A/N: Hello there. I have finally embarked upon the multi-chaptered fic journey (I'm not counting Nobility Has it's Side Effects, because that was written as a one-shot). This is actually my first attempt to write anything that actually has mystery and crime in it, as my previous stories are mostly fluff and domestic situations. I'm somewhat wary about writing an intricate mystery. I actually made an outline and everything.
This is very loosely based on the song 'One Week' by the Barenaked Ladies, not because I am particularly fond of that song, but because every time I hear it, it sends millions of plot bunnies hopping my way. The only thing I'm really using it for is the chapter titles. But this is not a song fic! I know those can be terribly annoying if you don't like the song. So if you don't, just forget that I ever told you it's based off a song. It stands alone.
As always, I appreciate reviews and constructive criticism to better my writing. Or you can just read. Or maybe no one is reading this anymore, because this author's note is so long. Enjoy.
The year 1889 was a most busy one for my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I published accounts of five cases that year preceding our extraordinary excursion in Dartmoor. We were engaged in another equally extraordinary and perhaps even more singular case than that of Sir Henry Baskerville soon after our return to London. One week had barely passed before I started to see hints of this new case, although at the time I thought nothing of them.
My wife Mary was delighted when I returned in one piece after such a long time away, and even more so after I regaled her with our latest, and somewhat dangerous adventure.
Nearly a week after my return, on a crisp November morning, I had breakfasted with Mary and was preparing to go out.
"John, dear," Mary called from the kitchen. I popped my head in the doorway.
"Yes?'
She turned and walked towards me. "Would you mind terribly picking me up some fresh curry* on your way home? I've run out, and I was hoping to use it for dinner."
"Of course."
"Oh," She said, remembering something. "But don't get any of the Miramaw brand."
"Why not?" I asked, puzzled why in the world my wife would not want me to buy a certain brand of spice.
"I read in the paper today that some of their spices were poisoned recently." She answered.
I noted which brand not to buy, but didn't give the matter a second thought. It was not unusual for food to be contaminated or befouled. The whole thing left my mind completely until later that night, after we had enjoyed our curry-flavored dinner, when I received an urgent telegram from my colleague Dr. Anstruther.
REQUIRE YOUR SERVICES AS DOCTOR AT ST. KATHARINE'S DOCKS STOP INJURED WORKER STOP MAKE ALL HASTE STOP ANSTRUTHER FINAL STOP
There was more than one puzzling thing about the telegram. For one, I was a relatively newly established doctor. I had only been in practice a few years. If someone were to request a doctor, I should hardly think it would be me.
I was not the closest doctor, either. Our house was much further from the docks than say, Fleet Street, or Leamouth. My reputation did not justify the distance.
Regardless, I was in debt to Anstruther. He had covered my practice for me more times than I could count when I was out on cases with Holmes. Perhaps he really did think highly enough of me to call me all the way from the docks.
I gathered my coat and hat and bade goodbye to Mary, telling her not to wait up for me. Medical calls were never kind enough to stick to a predetermined schedule.
The cab ride was cold. London chose to begin winter early this year, and it was rather cold, even for November.
The cab arrived at my destination soon enough, and I hopped out, rubbing my hands together and looking up warily at the darkening sky. I'd rather this was over sooner than later. I had no desire to be caught out on the docks at night.
It dawned on me that I had no idea where in the docks this injured worker was. The telegram had been terribly vauge. I looked around, hoping for some sort of indication as to where to proceed, when a hand clasped my shoulder and pulled me into a nearby doorway. I turned swiftly, raising my hand, and prepared to strike, but dropped it quickly when my assailant peeled of his beard, revealing the grinning face of Sherlock Holmes.
"Watson, I would expect a more mannerly greeting than that from you,"
I scowled at him, moving farther into the doorway. "What kind of reaction did you expect?"
He carefully reapplied the fake beard, but did not answer. I huddled into my overcoat and stared at Holmes.
"What possessed you to summon me in such a manner, Holmes?" I asked, but then frowned. "You aren't hurt, are you?"
He almost laughed. "No, no, Watson. The telegram was merely the most convenient and quickest way to get you here."
"So you used Anstruther as an alibi. You could have just wired as yourself, Holmes. I would've come either way."
"Ah, Watson, I have no doubts as to your loyalty," He replied, sticking his head out the doorway and looking around shiftily. "I have reason to believe I am being watched."
Watched? "But why would you use Anstruther's name? Do they not know who you are?" I frowned at the thought. If it were so, Holmes would have inadvertently put Anstruther in danger.
"Oh, no, my dear fellow, they are not watching me now. I daresay they have no idea where I am. They are keeping an eye on Baker Street, and perhaps your own home, though I doubt it. I have taken every precautionary measure regardless. I think we have effectively thrown them off, however, with this little gimmick."
I was used to Holmes withholding information from me during cases, but I should have like to be informed that I was being watched in my own home.
"I still do not understand why I am here." I was starting to get worried. "Is there danger? Should we move Mary-"
"There is no danger, not yet. You are here because I enjoy your companionship and it is most tiresome to watch my own back. I could not fetch you at your home myself, as one way or another our opponent would have observed it"
I accepted this, but I still felt rather in the dark. I didn't have much time to ponder the matter, however, because Holmes suddenly pulled me out of the doorway and across the street to a seemingly abandoned house.
"Here, Watson, keep watch." Holmes said, bending down to pick the lock. It took him only a few minutes, in which I saw nothing amiss. He replaced the tools in his pocket and went inside. I followed, after one more glance outside.
The cobwebs that had formed and the layer of dust coating everything confirmed my theory that the house had been abandoned. There were still some sparse furnishings, and Holmes and I sat at a creaking table in the corner of the room.
"I think that I had better catch you up, Watson." He remarked, lighting a cigarette.
I assented, waiting for him to begin his narrative.
"Perhaps you have read of the recent food poisonings in the paper?" He asked.
I was about to reply in the negative, when I remembered my earlier conversation with Mary. "Yes, Mary told me something about it."
"Excellent. There are some singular features of this affair, Watson, that lead me to believe that it is not an accidental happening."
I gasped. "You mean to say that someone is purposely poisoning the food?"
"Not the food, but the spices. You'll note that both incidents are linked with one seasoning company. There are some unsavory characters involved that make murder quite probable. Both cases have resulted in death."
I could honestly say that this case was unique. We had never dealt with a murderous spice importer before.
"I shall tell you the details later, Watson. For now, let us finish conducting the business we came here for. As you are no doubt aware, there have been two poisonings so far. The odd thing is that I can see no links between the two people poisoned. One is a nobleman, Harland Glover, with good relations and better finances. The second is a beggarly sailor, with bad relations and worse finances. This villain of ours has a very peculiar taste in vengeance."
Peculiar, indeed. "So you're investigating the sailor now?"
Holmes nodded. "Yes. It is somewhat easier to get information from tipsy seamen in a public house than condescending noblemen."
"Who do you suspect?"
"I am not partial to presenting my theories before I have all the facts, but in this case I will make an exception. I believe that someone in the Miramaw Spice Company, likely a prominent figure, is using the poisoned spices to murder people that have previously offended him. I have my theories as to who this someone might be, but I shall not reveal that just yet. I cannot make bricks without clay. I think we can safely say that we have thrown off our pursuers, Watson. I have a few tickets to the theatre tonight. Would you care to join me?"
This abrupt change of topic caught me off guard. Upon seeing my hesitation, he quickly clarified.
"I assure you, dear fellow, it has the utmost bearing upon the case."
That was good enough for me. I probably would have gone anyway, except I did not want to keep Mary worrying.
"I should be delighted to." I answered, as Holmes transformed from bearded ruffian to clean-shaven gentleman. He packed away the disguise in his coat pocket.
"Excellent. Let us proceed to the play, then."
Holmes slipped his arm through mine and we walked down the street and away from the docks. That was certainly a relief. I didn't foresee any danger from the telegram, and therefore hadn't brought my revolver. I was glad enough when we reached the warm and brightly lit Royal Victoria Theatre**.
I was eager to escape the frosty air, but Holmes stopped me at the door of the theatre.
"Hold on, Watson. I'm famished. You wouldn't mind if I got a cheap meal off that vendor*** over there before we go in?"
I shook my head, and he walked over to the vendor. As anxious as I was to get out of the cold, I was rather glad Holmes was eating. It was a small wonder he was famished. He had probably been working on the case for days and not allowed himself any food.
I jammed my hands in my pockets while Holmes chatted with the street vendor. Eventually he returned to where I was standing, holding in his hands a paper-wrapped parcel that smelled vaguely of fish. I was about to inquire what it was when Holmes spoke.
"Tonight's show promises to be a romantic melodrama much like it's predecessors at this theatre. Perhaps, though, we will not have to endure it."
"What do you mean?" I asked, a little peeved that Holmes would have us walk all the way here only to decide at the last moment that he did not want to see the play.
"I mean that I am very glad you are a doctor," He replied, and shoveled some of the fishy-smelling stuff into his mouth.
I was utterly confused about his cryptic statements. What in the world did he mean by he was glad that I was a doctor?
Holmes chewed slowly, glanced at me, and swallowed.
Surely not. Even Holmes wouldn't be daft enough to test poisoned food on himself…
"Well, Watson," he said, smiling. "It appears it was not poisoned."
"Holmes!" I cried, appalled that he indeed would be daft enough. I floundered for something to say, and when I found nothing sufficient, muttered "You could have at least told me."
"You wouldn't have let me do it if I had told you," He replied, poking around in the parcel.
"Of course I wouldn't have! You could have died!"
"But I didn't"
"Holmes, you are insufferable,"
He only smiled. "So it would seem. But we are wasting precious time, and I should like to visit Scotland Yard before I return you to your wife."
"We're not even going to see the play?" I asked, a little dismayed, for it had looked quite good.
"I shall recompense you for it. But my dear fellow, do you think I really would have sat through one of The Blood Tub's plays? They are worse than your romantic drivel."
A/N: I hope that wasn't too confusing? I think this is a bit generic and weak, but I'll try to put some of my own style into it as the story progresses. I also think Watson comes off as a bit daft in this chapter. Don't worry, though, he'll regain his intelligence soon enough.
I seem to be amassing a lot of out-of the way knowledge by researching for this story. Now I know all about the history of spices. There's a wonderful website called the Victorian Dictionary full of good information.
*Curry was making its way over to England about this time, mostly brought back by soldiers who had been in India. So it would make sense for the Watsons to be familiar with it. And I couldn't think of any other spices that sounded good.
**This is indeed a real theatre, built in 1818 with the name of The Royal Coburg, renamed in 1833 as The Royal Victoria, and now under the name 'Old Vic'. It was given the nickname "The Blood Tub" for it's sensational melodramas. It's situated 1.7 miles west of St. Katharine's docks. Thank goodness for Google maps.
***I've done quite a bit of research on this. There were street vendors selling food, though I'm not sure I'm justified in what they're selling…