July 15, 1881
10:05 p.m.
This so-called insurance investigation (so-called, because an investigation by definition means that there shall be something to investigate) proved to be no more than an hour's worth of pointing out loopholes in paperwork and flaws in the stories of the principal parties – nothing of interest whatsoever, and barely worth the paltry fee I received for my services. I suppose I should be grateful it saved me from ennui, but honestly. Any basic logician or even one of the few Scotland Yarders who actually possess a brain instead of so much porridge slopping around inside those thick skulls could have done the same. When – when? – will the world recognise my talents for the brilliance they are?
As a result of this exercise in foolishness, I found myself shortly after nine seated in a cab outside the insurance office, wet and irritable, and saddled with a companion who was still quite put-out at being hauled all-but-bodily from his cozy bed at such an hour after a disturbed night.
Two cups of honey-laced tea and a sickeningly large slice of raspberry coffee-ring a la an Oxford Street café seemed to improve his disposition immensely, however, and also served to ease my own conscience about the monetary loss he has sustained of late due to my unfortunate falling ill (the stabbing was purely routine; the last time something of the sort happened he never found out about it – but it is rather hard to disguise a temperature of over one hundred two).
Boredom (and the effort of acting at ease in a social setting – how I loathe the requirements of proper behaviour!) put me quite on edge throughout the next hour, and I did no more than pick at my own slice of cake and absently stir my tea; until I noticed the Doctor was enthusiastically eyeing the former and trying very hard to appear that he was doing nothing of the kind. Raising an eyebrow, I offered to exchange the plate for the paper he had been reading and, after discarding the sporting page, ran a glance over the agony column while he inhaled the remainder of my breakfast and then settled back, much comforted.
"You keep up like that and Mrs. Hudson shall be forced to let out your suits again," I remarked slyly, tossing an advertisement for Brixton's Facial Soaps and Skin Cleansers onto the floor beside the sporting page. A passing busboy squawked at me, but one glare sent him scuttling back to his hole and we were left in peace once more.
I lowered the paper from one eye to see my companion hastily hide his flaming face in his tea-cup. It is such fun to embarrass people in public places, truly it is; especially those who are as conventional and proper as is possible to be – bordering on boringly so – like the Doctor. Perhaps it is hardly a kind hobby, but an immensely enjoyable one.
"Yes, well…" he muttered, squirming a little in his chair and rubbing the back of his neck (a nervous habit I had noticed the third week of our being flat-mates). "Find anything of interest in the agony column?"
"A very subtle change of subject, Doctor."
"Yes, isn't it?" He grinned and poked the newspaper wall between us with an unused sugar-spoon, creasing it just in the middle of a personal requesting the whereabouts of a lady in a red-feather boa who lost six kittens last Tuesday morn. "Well? You looked rather piqued when we entered here, and something has happened to relax you a bit. Unless making jokes about my weight has that capability, then you've read something interesting."
I smiled at his tolerable, if very rudimentary, observation and lowered the paper completely this time, folding it behind itself and putting it on the table beside the honey-pot.
"Nothing particularly stellar, Doctor." I indicated an unusual personal with my fork, whereupon raspberry jam stuck it to the paper. I shook it free hastily. "This appears to be the last in a daily series of messages endeavouring to locate a Miss Sophronia Forster."
He blinked and read the announcement. "And she is?"
"In reality a book-keeper by the name of Martin Yorke," I yawned, draining my tea and setting the cup back down with a clink. "He frequents one of those dens in the heart of the city, illegal dog-fights and so on. The police have been after him for months, in their usual blundering inefficiency."
"Do you know how to locate him?" he asked with interest.
"I've been aware of his whereabouts for at least three weeks," I answered, standing to my feet and straightening my jacket. He followed my example amid a shower of cake-crumbs, exclaiming in his surprise and asking why I did not let the police in on my knowledge.
"Simply because one of my best – and cheapest – informants is a key part of his organization. Here, let me get the door," I added, seeing that he was holding his arm stiffly due to the drop in barometric pressure. "And besides, I am not retained by the police to compensate for their deficiencies."
"Thank you. I am certain they do the best they are able to," he retorted severely, with a reproving glare at me. "If they were all possessing of the genius you have, then you would no longer have an occupation, now would you?"
I paused in some surprise, until a rivulet of water dripped off an awning down under my collar, setting me wriggling in discomfort. But I was forced to agree with him, against my will, and he looked tremendously pleased at his small victory.
"But," I added in perfect complacency as we began to ramble in the direction of Baker Street, "they could certainly improve a bit without encroaching upon my monopoly on brilliance."
"My, you are humble, aren't you?"
"Only when the situation demands a lie for the sake of tact, and not always then," I retorted. "Humility is certainly not a virtue, and only causes more difficulties than pleasantries in life due to people's insistence of prevaricating and masking the truth under a façade of pretensed meekness. Perfect frankness is certainly the preferable method of communication. The only people in this life, Doctor, who get anywhere are the relentlessly ruthless ones."
"And those people," he pointed out, yanking on my arm to prevent my being run over by an over-eager flower-peddlar's cart, "are the ones who are so intense about their chosen fields and odd philosophies that they end up getting themselves killed by the normal citizens. Watch where you're stepping, for heaven's sake! I should prefer my day to be taken up by paying patients, if you don't mind."
I laughed at this, and we continued bickering good-naturedly for quite a few blocks, until the wind picked up and suddenly began to howl about the alleys and town-houses, whereupon we quickened the pace so as to reach home before the storm returned with a vengeance. A newspaper-vendor just at the corner of Baker Street suddenly lost his entire cache of papers, as the gale lifted them and flung them about the street in a cloud of flapping newsprint. Poor fellow, he gave a terrible wail of dismay and tried to chase them down as best he could, nearly getting himself trampled by an iron-monger's cart-horse in the process.
I did not realise the Doctor had left my side until I saw he was returning my direction, two slightly rumpled papers in each hand from where he had evidently chased them down the street despite his bad leg. Even as I watched, he suddenly reached out to snatch another that the wind sent whirling past his head, and then I realised it was rather poor manners to not make the effort to at least snag the one caught upon a bush by my left arm. The vendor thanked us both but especially him profusely, fairly bowing in his obsequious gratitude, but the Doctor not only refused the offer of a free paper but also gave the man a half-crown to cover part of the remaining loss.
Honestly, it is no wonder the fellow never has cash to hand, for his generosity makes him a bleeding heart to every poor child and lost puppy he comes across. I should not be at all surprised if he has been working that clinic in Aldgate completely for free. It is people of that unselfish nature who get themselves robbed blind by con-men in this day, and I should probably warn him against his charitableness.
But I kept silence, seeing that my advice was not exactly apropos and therefore would probably not be appreciated, and we managed to reach Baker Street before the squall descended in vigorous force. Fat wet drops were just beginning to plop upon the pavement as I shut the door behind us, and before we had reached the sitting-room the storm had broken again in a fury that, while wild, only lasted a few hours.
Mid-afternoon found chaos coming again to our little flat, in the form of my strewing bones all over the sitting room. Watson had gone upstairs after luncheon (a large luncheon, I might add) for a nap. Around five I heard him enter behind me, his shoes stop short and squeak on the rug, and then give vent to a long-suffering sigh.
I paused and glanced up, tapping the femur I held against my opposite hand.
"Holmes, what in heaven's name are you trying to do, besides give any caller the impression that you are a grave-robber?" He picked his way through the chalky debris and started for his desk.
"I am working on a new hobby, naturally," I retorted. "And I did not do so well in these classes at St. Bart's due to the fact that the instructor was a royal bore –"
"Old Ezekiel Anderson?"
"Yes, quite. My word, the skeleton he was using for an example was more animated – and instructive – than he was."
"Yes, I know him; he was teaching when I was working there a few weeks back. I wanted to walk in the classroom and poke him with a scalpel to see if he would move, or at least assume some kind of facial expression," my flat-mate replied with a small snigger. "Those poor students."
I laughed outright at the mental image, and inspected a nearby vertebrae for the number printed upon it – after two hours of unsuccessful piecing the skeleton back together I was rather entitled to cheat, I thought. Besides, if I did not, then the sitting room might remain a bone-yard for the rest of the year.
Then I jumped, flinging the femur dangerously close to the small fire Mrs. Hudson had lit against the wet, when Watson gave a very undignified yelp and leapt back from his desk.
Oh…I had forgotten I put the skull of my new friend (I really need to name the thing, in all seriousness…) just inside his half-open desk drawer for safekeeping; I had been afraid I might step on it or kick it, sending it rolling merrily into the fire. I opened my mouth in an effort to defend myself as he gingerly removed the skull and held it by the temporal lobes at arm's length, but found that I could barely speak for laughing at his expression.
He was nowhere near as amused as I, and said so. I chuckled and held out my hands, whereupon he carefully tossed the thing to me with an icy glare, cringing slightly when I moved the jaw up and down to make certain it still held together. "Next time warn a chap, will you?" he demanded. "I don't want to always be afraid to open my things, wondering if you've put poisonous scorpions or false teeth or exotic toxins or any other criminal relics in them."
"When have I ever put a poisonous scorpion in anything of yours?"
"Last spring, when you came back from that American diplomat's hotel room after he had been murdered by a secret society," he replied dryly.
"Now wait, a sugar-bowl is not something that is particularly yours," I pointed out logically. Honestly. One would think I did nothing in this house but play sick practical jokes upon its occupants, to hear him talk. "It is hardly fair to count that in your list as your things."
He sighed, chuckling a bit at some private joke that I missed entirely, and after a tolerant smile returned to writing his letter. I continued my work on the skeleton, occasionally asking him to check my progress or simply cheating and looking at the numbers printed upon the bones.
In this manner we passed a fairly pleasant afternoon, and a quiet evening. Then this unrealistically peaceful night suddenly erupted into pandemonium with the arrival of a client – a young fellow of about two-and-twenty, who unfortunately was accompanied by a most annoying little terrier-pup.
Said puppy apparently decided upon entering our sitting-room that it had attained the highest level of doggie paradise, for it pounced upon the nearest bone it saw on the floor – the left humerus – and promptly streaked off with it. I gave chase, naturally, leaving Watson to stammer his way through an explanation, and had chased the little blighter upstairs and downstairs and in the Doctor's chamber before Mrs. Hudson unwittingly returned from the market and let the blasted animal outside before I could shout for her to close the door.
Thankfully the little monster settled upon the tiny bit of earth surrounding a potted bonsai-tree in the doorway of the house opposite as sufficient grounds to bury his prize. After nearly having my hand taken off by the undersized shark, I retrieved my bone and the animal, carrying both back inside amidst an amused crowd of curious onlookers. Marching upstairs, I finally deposited the little beast by the scruff in front of my prospective client.
In my absence, Watson had magically hidden the rest of the skeleton – I just now found a metatarsal in the cushions of this chair…we shall probably be finding vertebrae all over the place for the next few days – from the dog's eyes and had calmed the flustered young man with some quiet conversation and a cup of tea (the universal British prescription for nerves, though I much prefer our colonial cousins' more invigorating coffee). Though much perturbed about the teeth marks now adorning my humerus, I still retrieved my pipe and left the bone in its place, and sat down to listen to the tale.
It was an unremarkable case, one of opium poisoning in a den over on the far side of the worst districts of the East End. How the lad has a friend foolish enough to get himself mixed up with rascals such as frequent that particular street of ill-repute is beyond my sensibilities, but these things do happen. I promised to look into the suspicious death – which in all likelihood was either legitimate overdosage, or else was not murder that could be proven – and showed the fellow and his little atrocity of a pet to the door.
Watson wanted to start in on me for being uncourteous to the poor fellow and his precious puppy, to which I replied that they were both lucky I did not rap the dog smartly upside the head with the bone for stealing it. This only set him off into a dissertation about it not being the dog's fault, and did I ever think about the fact that in my profession I needed to be a bit more tolerant of people or else word would get out and I would not have many well-bred clients due to my lack of manners, etc., etc.
Whether he is correct or incorrect makes no difference; he entirely missed the simple point that I do not care. If people need my talents badly enough, then they shall simply learn to tolerate my idiosyncrasies.
He was still blathering about kindness and consideration and some such rot when he went up to bed just now. Bless his innocent nature, he has no idea that he is the only person in the world this side of heaven who is quite so concerned with and compassionate toward his fellow man (and their horrid little pets).
All the same…I suppose I could make more of an effort to be patient once in a while – if the person in question deserves my extra consideration. Or if the Doctor is near enough at the time that I shall never hear the end of it if I do not.
We shall see. At any rate, it would be a novel activity, and worth a smallish effort at least.