The Case of the Antique Massacre
Chapter Two: Less than Benign
The fire crackled a lively tune from our sitting room hearth one late afternoon in August. It was hardly the time of year when one usually needed the flames warmth, and in this case that need was dubious at best, but there was a damp chill which permeated the room from three days of rain that had yet to let up.
I set down the newspaper, disappointed from what I had read of the races, and stretched myself from my chair beside the fireplace. My friend and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, lay in a sprawled position across the settee, lightly puffing on his pipe and fingers steepled above his chest. He had a case, I knew, for his afternoon had been one of silent contemplation. He had yet to share the details and I had not prompted him on the matter.
With a soft sigh, and perhaps a slightly more pronounced limp than dryer weather would have afforded me, I stepped to the window to peer into the gloom that clouds and rainwater hand bestowed upon greater London. As it was still an active time of day, there were plenty sopping wet souls traversing the sidewalks and street in my view. I was most interested by the gentlemen with an umbrella held low crossing Baker Street straight to our own door below.
"Have you a client, Holmes?"
I queried from my stance beside the window. Holmes humored me with an answer, though he never so much as twitched from his position. "I do. The client sent round a note this morning seeking, apparently, just my opinion."
"Is your client a young gentlemen? Spry of step and favoring fashionable clothing?"
"He is indeed a young man and seems by the flair of his writing to run with a fashionable crowd. I wonder how came you by this hypothesis, Watson?"
"He has just approached our door. I do imagine Mrs. Hudson will be announcing him shortly."
Holmes's eyebrows rose and he shifted himself off the settee to greet Mrs. Hudson as we heard her tread on the stair. Our good landlady pushed open the door and handed the waiting Holmes our guest's card. "A Mr. Jacob Hunt to see you, sir."
As Mrs. Hudson retreated to gather the client, Holmes studied the card and flipped it about in nimble fingers several times. I readied myself to leave, not certain that my presence would be welcomed in Holmes's upcoming interview.
"If I may entreat you to stay, Watson," Holmes noted, "I should prefer your presence for this discourse. I fear my client's interests may be less than benign."