Part 1
It was the beginning of what would be one of the hottest summers ever recorded in London. I was spending as much time as I possibly could outside the house because the heat sent my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, into a frenzy. Evidently the heat affected the 'criminal classes,' as he called them, and made them lethargic. My theory is that he refuses to take cases in the summer because he is unable to wear the long coat he is so overly fond of. Back at Baker Street I am sure he was either pacing, yelling at the television, shooting random objects with his revolver, tearing the place apart looking for cigarettes, or some combination of these activities. I once returned to find all the furniture rearranged and the books put in alphabetical order by their fiftieth word. During these times he becomes even more arrogant and rude than ever, if that is possible.
I had met my old medical school friend Mike Stamford, or just Stamford, as most people called him, at a pub. I was feeling more and more disheartened by the pub-scene as of late, but Stamford was determined to relive his glory days, part of which was staying up till all hours of the night and drinking way too much. I packed Stamford into a cab and decided to walk back to Baker Street as I was only a little less than two miles away and it had finally turned into a cool evening. As I approached a night club I could hear the sounds of a brawl taking place within. I was utterly surprised, however, when Sherlock was thrown out onto the sidewalk right in front of me. He was rather banged up but still looked sharp in his lightweight wool pants and sport coat of a medium heather grey and dark collared shirt as he always wore.
"John, I've been looking for you," he said, still on the ground.
"No you haven't," I said.
"How do you know?"
"Because you're Sherlock Holmes; you always know where to look, and a seedy night club is not it." He stood up and brushed himself off.
"Well, either way I'm glad to have found you."
"And why is that?"
"Beautiful night, isn't it?"
"Yes. I had decided to walk home."
"Splendid! I'll join you!"
"So what's with the night club?"
"Just gathering information."
"Oh, so you had something come up then? A case?"
"Possibly."
"Possibly?"
"Well, I thought if I couldn't find a case then maybe I could start one," he said with a sly smile coming across his face. I had to chuckle at that. It was good to know that perhaps some of the tension had left him.
"Donovan will be ecstatic."
A few days went by. I had continued on with a few of my patients from when I worked at the clinic during Sherlock's absence, just to keep up my skills, and was in and out of the flat. I also noticed that Sherlock was in and out just as much as I was. When he wasn't out he was busy looking at specimens in his microscope, conducting little experiments, and looking up information in a number of books and on the internet. It was strange of him to be so silent on a subject. Normally he would at least tell me what he was looking into, even if he did not require my help on the case. I read the papers and watched the news diligently, looking for some hint as to what he might be into, but I did not see anything that would require his unique talents. Finally one morning my curiosity got the best of me.
"What have you been working on?" I asked.
"What?"
"I asked what you have been working on. You seem to be rather engrossed by it. Can I help in any way?"
"Oh, it's nothing. Just a little study I'm doing, on pavements."
"Pavements. Really." Sherlock could tell an excellent lie if he needed to, but if you could catch him off guard you could always tell. "I've nothing much to do this morning; mind if I read what you have so far."
"It's much too boring, I'm sure."
"I'm sure as well, but it always does me good to read your work."
"No, not this time."
"Why not?"
He gave a deep sigh. Up until this point he had not even looked up from his microscope. "Listen John, what I'm working on right now is rather sensitive and I don't want it broadcast to the whole world."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Your blog."
"My blog? What does my blog have to do with anything?"
"When you don't have much going on you tend to put every detail of my life in your blog."
"That is not true. You know that's not true."
"Really? What about when I was working the Ashland case?"
"All I said was that I had been up to Scotland and I happened to mention that you were there as well."
"And the murderer panicked, killed two more people and almost got away!"
"He killed two more people 'cause you thought it was the deli owner!"
"I did not think it was the deli owner!"
"You don't trust me!"
"Of course I trust you. If I didn't trust you I would have kicked you out by now."
"So why don't you just ask me not to post whatever you're working on!"
"Because it's too important! It simply can't get out!"
"Oh! I see! I see! What about the one case over in Covent Garden, the one with the blue Mini Cooper? I never mentioned that one like you asked!"
"Mycroft ordered you not to mention that one!" We were both full on shouting by this point.
"So you think I'll listen to Mycroft but not to you?"
"Yes! Country first and all with you!"
"Me! You don't trust me! This from the person who locked me in a lab, who made me go talk to a dead woman's brother when he perfectly well knew the solution! This from the person who couldn't even tell me he was still alive!"
"I had to do those things!"
Just then the doorbell rang. Sherlock was closer to the door at this point but just stood there staring at me. We stood there in silence for some time. Then the doorbell rang again.
"Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled.
"She's on holiday, visiting her sister. I'll get it."
"Really? Are you sure?"
All I could do was shake my head as I left the room and walked down the stairs. I opened the door to find the most beautiful woman I had ever seen standing behind it. She had long, slightly curled red hair, the clearest light blue eyes, perfect alabaster skin, and soft, naturally rosy lips. She wasn't tall, about my height (OK, maybe a little taller than I am), but she wore high heels and simple dress that seemed to elongate her frame. I was so taken with her I hadn't said a word.
"Is this where I will find Sherlock Holmes?" she asked.
"Yes," I croaked, then cleared my throat. "Yes, it is. Please come in."
"If now is not a good time I can come another day."
"No, now is fine. Why wouldn't now be fine?"
"I thought I heard shouting through the open windows there."
"Oh that. That was nothing. It's just up those stairs." I showed her into our room and motioned for her to sit where she liked. "Can I get you anything? Water, coffee, tea?"
"Do you have any wine?"
"Uh, I'll check." It was only a little after nine in the morning. "Sherlock, we have a client."
"Mmmm, too busy," he said. The woman looked dejected and stood up.
"No, no, don't leave. He's just kidding. I'm sure he can spare the time," I said. We happened to have a bottle of wine in the fridge, already uncorked but not that old, so I poured her a glass.
"What I have to say really won't take long. I need to be to work myself in less than an hour. It's a small matter, but I was hoping you would be able to look into it. I'm sure it's not quite as exciting as your other cases."
Sherlock just ignored her. I gave her the wine which she drank by the gulps rather than by sips.
"You can just sit there," I said, desperate to keep her in the room and at least find out who she was. "You tell your story, Sherlock will listen from over there and I'll take notes so we can discuss it later. He's perfectly all right doing two things at once."
"OK. I'm sorry; I didn't get your name."
"John Watson…Dr. John Watson."
"And you work with Mr. Holmes? I'm sorry; I don't follow the papers or news very well.
"Yes, I'm his partner…umm, colleague." Sherlock sighed.
"I'm Mary Morstan. I just moved to London, or just moved back, actually. I'm an actress. Not in movies, but on stage; live musical theatre. I got a part in the premier of a brand new musical in the West End. The lead roll in fact. That's a strange story in itself but that is not why I'm here. I took a flat not too far from the theatre, so I often ride my bicycle to work. Sometimes I walk. Our show isn't open yet and rehearsals have typically started at ten o'clock. Lately, I noticed this about a week ago, when I am between Mercer and Tower Streets a man has been following me."
"Following you," I said. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, I am sure of it. I have a rear view mirror on my bicycle and I can plainly see him there. I don't recognize him at all, but he wears a ball cap low across his face and has a full beard, so I have thought it is maybe someone in disguise, but I dare not approach him."
"Does he follow you on the way to the theatre or on the way back?"
"Both. There are other ways I can go, of course, and I often do, but sometimes I just need to go the most direct route and he is always there."
"Dull," said Sherlock, still looking in his microscope and making notes.
"Excuse me?"
"Any Scotland Yarder can clear this up for you. Go to them."
"My father has told me he doesn't want me to go to the police, that may only aggravate things. I was hoping you could solve it more discreetly."
Sherlock gave no response to that. Then he got up and left the room.
"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Morstan," I started.
"Ms. Morstan," she said.
"Ms. Morstan. He doesn't have the best social skills. I'll talk to him and we'll look into your matter. What time do you generally leave the theatre?"
"It varies. It has been late recently; we're about to open. Maybe ten or eleven."
"Well, you'll be going a different way from here so you will not be by there this morning, but we will look into it this evening. Here is my mobile number. You can feel free to call me with any questions."
"I'll call you when I'm getting ready to leave tonight."
"Oh, yes, excellent!"
She stood up and I walked her out. Her bicycle was next to the door and she rode away with more grace than I have ever seen a person ride a bicycle. I cursed myself for acting like such a bumbling idiot. Then I cursed Sherlock for acting like himself.
I stayed at Baker Street all day that day, only leaving the flat to go get lunch at Speedy's. Sherlock never returned, so I filled the afternoon with television and reading, mostly television. Sherlock and I were way past the point of ever needing to apologize to ach other, not that he knew or ever felt the need to apologize anyway, so I was hopeful that he would return and provide some distraction at least. I hate to state it that way given previous experiences, but that is how I felt. It was around six o'clock when my phone rang, jolting me out of my television-induced daze.
"Dr. Watson?" asked the voice.
"Yes, speaking."
"This is Mary Morstan."
"Oh, Ms. Morstan, hello."
"They've cancelled rehearsals for the rest of the day and say we must leave the theatre for technical reasons, so I will be heading home around seven. I hope you and Sherlock are able to be there."
"Yes, of course. Of course we'll be there."
"Thank you. You can meet me at my flat afterwards if you like." She gave me the address. "Well, I'll see you later then."
"Yes, later. Goodbye."
I didn't see any point in waiting to see if Sherlock would come back, he would probably refuse to go along anyway, so I started off immediately. I had some time to give the block a look around before she would be on her way. I didn't see anyone just milling about, so I decided to visit some of the shops. There were only a couple on the side of the street Ms. Morstan had indicated she usually goes down, plus some offices and a café on the corner. I went across the street and looked that side over, but nothing seemed suspicious, so I went back across to the café and had a drink and waited. The café was on the corner that she was coming from, so I could see her well in advance. As she crossed the street the man with the beard and ball cap came around the corner. I got up and walked after them as fast as I could without seeming too obvious. He stayed a fair distance behind her, and when she crossed the next street he turned the corner down the other cross street. By the time I reached the street there was no sign of him. I walked a ways down the cross street; there was an alley but no person or bicycle around. I started to Ms. Morstan's flat.
"Did you see him?" she asked when she answered the door.
"Yes, just like you said."
"Sherlock didn't come, sent you to do the dirty work."
"Yes, sort of." She gave me a smile; the kind of smile that indicates a person knows more than they are letting on to know.
"I'm starving. There's a great little restaurant down the street. Care to join me?"
"I'd be delighted."
It really was a great little restaurant. White table clothes, soft lighting, and a wall of wine bottles that we happened to get seated next to. The maitre d' came to over to our table as soon as we had sat down.
"Ms. Morstan, so good to see you again. I'll bring you one of our best bottles," he said.
"You must either come here a lot or he is a theatre fan," I said.
"Neither, actually," she said. She stood up and took one of the bottles off the wall; they were all laying down on their sides and I wondered how she knew what she was grabbing, but she did seem to know. She put the bottle down on the table and turned the label to face me. It read "Morstan Estates, fine vineyards since 1712."
"You're family owns vineyards?"
"Among other things, yes."
"Oh."
"So you're thinking 'why is she living in a tiny little flat in London worrying about some guy following her?'"
"No, actually, but that is a much better conversation starter than what I was actually thinking."
"What were you actually thinking then?"
"I'm not going to say now. So why have you chosen to live in London?"
"I want to be on the London stage. I want to make my own way in the world. It's easy for me, of course, knowing full well I always have something to fall back on, but I have not relied on or taken advantage of my family's money or social standing in getting to where I am."
"You want to prove yourself, and master your art. I can understand that."
"I am an only child. My father doted on me and is still over protective of me. He actually puts money into every show I'm in, but only after I have the part. And very few people know about it because it all goes through the company he started, the Red Theatre League, named so because of my red hair. The League is totally legitimate, though. It's a not-for-profit company and invests in lots of other shows besides the ones I'm in. My father is simply their largest anonymous donor, and he also owns the building where the offices are."
"The Red Theatre League. Their offices are on the same street where the man follows you."
"Yes, that's true. I don't have much to do with them. I have a friend, Andrew, who works there that I go see every once in a while, we've been friends since we were five, but he's been in New York for quite some time."
The waiter came with the bottle of wine and we placed our orders. I couldn't quite figure this out. At times it seemed just like a meeting, but then it seemed to be more.
"It can be difficult," I started, not sure where I was going, "to keep up with friends, when there so far away."
"It's not an issue. I'm involved with the show and he met a boy there, madly in love, of course. He always is."
"I know the type."
"What about you and Sherlock?"
"Me and Sherlock... What do you mean?"
"Well, he seemed to be a bit gruff, and I could swear I heard arguing from the open windows."
"Well, we're flatmates, and I help him with his cases, and he is an incredibly difficult person. But he's a genius, so there you have it."
"The rumors aren't true, then?"
"I thought you didn't follow the papers."
"I know how to use the internet."
"The rumors are not true, flatmates and colleagues. Perhaps friends depending on his mood."
"That's good to know." That hung in the air for some time.
"So what about this show you're in? You said it was an interesting story."
"The show is absolutely brilliant. It could be an instant smash hit. The thing is, they're going about it all wrong. Everything is just…odd. Take me for example. I auditioned for the second female role, but they gave me the lead role. Now I can do the lead role; I have the range of voice for it, but I'm just not right for the part. I don't physically look like the part. Unless I'm completely missing something, but I don't think that I am. It's just not coming together like it should."
"The director must see something; he must have a different vision."
"No. The director, she hates me in the part, but the producers refuse to recast. So we all do our best."
"More wine, Ms. Morstan."
"Yes, and its Mary, Dr. Watson."
"John."
"Before I forget, or get too drunk, John, I must thank you."
"For what?"
"For coming to help me even though your 'friend' would not. I already feel much better about it."
"Yes, well, I know his methods well enough, and I'm sure I can get him to help if need be."
"I trust you're capable enough."
It was late when I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock was there, staring into the empty fireplace.
"What did you learn about the man following Ms. Morstan?" he asked as soon as I came into the door. "You've obviously been to see her."
"Yes, I suppose you can smell her perfume on me. She is telling the truth; it all happened exactly as she described it."
"Is that all?"
"Yes, for now."
"You just observed? Oh come on, John! The man is obviously not a threat to her. He only follows her for the one block! If he wanted to hurt her he would have done so by now. I could have cleared the whole thing up in an instant! All you had to do was follow and corner him and ask what his business was. Man in a cheap disguise, obviously not a career criminal. Really!"
I took a deep breath; then I went to bed.
When I woke in the morning the first thing I saw was Sherlock hovering over me.
"Have you ever heard of John Clay?" he asked.
"Good God, Sherlock! What time is it?"
"Seven o'clock."
"What are you doing? How long have you been standing there?"
"I couldn't sleep. Have you ever heard of John Clay?"
"No. Should I have?"
"No. Most people haven't."
"Well okay then." I rolled over, hoping he would get the point that I wasn't ready to get up yet. He sat down in the chair next to my bed.
"John Clay is perhaps the greatest thief that ever existed."
"Oh, Lord, can't we do this later?"
"He chooses a target, moves close by, and can spend a year, two years in one case, closing in on it, making preparations, and then he takes it. He always steals from a private collector; considers himself some sort of Robin Hood, I would imagine. He has made an art out of beating security systems. He studies them and can always find a way to get around them. He's been all over the world: Paris, Johannesburg, Buenos Aires, Los Angeles, and Calcutta. I always vowed to myself that if he came to London that I would not miss the opportunity to ensnare him."
"And you have reason to believe he is in the area."
"Yes. I have seen his mark on a few small crimes in the area."
I looked around the room. "Where's my computer? This would be perfect for my blog." I wasn't able to keep a straight face for long. Sherlock seemed so abhorred I had to smile. "Actually, maybe my blog could help; I could use it to show you are busy with other things, or bored with nothing to do, just in case he is trying to keep track of you."
"Excellent idea, John! But it will have to wait till later, we've got work to do this morning."
"Ah, so that's why you decided to tell me; you need my help."
"Well, yes. Is that a problem?"
"No, not at all. I'm busy this morning. I promised Mary to clear up her affair today."
"I see." He walked out of the room. I decided that it was useless trying to get any more sleep at this point so I got up and took a shower. When I came down he handed me a mug of coffee.
"A splash of cream, no sugar. Don't worry it's not drugged." He smiled. "I've made some oatmeal, just like you like."
"There's an easier way to do this, you know." The coffee tasted burnt and the oatmeal was like soup, but I held my tongue.
"Do what?"
"I guess sometimes actions can speak louder than words."
I arrived at the street of Mary's incidents just after nine. She had not called me to say she was on her way yet so I decided to look into the offices of the Red Theatre League. It seemed to be the only connection Mary had with the block in question, so I thought there might be something there. The door to the offices was open but there was no one to be seen inside. There was a large desk directly in the door with an open doorway behind it that led to a larger room that contained the desks and office equipment of the business. To the left of the front desk was another door which was slightly ajar. I thought this was probably just a restroom but decided to have a look. It was not, in fact, just a restroom; it led to a small apartment, a Murphy bed on one wall and a small kitchenette in one corner. It was obviously being lived in. There was another door, this one closed, on the wall that would lead back behind the back office room I had seen. Just then a young woman came in.
"I have your coffee Mr. Morstan…who are you?" asked the woman.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude…I was looking for Andrew," I said, trying to think quickly.
"Andrew's not here. He's in America."
Mr. Morstan came out of the bathroom at this time.
"Ah, thank you Jeanie," he said. The phone rang in the other room and Jeanie went to answer it. "And who is this?"
"Sorry sir, I was looking for Andrew," I said. "I thought this was maybe a restroom. My hands were a little sticky, was just going to wash them off."
"You can use that restroom there."
"Thank you, sir." I went and washed my hands even though I didn't actually need to. That had to be Mary's father, I kept thinking, but why was he here at the offices? From the looks of the bathroom he had been staying here for some time. "Thank you again, I'll be off and out of your way now."
"You're welcome, Dr. Watson. It is Dr. John Watson, is it not?"
"Yes. Have we met?"
"No, but Mary mentioned you."
"Mary!?"
"Yes. She called me last night. I haven't heard such joy in her voice for quite some time. She told me how she had sought out Sherlock Holmes for her bicyclist case and how his friend, the good Dr. John Watson, had come to her aide though Mr. Holmes had not." I was speechless, but Mr. Morstan continued after a moments pause. "The matter is quite simple and ridiculous, Dr. Watson. The thing is I am deathly allergic to bees. My new vineyard caretaker has started keeping bees; he assures me the honey will be worth it, and I certainly have the money to pay for his hobby as long as I can keep away from them. Some of the bees got into the walls of the house, however, and built a hive there. They were appearing in the house regularly and I was losing sleep. Mary is so stressed over this show she is in I didn't want her to know. I had purchased this apartment for her, but she refuses to use it, so I have been using it. My wife is visiting her relatives in America at the moment, so I thought using this place would be more discreet than a hotel, and why not, it's perfectly comfortable enough for one man. I hired the cyclist to make sure she didn't come in here and find me out. It all seems terribly stupid when said out loud. She's so smart; I didn't expect her to notice she was being watched. I'm surprised she didn't recognize the cyclist; it is her cousin, Archie, who lives with us at the estate."
"No, that all seems quite reasonable. She will be glad to know there is no danger."
"She doesn't need to know, please, Dr. Watson. I am moving back to the estate today. I am assured the bees have been cleared out. You are free to say you had a talk with the cyclist and that he was just a crazy fan. It's mostly true."
"Okay, certainly, if that's what you wish." I received a text from Mary saying she was on her way. "That's her. I'll go meet her at the theatre. Good day, Mr. Morstan."
"You as well, Dr. Watson. I feel much more comfortable returning to the estate knowing that Mary has such a man looking after her here. I hope we shall meet again."
I met Mary at the theatre. All I told her was that I had talked with the cyclist and he was upset to hear that he had caused her grief and would not be following her anymore, on the street at least, but still following her career. She was happy to hear this. She also agreed to have dinner with me again that evening. Soon after I left the theatre I received a text from Sherlock, "If you are done with the cyclist meet me at Bart's. Fresh body. SH." He was most amused about my morning, but he tried to hide it. I believe he also tried to hide a bit of pride in me that I had connected the Red Theatre League with the events; he still has to be the smartest person in the room, or should I say the only smart person in the room. The 'fresh body' was a well known thief; he had already served a couple of prison sentences. He was stabbed repeatedly. There was nothing else significant about the body, but I did make note of a small, old wound on the nape of his neck which resembled a sting from a wasp or a bee.