What the Violets Mean

As my friend Watson has noted, our relations with Scotland Yard in general, and Inspector Lestrade in particular, became more cordial after my return from my travels. It became his occasional custom to stop in at Baker Street of an evening to discuss cases, his and ours, past and present.

On the occasion to which I refer, Lestrade had just finished the case referred to in the papers as the "The Chelsea Horror" and was consequently in a very cheerful mood. He had arrived a few minutes earlier than usual, and Mrs. Hudson was still clearing away or supper things when he came in.

Watson congratulated Lestrade on his success and mentioned that we ourselves had just finished a private inquiry and found ourselves at leisure.

" Will you be writing this one up, Doctor, or is it too private for that?" asked Lestrade.

To this day I do not know what made me say it, but I spoke before I could think. "Of course he'll write it up. He'll just rename her Violet like all the other single ladies in need of protection and go on as usual. That's what he's done to almost all of them ever since I got back. Violet Smith, Cadogan West's fiancee, even that haughty creature from the Gruner case. They're all named Violet"

Suddenly, several things happened all at once. Watson turned white as a sheet, gasped as if I had stabbed him, and staggered out of the room. Mrs. Hudson lifted her tray so suddenly the dishes rattled, looked at me with reproachful eyes, whispered, "How could you, sir?" and left herself. When I recovered from the shock of these events, Lestrade was looking at me with more disappointment than I had ever seen in his face. He spoke low, so Watson wouldn't hear.

"Holmes," he told me, "that was out of order. They were Mrs. Watson's favorite flowers, you know. Violets, especially the blue ones. The day before the funeral, I called in at his house to see how he was. The maid said he had left for she didn't know where in a state of agitation several hours before. She seemed concerned he might be doing himself harm. I took a look around for him, just in case. I finally tracked him down, running himself ragged from florist's shop to florist's shop, looking for the bluest violets he could find. He couldn't stand to see her buried with the purple ones the undertaker provided."

"Two days after the funeral, I heard one of my youngest constables jawing his mates down the pub about it. She died in April, you see, just about two years exactly after you disappeared. This young jackanapes thought it was a laugh that the Doctor bought the cheapest, most in-season flowers he could find to bury her with. I had to take him down several pegs to get through to him.Never once did I think I would have to do the same to you."

I gave Lestrade the only excuse I had. "I didn't know. I never saw the violets."

"That's just the point," he told me. "You weren't there. I know you had your reasons for needing to get away, but you could have come back long before you did. Your best mate walked through hell and you weren't there."

Just then, Watson came back to the room. He was still pale, but his step was steady and his hands did not shake as he poured himself a glass of water from the carafe. "I'm all right now. I didn't even realize I was naming them all Violet. Mary didn't deserve to have that Miss de Merveille compared to her, but her eyes were so blue. I must have been remembering her eyes."

Lestrade looked at him with concern in his eyes. "As long as you're sure you're all right, Doctor, I'll be going. You and Holmes have things to talk about." He slipped out, leaving me to face Watson alone.

"My dear boy, I am so sorry. Lestrade is right. I should have been there. What can I ever do to make it up to you?"

"Be here now. Forget the violets and be here now, he told me."

And I will be, forever more.