The following morning, I walked down the street, looking at the sky. The typical English atmosphere had dissipated; leaving behind a blue sky laced with wispy, fair paint strokes; the sun gracing my mind with rarely seen rays of light. I inhaled deeply; life is good.
A poorly placed lamppost sent me toppling to the pavement. With my attention more deliberately placed on my feet, I continued on to work.
To write, had been my dream: since I was little the thought of capturing absolute truth, and painting that picture with words as the paint, and my mind the brush.
To put it mildly: This hell-hole was my nightmare. I believe I shouldn't mind the establishment were it not for two things. First on that list was my boss, my chief executive officer, the captain of the ship, and so and so forth.
Digging my fingernails into the shoulder straps of my backpack, I slowly walked toward the threshold of the dreaded door. In large black letters, the word NEWS EDITOR attempted to fend me off, creating a perimeter of psychological weaponry, meant to keep out lowly journalists. I would not let this arsenal hold me back, I had one of my own; yet as I rapped confidently on the cloudy glass, it began to wane under the constant barrage of internal conflict; the contradiction of personal rule number one: never challenge the Boss.
And what do I do?
"Excuse me, Sir? I have a few questions about these stories I've been assigned, they…"
"Alright, Jack, I said I'd be there didn't I? You stupid twit, stop wasting my time, I've got better things to do. Hmm? Like what? What do ya mean 'Like What?'…" boomed a large black executive chair, who's occupant was currently and professionally ignoring me, in the classic movie style, Chair swiveled in a position opposite the door. A unique combination of a slam and a ring signified the end of a conversation. The chair whirled around to reveal the devil in the form a heavy set, middle-aged man. His eyes dulled at the sight of me.
"Ah, Cassie…"
"Callie, sir," I interjected
"Yes, yes, whatever." He waved his hands at the unimportance of my being. "What do you want?"
"Well, umm, Sir. I was, ah, wondering, if since I have been writing about the Yard for sometime now, that, I could, perhaps, maybe, possibly…Now I'm just saying I think I have a new story angle." So much for articulation.
Boss's eyebrows raised as his eyes narrowed. I didn't even know that to be possible. He leaned back, crossing his legs in a victorious manner. "Well, you know it's the failure of the Yard that sells, and if we don't sell papers, you're out of a job. Now why don't you run along and…"
"Sir. I don't think you truly understand my meaning. What I intended to iterate was that I have conclusive evidence that there is one other than the Yard who is helping with the overflow of cases. I believe it would be even more appealing to the customer," I emphasized customer to fulfill his consumer driven appetite, "to have news of murders solved. And even then, the identity of the hero."
He brought his thumb and forefinger to meet his bulbous chin as he tried a thinking pose. I don't believe he was truly thinking, or for that matter he truly could. But, he sensed a deal when he saw one, and what he sensed was a large cash flow. I saw my literary freedom.
"Why not," he finally hissed. "But give me the material you finished for today." I flung the papers that had been burning a hole in my bag since their birth on paper.
" And I want this new stuff by the end of next week! On my desk! At 5 o'…"
The door was closed before he could finish his sentence.
I strutted past the rows of computers, my fellow drones typing under a blanket of electric haze, the sounds of clicks and electronic humming singing the melody of my emancipation. Co-workers peeked up from their toils, to offer me a weak smile of their own, as if to say, "Bully for you, you beat the system."
In joyful triumph, I applied more pressure than necessary to the elevator button, flicking my finger in the air. The metal doors parted, and I decided the elevator wasn't quick enough to celebrate this rush I was feeling, and headed for the stairs.
****
Hailing a cab might have been the greatest endangerment to my person thus far in my short life. But, in the end, I got to my destination of 221B Baker Street relatively unscathed, though my pocketbook was considerably lighter.
I found myself facing a door very much like my own apartments, though I was a bit more apprehensive about knocking at this door than my boss's. But, apparently, knocking was not necessary. The door was unceremoniously opened to reveal:
"Sherlock Holmes?"
He nodded in affirmation.
"My name is…"
"I am well aware of your name, Miss Talbot, we dispensed with formalities yesterday. I suppose you'll want to interview me, ask how I solved the Sanger case, et cetera?"
It was my turn to nod, "Yes, actually." I moved to retrieve my notebook and pen from the depths of my bag, when
"No, Miss Talbot, today is not particularly convenient. And I apologize, but I do not wish to be interviewed. Credit for the case will go to Scotland Yard, so if you'll excuse me…"
The same sturdy young man from the café, poked his head from behind Holmes' shoulder, "I say, Holmes, who is this here? 'Name's John Watson. I am very please to make you're acquaintance, Miss…"
I opened my mouth, and mysteriously Holmes' voice came out, "Talbot, and she was just leaving."
"Come now, Holmes, that's no way to treat a lady." Watson pushed passed Holmes, who in return gave him an incredulous glare. Watson placed his hand on my shoulder and steered me into very bohemian surroundings.
As soon as the three of us sat, a sharp authoritative rap cut through Watson's friendly chatter and Holmes' surveying glower. Before either man could rise to answer the door, it was flung open. In a no nonsense manner, she shrugged off her coat, and stuck out her hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm Anne Madison, you might be familiar with my father, Peter Madison, he's seated in…"
"Parliament, Yes I know," declared Holmes, shaking her hand.
"Mr. Holmes, please allow me to finish my sentence. Thank you." Holmes' astonished look was priceless. This Madison girl and I must have a chat.
Carefully, Holmes continued, "What brings you to my doorstep, Miss Madison?"
"The matter concern's my father. I believe he might be involved in some sort of illegal activity."
Watson piped up, "What sort? Murder?"
Anne looked pensive for a minute, and then answered, "More along the lines of drug smuggling, though I know that murder and the former often go hand in hand. You see, my occupation is a court stenographer, and my experience is such that I had begun to recognize the warning signs that something was amiss. "
Holmes walked to the window; the clean light illuminated his furrowed brow, molded into a perfect definition of concentration. "What we need," he said, "is an insider. One who could supply us with more data."
"I could help." I regretted the statement as soon as I said it.
Holmes fired back in response, " I highly doubt that people running criminal operations should like to have a journalist in their midst. I was thinking more along the lines of a familiar face, someone who may not be a regular, but connected with the goings on. Perhaps, you, Miss Madison, would be the perfect candidate. Now, if you don't feel comfortable, I would underst…"
"Not feel comfortable? Ha. That's humorous. This is my father we're talking about. And what good daughter wouldn't want to help her daddy succeed? Playing daddy's little girl won't be a problem, Mr. Holmes."
I felt shorted. This was supposed to be my story. How could I gather my information? "Then at least allow me accompany you. I need to put together a more comprehensive report than that which that bumbling idiot Lestrade doles out. Don't you even want the Yard to employ you methods? How else are these cases to be solved: You are only one man." I ended my monologue softly, and my voice settled into the silence. I took it as a wordless agreement.
Anne broke the silence. "Well, that's that. I'd better be included on every development in the case. Anything I hear will be reported as soon as possible. If you'll excuse me, we're dealing with a particularly lengthy attempted murder case, and I must be there."
And with that, the meeting was adjourned.
