Basil and the Amaranthine's Shadow
Chapter One
It was the 6th of July in 1897, on a regular Tuesday morning...
I stand corrected, a morning regular to anybody used to the somewhat queer habits of one Basil of Baker Street. It was hard to believe that, just two weeks prior, I had only just met Basil for the first time - I had moved in officially the day after Queen Mousetoria gave us her personal thanks, the day on which we began our investigation into the disappearance of Miss Jenkinson's emerald ring. I had been staying over for the time being to ensure Basil had recovered fully from his ordeal, as he refused a clinic and I was the only one qualified enough for medical prodecures whom he would allow to come anywhere near. I have no doubt any private doctor prepared to come over would be able to stand more than five minutes in Basil's company, what with his irritable manner and scathing deductions, frequently about the social lives of other mice.
I descended the stairs to find Basil already in his armchair, staring broodingly into the fireplace with an untouched cup of tea beside him. I have no doubt he would have woken me far earlier by playing the violin without a moment's rest at some impossibly high pitch, but he was still searching for another at a price he could afford, as his former one was damaged beyond repair. At first I had pitied the fellow, but after a while his ceaseless complaining had begun to vex me.
"Something the matter, old chap?" I asked him warily - Basil could be terribly snappy when a case was particularly perplexing him. I needn't worry about it too much this time, though.
Basil sighed, sipping the tea and making a face of disgust as he realized it was stone cold - as if that wouldn't be obvious, judging from how many hours he had probably sat there. He picked up today's Illustrated Londonmouse and tossed it to me, glaring at it as if the headline were the cause of his dilemma. I scanned the front page article, picking out the headline in bold.
Motives of Larceny Perplex Scotland Yard
On Monday evening at approximately eleven o clock, the workshop of Harold Porter was broken into and several materials used in his trade stolen. Mr. Porter has not yet disclosed exactly what was stolen, but the question Scotland Yard is asking is: What on earth would possess a thief to take merely a few materials among many valuable instruments, some worth a small fortune?
I turned back to Basil, who was watching intently to see my reaction. "Well, if I am honest, this is an odd business." I admitted. "But what was the mouse's trade - what nature were the instruments of?"
Basil looked both pleased and slightly exasperated. "Now you're asking the right questions! I can't yet figure out the thief's motives because the instruments really were just that - musical instruments, mostly violins. It sounds as though the thief has taken some sort of material used for the crafting of them, but as Scotland Yard is wondering - although Scotland Yard is easily baffled by many things - is why would this thief merely take a few materials? Mr. Porter manufactures instruments, foremostly violins, and some of the instruments in his workshop really are worth a fortune - I recognised the name as I was looking into buying one from him just last week, but a consulting detective's salary does not cover such indulgences - especially when said detective has recently had to replace no less than ten feather pillows within a fortnight!"
I chuckled at this. "Still not found a replacement violin, old chap?" He shook his head, looking dejected. I patted him on the shoulder. "Not to worry, I'm sure you'll find one soon. In the meantime, if you're so curious about this theft, why don't we go and enquire Mr. Porter ourselves?"
Basil immediately perked up, shooting out of his armchair and seemingly changing into full detective gear within seconds. My protests about breakfast first were drowned out by his exclamations of enthusiasm - it didn't surprise me, Basil never did seem to eat or even sleep much on cases. I sighed and resigned myself to putting on my coat and cap, allowing myself to be dragged out through the door by an impatient Basil shouting to Mrs. Judson that we should be back in time for lunch - not that he would eat any.
"Come now, Dawson, look lively - the game is afoot!"