First Catch Your Hare

Part Two

Whilst Holmes vanished downstairs to collect the raw ingredients for our meal, I was left to consult Household Management as to how we should proceed. It was a hefty volume and, as generally happens when I am faced with a book of this size, my attention soon wandered from the many recipes listed in the index to sections on the 'Management of Children', 'How to keep well' and 'Legal Memoranda'. Overall, there was little that touched the house and home for which the author did not have a sage piece of advice.

Great care had been devoted to a chapter entitled 'The Mistress', and I soon found myself pouring over the recommended virtues of a married woman. Early rising was advocated, as was cheerfulness. The author stressed that a wife should not talk incessantly of the worries of servants and children, least it become a wearisome subject to the husband, although she was keen to point out that the petty anxieties of the household were not properly appreciated by men.

This was a sentiment with which I could find some sympathy, having had my fill of the daunting prospect of tidying my domain earlier. If that was the daily round which faced my poor Mary, then I made a resolution to exercise more patience and lend a more tolerant ear in the future.

Turning the page, I found a section instructing women on their friendships, and the advice seemed to be sound enough for either sex. I read with some amusement that a 'judicious choice of friends' was essential to happiness, but haste in forming friendships was not recommended least one be ignorant of later faults and vices. I wondered it this applied as equally to prospective fellow lodgers.

Recalling our first meeting, I could not help thinking that the introduction had been conducted at considerable speed and with the most basic of information imparted by either party. Had we followed Mrs Beeton's good counsel, I doubted whether either of us would be where we were today. I flattered myself that I would not have had second thoughts about our arrangement had Holmes been entirely honest from the first about the extent of some his less than condonable activities, as I hoped he would have overlooked mine. However, one can never tell. Some times an air of mystery is a desirable thing; one can know too much about one's fellow man after all.

The sound of the opening door brought me from my brown study and I glanced up to find Holmes returning with a covered dish in one hand, a large bowl in the other and several carrots protruding from his dressing gown pocket.

"You look thoughtful, Watson," he observed. "What are you reading?"

"Advice on how to acquire friends."

He gave a disparaging grunt as he unburdened himself of the items he was carrying. "Fascinating, I'm sure."

"According to Mrs Beeton," I said, reading from the page, "'one is apt to become narrow-minded by living too much in the home circle'. I think she means you, Holmes. You don't get out enough."

"I can't say I've noticed that being a problem," said he. "On the contrary, I have always believed the opposite to be true. Any biases I have formed over the years have invariably come from associating with other people. For example, all my reservations about doctors have been steadily confirmed over the years of our alliance."

"Glad to have been of some use," I replied in the same humour as his comments had been made.

"Now, friend Watson," said he, rubbing his hands together with impatient relish, "what do you think of this?"

With a flourish worthy of any celebrated prestidigitator, he swept away the cloth from the dish to reveal a plucked chicken. I must admit that I was somewhat unimpressed. It was a sorry-looking specimen with one leg appreciably larger than the other and its breast somewhat flattened. The head appeared to have been hacked off with a knife ill-suited to the purpose and the feet were still attached, sticking out forlornly at right-angles from the rest of the body. Judging from the odd feather and the occasional tear in the flesh, I gathered that its preparation for the oven had been traumatic.

"Whatever happened to it?" I asked with some amusement. "Did it meet with an accident? Was it run over by a cab?"

Holmes gave me a sideways glance. "No, this is the fruit of my labours."

"Well, I'm sure you did the best you could."

His face flushed with indignation. "I'll have you know that de-feathering this bird took up most of my morning. Do you have any idea how infernally difficult it is?"

"You're meant to pluck them immediately after killing, before the flesh stiffens."

"I thought you knew nothing about it?"

"One may learn," said I, brandishing the book. "Failing that, you should have plunged it into hot water. And your choice of fowl is most unsatisfactory. It says here—"

"I can imagine," he cut in. "I have observed that the advice is very much along the lines of the 'first catch your hare' school of cookery. Well, I am bound to inform you that the capture of this bird, of which you and Mrs Beeton are most critical, was entirely out of my hands. This is what the butcher's boy delivered. You may take up your complaints with him." He gave a disparaging sniff. "So, since I am in the presence of an expert on the subject, what do we do with it now?"

"Singe it."

"Watson, we wish to cook it, not give it a light tan."

"No, Holmes, it says here you have to singe it to remove any feathers."

He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Let them burn off. What's next?"

"You have to draw it."

"I must say that I am not entirely appreciative of your sense of humour today," said he wearily. "This is a lesson in cookery, not art."

"To draw poultry means to remove the innards," I explained tolerantly.

"Ah."

For a long time we stared at the bird, neither of us making a move to begin the necessary procedure.

"I believe," said Holmes at last, "that this is more in your line, Doctor."

I was not about to be badgered into such an unpleasant task lightly. "I'm not in the habit of disembowelling my patients on a regular basis. Besides, I have the book. I can't read and draw poultry at the same time."

"Well, I can't do it. My hands are cold."

"That won't worry the chicken too much."

A disgruntled expression settled on his face. "It seems a most undignified thing for a gentleman to have to do," said he. "Can you I not persuade you—"

"Birds aren't really my field, old fellow," I said quickly. "If you prefer not to do it, we could always eat out or wait for Mrs Hudson to return."

"And suffer defeat at the hands of a woman? Never!" he declared, rolling up his sleeve. "What do I have to do?"

Five minutes later, the chicken was drawn, and Holmes had hurried into his room with his soiled hand held out before him, as far from his body as was possible to manage. He returned with a towel, sniffing suspiciously at his fingers and his lip curled in disgust.

I smiled at his ill-humour. "A shame you did not consider a career in medicine," I said. "You have a delicate touch."

"If you wish to remain under this roof, Watson," he muttered, "then you would be well advised to keep remarks like that to yourself. That was the single most disagreeable task I have ever had the misfortune to undertake in the course of my adult life."

"You did remove everything?"

He grimaced. "Yes. And I trust that is the last internal examination I shall have to perform in the course of this culinary exercise!"

"Stuff it," I said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We still have to stuff it," I repeated. "The chicken. Mrs Hudson always uses sausage meat."

He glanced at the four sausages that lay to one side of the bird. "Yes, I was wondering why she had left them there. They have to be inserted, I take it?"

"I believe you have to remove the skins first."

My advice fell on deaf ears. Before I could stop him, he had gathered up the sausages and pushed them into the battered bird. The result of this was a most unappetising sight, with what appeared to be four plump fingers hanging out between the chicken's legs.

"You can't leave it looking like that," I protested. "Why, it's… it's not decent."

He sighed. "My dear fellow, if you wish to take command of food preparation, then you will not find me complaining. Given infinite time and patience, I would endeavour to beautify our meal, but the hour is pressing. May we continue?"

I was not entirely happy with the situation, but lacking the inclination to meddle, I kept my silence and instead consulted the book. "Now you have to truss it ready for roasting." I paused. "By the way, if we are not permitted to use the stove, how do you intend to cook it?"

"Before the fire, naturally. What we need is a spit."

I have had my fair share of food cooked over camp fires. I have even toasted bread and crumpets many times before the grate. But to suggest that a similar result might be achieved with a whole chicken seemed to me to be stretching the bounds of credibility.

Holmes, however, was convinced that his plan was without fault. Whilst I was busy mounting my objections, he had collected one of his old fencing foils from beneath his bed and was lending me only half his attention while he tested its keenness of the palm of his hand.

"Moreover," I was insisting when he finally honoured me with a glance, "food poisoning is highly unpleasant and dangerous."

"Which is why we shall make sure it is cooked thoroughly. Now, be a good fellow and hold up the bird."

"Why?"

"I'm going to run it through." He gave a few practise swishes of the foil and to my consternation adopted the en garde stance. "What's wrong?" he asked when he saw my hesitation.

"Wouldn't you prefer cheese on toast?" I suggested. "We could easily manage that."

"Cheese on toast?" he repeated incredulously. "After all our efforts, you are willing to settle for so paltry a meal?"

"Rather that than being impaled on the end of your foil."

Holmes smiled. "Have no fear, I am quite adept. However, if you have concerns as to my accuracy, hold it out to one side."

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather I put it on my head in the fashion of William Tell?"

"How very amusing," said he. "I think I can manage at waist-height."

"This is most irregular," I said, somewhat huffily. "I'm sure this is not how they do it at Simpson's."

"Probably because they lack the imagination. Now, keep quite still."

It flashed through my mind that in the tradition of all great feats of marksmanship the assistant was always provided with a blindfold. Not that I questioned his prowess with the blade, but I had my doubts as to whether I could maintain a hold on the slippery bird with a foil coming straight at me. But Holmes had no such hesitation. He eyed his target, lined up his weapon and deftly ran it through, sweeping it from my hands in an elegant salute.

"Hah!" said he, holding the foil upright to allow the carcass to slither down the metal. "It is always gratifying to find that one has not lost one's touch."

"You did clean the blade, I suppose?" I asked.

Admittedly it was rather late to be asking. Given the other unhygienic practices to which I had been privy, a dirty blade was going to be the least of our worries. In the event, Holmes chose to ignore my pedantic concerns and set the foil with the impaled chicken before the fire, balanced on the fire irons. He took a step back to consider his work, then with an exclamation of impatience disappeared yet again into his bedroom. When he returned, it was with a chamber pot which he set underneath the roasting chicken.

"My dear Holmes," I protested. "Surely this is going too far!"

"Whatever is the matter?" said he. "It has never been used, except as a plant container, and we must catch the drips."

As usual, his logic was impeccable. For my part, however, I was bound to say that I was fast losing my appetite.

Cheer up, Doctor. Things can't get any worse… or can they? Let's see what happens in Part Three!