III
I arrived at Baker Street at the arranged time the following afternoon, only to discover Holmes was out. Mrs Hudson, 221B's landlady, was kind enough to let me in and make me a hot mug of tea while I waited for my friend to return. Mrs Hudson could not explain his absence; she had seen Holmes leave earlier that day – around ten o'clock – but had not heard of him since. Accustomed as I was to Holmes' prolonged and unexplained absences, I settled into an armchair and unfolded the most recent edition of the Chronicle, and awaited my friend's arrival.
A fair while later, I heard the door creak open and Sherlock Holmes entered the room. Dressed as he was – in a rugged jacket and worn trousers, and sporting a cloth cap and a fake moustache – I could hardly recognise my friend, and had been momentarily worried that the man was an intruder. However, I quite quickly realised my mistake and saw Holmes clad in yet another of his fantastic disguises.
"Ah! My dear Watson," said Holmes, as he sauntered over to the door to his bedchamber, "how nice it is to see you've arrived on time. I should presume to think that it is common practice for one to apologise for their being late for an appointment?"
I nodded almost absent-mindedly at Holmes' statement, because his apparel rather caught my eye.
"However," said he, breaking my concentration from my observations, "I have not been simply idle and the data I have collected from my undertaking will undoubtedly compensate for my tardiness." Holmes then disappeared into his chambers, slamming the door shut behind him.
Collating my thoughts, I inquired, "Why are you dressed like that Holmes? I hope you are not neglecting to do your laundry."
"Ha! Another witticism from you Watson. Soon enough, and if you do not keep your humorous talents discreet, you may acquire such a collection of puns you may even be asked to perform them at the next comedy festival."
"And you shan't, my friend. And my question still stands."
Holmes emerged from his room, robed in more decent attire, and perched himself upon the arm of his favourite armchair. "You see, my dear Watson, and as I've said before, the information that I have collected may be of great importance to this case.
"This morning, I acted as a cobber desperate for work, and perused the streets asking for work in any store I could find. I knew that, where I was patrolling along Portsmouth and Fordham Streets, that there were no positions vacant in any of the stores, but I was rather hoping that my quest for work might come to the attention of one of the theatre's street recruiters."
"I don't follow," said I, slightly confused.
"Our suspect theatre employs a small force of agents to roam the streets of London and bring back anyone they find who are looking for work. Those selected must pass through a screening by an unknown jury based on their trustworthiness; this determines whether they are fit for the task of acquiring material, or, rather, are game enough to steal equipment from local stores, and whether they would confess anything to the official police should they be arrested."
"But how do you know all this?"
"Because I was selected."
