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holmesticeTitle: The Adventure of the Spare Detective
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
what_alchemy
Author:tazlet
Beta/Britpicking:tryfanstone
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes (BBC), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (ACD)
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Canon compliant.
Summary:Two wide awake Victorian gentlemen entertain a stranger.
The Adventure of the Spare Detective
In recording from time to time the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes there are tales whose publication, for reasons of a personal or diplomatic nature, would cause consternation in many exalted quarters if they should appear in print. Others I have withheld out of concern of giving the public a surfeit which might react upon the reputation of the man whom above all others I revere. Yet there remains a residue, certain unfathomable tales for which the world is not yet prepared
***
“This phone call, it’s a… my note. What people do, don’t they…leave a note?”
Standing the edge of the parapet where the aluminium flashing had broken away, exposing lighter stone. Granite is an igneous rock with at least 20% quartz by volume. The absurdity of the thought…impending death concentrates the mind wonderfully…grey and silver clouds boiling up out of nowhere…tiny people screaming and running like ants scuttling before the storm. If I step on them, they’ll be crushed.
“Sherlock!”
“Goodbye, John.” He flung the phone behind him, spread his arms and took a step. Catch me!
There was the sound of wind rushing in his ears and then...
Pain…how can I be alive?
Rolling over almost made him reconsider…pain, yes…but it was cold and wet. The smells reaching him were sharp and boggy. Everything was muffled in fog.
Concussion. Brain ping-ponging inside skull. Wet grass. Dirt…organic matter…mineral particles…vomit. Can’t stay here. Get up…slowly. Where am I? There’s a light. In the direction of…of left foot… Move. Toward the lights…and the sound of the water…no traffic…you’d think…but, in this fog… smells like a horse’s been…don’t think…one foot after another…
One foot after another…there’s a tree…progress pilgrim…the way is hard…paw over paw, the dog goes to Dover…if he doesn’t stumble over the edge of the path…
It was a footpath with old-fashioned ironwork. He recognized the spot…the bridge…Regent’s Park…the lanterns recently restored. He knew his way home…John would be waiting. And, speaking of horses, there was the clip-clop-clipping of hooves and the flicker of approaching lights.
“Here you!” someone bawled out. “Out of it! You tryin’ to kill yourself!
~*~
We have had some dramatic entrances into our lives, Holmes and I, but I can recall few more startling than that which occurred on a gloomy late November evening some four or five years ago. That tale, as no other, revealed the true genius and intuitive powers of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
I have a precise memory of that evening. It was the opening night of Utopia, Limited; or, The Flowers of Progress which as you will recall was the first new opera by Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan to open at the Savoy in nearly four years. I had gone to some effort to secure tickets, intending it as a treat for myself but primarily as a diversion for Holmes who was in one of those black moods that dogged him when the criminal class was behaving itself. Boredom and Holmes are a poor mixture. I had hoped an evening out would produce a lightening of spirit, and a distraction from the cocaine bottle.
I was correct; the opera is simply among the best comic operas ever achieved, even at The Savoy. The moment that Sir Arthur went into the orchestra pit, the audience erupted into an ovation that lasted well over a minute and throughout the performance his melodies flowed as brightly as ever. I can’t believe the wit and humor of Mr. Gilbert’s libretto are surpassed by any of his previous efforts, not even The Mikado, and the central notion of the piece is hilariously absurd. The convergence of natural persons (or sovereign nations) with legal commercial entities and that such a concern, going bankrupt, could leave its creditors unpaid without any liability whatsoever on the part of its owners? Outrageous!
Both Holmes and I both found it thoroughly diverting and on the way back to Baker Street, he wistfully opined that it could open a whole new field of endeavour to the criminal mind.
“I hope you won’t mention it to my banker,” I said.
“I’m sure he’ll come to it on his own hook,” Holmes said. He was frowning through the isinglass panel in the side curtain. One of our London Particulars had settled in for a lengthy stay and for fear of losing his way the coachman was proceeding slowly. “You’d think that if the Board of Works, corrupt as it was, could put an end to the Great Stink this new Council could make a start on the air.”
“There are too many members walking the captain’s dog,” I said.
“Still, a night like this is made for a snatch and run. I expect the lesser criminal element to show more initiative.”
“Gregson and Lestrade are probably grateful that they don’t.” I couldn’t help singing, “‘Ah, taking one consideration with another, a policeman’s lot is not a happy one…’”
Mine is not an operatic voice and, as I intended, Holmes shushed me most pleasantly, and by time we were coming around Regents Park Crescent his hands were making pleasurable promises of further intimacies to come. On the whole, I felt able to congratulate myself on the success of the evening when the cab jerked sharply, and only Holmes’ arm saved me from a tumble.
It was fortunate we had been going slowly; otherwise it would have been impossible to avoid the wild and hatless figure that emerged from the fog. As it was, the driver had brought his horse up short, and was justifiably irritated. “Here you!” he shouted. “Out of it! You tryin’ to kill yourself!”
Instead of moving, the man came straight at us. He had one hand up, as if to shield his eyes from the glare of the carriage lamps, as he groped with the other for the shaft. Needless to say, the horse found this objectionable behavior and shied. The man stumbled and fell. I heard a pitiful cry for help as he went down. In a flash Holmes had the doors open and was over the wing. I had a button to do up but I was not far behind.
Holmes had seized the horse’s bridle and was soothing the frightened animal to prevent it from treading blindly and doing further hurt on the stricken man.
When I knelt down to examine him, I saw that he was bleeding from his head and I discovered a lump the size of a goose egg on the crown. His breath came in shallow gasps and his skin was cold to the touch. In a case of shock the first thing is to reassure the victim. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m a doctor. My name is Watson.”
“John,” he said, taking desperate hold of my hand.
“Yes,” I said, pressing his in return. “Do I know you?”
I knew for certain that I never seen him before in my life, but he had mistaken me for a friend and I wanted to keep him talking. When he’d first appeared in the mist, I’d thought he was a tramp, some kind of gypsy, but even in the poor yellowish gleam the coach lights provided I could see the whiteness of his skin and, when I checked for a pulse, that in spite of the dirt and grass staining his hands his fingernails were clean and neatly groomed.
“John. Please. I’m so sorry.” he said. His accent was odd. He struck me as one of our foreign visitors who had become lost in an unsavory part of town and been set on by thugs. It happens. Then he said, “I had to do it. It was your life or mine. Take me home.”
“We will,” I promised.
The driver had come down from the box to take charge of his animal by then. Holmes came and knelt on the other side of the stricken man and began to go through his coat pockets. As the poor man’s eyes flicked back and forth between us, I noticed how unusually pale the irises were. “It’s all right,” I reassured him. “We’re only trying to find out where you’re staying.”
“Baker Street.” His voice was barely a whisper.
“There’s a wonderful coincidence. That’s where we’re headed.” I patted the hand clinging to mine again. “What is your address? We’ll see you get there.” But the poor man was beyond the ability to answer. In any event Holmes found a card case in one of his coat pockets.
He took out one of the cards and read it. “Oh!” he whistled. “Here’s a howdy-do! What do you make of this Watson?”
He held the card for me to see, and I will never forget the frisson that passed through me as I read the name printed on that bit of pasteboard. It was Sherlock Holmes! And the line beneath it bore the title: Consulting Detective.
There was a signature below and it, too, said Sherlock Holmes, although in a barely legible in red scrawl, far removed from Holmes’s neat copperplate. It was a minor detail that the address in the upper corner was 221B Baker Street London Nw 1.
“Did you, by chance, have new business cards engraved without telling me?”
“If I had, it certainly would not been in such a bohemian style,” said Holmes. “We have a mystery.”
“Not unless we get him somewhere warm, and quickly. He is in shock, probably concussed, and liable to pop off on us.”
To the driver’s disgust, we loaded him in the cab—it was a tight squeeze-in—but we were only a short distance from Baker Street.
As we—Holmes, the driver, and I—carried him up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson appeared at the top of the second floor landing. Being used to the variety in Holmes’ clientele, she looked down on us, and our burden, and said, “I suppose you’ll be wanting a pot of coffee.”
“Some brandy, if you will,” said Holmes.
“It looks like he’s had enough of that already.”
“It’s for me,” said Holmes.
“Good idea about the brandy,” the cabby said. “Warms a man a treat on a night like this.”
“You’re not staying,” I said. “Mrs. Hudson, we could use a can of hot water, powdered mustard, a flannel, and some tea.”
“Oh…” She vanished with a whoosh heavy cloth. We’d hear about it if there was no hot water left in the boiler.
“Let’s put him on the sofa in the sitting room.”
While Holmes paid off the cabby and saw him out the front door, I turned up the gas, fiddled a small fire and found a pillow for the patient’s head. Seeing him in the light confirmed my initial impression of great pallor beneath the grime on his face. I felt his skull; it did not seem to be cracked, but his pulse was thready and I misliked the leaden colour around his mouth.
Holmes caught me frowning when he returned. “Will he live?”
“A near fatality in the storm of life. Give me a hand; we need to get him out of these wet things.”
His coat and trousers were soaked through in the front, which attested to the fact that he had probably been lying for some time on wet ground. With Holmes’ assistance, I got him undressed and the impression I’d formed of him being foreign was underscored by peculiarities of his dress. For example, he had no belt, no braces and no garters. The one cotton undergarment was light enough to imply he came from a country that enjoyed a gentler climate than that of Great Britain. Also he wore his watch on a wristlet, like a woman.
It was a mystery but making sense of it was Holmes’ department, mine was the man, although I could tell Holmes was anxious to be at it.
At least my patient’s colour was better and he was breathing easier by the time Mrs. Hudson arrived with the hot water.
I prepared a mustard plaster, Holmes settled at the dining table with his booty, all of my patient’s property, and began to pour over it with such concentration that I knew I’d lost his attention for the evening.
“Oh, the poor young man.” Mrs. Hudson perched on the edge of the sofa and tucked the blanket around my patient. “Will he be all right?”
“There’s no reason to think he’s poor,” Holmes said. “Far from it.” He was looking through a magnifying glass at the label inside the coat. “This is quite fine wool.”
“I was thinking of his mother’s feelings!” Mrs. Hudson said.
“Why?” Holmes looked up. “Do you know her?”
“No, but he looks like such a sweet boy. It wouldn’t hurt you to show some natural compassion!”
“There is no such thing as natural compassion,” Holmes said.
“Please, you two,” I said, slapping my poultice on the man’s chest and covering him up with another blanket. “I think a glass of brandy would do us all a world of good.”
“Make mine a double,” Holmes said.
Mrs. Hudson sniffed. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to it.” She did spare a last glance for the features of the ‘poor young man’ before she left. “If you need any help, Doctor, just ring the bell.”
“Just ring the bell,” Holmes mouthed at her back. “What is it with women and baby birds with broken wings?”
It was rhetorical question and I ignored it, pouring myself a large brandy and sitting down on the other side of the table.
“Where’s mine?” Holmes said, without looking up. I sipped my drink and studied my patient’s face. Finally, Holmes sighed. “You’re sulking, darling. Will it do if I let you sleep in my bed tonight?”
“What are the odds of my finding you in it?”
“Nil,” he admitted. “This is much too fascinating.”
“What do you mean?” I looked over the strange collection of objects he had pulled from various pockets.
“I don’t know,” Holmes said. “It is always fatal to theorise in advance of facts. Facts are in short supply, and what we have don’t add up. For instance, we have a small multi-purpose folding knife…” He slapped it down on the table. “Notice that it is similar but a considerable improvement the sort of knife the Swiss army issue to its soldiers. Feel it.”
I picked it up and bounced it in my hand. It was surprisingly light. The metal was white with a satiny finish and there with a red cross enameled on it. “Is it aluminium?”
“Yes. That makes it a very expensive knife. Also we have a ring of keys, a set of lock picks, a pair of tweezers and a small but powerful magnifying glass.”
I examined the things as Holmes laid them out, recalling the card with Holmes’ name on it. “These are things that you carry on a regular basis,” I said. “What’s going on here?”
“I don’t know. I found this in the breast pocket of his coat.” Holmes picked up a folded leather wallet. “What do you make of these?” He removed a set of brightly coloured celluloid plaques from the wallet and fanned them out on the table.
I picked one of them up and held it under the light. It was oddly reflective and surprisingly warm to the touch. The numbers and letters on it were punched into the surface, like braille. That wasn’t what was disturbing about it though. “This one has Mycroft’s name on it.” As I said it, a sensation past through me akin to the fisson I had felt in the park.
“I noticed.” Holmes picked up another plaque. “This one has mine on it. Any idea what a Barclaycard is?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Me neither.” Holmes held a scrap of paper to the light and handed it to me. “Ever seen any banknotes like these before?”
I call what he handed me a banknote because it said that it had been issued by the Bank of England and the denomination was £5. It was small, brightly coloured, felt greasy to the touch, and there was a portrait of a woman on it—the Quaker reformer Elizabeth Fry! Holmes handed me another. This one was orange and the woman in the portrait wore a crown and a prim little smile. I have no idea who she was supposed to be, but she was not the Queen of England.
“Play money?” I’m sure my eyebrows touched my hairline and I was aware of a strong feeling of revulsion in the pit of my stomach. “Elaborate toys?”
“Metallic inks and watermarked paper. Very elaborate toys. Look at this.” Holmes pushed a small and surprisingly heavy coin across to me. “Notice the date.” I noticed the date, 2011.
“Someone is having a game at our expense.”
“Then the game’s gone wrong. There’s this.” He picked up the wristlet-watch that I’d removed from the patient’s arm. “The maker is Rotary.”
“Swiss again. Could be a clue.”
“I know men who would sooner wear a bustle than a wristlet-watch but perhaps the Swiss don’t harbor that particular prejudice. However, the really interesting thing about it is…” Holmes shook it, held it close to his ear, and then handed it to me.
I looked and listened. It was perfectly silent! I squinted at the face again to be certain the second hand really was going round in a smooth unbroken arc. “It doesn’t tick and yet it goes.
“Exactly. And then, there’s the evidence of his clothing.”
“His clothing…?”
“Machine made. Every scrap of it. Look at the coat. Excellent Irish tweed with not a dab of hand stitching to the facings or to the lining. Smell!” I leaned over and smelled. “Exactly! The only odor detectable is the faint scent of limes. Now, consider the shirt. Self-collar with winged points. Polished cotton. Flimsy. Lilac pin-stripes? A bit over-refined, a la Bouguerau; wouldn’t you agree? No belt and no braces, as you’ve observed. The less said about the trousers the better, but I will point out that the use of the automatic continuous clothing closure, so recently introduced at the World’s Fair in Chicago. It’s quite advanced. One might say unbelievably so! And the buttons…”
“The buttons…?” It was late and, as ever, with Holmes off on a deductive tear, it took every bit of running I could do to stay up with him.
“Watson, do you believe in aliens?”
“Aliens…?”
“Pale little men who live in the moon?”
“Of course not?”
“Then why have you got a copy of The Germ Growers hidden under your mattress?”
“So you wouldn’t find it, of course! What about the buttons!?”
“The buttons, the aiglets on his shoe laces, all these little plaques…” Holmes picked up the ‘Barclaycard’ with Mycroft’s name on it and tapped it against a tooth. “They’re made of some material not presently known to man.”
“Are you…” I looked over at the still figure on our sofa. He did look strange. Was it the odd cheekbones that were now flying bright red spots? Unnatural angles…? Or was it the squinched eyes that were unnaturally small? “Are you implying this is some kind of moon creature?”
“When did I say that? I’m implying nothing of the kind. I am stating that, as far as I can tell, all of those things are made of a substance—obviously pliable—which is not presently known to man. That does not mean that we cannot discover its nature, however.” Holmes scooped up the Barclaycard and carried it to the deal-topped table which supports his chemical experiments. Swiftly lighting the spirit lamp, he clipped the card with the points of a pair of long tweezers and held a corner to the flame. His eyes were flashing with excitement. “Stand back, Watson,” he said. “There’s a chance this could explode!”
It did not explode but, as the edge turned black and began to run, I will never forget the unearthly shriek that started from the throat of the man on the sofa as. I whipped around. My patient was sitting up, supporting himself with a white-knuckled grip on the back of the sofa. “What are you doing to Mycroft’s Visa card?” he said.
I spun around. Holmes took the time to extinguish the spirit lamp before turning.
“Thank you for joining us,” he said. “Sherlock Holmes, I believe? Would you care to explain what this hoax is in aid of?”
***
Sherlock clutched a wad of the blanket tightly. Where ever he was, at least it was warm, but his nose was being assaulted by a complicated niff made up of furniture polish, coal oil, rose potpourri, pipe tobacco, lanolin and mustard. And horse. Someone had been around a horse. There were voices. Two men. A woman. Babble. Babble. It was all too much. Too much sensation. Too much information to sort and organize. He wanted to yell Shut up! Go away! I can’t think!
The woman went away.
He waited, secure that if he left his mind to idle for long enough it would re-boot; things would come together.
They came with the clinking of glass on glass and a gurgle of poured liquid. A clean familiar scent reached his nose. Could do with a brandy myself. The thought it inspired a cascade. Rude sod! There’s a sick man here. Least you could do is offer. No. Someone said that he’d been hurt. God, his head ached! He must have been in an accident. Where was John? Come to think of it, Where…? That was the first thing to work out. Go from the known to the unknown.
He was naked. Someone had undressed him. Hospital? No! There was no pinging of machines and the air hardly smelled of antiseptic. Directly under his nose, in fact, the mustard smell was coming from him—or rather some flannely thing stuck on his chest. Someone had to be playing silly bug…. Oh, bugger… Moriarty! Adrenalin surged. The analytical facility kicked into high gear. The material he could feel against his ankle? Hard. Smooth. Tufted. Horsehair. Blanket? Wool. Source of lanolin. Course grade. Army! He peeked under his lashes. Carpet. Axminster. Red and blue and gold. Needs vacuuming. Table leg. Walnut. Lion’s paw foot. Brass caster with ceramic wheel. Edge of tablecloth. Linen. Machine lace. Tassels. Tea stains. The lower part of a man’s leg eased into view. Front laced half-boot. Black leather. Hand sewn. Side of heel worn down sharply. Trousers? No cuff. Odd that. Hand tailored. Brown checked Harris tweed…
One of the random blurts of meaningless noise that had been rumbling in the background suddenly bloomed into meaning. “What do you make of these?” someone said. He took a chance and lifted his eyelashes slightly.
Two men—one of them in the Harris tweed trousers, and another—from what he could catch beyond the glare of a green Art Nouveau lamp shade—in a striped shirt with a standing collar and dark waistcoat—pawing through his things—sorting his credit cards, counting his money, trying to work out what they could get for the watch that had been a gift from Mycroft. Vultures taking advantage of an injured man…
It was when they started on about the zip in his trousers that it registered with him that something about that was off.
Automatic continuous clothing closure…? Really? No one was that obtuse. Oh, God! I’m trapped in an antique shop with a pair of Victorian re-enactors.
It was times like this that he needed John, someone with his finger firmly on the pulse of popular culture. Waistcoat was carrying on about buttons and men from the moon. Harris tweed was becoming exasperated. Who could blame him? Rattling on like…has to be some kind of attention deficit disorder. Wait…! What…? He’d missed something.
Sherlock opened his eyes a further fraction. Tweed and Waistcoat were standing by a bench against the wall. A spirit lamp was burning with a blue flame. What do you think you’re doing? Since they had their backs to him, he could open his eyes all he liked at the old-fashioned chemistry set-up.
“Stand back,” Waistcoat said, “There’s a chance this could explode!” Waistcoat had a pair of tongs and was holding Mycroft’s Visa card to the flame.
“No!” Sherlock yelled. “What are you doing?”
Harris tweed whipped around. Waistcoat took his time and extinguished the spirit lamp.
“Thank you for joining us,” he finally said, turning. “Sherlock Holmes, I believe? Would you care to explain what this hoax is in aid of?”
~*~
I spun around to glare at our guest. Of course it was some kind of hoax and I was ready to stand with Holmes in demanding an explanation. But it was obvious that the man’s physical condition was no hoax. The pale eyes rolled up in their sockets as he slumped on the sofa. His flash of outrage had been more than his body could sustain.
“Blast! It will have to wait, Holmes,” I said, and hurried for the brandy bottle.
While I attempted to revive our guest, Holmes brought a chair, sat down adjacent to the sofa, crossed his arms and waited.
When our guest was able to open his eyes, Holmes said, “My apologies. I had no idea shocking of you so badly, but I thought it was more than time to end your little charade. You must admit it is bad manners to eavesdrop.”
This was plain speaking indeed and crimson spots reappeared on our guest’s cheeks. Embarrassment and anger on such features as his could easily have been mistaken for childish petulance. I would have been assumed that was the dominant note had I not observed the catch in his breathing, the increased pallor, and the tears that were standing in his eyes. I noticed, as well, how his eyes flicked back and forth between us, as he tried to comprehend our purpose. Given the trauma he had sustained, how must it feel to wake in a strange place at the mercy of strangers, with who knew what intentions? For all he knew we could have been crimps. My heart softened.
“Let me assure you we mean you no harm,” I said. “You’ve had a serious blow to the head. Our only concern is to find out who you are and to restore you to your friends and family.”
“A blow…” Gingerly our guest touched his head and winched. “I was in an accident.”
Holmes and I exchanged glances.
“We will agree to call it an accident,” said Holmes.
“If you’ll let me use your phone, I’ll call someone to come and get me. Apparently, I threw mine away prematurely.” Our guest spoke as if he were used to getting away with such demands. As Holmes and I exchanged glances, our guest seemed to recollect himself. He said, “Please.”
The truth was that he had touched a sore spot. For some time I had wanted to have the telephone installed, thinking of the advantage of instantaneous communication with Scotland Yard. When I proposed the plan Mrs. Hudson had a conniption—which I’d expected, she had a terrible fear of electrical fluid—but I had been certain that Holmes would support the idea enthusiastically. He was always the first to embrace any innovation that could give him an advantage over a criminal. I expected he could reassure her that a telephone in the house did not mean a light bulb would inevitably follow.
I thought we would carry the thing off easily and had already contracted with the local company. To my surprised disappointment, Holmes sided with Mrs. Hudson. I couldn’t understand it and we wrangled until he confessed, finally, that having experimented with the set Mycroft had installed in his office, he’d found the thing impossible.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We don’t have a wire. Unbelievable as it sounds, some people break into a cold sweat when they are confronted by a wooden box and a handset.”
“An unresponsive wooden box,” Holmes said, apropos of nothing.
“You have to listen to it, Holmes,” I said.
“But I can’t see who’s talking through it,” he said.
“Your mobile,” our guest said. The corners of his mouth turned acutely downward, accentuating the petulant look that seemed to be habitual with him.
“I’m sure Dr. Watson would be happy to take a message around to the telegraph office tomorrow,” Holmes said. “If you are up to accompanying him, you will find upholstered telephone booths there for the use of the public with the most up to date equipment.”
Our guest turned perfectly white. “Stop playing silly buggers and let me use a phone!” he snapped.
Far more gently than I could have imagined, given such an outburst, Holmes said, “It would help if you told us who you are.”
Our guest’s reaction was dramatic. His breathing grew ragged enough to make me concerned and his eyes flew wildly around the room as he twisted the blanket in his hands. “Moriarty’s done this, hasn’t he?” he said. “It’s his final joke!”
“Professor James Moriarty?” I said, feeling a shiver.
“He hired you!” Those pale eyes with their pin-point pupils locked on to mine. The pain in them was terrible.
“Professor Moriarty has been dead for three years,” I said.
Our guest recoiled, gasping as if I had punched him, and closed his eyes.
“Perhaps another brandy, Watson? A strong one,” Holmes said, making a gesture to indicate exactly how strong.
“Right,” I said. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have dreamed of giving opiates to a man I suspected of having a concussion; these were not normal circumstance.
As I prepared the dose, Holmes, the least emotionally demonstrative of men, particularly where clients are concerned, hitched his chair closer to the sofa. He disengaged our guest’s hand from the blanket and secured it between his own.
“Listen to me,” he said. “We are very different men but, trust me, I will do everything in my power to help you. This is a profound shock—for both of us. Sherlock—do you mind if I call you Sherlock?”
“No.” Our guest opened his eyes the merest slit. “But what am I supposed to call you?” I saw his finger was resting on the pulse point of Holmes’ wrist and and knew he was trying to measure the truth of Holmes’ words. I’ve seen Holmes do the same on occasion.
“Call me Holmes, of course!” Holmes braced him on the shoulder. “Good man! Now, Dr. Watson has something to help you sleep. He will also loan you a nightshirt and tomorrow we will sort this thing out.”
I handed the brandy, which I had laced with a few drops of laudanum to our…to Sherlock. As he drank it down, I said, “Do I loan him my bed, as well?”
“Certainly,” Holmes said, putting his hand on the back of my leg, where Sherlock couldn’t have seen it. “You won’t be needing it.”
I felt like saying or yours either.
What I said was, “Come on then,” and gave him my arm and the use of my shoulder. I knew it would not take long for the drug to have effect. In fact, the pale eyes were already beginning to glaze over as stood up.
Half-way up the stairs he stopped, and looked down at me, and slurred, “This is so nineteenth century.”
“It’s 1894,” I said. “What century would it be?”
“Oh, you’re good,” he said. “I get it. It’s the Victorian House.”
“Can we move along?” If I was a bit curt, it was because he was leaning hard and my leg hurt.
When we got to the landing, I wheeled him into my bedroom and guided him to the bed, where he sat staring woozily around the room while I found a fresh nightshirt in my drawer.
When I handed it to him, he took it as if he’d never held such a garment. “Big shirt,” he said. “Where’s the loo?”
“Haven’t a pot of glue,” I said. He transferred his owlish look to me. “What’s a loo called when it’s at home?”
“The bathroom. Need to rinse off this mustard mess.”
“Leave it until morning. Can’t have you getting an inflammation of the lungs on top of that bump.” I was concerned that he might fall if he tried to stand up, so I took the nightshirt and guided his head through the opening. “Hands please,” I said.
“But it stinks, and what if I have to…?”
“What?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You know.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Where do Victorians go when they have to piss?”
“Reach under the bed, you’ll find a pot.”
“Don’t you think that’s carrying a reality programme too far?”
“I am not the chambermaid.”
“Oh, God!” he groaned, suddenly looking stricken. “Me and my mouth. There I go. I’ve offended. Sorry. Sorry. This is why I need John.” Holmes had been correct; the man was used up. Whatever he had done, whatever crime he had committed, it was better to wait until tomorrow.
“Under the covers,” I said, pushing him back and lifting his legs.
The whole time he kept babbling and moaning. “Oh, God, I’m so, so sorry. It’s 1894. No! This isn’t happening. Where’s John? You have to call him and tell him to come and get me. Tell him that this isn’t happening…”
He went on like a chidden child or an Edison cylinder, over and over, until eventually sleep, the balm of hurt minds, had its way and he wound down, actually stopping in mid-yawn, on the very verge of falling asleep. I gave his shoulder a pat and got up to leave.
He smiled at me. The last thing he said was, “Guys… jus’ ‘dorable. Gonna screw ‘im t’night…weren’t cha?”
I thought my head would explode.
As soon as I was sure he was asleep, I ran back downstairs and found Holmes engaged in putting the coloured plaques back in their wallet. He looked up as I entered and forestalled what was on the tip of my tongue by saying, “Tomorrow, remind me to ask Sherlock what these things are supposed to be.”
“Do what you like!” I snapped. I went to pour myself another brandy; I was shaking with rage and in need of a stiffener. “Do you know what he said to me!?”
“No. Was it crude?”
“You have no idea.”
“For a man who was in the army…” Holmes’ eyes glinted with such unholy amusement that I flushed. “Would you like to know why I’m humouring him, or not?”
“Not! That-that intolerable twaddle about Moriarty has to be some kind of practical joke! It’s not funny.”
“No. I’m afraid it isn’t. But it’s not a joke.”
“Oh, Holmes, never tell me that you believe him. Moriarty…”
“Is dead!” Holmes interrupted. “I know. But there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Please, bring me one of those, if you would be so kind.” When he said please, I started guiltily, realizing that I had not taken into account the effect that hearing that name would have had on Holmes. I poured another glass. “Do you want a couple of drops of laudanum, as well? I would be willing to prescribe in this case.”
“No. Our friend upstairs is what your American readers would call a pistol. We are going to need all of our wits about us tomorrow.”
I found nothing to argue with in that. Instead of handing Holmes the glass, though, I set it on the table and embraced him. I did it as much for my comfort as for his, but he melted against me and I could feel the tension in his body. “Tomorrow,” I said, experiencing a resurgence of my anger towards Sherlock. “I’m going to check with Bedlam. They have to have misplaced one of their lunatics.” It was unkind perhaps, but if he hadn’t staggered out of the fog, I would have had Holmes in bed and boneless by now.
Holmes sighed against my neck. “I wish I thought that was the case.”
“I know I’m going to hate this, but…” I sighed. “Tell me what you’ve been thinking.”
“Not so much thinking as reflecting, particularly on the case of one Gaspard Semmelrogge, a boy of 14 who appeared on the streets of Nuremburg in 1829, speaking a dialect that had not been heard in Bavaria in four hundred years and wearing clothing of similar antiquity. The case aroused so much interest in antiquarian circles that it attracted the attention of Lord Cottingham who planned to adopt the boy and take him to England.”
“What happened?”
“He was proved a fake, of course. Initially, it was his familiarity with potatoes that gave the game away, but subsequently it was demonstrated that the blue dye which coloured his liripipe could not have existed previous to the late 18th century.”
“You’re saying you think our friend upstairs is a fraud.”
“I am not. I’m using Semmelrogge as the type specimen, an exemplar if you will for a certain kind of fraud. In almost all the documented cases of people who claim to have appeared suddenly lost out of time and place, it is always a time previous to the one in which they appear. Or else it’s a time so far in the future that society has become so sophisticated that the population goes around entirely naked. In either case they inevitably trip over their…ah…anachronisms.” That made me snort. I couldn’t help it. “But the complexity and nature of our guest’s effects...”
“Would not have been beyond Moriarty.”
“I disagree. In any event, Moriarty is dead.
“Moran…”
“Is in prison. Hard put to manufacture a toothpick much less such detailed props.”
“He would use an agent, of course.”
“Too many of these things are simply beyond present technology.”
“Expensive, yes, but what…?”
“The Barclaycard.”
“Celluloid.”
“Would have gone up like touch-paper.”
“You said almost all cases.” I wasn’t prepared to concede Holmes’ point, but he had pricked my curiosity. “What about the others?”
“Look to our own back pages, Watson. Recall the case of Mr. James Phillimore who was said to have stepped back into his own house for an umbrella and was never more seen in this world. At least not until twenty-five years later when he walked in the door, seeming not one day aged and wearing exactly the same slightly damp clothing in which he had last been seen…and found himself an unexpected guest at his granddaughter’s wedding. As much as the family paid me to investigate, nothing shook his story.
“Another case worth noting is that of Isadora Persano, the well-known journalist and duelist, who was found stark staring mad with a match-box in front of him which contained a remarkable worm, said to be unknown to science. What is less well known is that the match-box bore an advertisement for The Sands Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas and was dated… Watson, you’re not paying attention.”
“Mmm…no, I’m not.” I had been working on the tension in the muscles of his lower back.
“Watson!” Holmes squirmed in response as I moved my hands lower. “That feels delightful but I suspect you have ulterior motives.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“I notice that you’re piloting us towards the bedroom.”
“That’s because we are going to bed.”
“But I intend…”
“No, you do not,” I said, and kicked the door shut behind me.
“But no less remarkable a case,” he said, “is that of the cutter Alicia which sailed into a small patch of mist one spring morning. She never again emerged nor was anything further ever heard of herself or her crew, until….”
“Shut up.” I picked him up and dropped him on the bed, keeping hold of one foot in case I needed it for leverage. I didn’t. I had him down to his wooly coms in short order, and God bless the man who invented the D hatch.
~*~
It was still black when I woke. I could tell from the muffled street noises that we were still submerged in fog but the scent of fresh baked bread easily eclipsed the faint sulphurous taint that tends to creep under the window rails and lured me out of bed.
I’d been so upset last night that I’d forgotten to collect a own nightshirt of my own. I helped myself to a pair of Holmes’ pyjamas, as well as one of the several dressing gowns that had failed to tempt him out his ratty old paisley.
There were three plates on the dining table and the fact that only one of them had bread crumbs and egg stains on it, made it easy to deduce that—Sherlock—I can never be used to calling a stranger by his Christian name—was not yet up.
There was no sign of Holmes, but there was a blue cloud of sweet smelling pipe tobacco drifting from the alcove. I swept the velvet curtain aside and found Holmes lounging on a pile of cushions in front of the bow window. He had the morning papers scattered round and all of his smoking paraphernalia within reach.
“You look perfectly debauched,” I said.
“I have been debauched,” he said, stretching to let me see he had nothing on but his coms under that unspeakable gown “Three times last night, alone. Look outside.” There was a faint lightening, but with the gaslights were still burning and the fog was too thick to see the buildings across the street. The world seemed to exist in a murky green glow. “I feel as though I were inside Aladdin’s lamp. Do you believe in incubi?”
“I haven’t given it much thought. Would you like more tea?”
“Please.” He handed his cup and saucer to me. “And you had better ring for a fresh pot. Our friend is awake, and lurking.”
“What on earth is he waiting for?”
“Maybe he’s shy.”
“He didn’t strike me as a shrinking violet.”
“True; he’s already gone through your chest and your night stand.”
“Holmes, why are we doing this? I’ll wager £5 he proves to be either a criminal or a lunatic before it’s over.”
“You’re on!”
I looked around. “What did you do with his clothes?”
“I pictured how he’d look in one of your suits. And then I went over them carefully once more, in case I’d missed something, and gave them to Mrs. Hudson to wash. Don’t glare at me like that; it would have been all ankles and wrists.”
“And shins and elbows in yours,” I said. “I’m going to roust him down. Put some clothes on.”
After alerting Rosie that another pot of tea was wanted, I went up and knocked on my door. I meant to walk straight in, and if I caught him in the act… my hand hesitated on the knob. “It’s Dr. Watson,” I said.
“Come in.”
***
Sherlock had opened his eyes once that night, wondering how he’d become tangled in all that fabric. He’d rolled over on his back and there was a delay before the room righted itself. Definitely a concussion.
Now it was morning—horses in the street—deliverymen bawling about milk and ice—footsteps clattering on the pavement. Who gets ice delivered? That wasn’t the worst. The worst was when he looked up at headboard looming over him, nearly touching the ceiling—all those carved curlicues, arabesques, and roundels, writhing like snakes in the dim light—the deep purple wallpaper with its printed chains of orange daffodils. It was a room that could only have been conceived on LSD. If the devil had popped in offering to swap his soul for an aspirin, he would have spat in his hand and sealed the deal without even bargaining for a glass of water—if he could have done it without opening his eyes again.
A rap on the door made him flinch. A high female voice said, “The maid, sir.” He had to look because, without waiting for a reply, in she came.
The girl, at least she looked about 16, was dressed for the part with a white ruffled apron around her waist and a ruched doily pinned to her head. She was carrying a tin tray which she set on the bed table. On it was a cup and saucer, a small silver pot, sugar and creamer. He could smell the perfume of fresh coffee. She giggled when he asked, “Are you are an angel?”
“Mrs. Hudson said you might need it.” She went around the room, turning the gaslight in the sconces off and pulling the curtains back. Then she knelt in front of the grate and kindled a coal fire. “That will have the chill off in a twinkling, sir,” she said. “Would you like me bring your hot water now?”
“I’d like a paracetamol,” he croaked. The dire wallpaper was strobing away in his peripheral vision. “I’d like a dozen.”
“I don’t know what para…para…what that is, sir,” she said.
“I’ll settle for an aspirin.”
“Sir?”
“Oh, no! This carrying things to far! We’re not still running The Victorian House. Who owns this place? What’s the address? Where the hell am I?”
The girl looked shocked. “This is Mrs. Hudson’s house in Baker Street!”
“Baker Street…?” Visions of last night…his hands suddenly felt cold. “Those men downstairs? Who are they?”
“Mr. Holmes and his friend Dr. Watson?”
“They live here? In this house?”
“Oh, yes.”
“This isn’t an antique store?”
“Oh no, sir!”
Visions of last night…John!
“All right, I’ll play. You said hot water?”
“Yes, sir.”
Part 2
Recipient:
what_alchemyAuthor:
tazletBeta/Britpicking:
tryfanstoneCharacters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes (BBC), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (ACD)
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Canon compliant.
Summary:Two wide awake Victorian gentlemen entertain a stranger.
The Adventure of the Spare Detective
In recording from time to time the curious experiences and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes there are tales whose publication, for reasons of a personal or diplomatic nature, would cause consternation in many exalted quarters if they should appear in print. Others I have withheld out of concern of giving the public a surfeit which might react upon the reputation of the man whom above all others I revere. Yet there remains a residue, certain unfathomable tales for which the world is not yet prepared
“This phone call, it’s a… my note. What people do, don’t they…leave a note?”
Standing the edge of the parapet where the aluminium flashing had broken away, exposing lighter stone. Granite is an igneous rock with at least 20% quartz by volume. The absurdity of the thought…impending death concentrates the mind wonderfully…grey and silver clouds boiling up out of nowhere…tiny people screaming and running like ants scuttling before the storm. If I step on them, they’ll be crushed.
“Sherlock!”
“Goodbye, John.” He flung the phone behind him, spread his arms and took a step. Catch me!
There was the sound of wind rushing in his ears and then...
Pain…how can I be alive?
Rolling over almost made him reconsider…pain, yes…but it was cold and wet. The smells reaching him were sharp and boggy. Everything was muffled in fog.
Concussion. Brain ping-ponging inside skull. Wet grass. Dirt…organic matter…mineral particles…vomit. Can’t stay here. Get up…slowly. Where am I? There’s a light. In the direction of…of left foot… Move. Toward the lights…and the sound of the water…no traffic…you’d think…but, in this fog… smells like a horse’s been…don’t think…one foot after another…
One foot after another…there’s a tree…progress pilgrim…the way is hard…paw over paw, the dog goes to Dover…if he doesn’t stumble over the edge of the path…
It was a footpath with old-fashioned ironwork. He recognized the spot…the bridge…Regent’s Park…the lanterns recently restored. He knew his way home…John would be waiting. And, speaking of horses, there was the clip-clop-clipping of hooves and the flicker of approaching lights.
“Here you!” someone bawled out. “Out of it! You tryin’ to kill yourself!
We have had some dramatic entrances into our lives, Holmes and I, but I can recall few more startling than that which occurred on a gloomy late November evening some four or five years ago. That tale, as no other, revealed the true genius and intuitive powers of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
I have a precise memory of that evening. It was the opening night of Utopia, Limited; or, The Flowers of Progress which as you will recall was the first new opera by Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan to open at the Savoy in nearly four years. I had gone to some effort to secure tickets, intending it as a treat for myself but primarily as a diversion for Holmes who was in one of those black moods that dogged him when the criminal class was behaving itself. Boredom and Holmes are a poor mixture. I had hoped an evening out would produce a lightening of spirit, and a distraction from the cocaine bottle.
I was correct; the opera is simply among the best comic operas ever achieved, even at The Savoy. The moment that Sir Arthur went into the orchestra pit, the audience erupted into an ovation that lasted well over a minute and throughout the performance his melodies flowed as brightly as ever. I can’t believe the wit and humor of Mr. Gilbert’s libretto are surpassed by any of his previous efforts, not even The Mikado, and the central notion of the piece is hilariously absurd. The convergence of natural persons (or sovereign nations) with legal commercial entities and that such a concern, going bankrupt, could leave its creditors unpaid without any liability whatsoever on the part of its owners? Outrageous!
Both Holmes and I both found it thoroughly diverting and on the way back to Baker Street, he wistfully opined that it could open a whole new field of endeavour to the criminal mind.
“I hope you won’t mention it to my banker,” I said.
“I’m sure he’ll come to it on his own hook,” Holmes said. He was frowning through the isinglass panel in the side curtain. One of our London Particulars had settled in for a lengthy stay and for fear of losing his way the coachman was proceeding slowly. “You’d think that if the Board of Works, corrupt as it was, could put an end to the Great Stink this new Council could make a start on the air.”
“There are too many members walking the captain’s dog,” I said.
“Still, a night like this is made for a snatch and run. I expect the lesser criminal element to show more initiative.”
“Gregson and Lestrade are probably grateful that they don’t.” I couldn’t help singing, “‘Ah, taking one consideration with another, a policeman’s lot is not a happy one…’”
Mine is not an operatic voice and, as I intended, Holmes shushed me most pleasantly, and by time we were coming around Regents Park Crescent his hands were making pleasurable promises of further intimacies to come. On the whole, I felt able to congratulate myself on the success of the evening when the cab jerked sharply, and only Holmes’ arm saved me from a tumble.
It was fortunate we had been going slowly; otherwise it would have been impossible to avoid the wild and hatless figure that emerged from the fog. As it was, the driver had brought his horse up short, and was justifiably irritated. “Here you!” he shouted. “Out of it! You tryin’ to kill yourself!”
Instead of moving, the man came straight at us. He had one hand up, as if to shield his eyes from the glare of the carriage lamps, as he groped with the other for the shaft. Needless to say, the horse found this objectionable behavior and shied. The man stumbled and fell. I heard a pitiful cry for help as he went down. In a flash Holmes had the doors open and was over the wing. I had a button to do up but I was not far behind.
Holmes had seized the horse’s bridle and was soothing the frightened animal to prevent it from treading blindly and doing further hurt on the stricken man.
When I knelt down to examine him, I saw that he was bleeding from his head and I discovered a lump the size of a goose egg on the crown. His breath came in shallow gasps and his skin was cold to the touch. In a case of shock the first thing is to reassure the victim. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m a doctor. My name is Watson.”
“John,” he said, taking desperate hold of my hand.
“Yes,” I said, pressing his in return. “Do I know you?”
I knew for certain that I never seen him before in my life, but he had mistaken me for a friend and I wanted to keep him talking. When he’d first appeared in the mist, I’d thought he was a tramp, some kind of gypsy, but even in the poor yellowish gleam the coach lights provided I could see the whiteness of his skin and, when I checked for a pulse, that in spite of the dirt and grass staining his hands his fingernails were clean and neatly groomed.
“John. Please. I’m so sorry.” he said. His accent was odd. He struck me as one of our foreign visitors who had become lost in an unsavory part of town and been set on by thugs. It happens. Then he said, “I had to do it. It was your life or mine. Take me home.”
“We will,” I promised.
The driver had come down from the box to take charge of his animal by then. Holmes came and knelt on the other side of the stricken man and began to go through his coat pockets. As the poor man’s eyes flicked back and forth between us, I noticed how unusually pale the irises were. “It’s all right,” I reassured him. “We’re only trying to find out where you’re staying.”
“Baker Street.” His voice was barely a whisper.
“There’s a wonderful coincidence. That’s where we’re headed.” I patted the hand clinging to mine again. “What is your address? We’ll see you get there.” But the poor man was beyond the ability to answer. In any event Holmes found a card case in one of his coat pockets.
He took out one of the cards and read it. “Oh!” he whistled. “Here’s a howdy-do! What do you make of this Watson?”
He held the card for me to see, and I will never forget the frisson that passed through me as I read the name printed on that bit of pasteboard. It was Sherlock Holmes! And the line beneath it bore the title: Consulting Detective.
There was a signature below and it, too, said Sherlock Holmes, although in a barely legible in red scrawl, far removed from Holmes’s neat copperplate. It was a minor detail that the address in the upper corner was 221B Baker Street London Nw 1.
“Did you, by chance, have new business cards engraved without telling me?”
“If I had, it certainly would not been in such a bohemian style,” said Holmes. “We have a mystery.”
“Not unless we get him somewhere warm, and quickly. He is in shock, probably concussed, and liable to pop off on us.”
To the driver’s disgust, we loaded him in the cab—it was a tight squeeze-in—but we were only a short distance from Baker Street.
As we—Holmes, the driver, and I—carried him up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson appeared at the top of the second floor landing. Being used to the variety in Holmes’ clientele, she looked down on us, and our burden, and said, “I suppose you’ll be wanting a pot of coffee.”
“Some brandy, if you will,” said Holmes.
“It looks like he’s had enough of that already.”
“It’s for me,” said Holmes.
“Good idea about the brandy,” the cabby said. “Warms a man a treat on a night like this.”
“You’re not staying,” I said. “Mrs. Hudson, we could use a can of hot water, powdered mustard, a flannel, and some tea.”
“Oh…” She vanished with a whoosh heavy cloth. We’d hear about it if there was no hot water left in the boiler.
“Let’s put him on the sofa in the sitting room.”
While Holmes paid off the cabby and saw him out the front door, I turned up the gas, fiddled a small fire and found a pillow for the patient’s head. Seeing him in the light confirmed my initial impression of great pallor beneath the grime on his face. I felt his skull; it did not seem to be cracked, but his pulse was thready and I misliked the leaden colour around his mouth.
Holmes caught me frowning when he returned. “Will he live?”
“A near fatality in the storm of life. Give me a hand; we need to get him out of these wet things.”
His coat and trousers were soaked through in the front, which attested to the fact that he had probably been lying for some time on wet ground. With Holmes’ assistance, I got him undressed and the impression I’d formed of him being foreign was underscored by peculiarities of his dress. For example, he had no belt, no braces and no garters. The one cotton undergarment was light enough to imply he came from a country that enjoyed a gentler climate than that of Great Britain. Also he wore his watch on a wristlet, like a woman.
It was a mystery but making sense of it was Holmes’ department, mine was the man, although I could tell Holmes was anxious to be at it.
At least my patient’s colour was better and he was breathing easier by the time Mrs. Hudson arrived with the hot water.
I prepared a mustard plaster, Holmes settled at the dining table with his booty, all of my patient’s property, and began to pour over it with such concentration that I knew I’d lost his attention for the evening.
“Oh, the poor young man.” Mrs. Hudson perched on the edge of the sofa and tucked the blanket around my patient. “Will he be all right?”
“There’s no reason to think he’s poor,” Holmes said. “Far from it.” He was looking through a magnifying glass at the label inside the coat. “This is quite fine wool.”
“I was thinking of his mother’s feelings!” Mrs. Hudson said.
“Why?” Holmes looked up. “Do you know her?”
“No, but he looks like such a sweet boy. It wouldn’t hurt you to show some natural compassion!”
“There is no such thing as natural compassion,” Holmes said.
“Please, you two,” I said, slapping my poultice on the man’s chest and covering him up with another blanket. “I think a glass of brandy would do us all a world of good.”
“Make mine a double,” Holmes said.
Mrs. Hudson sniffed. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to it.” She did spare a last glance for the features of the ‘poor young man’ before she left. “If you need any help, Doctor, just ring the bell.”
“Just ring the bell,” Holmes mouthed at her back. “What is it with women and baby birds with broken wings?”
It was rhetorical question and I ignored it, pouring myself a large brandy and sitting down on the other side of the table.
“Where’s mine?” Holmes said, without looking up. I sipped my drink and studied my patient’s face. Finally, Holmes sighed. “You’re sulking, darling. Will it do if I let you sleep in my bed tonight?”
“What are the odds of my finding you in it?”
“Nil,” he admitted. “This is much too fascinating.”
“What do you mean?” I looked over the strange collection of objects he had pulled from various pockets.
“I don’t know,” Holmes said. “It is always fatal to theorise in advance of facts. Facts are in short supply, and what we have don’t add up. For instance, we have a small multi-purpose folding knife…” He slapped it down on the table. “Notice that it is similar but a considerable improvement the sort of knife the Swiss army issue to its soldiers. Feel it.”
I picked it up and bounced it in my hand. It was surprisingly light. The metal was white with a satiny finish and there with a red cross enameled on it. “Is it aluminium?”
“Yes. That makes it a very expensive knife. Also we have a ring of keys, a set of lock picks, a pair of tweezers and a small but powerful magnifying glass.”
I examined the things as Holmes laid them out, recalling the card with Holmes’ name on it. “These are things that you carry on a regular basis,” I said. “What’s going on here?”
“I don’t know. I found this in the breast pocket of his coat.” Holmes picked up a folded leather wallet. “What do you make of these?” He removed a set of brightly coloured celluloid plaques from the wallet and fanned them out on the table.
I picked one of them up and held it under the light. It was oddly reflective and surprisingly warm to the touch. The numbers and letters on it were punched into the surface, like braille. That wasn’t what was disturbing about it though. “This one has Mycroft’s name on it.” As I said it, a sensation past through me akin to the fisson I had felt in the park.
“I noticed.” Holmes picked up another plaque. “This one has mine on it. Any idea what a Barclaycard is?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Me neither.” Holmes held a scrap of paper to the light and handed it to me. “Ever seen any banknotes like these before?”
I call what he handed me a banknote because it said that it had been issued by the Bank of England and the denomination was £5. It was small, brightly coloured, felt greasy to the touch, and there was a portrait of a woman on it—the Quaker reformer Elizabeth Fry! Holmes handed me another. This one was orange and the woman in the portrait wore a crown and a prim little smile. I have no idea who she was supposed to be, but she was not the Queen of England.
“Play money?” I’m sure my eyebrows touched my hairline and I was aware of a strong feeling of revulsion in the pit of my stomach. “Elaborate toys?”
“Metallic inks and watermarked paper. Very elaborate toys. Look at this.” Holmes pushed a small and surprisingly heavy coin across to me. “Notice the date.” I noticed the date, 2011.
“Someone is having a game at our expense.”
“Then the game’s gone wrong. There’s this.” He picked up the wristlet-watch that I’d removed from the patient’s arm. “The maker is Rotary.”
“Swiss again. Could be a clue.”
“I know men who would sooner wear a bustle than a wristlet-watch but perhaps the Swiss don’t harbor that particular prejudice. However, the really interesting thing about it is…” Holmes shook it, held it close to his ear, and then handed it to me.
I looked and listened. It was perfectly silent! I squinted at the face again to be certain the second hand really was going round in a smooth unbroken arc. “It doesn’t tick and yet it goes.
“Exactly. And then, there’s the evidence of his clothing.”
“His clothing…?”
“Machine made. Every scrap of it. Look at the coat. Excellent Irish tweed with not a dab of hand stitching to the facings or to the lining. Smell!” I leaned over and smelled. “Exactly! The only odor detectable is the faint scent of limes. Now, consider the shirt. Self-collar with winged points. Polished cotton. Flimsy. Lilac pin-stripes? A bit over-refined, a la Bouguerau; wouldn’t you agree? No belt and no braces, as you’ve observed. The less said about the trousers the better, but I will point out that the use of the automatic continuous clothing closure, so recently introduced at the World’s Fair in Chicago. It’s quite advanced. One might say unbelievably so! And the buttons…”
“The buttons…?” It was late and, as ever, with Holmes off on a deductive tear, it took every bit of running I could do to stay up with him.
“Watson, do you believe in aliens?”
“Aliens…?”
“Pale little men who live in the moon?”
“Of course not?”
“Then why have you got a copy of The Germ Growers hidden under your mattress?”
“So you wouldn’t find it, of course! What about the buttons!?”
“The buttons, the aiglets on his shoe laces, all these little plaques…” Holmes picked up the ‘Barclaycard’ with Mycroft’s name on it and tapped it against a tooth. “They’re made of some material not presently known to man.”
“Are you…” I looked over at the still figure on our sofa. He did look strange. Was it the odd cheekbones that were now flying bright red spots? Unnatural angles…? Or was it the squinched eyes that were unnaturally small? “Are you implying this is some kind of moon creature?”
“When did I say that? I’m implying nothing of the kind. I am stating that, as far as I can tell, all of those things are made of a substance—obviously pliable—which is not presently known to man. That does not mean that we cannot discover its nature, however.” Holmes scooped up the Barclaycard and carried it to the deal-topped table which supports his chemical experiments. Swiftly lighting the spirit lamp, he clipped the card with the points of a pair of long tweezers and held a corner to the flame. His eyes were flashing with excitement. “Stand back, Watson,” he said. “There’s a chance this could explode!”
It did not explode but, as the edge turned black and began to run, I will never forget the unearthly shriek that started from the throat of the man on the sofa as. I whipped around. My patient was sitting up, supporting himself with a white-knuckled grip on the back of the sofa. “What are you doing to Mycroft’s Visa card?” he said.
I spun around. Holmes took the time to extinguish the spirit lamp before turning.
“Thank you for joining us,” he said. “Sherlock Holmes, I believe? Would you care to explain what this hoax is in aid of?”
Sherlock clutched a wad of the blanket tightly. Where ever he was, at least it was warm, but his nose was being assaulted by a complicated niff made up of furniture polish, coal oil, rose potpourri, pipe tobacco, lanolin and mustard. And horse. Someone had been around a horse. There were voices. Two men. A woman. Babble. Babble. It was all too much. Too much sensation. Too much information to sort and organize. He wanted to yell Shut up! Go away! I can’t think!
The woman went away.
He waited, secure that if he left his mind to idle for long enough it would re-boot; things would come together.
They came with the clinking of glass on glass and a gurgle of poured liquid. A clean familiar scent reached his nose. Could do with a brandy myself. The thought it inspired a cascade. Rude sod! There’s a sick man here. Least you could do is offer. No. Someone said that he’d been hurt. God, his head ached! He must have been in an accident. Where was John? Come to think of it, Where…? That was the first thing to work out. Go from the known to the unknown.
He was naked. Someone had undressed him. Hospital? No! There was no pinging of machines and the air hardly smelled of antiseptic. Directly under his nose, in fact, the mustard smell was coming from him—or rather some flannely thing stuck on his chest. Someone had to be playing silly bug…. Oh, bugger… Moriarty! Adrenalin surged. The analytical facility kicked into high gear. The material he could feel against his ankle? Hard. Smooth. Tufted. Horsehair. Blanket? Wool. Source of lanolin. Course grade. Army! He peeked under his lashes. Carpet. Axminster. Red and blue and gold. Needs vacuuming. Table leg. Walnut. Lion’s paw foot. Brass caster with ceramic wheel. Edge of tablecloth. Linen. Machine lace. Tassels. Tea stains. The lower part of a man’s leg eased into view. Front laced half-boot. Black leather. Hand sewn. Side of heel worn down sharply. Trousers? No cuff. Odd that. Hand tailored. Brown checked Harris tweed…
One of the random blurts of meaningless noise that had been rumbling in the background suddenly bloomed into meaning. “What do you make of these?” someone said. He took a chance and lifted his eyelashes slightly.
Two men—one of them in the Harris tweed trousers, and another—from what he could catch beyond the glare of a green Art Nouveau lamp shade—in a striped shirt with a standing collar and dark waistcoat—pawing through his things—sorting his credit cards, counting his money, trying to work out what they could get for the watch that had been a gift from Mycroft. Vultures taking advantage of an injured man…
It was when they started on about the zip in his trousers that it registered with him that something about that was off.
Automatic continuous clothing closure…? Really? No one was that obtuse. Oh, God! I’m trapped in an antique shop with a pair of Victorian re-enactors.
It was times like this that he needed John, someone with his finger firmly on the pulse of popular culture. Waistcoat was carrying on about buttons and men from the moon. Harris tweed was becoming exasperated. Who could blame him? Rattling on like…has to be some kind of attention deficit disorder. Wait…! What…? He’d missed something.
Sherlock opened his eyes a further fraction. Tweed and Waistcoat were standing by a bench against the wall. A spirit lamp was burning with a blue flame. What do you think you’re doing? Since they had their backs to him, he could open his eyes all he liked at the old-fashioned chemistry set-up.
“Stand back,” Waistcoat said, “There’s a chance this could explode!” Waistcoat had a pair of tongs and was holding Mycroft’s Visa card to the flame.
“No!” Sherlock yelled. “What are you doing?”
Harris tweed whipped around. Waistcoat took his time and extinguished the spirit lamp.
“Thank you for joining us,” he finally said, turning. “Sherlock Holmes, I believe? Would you care to explain what this hoax is in aid of?”
I spun around to glare at our guest. Of course it was some kind of hoax and I was ready to stand with Holmes in demanding an explanation. But it was obvious that the man’s physical condition was no hoax. The pale eyes rolled up in their sockets as he slumped on the sofa. His flash of outrage had been more than his body could sustain.
“Blast! It will have to wait, Holmes,” I said, and hurried for the brandy bottle.
While I attempted to revive our guest, Holmes brought a chair, sat down adjacent to the sofa, crossed his arms and waited.
When our guest was able to open his eyes, Holmes said, “My apologies. I had no idea shocking of you so badly, but I thought it was more than time to end your little charade. You must admit it is bad manners to eavesdrop.”
This was plain speaking indeed and crimson spots reappeared on our guest’s cheeks. Embarrassment and anger on such features as his could easily have been mistaken for childish petulance. I would have been assumed that was the dominant note had I not observed the catch in his breathing, the increased pallor, and the tears that were standing in his eyes. I noticed, as well, how his eyes flicked back and forth between us, as he tried to comprehend our purpose. Given the trauma he had sustained, how must it feel to wake in a strange place at the mercy of strangers, with who knew what intentions? For all he knew we could have been crimps. My heart softened.
“Let me assure you we mean you no harm,” I said. “You’ve had a serious blow to the head. Our only concern is to find out who you are and to restore you to your friends and family.”
“A blow…” Gingerly our guest touched his head and winched. “I was in an accident.”
Holmes and I exchanged glances.
“We will agree to call it an accident,” said Holmes.
“If you’ll let me use your phone, I’ll call someone to come and get me. Apparently, I threw mine away prematurely.” Our guest spoke as if he were used to getting away with such demands. As Holmes and I exchanged glances, our guest seemed to recollect himself. He said, “Please.”
The truth was that he had touched a sore spot. For some time I had wanted to have the telephone installed, thinking of the advantage of instantaneous communication with Scotland Yard. When I proposed the plan Mrs. Hudson had a conniption—which I’d expected, she had a terrible fear of electrical fluid—but I had been certain that Holmes would support the idea enthusiastically. He was always the first to embrace any innovation that could give him an advantage over a criminal. I expected he could reassure her that a telephone in the house did not mean a light bulb would inevitably follow.
I thought we would carry the thing off easily and had already contracted with the local company. To my surprised disappointment, Holmes sided with Mrs. Hudson. I couldn’t understand it and we wrangled until he confessed, finally, that having experimented with the set Mycroft had installed in his office, he’d found the thing impossible.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We don’t have a wire. Unbelievable as it sounds, some people break into a cold sweat when they are confronted by a wooden box and a handset.”
“An unresponsive wooden box,” Holmes said, apropos of nothing.
“You have to listen to it, Holmes,” I said.
“But I can’t see who’s talking through it,” he said.
“Your mobile,” our guest said. The corners of his mouth turned acutely downward, accentuating the petulant look that seemed to be habitual with him.
“I’m sure Dr. Watson would be happy to take a message around to the telegraph office tomorrow,” Holmes said. “If you are up to accompanying him, you will find upholstered telephone booths there for the use of the public with the most up to date equipment.”
Our guest turned perfectly white. “Stop playing silly buggers and let me use a phone!” he snapped.
Far more gently than I could have imagined, given such an outburst, Holmes said, “It would help if you told us who you are.”
Our guest’s reaction was dramatic. His breathing grew ragged enough to make me concerned and his eyes flew wildly around the room as he twisted the blanket in his hands. “Moriarty’s done this, hasn’t he?” he said. “It’s his final joke!”
“Professor James Moriarty?” I said, feeling a shiver.
“He hired you!” Those pale eyes with their pin-point pupils locked on to mine. The pain in them was terrible.
“Professor Moriarty has been dead for three years,” I said.
Our guest recoiled, gasping as if I had punched him, and closed his eyes.
“Perhaps another brandy, Watson? A strong one,” Holmes said, making a gesture to indicate exactly how strong.
“Right,” I said. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have dreamed of giving opiates to a man I suspected of having a concussion; these were not normal circumstance.
As I prepared the dose, Holmes, the least emotionally demonstrative of men, particularly where clients are concerned, hitched his chair closer to the sofa. He disengaged our guest’s hand from the blanket and secured it between his own.
“Listen to me,” he said. “We are very different men but, trust me, I will do everything in my power to help you. This is a profound shock—for both of us. Sherlock—do you mind if I call you Sherlock?”
“No.” Our guest opened his eyes the merest slit. “But what am I supposed to call you?” I saw his finger was resting on the pulse point of Holmes’ wrist and and knew he was trying to measure the truth of Holmes’ words. I’ve seen Holmes do the same on occasion.
“Call me Holmes, of course!” Holmes braced him on the shoulder. “Good man! Now, Dr. Watson has something to help you sleep. He will also loan you a nightshirt and tomorrow we will sort this thing out.”
I handed the brandy, which I had laced with a few drops of laudanum to our…to Sherlock. As he drank it down, I said, “Do I loan him my bed, as well?”
“Certainly,” Holmes said, putting his hand on the back of my leg, where Sherlock couldn’t have seen it. “You won’t be needing it.”
I felt like saying or yours either.
What I said was, “Come on then,” and gave him my arm and the use of my shoulder. I knew it would not take long for the drug to have effect. In fact, the pale eyes were already beginning to glaze over as stood up.
Half-way up the stairs he stopped, and looked down at me, and slurred, “This is so nineteenth century.”
“It’s 1894,” I said. “What century would it be?”
“Oh, you’re good,” he said. “I get it. It’s the Victorian House.”
“Can we move along?” If I was a bit curt, it was because he was leaning hard and my leg hurt.
When we got to the landing, I wheeled him into my bedroom and guided him to the bed, where he sat staring woozily around the room while I found a fresh nightshirt in my drawer.
When I handed it to him, he took it as if he’d never held such a garment. “Big shirt,” he said. “Where’s the loo?”
“Haven’t a pot of glue,” I said. He transferred his owlish look to me. “What’s a loo called when it’s at home?”
“The bathroom. Need to rinse off this mustard mess.”
“Leave it until morning. Can’t have you getting an inflammation of the lungs on top of that bump.” I was concerned that he might fall if he tried to stand up, so I took the nightshirt and guided his head through the opening. “Hands please,” I said.
“But it stinks, and what if I have to…?”
“What?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You know.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Where do Victorians go when they have to piss?”
“Reach under the bed, you’ll find a pot.”
“Don’t you think that’s carrying a reality programme too far?”
“I am not the chambermaid.”
“Oh, God!” he groaned, suddenly looking stricken. “Me and my mouth. There I go. I’ve offended. Sorry. Sorry. This is why I need John.” Holmes had been correct; the man was used up. Whatever he had done, whatever crime he had committed, it was better to wait until tomorrow.
“Under the covers,” I said, pushing him back and lifting his legs.
The whole time he kept babbling and moaning. “Oh, God, I’m so, so sorry. It’s 1894. No! This isn’t happening. Where’s John? You have to call him and tell him to come and get me. Tell him that this isn’t happening…”
He went on like a chidden child or an Edison cylinder, over and over, until eventually sleep, the balm of hurt minds, had its way and he wound down, actually stopping in mid-yawn, on the very verge of falling asleep. I gave his shoulder a pat and got up to leave.
He smiled at me. The last thing he said was, “Guys… jus’ ‘dorable. Gonna screw ‘im t’night…weren’t cha?”
I thought my head would explode.
As soon as I was sure he was asleep, I ran back downstairs and found Holmes engaged in putting the coloured plaques back in their wallet. He looked up as I entered and forestalled what was on the tip of my tongue by saying, “Tomorrow, remind me to ask Sherlock what these things are supposed to be.”
“Do what you like!” I snapped. I went to pour myself another brandy; I was shaking with rage and in need of a stiffener. “Do you know what he said to me!?”
“No. Was it crude?”
“You have no idea.”
“For a man who was in the army…” Holmes’ eyes glinted with such unholy amusement that I flushed. “Would you like to know why I’m humouring him, or not?”
“Not! That-that intolerable twaddle about Moriarty has to be some kind of practical joke! It’s not funny.”
“No. I’m afraid it isn’t. But it’s not a joke.”
“Oh, Holmes, never tell me that you believe him. Moriarty…”
“Is dead!” Holmes interrupted. “I know. But there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Please, bring me one of those, if you would be so kind.” When he said please, I started guiltily, realizing that I had not taken into account the effect that hearing that name would have had on Holmes. I poured another glass. “Do you want a couple of drops of laudanum, as well? I would be willing to prescribe in this case.”
“No. Our friend upstairs is what your American readers would call a pistol. We are going to need all of our wits about us tomorrow.”
I found nothing to argue with in that. Instead of handing Holmes the glass, though, I set it on the table and embraced him. I did it as much for my comfort as for his, but he melted against me and I could feel the tension in his body. “Tomorrow,” I said, experiencing a resurgence of my anger towards Sherlock. “I’m going to check with Bedlam. They have to have misplaced one of their lunatics.” It was unkind perhaps, but if he hadn’t staggered out of the fog, I would have had Holmes in bed and boneless by now.
Holmes sighed against my neck. “I wish I thought that was the case.”
“I know I’m going to hate this, but…” I sighed. “Tell me what you’ve been thinking.”
“Not so much thinking as reflecting, particularly on the case of one Gaspard Semmelrogge, a boy of 14 who appeared on the streets of Nuremburg in 1829, speaking a dialect that had not been heard in Bavaria in four hundred years and wearing clothing of similar antiquity. The case aroused so much interest in antiquarian circles that it attracted the attention of Lord Cottingham who planned to adopt the boy and take him to England.”
“What happened?”
“He was proved a fake, of course. Initially, it was his familiarity with potatoes that gave the game away, but subsequently it was demonstrated that the blue dye which coloured his liripipe could not have existed previous to the late 18th century.”
“You’re saying you think our friend upstairs is a fraud.”
“I am not. I’m using Semmelrogge as the type specimen, an exemplar if you will for a certain kind of fraud. In almost all the documented cases of people who claim to have appeared suddenly lost out of time and place, it is always a time previous to the one in which they appear. Or else it’s a time so far in the future that society has become so sophisticated that the population goes around entirely naked. In either case they inevitably trip over their…ah…anachronisms.” That made me snort. I couldn’t help it. “But the complexity and nature of our guest’s effects...”
“Would not have been beyond Moriarty.”
“I disagree. In any event, Moriarty is dead.
“Moran…”
“Is in prison. Hard put to manufacture a toothpick much less such detailed props.”
“He would use an agent, of course.”
“Too many of these things are simply beyond present technology.”
“Expensive, yes, but what…?”
“The Barclaycard.”
“Celluloid.”
“Would have gone up like touch-paper.”
“You said almost all cases.” I wasn’t prepared to concede Holmes’ point, but he had pricked my curiosity. “What about the others?”
“Look to our own back pages, Watson. Recall the case of Mr. James Phillimore who was said to have stepped back into his own house for an umbrella and was never more seen in this world. At least not until twenty-five years later when he walked in the door, seeming not one day aged and wearing exactly the same slightly damp clothing in which he had last been seen…and found himself an unexpected guest at his granddaughter’s wedding. As much as the family paid me to investigate, nothing shook his story.
“Another case worth noting is that of Isadora Persano, the well-known journalist and duelist, who was found stark staring mad with a match-box in front of him which contained a remarkable worm, said to be unknown to science. What is less well known is that the match-box bore an advertisement for The Sands Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas and was dated… Watson, you’re not paying attention.”
“Mmm…no, I’m not.” I had been working on the tension in the muscles of his lower back.
“Watson!” Holmes squirmed in response as I moved my hands lower. “That feels delightful but I suspect you have ulterior motives.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“I notice that you’re piloting us towards the bedroom.”
“That’s because we are going to bed.”
“But I intend…”
“No, you do not,” I said, and kicked the door shut behind me.
“But no less remarkable a case,” he said, “is that of the cutter Alicia which sailed into a small patch of mist one spring morning. She never again emerged nor was anything further ever heard of herself or her crew, until….”
“Shut up.” I picked him up and dropped him on the bed, keeping hold of one foot in case I needed it for leverage. I didn’t. I had him down to his wooly coms in short order, and God bless the man who invented the D hatch.
It was still black when I woke. I could tell from the muffled street noises that we were still submerged in fog but the scent of fresh baked bread easily eclipsed the faint sulphurous taint that tends to creep under the window rails and lured me out of bed.
I’d been so upset last night that I’d forgotten to collect a own nightshirt of my own. I helped myself to a pair of Holmes’ pyjamas, as well as one of the several dressing gowns that had failed to tempt him out his ratty old paisley.
There were three plates on the dining table and the fact that only one of them had bread crumbs and egg stains on it, made it easy to deduce that—Sherlock—I can never be used to calling a stranger by his Christian name—was not yet up.
There was no sign of Holmes, but there was a blue cloud of sweet smelling pipe tobacco drifting from the alcove. I swept the velvet curtain aside and found Holmes lounging on a pile of cushions in front of the bow window. He had the morning papers scattered round and all of his smoking paraphernalia within reach.
“You look perfectly debauched,” I said.
“I have been debauched,” he said, stretching to let me see he had nothing on but his coms under that unspeakable gown “Three times last night, alone. Look outside.” There was a faint lightening, but with the gaslights were still burning and the fog was too thick to see the buildings across the street. The world seemed to exist in a murky green glow. “I feel as though I were inside Aladdin’s lamp. Do you believe in incubi?”
“I haven’t given it much thought. Would you like more tea?”
“Please.” He handed his cup and saucer to me. “And you had better ring for a fresh pot. Our friend is awake, and lurking.”
“What on earth is he waiting for?”
“Maybe he’s shy.”
“He didn’t strike me as a shrinking violet.”
“True; he’s already gone through your chest and your night stand.”
“Holmes, why are we doing this? I’ll wager £5 he proves to be either a criminal or a lunatic before it’s over.”
“You’re on!”
I looked around. “What did you do with his clothes?”
“I pictured how he’d look in one of your suits. And then I went over them carefully once more, in case I’d missed something, and gave them to Mrs. Hudson to wash. Don’t glare at me like that; it would have been all ankles and wrists.”
“And shins and elbows in yours,” I said. “I’m going to roust him down. Put some clothes on.”
After alerting Rosie that another pot of tea was wanted, I went up and knocked on my door. I meant to walk straight in, and if I caught him in the act… my hand hesitated on the knob. “It’s Dr. Watson,” I said.
“Come in.”
Sherlock had opened his eyes once that night, wondering how he’d become tangled in all that fabric. He’d rolled over on his back and there was a delay before the room righted itself. Definitely a concussion.
Now it was morning—horses in the street—deliverymen bawling about milk and ice—footsteps clattering on the pavement. Who gets ice delivered? That wasn’t the worst. The worst was when he looked up at headboard looming over him, nearly touching the ceiling—all those carved curlicues, arabesques, and roundels, writhing like snakes in the dim light—the deep purple wallpaper with its printed chains of orange daffodils. It was a room that could only have been conceived on LSD. If the devil had popped in offering to swap his soul for an aspirin, he would have spat in his hand and sealed the deal without even bargaining for a glass of water—if he could have done it without opening his eyes again.
A rap on the door made him flinch. A high female voice said, “The maid, sir.” He had to look because, without waiting for a reply, in she came.
The girl, at least she looked about 16, was dressed for the part with a white ruffled apron around her waist and a ruched doily pinned to her head. She was carrying a tin tray which she set on the bed table. On it was a cup and saucer, a small silver pot, sugar and creamer. He could smell the perfume of fresh coffee. She giggled when he asked, “Are you are an angel?”
“Mrs. Hudson said you might need it.” She went around the room, turning the gaslight in the sconces off and pulling the curtains back. Then she knelt in front of the grate and kindled a coal fire. “That will have the chill off in a twinkling, sir,” she said. “Would you like me bring your hot water now?”
“I’d like a paracetamol,” he croaked. The dire wallpaper was strobing away in his peripheral vision. “I’d like a dozen.”
“I don’t know what para…para…what that is, sir,” she said.
“I’ll settle for an aspirin.”
“Sir?”
“Oh, no! This carrying things to far! We’re not still running The Victorian House. Who owns this place? What’s the address? Where the hell am I?”
The girl looked shocked. “This is Mrs. Hudson’s house in Baker Street!”
“Baker Street…?” Visions of last night…his hands suddenly felt cold. “Those men downstairs? Who are they?”
“Mr. Holmes and his friend Dr. Watson?”
“They live here? In this house?”
“Oh, yes.”
“This isn’t an antique store?”
“Oh no, sir!”
Visions of last night…John!
“All right, I’ll play. You said hot water?”
“Yes, sir.”
Part 2
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Date: 2012-06-18 05:06 am (UTC)