Title: The Case of Missing Whisky

Author: Mundungus42

Rating: PGish

Category: Sherlock Holmes/Harry Potter crossover

Disclaimer: I own a very nice guitar and a nose flute. That's about it.

Author's Delight: You kept on! Thank you! I promise there is magic in this chapter. :)

ALLTHECARDSAREATPRESENTAGAINSTUS

The façade of Algernon Billings' former residence was distinguishable from its equally grand neighbours only by virtue of being ornamented to the point of questionable taste. I was unable to examine the Parisian-baroque finishings closely, as the sun had fallen behind the row of houses and the lamplighters had not yet made their rounds. Eddington ushered us through the enormous marble edifice that sheltered the steps to the front door and rang the bell. It was answered by a man of average height who appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He was wearing a red silk smoking jacket and would have been considered handsome had the lip beneath his fine moustache not been twisted into a disgusted expression.

"You didn't say you'd be bringing movers," he said as he glanced at Holmes and myself.

"Don't tell me you plan to take the whole lot tonight."

"Uncle Augustus, I would like to introduce Sherlock Holmes, a private investigator and Dr. Watson."

"I think we can dispense with the formalities, as I don't want you or your friends here. I've had the police and that insufferable Inspector Jones in and out of my house all week on account of your blasted whisky. I've let you in, now see what you've come to see and get out."

"Don't let us keep you from your aunts," said Holmes with equanimity, "or the daunting task of determining the fate of the contents of your late father's humidor."

Augustus glared at his nephew. "If cataloguing tobacco and entertaining my well-connected relations are the worst crimes your hired hound can invent after spying on me for a day, I hope you will soon be satisfied that I had nothing to do with the disappearance of your insignificant inheritance."

"Really, Mr. Billings," said Holmes in a mild voice, "you answered the door dressed in a smoking jacket with traces of fragrant, long-grained Cuban tobacco still on your sleeve, and the Meerschaum pipe in your pocket has only been smoked once, judging by the pristine colour of the clay. You are obviously an inexperienced smoker, having left the bowl uncleaned after finishing the pipe. From these observations only have I deduced that you were experimenting with your late father's impressive array of tobaccos to see if you wished to keep any. As for how I knew the aunts were visiting; you would have surmised as much from noting the two respectably modest ladies' coats in the hall closet, whose door has been left slightly ajar."

Augustus' mouth narrowed. "Thank you for that eloquent statement of the obvious. Now run along and leave me in peace." He was gone in a swirl of scarlet.

Eddington was hiding an amused expression with his hand. "I must make a study of your methods, Mr. Holmes, if not just for the ability to render my uncle toothless on such unfortunate occasions as we are forced to endure one another's company."

"He still had far too many teeth for my liking," I remarked. "Have you ever met a more unpleasant man, Holmes?"

Holmes made a dismissive gesture. "Unpleasant he may be, though I am all but convinced that Augustus Billings is not our thief. He had not the slightest air of a guilty man about him. But to avoid hastiness," here he smiled at me, remembering my comment to him in the cab, "I shall not rule him out as a suspect."

Eddington led us through the dining room and into a warmly lit and commodious kitchen.

"This is the door to the wine cellar. As you can see, the lock is quite secure."

Indeed, it was. The door was solid oak, and the lock was brass, and looked nearly new. Holmes withdrew his glass and inspected the door and lock, pausing over the door hinges.

"Before we descend," said Holmes, pulling a folded piece of cloth from his pocket,

"Watson was kind enough to lend this to me when we investigated a most simple affair in a Welsh coal mine. I hope he will forgive me for not returning it, as it has proved invaluable to me on several occasions."

I was surprised and pleased to identify the object as a spare surgical mask that I long ago given up hope of finding. I assisted Eddington in securing it to his face, for which he thanked me. He then pulled an intricate brass key from his trousers pocket and unlocked the door with a solid click.

Eddington hastily grabbed a candle from a nearby shelf and lit it. "Grandfather refused to have gas installed in the cellar because he feared the heat and light would adversely affect the wine. There is a lamp below that we may use for investigating, if you wish."

Holmes pulled two small candles from his jacket pocket, lit them both on Eddington's candle, and handed one to me. "Lead the way, Mr. Eddington."

The door swung noiselessly on its hinges and the bright light from the kitchen shone down to the landing of the first flight of stairs. Once we turned to descend the second flight, we were surrounded by the cool darkness, though it was not in the least unpleasant. At the bottom of the stairs, the light from our candles was sufficient to make out the features of the room. The floor and sides of the room were made of closely fitted pieces of stone, each fitting nearly seamlessly to the next. Near the bottom of the stairs was a small table upon which was perched a ledger, a fountain pen, a box of matches, and a large brass lamp. The bulk of the room was filled with a dozen or so long wooden shelves placed far enough apart to allow for comfortable browsing of the contents. Eddington was about to reach for the box of matches on the table, but Holmes stopped him.

"Have the contents of the table been disturbed?"

Eddington bent over the table. "They do not appear to have been touched. The wine log and pen are exactly where they were, since I took notice when I blew out the lamp. See, there is the single match I used to light it. I recall that I nearly burned my fingers with it, and it is burned almost all the way to the end." His brows drew together. "And see how the dust is undisturbed. It seems impossible for so much of the cursed stuff to have accumulated in so short a time!"

As my eyes became accustomed to the dark, I noticed that the walls and floor were indeed covered with a thin layer of dust, though far more than should be present in such a room having been left for only a week. I also noticed that the dust on the floor had preserved many sets of footprints, presumably from the Scotland Yard investigators.

It seems that Holmes discovered the footprints at the same time I did, because he exclaimed in pleased surprise. "Mr. Eddington, I hope that this will cause you to re-evaluate your opinion of dust. These may very well be the key to unravelling the whole disappearance!" He studied them for a minute, and then briskly addressed our client.

"If you would be so good as show me where this infamous whisky resided?"

Holmes and Eddington walked off together toward the back of the room while I inspected the log on the table. Being careful not to disturb the other items, I perused the immaculate records that the late Mr. Billings had kept of his cellar. Each acquisition was marked and dated, as was the date each bottle was removed, with occasional notes as to how the drink lived up to its reputation. As I flipped through the book, my eye was drawn to an entry from 18 March 1877 for fourteen cases of whisky. What made the entry so odd was that it appeared as if other words before "whisky" had been written, but there was no sign of them having been erased, crossed out, or blotted. The paper was pristine.

I was about to call for Holmes, when I heard him cry my name. I carefully picked my way around the footprints, and found my friend bent over, examining a footprint through his glass.

"I think I have found our thief," he said with great satisfaction. "He is approximately six feet in height, left-handed, and wore shoes with an unusually high heel."

Eddington looked incredulous. "How can you tell that these are thief's footprints?"

"Simple deduction. The only people who have been in this room since the thirteenth of this month are you, your uncle, the thief or thieves, Scotland Yard, myself and Watson. Is this correct?"

"Yes."

"Neither you nor your uncle are tall enough to have a stride this long, and policemen are not encouraged to wear high-heeled boots while on duty. As I have had the misfortune to work with Inspector Jones in the past, I know that he is hardly the type of man to favour such impractical footwear." Holmes turned to me. "Do you know what I find most curious?"

"That our thief wears such expensive shoes?"

"No, though that leads us to another line of questions altogether. What I find peculiar is that I have been unable to find any of the thief's footprints anywhere within a yard of where the cases were, nor are there any prints leading to the stairs or anywhere that could conceal a secret door."

"Perhaps they were destroyed by the subsequent investigation?"

His eyes were thoughtful. "I suppose that must be what happened. Now, what was keeping you so quiet over near the desk?"

"I found something strange in the log that I should like to hear your thoughts on."

"Very well, Watson, lead the way."

I showed him the unusual entry, and he studied it without touching for a moment.

"I am glad you brought this to my attention, Watson. It further confirms that our thief is as arrogant as he is clever. He concocts a brilliant plan for getting the whisky out of the cellar, but makes no effort to conceal his footprints or the changes he made to the log." He glanced once again at the table before he turned away and began inspecting the mess of footprints at the bottom of the stair and muttering to himself.

Eddington approached me and begged me excuse him for retiring to the kitchen. "The mask has proved a marked improvement over my handkerchief, but I will wait for you upstairs."

I glanced at Holmes, who was now tapping seemingly random sections of the floor with his foot.

"We will join you shortly. I suspect Holmes will be finishing soon."

He nodded, and quickly ascended the stairs. I made my way to where Holmes was squatted on the floor scooping some brown crumbs into an envelope. "What have you found, Holmes?"

He sighed with satisfaction and sealed the envelope before placing it in his pocket. "I believe I have found a way to locate our man, which is a relief. There are too many puzzling features of this case for me to make much sense of it at present. In some of his footprints, our well-heeled thief left traces of dirt that is distinctly unlike the dirt of any nearby neighbourhood. I'm sure that upon closer examination I will be able to determine the area, quite possibly within a few blocks, that our thief was directly before he was in Grosvenor Square."

"Then you know how the thief got in?"

"I know that he neither tunnelled in, nor broke in, nor is there any secret passage that I could find. The only remaining explanation is that the thief had keys for both the house and the wine cellar. This would point to Augustus as the culprit, but there are some very queer contradictions in this room, Watson. Very queer indeed—but that's all one. I shall call on Inspector Atheleny Jones tomorrow morning and see what invaluable observations and conclusions he has to offer me."

I chuckled. "That is a meeting I shall be glad to miss."

"I am envious, Watson. There are few things I would enjoy less than treating babies with diarrhoea and old women with gastric complaints, but asking Atheleny Jones for information is one of them."

We bade a good night to John Eddington and retired to our respective residences.

ALLTHECARDSAREATPRESENTAGAINSTUS

The next day I received a message from Homes during my afternoon tea.

Watson-

Our Case of Stolen Whisky has taken a decided turn for the inexplicable. I shall require your assistance this evening at nine o'clock. Please bring your service revolver, a dark coat, a surgical mask for yourself, and smelling salts.

-Holmes

The list of items sent a thrill through me. Undoubtedly, Holmes had quite a caper planned for the evening. I was scarcely able to concentrate on my last patients, so keen was my anticipation. At last, eight o'clock rolled around and I set about gathering the items Holmes had requested. I was still twenty minutes early when I entered Holmes' study. He was in his bedroom but emerged when he heard my step.

"Watson! How good of you to come early!" He still wore his usual tweed trousers, but his upper body was clad in an unevenly knit jersey. His eyes took in my clothes and black bag. "Your dress is acceptable for tonight. I trust you brought all the items I requested?"

I nodded.

"Capital, Watson! Absolutely capital! I hope you don't mind waiting for me to finish?"

"Of course not, Holmes."

"Excellent! I will fill you in on the details. Do come in and have a seat."

I had never had the opportunity to watch Holmes apply one of his many disguises, and it was a fascinating process. He sat in front of the mirror and began to tell me of his interview with Jones, though I must admit, I was paying far more attention to his deft transformation from Holmes to destitute fisherman. I have always said that the stage lost a fine actor when Sherlock Holmes decided to go into detection; that night I realized that the art world also lost a great talent with the brush.

Already he had darkened his face to a swarthy tan, and he was applying light and dark greasepaints to the bridge and sides of his nose to make it appear broken. A moment later, swollen, chapped lips had replaced his own thin ones. A few aptly placed strokes of the brush added bags beneath his eyes and sagging eyelids. A dusting of rouge gave the illusion of sunburned cheeks and a nose inflamed from drinking. The final touches were a wiry, grey false beard, a matching wig, and white greasepaint scrubbed liberally into his eyebrows. He last applied translucent powder and brushed off the excess, giving a more natural finish to the surface, then turned to face me. The effect was remarkable.

"—other than Jones having a laugh at my expense, the morning was absolutely useless. It was foolish of me to expect that he had grown in any way since 'The Sign of the Four' other than in girth, I suppose."

I made a noncommittal sound in my throat, and Holmes turned his keen eyes on me. It was rather disconcerting to see Holmes' eyes peering at me out of a stranger's face. He let it go with a shrug of the shoulders.

"Well, far more fruitful than our corpulent comrade at the Yard was my examination of the dirt from our whisky thief's footprints. When I arrived home last night I was unable to rest until I had pinpointed the area from which the soil sample originated. For the first time since I took this case, fortune smiled in my direction. The sample consisted of a peculiar blend of clay, silt, refuse and crushed glass, so I was able to identify the very intersection in the warehouse district of the Borough where our thief trod immediately before the robbery. This morning, before my meeting with Jones, I engaged the assistance of Master Wiggins and the Baker Street Irregulars to canvass the area. Wiggins must have been passingly familiar with the area, as he was able to talk me up to nearly twice the usual price for his services.

"When I returned from my fruitless interview, I found Master Wiggins waiting for me with a sheepish look on his face. When I attempted to interview him for his observations, he reluctantly admitted that he and his cohorts were unable to fulfil the requirements."

"Why on earth not?"

"That is the strange part," said Holmes grimly. "They vaguely recalled having visited the area and remembered that they were supposed to be looking for a tall gentleman with high-heeled shoes, but upon returning to Baker Street, none of them could remember anything of the place they'd visited; the alleyways, the people they'd seen, not even the signs on the buildings."

"Could they have deceived you and not gone at all?"

"I hardly think so, Watson. The boys have been in my service for quite some time, and I like to think I know them well enough to know if they are lying. I know from experience that the more Wiggins tries to hide from me, the more eloquent he becomes. No, I fancy that fate is trying to tell me that this whisky is better left unfound; and yet I cannot stop myself. It is all far too intriguing."

"But what could have possibly happened to give them such selective memory?"

"Selective memory, Watson. That is the key phrase." He lapsed into thoughtfulness for a moment before springing to his feet. "If you will excuse me for a moment, Watson, I must get into character, as the saying goes." He indicated his incongruously neat trousers.

"Of course."

Holmes presently reappeared clad in shabby trousers that had been sturdily patched with net-mending thread. He had also covered one of his teeth with black wax and stained the rest of them brown.

"I suppose you are curious as to your part for tonight."

"I have been on pins and needles since this afternoon."

"Then I hope you shall not be disappointed when I tell you that all you are to do this evening is to observe. You are not to intervene under any circumstances."

"Then why did you ask me to bring my revolver?"

"Self-defence, Watson. If anything should happen to me tonight, I must insist that you remain hidden until it is perfectly safe. It will do no good for both of us to fall under the spell that ensnared the Irregulars' senses."

"Could it be caused by some kind of drug?"

"It is possible."

"For pity's sake, Holmes, do be careful. Hardly a day goes by when I do not see someone with a lung complaint from breathing in the foul smoke from some factory."

"Watson, I doubt that simply breathing the air of Southwark causes the odd symptoms shown by Wiggins and company; were that true, then a quarter of London's labourers would not be able to find their way home from work. Now, as I see you are ready, let us be off."

ALLTHECARDSAREATPRESENTAGAINSTUS

The night was cool and misty near the river; a mixed blessing to be sure. While the light fog would conceal Holmes' investigation from onlookers, it would also make it difficult for me to see what he was doing. Holmes instructed the driver to let us off on the far side of Waterloo Bridge, and we continued east along the darkened buildings that lined Barbary Road. Once we were away from the bridge traffic, the night was so still that I could hear the rats scuttling in the street and water dripping from the eaves. The fog was thicker on the far side of the river, and the sparse street lamps scarcely illuminated a ten-foot globe of fog before they were no longer visible. The stench of river refuse was nearly overpowering. I fancied that the area was so squalid that even the vagrants sought drier and more pleasant surroundings.

Having walked an indeterminable amount of time through the countless manufactories and warehouses, Holmes placed his hand on my elbow and led me into a small alley. Agile as a cat, he scaled a pile of wooden pallets and slid open a window that appeared to have had a stone thrown through it some time ago. He beckoned for me to join him.

"The next street is Beecher's Row," he explained in a whisper. "From the eastern-most window of this warehouse you may observe my exploration of the area on the far side of the street. Remember, do not interfere, no matter what you see."

"If you wish it, Holmes."

He assisted me in climbing through the window onto a stack of crates, fortunately near window-level. I was quite glad that Holmes had suggested I bring a surgical mask, since I was immediately hit by the putrid smell of dead rats. The cloth did not filter out much of the stink, but the clean, starchy smell was infinitely more pleasant than the air. I gingerly picked my way down the stack of crates and felt my way to the nearest window on the west wall, through which I could see the dim light of a street lamp.

I positioned myself to the right of the window, out of the light, and observed my surroundings. I could clearly see the intersection of Barbary and Beecher's Row, though the fog prevented me seeing further up or down either street. Directly across Barbary was a factory that looked about as pleasant as the building in which I was concealed. Next to it was a shop of some kind, though the peeling sign was impossible to read in the dim light. On the adjacent corner was another warehouse, though this one had enough bars and shutters to dissuade all but the most persistent robbers. The farthest corner also held a warehouse, but my assessment of it was interrupted by a voice singing. With a start, I noticed a dark shape staggering drunkenly out of the fog toward my hiding place.

It took me a moment to realize that it was my friend. He was hunched over and bow-legged, and he occasionally took pulls from a brown bottle in his hand. When he was closer, I recognized the song he was singing as one of a most indelicate nature. As his staggering grew more erratic, he approached one of the warehouses and banged his fist loudly on the door. When no-one answered, he wheeled around and made his way across the street from my building, still wheezing out the song with great gusto. A dog nearby began barking.

Holmes hiccoughed noisily and was wobbling toward the farthest warehouse when a curious thing happened. He had been moving in an approximately straight line toward the warehouse door when he veered sharply to the left. He squinted at the building, then deliberately walked at it again. This time he veered to the right. Holmes stepped back a few paces, began bellowing out the chorus, and put his head down and ran toward the door of the warehouse. He struck it with a solid thud and fell to the ground where he lay, unmoving. At first I was afraid he'd knocked himself unconscious, but I soon heard the second verse floating through the still air.

Holmes staggered to his feet, though he managed to roll himself into the door a few times before succeeding. He was poised to run into the door a second time, when a tall man stepped through the doorway and grabbed Holmes by the collar. I could not see him clearly and barely managed to suppress a cry of alarm when a red light suddenly flashed through darkness and Holmes collapsed on the doorstep. The stranger quickly scanned the street for witnesses, and, having been satisfied that there was no-one about, dragged Holmes roughly by the armpits across the intersection to just below my window. Fortunately, this put them both in the light of the street lamp. Holmes did not appear to be grievously hurt, to my great relief. The stranger was well proportioned and had an impressive mane of dark red hair that obscured my view his face. Thick eyebrows threw his eyes into shadow, so I was unable to tell their colour. His attire was quite incongruous with the squalid setting: a deep purple smoking jacket, bottle-green knee breeches and old-fashioned shoes with buckles. He hastily positioned Holmes in the gutter and strode back to the warehouse, glancing quickly in all directions behind him before closing the door.

The ten minutes I waited before going to Holmes were the longest in my life.

When I was convinced that the auburn-haired gentleman would not be coming back outside, I ran back to the broken window, scrambled down the pile of pallets and tore around the corner to where my friend lay. Wondering yet again at Holmes' foresight, I pulled the bottle of smelling salts out of my bag and passed them several times under his nose. He did not stir. Fearing the worst, I put my ear close to his face and was greatly relieved to feel his breath on my cheek. I gently shook his shoulders, but he still did not wake. Grateful for my prior experiences in Afghanistan but longing for my former state of fitness, I hoisted him over my good shoulder and haltingly stood, limbs crying out in protest. As I took one last look at the thoroughly unremarkable warehouse from which the man had come, I noticed the footprints he had left in the muddy sludge that collected in the gutter. They were identical to the ones Holmes discovered in Eddington's wine cellar.

I staggered slowly east on Barbary, ignoring the pains from my war wound that jarred with every step and praying for a cab. I had carried him nearly to Farringdon Street when my prayers were answered, and we were soon tucked into a hansom on our way back to Baker Street.

ALLTHECARDSAREATPRESENTAGAINSTUS

End Note: Aren't I nice to have chapter 3 posted already?

End of End Note: I love my betas!