I own 23 scarves, two watercolor paint sets, a package of hairbands, a calculator and a whole lot of lint, but I do not own The Great Mouse Detective, or any of its characters. Relda Cheddarton, Basil's sort of romantic interest in this story, is not technically my OC, either. Her name and occupation is from the original Basil of Baker Street Books (owned by Eve Titus), which are based off of the original Sherlock Holmes stories (owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle). I just gave her the personality and appearance as written in this little story. So basically, my character is based off of a character (Mademoiselle Relda) who is based off a character (Irene Adler). Confused yet?
Also, I do not own the country of Maldonia, that is a country taken directly out of Princess and the Frog (which Disney also owns) though I do not consider this story a crossover.
And I'm sure I've bored you all to death with all this author's note crap. I'm very excited to have you read my first fanfiction story. Enjoy!
Basil of Baker Street was having a long week. Certainly being the most famous detective in mousedom had its benefits, but it didn't leave a lot of time for rest. He had solved nine cases in the past week, four of them particularly long winded and tedious, and he was actually ready for a day off.
He sat in the fluffy red armchair, puffing on his pipe and staring in the flames curling upon the hearth. Dawson sat nearby, reading the day's newspaper and swatting smoke away from his face (as a medical man, he didn't really approve of all the smoking, but breaking Basil off a habit was just about as easy as chopping down a tree in Redwood Forest with a butter knife and an empty sardine can, which needless to say is not a very easy task.)
"We've had quite a busy week, haven't we, Basil?" Dawson said cheerfully, closing the paper with a satisfied air of finality. The headline on the cover faced the ceiling, reading in bold lettering:
Baker Street Sleuth Recovers Museum Artifact
Famous detective does it again
He glanced over at Basil and smiled, his mustache turning up in a funny little u-shape.
Basil plucked the pipe out of his mouth for a second and nodded. "We certainly have. Well done, Dawson."
"Well done yourself," Dawson reached for one of Mrs. Judson's cheese crumpets on the table. "Nice to finally have a bit of a rest, though," he added, munching.
Basil opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment the door to the cozy little parlor suddenly swung open. Rain and a bitter wind whirled into the room, threatening to put out the fire in the fireplace. Basil jumped out of his seat in alarm as Dawson stared in shock.
A very large, very wet hulking figure stood dripping in the doorway. He stepped tentatively into the warm light. His black fur was plastered to his very handsome head, beads of water slowly running down the length of his snout and onto the floor below. He pulled a long blue cloak over his shoulders, shivering.
"Ahem." Dawson cleared his throat. "May we help you, si-"
"Good Heavens!" cried Mrs. Judson, who materialized next to Basil holding a fresh plate of biscuits. She shuffled over and closed the door, which had until then been letting gushes of freezing rain flow into the room. She set the plate down on the table and grabbed the man's arm. "Come over by the fire," she said authoritatively, and the mouse (who seemed unaccustomed to taking orders, but obeyed anyway) followed her over to the hearth.
Dawson cleared his throat again. The mouse turned his brown eyes on him. "Might we know your name, dear sir?" He asked politely.
The mouse swept off his cloak (Dawson graciously ignored the spray of water droplets that flew off the cloak and splattered onto his face), revealing himself to be dressed in very exquisite, if not a bit showy, clothing- a royal blue suitcoat with brass buttons, a red sash, purple pants and polished black boots that were caked with mud.
"I," he said in a thick accent, "am Jan, Prince of Maldonia." Dawson couldn't place the accent. Was it German? French? Spanish, perhaps?
"The island kingdom off the coast of France," Basil said immediately.
The mouse blinked. "Y-yes. And I'm afraid I come with a terrible dilemma."
"Yes, yes, I'm sure you do," Basil said dismissively. He sat down in his chair and crossed his legs, gesturing to Prince Jan with his pipe. "Seeing as you stowed away on a cargo boat and walked all the way from the docks to Baker Street, not even stopping to tie your shoes, it must be a matter most serious."
The mouse gaped. "How-"
"Your boots are covered in mud, including your untied shoelace, without a fingerprint or smudge anywhere from where one would have tried to tie it. The mud on your boots is sandy and gritty in consistency, so you must have been near the sea, or at the docks. And there is some crushed glass stuck in the mud on your boot and dust on your trousers, indicating that you were on a boat carrying large amounts of glass, the main export of Maldonia. I then naturally assumed that you had been on a cargo ship from Maldonia, and walked on your own up to Baker Street in a bit of a hurry."
"Incredible," Prince Jan said in awe.
"Elementary," Basil grinned and popped the pipe back into his mouth (he usually made a point to show off his deducing skills to new clients, as he was very prone to flattery…Dawson smiled but held his tongue). "So what seems to be the problem?"
"A woman. A smart woman," Prince Jan sighed and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "She's a singer, from America. We met in New Orleans, but that's beside the point. We…well…I was young, and…" he cleared his throat. "It didn't end well. But now I'm afraid she's a bit cross with me."
"Oh?" Dawson asked.
"Yes- oh, thank you," the mouse said as Mrs. Judson took his sopping wet cloak and wrung it out into the fire, shaking it a few times then bustling into the kitchen. "Yes-well, I'm planning to marry Princess Claudia, of the Northern Isles. And, well, she has a picture- a rather incriminating picture- of us. I was young," he explained hastily to Basil, who smirked, "And she's still a bit bitter over the breakup. She's threatening to send the picture to Claudia if I don't call off the engagement-"
"Blackmail," Basil finished.
"Y-yes." Prince Jan fumbled in his back pocket and pulled out a crumpled bit of paper, which he handed to Basil. Basil raised an eyebrow. "It's a letter. From her," Prince Jan explained, pointing at it. "It discusses the terms for the blackmail."
Basil opened it, Dawson looking over his shoulder, and began to read aloud. "My dearest Prince Jannick," he paused and glanced up at the prince.
"My full name," Prince Jan (nick) said. Basil shrugged and went back to reading.
"Jannick, I have heard that you are planning to marry Princess Claudia of the Northern Isles. My deepest congratulations to you both. Unfortunately, I'm afraid that past actions of yours shall lead to rather unpleasant consequences for you. Because this may be my only opportunity to 'get back at you', so to speak, I think it reasonable to inform you that I still have a photograph from when we were together. Knowing how Claudia and her family are a bit…high-strung, I do wonder how they would react if they happened to see this particular photograph of you and I. However, if you perhaps call off the engagement, the photograph may very well remain in secrecy forever. Till Wednesday, sweetie! Love and kisses, Relda Cheddarton." Basil looked closer at the paper for a second, then folded it back up and handed it back to the prince.
Prince Jan wrung his hands. "I've hired all sorts of people to try and find it, but the photograph is nowhere to be found."
"Haven't you called the police?" Dawson asked, puzzled. "Surely they could-"
"NO!" The mouse cried suddenly, and Dawson took a step back, startled. Prince Jan backed off a little. "No. You see, if word gets out…no. It would be too embarrassing. It must be done in secret."
Basil popped the pipe back into his mouth and made an "hmmmm…"ing sound. "You're sure she actually has this alleged photograph, it's not just a ploy to-if you pardon the expression- 'watch you squirm.'"
The prince nodded. "I know the photograph she is talking about. And trust me when I tell you that I would be in very hot water with Claudia if Relda carries out her threat…"
Basil smiled. "I would be delighted to work on your case, your Majesty."
The prince looked very relieved. "Thank you ever so much," he said. Then he paused. "I must warn you, though…Relda is terribly clever… simply finding the photograph won't be easy…"
Basil's eyes sparkled at the hint of a challenge. "Excellent." He turned to Dawson. "I believe I have a bit of a bit of a plan already." He glanced back at Prince Jan. "Where can we find her?"
Prince Jan thought for a second. "I believe she is staying at the Stilton Hotel downtown, but she has a concert tomorrow at Covent Garden. Why? What are you planning?"
Basil clapped Dawson on the back. "I think it's high time Dawson and I pay Miss Cheddarton a little visit," he said simply.
Dawson tugged irritably at his suit coat, which was about three sizes too small for him and just barely fit over his chubby little belly. "This is rather tight on me, Basil," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, fiddling with the buttons (which were under a serious amount of strain).
"Sorry, old chap," Basil replied, looking around the opera house. "It was made for someone a bit smaller than you." Basil, who looked rather dashing in a matching suit, had never actually been inside Covent Garden before (vocal concerts had never really been one of his top priorities) but the newly-built theater was actually quite pretty. It was located within the walls of the much larger human Covent Garden and decorated lavishly with red ribbons and large curtains and drapes cut from the red velvet of a human woman's dress. Gold garland from a human Christmas tree hung from the ceiling, and the piece de resistance was the large chandelier made from pieces of glass and fancy earrings, which caught the light and threw it rather prettily around the room. The seats were filled with exquisitely dressed mice, whispering to each other before the concert started.
"I've never been to an opera before. Have you, Basil?" Dawson asked.
"Mm?" said Basil, who wasn't really paying attention. "Oh, no I haven't, Dawson."
Dawson looked around, drinking in the sights. "It's really quite pretty in here." He raised an eyebrow. "I do believe I've heard the name Relda Cheddarton before. Is she quite famous?"
Basil shrugged. Suddenly, the lights grew dim, creating shadows upon shadows in the hall that seemed to move independently from their masters. A silence swept through the crowd. A thousand pairs of tiny eyes turned on the stage.
The maestro, a scrawny old Italian mouse with a balding crown and scraggly mustache, lifted his arms. The orchestra struck up a tune (O war ich schon mit dir vereint from Beethoven's Fidelio, Basil noted). The curtains slowly began to rise.
A figure stood, black on black, in the darkness. A spotlight suddenly appeared, washing her with light.
Her.
She had dark brown fur, intelligent brown eyes, and appealing features. She wore a floor length red satin gown and white opera gloves, and around her neck shone a sparkling diamond necklace. She was quite beautiful.
Dawson sighed and propped his chin up on his hand as he listened to her sing (which was close to perfection- her pitch was wonderful, and her voice had obviously been highly trained and polished), gazing at her with admiration. Basil watched her too, but intently, analytically. He narrowed his eyes as his wheels turned.
She was comfortable on stage- a skilled performer. Basil knew enough German to tell what she was singing about, and she was showing all the right emotions, putting emphasis on all the right words. She was a very good actress, which would make her a very good liar. She was also very alert…although she was pouring her soul in the song, at the same time she was planted firmly on the stage.
Suddenly the song hit a crescendo, and her voice shot up to the clouds. Basil heard a pop, and snapped his head to the right to see a pair of opera glasses crack and shatter. (He knew that it took 100 decibels to break glass-an extremely difficult level to reach with just the voice. He couldn't help but be impressed).
And then it descended into a smooth, triumphant finish. She bowed her head, signaling the end of the song. The curtain fell.
There was a moment of silence, then the audience erupted into applause. Dawson leapt up out of his seat, clapping enthusiastically. "Bravo! Oh, bra-vo!" He cried. He glanced down at Basil, who was deep in thought. "Wasn't she marvelous, Basil? Such talent!"
"Yes, yes, she was wonderful," Basil said dismissively. He clapped a few times, then went back to thinking. He wished his pipe was here…it helped him think better.
Dawson plopped back down next to Basil. "So…what should we do now?"
"I think…" Basil paused. "Where's her dressing room?"
"You can't be serious."
"I am serious."
"But, but Basil…"
"Dawson, please!" Basil smiled encouragingly down at Dawson, who folded his arms. "This is very important to our case. The client is counting on us! You're not going to disappoint him, are you?"
Dawson wavered, but remained firm. "I don't like it," he said curtly.
"Oh, come now, my dear Dr. Dawson!" Basil pleaded. "We've got to do this. We're his only hope!"
Dawson hesitated. "Well…"
"Dawson, it isn't hard, really. Just start a little fight, just a little scuffle, and we'll have the sufficient distraction for my plan. Please, Dawson?" He added, throwing in a pair of his best puppy-dog eyes that seemed to work on him every time Toby wanted something. Toby's technique for making Basil do something worked just as well on Dawson. Dawson crumbled.
"Oh, very well," Dawson muttered.
"Excellent!" Basil cried, delighted, and gave Dawson a little nudge forward. "Well, go on then! Have at it, old fellow!"
Dawson sighed, then straightened and cleared his throat. He nudged his way a bit farther into the mass of people in the lobby. He came across two gruff looking gentlemen standing near each other and looking in opposite directions. Cautiously looking around to make sure nobody noticed, Dawson lifted a pudgy little foot and kicked one of the men in the back of the shin. He scuttled away as the mouse yelped in pain and turned to the other mouse. As these things usually go, the mouse lashed out and smacked the other in the back of the head. The other whirled around, and they glared and growled at each other menacingly.
The crowd of mice spread out to make room for the two combatants, who had resorted to blows.
"Excellent work, Dawson," Basil whispered out of the corner of his mouth as Dawson reappeared next to him, panting.
"Th-thank you," he said.
The plan was working out beautifully. As Basil had expected, more and more mice were being sucked into the brawl by the opponents, who had formed some sort of a well-dressed tornado and rolled around the room. There were some screams as the fight grew so large it blocked the path to the dressing rooms. Give it a little more time, just a few more seconds…bingo! Miss Cheddarton appeared, looking very bewildered as to why there was a large brawl taking place in front of her dressing room. Gingerly, she tried to inch her way around the crowd of struggling young mice, but suddenly a fist reached out and almost caught her chin.
Now was his cue. Basil dove into the fight making a beeline for her. He grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the way just as the fist hit air where her pretty face had been.
She looked at him with gratitude. He smiled at her, but a stray foot lashed out near his head. He clapped a paw to his face and fell to the ground, red liquid now smeared across his face and fingers. She gasped.
"All right, all right, break it up!" A gruff Cockney accent resounded through the lobby. Three policemen, one fat and two skinny, roughed their way into the middle of the brawl, peeling mice off each other and handcuffing them. "Come on, now. I said break it up!"
Relda knelt next to Basil. "Are you alright, sir?" She asked him. Her accent was American-sounded like New York or Jersey, Basil thought. He nodded weakly.
"I'll be fine," he murmured. "Just a superficial wound. Nothing worth making a fuss about."
"Come, into my dressing room. I'll help you get cleaned up." She took his hadn't and pulled him up to his feet, his left hand still clutching his left eye. She led him down the hall to her dressing room door. "Walt?" she called, and a young staff member turned his head. "Walt, would you be a dear and get a rag for this gentleman?" She gestured to Basil. The mouse nodded and hurried off.
She reached into her dress and produced a key (perhaps she sewed a pocket into her corset, Basil wondered), which she used to unlock the dressing room door. She led him inside.
It was a decently sized room, with a chandelier hanging from the ceiling and a velvet sofa. In one corner sat a large Japanese-style screen for changing behind, and next to that a rack with numerous fancy ball gowns hanging from it. A vanity mirror with a table loaded in makeup and perfume stood up against a wall. A small enamel sink rested in the opposite corner. A small window was next to the sink, and a gentle breeze from the outside blowing the velvet curtains.
"Come sit there, on the sofa," she said, and guided him over to the velvet couch. He sat, grunting slightly in pain. She removed her gloves, gently plucking each finger out, then pulling them off all the way and setting them on the vanity table. She walked over to him.
"I must thank you for helping me out there, sir. I wonder what could have possessed those men to behave that way?"
Basil suppressed a giggle and shrugged.
"Well," she continued, smiling a dazzling smile at him, "It is most gratifying to know that there are still true gentlemen out there, on the lookout for us ladies."
A knock came at the door. The mouse named Walt poked his head in the door. "Um, Miss Relda?" He squeaked. He held up a rag. "I, uh…"
"Oh, thank you, Walt," she swept over to him and plucked the rag from his fingers. "I owe you a favor."
Walt smiled shyly and skittered off. She turned back to Basil. "He's a sweet kid," she commented.
She went over to the sink and turned on the faucet, wetting the rag down. Water dripped and cascaded through the fabric into the basin. She wrung it out, shaking it a few times for good measure, she went over to him.
"Here, now," she said, and gently pried Basil's finger away from his cheek. She pressed the cool rag to his face. "Hold this on there for a while. Does it hurt much?"
Basil smiled gratefully and shook his head. "Not much."
"What's your name, anyhow?"
Basil answered immediately. "Arthur Durnsbruick."
"Durnsbruick," she repeated softly. "Well," she said, extending her hand to him, "I'm Relda Cheddarton. Pleasure to meet you, my dear sir."
Basil took her hand and gave it a shake. Her grip was firm.
"And I must thank you again for saving me out there, Mr. Durnsbruick." She went over to the vanity mirror and removed her diamond necklace, setting it on the table. She then shook her head, removing some pins form her mane of dark brown fur.
There was some silence for a bit, then Basil spoke suddenly. "You did an excellent job out there, Miss Cheddarton. Are you classically trained?"
"Hm? Oh," she turned around, a pin clenched between her teeth. She removed the pin and spoke. "Well, yes and no. I took voice lessons for a while back in New York until I was about…about nine. But I decided that singing wasn't right for me, and decided to pursue a career in paleontology. I went to Peru to study the Brontosaurus. While there, I traveled the Andes and visited an old shaman, who gave me a potion. Once I drank it, he told me, I could communicate with the great spirits. So I drank it, and sure enough I was soon sitting face to face with the Great Spirit of the Ancient Incas. And I asked him what I should do, and he said, 'Relda, you should sing me a song.' So I did, showcasing my immense talent. And once I finished, I asked him what to do now. And he was quiet for a moment."
"What did he say?"
Relda sighed. "He said, 'Take more voice lessons.'"
Basil stared at her for a second, then gave a surprised laugh. "Really?"
She smiled. "No, that was just a joke. I really was classically trained, in Warsaw. I then became a full-time singer back home in America, and now I travel around and sing in different countries. It's a very interesting life," she trailed off, and continued pulling bobby pins out of her hair.
Basil smiled. She was funny, but still a criminal nonetheless. He blinked and looked over at the window. Where was Dawson?
He saw a yellowish-brown blur outside the window. Suddenly, there was a loud hissing noise, and suddenly the room filled with smoke. A sparkling whirl of color zipped about the room.
"Ugh!" Relda cried, coughing. "What on Earth-"
"Fire!" Basil leapt up. "I think the building's on fire!"
"What?" The smoke thickened in the room, but Basil could still make out Relda's figure over by the Japanese changing screen. The whirring sound grew louder, and he felt something white hot whizz by his ear. He dodged instinctively in time to see the firecracker wear itself out and sputter out, landing on the floor. Basil leapt over to the window and opened the curtains wide, fanning the smoke out the window. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the same furry yellow blur running away. Basil ducked back into the room.
"It's all right, it was a false alarm," he called.
"What was that?" Relda asked. She fumbled with the Japanese screen a little, then turned back to Basil.
"No idea," said Basil, who did actually have a very good idea. He kicked the burnt-out firecracker over to the corner, hoping Relda couldn't see that through the smoke. "But whatever it is, it's gone now," he assured her.
"Right." Relda coughed again. "Well, thank you for your help again, Mr-"
"Durnsbruick," Basil reminded.
"Durnsbruick." She went over to the door and opened it. The last of the billowing smoke curled out into the hallway and faded away to nothing. "I don't mean to throw you out, but…"
"Yes, yes, of course," said Basil, who could hardly contain his glee. His plan had worked like a charm! "Thank you for your hospitality," he gestured to the rag on his cheek. She nodded.
"Goodnight, Mr. Durnsbruick."
"Goodnight, Miss Cheddarton." Basil practically skipped out into the hallway, leaving a very bemused Relda Cheddarton to close the door after him.
Basil jumped up and down, silently cheering himself on. "I've done it!" He whisper-shouted to himself.
"I certainly hope so," Dawson muttered, peeking out from the shadows. "I feel terrible. First starting a fight, then setting off a live firecracker in that poor woman's dressing room…"
"Oh, that firecracker was purposely made as a short lived one, it didn't last long," Basil said with a wave of his hand. "But I know where the photograph is, Dawson!"
"Where?"
"I knew it would be in the dressing room, because she wouldn't risk it being potentially moved or discovered by housekeeping. Simply had to be the dressing room. When you started the fight, I had a chance to fake an injury. With some help from some red paint," He added, showing Dawson his 'bloody' hand, which was already drying and stiffening his hand. "To be courteous, she would offer to help me. Then it gives you the opportunity to set off the firecracker, fooling her to thinking the building was on fire. What do people do when they think their house is on fire?"
"Um… get out?"
Basil rolled his eyes. "Yes, Dawson, but first they go and gather their most precious belongings. And the photograph is, at the moment, the most important thing to Miss Relda Cheddarton."
"So…you knew the photograph's location would be revealed when she went to get it after being tricked into thinking the house was on fire?"
"Precisely!"
"And where is it?"
"In a secret compartment built into her changing screen," he said triumphantly.
Dawson grinned and clapped his hands enthusiastically. "Jolly good show, Basil!" He cried happily.
Basil put a finger to his lips but grinned broadly all the same.
"Ashidanza!" Prince Jan cried happily, practically jumping out of his seat in delight. "How wonderful!"
Basil smiled softly, modestly. Dawson beamed.
"Oh, this fixes everything!" Prince Jan stopped applauding and looked up at the detective and his partner expectantly. "So where is it?"
Dawson's smile disappeared. Basil blinked. "I beg your pardon?" He asked.
Now it was the prince's turn to stare blankly at them. "The photo." His grin promptly evaporated from his handsome face. "You…you did get the photo, did you not?"
Basil furrowed his brow. "Your Majesty," he said, puzzled, "you- you never said anything about retrieving the photo…"
"You, you didn't get the photo?" Prince Jan spluttered, getting up to his feet. "Why-but-but-" he stammered, speechless. "How could you not get it for me? What use is knowing where it is…if I don't have it? I need that photo! If I don't have it…" he tugged at his hair, his eyes bugging out. He looked quite deranged.
Dawson looked peeved. He raised a protesting finger. "Now wait just a moment…"
"I've put two months and fifteen professional thieves into getting that picture," spat the prince, "and I thought that maybe the Great Mouse Detective wouldn't disappoint me. But now I see that my time was wasted!"
Basil stood up straighter, his mouth forming a tight line. He struggled to contain his fury. This man was, after all, his client. Not any petty criminal off the streets. Dawson, however, was outraged and showed it. "You go too far!" He cried. "Basil has gotten you farther than any of the men you've hired in the past. He's done more in one evening than you've done in two months! He's-"
Basil stepped forward, silencing Dawson. He bowed low. "Your Majesty, I am very sorry for troubling you so," he apologized. Dawson blinked. "I'm afraid that my partner and I simply misunderstood your intentions. My apologies." He patted Dawson on the back, as Dawson stared up t him, bewildered.
"I expect to get that photo back and soon, Mr. Basil," He said curtly. Without another word, he swept his long cape over his shoulders and opened the door. "Goodnight, Mr. Basil, Dr. Dawson," and he vanished into the cool night air.
"Well, I never!" Dawson said as the door closed, highly offended at the prince' rudeness. He crossed his arms. "The nerve!" He turned to Basil, who was back standing near the fire again, rubbing his chin and staring at nothing in particular. "And you! I'm surprised at you, Basil. It's hardly like you to settle for such, such offensive behavior, and at your expense, too!" Actually, he had seen Basil take abuse from many criminals that resulted in Basil's momentary breakdown and the near death of them both, but that was beside the point. "I just, I'm…" Dawson sputtered, trying to think of the right words to say. "Well, forgive my obscene language, but that man is simply a… a cheese hoarder!" And with that, Dawson crossed his arms and plopped down on the big red fluffy armchair, seething.
Basil sighed. This hadn't been the first time his detective skills had been insulted, but this was his client, after all, and he couldn't be rude to his client. Criminals, sure. Ratigan, well, in Ratigan's case the more rudeness the better. But not to his client. Even though he'd be lying if the words hadn't made him at least a little angry.
"Let's go back," Basil said.
Dawson looked up. "We're still going to take the case? You're a detective, Basil, not a delivery boy."
"Nonetheless, it is a case and I intend to finish it. Besides," Basil added, "what harm will it do?"
Dawson shrugged.
Basil looked up and down the hall. No one there. Except for him and Dawson, obviously.
Basil reached for the doorknob on her dressing room door. He jiggled it. Locked. He knelt down and peered into the keyhole.
"I'll need a pin, or something." He said. He turned around and looked at Dawson. "Ah, yes, that'll do." He reached out and plucked the big brass pin that was helping Dawson's suit stay closed, placing more strain on the buttons once again. One button, unable to cope, abandoned ship with a small popping noise. Dawson winced.
"Aha!" Basil pulled the brass pin out of the lock and pushed the door open. It creaked slightly and granted them access to her darkened chambers.
"Shh..."
"Where is it?"
"Over there, in the corner."
"Where?"
"Ouch!"
"Sorry!"
"Come over this way." A creaking noise. "I think it's here." Silence. "Yep."
"Can you get to it?"
"I think so… Dawson, where's that penknife I told you to bring?"
"The what? Oh, yes, here."
"Thank you, Dawson." A scratching sound, followed by a sound that sounded like a fly being peeled slowly off a piece of flypaper. "Here it is! I've got it!"
Dawson's eyes, which were just starting to adjust to the darkness, saw the faint outline of something small and square in Basil's paw. "What is it?"
"The photo, Dawson!" Basil exclaimed, exasperated.
"No, I meant…"
"We'll see in a moment. Here's your penknife back."
"Oh, oh thank you." Dawson took it back. Basil stowed the picture away in his pocket, patting it with a satisfied smile. A triumphant fanfare of his own composing played merrily in his head.
"Let's go, Dawson," he said.
After tiptoeing out of the room and closing the door gently behind them, locking it, they snuck their way out of the very empty Covent Garden and out onto the street, where they laughed and congratulated each other on a job well done.
"Wait…" Dawson paused. "Are we going back to Baker Street? Shouldn't we deliver it to Prince Jan?"
Basil shrugged.
The misty streets of London were quiet. All the street lamps had been lit, leaving a dim flickering light to cast eerie shadows on the lonely brick walls of the houses and buildings. The sky was that peculiar reddish purple color it turned just after rain. But something caught Basil's attention. They were…footsteps. His ear pricked up, and he motioned for Dawson (who had been chattering about something or the other) to be quiet.
"Dawson," he murmured from the corner of his mouth, "I do believe we're being followed."
"What?" Dawson tuned his head to look, but Basil stopped him. "Don't look back, just keep walking."
The footsteps grew louder. Dawson looked nervously up at Basil, but Basil shook his head. They echoed through the streets, coming closer… Dawson tensed….
The mysterious follower passed them. A shorter young man wearing baggy clothes and a too-big cap walked briskly past them, nodding curtly and murmuring what sounded like a greeting. Dawson exhaled, relieved.
Suddenly, the mouse stopped, and turned around. "Wait a sec…" he grunted in a thick Cockney accent, "Aren't you Basil of Baker Street?"
Basil blinked, surprised. "Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am…"
"Why, ain't it a pleasure to meet ye?" The mouse lurched forward and grabbed Basil's hand, shaking it so vigorously that Basil found his entire body shaking. "I read all about ye in the papers, ye know," the mouse grinned slyly and looked up at Basil, who was now able to get a good look at his face.
Her face.
"Miss Cheddarton?" Basil asked incredulously. "But, but how-"
He was interrupted by an even more astonishing surprise. She reached up, grabbed him rather roughly by the shoulders, and kissed him full on the mouth.
"Mmpf!" He cried, shocked. Dawson's jaw hit the floor. Basil felt a hand fishing around in his back pocket. Then, it apparently found what it was looking for, and she pulled away, taking the opportunity of his catatonic state to race off into the night.
Basil swallowed hard and blinked a few times. When he could think again, he remembered the photograph. His mission! He gasped and searched in his back pocket. His fingers found something thin and paper-like resting in the fabric. He pulled it out quickly. Instead of the photo, it was a note. He opened it up and read it.
My Dear Mr. Basil,
I'm sure you are wondering how I found out who you were. I first became suspicious when you left in such high spirits yesterday after the smoke incident in my dressing room. I became further suspicious when I found that the blood stains you left on my couch were too hard and too red to be dried blood, and were in fact paint. My suspicions were confirmed when I picked up a British newspaper and saw your picture on your front page. I could tell it was you. It makes sense…Jannick would spare no expense in getting that photograph of us back, and if that meant hiring the greatest mouse detective, so be it.
I must congratulate you on your plan, which worked out perfectly. Congratulations to your partner Dr. Dawson, whom I haven't met but I'm fairly sure was the one who planted the firecracker in my room. When you came back to fetch the photograph, I watched you from a distance. Again, it was brilliantly carried out…waiting till the theater was empty, setting off a couple of other firecrackers in the far end of the building to keep the staff busy (I do wonder where a young English gentleman gains this access to all these fireworks). The only thing I wonder about as I scrawl this message to you is why you're taking the long walk to Baker Street and not immediately to Prince Jan (a shorter walk, no doubt), where he could dispose of it as he wishes with no chance of my interference. Oh, well. Your plan isn't a complete failure…you may tell your client he no longer has to worry. I have taken the photo with intent to destroy it. He may now sleep easy…or as easy as you can when you're a person like him.
Sincerely, Relda Cheddarton.
Basil finished reading it for the third time, then threw it back onto the table in the parlor. "She…outwitted me," he said in disbelief. That was all he had been saying for the past hour.
"Basil," said Dawson, rubbing the end of his mustache between his thumb and forefinger rather nervously, "what should we tell Prince Jan?"
Basil was quiet.
"Basil?"
Basil went over to his chair, where his freshly repaired violin sat, waiting for him to pour his woes into it. He began to sadly move the bow across the strings, feeling very sorry for himself. "I suppose we'll have to tell him we failed the mission," he moaned. "Lost the case."
Dawson sighed and looked at the piece of paper again. "It wasn't a complete failure, I suppose," he mumbled. "She did say she intends to destroy it."
"But I wanted to finish the case!" Basil stopped playing. "After that…that, that…hmph…I wanted to prove my worth, so to speak. But this, this woman came along and just ruined it!" he sighed pitifully. He sighed again.
By the third sigh Dawson had had quite enough. "Listen, Basil," Dawson scolded. "We can't just sit around feeling sorry for ourselves. If you really want to prove that you are the greatest detective in all of mousedom, well, by Jove, we've got to do something about it!"
Basil sighed (Dawson bristled but held his tongue) and nodded. "Very well." He grumbled. "But in the meantime…"
A rapid urgent knocking came at the door. Basil opened it, and Prince Jan whirled into the room, his cloak billowing behind him. He grabbed the front of Basil's robe and shook it. "Did you get the letter?" He demanded.
Basil nimbly removed Prince Jan's prying fingers from his clothes and glanced over at Dawson. "Well…'
"Claudia wants the wedding in one week. One week! If I don't get that picture…"
Basil waved his hand dismissively. "No need to worry, old chap, we've got it completely taken care of."
"She said she's going to destroy it," Dawson added.
Prince Jan froze, and Basil turned to Dawson, seething. "Dawson!" He hissed through clenched teeth.
Prince Jan shook himself out of his shock. "WHAT?" he yelled.
Basil tried to calm him down. "Your Majesty, everything is quite alright…"
"She has the photo? She STILL has the photo?" He howled. "After I sent you to get it for me?" He started pacing the room. "She won't destroy it, I know she won't, she'll send it anyway…"He turned to Basil and Dawson. "And you two! Why did you let her keep it? Why?"
"She stole it back," Dawson protested. "We didn't know it was gone until she had gone."
"You…imb…I don't… humph…wha…grrrrrr," the prince spluttered. He kicked at the wall, leaving a black scuff mark that Mrs. Judson would not be happy about. "She got away. She's probably going back to America, where she'll be safe, right?" He muttered. "Not if I can help it…I'll get that little blackmailer, I swear it." He turned to Basil and Dawson, who had been watching him with a bemused expression on their faces. Prince Jan returned to full volume. "I SWEAR IT!" He rushed out of the parlor, leaving some flying papers and books in his wake, and hurried out into the night.
"My goodness," Dawson said at last. "Do you think he'll be quite all right? Basil?"
Basil was concentrating, thinking about something. Dawson took one last look at the note on the table and realized he was thoroughly exhausted. "Good night, Basil," he said, and trudged off to his bedroom.
Basil's nocturnal habits seemed a bit extreme, even for a mouse. Dawson sometimes wondered if Basil even did sleep, especially when he was lost in thought. When Dawson awoke the next morning, Basil was still in the parlor, and it looked as though he hadn't moved from that one spot the entire night. Dawson, who was feeling much better after a good night's sleep, went over to the parlor table and sat down in the chair next to it. "Good morning, Basil," he said cheerfully.
Basil made no response, or even any sign that he knew Dawson was there. Dawson shrugged and leaned back in the chair, wondering what it was that Basil was thinking so hard about this time.
Mrs. Judson bustled in from the kitchen, carrying a newspaper in her hand. "Oh, good morning, Dr. Dawson," she smiled warmly at him. "Would you like a cheese crumpet?"
"In a bit, yes please," Dawson said. He had grown rather fond of those cheese crumpets. He could see why Basil liked them so much.
"I was just looking at the paper today," Mrs. Judson said, shuffling around Basil and setting the nicely folded paper on the table. "I do think you'll be onto a new case very soon, if I'm not mistaken."
Dawson frowned a bit and looked at the front headline, puzzled. The headline read,
Famous Singer Wanted For Questioning About Jewel Robbery
Foreign Prince Claims Talented Mlle. Relda Stole Valuable Necklace
"Stolen necklace?" Dawson muttered to himself.
"Such a shame. I heard such good things about that singer." Mrs. Judson shook her head. "A life of crime is no life 'tall, me mother used to say. Maybe that foreign prince fellow will come to ye for advice, eh?"
"That man who came the other night was the same prince." Dawson said. "But he never said anything about any necklace being stolen…"
"What?" Basil snapped out of his thought-coma and hastily made his way over to them. "What's this about a stolen necklace?" He demanded.
Dawson shrugged a little, nodding at the paper on the table. Basil snatched it up and started to read at lightning speed, mouthing and half-whispering the words as he read it to himself. Suddenly he triumphantly smacked the paper back on the table.
"Ha-ha!" He cried happily. He ran over to the grandfather clock and opened the little door, pulling out his detective coat and hat which he liked to keep in there for some reason. He shoved his arms through the sleeves and began buttoning the coat.
"What is it, Basil?" asked Dawson, puzzled.
"The illustrious Mademoiselle Relda has apparently shown herself to be not only a blackmailer, but a little miss sticky-fingers as well!" Basil lifted his head high, placing the hat on his head with a dignified air of elegance. "Meaning," he continued, "That the prince has yet another dilemma on his hands, and another chance for me to prove to that blithering old fool that I defeated Ratigan for a reason!" Basil placed his hands on his hips, his inner symphony orchestra striking up his theme tune. "I am the Great Mouse Detective!"
"But, but Basil…" Dawson picked up the paper again. "Prince Jan will surely have others working on this case as well…"
"Precisely," Basil grabbed his magnifying glass and a few small bottles of some peculiar-smelling green liquid and shoved them in his pocket. "And we will prove how good we are when put up against others, too."
"But, Basil!"
"No buts, old chap," Basil grabbed Dawson's chubby little arm, "we must be on our way!"
"But, but…but the crumpets!" cried Dawson as Basil dragged him out the door.
Mrs. Judson shook her head. Men.
They found him sweeping up the dust off the step behind the opera house. "Walter?" Basil asked. The youth looked up inquisitively, holding the dust pan and broom n both hands. When he saw Basil, his eyes flashed with recognition.
"Hey," he said. "Aren't you-"
"Never mind that," Basil snapped. "We," he gestured to himself and Dawson, "need to find Miss Relda. Do you know where she is?"
Walt hesitated. He shifted his weight nervously and glanced around. "Do we have to talk about this here?" He asked.
Basil nodded. "Where is she, Walt?"
Walt wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "I-I don't know," he lied badly.
Basil chuckled a little at the pathetic attempt. "Yes, you do." He leaned in to Walt, who shrank back. "We need to find her."
"I promised her I wouldn't tell a soul," Walt gulped. "I even crossed my heart and hoped to die. Hoping to die is a very serious thing, Mr…"
"I know, I know," Basil said impatiently. "It's very serious and all that. But we need to know."
"I could lose my job," Walt's eyes started to water slightly, and Dawson felt a bit sorry for the little guy. "I need this job, mister. My mother…"
Basil patted Walt reassuringly on the shoulder. "We only wish to see that justice is served. Cooperate, and I'll see to it that nothing is traced back to you."
Walt seemed to be doing battle with himself. "I'll…" he began. "I'll give you a hint. But that's all." He took a deep breath. "She's staying at a tavern, but I won't say where." And with that, he seemed to hold his broom rather defensively, as if he expected Basil to come at him.
Basil smiled softly and nodded. "Very good. Thank you young man. He turned and started walking away. Dawson scurried after him. "There are many, many taverns around London, Basil," Dawson said. "Are you sure you know which one we're going to?"
"Of course I'm sure," Basil replied irritably, then followed up with a warmer "I've thought this all through." He adjusted the hat so the brim sat slightly over the edge of his forehead, casting a shadow that, mask-like, hid Basil's emerald-green eyes from view. He glanced down at Dawson. "It's elementary, really. With all this business surrounding her, with the jewels and all, the police and countless private investigators are after her. At least, until she's able to escape to America, beyond British law's reach. But since she's such a well-known figure, going to sea even with a disguise will be dangerous, as she'll need to show her papers to get on board. She'll wait until things cool down and she's able to get her hands on some fake papers, in which case she'll be able to board a ship and leave England. And where better a place to stay until things blow over than Old Swampy's Tavern, hideaway for thugs, thieves, and vermin in general?" He pointed. They were standing in front of a large, run-down looking building by the docks, a barrel covered in seaweed and algae from years of just sitting there in all sorts of weather.
"Oh, here, put this on," Basil said, handing Dawson something large, fuzzy, and red from his coat pocket. Dawson obliged. Basil put on his own disguise.
He opened the door and ushered Dawson (now sporting a bushy fake beard the color of rotten carrots) in. Dawson remembered the ordeal that happened here during his first adventure with Basil, and made a mental note to not have any drinks.
Basil adjusted the ratty old coat he had put on over his regular one and the fake goatee he had put on (he learned from Ratigan that a simple fake mustache was not enough). "Oi," he called a nearby waitress over, putting on a thick Liverpool accent. "I'm meetin' a lady friend of mine here. Could you point me to where the rooms at?"
The waitress smiled and pointed over to a door in the back of the tavern, near the bar, and winked at Basil. "Good luck," she said.
"Thanks a lot," Basil winked back, then leaned over to Dawson as she left. "I'll go find her. You stay here. If I'm not back in twenty minutes, come in after me. Act naturally." Basil got up and started for the door, but then turned back. "And Dawson? Don't order any drinks."
Dawson nodded. As if he needed reminding.
Behind the door into the bar was a hallway. Four rooms. Basil opened two doors. They were empty…the beds were made, the room dusty and filled with cobwebs, shabby cabinets and kerosene lamps that hadn't been used in roughly a year. The third room Basil knocked, and a loud, drunken man's voice called, "Ish dat yoooouu, (hic) Mish Dayshy?"
"Nope, sorry," Basil replied quickly. He hurried over to the last door on the far right. Crossing his fingers, he knocked.
The door opened slightly, and a wary brown eye peeked through the crack. "Yes, may I help you?" She asked in a Russian accent.
Basil pushed his way in, setting all manners aside, and closed the door behind him blocking her way out. "Ha-ha! I knew you would be here!"
"Mr. Basil?" Her voice dropped back into her regular American accent. "What are you doing here?" She closed her eyes. "Oh, that was stupid. I know why you're here. You're here to-"
"I'm here to take back the jewels and turn you in," Basil announced, finishing for her.
"You read the day's paper, I assume?" Relda queried, running a finger along the edge of the rather shabby desk that was pushed up to the wall in the tiny room.
"Yes."
"So you know the story."
"You were upset by the Prince trying to send people to come after you. You lashed out by stealing a valuable necklace from him. Pretty easy to follow." Basil shrugged.
"And how'd you know I was here?"
"Some acquaintances of yours gave me clues. The rest I deduced myself."
"Hm." Relda made a noise in the back of her throat that sounded like an approving grunt.
"I also must thank you for the charming note you left me," Basil continued. "It was quite lovely."
Relda studied him for a moment. "I don't have the jewels," she said simply.
"Where are they?"
Relda crossed her arms and looked down at the floor. "I…I sold them. On the black market." She glanced back at him. "Gave me a couple pounds and shillings in cash. Equal to some hundreds of dollars in American currency. I made a nice profit." She shifted her weight. "You're right, I was angry. I mean, how would you feel if you're constantly being followed, your place constantly being ransacked by a bunch of thieves doing it for the money of a coward who ain't even man enough to come and steal it himself. I thought it would be the best way to get back at him." She sighed and laughed a little. "Well, it's gone now, isn't it? Gone to some old woman with no teeth who thought it was pretty." Most people wouldn't have noticed, but Relda was fidgeting slightly, her left hand clutching and unclutching her skirt. It was a tiny motion, something easily unnoticed, but his sharp eyes picked it up.
Basil narrowed his eyes. "You're lying."
Relda looked hard at him, then burst out laughing. "I keep forgetting I'm talking to the great mouse detective himself!" She cried. "It's the skirt, right? Nervous habit. I always try not to, but I always do that. Sometimes I control it better than others. Not this time, eh?" She smiled at him, but withered slightly at the stern look on his face.
"Where are the jewels?" He demanded.
Relda crossed her arms. "It doesn't matter. They're my property. I keep them where I like."
"They're stolen property."
"No they aren't. Jannick gave them to me last year for my birthday. You know, when we were still seeing each other. He always gave me nice things, but he was always rude to me. Acted like a bigot. He was always telling me he wanted a queen who would rule with him, raise his children, be domestic. He used to berate me or being outspoken, sociable. We fought a lot, and it hurt my singing. He loved my voice, but didn't approve of it as my career. He said being a singer, an actress, were too…oh, I don't know the exact words he used. It was something along the lines of undignified. Not regal enough for him. He wanted the quiet, demure girl who doesn't speak up for herself, does what she's told. It wasn't in women's capacity to be strong, he said. Women should just do what they were told. He wanted me to give up singing."
Basil's eyebrows shot up but he said nothing.
"I told him I'd kill myself first. I'd open my veins. That's when we broke up." Relda brushed a stray piece of fur behind her ear. "When I heard he was betrothed to Princess Claudia, I do admit, I got a bit fired up. Not two weeks after we stop seeing each other and he proposes to another girl? How insulting! So I used that photo of us to stop the wedding. To make him squirm. It was rather enjoyable. Oh come on," she said to Basil's disapproving expression, "It was. He's a rude, unreliable chauvinist. It was fun. But when you came on the case, I was rather impressed with how you got the better of me, so I stopped. For your sake, not his. But I guess he was mad I got away." She scratched her arm. "He framed me. He just wants me to get in loads of trouble. Revenge. I just decided to lay low for a bit. But the necklace is mine, you can see the engraving on the back of the pendant." She looked up at him, expecting him to believe her, maybe apologize or offer to help. But Basil stayed firm.
"I'll believe that when I find the necklace and hand it over to the authorities." Basil stated curtly.
Relda's face fell. "But…"
Basil reached out and took her arm with no more grace than he would had he been taking another petty criminal to the police. She was smart, she was pretty, and she was certainly a good liar(she must have fought herself hard to keep the habit under control after the first story), but she was a criminal nonetheless.
Relda flinched at his grasp and tugged back. He pulled harder and she stumbled forward a little bit (Basil mumbled a quick apology). She looked up at him, searching his face. Seeing no chance of release, she decided to go to desperate measures.
Like last time, she launched herself forward and kissed him full on the mouth, catching him off guard yet again. He fought the butterflies swarming his stomach and his brain in droves and suddenly tasted something strange. The fruity, slightly tangy taste of, well, her was masking something. Something sharp, bitter, acrid. Oh, classic. Drugged lipstick!
He tried to pull away, struggling, but her lips insistently, forcefully followed his. Her hands now clamped his wrists, her fingernails digging into his skin.
Basil started to feel dizzy and it became difficult to breathe. It was like the butterflies had migrated to his lungs, blocking out his oxygen and his vision. The world around him grew cloudy and smoky, soon fading into blackness.
He fainted into her arms.
About fifteen minutes later, Basil woke up on the floor, squinting at the sudden invasion of light. He blinked a few times. His brain felt fuzzy and his head hurt. His mouth was dry and cottony.
Dawson's worried face hovered above him, at first two images, then morphing into one solid face. "Basil," his voice seemed far and distant. "Basil!"
Basil groaned a little and tried to sit up, but realized he couldn't for some reason. His wrist. He tugged on it a few times, not at first understanding what it was (given his rather poor state of mind at the moment). He suddenly realized that his right wrist was handcuffed to a bedpost. When it became clear to him that it wouldn't come off by simply pulling on it, he sighed. Time to employ lock picking skills. If only his head would stop hurting…
"Basil!" Dawson's voice suddenly became very clear, interrupting Basil's train of thought.
"Mm?" Basil mumbled hazily.
"What happened to you? I came in twenty minutes after you left and here you were, unconscious and on the floor!"
"Where's Relda?" Basil choked out.
Dawson shrugged. "You were the only one in here when I came in," he said.
Basil groaned again, letting his head fall back on the floor. 'She escaped," he muttered.
"How?" Dawson asked.
Basil sighed. "Lipstick was drugged," he muttered.
Dawson raised an eyebrow, but he decided to take that as a good enough explanation and started to work on the lock. He pulled out a Swiss Army Knife and tried to jiggle the lock. It stuck.
"Lemme do it," Basil grumbled, reaching out and taking it. He combatted the awful headache as he concentrated on both unlocking himself and answering Dawson's questions.
"Did she steal the jewels?"
"Didn't get a confession, or not really. I think she did though."
"Did she say where they are?"
"No."
"Did she say why she stole them?"
"Not really. I found it hard to believe a word she said."
"So now what are we supposed to do?"
Hmm. Basil hadn't actually thought of that yet. But on the bright side, the handcuffs were unlocked. He sat up, holding his hand with the handcuffs still dangling from his wrist, and started to pick that. He would think about all that later. When his head felt better…
Now that Basil had had some tea and aspirin, he had started to feel much better. And because he was feeling much better, he could concentrate on being very cross with the illustrious Mademoiselle Relda Cheddarton.
Dawson sat, reading the story in the paper again as Basil paced the parlor, flustered and fuming. "I, I mean, she was right there! And she…" Basil blushed again (the blushes had been coming and going) and resumed pacing. "A criminal! A common crook! How dare she… go and…ugh!" He crossed his arms and stopped to look at the chemicals bubbling in the chemistry set for a minute, then started pacing again. "Of all the insufferable, lying, tricky, sneaky, smug little…"
Dawson looked up, his wizened eye knowing and a smug smile tugging on his lips. "If I didn't know any better, my dear Basil, I'd say you've begun to develop a bit of an attraction to this woman."
"Attract-!"Basil spun around, wide-eyed, incredulous. "How on EARTH could I find someone like HER attrac-attractive?!" He demanded. "She drugged me! And humiliated me and, and…and the very idea!"
Dawson shrugged and returned to the paper. "The only woman ever to equal you in intellectual strength…"
"Pfft," Basil scoffed.
"…the first one to outwit you…"
Basil crossed his arms and opened his mouth to say something, but Dawson interrupted.
"…the first to ever beat you at your own game twice! Surely that must fascinate you a little?"
"Fascinate, yes. Attract? Abso-looot-ly not! Besides," Basil pulled out his pipe, suddenly matter-of-fact, "attraction, romance, they cloud the mind. Get in the way. Such emotions would be like grit in the gears of my mind. It would ruin me."
Dawson put down the paper. "Basil," he asked disbelievingly, "are you saying you don't believe in love?"
"I'm saying," Basil said, pulling the pipe out of his mouth, "I don't believe in love occurring in myself."
Dawson picked the paper back up and chuckled a little, shaking his head. Basil may protest, but he knew that blush, that kind of ranting. It was only a matter of time…
Basil was thinking. He was not, not, not thinking about Relda Cheddarton. No. He was thinking about a trap. For Relda Cheddarton. Not just her, but the trap. For her. Yes.
How could they catch her again? Let's see…well, they had chased her from the tavern, so she wouldn't be there again. Most likely she wouldn't have let any of her friends know where she was, so there was no hope of going back to Walt. The managers at the opera house wouldn't know. But she couldn't have gone far. She couldn't have. But she would avoid all places where people would look for her. That ruled out her hotel room, the opera house…
Or would it? Surely Prince Jan's cronies and the police would already have searched the dressing room and hotel room, so they would naturally assume she wouldn't go back there. But what if she did? They'd all think she'd be in the last place they'd look. Maybe that last place they looked was also the first place?
It was a risky move on her part, but plausible. It could work. Either way, it was worth a shot.
Basil and Dawson went over a plan. Dawson would go to the dressing room, pretending to be a fan paying his respects. He'd go inside, looking around. Basil would slip in through the window. If Relda was there, she'd be too distracted by Dawson to see Basil come up from behind. He'd handcuff her, they'd take her to the police, that blundering Prince Jan would get his words rubbed ight back in his face, and all would be fine and dandy.
Dawson carried a bouquet of red carnation petals and clover and knocked politely on the dressing room door. No response.
"Miss Relda?" he called. "I'm here to deliver a present, from an adoring fan. I was hoping you could come out and say hello." He spoke loudly, in case anyone couldn't hear him. "I guess you are not here at the moment. Are you certain you won't come out?"
No response.
"Miss Relda? Miss Relda?" Dawson pushed the door open. It gave way with a creak. The lights were on in the room, but everything seemed untouched. Except…
"She's here," a voice whispered. Basil slunk in the window. "The couch cushions have a dent in them from where she was sitting."
"Where?" asked Dawson, putting down the bouquet. Basil pointed. Dawson shrugged.
Just then, Basil looked over Dawson's shoulder and saw a figure at the door. "Hey!" He shouted, sprinting forward. The figure hurriedly started to open the door, but Basil pounced before she could open it.
They landed in a mess of tangled petticoats. "Ouch!" a woman's voice cried.
"Miss Cheddarton, how marvelous to see you again," Basil said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"The pleasure's all mine," she muttered, her voice equally as saccharine.
"Basil, get off her," Dawson scolded, pulling Basil up from his tackle hold on Relda. He turned to Relda. "Young lady, you've got a whole bunch of trouble on your plate," he wagged his finger at her. "From what I hear you're a little bit of a criminal."
"Oh, really? Who told you that? The prince or him?" She pointed at Basil, who harrumphed.
"It doesn't matter. The fact is, we've got you in our custody, and we're taking you straight to the police. Here," Dawson passed Basil the handcuffs, "We don't want her running out on us again."
"I will gladly do the honors," Basil snapped, snatching the handcuffs and clapping them around her wrists.
"In America, arrests aren't made in quite such a dramatic fashion. First, you're read your rights, then they take you to the station…though "they" are usually actual police. And there's usually no tackling involved. Really Basil," she said jokingly, "this isn't football, you know."
Basil and Dawson blinked. "There's no tackling in football," they said.
Relda looked at them. "I mean…oh, never mind." She sighed.
"It's too bad, you know," Dawson clucked. "Such a talented young lady, throwing it away for a handful of jewels and some petty revenge."
"I told you, that necklace is mine!" Relda cried as Basil helped her up and started pulling her towards the door. "Look at it if you must! It's right where I left it!"
"Mm," Basil grunted and Relda struggled against him. Dawson just shook his head.
They put her in a holding cell for questioning. Basil and Dawson were congratulated for a job well done.
"Excellent work, Dawson," Basil said.
"Same to you, good fellow," Dawson replied cheerfully. He noticed Basil was frowning. "Basil?"
"Hm?" Basil looked up from the ground.
"What's the trouble?"
Basil rubbed his chin. "She said the jewels are right where she left them."
"Did she?" Dawson couldn't recall.
"Yes…and the dressing room, with the firecracker…she took off her necklace and put it in a box…behind in the dressing room vanity mirror! By Jove, man, we missed it! The necklace was there the whole time!" Basil laughed manically and charged forward, dragging the reluctant doctor along.
"Here we are!" Basil cried, flinging open the door to the dressing room, which was now dark. Dawson turned on the lights as Basil lunged at the vanity mirror and started rummaging through it, flinging clothes and bracelets and bottles of perfume aside, when suddenly…
"Ha! I've found it!" Basil cried, holding up the box. He tossed the lid off and then…
"Good Heavens," Dawson said. "You said it was a birthday present?"
"Yep!" Basil practically had to yell over the volume of his theme song playing patriotically in his own head. He held up the necklace. It was on a gold chain. Dangling from the sides there were smaller diamonds and amethysts, but the pendant was set in silver and shimmered three different shades of pink, gold, and lavender when held up to the light.
"See!" Basil said. Dawson leaned closer for a better look.
"Hold it up to the light, will you, Basil?" Dawson requested. Basil happily obliged holding it so it hung from his thumb and forefinger. Even the gold in the back shimmered…until…
"Wait a second." Basil snatched the necklace back and peered closer at the gold. In miniscule, cursive letters, a message was engraved.
Happy Birthday to my Relda from Janny
"What is it, Basil?"
"Dawson," Basil said sadly, looking morosely at his friend, "I'm afraid I have made a dreadful mistake."
"Your Majesty!" A voice resounded in the private chambers of Prince Jannick of Maldonia, who was currently sipping some fabulous tea and wondering why they didn't have anything like this back in Maldonia.
Banging on the door. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Why is this door locked? If someone doesn't open it soon I'll bloody kick it in!"
"Basil!"
"You heard me. Prince Jan!"
The manservant who had been on standby with more tea hurried over to the door just as Basil had been preparing to kick it in, with Dawson holding onto his arm in a vain attempt to control him.
Basil, paying no attention to the man twice his size who was hanging onto him, marched forward. Prince Jan stood and realized the incensed detective was holding the newspaper with the jewel headline on it. Basil threw it on the ground.
"You framed her. That was a lie to get her back."
Prince Jan pulled his lips into a tight line. "I don't know what you mean."
"Those jewels she stole were a birthday present!" He said.
Prince Jan stiffened. "Prove it," he spat.
As if waiting for the opportunity, Basil plunged his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out the sparkling necklace. He dangle it in front of Prince Jan's eyes, back facing Jan. The engraving shimmered.
Prince Jan stared at it for a bit, then made a sudden snatch for it. Basil pulled it quickly out of reach. "It's hers, remember?"
"What could you possibly want with it? She's in jail now, it's over."
"I'd rather die than see an innocent woman in jail for a crime she didn't commit!" Basil shouted passionately.
"She committed a crime!"
"Not the one she's being charged for!" Basil stamped his foot on the ground, stepping on the newspaper clipping on the floor. "What could you possibly want with her now? The photo never made it to Claudia. You never were defaced or anything because of her! She destroyed the photo, she said so herself!" He glared up at the bigger mouse. "Drop all of the charges you are holding against her. Or," he threatened menacingly, "I'll show that this necklace was a gift, not stolen, and that you are a liar and a coward and that will embarrass you far more than a petty photograph will. For if anyone knows how to embarrass anybody," he leaned in closer, his words soaking in venom, "I do."
Prince Jannick straightened, trying to hide the fact that Basil was getting him worried. "And if I promise to leave her alone? If I drop all charges?"
"I'll consider letting you off the hook as well," Basil crossed his arms.
Jannick cleared his throat. He wasn't sure if the detective had it in him or not, but one look at Basil's face made him decide that he was serious.
"Very well," Jannick said, "I'll drop charges."
"And get out of Britain."
"And get out of Britain."
Basil's face softened a fraction of a degree.
Prince Jan was well aware that his dignity was being thrown out the window by a mouse half his size and of lesser rank, so he did his best to make t look like he was doing this out of a change of heart. "Besides, what do I want revenge on a little thing like her for? She was not of my level."
"Relda is on a completely different level than you," Basil remarked scathingly.
Prince Jan missed the insult. "I'll go down to the station tomorrow, and…"
"Today."
"Sorry?"
"You will go and have her released today."
Prince Jannick sighed. "Very well."
Basil brought himself to his full height, all the way up to Prince Jannick's shoulder. "Then I bid you good day, sir."
"Good bye, Mr. Basil." Basil spun on his heel and marched out of the room. Dawson, who had been up until this point watching with great interest, scurried after Basil.
Prince Jannick rubbed his temples. He needed more tea…
"If I know Prince Jannick, he won't leave me alone. His thugs won't, either."
Relda Cheddarton and Basil of Baker Street stood on the busy train station platform, surrounded by bustling people, smoke, piles of luggage, and the sounds of yelling and screeching train whistles.
"I'm sorry your time in Britain was…less than ideal," Basil apologized. "I must have been terrible. I'm…sorry, Miss Cheddarton."
"You were." Relda said with a smile, to let him know she was only teasing. "And call me Relda. Please."
"All aboard!" The conductor cried.
"Uffda, better get going," Relda said, grabbing a suitcase. Basil took the other. The walked over to the car where other mice were loading up.
"Will you be all right over there, Miss- Relda?" Basil asked.
She waved a hand. "Eh, I'll be fine. You be careful too," she warned.
Basil shrugged. "I survived Ratigan, I'll survive Jan's mooks."
She laughed. "Okay. Well, it was wonderful to meet you, Mr. Basil of Baker Street. Maybe I'll see you in America sometime."
"Or you in Britain again,' he smiled.
"Last call! All aboard who's coming aboard!"
"Oh, and…Relda?"
"Yes?" She turned to him. Basil had been wondering this for a while.
"What was that photograph of that Jannick wanted it so badly?"
She didn't say anything, or not at first. Instead, she gave him a sly smile and a wink. She leaned closer to him. "Goodbye," she whispered, and gave him a peck on the cheek. He froze, hand cupping his cheek with a goofy grin on his face.
She climbed aboard the train, luggage in hand. As the train started to lurch forward, she poked her head through the window and waved at him. He waved back as the smoke clouded his vision and she started to fade into the distance.
Hopefully it wouldn't be the last he saw of her.