Dr. Watson and the Thwarted Engagement

Written by William Shepard

It was one of those nasty March days, full of winter bluster and cold early spring rain, and I was feeling out of sorts. Sherlock Holmes was, as far as I then knew, a victim of his tussle with Professor Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. (You will note that this was before his reappearance as I, Dr. James Watson, have written elsewhere.) I was sadly going through the papers of his cases, hoping to recapture something of the spirit and excitement of his companionship during our days of working on his cases. Or rather, I should put it more modestly, and just say how thrilled I had been to work alongside Holmes, at his unfailing direction.

Mrs. Hudson, the housekeeper at 221B Baker Street, had served me delicious hot tea with scones and jam, and I then settled in to reading some old files. A number of them were not yet chronicled, and perhaps I sought to make Holmes come alive for an hour or so while I wrote notes about a case that he and I had worked on together.

That was when a knock on the door interrupted my thoughts, and before Mrs. Hudson could introduce the visitor, I saw a charming, rather breathless young woman, about twenty, fashionably dressed, almost bursting through the door, so hurried was she.

“You must help me, Mr. Holmes!” She nearly shouted.

I tried to set her right, I really did. But each time I opened my mouth, she began again, cutting off speech with her cries for urgent action. “You must come and help! Even now it might be too late,” she cried. In the end, not knowing what I was doing or where we were going, I grabbed my overcoat and, for the sake of the image, an old deerstalker cap that Holmes had abandoned on a hook near the door, rushed out the door with her, leaving an astonished Mrs. Hudson in our wake.

“We’ll go to Euston Station, and I’ll explain everything on the train,” she said. And it was with a sense of relief that, good as her word, as soon as we were on the suburban train line, she took a deep breath, prepared to speak and then looked at me closely for the first time.

“Odd, you don’t look anything like Sherlock Holmes,” she sputtered.

“That’s because I am not Sherlock Holmes,” I said. “I am Dr. James Watson at your service. Holmes and I have explored many cases together, and in his unfortunate absence (for I was still unwilling, despite the evidence, to admit to myself that Holmes might be dead), I will be glad to assist you in any way that I can.” That seemed to comfort her. “Please begin,” I said.

“My name is Sheila Ingalls,” she said. “I am the daughter of the Reverend Martin Ingalls of Camden Parish, our destination today. I thought that today was going to be the happiest day of my life, for the announcement of my engagement to Wallace Anders was to be announced this morning.”

“I gather it was not announced?”

“No. Imagine my feelings when I arrived at the church, following a short morning walk from the parsonage where my father and I reside, and looking at the bulletin board where announcements of intending marriage are posted, saw that Wallace Anders was not listed as engaged to be married to myself!”

She then started to cry and pulled from her handbag an enormous handkerchief, which was soon put to strenuous use.

“But that isn’t the end of it!” She said.

“No?”

“No, indeed!” For looking at the notice more closely, I saw that Wallace Anders was engaged to marry Georgette Pelham instead!”

“This seems to be nothing more than clerical error,” I said, trying to calm the young woman. “Surely, there is a logical explanation for this mistake?”

“If only it were that simple,” she wistfuly replied. Resisting my attempts to question her further, we rode in grim silence for the short distance of the commute to Camden Station, where we were met by her father, the Reverend Marvin Ingalls.

He confirmed her story, and soon we were at the church, where I could see for myself what had been made public. Locked behind glass, the bulletin board displayed just one listing, Georgette Pelham to marry Wallace Anders.

“Who makes these listings and posts them?” I asked the Reverend Ingalls.

“In the absence of a clerk, I do,” he said. “It doesn’t help that I don’t see all that well. The procedure is that a donation is usually given, and then I open the bulletin board box with a key, pin the notice, and then lock the box once again.”

“Does anyone else have another key that opens the notice board?”

“No. This is the only one, from my office.” He waggled it like a badge of office, which perhaps in a way it was, in that small parish community. “Come to think of it,” he added, “I have a duplicate key at home, in the parsonage.”

“When did all this happen?”

“It was late last night. Wallace Anders came to the parish office and asked to post the engagement. He was generous, and so I gave him the notice paper to fill out, which he did.”

“Did you look at the paper before posting it?”

“Only a glance, for I must confess, my eyes are not what they were.”

“But that wasn’t your only caller yesterday?” That was a nice note, I thought. Holmes could hardly have done better himself, in anticipating a line of inquiry.

“No. Georgette Pelham also came, half an hour later. She came to see the announcement, she said.”

“She didn’t want to make an announcement herself?”

“That isn’t possible. Only men are permitted to make the announcements, either the prospective bridegroom, or the father of the bride.”

“And you had made no announcement?”

“None whatever.”

“Was Georgette Pelham emotionally distressed?”

“No, she was not upset in the least - she seemed quite happy. And that rather surprised me.”

“Why, Reverend Ingalls?”

“Well, it has long been known in this little town that she wanted to marry Wallace Anders - most people assumed that they would be married one day.”

I turned to Sheila Ingalls. “When did Wallace Anders propose?”

“It was one week ago. We were playing whist, and he was in a playful mood. I had just played a very skillful hand, if I do say so myself. He said that anyone who played that well should be his partner for life!”

“Really?”

“Yes, indeed, and everyone heard it. I assented and told Father immediately, of course. And then I said that Wallace should post the engagement. He was somewhat reluctant, saying that his business wasn’t quite self-sufficient, some nonsense of that sort. And finally, last night he told me that he would be posting the engagement announcement which I could not wait to see this morning. And we have this forgery instead!”

“Can you help us, Dr. Watson?”

“I believe that I can. You did well, Miss Ingalls, to bring it to my personal attention. For I can tell you not only who posted the announcement, but what was the intention in doing so.”