Sussex, 1908

By Andrea Johnson

I avoid cluttering my conscious mind with information that is not of practical use. Therefore, it is not surprising that I failed to recall my encounter with the American gentleman and his young son on the Sussex downs until some years later, when it became relevant to my present happy condition.

As I remember now, my mood was far from congenial that bright spring day when I donned a cloth cap and frayed great coat and set out for a walk along the cliffs. I had recently concluded a physically and emotionally demanding case. The presence of the tall American and the child frolicking in his wake was therefore unwelcome.

"Well, hello sir," the American said with the open friendliness I have observed in many other citizens of his nation. "I didn't know we had company in these parts."

"Good day to you," I said, in rather foreboding tones.

I instantly, and idly, catalogued various details about the too-friendly stranger. He spoke with a drawl common to the western United States, most likely northern California, with undertones of Boston, Massachusetts. Furthermore, his speech betrayed that he had more than a decade of exposure to the southwest edges of London. He was six feet tall, in his late thirties or early forties, and both the quality of his attire and his easy confidence proclaimed him a member of the moneyed class. He was not aristocracy as an Englishman might reckon it, though Americans certainly would have labeled him "Boston Brahmin," at least on his father's side of the family. His mother, I deduced, was one generation removed from shanty Irish. From his handshake, I deduced a taste for cricket, tennis and other sports; from the yellowing of his fingers and the scent of tobacco that lingered about his clothing, I observed that he smoked. His carriage spoke of military training, while a slight limp was the reminder of an injury sustained some years ago.

I also wished that I might find evidence that he had participated or been the victim of some really interesting crime, but I could not. The man and his son were merely out for a walk. Though my expression was undoubtedly unwelcoming, the American merely extended a hand in greeting and smiled.

"Beautiful day for a walk, isn't it?" he said. "My son was mad to get out of the house after so many days of rain."

Indeed, the child, a fair-haired boy of about three years of age, was tugging impatiently at his father's hand. The son carried a large ball under his left arm, hinting further at the promised activities of the afternoon.

"Let's go," he said and tossed the ball high in the air.

"It is a fine day," I agreed.

"Cricket," the man said with a grin.

"I'm going to be a bowler," the boy piped up. "I'll be better than Mary."

His father ruffled his head.

"There's no reason you can't both be good at it," he said. "My girl's got a throwing arm like I've never seen."

The boy scowled with jealousy at this praise of his sister. I remembered well how it had felt to trail along in Mycroft's wake, certain that I should never catch up in size or accomplishments.

"Cousin Arnold said girls don't play cricket," he informed his father.

"Mary does," his father said. "And since when have you listened to your sniveling cousin?"

The boy flashed a grin at his father.

"Oops," the American said ruefully. "Don't tell your mother I said that."

"Why? Cousin Arnold DOES snivel," the boy giggled. "Mummy said he took after Auntie."

"Mummy's right," his father said dryly. "But it won't do to say it. We don't get to choose our relatives."

The boy tossed the ball in the air and caught it several times.

"Dad! Dad! Watch me!" he shouted. When the ball landed on the ground, he kicked it towards a fence several feet in the distance and ran off to retrieve it. He looked over his shoulder to make certain that his father was watching. I was interested in spite of myself by the family byplay. My own interactions with my father had not been nearly so affectionate or so normal.

"Forgive us," the American said. "I'm being rude."

He introduced himself, and I gave him my name in turn. I was relieved that Russell Senior did not fawn over me and make enquiries about the cases he had read in the "Strand."

"I have to confess that I knew who you were. I'd heard you lived nearby," he said casually. "You must have just returned from another case. It's hell trying to get back to normal after undercover work."

His casual observation startled me. It spoke of more than a passing acquaintance with my life's work. I had, indeed, been in disguise for a long period on this case.

"You've got a pale patch on your face," Mr. Russell commented, tracing the corresponding line over mouth and chin on his own face. "You wore a false beard or mustache?"

I nodded tightly.

The culprit in this last case had been a sexual sadist of noble blood. He had been captured, but dealt with in a manner I found not entirely satisfactory. The sadist's victims were paid well to keep silent and, in any event, refused to sully their own reputations by going to the police. The criminal was confined to a Swiss sanitarium for a long period of rest. I knew he would be released at some time in the future, when he was considered "cured," and that he would prey again on the flowers of society. Such men were never cured. Watson considered this case too sensitive, and indeed too scandalous, to scribble down for the readers of the "Strand."

After I returned to my Sussex retreat, I attempted to distract myself with chemistry experiments, books, and my bees. Still, my ability to keep my brain attic free of clutter was not foolproof. The victims haunted me. My recent inactivity and my helplessness had both put me in a gray, biting mood. As yet, I had resisted the lure of the needle, but I knew I would dull my senses with opiates if Mycroft failed to tempt me with another case.

"Certain cases are more difficult than others," I acknowledged, without being certain why.

"The ones with women were the worst," Mr. Russell agreed, with unnerving insight. "I imagine you've seen your share of those. Some of what I saw in the Army made me downright ashamed of being male. Now that I have a daughter... let me just say I see the world differently. What will happen to her if I'm not there to take care of her and protect her from all that? Whose hands would she fall into?"

"I have often thought that being father to a daughter would be fraught with peril," I agreed with a slight smile.

"Hmmm," Mr. Russell agreed with a rueful grin. "Mary's already smart as a whip and beautiful to boot. She'll lead the man she marries on a merry chase. She's a fan of yours, by the way. I think she wants to be a detective when she grows up."

I smiled politely. A female detective? Ridiculous!

"But my wife's trying to turn her into a theologian, so maybe I'll get lucky and won't have to worry about her being a modern-day Belle Starr," he said with a chuckle.

Belle Starr? Ah, yes. She had been a female spy during the American Civil War. Irene had told me of her. I was reminded once again that some women had hidden depths, and that a man such as I could drown in them.

"I wouldn't say any of what I just told you in my wife's hearing," said the American. "She'd tell me that women can take care of themselves just fine, and they're just as capable of wrongdoing as any man."

"My experiences have tended to confirm her opinion," I said cautiously.

"My wife is uncommonly wise," Mr. Russell said with a smile.

"Then you are a fortunate man," I said with great sincerity.

"Don't I know it," he said.

The boy returned, still tossing his ball. "Dad, you promised," Russell Junior said impatiently, and tugged again at his father's hand. Mr. Russell smiled at him.

"The sun IS lower in the sky. I suppose we should be on our way," he said. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes."

"And you," I said.

I watched man and boy walk off in the other direction. I spared a brief thought for the intelligent daughter who admired Watson's scribblings and hoped her father would protect her from the fate that had befallen the women in my last case.

I forgot the encounter until one day, more than two decades later, when I found Russell gazing at a never before seen wedding portrait of her parents. Her sky blue eyes were gleaming with tears. I knew that the memory of her lost family still caused her great pain.

I looked over her shoulder at the portrait, which I judged dated from the 1890s. Here was the small, neat-figured woman who had been her mother, standing arm in arm with a tall, broad-shouldered American with an engaging grin. When I saw the man's face the memory of that meeting on the downs flooded back.

"I miss them sometimes," Russell said simply, without turning around. Of course she had felt my presence as soon as I entered the room. We were so much a part of each other by this time that we sometimes finished one another's sentences. "If they exist somewhere still, I wonder if they forgive me? What would they have made of you?"

I took the photo from her hands and gazed at the image of her father, a man who had loved Russell even as I did, who had worried about her future.

"Who would take care of her if I wasn't there?" her father had asked.

"I have," I answered him silently. "Even as she has taken care of me. Thank you for my wife."

I set the picture on the end table beside the basket chair. Russell slid an arm around my waist and laid her head on my shoulder.

"You should put this on the mantel," I said gruffly and combed my fingers through her beautiful strawberry blonde hair. "We will find it a better frame. Our Judith should know her grandparents' faces, should she not?"

Russell smiled a little tearily.

"And so should her brother or sister," my wife said softly.

I started. "You mean..." I said. Russell nodded. "Yes, husband," she said. "The doctor in Oxford confirmed it."

I pulled her to me and kissed her, unable to convey my joy in words. Judith was a gift I never expected. The thought of a second child elated me. My daughter had taught me that children could be as great an adventure as any case. I knew my age might mean I would not see either of them reach adulthood, and felt a pang. Still, if Judith had a brother or a sister, she would not be alone in the world after Russell and I were gone.

"My dear wife," I whispered, and held her against my heart for a long moment. "I don't have words."

"I take it you're happy?" Russell asked with a grin.

"Isn't it obvious?" I asked. "If it is a son, I would like to name him for Watson and for your father. In this way, he will always be with you."

I felt Russell nod her head against my chest and knew that this time she was the one too moved to speak.