Cowards of Us All

by Veinglory

Climbing the hill, Holmes paused. His ruse was that he was merely appreciating the view out over the ravine, but it was not nature on a particularly grand scale, nor was Holmes a man to appreciate such things. He stumbled near the top and turned his ankle, and his skin tone was pallid and sheened with perspiration.

This case, hard upon another, meant over a week with little sleep for him, driven by the whirring flywheel of his own brakeless mind. I was all too familiar with the signs, indicating that the rigours of the investigation had begun to bring about serious harm to Holmes's mind and body. He always maintained a precarious balance between ennui and exhaustion, erring in this case to the latter side. Three constables followed us, and an inspector awaited us below, anticipating the solution to his missing persons case, based entirely on Holmes's word. Holmes's reputation was beginning to become something of a curse, in over-work and in giving too free a rein to his presumption, not that I could speak. Near the top Holmes hushed us and peeked out around great basalt bastion that stood at the head of the path. He sighed his relief and waved the men forward.

"Your man," he said.

It was the lady's husband, I saw. Though why he came to be at the top of this isolated bridge at this exact time, I had no clue. Holmes stood with his head bowed. Then he turned and walked past me and back down the path, without a word. He paused, and as an after-thought, said...

"Have them stay till the train goes under at 10.35, and see what's lying atop her load."

I took his message, and stayed, as he knew I would, to see for myself. The train lumbered under, piled high with logs, and atop them all lay the body of Theresa, Mrs. Steven Thurston. She was beautiful even in death, passing within feet of our perch. The train delayed by the landslide, biding its time in this rarely used siding, its load piled high.

I could imagine it lumbering slowly past as Mr. Thurston pursued his wife, as she fled from his accusations of infidelity. He said she had walked off into the bush and not been seen again, but the days of British wolves and lions were long over, so when her body was not found another kind of predator was implicated. Still, but for Holmes the murderer might have retrieved and disposed of the corpse, playing the deserted cuckold all the while. I knew from the young man's defeated look that we'd have a confession from him soon enough, though it would be little consolation to those who grieved.

Holmes lounged with his feet on the table of the inspector's improvised office, the back of his head leaning on the windowsill and his eyes closed. It was a posture that showed the extraordinary length of his limbs... and the dark marks of exhaustion about his eyes. The inspector looked irritated, but his day was quickly improved as Thurston made a clean breast of the matter.

He had killed his wife for being unfaithful, he said. He seemed defeated but not contrite. I bit my tongue; no words from me would bestow a conscience on this abominable man. Holmes levered himself to his feet as Thurston was bundled into the back room to write out a statement immediately, rather than give him the trip back to London to think better of his confession.

"So, as Thurston is forthcoming you'll need me no further," Holmes declared and he left the room.

The inspector watched him go with a resigned expression. "He had the right of it I suppose, but damned if I'd want to work with the man on a regular basis." He looked to me as if expecting me to make excuses, which I was not inclined to do. "If you need a statement from Holmes or myself you know where to find us," I said.

I gave the inspector long enough to object, and when he didn't, followed in Holmes's wake.

Holmes was in his room packing "for the eleven o'clock train." His pinched expression promised an explosive response to any questioning from me, so I merely followed his example.

"Simplest damn case in the world," Holmes muttered to himself. "Any fool..."

He slammed shut his suitcase and hefted it in one hand, making for the door with a distinct limp. I reached to take it from him.

"Holmes don't you think..."

"I am not a damned invalid."

Holmes snatched himself away and stormed out. This mood, I knew, had nothing to do with me, but neither had I any particular need to weather it. I followed at my own pace, joining him at the train. There were few people passing this way in the depths of winter and we had the car to ourselves.

Holmes, next to the window, did not even acknowledge my arrival, which confirmed how swiftly his depression had come upon him, before the case was even fully over. His feet were tucked up on the seat and he looked out over the platform. As the train began to move, assuring our privacy, he looked across to me.

"It really was a grievous waste of my time."

"They might not have caught him without you."

Holmes shrugged. "Men murder there wives more often than you would think," he said. "The few that are caught are rarely charged, let alone convicted... That Theresa was pretty and her family wealthy, makes her more likely to get justice, but not to deserve it."

"But that he would not just murder her but slander her memory..."

"Tsk," Holmes interrupted. "She was unfaithful, and though pretty, no paragon. It's no excuse for murder of course but..." He sighed and leant his forehead into his hands. "It's done now, either way."

I put aside any debate and moved to sit next to him. I put my arm around him and felt Holmes lean into me. His thin frame seemed suddenly fragile against my side and I was pleased we had an hour or so to allow Holmes's nerves to settle, then just the simple task of getting him home to our rooms. Holmes leaned his head against my shoulder and feigned sleep.

We had been together long enough for me to know the signs. At best he would go to his bed for a few days and emerge more or less himself again. At worst, which was more frequently the case these days, his fragile health would collapse into severe illness and his mood to black despair. Already he was belittling what he had just achieved.

I wondered why I continued to put up with his brusque treatment or me, why I remained as a largely ineffectual witness to the harm he did himself. But feeling him sigh slightly as he shifted to a more comfortable position, I knew I would stay with Holmes for as long as he would suffer my presence, and feel fortunate to do so. Thus, love makes cowards of us all.