The Final Page of Baker Street by Daniel D. Victor

Sherlock Holmes to occupy my thoughts.
    â€œFrankly, Mrs. Titmus,” I said, stepping back, “I find very little to comment on in your throat. Are you sure that is what truly bothers you?”
    â€œHere,” she responded in a hoarse voice, “What do you take me for - some sort of charlatan? I tell you that my throat has reduced me to whispers.”
    I felt most unprofessional to have so forcefully challenged a patient seeking help. “Let me consult a medical book, Madam. Perhaps I need to reconsider my diagnosis. Some oesophageal affliction may have escaped my memory.”
    I turned to the bookshelf behind my desk to survey a series of spines bound in green leather. I had just fingered the tome likely to contain what I was seeking when from behind me I was astounded to hear a familiar voice, “I can only hope, Watson, that you haven’t erased me from your memory as easily as some ‘oesophageal affliction’.”
    With a hearty laugh, Sherlock Holmes, swept the grey curls from atop his head and straightened to his true height. Although still made up in that garish face paint, he no longer resembled the old lady who had entered my office.
    â€œH-Holmes,” I gasped, forced to take a seat, “you - you never fail to surprise me.”
    â€œNot even with this?” he asked, raising before me the baggy parasol. “It is, after all, the old brolly from Baker Street - the same one I used to fool Negretto in recovering the stolen diamond.”
    I remained speechless, fooled once again by my old friend.
    â€œYou remember, Watson. ‘The Mazarin Stone’? Billy described the brolly in that story he wrote all those years ago?”
    â€œBilly!” I said. Immediately composing myself, I quickly reported to Holmes all that had transpired the day before - the murder of Sylvia Leonard, Terrence Leonard’s appearance at my surgery, my meeting with Billy in front of Lord Steynbrook’s home, and the young man’s subsequent detention by the police.
    â€œI assumed this charade , Watson, to prevent the eyes and ears of Lord Steynwood or anyone else from interfering with my journey to London. But now that I am here, I can dispose of this paraphernalia. We must go see Youghal as soon as possible.”
    I showed Holmes to his room where he could wash the make-up from his face and change his clothing. He had kept his more traditional attire in a Gladstone carefully hidden near the front door of my surgery.
    The duplicitous Mrs. Titmus turned out to be my only patient that morning, the two others who were scheduled having failed to arrive. When my friend re-appeared as Sherlock Holmes, therefore, the two of us could immediately set off for Scotland Yard. On the way, I furnished Holmes the details that Billy had secured from Nancy the parlour maid relating to the murder of Sylvia Leonard. I also reported to him on the valiant service to her Majesty that Terrence Leonard had performed in South Africa. With the charges against Leonard so bleak, I thought some attempt should be made to balance the books. Although Holmes and I spent most of the trip to Scotland Yard discussing Terrence Leonard, it can’t be said that our thoughts ever strayed too far from the well-being of Billy the page.

V
    What did it matter where you lay once you were dead? ... You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that.
    - Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep
    Clearly, the name of Sherlock Holmes opened more doors at Scotland Yard than did mine. With the beetle-browed sergeant from the day before nowhere to be seen, Youghal himself brought Billy out to us at the long counter at the front of the C.I.D office.
    â€œCome all the way up from Sussex for your pageboy, have you, Mr. Holmes?” Such was the detective’s greeting to my friend. “Well,” he said, opening the little gate at the end of the counter, “you can have him back.”