Neither A Borrower
When you borrow something, you have to return it. But sometimes it is the lender who has more trouble about getting their property back than the person who borrowed it! Just a bit of silliness…..perhaps. A lost scene within the early days of A Scandal In Belgravia.
Neither A Borrower
The Honourable Percival Harrison Briggs - always known as Harry - took his mobile phone from his pocket and glared at it.
Who had got hold of his personal number? And who the deuce was the message from?
Your lighter will be returned today. Noon. Front gates.
There was no signature, just that peremptory information. Harry frowned. He was always lending cigarette lighters to people. Usually the garishly coloured plastic lighters that came 'four for a quid' from the supermarket. But yesterday he had lent his favourite gold Asprey's lighter to Sherlock Holmes.
He had regretted it as soon as he pulled it from his pocket. But Holmes The Younger's imperious demand for a box of matches or a lighter, the haughty commanding look and the extended hand brought Harry to a reflex action of dipping into his jacket pocket and offering the first lighter that came to hand….which happened to be the lighter his grandmother had bought him thirty years earlier as a graduation gift.
Holmes The Younger had palmed the lighter away into his own jacket pocket before Harry had fully realised what he had handed over; but then it was impossible to go back and ask for a swap. So Holmes had swept out with his John Watson entourage behind him, leaving Harry to look hopelessly back at Holmes the Elder.
They wordlessly shook their heads at each other as the air in the room quietened back into it's usual stately calm with Sherlock Holmes's departure.
"A most disconcerting young man," Harry commented mildly.
"Yessss." The flatly drawled reply said it all, really. And Harry never did understand what Holmes The Younger had wanted the cigarette lighter for anyway.
But now he was simply pleased to know that his favourite lighter was on it's way home.
o0o0o0o
Several times after eleven thirty, Harry found himself going to various of the tall Georgian windows and peering round the net curtains out onto the real world beyond.
The changing of the guards was part of the daily ritual of ceremonial outside that window at that time of day, and the calls of command and the harsh footsteps of boots on gravel was just part of the routine sounds that marked his working day. Just like today.
Harry, tall, slim and aristocratic in his own right, looked out onto the world beyond his world. The view past Queen Victoria's birthday cake and along Birdcage Walk and the Mall, with St James's Park between, was as quietly impressive as ever, cars and taxis driving by, tourists in their hundreds stopping to gape, to photograph, to imagine what it must be like living there, and what could be happening inside one of the best known buildings in the world.
But however much he scanned the crowd beyond the gates and the iron railings, there was no sign of the tall and unmistakeable figure of Sherlock Holmes.
By eleven o'clock he was feeling agitated, and it was hard to stand still. He had been scanning everyone who approached the gates over the past ten minutes, and still did not see the figure he was looking for.
So when his mobile trilled again, he was irritated and distracted when he answered.
"Yes?"
"Pattison, sir," a voice identified itself. Harry looked out of the window with more focus. The casually dressed security man on duty outside the gates was average height, weight, looks, aura. He was invisible to most people - as intended. His SBS training and long service were not visible in either his stance or his body language. He merged successfully into every background. Finally Harry spotted him; jeans and duffle coat, to the left of the sweep of the main gates.
The tilted head inclined towards the front façade told him Chris Pattison was talking into a micromic on his coat lapel.
"Yes, Pattison?"
"I have a gentleman here who claims he has something for you. He requests you come down to collect it?"
Chris Pattison's carefully neutral tones spoke of good manners and disbelief. Harry made his decision.
"I'll be right down. Five minutes."
"Sir."
Harry pocketed his mobile, left the room and strode the long corridors purposefully, down one floor to ground level, slipping out of a side door, under the arch, across the gravelled tarmac, nodding brisk acknowledgement to the guardsmen on duty.
At the point on the railings closest to where Pattison was standing, Harry came to a stop. There was a loose crowd standing close up to the railings to get the best view of the house and the guardsmen on duty. No-one was taking any notice of the anonymous functionary in a suit Harry appeared to be.
For a moment it was unclear to him who was claiming to be returning his lighter. That is until a curled right hand was thrust through the railings towards him. Harry looked down. The fingers - grimy fingers, with filthy nails - uncurled. And in the lined pale palm sat his gold lighter.
Harry smiled at it in a childish sort of relief before he put out his own elegantly manicured right hand to take it.
"Thank you." The voice was quiet so he could not be heard by anyone other than Pattison and the guardian of the lighter, but the tone was genuinely grateful.
He looked at Pattison - calm, but alert and watchful, at rest but still on guard, ready to pounce if needed, mistrustful - and got a brief nod. Then down at the grubby derelict figure by his side.
Elderly trainers on largish feet. Baggy filthy green cord trousers. Black hoodie, grey with age and pilling, pulled forward over the head. Harry could not see the eyes properly, but there was greasy unshaven skin, greasy slicked back dark hair; the smell of cold kebab and stale lager was a touch repulsive.
Not Holmes, then. He felt vaguely disappointed…then remembered Mycroft's explanation that his younger brother utilised a whole network of London's homeless and rootless to provide news and information, undertake errands. So this was clearly one of them. A nonentity. A runner. But clearly a trusted one, to carry something so valuable.
"Hello," said Harry with the pleasant and automatic good manners of the well bred. With practised ease he dipped into his inside jacket pocket, drew out his wallet, flipped out a twenty note and handed it forward between fore and middle fingers.
The filthy hand took the note. There was a brief hiss of laughter, and the note was pushed back to him.
"Don't need yer money, guv, but thanks ever so."
It was the cracked and breathy voice of the true addict, and a Londoner.
"I'm sorry," Harry breathed automatically. "I thought….a thank you…."
"S'alright," said the voice with a patronising soft sort of patience. "Just don't lend something of such sentimental and monetary value to someone you've never met before. Might not get it back next time. Eh?"
"Yes. You're right," Harry agreed, allowing a tight smile, knowing the homeless man was right. "But I think the person to whom I lent it was quite trustworthy."
"Ner. Wouldn't trust him as far as I could chuck him, me."
"But you do errands for him, clearly."
"You could say that."
The man in the hoodie laughed again. But Harry did not understand what was funny.
"Can you…thank him for me? For returning this?"
"Ner. Thank him yerself. Next you see him."
"Yes. I will."
Harry slipped the lighter back into his jacket pocket. He wanted to talk more, learn more, but did not know what to say to keep the disreputable person by his side and pressed up to the iron railings.
He noticed Pattison flap a hand.
"Car, sir. Just made two circuits of the statue. Stopped now. On alert."
Harry looked up. A black government limousine had pulled into the splayed entrance to the front gates and had stopped, engine still running. The driver looked impassively ahead, but the rear door opened half way and a head and shoulder appeared. Harry frowned. The silhouette with sharp chin and aquiline nose looked vaguely familiar…..
A low call of 'C'mon' - the sort of flat two syllable call rising at the end was the sound used to travel through air, cut through other sounds; the sort of call farmers used to call up livestock, or agents used to alert colleagues.
The man in the hoodie lifted his head.
"Ah. My carriage awaits."
Three words, six syllables. The voice was different now - the breathy broken tenor replaced by a rich public school baritone. The man himself was now standing erect, six inches taller. Harry was looking into pale grey eyes glittering with humour.
Taken aback, Harry was suddenly rendered speechless as he watched the shambling figure duck under Pattison's protective arm and stroll away. Tall, confident, loose limbed.
The rear door of the limousine opened further.
"Really! Must you walk about looking like that? You make the entire street untidy. Sit on this newspaper…."
Harry recognised the voice of Mycroft Holmes.
He stood and watched the derelict in the hoodie get into the limousine, the door close and the car float elegantly back into the traffic heading towards Whitehall. He realised he was gaping.
"Someone you know, sir?" Pattison asked.
"I'm not sure," Harry said slowly. Turned on his heel, headed back inside, patting his pocket to make sure the lighter was really there, and he had not imagined the events of the last ten minutes.
As he returned to work, the mobile rang with a text.
Just forgot to say thank you for the loan. Proved vital to success. SH
Harry smiled to himself. Then the phone pinged again.
Yet again, apologies for my little brother MH
Harry could not contain a bark of laughter.
His thumbs flew across the keyboard.
Anytime you need to light a fire…. PHB
He grinned to himself. Back to work!
END
Author's note:
The actor who portrays the equerry in A Scandal In Bohemia is Andrew Havill. He was also Alan Turing's schoolmaster in The Imitation Game. He made his mark early on with the Royal Shakespeare Company. He has his own website - check out his busy schedule!