(Disclaimer) I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any affiliated characters… sigh
"Who is she?"
Holmes did not laugh at me for asking, but the grin that danced across his eyes was enough to make me feel the fool. For naught but a moment we had been engaged in a silent battle, I knowing in the back of my mind that Holmes would emerge the victor but wounded nonetheless by his inner gibing, over whether I would inquire the identity of the woman lying unconscious upon our sofa or whether he would tell me.
She had been quite literally thrown upon our doorstep at the ungodly hour of half past three this morning, that much Holmes had already deduced, and had been found by Mrs. Hudson six hours later. Our landlady had insisted on taking her to some shelter or hospital but to my utter disbelief and disapproval Holmes had requested that she be brought up to our rooms. When asked by me for an explanation for his actions Holmes had replied thoughtfully that he supposed she had been brought to us by the fates, and knowing my companion to be neither a very religious man nor a sentimentalist was suspicious of some other motive, yet Holmes would tell me nothing. Of the woman I knew enough from the sight of her; blonde and fair, her hair cut short and dressed in man's clothing and strange clothing at that, obviously some prostitute or tramp, perhaps a transvestite. Having arrived at my conclusions, all of which merely furthered my utter dismay at his motives for keeping her, I brooded over them for some time. In the end I despaired over my fruitless efforts, and as you have just seen requested my colleague's enlightenment upon the matter.
"I have done you some injustice, my dear Watson; for I must admit I was expecting you to again ask why I allowed the poor creature to stay. Surely you think her to be someone of the, ah… less honorable classes."
"I have. I must say Holmes that you are being far more generous with your tolerance than I have ever seen you in the presence of a woman, especially one such as this."
"I'm appalled Watson, I have been quite cordial to the young ladies whom have come both as clients and as factors into my presence."
"Ladies and women can be two different things; this most certainly is not a lady."
"I am accustomed to a more delicate Watson, my good man, I would have thought this conversation to be somewhat reversed in stance. Now I believe you wished to know what I have thus deduced about our visitor." I nodded, finding my current route of inquiry had been run dry.
"She works as a typist and has previously been instructed in the violin but has not practiced in some time. After abandoning her caste for an older but poorer man she took up singing at some establishment where alcohol is served but has never had a drink in her life, nor a smoke. She was disowned by her family and has come to London to seek out more distant relations but found herself lost as do many foreigners traveling in disguise and reluctant to ask directions. She is stubborn, has taken on this guise many times but can be extremely disarming, ladylike in fact and to the point of impressing nobility. Her maiden name is Cabot, and she is a widow." I was by this time very familiar with his techniques, and could follow some of what he had said.
Obviously he had deduced her trade by examining the peculiarity of her hands, mottled by little marks only seen in typists, the same way he knew she was a violinist. Her shoes, which were ladies' boots, had been worn in many places and many times repaired and were originally very expensive; alluding to her drop in society. Why should a well to do lady sacrifice her wealth except for a lover? Her family would of course have had some sort of arrangements made for her by that time and would have disowned her to avoid scandal. Had she not been a widow her husband would have been with her in London, had he been ill she surely would have taken him into her own care rather than leave him with his health compromised. As to the rest I was baffled.
"What caused you to deduce that she is stubborn?"
"The fact that she has attempted to pose as a man over and over without success, though does so anyway to the distaste of those who aid her, and that she has reopened the wound upon her right ankle at least twice but has allowed no one save herself tend to it."
"And the moonlighting as an entertainer in bars?"
"She has the distinct smell of alcohol and tobacco about her but her breathing has stumbled every time she catches the smoke of my cigarette. I know she does not consume alcohol because of the scar upon her neck, which is from a piece of glass and more distinctly a glass bottle. Unless she has taken part in some sort of brawl I doubt it could have come from anyone save a rather drunken customer who attempted to buy her a drink. I also know from the shadows of scabs upon her knuckles that she has paid him back, and many others."
"But could she not have been a barkeeper?"
"I find the prospect highly unlikely, Watson, look at the angle of the wound, she was sitting down, and judging by her height and again the entry point of the wound we can safely assume she was on a piano bench, not a barstool. She does not play the piano, Watson, her hands are tiny and her palms narrow, her hands show none of the curvatures that they would had she stretched them across five keys or more at a time."
"Brilliant. But her maiden name and her association with nobility?" At Holmes' smile I was intensely reminded of a piece of sculpture I had seen in a market in Afghanistan appropriately christened, "The Drunken Parrot," for his grin was so wide that I swore he had gone mad.
"You have forgotten the cloak and the hat that our kind landlady has removed from her person. Her broach, Watson, it is a rather large golden beryl set between two laurel branches. It was obviously a gift, as it is only a few months in her possession, and the name Cabot is written on the inside of her hat in cheap ink. Ah, and she stirs."
The young lady's eyelids fluttered gracefully and she sat up, looking dazed.
"How have I come to this place, sir?" Her accent was German but she repressed it after her first two words, suggesting to me that she had been tutored in speaking without it.
"I'm afraid you were delivered on our doorstep this morning. Am I correct in guessing that you are in need of my services Miss Cabot?" I had expected quite a reaction from her at his deduction, as he had gotten from most of our clients, but she displayed none.
"Why yes, if I am right in thinking you are Mr. Holmes, the famous London detective?" Holmes nodded and motioned for the young lady to begin her story.
"Well Mr. Holmes, I have come to you because of the unsolved murder of my late husband, Colonel Mustard of her majesty's 45th India. My brother in law is a professor at Stratford, and he advised me to look to you.
"Ah yes, Professor Plum, I advised him in the Peacock-Scarlet affair. Am I right in assuming that you are Miss Scarlet?"
"Quite right sir, on all counts. Miss Peacock sends her regards. I would like to return to my story, for it is of utmost importance that you solve it promptly for unless I can prove he was murdered by this evening I cannot gain the insurance money or the rights to his securities, and I cannot afford to live without them."
"Why can you not prove his murder?"
"He was hung, and a suicide note was found. The handwriting is nearly passable but his letters waver in places and the voice in which it was written is certainly not my John's. The police say he was simply upset at the time, but no matter how upset John was he would not have made the grammatical errors the real author did, nor would he sign his own name incorrectly. The only fingerprints upon the letter were his." Holmes' eyes twinkled.
"And what of the pen?"
"Beg pardon, Mr. Holmes?"
"The pen, my dear, surely it was one of John's if he had written it himself. Has anything in his study been moved?"
"Certainly not."
"Pray go to the police and ask them to fingerprint all of the pens in John's study. Then ask them to check the unknowns against those of your servants. That is how you shall find your murderer."
"I will, Mr. Holmes."
"Wire when you receive the results, good-day, Miss Scarlet." She smiled and left, full of hope.
"I suppose you had deduced all that before she had even awoken."
"Yes. Come, Watson¸ I must go to the flower sellers and venture as far as to buy the fine lady a bouquet for when she visits at five this afternoon."
"Really, Holmes, you have become quite a gentleman to-day. Pray tell what has brought this change about."
"I suppose I fancy her, Watson." I stopped still with my coat half of the way on and stared at him incredulously. He merely chuckled and tossed me my hat.
At quarter past five Miss Cabot rushed into our study and threw her arms about Holmes.
"You have saved me; oh you have saved me Mr. Holmes!" Holmes smiled in quite the same way he had when he had announced his liking for her to me. He stood and faced her looking quite amused for absolutely no reason that I could see.
"Ah, my lady, it was an elementary deduction. It was the groom, was it not?"
"Yes! The wretched man had thought to lure me into his confidence and then to woo me so that he might steal what was mine. I will pay whatever you ask, Mr. Holmes, whatever you could want of a woman such as myself."
"A kiss, my lady," at his words I sprung from my seat and grabbed him by the arm.
"What has gotten into you, my good man?!" He paused at my words and then began to applaud to nothing like a madman.
"Ah, a stunning performance, Wiggins, it appears that our fine ruse has achieved its ends." I did not fully understand the statement until the young woman whipped a wig off of her head and held it to her bosom, bowing. It was indeed Wiggins, and I reddened like the fool I was. Holmes chuckled as he sat down and lit his pipe.
"You may go, Wiggins, here is my gratitude," he handed Wiggins a few shillings and turned to me. "Well, doctor, I must admit I have exceeded even myself. I expect you are not disappointed by Wiggins' acting."
"That was a terrible prank, Holmes." I sighed, seating myself on the sofa.
"It was worth the look on your face, Watson." At this I murmured some curses at his arrogance, realizing that the origin of his drunken smile had been my foolishness, and I must admit that the whole matter must have been absolutely hilarious from his perspective. Nonetheless, I was somewhat upset. He chuckled at my expression. "I was jesting, Watson, this was meant to be instructive. I expect you would have appreciated it more openly had you not been so warped by your jealousy."
"Jealousy!" I cried out in frustration, "I was never jealous of you-"
"No Watson," he grinned. "Of her."
I could feel the heat in my cheeks and I denied it, but in a way Holmes was right.
I could never have stood playing second Boswell.