6 PRACTICE TO DECEIVE (Parts 1&2 of 6)

PART ONE: Overture in Two Parts (1/2)

"God knows you is a good man, but you used to be a damned unreliable doctor," Mrs. Perkins continued in her good-natured tirade. "You only managed to be around to bring three of my five into the world, and now you've finally taken to settling down I'm well past having any more."

Watson nodded absently as he counted her pulse and checked it against his pocket watch. He would not have called it settling down so much as surrendering to inertia. He hardly had the will or energy to change the course of his life, or even interrupt it, but it was with trepidation rather than relief that he observed his own stagnation.

"It's God's own pity that you never had any of your own. Blessing or curse they sure-enough keep you on your toes...."

Watson tried to think of a polite way to suggest that the only problem with Mrs. Perkin's health came out of a sherry bottle, but he was mindful of his own tendency to resort to alcoholic libations for solace, albeit not quite so often. Watson shook his head, chiding himself. A doctor who could not take his own advice should, at least, not be so hypocritical as to give it to others. Most of his patients knew him as a soft touch on a prescription or a bill, or more often, with his own time and sympathy, but there was a limit to his generosity.

"Well I can find nothing much wrong with you, Mrs. Perkins. A little more fresh air and a rest might do you good. You've still a daughter or two at home, perhaps you should expect a little more from them around the house."

"Oh, girls these days are good for nothing. Flighty as hens, and less use. Like that odd friend of yours, but then perhaps there's hope. It was a real turn around of his, up and retiring to the country, who'd have thought?"

Watson knew that Mrs. Perkin's visits to his practice were more for the company and to get out of the house, than for any medical reason. For that reason he normally 'forgot' to bill her for his time. Though he had learned to limit the visits to a strictly monitored quarter hour so he could move on, hopefully to a paying client.

"....I mean dragging you off at all hours, on all sorts of dangerous errands I don't doubt. Leaving the practice in the hands of some boy who couldn't deliver a baby without blushing and didn't know what to do with it once he had...."

"Well you have a good day Mrs. Perkins."

He ushered her out and shut the door gentling in her face, having learned that one didn't wait for a polite moment with Mrs. Perkins unless one had a lot of time to spare.

He was relieved to see the waiting room still empty. The receptionist had already closed and locked up. Arriving very late seemed to be his chatty patient's latest ploy to monopolize his time and he was determined to see that it was unsuccessful. Next he could expect conspicuous mentions of the advantages of a 'proper home cooked meal' and disparaging comments on his 'bachelor ways'. They only thing he wasn't sure of was whether Mrs. Perkins, being a widow, was stalking him for herself, or to drag home to one of her remaining daughters. In this neighborhood an aging general practitioner would represent rather a good catch.

As he packed away his instruments and filed his notes, Watson glanced out the narrow window to the darkening lane. Mrs. Perkins shuffled up towards the main road, and turning, waved to him cheerfully.

Watson saw in his mind's eye, another leave-taking. Several years ago Holmes had stood on the platform, a dark figure amidst the steam of the trains. He waved once, casually, and walked out of Watson's life. In all that time he had received only one reluctant letter. That letter in response to Watson's own, saying no, he would prefer Watson did not visit him. His studies were at a delicate stage, and bees abhor a stranger.

Well, Watson considered it was quite natural to distrust strangers, but what manner of creature responded so to a friend?

PART TWO: Overture in Two Parts (2/2)

Eleanor smiled as she saw a man's shadow fall across the garden in front of her. Her husband never took interest in any of her pursuits, but her reclusive neighbor had taken up the practice of visiting her as she worked around the grounds. Today she was pruning the privet hedges in the knot garden. They held a nice sharp edge but were fast growing and needed constant attention.

She knew not to turn from her task. Mr. Holmes had a habit of staying longer if he did not feel like he was interrupting her. She reached out to pull up an errant dandelion and tossed it up on the stone path. Holmes leaned silently upon one of the old stone walls, tamping tobacco into her pipe. She smiled, knowing that this indicated that he would stay a while.

"Those peonies of yours are doing rather well," he said mildly.

"The frosts bring it out in them," she replied. "Peonies love a harsh winter... By the by, Jenny wrote," she continued on wishing she had though to bring her daughter's letter out with her. Holmes might have been able to glean more from that terse missive than she had. "She didn't say much but things seem to be… adequately well."

"It's hard, going away to school, but I'm sure she will be fine."

Eleanor heard the unspoken caveat. A private school could hardly be worse for Jenny that living in the same house as her stepfather would.

"Oh, she did say one new thing," Eleanor said, remembering. "Her latest ambition seems to be becoming a doctor, can you imagine?"

Holmes nodded approvingly, "Indeed I can. It's a fine profession and a good use for her mind; difficult for a woman of course, but that can't be helped. It might have been easier if she had your son's talent and he hers... society being what it is."

Quite a long speech, for Holmes. She wondered what other fault Holmes found with society, that he took such pains to retreat from it. Eleanor needed to stay out in the country to look after the ducal estate and obligations, and for the garden of course. Holmes however did not really seem a man for the country lifestyle, and when he spoke of London it was with the wistfulness of an exile. London appeared to miss him too, more than once she had redirected people who came a long way to beard the detective in his new and hidden den. To the best of her knowledge he had turned them all away unsatisfied.

"Perhaps that doctor friend of yours could help her out."

"Perhaps," Holmes admitted noncommittally. "If it turns out to be an enduring ambition."

Eleanor was unsurprised at her inability to untangle Holmes' enigmatic behavior. She was a rather better judge of plants than men. The late Duke had been a rake and a wastrel, and when he finally managed to break his neck riding home from the public bar, she had gone on to marry an even greater louse. If she had not, of course, the title and lands would have passed to her brother-in-law, casting her and the children on his questionable charity and depriving her son of any chance to inherit. If only she could endure Gerard a little longer, until Bobby reached his majority, the title passed into his deserving hands. Then their futures would be assured.

At least the estate was safe until then, Gerard could neither sell nor borrow against the ducal assets, much to his post-nuptial dismay. So he settled down to drinking everything in the cellar and using his position to become the greatest bully and braggart in the county. Five more years, Eleanor sighed to herself, five more years before Bobby assumed the title and control of the lands. When he would, with any luck, through Gerard out on his ear. She smiled at the thought.

"And he'll be the finest Duke ever to grace Spindlegate," Holmes observed with his customary uncanny insight.

Eleanor did not bother protesting. "Five years can be a long time," she replied sadly. Holmes had, it seemed, a fine appreciation of her situation though she rarely spoke of it.

"Especially five years in the same house as Gerard Dustan," Holmes agreed quietly.

Eleanor was surprised to hear him speak so plainly.

"What has he done now?" she asked.

Holmes shook his head. "Best I speak to him about it directly," he admitted reluctantly. "If he will be in this evening?"

Eleanor put aside her shears. "He will, though I suggest you call before six if you can."

She saw that Holmes understood her meaning. After six Gerard was usually drunk and could never be reasoned with when in such as state (and rarely enough when not).

"Best also, I think, if we make no acknowledgement of our acquaintanceship. I would not want him to leap to any conclusions," Holmes added.

Gerard's 'conclusions' were the prime cause of Eleanor's social isolation, and she resented them greatly. "If you prefer," she said, a little sharply. "But for my own sake I see no need to hide anything."

"For my sake then," Holmes demurred. "For if I were Lord Dustan I would probably have jealousy as a constant companion. Knowing how little I deserved what I had."

Eleanor considered that if Holmes were Lord Dustan he might deserve it very well, but she knew such speculations would be unwelcome. In fact Holmes' comment was almost entirely unromantic, encompassing as it did, not only her own fading charms but also the estate and her two talented children.

"You could easily have as much," she chided gently. "You have been offered a title and I'd warranted any number of accomplished women would entertain your proposal very seriously. It is commonplace for men in your situation to establish a household and begin a family."

In her own mind she was quite sure of what she said. A woman with wits as well as looks had to look hard to find a man who appreciated one as much as the other, and Holmes seemed to be such a man.

Holmes merely grimaced slightly. "But who would have it just for the sake of having it?" he mused.

"Many do, I know, or end up doing so, but I glimpsed, once, what a true partnership might be. And if I cannot have that, it seems better, or easier at least, to have nothing."

Eleanor stood and shook out her apron. "I understand," she said. "When Bobby has the title there's not man in the county that could get me back into the chapel. I dare say I will be as happy with my flowers as you are with your bees."

"A fine sentiment," Holmes said. "But I very quickly become bored with my bees, they are very poor company. And I certainly meant no comment on your own life, which has been braver and, in your children and this estate, achieved rather more than my own."

Eleanor was tempted to argue, but sensed that Holmes' bitter mood would yield more easily to distraction than confrontation. "I saw some fine daffodils in the east paddock," she said. "They would do well in the parlor, would you accompany me?"

Holmes said he would, with pleasure and Eleanor was pleased also. Her flowers had drawn him into her garden in the first place, following the bees from his hives. She looked forward with some regret to the day he found the strength to fly from her garden, back to the real home in London that he so obviously pined for.