Holmes still remained steadfastly convinced that Schmitty was a worse criminal than any human he had encountered. Numerous attempts at encouraging him to befriend our feline guest had been unsuccessful; my only triumph was that Holmes had provided breakfast for Schmitty every day this week. However, this was most certainly not, as he reminded me frequently, because he felt any sort of affection for him. No, the only reason he provided this small service was out of fear that I would reveal the little sleepwalking incident to Scotland Yard. He had not appreciated this blackmail on my part, and had felt it necessary to remind me of his displeasure at every possible moment. Mornings were always when his nagging was at the worst, but fortunately for me, my friend's attention was already occupied today. Holmes was too busy dashing around like a mad man, trying to make the apartment look presentable, to pester me with the usual shower of anti-cat comments.

"Quickly, Watson!" he cried, "There has been a woman pacing up and down Baker Street these past ten minutes. I am convinced that she is a potential client."

"Holmes, I wish you'd think to clean the sitting room more often, instead of seconds before a client arrives," I sighed, bending down to help him scoop up the debris.

"Well, I am a very busy man, Watson," he replied, as he stuffed some papers under Mrs. Hudson's tea-tray, "I hardly have time to-OH, DEAR GOD, NO!"

"What is it?" I asked frantically, "Are you alright?"

"My chair, Watson! It's sitting in my armchair!"

"What? It's only Schmitty."

"Precisely," he moaned, "The dratted beast has gone and contaminated my armchair."

Rolling my eyes, I walked over to the armchair and gently picked up the offending kitten.

"Sorry, little fellow," I snickered, "It looks like Mr. Holmes doesn't want to be bothered with you right now."

"Watson, please don't tell me you are talking to that wretched thing."

"You talk to him all the time," I retorted, "I haven't heard you go an hour without shouting at poor Schmitty since he arrived."

"That is hardly relevant," he asserted, "Pray put the horrid monster in Mrs. Hudson's bedroom."

As Holmes concealed his unfinished breakfast in one of his desk drawers, I took advantage of his turned back and hid Schmitty in his bedroom. He would be very irritated with me when he found out, but we were running out of time and there was no other alternative. I hardly thought that Schmitty would be much of a nuisance. When I returned to the sitting room, Holmes was gazing out the window, quite unaware of my deception.

"It seems that I was correct," he declared, "At this very moment, Mrs. Hudson is admitting the woman that I noticed earlier. Now, old fellow, there's just one more thing."

"What, Holmes?"

"My dear Watson, do you think I could borrow your armchair?"

"You can't be serious, Holmes. You're not going to catch a disease by sitting in the same chair as Schmitty."

"But he sheds, Watson!"

"Then I suppose you'll have to stand."

"But Watson," he whined, "It's revolting!"

"Oh very well, take my chair if you must. In any case, it seems we have no further time to discuss it," I said resignedly, as Mrs. Hudson brought in our client's card.

"Mrs. Amelia Arnold," Holmes read, "The name does sound vaguely familiar. Mrs. Hudson, you may show her in."

Mrs. Amelia Arnold was a short, pretentious sort of woman dressed in London's latest fashion. The instant she entered the room, she made a beeline for Holmes and began wringing his hand, sobbing as she did so.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, you have to help me!" she wailed hysterically, "You must find that evil man and make him pay for what he has done!"

Noticing the look of discomfort on his face, I took pity on my friend and gently pulled the lady over to the sofa and tried my best to comfort her. But no matter what I said or did, her pitiful sobs only became louder and the look of annoyance on Holmes's face only grew.

"Mrs. Arnold, pray calm yourself!" he requested waspishly, " Dr. Watson and I can hardly hope to be of some assistance to you if you can not even stop this weeping long enough to explain what your predicament may be."

"I suppose you're right, Mr. Holmes. You are, after all, the only man could help me with my revenge. But that villain is too horrible! Oh, I can hardly bear to think of him, let alone-"

Here, Mrs. Arnold was interrupted by a peculiar scratching noise coming from Holmes's bedroom.

"A ghost!" the lady shrieked hysterically. "Whatever shall we do?"

"Mrs. Arnold, I must congratulate you. I don't believe I've ever heard a woman screech at quite that volume," Holmes commented tartly, "But in any case, I do not believe that what you heard was a spirit."

"But what else could it possibly be?"

"It appears that the little monster has somehow found its way into my bedroom again," Holmes glowered, "Though I can not imagine how, as I was under the impression that Dr. Watson had locked the foul thing in our landlady's room."

"A monster!" Mrs. Arnold sniveled, "We are doomed for sure!"

"It is not so bad as that," I reassured her, ignoring Holmes's icy glares in my direction, "It's merely the cat, Schmitty. Perhaps you'd like to meet him?"

I knew that having the cat in the sitting room during a consultation was the last thing Holmes wanted, but anything that might prevent this dramatic woman from further hysterics would be a welcome change.

"You mean to say that your cat was the one making those dreadful scratching noises? "

"Yes, but you have no need to fear. Our little friend is quite harmless."

"Really, Watson, the lady has come to me about what appears to a very pressing matter, I hardly think that she would want-wait, what do you mean our friend?"

Paying no attention to Holmes's protests, I retrieved Schmitty from the bedroom and deposited him on the sofa. When our client endeavored to scratch behind his ears, he immediately swatted at her angrily.

"Oh dear," the lady lamented, "I don't think he likes me, Dr. Watson."

"That's odd," I remarked, quickly pulling the hissing cat away from Mrs. Arnold, "He's normally very friendly, I don't see why he would-"

"Ha!" Holmes interjected triumphantly, "I warned you, did I not? It was only a matter of time before we saw the beast's true nature."

"Oh, I'm sure he's a very lovely cat, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Arnold said edgily, "Perhaps it's just that he doesn't care for strangers."

"Well, in any case, I am sure that Dr. Watson shall be able to keep the fiend under control while you tell us how we might help you."

"It's a very simple matter, Mr. Holmes. You and Dr. Watson would be of great assistance to me if you were both to die."

It was remarkable to see how quickly her tears dissipated. The frantic look in her eyes became one of cold fury and all traces of our panic-stricken client vanished as she pointed a gun at my friend.

"If either of you move an inch, I shall shoot to kill," she snarled, "Don't think that I won't do it! I will avenge my husband, no matter the cost."

"Of course," Holmes groaned, "Zachary Arnold, the man responsible for the Stewart murders. Mrs. Arnold, I was a fool not to realize your identity sooner. How could I forget the way you screamed at me when they carried your beloved husband off to prison?

"This woman is the wife of a murderer?" I gaped, as Schmitty hissed furiously, "It can't be!"

She began to laugh shrilly and said, "I do hope you two gentlemen weren't too annoyed by my…theatrics. They were quite a useful distraction when I snatched that revolver from the desk there. But my goodness, I certainly didn't expect to have such an easy time of it. I've heard that you're a talented actor yourself, Mr. Holmes. Surely you weren't really fooled by so simple a deception!"

"I have undoubtedly been careless," Holmes responded, "But if I recall correctly, I helped bring about the arrest of your husband more than fifteen years ago. You could have had your revenge on me anytime you chose. Why wait all this time?"

"Because, Mr. Holmes, my husband strictly forbade it. He was determined that one day he would escape from prison and seek you out himself. You don't know how many times he tried to break out! But it was all for naught. He died last week in the cell that you put him in, and so, I have taken matters into my own hands."

My mind was racing as I tried to determine a way out of our predicament. If I moved so much as an inch, I risked my friend's life. But I couldn't just stand by and do nothing…

It turned out that my involvement wasn't necessary after all. Before I even knew what was happening, Schmitty had flown from my lap and was attacking Mrs. Arnold, viciously clawing up her face. Holmes shouted something I couldn't hear over the lady's screams, but his meaning was clear enough. I quickly wrestled the revolver from Mrs. Arnold's grasp and pointed it in her direction as Holmes rushed over to pull the furious feline off of her.

Mrs. Arnold had fainted, her face covered in angry red scratch marks. However, it didn't look like there would be any lasting damage.

"Well, Watson, surely now you can hardly fail to agree with me," Holmes declared.

"About what?"

"About the little monster, of course!"

"Really, Holmes, just because he got a little carried away, it doesn't make him a monster. Without his help, it might not have gone so well for us."

"Don't be daft, Watson."

" Perhaps you just don't want to admit that Schmitty was more alert than you today," I chuckled, scratching the animal in question's ears affectionately as he began to purr, "You saw how he took an instant dislike to Mrs. Arnold. Maybe you should have realized that the lady wasn't as harmless as she seemed."

"Yes, I should have remembered the woman from our previous encounters, I'll give you that. But you really can't suggest that the animal knew that she was up to no good. I'll wager he just didn't like the smell of her perfume or some such nonsense."

"Either way, he still saved you from being shot by that dreadful woman."

"Preposterous!" he snorted. "I had a plan in mind, and it would have worked too, had it not been for that beast's interference."

"You had a plan, did you? Might I ask just what that plan was?"

He did not answer me, but merely shifted around in his chair uncomfortably, his eyes nervously darting about the room.

"My goodness, Holmes," I laughed, "It seems that the cat's got your tongue!"


*The author runs away from the rotten tomatoes being thrown as punishment for the lame joke.*