I sat on the sofa, Holmes in his chair, and Watson in his. Everytime we did this I had to laugh. It looked just like the illustrations that they had in the stories . . .but an additional female.
Of course, Holmes said nothing, as did neither Watson or I. It was a very comfortable silence that I had always found to settle sooner of later in their flat. I was about to rise to leave when someone on the street caught my attention.
A man was crossing the street, but looking to the left, then the right, then the left. Obviously American. You have to look to the right first in England. He crossed to our door, checking a slip of paper in his hand.
"Holmes, you have a visitor." I said quietly.
He looked up, shaken from his trance. "Wha-what? Send him in."
Watson chuckled. "Not here yet, chap. He just came to the door."
"Oh," Holmes looked down, "then send him up."
Of course, in the next instant a young man had come into the room. I placed him as 27, a violinist, and extremely worried by the look on his face.
"Hello, sir, what brings you to my residence?" Holmes asked nonchaleontly. I had learnd that Holmes never liked to overlap cases, and would probably dismiss this to the Yards.
"Oh, Mr. Holmes, please, you have to help me!" Texan, just moved. The drawl was there, and so was the tan. He must have just moved, as he didn't even have the slightest hint of a Brittish accent. Even I faked one sometimes, just for the fun, and not even a pure, born and raised Englishmen would have been able to tell it was fake.
"Please, Mr . ." the detective trailed off, looking for a name.
"Mr. Stuntson."
"Mr. Stuntson, compose yourself and explain."
"Well, ya see sir, my friend and I, Mr. Glassborough-"
"As in the Glassborough family?"
"Yessir, well, he and I work at the-"
"Cafe Nationale. Your outfit suggests that of an entertainer, and your hands have the calluses of a violinist. You smell slightly of garlic . . . hardly recognizable, my good man. Now, there's a bit of floor wax that seems to have worn off on the bottoms of your shoe. I know that there are only a few resteraunts in the area that are dancing and dinner establishments, and you most certainly walked to here. Your face is all red. Combined with that and the fact that outside of the Nationale is the only one of these places that had construction going on right now, street dirt on your shoe, I placed you and your friend there. " He acted casually. "Now, go on .. "
"Amazing, Mr. Holmes. Well, my friend Mr. Glassborough and I work at the cafe. His family and I have known eack other for years. In fact, David is going to marry my sister . .," he looked down, troubled, "but he's having an affair with another woman. If the public gets a hold of this, Mr. Holmes, it would be very bad." He finished his sentence and eyed myself and Watson. "Who are they?"
"These are my associates, Mr. Watson and his sister, Ms. Watson." We shook his hand. "You can trust them both as much as you trust me. Tell me, how do I play into this? I can't be wasting my time on silly, frivilous things about love." Holmes seemed to have barely a nerve left.
"Mr. Holmes. My friend had been missing for two days."
Automatically, the detective's eye's grew wide and I could almost hear the sound of his brain's wheels turning. When we had examined the body, we placed the death around 39 hours earlierand that the man was a musician, not in his own clothing.
"When was the last time you saw him? Around seven?" Holmes' looked about ready to jump out of his chair.
Stuntson looked at him confused. "Why, that's the last time any of us ever saw him, how did you know?"
Holmes' face grew pale, and he carefully refilled his pipe. I realized he was going to be akwardly telling this man the news. He cleared his throat, but I stepped forward, glancing at him.
"What?" Stuntson asked.
"Mr. Stuntson, I'm very sorry to tell you this but . . . Mr. Glassborough's body was found in the river earlier today."
He sunk into a chair. "Oh, poor David." He sprung up, causing a gasp from Watson's direction. "It was that devil women, that Mrs. Perrins! I tell you! She killed him!"
Watson cleared his throat and stepped forward. "I think that it's time to leave. I'm very truly sorry, but I don't think it's right to jump to conclusions."
Stuntson turned and slammed the door behind him, causing a biscuit tin to fall of a shelf.
"Seemed quick to accuse the woman, didn't he?" I asked Watson.
"Yes, but it does seem logical-" he started, cut off by Holmes.
"No, you must not be as quick to judge, either. I think I'll meet this Mrs. Perrins."
He left, and I went to my room, having had enough chaos for the day.
Things never are as simple as they seem to be. The facts of Glassborough kept going through my head. Something was wrong with this 'death by misadventure'-Holmes and I had fought over that for several minutes with Lestrade.
I sighed, closing my eyes and letting sleep take over.
Of course, Holmes said nothing, as did neither Watson or I. It was a very comfortable silence that I had always found to settle sooner of later in their flat. I was about to rise to leave when someone on the street caught my attention.
A man was crossing the street, but looking to the left, then the right, then the left. Obviously American. You have to look to the right first in England. He crossed to our door, checking a slip of paper in his hand.
"Holmes, you have a visitor." I said quietly.
He looked up, shaken from his trance. "Wha-what? Send him in."
Watson chuckled. "Not here yet, chap. He just came to the door."
"Oh," Holmes looked down, "then send him up."
Of course, in the next instant a young man had come into the room. I placed him as 27, a violinist, and extremely worried by the look on his face.
"Hello, sir, what brings you to my residence?" Holmes asked nonchaleontly. I had learnd that Holmes never liked to overlap cases, and would probably dismiss this to the Yards.
"Oh, Mr. Holmes, please, you have to help me!" Texan, just moved. The drawl was there, and so was the tan. He must have just moved, as he didn't even have the slightest hint of a Brittish accent. Even I faked one sometimes, just for the fun, and not even a pure, born and raised Englishmen would have been able to tell it was fake.
"Please, Mr . ." the detective trailed off, looking for a name.
"Mr. Stuntson."
"Mr. Stuntson, compose yourself and explain."
"Well, ya see sir, my friend and I, Mr. Glassborough-"
"As in the Glassborough family?"
"Yessir, well, he and I work at the-"
"Cafe Nationale. Your outfit suggests that of an entertainer, and your hands have the calluses of a violinist. You smell slightly of garlic . . . hardly recognizable, my good man. Now, there's a bit of floor wax that seems to have worn off on the bottoms of your shoe. I know that there are only a few resteraunts in the area that are dancing and dinner establishments, and you most certainly walked to here. Your face is all red. Combined with that and the fact that outside of the Nationale is the only one of these places that had construction going on right now, street dirt on your shoe, I placed you and your friend there. " He acted casually. "Now, go on .. "
"Amazing, Mr. Holmes. Well, my friend Mr. Glassborough and I work at the cafe. His family and I have known eack other for years. In fact, David is going to marry my sister . .," he looked down, troubled, "but he's having an affair with another woman. If the public gets a hold of this, Mr. Holmes, it would be very bad." He finished his sentence and eyed myself and Watson. "Who are they?"
"These are my associates, Mr. Watson and his sister, Ms. Watson." We shook his hand. "You can trust them both as much as you trust me. Tell me, how do I play into this? I can't be wasting my time on silly, frivilous things about love." Holmes seemed to have barely a nerve left.
"Mr. Holmes. My friend had been missing for two days."
Automatically, the detective's eye's grew wide and I could almost hear the sound of his brain's wheels turning. When we had examined the body, we placed the death around 39 hours earlierand that the man was a musician, not in his own clothing.
"When was the last time you saw him? Around seven?" Holmes' looked about ready to jump out of his chair.
Stuntson looked at him confused. "Why, that's the last time any of us ever saw him, how did you know?"
Holmes' face grew pale, and he carefully refilled his pipe. I realized he was going to be akwardly telling this man the news. He cleared his throat, but I stepped forward, glancing at him.
"What?" Stuntson asked.
"Mr. Stuntson, I'm very sorry to tell you this but . . . Mr. Glassborough's body was found in the river earlier today."
He sunk into a chair. "Oh, poor David." He sprung up, causing a gasp from Watson's direction. "It was that devil women, that Mrs. Perrins! I tell you! She killed him!"
Watson cleared his throat and stepped forward. "I think that it's time to leave. I'm very truly sorry, but I don't think it's right to jump to conclusions."
Stuntson turned and slammed the door behind him, causing a biscuit tin to fall of a shelf.
"Seemed quick to accuse the woman, didn't he?" I asked Watson.
"Yes, but it does seem logical-" he started, cut off by Holmes.
"No, you must not be as quick to judge, either. I think I'll meet this Mrs. Perrins."
He left, and I went to my room, having had enough chaos for the day.
Things never are as simple as they seem to be. The facts of Glassborough kept going through my head. Something was wrong with this 'death by misadventure'-Holmes and I had fought over that for several minutes with Lestrade.
I sighed, closing my eyes and letting sleep take over.
