. . .

THE DISPATCH INQUIRY
Chapter Eleven

Another lunch Amy spent in her room simultaneously typing and eating. Transcribing Leonard's interview took longer than most as she sighed over each meaningless phrase, whether they were hesitations or fillers. Or were they just Americanisms? She considered leaving them out as she did when someone said "um," but they were actual words and she had written them down, so she included them to be precise. Penny's speech was even more casual, if that were possible, but at least she avoided most of the hesitations. Penny had a confidence Leonard did not.

After transcribing their interviews and writing her article, Amy went to the library to call it into The Herald. Surprisingly, Sheldon wasn't there. Perhaps because she was earlier this afternoon. Or because he knew she'd need privacy for her phone call. Or, maybe, because he was avoiding her. Well, he should be. She was still smarting over their argument on the stairs. How dare he speak to her that way? And then his childish temper tantrum at dinner last night!

Coming out of the library, Amy heard the distant cracking of Bakelite balls. Someone had taken Sheldon up on the offer to play billiards. Amy didn't care about the game, but she was curious to see a newly uncovered room of the house, so she followed the sound to the same broad hallway that led to the morning room.

In a room across from the morning room, Leonard was bent over a burgundy-topped table, angling his cue at a green ball. Rajesh stood not far from him, holding a cue upright as he watched. From the doorway, Amy observed as the ball rolled into a pocket.

"Good shot," she said.

The bespectacled scientist looked up and smiled. "Thanks, but not really. Do you play?"

"Oh, no." Amy walked in and ran her hand along the thick nap on the edge of the table. "I've never been in a billiards room before. They're usually the purview of rich men."

"We could teach you," Rajesh offered.

"I understand the principals." Amy reached for a cue on the wall, measured its weight in her hand, and leaned over the table, cradling the end over the back of her hand, as she'd seen done in movies and photographs. "Geometry and basic physics, isn't it?" She pushed the cue forward, striking the black ball.

Leonard said, "It's a bit more complicated than that."

The ball rolled and rebounded off the edge of the table before shooting in the opposite direction, knocking the other two remaining balls in the process. Amy watched as each ball rolled into a pocket on opposite sides of the table.

"Wow," Leonard mumbled.

"Geometry and physics. As I thought." Amy returned her cue to the wall rack. "Is it only you two who play?"

"I need to ask Wolowitz and Kibbler," Leonard answered. "Kripke would if he were here, too, but, well, it's a little awkward now, isn't it?"

"Oh. Yes," Amy admitted. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No, no, stay, stay," Rajesh said with another of his blinding smiles. "Anyone who yells at Cooper is a friend."

Amy nodded but then asked, "Why is it you two claim him as a friend and yet constantly mock him?"

The men looked at each other. "Well, it's . . ." Rajesh started.

"It's like he's my brother," Leonard said. "And maybe for Raj." The other man nodded. "We love him, we really do, but well, he is difficult at times. I mean, he acted like a child last night at dinner, didn't he?"

"And he's mean to us, too." Amy raised her eyebrows at Rajesh's equally childish phrase. "He always makes fun of Leonard for being short and me for being a popular entertainer. He says I'm not serious about science. But, well, we forgive him and ignore his worst qualities."

"Yeah." Leonard pulled himself up straighter. "Despite my size, I can be the bigger man."

"And we like the same things," Rajesh added. "I enjoy coming here, talking to him."

"And he's a genius. Without a doubt, the smartest person I know," Leonard said.

Rajesh sighed. "He means well."

"He really does, you know," Leonard agreed. "Sometimes he goes about it all wrong, but well . . . surely you've noticed he's not what you'd call normal. He often fails but he tries if it matters to him. If you don't matter to him, he won't try for you."

Amy pursed her lips and looked away. Everyone kept forgiving Sheldon's behavior because he meant well, but she wasn't sure if good intentions were enough. Instead of answering she walked slowly around the room, studying it. Leonard and Rajesh returned to a private conversation, something about music.

The room was paneled in dark and gleaming wood with a green carpet, and a green glass shaded lamp over the table. The artwork was of equestrian and pastoral scenes, the largest even of a fox hunt, so it was clear this room had been shut up by Sheldon. It, too, was chilly, just like the morning room was, and she noted the lack of radiators. But a fire had been lit in the corner fireplace, and Amy drew close.

Warming herself, her eyes were caught by a stack of yellowed newspapers with curling edges next to a basket of kindling. Reaching down, she picked up the top one and discovered it was only a single page broadsheet entitled The Medford Gazette. In smaller print, it proclaimed 'Timely and Biweekly' and Amy smiled coyly in amusement at the curious and unhelpful choice of slogan.

"Are all of these newspapers from the village?" she asked, as she dug through them, scanning headlines.

"I think so," Rajesh answered. "Not exactly riveting reading. I tried once but it was only a report about the price of beef."

"Yeah, Sheldon only gets them to see his name in print and then complains they're not about his newest scientific achievement," Leonard added.

"I should be going," Rajesh said. "Good afternoon, Miss Fowler."

Amy looked up with a frown. "I didn't mean to interrupt your fun; please stay. I'll go. My mother always told me I have a poor habit of overstaying my welcome."

"No, it's not that at all. Wolowitz and I have a plan to try our hand at writing a song on the piano. Good afternoon."

Amy watched him leave and then turned to Leonard, who was racking up another set of balls. "Do you and Dr. Koothrappali play billiards often? Or is the room always closed?"

"It's always closed. At least every time I've been here."

"Is it really true that you and Penny come all the way from California twice a year?"

"Usually. Sheldon won't come to us; he's afraid of boats. Besides, we like his lab." Leonard struck the triangle of balls and they scattered over the tabletop.

"We? You and Penny?"

"I meant me. I guess I'm just used to saying we. Or, well, Sheldon and I. And Rajesh on weekends. Sheldon's lab has advantages."

"Such as?"

"Privacy. You see, anything I create or invent or even just test in my lab at Caltech belongs to them, the patent and everything. It's in my contract. Here, we get to keep the patents."

"Do you hold a lot of patents?"

Leonard shrugged. "A few."

"Lord Cooper, too?"

"One or two."

"Would I know any?"

"I mostly sell them to the military. In fact, it's why we're here now. We're going to London in a couple of weeks to finish a deal." He'd said it again: we. So Sheldon would be joining him, confirming what Rajesh had said, that Sheldon was not as much of a recluse as reported. Just secretive.

"The new gramophone player, the magnetic tape, it's one of your patents?" Leonard's next shot was horrible, the cue missing the ball entirely and scraping against the felt instead. Amy raised her eyebrows and then added, "Sorry. I assumed Penny told you. I was just curious about how it worked."

"Yeah, she did. Um, listen, that one, it's not quite patented yet. So I can't really explain the details; I'm sure you understand. And if you could be discreet about it. Off the record."

"Of course." Interesting. Did Ramona, too, promise to be discreet about it? If Leonard felt he couldn't even discuss it with Amy, why did he let another scientist borrow it? Did he feel it was covered by the confidentiality clause they had all signed? Amy let it drop and switched questions. "What does Penny do while you're here? It's very different from Hollywood, I would imagine."

"Read scripts and trashy magazines. Tries to sunbathe if the weather allows. Naps. Listens to the radio. She likes the quiet, but if she gets bored she goes down to London to shop."

As much as Amy enjoyed reading, she found this description dull. Everyone deserved a relaxing holiday from time to time, but Penny didn't strike her as a dull person in the least. But then, she had spent the previous day here alone in her room.

"But everyone else in the house is a scientist," Amy pushed, "and she told me herself she doesn't understand most science." Leonard didn't reply as he made another shot. "If you don't mind my asking, how did you meet? It's just . . . you seem so different."

"I had just moved back to Pasadena and got an apartment near campus. She moved in across the hall; she wasn't famous yet, she was still trying to make it in the pictures. For me, it was love at first sight. For her, it took some persuading. But, well, in the end, opposites attract, I guess."

Amy sighed softly. "I don't think I could be with an opposite. I want someone I can talk to about my work, who understands what I do, the words I use, the processes I have to go through."

"Another journalist, then?" Leonard asked.

"I don't think so," Amy admitted. "I enjoy writing and creating puzzles, but, well, I've always wanted to study biology further, especially the human brain. He doesn't have to be a biologist, though, although yes, a fellow scientist; I wouldn't want to be constantly explaining myself. But primarily just someone I can talk to, of equal intelligence, who adds nuances to my thought patterns. Someone also who respects me as I am. Someone who sees who I am. It's - it's like the brain. The current theory is we form gyri and sulci - that's the wrinkles -"

"I know."

"We form them because neurons in the cortex are connected already in a way we don't understand yet, but they may be mechanically pulled close to each other by axons in the white matter. The more connections, the more wrinkles."

"So you're a neuron looking for another neuron?" Leonard asked, picking up a piece of chalk on the edge of the table. "That's a . . . unique way to put it."

Amy gulped. She'd said too much, had gotten carried away with her little fantasy. She forced a chuckle. "It's silly, I know. Neurons! Does a man even exist who would not be bored by that?"

"Maybe." Leonard peered over the top of his glasses at her as he used the chalk on his cue. "Have you spoken to him yet?"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean."

She turned her back on him, returning the newspapers and picking through the few on top. "Do you think I could take them?" she asked as she gathered the entire stack in her arms. "I'm interested in various forms of journalism, that's all."

"Well, if that's all," Leonard said, grinning, as he shot a ball across the table with a particularly loud crack, "go right ahead."

"Thanks."

"He's usually in the library by this time," Leonard yelled after her as she left, but Amy only hurried away for fear of dropping her reading material.

Back in her room, Amy sorted the papers chronologically. It was by no means a complete set, although she was able to determine the broadsheet was published every other week. But whole months were missing, although that allowed her an insight into the past several years.

The first issue she found was trimmed in black and reported on the passing of Mary Cooper, Countess of Medford. Not surprisingly, the reporter extolled her virtues and charity work in flowery language, holding her up as a paradigm of English virtue despite her American birth.

But after that interesting start, Rajesh was correct; the majority of The Medford Gazette's pages were filled with livestock and crop reports, small advertisements for the village shops, and a calendar of social events, mostly to raise money for local causes. Amy leafed through each issue, looking for the articles containing the Medford or Cooper name, although it was not difficult as such inclusion was special enough to be shouted by the headline.

The last issue was from the previous autumn, detailing the capture of the poacher on Sheldon's estate. There was a large photo of Kripke, his arm tightly holding that of a young man who was clearly down on his luck. The poacher's shirt was soiled and wrinkled, even worse than Kripke's permanently disheveled appearance, and there was even a small tear in the fabric evident over his breast. Amy wondered what happened to him.

For such a short newspaper from a sleepy village, Amy was impressed by the reporting. While not wholly objective, the tenor was always respectful and dignified. As she read throughout the afternoon, a picture far clearer than any of the photographs began to emerge.

His Lordship, Sheldon Cooper, Earl of Medford loomed large in the pages even if he never once appeared. There were brief reports about the need for local carpenters and other tradesmen required for repairs and renovations of his grand house. There were gifts bestowed upon the village: a fire engine four years ago after three shops burned to the ground, including Stuart's; donations to the lending library, the school, and the doctor's surgery; matching grants for the small war memorial and a new gutter and sewer system. Even the smallest gifts were described in glowing praise: the traditional wreath for Armistice Day, the brass cups for the fair.

And yet, pervading all the generosity and modernity, was an overwhelming sense of melancholy. Sheldon always sent his regrets and failed to appear at the either joyous celebrations or solemn memorials. Last June, Penny went in his stead to judge the flower show and caused a sensation, but Amy still read the wistfulness between the lines. Leonard had claimed there was no mention of Sheldon's scientific work, but that was not true: every award he won was announced proudly.

The afternoon sun was well on its decent, and Amy lowered the last paper with a strangely heavy heart. There was something sad but accepting about the disappointed eagerness of the articles. The village had lost a lively, ever-present countess and gained a hermit they did not quite understand but clearly wished to, very much.

He was standing at an open French door, looking out over his estate, lost in thought. Sheldon didn't notice when she entered, and Amy studied his lanky frame silhouetted by the light and the bookcases. His shoulders drooped, as though they carried great weight. It was beautiful and sad in equal measure. It was an image so in line with Amy's thoughts that she sighed.

"Lord Cooper?" she asked softly.

He turned and smiled, a smile so genuine, so rare, that it pained her. She noticed, for the first time, the hint of his front teeth. "Miss Fowler. The light this afternoon is lovely, wouldn't you say?"

"It is."

"I was just contemplating a walk. Would you like to join me?"

She shook her head. "I don't have my hat or gloves. And my mother once told me a ruined complexion was one step away from a ruined hymen."

Sheldon blanched. "Er, um, yes, I suppose? But neither do I. The hat, not the hymen."

"We'll miss tea time."

Sheldon glanced at the clock on the wall. "You're correct, I see. Please forgive me."

Then he turned away again and took a step out the door. Amy gripped the back of the chair near her as she felt everything in the room, and perhaps her person, being pulled out with him.

"Wait!" Amy called, rushing out the door. Catching up to him, they fell into step together without words. The afternoon was lovely, warm but with a soft crisp breeze. The sun felt good on her face, something she would have missed if she'd had her hat. Sheldon walked easily, his stride long and sure but not too fast. He was wearing another two-jersey-shirt combination and the golden leaves crunched beneath his sturdy brown shoes.

The closed wing of the house stretched beside them, across the pond and a broad expanse of lawn. "It looks larger from here," Amy said. "I wonder how long it takes the Inspector to circle it every night." She paused. "Maybe not that long. Inspector Kripke says Mr. Bloom just winds the clocks while he's gone. How long does that take?"

"I'm not certain. He only winds the public rooms at night. He used to wind every room at noon, but he asked if he could switch the winding of the public rooms to coincide with Kripke's entrance and exit at night. I was concerned the clocks would lag the first evening, but I monitored them with my pocket watch and all was as it should be."

"You didn't give the Inspector a key?"

"No. Mr. Bloom locks up after he returns." No additional explanation was given.

So it must have been Kripke that Ramona saw outside her window. That at least explained why Sheldon was so unconcerned, as he knew it was the scheduled time for Kripke's round. Was that one small mystery solved?

Amy switched the subject again, before Sheldon could suspect her intentions. "That entire wing is closed, correct?"

"Yes, it's closed. It's too expensive to heat and constantly clean. And I do not need it. It's just me now."

Of course. "I imagine it's beautiful; the morning room is."

"You have my permission to go look. Although I doubt I could stop you."

Amy glanced over at him but his face had not changed. It seemed less of a rebuke than a fact. "I met Mrs. Sparks yesterday."

"Ah, I see I am correct."

"Yes, and before you chastise me, I know that's not how things are done. But, well, I was following a lead."

"Following a lead?" He grunted and increased his pace. Amy responded in kind, quickening her steps. "I suppose you heard all the family gossip, then."

"Yes." No use denying it. "She respects you a great deal. She says you saved the estate."

"You sound surprised." That did sound like a rebuke.

Amy stopped and it took Sheldon two paces to realize. He turned around to look at her.

"How is it? Is it strange?" she asked.

"Is what strange?"

She gestured toward the broad face of the house. "All this. I cannot imagine it. I thought it would be easy, the money, the servants, but she told me of all the work you had to do. Was it difficult?"

Sheldon resumed his brisk pace and Amy ran to catch up. They were just past the edge of the house but instead of continuing into the formal gardens, he veered off to the side, past a row of yew hedges. Here, he finally slowed and Amy's lungs welcomed it.

"I never wanted to be the Earl of Medford," Sheldon replied. "I was the second son and that suited me well. Not because Georgie was better than me in some way, but because I could be left alone to my science. I would do research at a university and live quite happily off my allowance. But, when I came back, I realized how neglected things had become while I was gone: the house, the land, and, yes, the money. Repairs had been delayed, updates had been ignored. It was my fault, I suppose. My brother was too ill and my mother was too busy caring for him. Neither of them ever had a head for figures. So I applied science to it, consolidated where I could. I allowed the number of servants to shrink through attrition. I made changes to improve hygiene and comfort, to decrease the hours spent on tasks so that fewer servants were needed. It was all necessary. I just did what was needed."

"I know you've closed up most of the house, but how do you keep it all running?" Amy looked around; the grounds were lovely, even this late in the year when most things were dying.

"The tires."

She almost tripped over a stone in the path. She could not have been more surprised if Sheldon had mentioned ladies' stockings. "The what?"

"I own the patent for a type of synthetic rubber. I never sold it; I created an air-tight contract for any company that wants to use it. I get a fee for every tire produced. It adds to the cost of the final product, of course, but the tires are superior and people will pay for it. They are sturdier, less likely to puncture. I developed it after the war."

"For your brother?"

There was a pause before his reply. "Because of him, yes."

"But you're a physicist, not a chemist," she pointed out. "Although," she added, "you studied at the Institut Curie."

"Exactly. Physics and chemistry have many overlapping similarities. Not that dissimilarly would stop me; I'm certain I would excel at any science I decided to try my hand at. Any idiot could do geology." Amy laughed and Sheldon turned to her. "What? I could be a biologist, too, you know. I know how to use both formaldehyde and a centrifuge."

"I don't see you washing out beakers or slicing biological tissue, but, alright." There was no reply from Sheldon, other than one of his semi-confused neck stretches, and she smirked. "Is that how you know Dr. Rostenkowski? She's a biochemist."

"Actually, I'd never met her before. But her attendance was recommended to me and, after reading her published articles, I found her work exemplary. Just as I found yours."

It was Sheldon who stopped suddenly this time. "Miss Fowler, I owe you an apology. My behavior yesterday, it was . . . inappropriate."

"On the stairs or at dinner?" Amy asked.

He swallowed. "Both. But I especially wish to apologize for our conversation on the stairs. I don't know what came over me. I've - I've never experienced anything like it." He looked away and licked his lips. "I felt . . . overwhelmed. Overheated, even."

"You were angry. As was I," Amy conceded, his confusion and remorse obvious to her. "It is called the heat of the moment for a reason. We both said things we regret."

"I have been angry before. Often. Others are so unintelligent and it infuriates me. But this was . . . " He gulped again and shrugged.

"Primal," Amy whispered in agreement.

Flushing, Sheldon snapped back into step and Amy trailed behind him. Lost in her own thoughts, watching only her footfalls, Amy did not try to catch up and she missed the approach to a brick building. Sheldon stopped by the door and took a set of keys out of his pocket. He jangled them, glancing back at her, catching her attention, and then unlocked the door. "Well, aren't you coming?" he called over his shoulder.

Amy tried not to betray her excitement but it was impossible. Sheldon's laboratory was cozy, smaller than she imagined, but the equipment was state of the art. He showed her everything, pointing out several pieces of equipment. There were several large chalkboards and the dust coating them indicated their heavy use. Sheldon followed her around, answering her questions, sharing his equations and work with her.

More time must have passed than she realized, because as they discussed the state of research into penicillin being done at Oxford, Sheldon plugged in one of the newest models of electric kettles. He passed her a wooden caddy and she lifted the lid to smell the various tea leaves within. "I don't have any biscuits out here," he apologized as he poured the hot water over the strainer in her cup.

Sitting opposite each other at a lab table, they continued talking about synthetic rubber, advances in refrigeration, and the safety profiles of airplanes versus hydrogen blimps. Their tea had long gone cold when Amy looked up at the clock. "Oh!" She stood sharply. "We need to go dress for dinner. There's hardly time."

"Wait." Sheldon crossed to stand next to her. So near that Amy half-closed her eyes in surprise, as she picked up the clear, clean scent of soap. So close she noticed his broad shoulders straining the seams of his jersey shirts. "I need to -" He stopped and licked his lips, and Amy watched the slide and pull of his tongue and the glistening it left behind. Her breath caught in her throat.

Urging him to continue, Amy looked up with entreating eyes. A sound she did not intend but could not control escaped her when he reached up and brushed his fingertips through her hair, drawing a piece away from her cheek. His knuckles grazed her face and her heart thundered in response. His eyes, blazing like sodium set afire, locked with hers for a moment and Amy held her breath. Sheldon gulped and lowered his hand.

"There was a leaf in your hair," he explained, his voice was soft.

"Oh. Yes. Thank you."

"You're welcome." He did not draw away. "That lead you were following in the servants' hall, did you find it?"

Amy took a step back. "Is that what this is? Are you trying to get information out of me?"

"What is what? What information - oh." He put a hand out reaching for her, and she took another step to avoid it, the back of her knees knocking into a stool. "No, no, Miss Fowler."

"But you know I cannot tell you, so why would you even ask? Schrödinger's box, remember?"

"Schrödinger's cat. The state of the box is known, but not the cat."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters a great deal. If it were the box -"

"No." She shook her head, interrupting him. "It's my fault. I should not have come out here with you, spoke to you so casually."

"I was just trying to keep the conversation going. You said you liked to discuss the case with me. You find it helpful."

"Perhaps that was a mistake, too. I do not need help. After all, I am not the Inspector." She turned and walked toward the door. "We need to go back, to dress for dinner."

"Of course." The resignation in his voice was palpable. "But, Amy, please understand that I am trying. I just don't know how to do this."

Another silhouette of Sheldon, this time surrounded by scientific equipment, but the droop of his shoulders was the same. Resigned to a life he didn't want and didn't know how to execute properly. Amy wanted to be angry at him but she couldn't.

Instead, she whispered softly before turning and leaving, walking alone back to the house, "I don't either."

To be continued . . .

The theory Amy mentions pertaining to the formation of gyri and sulci in the brain has since been disproven.

Inflatable tires were invented in 1887 by a Scotsman but they used natural rubber, as did the ambulances in World War I. The first synthetic rubber was invented in 1910 by a Russian scientist, but it was not very successful. By the 1920s, natural rubber had become so expensive that many other scientists were working to discover and produce as many new types as possible. The first successful synthetic rubber was neoprene, invented in 1931.

Penicillin was discovered by Alexander Fleming in 1928. However, in its natural state, it is difficult to produce. Howard Florey led the research team at Oxford in the 1930s to produce larger quantities of an useful and effective drug. The first clinical trials started in 1941. He shared the Nobel Prize in 1945 with Fleming and Dr. Ernst Chain for his work.

Thank you in advance for your reviews!