The Adventure at Baskerville Hall & Other Cases

Mrs. Maberley's directions and told us that the Three Gables was indeed just a short walk away, so we set off on foot. Though cold, the weather was fine, and the previous night's snowfall had rendered everything a picture in sparkling white.
    "Watson, I think I shall just take your arm," Holmes said, suiting the action to the words. "The road is rather icy, and I would hate to lose my footing."
    I opened my mouth to reply hotly at such a suggestion, for Holmes was as lithe and sure-footed as a cat and I bitterly resented any show of condescension from him towards my physical injuries, however well-meaning. But he smiled mischievously at me and I checked myself. I felt the warm pressure of his arm – linked through mine and pulling me close – and as his gray eyes twinkled down at me from his greater height, I changed my reply.
    "I should, if I were you," I agreed solemnly, ignoring the fact that the bright winter sunshine had begun to melt the worst of the ice. "The footing here is positively treacherous."
    He merely hummed contentedly in agreement, his warm breath tickling my cold ear.
    It was only that spring that Holmes had returned to London and myself, three long and turbulent years following his disappearance in Switzerland, and the exuberance of our reunion had led to confessions of the depth and nature of the affection that each bore for the other, which were swiftly followed by a passionate consummation. A bare month later had found me once more installed in Baker Street, my small practice sold to an astonishingly keen young doctor, with the key difference that my small upstairs bedroom was now my bedroom in name only. I slept every night in Holmes's larger, more comfortable bed, and in his arms. For almost nine months now we had been conducting ourselves like any enamoured pair of newly-weds, albeit in the strictest secrecy, and I was as happy as I could ever remember being in my life.
    After a short walk, we reached the Three Gables. It was a brick and timber villa, standing in its own acre of undeveloped grassland, with three small projections above the upper windows that made a feeble attempt to justify its name. Behind was a grove of melancholy, half-grown pines, and the whole aspect of the place was poor and depressing. None the less, we found the house to be well furnished, and the lady who received us was a most engaging elderly person, who bore every mark of refinement and culture. She was dressed in black that was entirely unrelieved by any touch of colour, and after greetings had been exchanged, Holmes added, "I remember your husband well, madam, though it is some years since he used my services in some trifling matter."
    "Probably you would be more familiar with the name of my son Douglas," she answered.
    Holmes started, and gave her a look of great interest. "Dear me! Are you the mother of Douglas Maberley? What a magnificent creature he is! I know him." Here Holmes checked himself, clearing his throat, and added, "Slightly. But then, all of London knows him. How is he? Where is he now?"
    Holmes had not looked at me, had not given so much as a flicker to betray himself other than that small start, but I had made an extensive study of Sherlock Holmes over the years and the thought instantly formed in my mind that he had perhaps known the 'magnificent' young man in a more intimate sense than his conversation with the man's mother implied. However, neither of us was prepared for Mrs. Maberley's response.
    "Dead, Mr. Holmes, dead! He was attaché at Rome, and he died there of pneumonia last month."
    Holmes's naturally pale complexion seemed to whiten even further, and his lips parted in shock. "I am so sorry. One could not connect death with such a man. I have never known anyone so vitally alive. He lived intensely – every fibre of him!"
    "Too intensely, Mr. Holmes. That was the ruin of him. You remember him as he was – debonair and splendid. You did not see the moody, morose, brooding creature into which he developed. His heart was broken. In a single month I seemed to see my gallant boy turn into a worn-out cynical man."
    "A love affair–" I saw Holmes check himself, and after an infinitesimal pause, venture again, "a woman?"
    "Or a fiend. Well, it was not to talk of my poor lad that I asked you to come, Mr. Holmes."
    "Dr. Watson and I are at your service."
    I glanced at him in some surprise. Naturally, I had not the slightest objection to helping this charming woman, but such a