A great many of my past journal entries have made mention of my friend's innumerable eccentricities and quirks of spirit. I may very well place a percentage of those to transient whim and self indulgence, for where marble statues, scented lotions and four-pronged knitting gadgets are concerned, they are five-minute wonders, no sooner clasped and cherished than cast aside and quite forgotten.
Having said that, I am not altogether certain regarding the very latter of that list. It seems possible that Holmes retains some interest with it still. (And as Christmas draws upon us I can only set my nerve against the idea of what – at this precise moment – might be fashioning itself as my gift.)
But that makes me sound ungrateful, and I digress.
Holmes had returned to 221B on that late Autumn afternoon in a high pitch of what seemed to me to be nerves or excitement. A routine case on the outskirts of London surely would not provoke such a reaction – for my friend was now pacing and jittering and biting his lip.
"Whatever is the matter?" I enquired. "Sit down and tell me before you wear yet another rectangular hole through the rug."
He sat himself down on the sofa, which surprised me well enough. Obedience was not a behavioural trait that came naturally to my friend.
"Madame Ting Ting said-" he began.
"Pardon me, Holmes, but who?" I interrupted.
"Madame Ting Ting. Do not barge in on my sentences, Watson, I implore you. You are supposed to be a conductor of light, not a stampeding ram."
Frowning, I set my lips tightly.
Encouraged by my response, my friend continued:
"Madame Ting Ting -" (here he glanced briefly at me) "- said that something very, very exciting is about to happen to me, today. Or tomorrow. Or the day after that." he added. He beamed.
"Holmes," I said, "at the risk of incurring your fearful wrath once again, might I ask who on earth is Madame Ting Ting, and however does she know what might be happening to you today, tomorrow or the day after that?"
"She is a wise old gypsy fortune teller, whom I met by chance this morning while on business at Mr. Ecklethorpe's," said Holmes. "And the hazelnuts told her."
"Madame Ting Ting... talks to hazelnuts?" I asked, feeling by now that my world had gone mad.
"No," snapped my friend, impatiently. "Why do you never listen? It is the hazelnuts that talk to Madame Ting Ting. In a manner of speaking." He drummed his fingers abstractedly upon the side arm of the sofa. "She throws a handful of hazelnuts into a ring of sawdust, and however and wheresoever they may land, Madame Ting Ting understands a great many things from them."
I shook my head, incredulous. Holmes exhaled loudly.
"Look, Watson," said he, "I know how extremely... exotic... this must appear to your innocent and untrained mind. But Madame Ting Ting did warn me that I might likely encounter such Unbelievers as yourself."
Truly, had I known when I first placed foot outside my bed this morning that the day should end with my being scolded as a ram, regaled by hazelnuts and dubbed an 'Unbeliever' by an old, possibly insane and fantastically-named gypsy, then I believe I should have ducked back beneath the covers straightaway and there remained until the following morn. Unhappily now, as it was, I sat trapped quiet beside my friend as he enthused to me the minutiae of his rendezvous.
"Holmes," I said finally, "you are a man of science. You surely cannot believe all of this mumbo-jumbo?"
He sniffed and tossed his head.
"I should not care to, usually," said he, "except that Madame Ting Ting was exceptionally convincing. Particularly when she brought out the mustard spoons. She knew things." He shivered at the memory.
"Very well then," I replied, determinedly ignoring this latest bulletin. "Let us see what happens today, or tomorrow, or the day after that, that might be so wonderful for you." A thought struck me. "My goodness, my dear fellow, did you actually pay the woman for this service?"
My friend wriggled uncomfortably. He claimed a sudden fascination with the gold chain of his pocket watch. A hitherto unbothersome sliver of beef was now grievously irritating an upper back tooth and simply had to be extracted this very minute.
I watched as he foraged energetically for a toothpick.
"How much?" I asked, amused.
Holmes winced. He mumbled a figure that I could barely catch. I asked him to repeat it. He did so, scarcely louder. I reeled back, shocked, into my cushions.
"Gracious me," I said, "that seems a lucrative business."
"Just wait," said Holmes. "Just you wait, Watson."
And so we waited.
By the end of the second day, when it was clear that nothing miraculous should likely take place, my friend had become noticeably agitated. He chewed at the stem of his cherrywood, his brows knotted together.
"Something had better happen tomorrow," said he, "else I shall be absolutely furious."
I chuckled.
"That old lady is very likely a hundred miles away by now, Holmes. You will never find her again, even if you wanted to."
"I do want to," said Holmes. "If I paid good money only for nothing to come of it, and I don't get a refund, then I shall be in an awful sulk."
"And the hazelnuts shall have lied to you," I said.
"The mustard spoons too," said my friend, his bottom lip threatening protrusion.
The beginning of the third day was not auspicious. Neither was the noon of it, nor the middle afternoon. Holmes scrutinised each delivery of mail and parcels, grunting in irritation and ripping up the advertisement sheets. I could do little except sit by and watch as his despondency increased. We had received no guests or telegrams that day. As days go, it was one of the most singularly peaceful that we had ever spent.
"Perhaps you should venture outside, and the exciting-whatever-it-is might happen to you there?" I suggested.
My friend shook his head.
"But then I should miss it if the whatever-it-is decides to show up here first," he wailed.
On we sat, then, as the clock ticked through the minutes and through the hours, until it chimed five of the clock. Holmes was by now prone on the sofa, his hands clasped on his chest, the most frightful frown upon his face.
The front door bell rang out.
Holmes sprang to the window and peered down to the street.
"Hooray for Madame Ting Ting!" he squealed. "I would recognise that tatty old grey bonnet anywhere. She has come to deliver my glad tidings in person, Watson!"
"That is nice of her," I said, bemused.
We waited as Mrs. Hudson showed our visitor up to our room. A soft knock at the door, and the old gypsy entered, shuffling her boots. She squinted from one to the other of us, gazing around at our humble home in some awe.
"'Tis a lovely house you have here, Mr. Holmes," said she, with a stiff nod of her head.
"Never mind all the small talk," said Holmes. "Where's my exciting news?"
The gypsy blinked slowly.
"Well, I did come here with somethin' to tell you, sir," said she.
Holmes perked, fairly tingling with suppressed expectation. He took three steps towards her as she rummaged through one ragged pocket of her coat. She pulled out a small notebook, which she opened and began to read.
"Do hurry up," said my friend.
"Yes," said she, "I have found it."
She looked up at him, smiling. I leaned forward in intense curiosity as to what she might possibly declare.
"You owe me two shillin's, Mr. Holmes, sir."
Holmes gawped at her.
"I beg your pardon?" he enquired.
The old lady sighed.
"Two shillin's, sir," she repeated. "You paid up short when we last met. I surely din't realise it 'til after you'd left, my eyes not bein' what they were." She held her hand out, palm upwards.
Holmes drew himself up, taut and bristling. His head was reared back for combat. I read every sign of an oncoming temper tantrum.
"Where's my exciting news?" he shrieked.
Madame Ting Ting rolled her eyes; she was evidently used to dealing with such aggression. She licked her lips and shuffled forward.
"Hold out yer hand," said she, "and I'll tell ye. No, not that one, the other one. That's right."
She grabbed my friend's proffered palm and brought it close up to her face as if to examine every line of it. Holmes fidgeted in discomfort, ill-used to being so manhandled. He looked to me as if for help. I shrugged.
Madame Ting Ting released his hand. She smiled again.
"Ah sir," said she, "I'm happy to tell ye that you've exciting news on the way!"
"Oh, for goodness sake," said Holmes, "yes, yes, but when?"
"Today, tomorrow, or the day after that," said the old gypsy. "And you still owe me two shillin's."
"Watson," said my friend, after he had thrust the demanded coins into the hand of Madame Ting Ting and sent her on her merry way, "Watson, I am never, ever, ever going to fall for a trick like that again. Ever."
"I am very glad to hear it," I replied.
"Never ever," he reaffirmed, to be quite clear upon the matter.
And yet, still I wonder. For as he turned to make headway for his room, I heard him sing beneath his breath: "Today, tomorrow, or the day after that!" and I fear that he may well be a lost cause, at least where thrilling hazelnuts and mustard spoons, and the promises of gypsies are concerned.