A/N: Thanks to Sunsesco, and to everyone else who let me know that they had fun with the first chapter! :)
Chapter Two
~~o~~
It is a very rare thing indeed to see Sherlock Holmes struck completely speechless, but upon that early evening, one day after the arrest of Renfield the arsonist, my dearest friend was in just such a state.
Thrice he'd opened his mouth, attempting and then failing at words of any sort, and the effort had the effect of making him seem rather like a distraught fish out of water.
Any colour had drained from his already fair complexion, and such a range of emotions rapidly swept across his countenance, one after the other, that it was difficult to say just precisely what they all were. Complete shock, puzzlement, and anger were certainly among them, as could well be expected, but knowing him as well as I did, I swore I saw dread rotate through more than once.
"Watson," was all that he managed to gasp after a moment, still clutching the day's Evening Standard and staring at it, unseeing. Reading the headline once was sufficient to stun him the way a bucket of cold water poured over his head might have done, and I could tell he hadn't bothered to attempt reading any further.
I was accustomed to seeing abrupt changes in disposition and rapid swings of mood with my companion, but the transformation that had come over him within the last thirty seconds was a thing rather extraordinary, if not heartrending, to behold. For at the one moment he was master of all he saw –the victor of his hard-fought battle, perched upon his chair in the manner of a falcon that has finally devoured its prey, and then allowed itself a moment to preen its magnificent feathers in the sun. At the next moment it was quite as if he'd been deflated, sinking into his chair in defeat, brought low with the same swiftness a bullet might have brought down the falcon from its aerie.
I do confess, however, that if it hadn't been for the fact that the news in the headlines had such a profound and distressing effect upon my companion, that I might have found the whole idea rather amusing. The thought of Sherlock Holmes having to be subjected to a half-dozen eager and eligible ladies over the next few weeks, or rather six ladies having to be subjected to Sherlock Holmes, was enough that it caused me some fair effort to maintain an expression of sufficient solemnity while Holmes tried to process what had just happened to him.
"Here," I finally said, holding my hand out for the paper once more, determined that I should read the article and therefore be better informed about the announcement contained therein.
The headline read: 'Evening Standard's Fourth Eligible Bachelor to be Sherlock Holmes, London's Famous Detective,' and I admit that I was glad the newspaper I held hid any twitching of the corners of my mouth. By that point Holmes's expression had settled firmly into one clearly displeased but also of great thought, and I knew the cognitive wheels were turning rapidly to discern just how such a thing could have happened.
"Shall I read it to you?" I ventured delicately.
I interpreted his agitated gesture to mean that I should do so, and so I read:
[The editors and staff of the Evening Standard are delighted to announce the selection of this year's Eligible Bachelor. After due consideration of a number of most interesting and very worthy nominees, it was by unanimous vote that the editors chose Mr. Sherlock Holmes, famous private detective.]
"Consulting detective!" Holmes ejaculated with no little agitation, with that, springing to his feet to begin pacing, gesturing abruptly at me to continue as he did so, pipe clenched fiercely between his teeth.
[The editors are pleased that Mr. Holmes has graciously accepted the offer to participate in this year's contest, and agree with the four individuals who nominated him that he will most certainly prove to be a gentleman whose company any proper lady might find herself fascinated with for an evening.]
"I say, old fellow, you actually had four nominations," I commented, only to receive a snort of indignation in return as he stalked back and forth across the sitting room, puffing furiously on his pipe and leaving a smoke trail behind him quite reminiscent of the 10:35 Express to Bristol. I attempted to pick up where I had left off.
"Let's see, it says here," I began.
"Wait!" Holmes froze in place and turned sharply my way. "Did you say four nominations?"
"Yes."
I could see the mental gears grinding for another moment, and then a look of stricken comprehension dawned across the aquiline features.
"No, it couldn't be!" he uttered softly, sinking once again into his chair and appearing to mull over whatever conjecture had just formed in his brain. "Could it?
"Could she?
"Would she?"
"I'm afraid you've once again left me a step behind, Holmes," I replied, anxious to hear what theory he had formulated.
"Ha! A forgery!" was all that I was offered by way of an answer, and Holmes then gestured that I should read on.
[While Mr. Holmes is perhaps best known for his contributions to solving crime in and around London, a fact that readers will be familiar with through this publication and the writings of his assistant, Dr. John Watson, he has chosen to share, in the answers to the questionnaire provided to him by the editors of the Evening Standard, a little more about himself so that prospective female applicants to the contest might be better informed about the esteemed yet enigmatic person they may have the good fortune to spend an evening with.]
"Questionnaire?" Holmes and I each asked simultaneously, glancing with some trepidation at each other from our respective armchairs. A single apprehensive nod from him told me to forge onward.
[When not apprehending criminal elements of the city, Mr. Holmes has indicated that he enjoys the symphony, the opera, and in fact, plays the violin himself quite proficiently. He is a chemist of some note, a boxer, fencer, and an expert singlestick player.]
"Well, at least they've got that much right," I said, before reading onward.
[In the matter of the fairer gender, Mr. Holmes has informed the Evening Standard that he prefers nothing better than afternoon picnics in the countryside with a female companion, unless it is a long walk upon the shore discussing philosophy, or an evening lingering for hours in conversation about poetry over a bottle of wine by candlelight.]
"Beastly woman!" Holmes suddenly cried out, clearly most agitated about the inaccuracies that had managed to be reported in the newspaper. "Those misstatements were intentional and malicious, meant to make this all the more trying for me! Well, she shall not succeed, Watson! I shall immediately inform the editors that a deception has been perpetrated, and withdraw at once from this ridiculous scheme!"
"You may want to rethink that," I said, having read on while Holmes had been sputtering like a nearly spent candle flame. "I think you'd best hear what it says next before you contact the paper about withdrawing. It might cause a bit of a sensation."
"Bah! And who am I to care what the public does or does not think? Does it affect my work? Will it change the way I conduct myself in my affairs? I think not!" he huffed contemptuously, flinging himself to his feet and snatching up a pen and sheet of paper at his desk. I read onward, nonetheless, before Holmes could do anything rash.
[While the editors were most pleased that Mr. Holmes accepted the nomination this year, we are, in fact, even more thrilled to accept the conditions that our illustrious bachelor has stipulated as part of his participation. Mr. Holmes has suggested that not only should the contest be a way to entertain readers and encourage the creative literary abilities of the fine women of London wishing to participate, but that with the attention that the yearly contest garners, it should be used as a method of humanitarian outreach that endeavours to return something to the great city that has supported this publication. It is therefore, at Mr. Holmes's suggestion, that the rules of the contest have been altered this year, and that any fine eligible lady must, along with her essay, submit a fee of £1, with all funds collected being submitted to charity at the end of the six week contest.
When the Evening Standard enquired of Mr. Holmes if he had a suitable charity in mind, he immediately expressed that he could think of no better or more worthy cause than The Metropolitan and City Police Orphanage.]
"Harridan!" Holmes gasped, dropping the pen he had picked up a moment before. "She has undone me!" With that he sank into his chair, once again with a very unfamiliar look of defeat expressed upon his features. Clearly he recognised that with the final lines of the article, there was no manner in which he could withdraw from the contest without creating a public scandal, as well as one with Scotland Yard and indeed, the orphanage itself.
"I'd say that you're going to have to weather the storm, old fellow," I said quite gently; it was nothing that he hadn't already come to realise.
Holmes shot me a look of miserable concurrence, and then heaved an exasperated sigh of great proportion. "The whole affair smacks of a woman's scheming. She is exacting her revenge on me, Watson, and there isn't a single solitary thing that I can do about it."
"Who is?" I asked, still somewhat mystified. "Revenge for what? Just what are you saying?"
"Mrs. Hudson," Holmes pronounced unhappily.
"What?"
"I believe the little incident with the chemical reaction might have been too much for her," Holmes replied, clearly downplaying that the chemical reaction was a violent explosion that had implanted glass in his forehead.
I thought it over for a moment, wondering if our landlady had the gall to do such a thing.
"Combine the influence of a fair amount of sherry and the support of her three female confederates," Holmes chimed in, apparently reading where my thoughts were headed, "and I suspect her perfectly capable of inflicting such a supposedly harmless yet agonizing retribution."
It struck me that Holmes's tone had taken on a somewhat petulant affect, yet the more I thought about it, the more I came to realise that he just might be right.
"Consider the four nominations," he continued. "Did she not have three companions that might have all acted in concert to increase the odds that I would be selected?"
In fact, what he said was true, but I suspected it would have only taken one nomination of Sherlock Holmes for the editors of the Evening Standard to appreciate that obtaining the famous yet enigmatic detective's cooperation in the contest would mean the sale of an awful lot of newspapers. I could picture them fairly salivating at the chance to pull off such a coup, and I said as much.
"No doubt," Holmes agreed reluctantly, "and apparently you and I are not the only ones to think so."
"But surely, Holmes, Mrs. Hudson would never…"
"Who else would do such a thing, Watson? Who else might conceive of such a notion, knowing that I would find the contest such an infinite and infuriating waste of time?"
I admit that I could think of no one, save myself, other than our landlady who might know just how exasperating six evenings in the exclusive company of an overly eager female would be for Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
"But there must have been some communication concerning whether or not you would agree to the nomination," I ventured. "A letter or telegram…"
"Intercepted," Holmes replied, re-lighting his pipe, "and not an uncommon occurrence."
Indeed, Mrs. Hudson was the first to receive the majority of our mail.
"I should think they would require a signature from you," I continued.
'Forged," Holmes replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, "as she has on many occasions at my behest while I was absent.
"She's actually quite adept at it, you know. I suspect that were we to inspect any signature of mine that our good landlady has reproduced, with my knowledge or otherwise, that anyone but myself would be hard pressed to tell the authentic from the fake."
"Well, what about this questionnaire that you supposedly answered?"
"Ghastly fabrications. I thoroughly suspect the work of four seemingly harmless widows."
I had to concede his point; it most certainly did seem like the sort of mischief that might arise from four matrons under the influence of just a little too much sherry. I had encountered the foursome in just such an uninhibited and mirthful state once or twice when unexpectedly imposing on Mrs. Hudson as she was entertaining.
"Well, will you go through with it?" I asked, folding the paper and setting it aside.
"I see no other course of action available," Holmes answered miserably.
"Cheer up, Holmes," I said. "It's only six evenings. It could be a lot worse."
I ignored the dark look he shot me.
"Let's go to dinner; you'll feel better after some food and a glass of wine." Before he could protest, I had gathered up his coat and hat and handed them to him, then shrugging into my own.
"Very well."
Despite his lack of enthusiasm, I managed to drag him outside and hail a cab to take us to Marcini's, thinking to take his mind off the contest over dinner. I admit that I failed miserably, for once we arrived at the restaurant and were seated, a steady stream of visitors to our table, regulars who knew just who Holmes was, continued to congratulate him on his selection, as well as to praise his brilliant philanthropic notion that the contest should be turned into a fundraiser for such a worthy cause.
Holmes, dismayed by the constant interruptions to our dinner, managed to eat very little, but I fear consumed more and more of the bottle of claret on the table, until I realized that it was empty and that I'd yet to top my glass off once. He brooded silently across the table from me, barely glancing up at the next well-wisher to stop off at our table.
The cab ride home was no better as my companion sulked next to me, and when we entered the foyer at home, he paused for just a moment, fastening a resentful glare on the door to Mrs. Hudson's rooms before heading off to his own room, not to join my company again that evening.
~~o~~
Lonely and ill children at the orphanage or no, the occurrence the next morning nearly sent Holmes storming off to the offices of the Evening Standard to tell them just what they could do with their damnable contest.
Having arisen somewhat earlier than was my custom, I had rung for breakfast but not yet seen or heard any sign of Holmes behind his closed bedroom door. It was not long after that Mrs. Hudson appeared with a tray in her hands, at the same time carrying a rather large basket slung over one forearm.
"Good morning, Doctor," she said pleasantly, and although I scrutinised her manner carefully, I could discern no hint that anything was amiss as she set the tray on the table before me. "This arrived for Mr. Holmes just now," she added, setting the basket on the floor next to the table.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I replied, but before I could enquire as to who had sent the basket, the door to Holmes's room sprang open.
"Ha!"
Unshaven, uncombed, and still attired in his nightshirt, Holmes pointed an accusing finger at our landlady from the doorway.
"This is your doing!" he said, rapidly approaching the table with his finger still aimed at her.
"But, Mr. Holmes, I always make breakfast," Mrs. Hudson replied, looking confused.
"You know very well breakfast is not that of which I speak," he continued, folding his arms across his chest and looming over her.
"I had nothing to do with the basket," she replied, consternation crossing her features. "I merely delivered it, after it arrived at the door."
"Nor am I speaking of the…" he broke off, looking unhappy.
"Basket; what basket?" he demanded.
Mrs. Hudson and I each pointed to the one beside the table at his feet.
"Who is it from?" Holmes asked, scrutinising the parcel suspiciously as if it might spring to life and bite his ankle any moment.
"I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson replied with an effort to remain patient. "Now, unless you gentlemen need anything else, I'll be off to run some errands."
With that she proceeded towards the landing outside the sitting room door.
"Don't think I'm not aware of what you've done!" Holmes called after her, causing her to share a last brief look with me that said she appeared to be a little concerned for Holmes's state of mind before she closed the door.
I admit that given Mrs. Hudson's unimpeachable normalcy, I briefly entertained the possibility that Holmes was wrong about her and might have received more of a blow to his head after the explosion than I had first suspected. His next comment convinced me again that his theory very well was right.
"Don't you find it more than a bit odd, Watson," he began as he picked up the basket and set it upon the breakfast table, "that Mrs. Hudson failed to mention the announcement in last night's Evening Standard? I should think, that were she innocent, she would have raised the subject in a most surprised fashion."
I had to admit that Holmes had another convincing point.
"I wonder who this is from?" he asked me, reaching for the lid to the basket.
I shrugged, returning to my breakfast as he delved into the contents of the basket. He reached in and pulled out a bottle of Bordeaux, and set it upon the table. "I see some client or other has sent you a gift of appreciation," I said, reaching for the bottle and examining the label.
"I think not."
When I looked up, Holmes was standing there staring into the depths of the basket as if it contained a severed human hand.
"What is it?" I asked, a wave of apprehension flooding my veins as I set down the bottle.
In reply, he reached into the basket and set three more objects on the table before me: a pair of candle tapers, a small book that contained the works of Robert Browning, and lastly, a neatly folded picnic blanket. I admit that I feigned a cough to cover the slight snicker that might have escaped me otherwise at the sight of the romantic paraphernalia spread before me, while Holmes withdrew a scrap of paper he found at the bottom of the basket.
"Surely," I said, in command of myself once more after my mild coughing fit, "Mrs. Hudson couldn't be so bold as to actually do this; in person, no less."
"Would that she could," Holmes lamented, sinking into the chair across from me with a defeated air.
I took the small note he handed me and recognised at once why he would declare such a thing, for on the paper was a brief, but horrifying message:
From your friends at Scotland Yard.
~~o~~
