The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes by Marvin Kaye

study. “How did you know?” he asked.
    â€œStart at the beginning, Watson.”
    â€œThe poor woman’s wounds,” I replied. “I assumed at the time that Sir Henry was responsible and called upon me because he’d injured her. But when I’d had time to reflect on it, I realized that such depravity is the result of what is, for lack of a better way of putting it, an English schoolboy’s vice. I have seen such injuries in men who as boys were caned for infractions at school (and who are not?) and then acquire a taste for it. It is shocking, but after a time some are not satisfied with a simple birching and cultivate a proclivity for the lash.”
    â€œGood God,” Lestrade said, and took a gulp of tea. “That’s the sort of thing only a doctor would know.”
    â€œBut Sir Henry was raised in Canada,” I went on. “Like Americans, in Canada they brand cattle and horses, but it is a mark of ownership because they can’t afford fences, as I understand it. It’s not deliberate cruelty. And while that didn’t eliminate Sir Henry, it made it seem less likely that he would be such an enthusiast. So I cast about for another explanation and remembered that Beryl Stapleton had been beaten by her husband in just such a way. When I realized that the woman
was
Beryl, the rest became clear.”
    â€œIn the beginning,” Lestrade inquired, “even though she’d been beaten, Beryl misled Holmes by telling him that her husband had run to Grimpen Mire?”
    I nodded.
    â€œAnd although he beat her again, she didn’t warn you or Sir Henry that the murdering fiend was back. She had the gall to come in here and lie to our faces, trying to blame poor Sir Harry!” He shook his head, baffled.
    â€œBe kind to her memory, Lestrade. She recognized Warrington as her husband and was frightened by him. And, I suspect, loved him. Yet as soon as she learned that Stapleton had returned to London, she came to the club to warn Sir Henry. If someone other than Warrington had seen me to the front door that night, and if they hadn’t recognized each other, she might have succeeded and poor Mortimer might still be alive. Stapleton must have traced her to her room and threatened her into silence.”
    â€œHe abused her and he murdered her, yet she never said a word against him. I’ll never understand women!” He was outraged, his lip curling in an angry sneer. Knowing his spouse, who was called by everyone, including the Inspector himself, “Mrs. Lestrade,” I knew he was telling the truth.
    Few men, certainly not Lestrade nor the average reader of
The Strand
could comprehend why I privately suspected that Beryl Stapleton was bound by more than just love. I was sure that, as someare addicted to drugs, she was doomed by what amounted to a sexual addiction to her husband, painful and humiliating as it must have been.
    I came to a decision. “Lestrade, I must implore you to see that not one word of Holmes’s involvement in this case ever comes before the public. I don’t care how you manage it.”
    Lestrade agreed. “I’ll not mention old Sir Charles and the earlier case. I’ll see that Stapleton is charged only for his wife’s and Dr. Mortimer’s murders. He’ll be hanged, if there’s any justice. The name of Sherlock Holmes will never be uttered at the trial.”
    â€œExcellent. Try not to mention me, either.”
    â€œWhat is the matter with you, Watson?” he asked. “It was you who solved this difficult case. You’ve sent a master criminal to his just reward. Why not take credit for it?”
    â€œI’d rather not.”
    â€œOh, maybe just a small footnote, Watson,”
and I recognized the voice of my own vanity.
    â€œWhen the Hound of the Baskervilles was killed and Sir Charles’s murder solved, Holmes called it one of the greatest cases of his career,” I