The Magpie Of Paddington

I had been back from service in Afghanistan for 3 years, which I spent the majority of the time in the company of my good friend Sherlock Holmes, when the government changed yet again over to that of a conservative government. A few years before, I would have had an opinion on the matter, but having spent so much time with my fairly ignorant companion, his 'couldn't care less' attitude had begun to inadvertently make an impression on me. Of course, I informed myself of national news and such, but my political beliefs had been pushed from the forefront of my mind to the recesses, being replaced with the strange, macabre and frankly bizarre. I am sad to say these had become everyday occurrences, but being a comrade of Holmes prevents you from having a seemingly normal existence.

It was in late June of 1885 when I read in The Times that the new Prime Minister Lord Salisbury was going to be at Paddington station, returning from his visit to his constituency, to have a small public debate about the situation of the country. I knew that my political interest had well and truly been run over by my new outlook when the initial reaction to the news was a thought of boredom and that it would just be an excuse for the people working at the docks to complain about their jobs. I audibly groaned at the thought.

"What?"

I lowered my paper down to see Holmes was lying down the wrong way on the sofa with his calves resting on the main head support, smoking a freshly lit cigarette. It was one exceedingly hot day in a long spell of incessantly warm weather and we had opened the huge front windows of 221b to their full height to get a draft through. But the air was so still, the apertures did nothing but let in the sounds of slow moving crowds, flagging in the heat.

"The Prime Minister is holding a debate at Paddington today at 4 o'clock." I said closing the paper, folding it over and flinging it down beside my chair. "I dread to think how crowded it'll be."

"More so than it would be in cooler weather." Holmes said, blowing a series of smoke rings into the air above him. He turned his head slightly towards me and I must have looked quizzical, for he continued to explain. "It's the heat. It brings people out of the woodwork and into the blaze of day."

"To go to a boring political discussion?"

Holmes chuckled. "It's something to occupy them… but I would not class it as a thing to pass the time."

"Some can be quite instilling… but ever since the last Gladstone speech, nothing could truly bore me more."

Holmes visibly shrugged and sighed loudly. "It's too warm." He said, finally.

I laughed as I stood up. "Who would have thought you were a detective, Holmes?"

Holmes squinted at me. "How amusing…" The heat definitely did nothing for him. He had been despondent for days and had not tackled recent cases with as much fervour.

"Extreme heat doesn't suit you, does it?" I said making my way to the window.

"Not when one has not been given prior warning." He smiled and sat up sharply. "Drink?"

"I need not answer that!" I said smiling. I looked out of the window onto the hazy street. The glass panes may as well have been in place for the air was immeasurably still and the humidity clung to your face. I turned back into the room. "The government has been changing more than the ships at the docks. It's getting ridiculous. The last liberal government lasted all of 4 months!"

I watched as my companion smile slightly as he handed me my glass. "And what is that meant to mean to me?"

I forgot frequently that this brilliant man was one of the most oblivious men of his time. I still could not comprehend that his general knowledge was just in books at Baker Street. But I was also in awe of his ability to partition off this information and completely lose it from his memory. Men try and fail at forgetting things they wish to and would sell an arm for his amazing ability…

But I was still shocked by it, no matter how much his air of whimsy intrigued me.

"Oh yes, I forget… you aren't the best person to converse with about such things." I smiled, taking a large swig of my drink.

Holmes laughed heartily, as was his custom and his undone waistcoat flapped slightly with the motion. He had removed his tie, unbuttoned his shirt to the second button and rolled up his sleeves. I doubted he was planning on having any consultations gauging his appearance. In all admittance, I had done the same except for the customisation of the state of my waistcoat; being a military man, I could not let myself go that far.

"Watson, I must admit you have a certain wit that amuses me." He smiled and leant up to his waist out of the window. "Nothing Watson… not a breath of wind. Not even the gentlest of breezes…" he drew himself back inside. "It's beginning to try my patience."

I put a hand on his shoulder as he would often do to his clients and looked sympathetic to the point of sarcasm. We both laughed at this ridiculous conversation and sat down again, almost resuming our exact positions before the topic of politics was brought up. It was not going to be dropped.

"You could at least humour me in taking a vague interest."

"Hmm?"

"In things I wish to talk about… such as politics."

Holmes looked at me with a steady glare. "Humour you?"

"Holmes, you of all people should know that there is truly nothing worse than wanting to discuss something when there is no one there to discuss it with." I said leaning forward in my chair, earnestly trying to put my point across. After a while, he gave a slight shrug of his shoulders and laid back, hands behind his head.

"Well then, my dear Watson. How do you view this debate that this prime minister is having?" he drawled, sardonically.

"Load of tosh."

Holmes stared at me. "That's it?"

"Yes."

Holmes sat up. "So I wasted valuable effort to feign interest for you to say three words?"

"Three fairly pithy words, to be fair."

Holmes stood up and flicked his cigarette butt into the fire grate. "Petty would be a better word. Or pitiful…"

I folded my arms defensively. "Well your tone wasn't particularly enthusiastic."

Holmes turned to me face on. "That might have been because I couldn't care who the prime minister is, let alone what he plans to do at 4 o'clock today!"

I stood up, arms akimbo. "When was the last time you knew who the prime minister was?"

Holmes held up a hand in mock sincerity and with the other he comically stroked his chin. "Hmmm… let's see… no name springs to mind!"

"What about Disraeli?"

Holmes waved his hand nonchalantly. "I must admit, I know that name for he was involved in a case from years ago."

"He ran the country! Twice!" I cried, astonished. "And he died recently!"

Holmes scoffed and threw up his arms in indifference.

"How can you not know that? It was on the front pages of every single newspaper!"

Holmes waved his hands around motioning that he really did not care. "I have better things to do with mental processes." He picked up a newspaper and sat, reading it through.

I stared at him. He was almost proud of the fact he did not know of the modern political climes… but I really wanted him to show a bit of interest in how the country is run. I sat down despondent in his reaction to the discussion, when suddenly Holmes jumped up and in one swift movement, grabbed his short coat and opened the door. "Watson, we're going for a walk."

"Oh we are, are we?"

"Yes. Just read something of interest. It's regarding the Knox theft case." Holmes said, doing up his waist coat. "We'll need to head to Bell Street."

The heat was beginning to get to me and the thought of hastily making our way across London on that day filled me with loathing. I was about to say that I would not be joining him, but a sudden thought occurred to me regarding geography. It was my turn to be conniving and obtuse, and Sherlock Holmes could be in the dark. I was not about to let that chance go.

"Let's not waste time, then." Said I, smiling as I put on my hat and he put on his.

With that, we made our way down Baker Street surrounded by a sultry cloud of London's temporary climate.

I must admit to you now that my belief that I could leave Sherlock Holmes in the dark was a ridiculous notion, bordering on the absurd. But even a man who spent a majority of the past ten years in blazing sun and unbearable heat can be affected by warmer temperatures even many years after his departure from such an environment. I was surprised at how uncomfortable I found the weather of the past few days, but my constitution was not shocked by its rapid onset as much as my companion's had been. But nothing could prevent him being as sharp as a needle.

We were making our way down, heading back to Baker Street, having made enquiries regarding Holmes' case, which left him in higher spirits. I had assumed he had completed his investigations and knew the solution as he was constantly smiling the whole way back. The walk was not an excessive one, but forced us to just hold our jackets in our hands and Holmes even went as far as removing his hat, which I did not approve of. Most people in the street had removed outer garments in order to keep themselves cool in this extraordinary heat, but still retained their air of good appearance.

Having passed the intersection of Marylebone Road and Bell Street, I decided to implement my futile plan.

"Holmes, seeing as we're out, I would like to visit a new tobacconist's that a friend has recommended. It's down this way I believe. You wouldn't mind a detour would you?"

Holmes looked up at the sky for a couple of seconds before slowly turning his head towards me, brow raised. "Watson, am I correct in assuming you are trying to pull the hypothetical wool over my eyes in order to walk down this particular street? Because if you are, I must applaud your nerve." And he laughed emphatically as he continued our initial route. I grabbed his arm to prevent him from persisting.

"I'm serious Holmes! There is a tobacconist's I wish to try down here!"

"I also praise your tenacity." He said, eyes glinting with the humour he found in the situation. "Yes, there is a tobacconist's down here; Margrave's I believe. But you, Watson are a creature of habit and you wouldn't change your routine or things that concern your routine for anything less than necessity. So, you would not even give the shop's window a second glance." He said, pragmatically. I stayed silent, trying to show an expression of quieted disbelief, but I fear it came across as guilt, for Holmes continued. "And I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that this a fairly direct route to Paddington station, hmm?"

I coughed slightly. "I have no idea what you could mean by that."

Holmes was shaking with silent laughter. "Really Watson, you do know how to make me laugh, you really do. Come on." He said gesturing for us to carry on up our intended course. It was then that, I had a sudden realisation come over me. In the last three years of knowing each other and living in each other's pockets, we only did what Holmes wished to do.

"When was the last time, Holmes, we did something I wanted to do?" I asked, leaning on my cane with an air of annoyance. He turned quickly, and sauntered back over to me.

"What?" He asked with genuine questioning.

"We have always done what you've wanted to do. Never anything I suggest."

"Ah, but you never suggest anything." He pointed out.

"I would if I thought we would actually do it."

"But you never complain when I suggest something. You always come along."

"But Holmes, this is a fine example of it! I have suggested we go this way, and you said no."

Holmes pursed his lips in an attempt to stop bursting out laughing, which I did not appreciate. "Fine, we shall walk down this way. But" he held up an accusing finger. "I am not going to go to Paddington station."

"But, then there really is no reason to go this way," I cried. "For that is where I wished to go."

"Then we'll head back to Baker Street."

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose in exasperation. "What would make you go to Paddington then?"

He stared with his air of arrogance which I found most disagreeable, "A train."

I sighed. "Don't be so obtuse."

"It's the truth!" He said and made his way down the road.

I was about to give up when a thought occurred to me. "How much did you say it would cost to get your Stradivarius repaired?"

At the name of his violin, he span round and held his hands up, gesticulating as he made a noise similar to that of an engine letting off steam in short rapid bursts. "Don't shout that in the street, man! You have no idea who may hear such a comment and act upon it."

"Fine then, how much will it cost to repair the violin?"

"You're trying to bribe me."

"How much!" I said firmly.

"I can get it repaired for 20 guineas." He said finally.

"I'll pay for it if," I said pointing at him "you at least see who the prime minister is."

Holmes was silent for a bit. "All the repairs?"

I nodded.

"Including the bridge?"

"Is that included in the repairs?" I remarked acerbically.

He contemplated this for a moment. "Alright, Watson, you have got yourself a deal. Admittedly, it is a small sacrifice to make to have my violin nursed back to health." And we shook hands on the matter, heading towards the train station.

You are probably wondering at this point as to how Holmes' Stradivarius came to be in such disrepair, and so I shall explain in my own words as to what happened.

A week ago, we had a client who was amidst a major disappearing act that his friend had conducted, leaving only small traces of powder and ash in his room, which was the last place he was assumed to have been. I shall not indulge you with the further details of the case, as that is for another time but, naturally, Holmes knew the ash at a glance, but the powder needed further study. He had set himself up at his desk with various chemicals boiling and mixing when I came in after a short walk. He had, as usual, become even more slovenly than his normal countenance allowed due to his engrossment in his tests and I noticed that he had left his violin on the armchair.

"Is that a sensible thing to do to a 500 guinea instrument?" I asked pointedly.

Holmes was staring intently at a test tube he was holding up to the light. He made a non-committal sounding hum as he gave the tube a swirl and placed it back in the test tube rack. He then turned to me. "Well, it's not imposing, is it?"

"No, but it may be sat on." I said, motioning to move the violin when Holmes called out suddenly.

"Watson! Don't touch it!" he said adding a droplet of purple liquid to a conical flask, once finished took the pen from behind his ear and wrote in a notebook his observation. Once he had written his findings, he placed the pen between his teeth and leant over to get a pair of tongs, I presumed to pick up the test tube with.

"But it's in grave danger!" I cried pointing at the fiddle earnestly.

"Are you planning to sit in the chair?" Holmes said, pen still gripped firmly between his jaws.

"No but-"

"I'm not planning to sit on it," He interrupted, taking the pen and scrawling down another couple of notes. "So the violin can remain in its chair."

"Why can't you just put it back in the case? I mean, it is right here!" I said kicking the case gently that was sitting at the foot of the seat.

"Don't touch it." he repeated. He put down the test tube and pipette and turned to me in his chair, one arm resting on the back. "Everything is in its rightful place, and I know exactly where everything is. There is truly nothing more abhorrent than finding someone has moved things about when you go back to find something and the object in question is no longer where you perceived it to be. So don't touch the violin." He said sternly and turned back to his chemistry.

"Surely putting the violin in its case is its rightful place." I interjected, but I saw that my futile attempt at reason with him was not going to get a reply. I sighed and made my way to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To get something to eat. I haven't eaten since breakfast."

"Fine." Holmes didn't move from his seat, so I assumed he either had already eaten or was not going to trouble himself with eating. Either way, I would be going by myself.

Having had something to supress my hunger and a small chat with Mrs. Hudson, I headed back upstairs to our rooms. Halfway up the staircase, I heard a cry of triumph from my companion and I rushed to see what he had managed to discover. I burst into the main room and sure enough, Sherlock Holmes was laughing in victory over his recent tests.

"Watson! I found the compound! Carbon, ascorbic acid and the smallest portion of dehydrated copper sulphate! Hence the aquamarine hue of this solution! I managed to separate the three powders!" he said coming round the corner to show me. But as he did so, he managed to catch his boot on the dratted violin case that had been left at the bottom of the chair and he tumbled, quite gracefully it must be said, forward. His face was one of muted panic for the solution to remain in his test tube, and somehow managed to keep the darned thing upright the whole time he fell. In order to prevent crashing to the floor he twisted himself right round and collapsed into the armchair, with a hideous noise, similar to that of a snapping bough of a tree.

I had never seen Holmes' face contort into one of sheer terror before. His eyes were wide, mouth agape and he sat, back arched slightly away from the rear of the chair, tense and motionless. He was still holding the test tube, which I quickly went over and placed back in the rack on the table and turned back to see that Holmes had not moved save for his eyes to stare at me.

It took about half a minute for him to speak. When he did, his voice was quiet and fairly monotonous. "Watson…?"

I stared back, observing that he had clamped his hands on the fronts of the arms of the chair, tips of his fingers going white with the pressure. "Yes?" I replied quietly.

"It may sound incredibly illogical and irrational… but I'm afraid to stand up."

He moved so slowly towards the front of the chair, but even with this slight movement, we could hear snaps of broken wood. He winced.

Finally standing upright, he turned and we both looked at the virtually priceless violin, bridge snapped and cracked laterally on the top face. Holmes turned to me, looking fairly forlorn.

I tried to offer words of comfort as he went to pick it up to inspect the damage. As he plucked the strings of the sorry looking fiddle, he grimaced as the strings stayed in the place he pulled them to.

"Is it too soon to say I told you so?" I asked picking up the bow and handing it to him. The look he gave me was enough to say that it was, and he placed it in the case. He was morose for the rest of the evening, only to perk up the next day when drawing a conclusion to his recent case.

But now back to the original narrative in which we were walking down Marylebone Road, heading for Paddington station. We reached the station and saw that, as usual, it was heaving. We made our way through and saw the main concourse had only the bustling crowd of a regular day at the station.

"The lawn* seems regular enough, Watson." Holmes remarked. "Are you sure it was Paddington?"

"Yes, it definitely was." I said looking around. The time was five to four; surely the crowds would be forming now.

"It'll be a shame for us to have walked this way for nothing, you know." He said, smiling.

I rolled my eyes. "There is no need to be condescending."

"I'm being sincere, my dear Watson. I will have wasted my energy coming here for I truly had no reason for being here."

Eventually, we realised that the prime minister will be conducting his visit as soon as he arrived which meant on the platform. I dragged my companion onto the large platform between 3 and 4 to find an enormous group of dockland workers standing around a highly decorated soap box with various people from high society scattered on the crowd's outskirts. The train had already pulled up and the public that was milling about were beginning to slow down in order to see the prime minister.

"Oh look who it is…" Holmes said, indicating the police presence around the carriage and on right by the entrance to the platforms was our 'favourite rat faced acquaintance', as Holmes described him.

"Why is Lestrade here? He isn't uniform. Why would he acting as a guard?"

"Just what I was thinking… perhaps we should ask?" Holmes said, making his way over to the Inspector. As we approached, the man's face showed an expression mixed with surprise and trepidation at our presence.

"Mr Holmes!" he said after we greeted him. "Don't tell me you are investigating something here? Because that is the last thing I need today."

"No, no. Watson wishes to trouble me with seeing this prime minister. But, if you class asking you a small question as investigating, then I am afraid I am."

"Let me guess, you are wondering why I'm here."

Holmes nodded slowly and Lestrade proceeded to explain that he had been asked, as part of an operation to stop pick pockets, to observe the crowd. Holmes chuckled.

"The initiative is not going well I presume… for I noticed three incidences on the way over."

Lestrade sighed. "That isn't my problem. Here is my problem." He said, waving his arm across the view that befell him. "The reason I've been asked to join the initiative, as you put it, is that it isn't just a pick pocket."

"Oh? Pray tell what you are searching for."

"A serial thief. He seems to target a certain group of victims, but he uses the rouse of other pick pockets to cover his tracks."

"Obviously, he isn't that good for you to have noticed his activity." Holmes said smiling a smile of innocence, and I could not tell how he meant for the comment to come across. It was either that of stating the fact or a small snide. But Lestrade took it as the latter and sniffed in contempt for Holmes' reaction to his news.

"Do you want me to inform you or do you want to just wait for the prime minster?"

"Please carry on."

"Then keep comments about my professional ability to yourself." I had seen Lestrade putting up with such quips from the moment I was introduced to the inspector, and Holmes was one who would laugh quite outwardly at the lack of aptitude, in his opinion, that Scotland yarders had. Lestrade was, however, one of the detectives that had received the odd and rare compliment from my companion. I could only think the reason for the good words said about Lestrade were for the fact that Lestrade was the one of the only police officers who would regularly put up with Sherlock Holmes' quite egotistical nature.

Lestrade looked back at the crowd. "He is a, what we could describe as an upper class thief for he takes expensive objects that are on people in society who have more money than sense to leave them at home."

"That could be numerous pickpockets, Lestrade." Holmes sighed haughtily.

"Let me finish." Lestrade snapped.

Holmes looked at his feet, smiling.

"I doubt that numerous pickpockets all leave the same 'calling card', shall we say."

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Calling card, you say?"

Lestrade hummed in confirmation, nodding. "A small slip of paper placed in the pocket of the victim with a form of insignia."

Holmes chuckled slightly, turning to look at the roof of the station. "It has a certain flamboyancy that could be seen as tongue-in-cheek. How would you describe the insignia?"

"Well, it is like the emblem of the Tudor rose with the name 'Pie Bravade' written with flourishes and curly kales and such."

Holmes turned to look at Lestrade, brows furrowed in confusion, trying to bite back the sniggers that were threatening to explode from him. "Curly kales?"

"Yes. Oddly written, it must be said."

"Well, I should think so… never have I seen something written with curly kale… curlicues on the other hand, maybe."

I was taken aback by the description of the emblem and the crime, for it was the only thing Holmes had been talking about not the night before. "Pie Bravade? Isn't that the name on the card that-" I chose my words carefully, for Holmes had made it clear that as long as I was involved in his line of work, I was to keep all elements confidential until the issues were resolved. "Your client gave you."

Holmes nodded. "Yes… The Magpie." He turned to Lestrade. "Turns out your operation may get a result after all." The smile on Holmes' face agitated Lestrade for a split second but the inspector exhaled languidly, obviously too tired to verbally spar with Holmes.

"Saves me some time I suppose…"

Holmes hummed in agreement when the train door opened and out stepped the 3rd marquis of Salisbury, Prime Minister Richard Gascoyne-Cecil. He waved a greeting to the crowd as he made his way to his podium to start talking to his public.

"Where was his constituency?" Lestrade asked and I told him it was

Holmes rolled his eyes. "That explains it then."

"What?" I asked quickly as Lestrade and I turned around to his comment.

"Quite a long journey. So he'd changed his clothes."

"I said just look at the man, not scrutinise everything about him." I hissed.

"Well, it is obvious! No creases on his trousers at the knee and on the back of the thigh. He travelled on that train for 3 hours. No matter what one does, one cannot prevent the inevitability of creases." He paused and chuckled. "How very prim…"

"Holmes… don't." I implored Holmes waved his arm about.

"Fine." He stopped, and turned to me properly.

"Holmes, about the magpie…" I started but Holmes held up a hand.

"I know, with certainty who The Magpie is."

I was visibly taken aback by his forthright response. "Then why aren't you at least informing the inspector?"

Holmes' eyes glinted with the familiar mischievous sparkle. "Come come Watson, where's the fun in that?"

"He could strike again you know… leaving an upper class nit without their fancy ivory hair comb." I said without hiding my sarcasm, and Holmes looked at me.

"You're right. How will I live with myself…?"

I could not contain a laugh, causing a couple of people to turn around from the main entertainment. "What confuses me, Holmes, is why is this 'magpie' actively stealing objects that are really quite strange? For example, one of the thefts had the object stolen from a pocket that also had £20 in it!"

Holmes inhaled deeply. "Like the bird, the magpie steals valuable things for their aesthetic; not necessarily for their value. A small Faberge box is much more appealing than a crinkled £10 note."

"That suggests he's not quite right in the head…" I said under my breath but Holmes heard.

"Or has a vendetta." He looked at me from the corner of his eye before frowning at a bustling group that passed us.

We stood listening for a bit to Lord Salisbury's quite stirring speech about a new start, a new beginning, fresh from Disraeli and most certainly from Gladstone. But it did not take long for Holmes to audibly show his boredom.

"Really Watson… this is most interesting… it really is." He said, taking out his watch and looked at it in an obvious fashion. I sighed and took his point.

"At least listen to what he has to say." I asked but his eyes widened at my sentence.

"Oh? Listen to him now? Well, on the original terms of my attending this fascinating event, I believe it was just for me to see the man, which I would like to point out," he said tapping me quite hard on the forearm "could have been done from the comfort of my own armchair with a photograph!"

I felt a pang of annoyance at his fairly childish tantrum and I made my feelings known. "Look! You would have not cared a jot if I said 'look at this photo'. And be a bit more gracious in the fact that I have offered to pay for the repairs for your blasted fiddle!"

"Blasted fiddle?" he said, voice merely more than a harsh whisper. "That violin is as precious to me as the crown jewels are to the monarchy. I do not appreciate your remarks about it! And do not throw back your own bribe in my face because you decided to part with 20 guineas. It makes you look most idiotic."

"I may take it back if you don't improve your attitude!" I replied, not without an air of authority.

"Your attempt at trying to sound like my mother is failing, Watson. And my patience here is beginning to wear thin!"

"Like your mother?" I cried back and several people turned around from the prime minister, looking fairly disgruntled. I gave them apologetic looks before I turned back to Holmes who was staring straight into the crowd. "How dare you? If you showed a bit more grace in this situation, then maybe I wouldn't have to chastise you as if you were a truculent 12 year old!"

He was not listening to anything I had to say. At first I thought that he was being incredibly impudent, his ego having built a wall around him to help ignore those who annoyed him. But I knew something was not right.

Sherlock Holmes' sharp features were set in a face of stone, emotionless and his deep set penetrating eyes were staring, unblinking at the gaggle of upper class gentlemen and women who were talking quite overtly amongst themselves. He looked not unlike a hawk, eyeing up his prey before striking. What his prey was… was unclear.

Holmes' did not turn a hair when he spoke, voice filled with an energy only akin to him when a case was at its climactic end. "Watson, I must apologise…" The corner of his mouth curled up, ever so slightly "I am beginning to think… in fact, I know… that coming to Paddington Station was the best suggestion you have ever made."

Perplexed, Lestrade and I looked at each other, then at Holmes, who was still staring intently at, I presumed, someone in the small group on the far side of the crowd. He leant over to me before I could ask anything. "Stay here."

"Holmes?"

"Just stay here." He made his way, with the grace of a cat up to the edge of the main crowd and weaved his way in and out of the variety of London inhabitants at a speed that made headway, but was not as fast as to cause suspicions. I watched as he disappeared into the crowd, despite his height and stature.

I looked at Lestrade to see if he had an inkling of what Holmes was doing. He gave me a look as if to say 'if you don't know, then what hope do the rest of us have.' I looked away from the main throng to the upper class mob and watched for I felt that was the cause of Holmes' strange behaviour. Having known Sherlock Holmes, for even as long as the short 3 years it had been, I was prepared for the obscure and rare oddities. But I was naïve at this point in my life and truly not prepared for what happened next.

I saw in the small group a face disappear below the shoulder height of most of the men, cloth hat vanishing from view. I could see Holmes' unmistakable profile tilt forward slightly as the figure dissolved into the hats and coats and dresses of the collection of people. Then, like a bullet from a gun, a slight man burst out from the group, virtually knocking a couple of women flying. He bolted straight towards the other end of the platform out toward the rails. An easy if dangerous escape route. Holmes was already in pursuit having dropped his coat and hat where he stood, sprinting faster than most men could in their early 20s. Most of the police guards were blowing their whistles for no apparent reason as they all were too motioning to follow the felon.

The instinct that, still to this day, kicks in for me to spring into action, prodded – in fact more full on tackled – my mind and I found myself running full pelt down the platform, over taking many constables who were flummoxed as to what was going on. Was it an assassination attempt? What was it?

I saw Holmes up ahead grabbing the outer jacket of the man, but the small framed villain slipped out with nothing less than a twirl and attempted to take a kick at Holmes' shins before taking off again. Holmes' dodged somehow whilst still running at full speed, throwing the jacket back towards me.

"Hold onto that!" he shouted behind him. I grabbed the jacket before it even hit the brickwork and in one swift motion, carried on running after my extraordinary companion.

The next thing I saw was to bemuse not only myself and the officers who followed not too far behind, but Holmes himself. The man changed direction with an adept athleticism towards the tracks, which caused Holmes to scrape to a virtual halt, using his hand to steady himself on the bricks, shoes scraping the terracotta. As our target got to the edge, he propelled himself across onto the side of the train at the far platform and managed to grab the bar on the caboose door. I almost caught up with Holmes who was lightly running towards me, as if he were deciding which way to go when he launched himself down onto the tracks. I saw that the man we were after was attempting to open the caboose door, but to no avail. He was beginning to climb up over the top when Holmes vaulted onto the caboose carriage and grabbed the man by the middle to pull him away from the train's rear. The man kicked frantically and Holmes', though only slightly, recoiled as the heel of the man's right shoe met with brow.

I would like to mention never have I touched a javelin nor even partaken in such hunting sports involving spears. What happened next was one of the luckiest moments of my life up to that point and I was very shocked by it, if not a little impressed with my own physical ability. I did not know what I was going to achieve in launching off the platform, but I threw my cane at the small malfeasant, hoping maybe causing a distraction so that he would falter. But the cane flew and struck the man's neck, and in retrospection, must have caught a nerve, for he just went limp and let go of the train's side, falling practically into a very surprised Holmes' arms.

But the effect did not last very long and the man began to fight against Holmes, who had managed to get a grip of the man's arm and had pushed it up in a basic lock behind the offending party's back. Dragging the young man onto the platform to be taken into custody, Lestrade was waiting for an explanation.

"May I present to you, Pie Bravade." Holmes said enigmatically gripping tight to the upper arm of the renowned thief, who glared with teeth bared.

"Well well well, Mr Magpie…" Lestrade drawled. "I think your pinching days are over."

The felon still attempted to pull away, but Holmes' vice like grip prevented any last ditch attempt at a dash for freedom. The young man – for he was young – had a very childish face. Soft in its definition and quite feminine.

"I'm afraid" Holmes said, grabbing the youth's hat and pulled it off. Down from within the hat, a cascade of blonde hair fell around and passed the felon's shoulders. "You mean Miss Magpie. May I introduce Miss Julia Elster."

There was an audible gasp from the group of the police officers. The girl's face contorted into one of disgust. "What? Because I'm a woman, you think I can't possibly have done what I did?" she was quite well spoken, which I must say surprised me.

Holmes held the girl out to two constables who put a pair of handcuffs on her small wrists. "Oh, no. I know that because you were a woman, you couldn't possibly do what you did."

Her disgusted look was not improved with the intent stare she gave my friend "How dare you! Of course I did it!"

Holmes shook his head in slight annoyance. "What I mean is that as a woman, in the attire that you would have to wear would make it impossible for you to conceal small cards and the day's collections. Also, even though the police would most certainly have assumed the thief was a man, you felt it would be easier for you to be caught." He smiled a wintry smile at the girl, who was now a little subdued. "Because that is what you wanted."

"Why on earth would she want to be caught?" Lestrade cried.

"The trinkets." Holmes said simply.

"What?"

Miss Elster replied instead. "How they flaunted their material goods… while children are left on the streets with nothing! If only they knew what it was like to lose something so precious… but of course, the most important thing to those disgusting toffs is not something so important as family, a place to sleep… oh no, it's a pair of cufflinks, a small music box, a heavily jewelled necklace that they bought themselves on a whim… I thought it foul to see the evidence of such extravagant spending when there are homeless people who need help every day to get at least some bread…" she paused and stared around at all of us and shook her head in shame. "You're all the same… you sicken me."

Not one person listening to what she had to say not suffer from a pang of guilt. Except maybe Holmes, who was smiling quite contemptuously at our charge. "I suppose that's partly true."

She snapped her head to stare at him, pure hatred emanating from her eyes. "What?"

Holmes turned to Lestrade. "The worst kind of criminal is the self-proclaimed vigilante. They say they are doing the crimes they commit for the greater good, when in fact, it is normally for personal gain as well." He paused and turned to Elster. "I have been on your trail for the last couple of days. You may be interested to know I went to Bell Street today."

The girl spluttered a response that I shall not repeat.

"Yes, and you are in it quite deeply, I must say." He turned to Lestrade. "Go to number 5 Bell Street and head into the pantry. You will find little food, but quite a few delicacies of a more decorative nature."

As they took the girl to Fleet Street to be questioned, I went over to Holmes, who was tentativewly touching the cut on his right eyebrow. "A vigilante?" I asked.

He held out his hand for the girl's jacket that I had quite forgotten was still holding. He put his hand in the pocket of the jacket and pulled out a bracelet with several sovereigns on the chain and some small scraps of paper with the same emblems I had seen on the card earlier that week. "Yes. If a little troubled."

"Oh?"

Holmes hummed in ratification. "I must say, she had her heart in the right place. But the way she went about her mission was not the right way… a bit too Robin Hood for my liking."

I smiled, then remembered "But she hadn't sold on any objects. She had stored them in her pantry."

Holmes shook his head slightly. "Oh, she sold them. Only one at a time after a very long time." He saw my puzzlement. "I'll explain once we get back to Bakers Street." He handed the jacket and its contents over to a constable, who followed on after his colleagues.

We made our way back through the station, Holmes picking up his coat and hat on the way and I felt us being watched as we left. We had, after all, spiced up a fairly dull political speech.

Holmes stood and looked outside at the tremendous rain that began to hurl itself at the ground as we got back to 221b. Thunder rumbled ominously above us and the smell of dry earth being dampened and cleared air emanated in through the windows; a fresh change from the horribly stale miasma that had pressed upon every resident in the city. The temperature had plummeted within 10 minutes of the start of this downpour to a much more manageable clime. Holmes put his hands in the pockets of his purple dressing gown and leant out of the window slightly, smiling to himself. It was in his strange nature that he should find a thunderstorm one of the best forms of weather, but I must admit, such storms are most exhilarating when one is inside, protected from the rain and wind.

"You were going to explain about Miss Estler." I said, from my chair, leg propped up to relieve its dull ache caused by a jezail bullet that I suffered from, from time to time. It must have been the rapid change in air pressure.

"Oh yes…" my friend said, closing the window and walking over to the mantel piece to retrieve his pipe. He sat himself down in his favourite chair and stoked up his pipe. "We were both correct in our assumptions of this thief character. I said it was more of a vendetta, you said she was disturbed."

"She was both?"

"Yes. I could tell her little pontificating at the platform was a genuine belief that came from the heart. But the head… well…" He looked at the ceiling for a moment before continuing. "I didn't know what to expect to find at Bell Street. But after a little wander, I came across the pantry whilst you waited outside. I saw the collection of trinkets set out like that of a trophy room, making me think that it was a campaign against all that owned such pieces. But when she said about her view on feeding the homeless, it suddenly occurred to me that the trinkets were still in the pantry for another reason. She is what is known as a kleptomaniac."

"She couldn't stop stealing things." I said arms folded across my chest.

"Hmm. One of the worst I'd seen for a while. She was a hoarder… but to such an extent that I would have thought it was some form of delusional need for her to keep things. Every so often, of course, she sold a piece at the pawn brokers, but I doubt she did it without discomfort."

"Most definitely psychologically disturbed." I remarked.

"Where is fancy bred… in the heart or in the head…?" Holmes said under his breath, and I could barely hear him over the raging torrents of rain pelting against the window.

I hummed in agreement. "Pithy…" He turned to me and smiled.

"Watson, you don't have to pay for the repairs you know." He said quietly, looking across to his Stradivarius case.

"No Holmes, I said I would, and I shall. You kept your half of the bargain, I will keep mine."

"My dear Watson, it was due to my appalling behaviour that we set up this bargain and yes," he said looking straight at me. "I admit I acted like a 10 year old. It's unfair for you to pay so much for such a ridiculous display of immaturity on my part."

I smiled. "You know, Holmes, there was something Elster said that struck a chord with me."

"Oh?"

"Yes. About the preciousness of objects. It's not a bad thing to care about material goods, especially when they give so much pleasure as your Stradivarius gives you. I've seen you when you play; you are an entirely different man!"

Sherlock Holmes' looked away with an embarrassed smile.

"Also, I quite miss the melodic tones around here… It needs to be restored and I genuinely want to do that for you. Bargain or no bargain."

Holmes looked back at me with a look I did not see very often. His eyes were bright with a warmth that said a thousand words, more than he would be able to express his gratefulness by saying it. I returned his smile and got up to look out of the window at the dwindling rain as the sun battled to penetrate through the clouds.

Holmes got up to join me and placed a hand on my shoulder. "My dear Watson, I cannot show my appreciation for you enough."

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