airtight and impressive theories he had constructed was simply not true. Not inconsistent, not implausible, not logically flawed, but simply not factually true. I was afraid, not so much of what we would find if we went to Stoke Moran, but of what we would not find.

But, as I was learning to my sorrow, I was willing to follow him, even and especially to places that frightened me.

"Holmes," I said. "I will go with you to Stoke Moran on one condition."

"And what is that?" Holmes asked, gloomily.

"That the instant we return you come with me to the continent."

"I accept your terms," Holmes said, with a look in his eye that might have been gratitude.

"Very well," I said. "Have we any idea who owns Stoke Moran now? Did Mrs. Armitage inherit it after all?"

"That," said Holmes, "is one of the few things I do know. Thanks to a Byzantine entailment, the property passed to a distant relative who still bears the Moran name. He has never been resident on the property, however. I propose that we first visit Mrs. Armitage, on the chance that she may remember something now that might shed some light on our inquiry..."

"...and then continue our long tradition of violating the laws relating to trespassing and personal property whenever the mood suits you."

"If you have no objection."

"None whatsoever."

"I am a creature of impulse, Watson," he said, some of his old spirit coming back. "You're very good to humor me this way."

"I don't mind."

"You wouldn't mind humoring another impulse for me, would you?"

I looked at the color rising in his cheeks and said, without the least hesitation, "Not at all."

"Excellent."

After all, the trunk was already packed, and if we happened to miss the next train, there would always be another.

---

"So, Watson," said Holmes, as we walked up the short gravel drive. "You are getting your seaside holiday after all."

I did not dignify this with a response. Holmes was perfectly well aware that this damp, cold, sodden Brighton landscape could not at all compare to the Riviera. However, it was where Percy Armitage had removed after marriage, on the advice of their physician, who felt the sea air would do his wife good. In her response to our letter, in addition to expressing her warmest thanks to Holmes for the assistance he had rendered her those years ago, she had mentioned that her health had never recovered from the shock of those terrible events. Indeed, the relative shabbiness and dinginess of the little house we were approaching indicated that the expense of employing a nurse to look after her had strained their modest finances.

A young and obviously local waiting maid opened the door and showed us into the sitting room. A slight, sandy-haired man of medium height, dressed in a good if worn brown suit, rose to greet us.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, shaking my friend's extended hand. "And Dr. Watson. I am so glad to have the pleasure, as my wife has often spoken of you. My wife has been confined to her bed this morning, I am afraid--the damp does not agree with her nerves. But she did especially ask me to send you up to her."

"Well," I hesitated, "if it wouldn't be a strain on her..."

Holmes, who had already started up the stairs, paused to wait impatiently for his answer.

"Oh no, Dr. Watson, she's not so ill as all that. I expect she will be down later this afternoon. It is simply that...well, the mornings are difficult."

Holmes was not looking at him as he said those words. But I was; and the sadness in his honest brown eyes was almost like a memory. I had never met the man, and knew nothing of their marriage. Yet I knew from his voice and his face what he was feeling as he watched the woman he loved struggle with something no one could cure.

"I understand," I said. "We won't be long."

Holmes reached the landing much faster than I did. As he rapped on the door, he shot me a look which made me feel that I had displeased him somehow, in some way. But the nurse opened the door, and we entered the invalid's bedroom.

Mrs. Armitage was some years older than when we had last seen her, and her hair was whiter. But even as she lay propped against the pillows of her bed, I could still see the courage and determination that had been so visible that morning she first walked into our sitting room. She greeted us warmly, extending one thin arm to wave us to a chair.

Holmes took his seat, leaning toward her with his elbows on his knees, all concentration.

"Miss Stoner--excuse me, Mrs. Armitage," he began. "I believe I mentioned in our note to you..."

"Yes," she said, bringing one white hand across her brow. "I am of course happy to assist you in whatever inquiries you wish to make, but I'm afraid I don't understand why you find it necessary. My poor sister is at peace, my stepfather is beyond the reach of the law, and I am...happy."

The wan smile with which she said the word twisted my heartstrings. As she dropped her hand onto the coverlet, I noticed something that quite distracted me from her conversation with Holmes.

Starting at the wrist, and meandering in a broken line over her forearm, was a pattern of faint, but still visible discolorations that looked almost like age spots. She was, as I knew, too young to have them; and as I also knew, only too well, these were not spots at all. They were old scars, left behind by small blisters that had sprung up on the skin above the veins in her arm, then burst and faded. More than once.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," she said. "But I am afraid that I remember nothing more about that terrible time, other than what I told you when I came to you, and what you know from your own experience. I do not speak of my life at Stoke Moran any more, except to Percy; and I have not made an effort to keep the memory green."

"No, of course not," said Holmes, although he was visibly disappointed. "I'm terribly sorry to have troubled you this way--"

"Excuse me," I finally blurted out. "I do apologize, Mrs. Armitage, but it is a personal as well as a professional matter, and--"

Holmes and Mrs. Armitage were both frankly staring at me. I went on.

"Your husband said that the mornings are--difficult. Is it because they...because you wake up nauseated?"

She seemed startled, and I reflected with chagrin that she had reason to be. For a woman to discuss her illness in the presence of a man who was, after all, virtually a stranger to her would be very difficult, and I immediately took myself to task for having allowed my excitement to goad me into putting her in this beastly position.

"I am sorry," I said. "I am not your physician, and have no right to ask--"

"Do not apologize, Dr. Watson," said Mrs. Armitage. "As a matter of fact, you are perfectly right; and if you know anything about this mysterious complaint I beg you to tell me what it is. We have not found a doctor yet who can explain the symptoms, let alone cure them."

I was terribly saddened, but not at all surprised, to hear her say it.

"I am afraid I know very little about it," I said. "All I can say is that I have treated a patient in the past with the same complaint. If you would be willing to give me the name of your doctor, I would be delighted to confer with him--to see whether he has anything to tell me, or whether I might have anything to suggest to him in the way of treatment."

"I would be more than grateful to you, Dr. Watson," said Mrs. Armitage. "Percy will give you his card if you ask."

"Thank you," I said, rising to my feet to bow my way out. "I wish you a good morning, Mrs. Armitage, and I hope that the afternoon will improve."

Holmes, rather confusedly, stood and followed me out. He wanted to stop on the landing, but I was not ready to have the conversation I knew he would begin. I went immediately down the stairs and straight to the sitting room.

By the time Holmes arrived, Percy Armitage was already handing me the doctor's card. "Anything you could do for her, Dr. Watson, we would be eternally grateful for. My wife bears the pain very bravely, but I would give anything if I could finally take it from her."

"I am afraid I can offer very little," I said. "There are some drugs that might make her more comfortable, which your doctor may not yet have tried. But aside from that, I am as much in the dark as he is."

"Speaking of being in the dark," put in Holmes. "Mr. Armitage, I wonder if you would know where we might find the young man who was engaged to Miss Julia. I wondered if he might throw any light on the events surrounding her death."

Armitage seemed suddenly flustered. Holmes looked at him, puzzled.

"But Miss Julia was never engaged," Armitage finally said.

All Holmes could do was repeat, "Never engaged?"

"Not to my knowledge, Mr. Holmes. There was some talk about her and a half-pay major in the marines who was stationed near Stoke Moran, but the company moved on after a month and nothing came of it."

"And this...flirtation..." Holmes said, struggling to regain his footing. "Was how long before her death?"

"I believe they shipped out just after the Christmas holidays," Armitage said. "And Miss Julia's anniversary is in May."

"Oh, well, if he left the picture five months before than he can know very little of any use to us," said Holmes airily, as if none of this had been in the least a shock for him. "Thank you very much for your help, Mr. Armitage, and I do hope that your wife's health will improve."

The young maid showed us out the door. Our boots crunched on the damp gravel as a fine rain began to fall.

"This is terrible, Holmes," I said.

"Absolutely," Holmes answered. "If the sister was never engaged, then there was no motive. My entire theory was founded on false information. Dr. Roylott may have been entirely innocent of the crime. It may not have been a crime at all. In fact--"

"Damn it, Holmes!" I shouted.

Holmes stopped walking. I stood uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

"What I meant was," I said, "it is terrible about Miss Stoner's illness."

He did not correct my use of her maiden name. Perhaps that meant he was beginning to understand the depth of my emotion.

"Yes, it is most unfortunate, and very mysterious," he said. "And you say you have treated a patient for the same complaint?"

"Yes. Unsuccessfully."

"Dear me, that is too bad. Who was it?"

I turned and began walking as I gave the answer.

"It was Mary."

For a long moment he stood on the gravel, watching me walk away. Then I heard his footsteps hurrying after me.

"Watson!" he cried. "Watson, wait."

I would not wait. I did not want to talk to him. Not at that moment. And I knew he would not want to see the tears. Not when they were for her.

---