Sholmes was a multi-talented man.
Two is multiple, after all. He was a Great Detective, and he was a passable waxwork. And furthermore, Iris considered him an acceptable parent! Three whole talents!
Nothing gave him as much satisfaction as using his entire skillset at once, such as tonight, when he stood stock-still in Madame Tusspell's gallery, posing as a wax statue to eavesdrop on a suspect, working a case with a hefty commission fee. It would provide both money for the rent and inspiration for Iris's novels.
The only trouble was the suspect, an anonymous fellow who went by Lorrain Quiche (clearly a false name!) was threateningly armed, and very chatty. Extraordinarily chatty. The man talked to Madame Tusspells until half an hour past closing time, then offered to pay for an omnibus home, if only he could accompany her to talk some more. Sholmes stood stock-still, terrified of what Mr. Quiche would do if he was discovered snooping. And times being what they were, how could Esmeralda refuse free omnibus fare without raising suspicions? With an apologetic glance at Sholmes, she left with Mr. Quiche, dousing all the lamps and locking the doors securely behind her.
At least he could now lower his arms. Sholmes waited until they the sound of omnibus wheels faded into the distance. He rattled the doors uselessly. He hoped that Iris would make herself some supper, and not stay up late worrying.
Soon enough, Sholmes was hungry. He rose from where he was slumped morosely against the door, three inches of wood all that stood between himself and freedom. The museum stretched silent and dark around him. He fumbled away from the doors and windows before pulling lighting a lantern, lest someone from the street mistake him for an intruder. He debated the merits of allowing himself to be seen. Scotland Yard would be annoyed, but at least he'd be free.
On the other hand, that clumsy patrolman Roly Beate might open fire on him before recognizing him. Best not risk it. Sholmes sighed. He wandered through the exhibit floors, holding his lantern high, opening each door and looking into every room. Perhaps one of them would be Esmeralda's office. Perhaps she kept it stocked with snacks.
He left the longest hall for last. The Grapely Grand Circus display housed in the east wing unnerved him even more than London's Most Wanted. Gruesome crime scenes aside, at least some of the settings were soothing. Sholmes was particularly fond of the exhibit of the Grimm killings, which took place in a secluded forest. The wax body was barely visible, peeking out from under leaves and foliage, and the wild animals made the scene practically idyllic. He liked to spend his breaks there, carefully avoiding eye contact with the wax killer and corpse.
In contrast, Mr. Ansel Grapely was a collector of what he called Peculiar Peoples. In the dim light of his single, flickering lantern, the circus figures seemed to tower with exaggerated bodies, and their visages twisted into inhuman sneers. He shuddered and hurried to the far end, to the single unmarked door.
He threw it dramatically open. Brooms and pails greeted him: apparently a closet? Or a disguise hiding Esmeralda's secret office? He squeezed in and investigated every nook and cranny before he admitted defeat. Truly just a closet, then. His stomach rumbled. Sadly, he returned to the exhibit hall—
The tiniest flicker of motion caught his eye. He whirled around. He wasn't sure, but it seemed to him that one of the status had shifted: a barrel-chested man with puffed cheeks and pursed lips. He was dressed in a lavish, flowing costume and standing incongruously beside a low stone basin. A gurgling seemed to come from deep within the statue's belly. Sholmes knew Esmeralda to be a crafty engineer, in addition to being an expert modeler. Powered by gears or steam, some of her statues would move to wave at visitors or doff their hats.
"Well, my finely-dressed friend," Sholmes said to the statue, "let's see what contraption inhabits your insides." He peered curiously into the opened mouth.
As if in reply, the statue sprayed a frigid stream of water directly into the detective's face.
"Gaahh!" Sholmes sputtered, scrubbing at his stinging eyes. "What was that for?" He leaped back, arms raised in boxing stance before him, bouncing from leg to leg and preparing to fight.
The statue stood motionless save for the water continuing to spray from its mouth. After a long moment, when it continued to be non-threatening, Sholmes lowered his arms. He raised his lantern to read the informational plaque. "Professional regurgitator? Now I've seen everything! Iris would have told me to read the plaque first," he groused.
This time, he inspected the statue from a distance, careful not to touch it until he found the hidden switch. He tentatively flicked it and sighed in relief when the stream of water died away. "You ought to moderate your drinking, my friend," he said to the statue, frowning at the water puddled on the floor. It had soaked into his shoes, which were certainly ruined, and if he left it alone, it would seep into the floor and rot the wood. In resignation, he went back to the closet and found a bucket, and mopped up the mess.
He was hungrier than ever. He stood in the now-quiet hall, thinking, and listening to the soft pitter-patter of mice in the walls.
Something wasn't right. He froze, concentrating on the sound. It was the rhythm, he realized: those were not the four-legged scamperings of little rodent feet, but rather, the thud-thud of a bipedal creature. His eyes widened as they grew louder. Whatever it was, it was coming his way.
He ducked behind a sculpture, not daring to breathe as the creature passed by his hiding place and went on its way. Slowly, silently, he crept back out to try to catch a glimpse of it, to no avail. All he saw was the shadow of something—bigger than a cat, smaller than a man—disappearing around the corner.
Sholmes had some serious thinking to do. He crept back along the halls, surveying the silent statues, until he reached the entrance. He tried the doors. Still locked.
"Hmmmm," he hummed thoughtfully. "I've got it."
He lifted up the lantern to illuminate his face, and turned with purpose to face his audience of waxworks. "There is, in fact, a second intruder trapped in the museum on this dark and terrifying night," he whispered dramatically. "Who could be in here with me, creeping around Madame Tusspell's domain after she locked the doors and sealed them shut? My brilliant mind has come to two conclusions. The first. . . is that the creature was searching for something. And the second. . . is that, it has found a surprising and unusual way to evade the Madame's locks! It is time to present. . . my Logic and Reasoning Spectacular!"
Nimbly, he leapt from statue to statue, dancing among them. "The first question concerns the nature of the intruder. By the length of its disappearing shadow, it is around the size of a large dog. London at night is home to a number of wild animals matching this description. We ask ourselves, what might a wild animal want with a wax museum?" He gestured at the floor, still damp from the statue's spray. "The water on the floor is a vital clue. The Professional Regurgitator was found next to a basin. Naturally, the water should have landed in it! The creature must have approached it forcefully and with purpose, to disturb the water's trajectory! And what purpose could be more clear than quenching its thirst?"
He waited a moment, imagining shocked expressions on his audience of wax, and then pressed on. "But how, you might wonder, did this creature enter the museum? To answer that, first we must name the animal in question." He directed the lantern's light to the sculpture's back. "This switch which initiates the flow of water is quite hard to engage without a firm grip and agile fingers," he pronounced. "I can think of only one animal to possess such dexterity: the raccoon!"
He moved back to the entrance, examining the door. "A raccoon could certainly open the door were it unlocked, but alas the lock has not been disturbed. Though the museum contains cracks fit for an ant, or perhaps a beetle, there are none so large that a raccoon can squeeze through. That leaves only the one possibility: it was already inside!" As he said those words, he posed theatrically, almost hearing the gasps of surprise.
"That leaves a key question: where could it have been hiding? The answer lies in a particularly grim scene. . . or shall we say, Grimm?" Sholmes pointed at the forest scene. "The raccoon would have seemed right at home among the trees and animals, and therein lies the solution: the raccoon spent the day dozing in the exhibit!"
"That concludes my Logic and Reasoning Spectacular!"
Yet for all his performative flourishes, Sholmes nearly jumped out of his skin when a slow applause echoed through the hall.
"Well done, Hurley! That's very imaginative and entertaining, but are you sure you aren't describing yourself?"
"Iris?" Sholmes gasped, flailing and toppling over.
"Just me, I'm afraid." Iris tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Though, you're lucky it wasn't a raccoon! You could have been bitten! Let's see," she continued, while Herlock gawked at her. "You were the one who was already inside, and then went in search of a meal. I think you confused your deductions with yourself."
"Oh." Sholmes's shoulders slumped. "My analytical mind is dead," he concluded sadly.
"Don't feel bad, Hurley! You were half right! I did come in search of something, you see, and through unusual means."
"But. . . but if you weren't inside, then how did you get in?"
Iris held up a contraption ringed with jagged teeth.
"The Cat Flapomat?" Sholmes screeched, outraged. "Where did you make the hole? Esmeralda is going to murder me and put me on exhibit!"
"I'm also bigger than a cat! See, another thing you were right about! Not so much larger that I can't fit, though!"
They wiggled out through the flap, Iris squeezing out first, and then tugging Sholmes the rest of the way. Sholmes walked home in brooding, resentful silence.
At last, he broke the silence. "I'm not much of a Great Detective, am I?" he said. "Or a father. I get stuck here and leave you all alone and eat your cooking and drink your tea." He huffed out a sigh. "At times, it seems that you're the one taking care of me."
"Well, I don't see why you won't simply let me cover the rent. I make more than enough from book royalties."
More than you, Sholmes internally translated. He opened his mouth to argue, but Iris held up a hand.
"Wait! You always say no. I know that."
"That's right." They fell back into silence.
This time, it was Iris who spoke up. "Hurley, you are a Great Detective. . . if not a very accurate one."
Sholmes couldn't help but laugh. "Even a not-very-good detective knows that sounds off," he said.
"I mean it!" Iris said resolutely. "Being Great is different from being good. Tonight's deduction has given me Great inspiration for the next month's installment of your fictional adventures. It will be a Great hit with readers. You're a Great support for my novels, you know."
"I am?" Sholmes brightened considerably. "Well, of course I am! I'm a Great Detective, after all!"
"And tomorrow's a new day," Iris agreed. "I'm sure you'll solve the case."
