Disclaimers: See Part 1.
*****
::London::
It was round ten when we had our first test of Vetinari's impersonation of my friend, in the form of an unexpected visit from a recent acquaintance of Holmes'. By that time, I had managed to persuade Vetinari to at least mask his goatee, using some nose putty and paint from Holmes' infamous makeup box. At least now he looked less like a rogue and more like an English gentleman.
As usual, our bell rang, and Mrs. Hudson called up the stair that we had a visitor. Thinking it was Holmes' client come early, I gestured for Vetinari to answer the door, which he did.
The next few seconds were a bit confusing, but after reflection I managed to analyse them thus: when Vetinari opened the door, the visitor's first glance mistook him for Holmes (the approximate frame was correct, at least, even if he lacked a few inches), and she greeted him warmly with a hug around his neck. She subsequently realised her mistake (partly due to Vetinari's admirably polite protestations to that effect) and, far from being amused at her blunder, she punched him in the face.
Had our visitor been anyone but Miss Emily Cartwright, I would have been shocked by this behaviour. As it was, I was merely startled, and immediately concerned for the unwitting target of her wrath.
Allow me to explain. Holmes had met Miss Cartwright during his investigations into a string of burglaries in which my own pocket-watch implicated me. Though he refused to admit it and declared the very idea absurd, I theorised through my own observations of the two of them at a soiree afterwards that he was at least intrigued by her, and possibly infatuated, if such an emotion were available to the man. [A/n: This case was recorded by Holmes himself under the title "Such a Simple Case", though one presumes that he never dared show the manuscript to Watson.] During that same gathering, she implicated to me the details of what she had done to an inebriated suitor who had attempted to take liberties with her, a young man whom I had encountered by chance and treated for those same injuries.
Her retaliatory blow for Vetinari's perceived offence, then, was not the open-handed slap of the offended lady, but a punch to the jaw that drove him back a few steps in surprise and would likely leave a bruise. As he held his injured face in one slender hand, he shot me an accusatory glance from the corner of his eye.
"Er," was all I could think of to say.
"Who is this?" Miss Cartwright hissed, pointing at the faux Holmes who, apparently satisfied that he was not in danger of losing any teeth, had turned to face me.
"I should very much prefer to know if I should expect any further encounters with hostile women, as well, Doctor," Vetinari drawled with such infuriating serenity that but for the bruise developing on his jaw and the slight smear where the makeup had been disturbed he might not have been struck at all.
"Miss Cartwright," I said, finally remembering my manners, "This is... a distant cousin of Holmes', who is... filling in for him." Prevarication was not as easy for me as it was for Vetinari, that much was painfully obvious.
"And where is Holmes?" Miss Cartwright demanded.
In a curious feat of human ventriloquism, I opened my mouth to reply in the same instant Vetinari said, "Ankh-Morpork."
Miss Cartwright opened her mouth, then shut it again.
"He was forced to leave very late last night, due to circumstances beyond his control," Vetinari continued, "I expect he would be here if he were able. And certainly" --here he shot a baleful glance in my direction-- "if he had been expecting a visit from you, I would have been sufficiently forewarned. Isn't that right, Dr. Watson?"
I would soon come to learn that he only used my professional title when he was annoyed with me.
"Well, he never told me of it," I said in my defence.
"I had intended to surprise him," Miss Cartwright submitted as evidence.
"Well," Vetinari replied, "If surprise was your intent, then I certainly concede that you achieved it. Only in two professions back home might a young lady have mastered such a ferocious left hook." He rubbed the bruise lightly for emphasis. "If I have an occasion to speak with Mr. Holmes, I will tell him you send your regards."
And with that he turned away and headed back to the study. Hoping to make up for his curiously blunt way of ending a conversation, I offered to see Miss Cartwright out, meanwhile silently resolving to find out what I could about Mr. Havelock Vetinari.
*****
::Ankh-Morpork::
So far, Holmes' day had gone from abysmal to merely bad. True to her word, Roxanne had secured reasonably-fitting(a) clothing for him, demonstrating an eye for the masculine frame that probably served her well enough in her chosen profession, whether one meant the domestic or exotic sort of Seamstress. However, the resulting outfit was not quite as tailored as Holmes would have preferred. Carrot was the only one tall enough to have donated clothing to the cause, but he was easily twice as broad across the shoulders, which resulted in Holmes looking as though someone had let half the air out of him. Over the shirt (which contained twice as much fabric as Holmes really needed) and trousers (which could, at least, *pretend* to fit, once a belt was added), Holmes also wore one of Carrot's more civilian garments (out of the few he had), a raincoat which, sensing the man beneath was someone other than its owner, promptly settled into untidy wrinkles.
Vimes had just about convinced himself that Holmes was used to his surroundings when there was a knock on his office door.
"Yes?" Vimes said without looking up.
Then Holmes entered, his face bearing such an expression that Vimes' earlier notion shot away like a deflating balloon when you let go of the open end.
"I believe it is due time for me to interview Lord Dunnykins under a more formal setting," Holmes announced.
Vimes looked him up and down. "I see Roxanne got you outfitted well enough."
"You could fit two of me in this shirt. But that isn't my point."
"Okay," Vimes sighed, resting his chin in his hand, "What happened?"
The Commander saw a two-second internal debate rage across Holmes' face. "A... chimpanzee saluted at me and bade me good morning," said the battle's victor.
"Oh. Him. I thought it was something serious."
"You know the creature?"
"That'd be Nobby."
"A... mascot?"
"A corporal. Anything else?"
"No. Maybe. Yes." Something very large lumbered past the office door. It sounded angry. Vimes had a sense of foreboding even before Holmes clarified his nebulous answer. "I fear I may have offended one of the local statuary."
Vimes was almost, but not quite, entirely unprepared for the headache that arrived. "Oh, hell," he said, "You don't have trolls where you come from, do you?"
"Where I come from, trolls are mere myths. A reasonable adult cannot be expected to believe in such hobgoblins."
A very large fist knocked at the office door. Holmes, who did not believe in trolls but did in fact believe in the virtues of self-preservation when a myth is trying to smash one into a very fine paste, flattened himself against the wall to one side of the door. Vimes hoped that his explicit intructions to the trolls to only open the door halfway had finally taken - otherwise Holmes might get a doorknob-inflicted wound at roughly the height where the wall had had to be repeatedly replastered.
"Yes?" Vimes called to his new visitor, his eyes watering at the thought.
The door opened halfway and Detritus poked his huge head in. "Sir." His hand crashed against his helmet in one of his concussive salutes.
"Good morning, Sergeant," said Vimes, "What can I do for you?"
"You seen a skinny little man around here?" Detritus rumbled. From the relative shelter behind the door, Holmes shook his head pointedly at Vimes.
"Not recently, Sergeant. Any reason you're looking for him?"
"He called me a sing'larly ugly statue."
"Ah, I see. Well, I'm sure he didn't mean it. Just ignore him." Vimes doubted Detritus knew what "singularly" meant, but he understood "ugly," and calling a troll a statue was, Vimes supposed, the next worst thing to calling him a rock.
Crash went the troll's hand against his helmet again.
"So I can't smash him, then?"
"You may not smash him. That is an order."
"Alright." Detritus seemed disappointed, and Vimes immediately felt sorry for the first lawbreaker the troll encountered on his rounds.
The door slammed shut so hard that the doorknob inside fell off.
"Sergeant."
"Sir?"
"You forgot to let go of the doorknob again."
"Sorry." The troll lumbered away.
Vimes stood, crossed to the apparently neutered door, and proceeded to open it anyway, tripping the catch with his finger with the ease of someone who has been repeatedly trapped in his office by a combination of strong trolls and weak doorknob fittings.
"Thank you," Holmes deadpanned, though he had looked as though he was going to need new underwear when Detritus opened the door, "I expect you shall provide an escort to take me to see Lord Dunnykins, then?"
Vimes looked at him. "Oh, if you insist. Carrot and Angua are patrolling that way anyway."
"You are referring, of course, to the young man with red hair who spent his youth in a rural area, perhaps helping at a farm, and the young blonde woman who inspires an inordinate amount of respect in your chimpanzee corporal?"
"Oh, you've met them already?"
"Actually, I only know Carrot by the scale of his clothing," Holmes plucked at the outsized shirt, "Which suggest someone with the well-developed torso of a farmer's son, and by the short red hairs left on the collar."
"Just one problem with your deductions," Vimes informed him.
"Yes?"
"It wasn't a farm. It was a mine. His parents were dwarves."
"I see," said Holmes, who didn't.
*
(a) or as reasonable as one might expect when scavenging the Watch laundry for a makeshift wardrobe to fit someone who was mainly angles and straight lines.
*****
::Still Ankh-Morpork::
Ponder stood on the front steps of the Palace, hoping against all evidence to the contrary that his tracking had gone wrong, that he'd made a mistake somewhere. But double-checking only confirmed that it hadn't, and he hadn't.
"Skazz," he said into his pocket omniscope.
"Yo," came Skazz's tinny voice.
"I think we've stepped in it deeper than I first thought."
"How do you figure?"
"I'm in front of the Palace."
There was a cogitative pause, which culminated in two words: "Oh, bugger..."
"Oh bugger is right. We sent the Patrician to Lon-Don."
"So... who did we send to Ankh-Morpork?"
*****
End of Part 5
*****
::London::
It was round ten when we had our first test of Vetinari's impersonation of my friend, in the form of an unexpected visit from a recent acquaintance of Holmes'. By that time, I had managed to persuade Vetinari to at least mask his goatee, using some nose putty and paint from Holmes' infamous makeup box. At least now he looked less like a rogue and more like an English gentleman.
As usual, our bell rang, and Mrs. Hudson called up the stair that we had a visitor. Thinking it was Holmes' client come early, I gestured for Vetinari to answer the door, which he did.
The next few seconds were a bit confusing, but after reflection I managed to analyse them thus: when Vetinari opened the door, the visitor's first glance mistook him for Holmes (the approximate frame was correct, at least, even if he lacked a few inches), and she greeted him warmly with a hug around his neck. She subsequently realised her mistake (partly due to Vetinari's admirably polite protestations to that effect) and, far from being amused at her blunder, she punched him in the face.
Had our visitor been anyone but Miss Emily Cartwright, I would have been shocked by this behaviour. As it was, I was merely startled, and immediately concerned for the unwitting target of her wrath.
Allow me to explain. Holmes had met Miss Cartwright during his investigations into a string of burglaries in which my own pocket-watch implicated me. Though he refused to admit it and declared the very idea absurd, I theorised through my own observations of the two of them at a soiree afterwards that he was at least intrigued by her, and possibly infatuated, if such an emotion were available to the man. [A/n: This case was recorded by Holmes himself under the title "Such a Simple Case", though one presumes that he never dared show the manuscript to Watson.] During that same gathering, she implicated to me the details of what she had done to an inebriated suitor who had attempted to take liberties with her, a young man whom I had encountered by chance and treated for those same injuries.
Her retaliatory blow for Vetinari's perceived offence, then, was not the open-handed slap of the offended lady, but a punch to the jaw that drove him back a few steps in surprise and would likely leave a bruise. As he held his injured face in one slender hand, he shot me an accusatory glance from the corner of his eye.
"Er," was all I could think of to say.
"Who is this?" Miss Cartwright hissed, pointing at the faux Holmes who, apparently satisfied that he was not in danger of losing any teeth, had turned to face me.
"I should very much prefer to know if I should expect any further encounters with hostile women, as well, Doctor," Vetinari drawled with such infuriating serenity that but for the bruise developing on his jaw and the slight smear where the makeup had been disturbed he might not have been struck at all.
"Miss Cartwright," I said, finally remembering my manners, "This is... a distant cousin of Holmes', who is... filling in for him." Prevarication was not as easy for me as it was for Vetinari, that much was painfully obvious.
"And where is Holmes?" Miss Cartwright demanded.
In a curious feat of human ventriloquism, I opened my mouth to reply in the same instant Vetinari said, "Ankh-Morpork."
Miss Cartwright opened her mouth, then shut it again.
"He was forced to leave very late last night, due to circumstances beyond his control," Vetinari continued, "I expect he would be here if he were able. And certainly" --here he shot a baleful glance in my direction-- "if he had been expecting a visit from you, I would have been sufficiently forewarned. Isn't that right, Dr. Watson?"
I would soon come to learn that he only used my professional title when he was annoyed with me.
"Well, he never told me of it," I said in my defence.
"I had intended to surprise him," Miss Cartwright submitted as evidence.
"Well," Vetinari replied, "If surprise was your intent, then I certainly concede that you achieved it. Only in two professions back home might a young lady have mastered such a ferocious left hook." He rubbed the bruise lightly for emphasis. "If I have an occasion to speak with Mr. Holmes, I will tell him you send your regards."
And with that he turned away and headed back to the study. Hoping to make up for his curiously blunt way of ending a conversation, I offered to see Miss Cartwright out, meanwhile silently resolving to find out what I could about Mr. Havelock Vetinari.
*****
::Ankh-Morpork::
So far, Holmes' day had gone from abysmal to merely bad. True to her word, Roxanne had secured reasonably-fitting(a) clothing for him, demonstrating an eye for the masculine frame that probably served her well enough in her chosen profession, whether one meant the domestic or exotic sort of Seamstress. However, the resulting outfit was not quite as tailored as Holmes would have preferred. Carrot was the only one tall enough to have donated clothing to the cause, but he was easily twice as broad across the shoulders, which resulted in Holmes looking as though someone had let half the air out of him. Over the shirt (which contained twice as much fabric as Holmes really needed) and trousers (which could, at least, *pretend* to fit, once a belt was added), Holmes also wore one of Carrot's more civilian garments (out of the few he had), a raincoat which, sensing the man beneath was someone other than its owner, promptly settled into untidy wrinkles.
Vimes had just about convinced himself that Holmes was used to his surroundings when there was a knock on his office door.
"Yes?" Vimes said without looking up.
Then Holmes entered, his face bearing such an expression that Vimes' earlier notion shot away like a deflating balloon when you let go of the open end.
"I believe it is due time for me to interview Lord Dunnykins under a more formal setting," Holmes announced.
Vimes looked him up and down. "I see Roxanne got you outfitted well enough."
"You could fit two of me in this shirt. But that isn't my point."
"Okay," Vimes sighed, resting his chin in his hand, "What happened?"
The Commander saw a two-second internal debate rage across Holmes' face. "A... chimpanzee saluted at me and bade me good morning," said the battle's victor.
"Oh. Him. I thought it was something serious."
"You know the creature?"
"That'd be Nobby."
"A... mascot?"
"A corporal. Anything else?"
"No. Maybe. Yes." Something very large lumbered past the office door. It sounded angry. Vimes had a sense of foreboding even before Holmes clarified his nebulous answer. "I fear I may have offended one of the local statuary."
Vimes was almost, but not quite, entirely unprepared for the headache that arrived. "Oh, hell," he said, "You don't have trolls where you come from, do you?"
"Where I come from, trolls are mere myths. A reasonable adult cannot be expected to believe in such hobgoblins."
A very large fist knocked at the office door. Holmes, who did not believe in trolls but did in fact believe in the virtues of self-preservation when a myth is trying to smash one into a very fine paste, flattened himself against the wall to one side of the door. Vimes hoped that his explicit intructions to the trolls to only open the door halfway had finally taken - otherwise Holmes might get a doorknob-inflicted wound at roughly the height where the wall had had to be repeatedly replastered.
"Yes?" Vimes called to his new visitor, his eyes watering at the thought.
The door opened halfway and Detritus poked his huge head in. "Sir." His hand crashed against his helmet in one of his concussive salutes.
"Good morning, Sergeant," said Vimes, "What can I do for you?"
"You seen a skinny little man around here?" Detritus rumbled. From the relative shelter behind the door, Holmes shook his head pointedly at Vimes.
"Not recently, Sergeant. Any reason you're looking for him?"
"He called me a sing'larly ugly statue."
"Ah, I see. Well, I'm sure he didn't mean it. Just ignore him." Vimes doubted Detritus knew what "singularly" meant, but he understood "ugly," and calling a troll a statue was, Vimes supposed, the next worst thing to calling him a rock.
Crash went the troll's hand against his helmet again.
"So I can't smash him, then?"
"You may not smash him. That is an order."
"Alright." Detritus seemed disappointed, and Vimes immediately felt sorry for the first lawbreaker the troll encountered on his rounds.
The door slammed shut so hard that the doorknob inside fell off.
"Sergeant."
"Sir?"
"You forgot to let go of the doorknob again."
"Sorry." The troll lumbered away.
Vimes stood, crossed to the apparently neutered door, and proceeded to open it anyway, tripping the catch with his finger with the ease of someone who has been repeatedly trapped in his office by a combination of strong trolls and weak doorknob fittings.
"Thank you," Holmes deadpanned, though he had looked as though he was going to need new underwear when Detritus opened the door, "I expect you shall provide an escort to take me to see Lord Dunnykins, then?"
Vimes looked at him. "Oh, if you insist. Carrot and Angua are patrolling that way anyway."
"You are referring, of course, to the young man with red hair who spent his youth in a rural area, perhaps helping at a farm, and the young blonde woman who inspires an inordinate amount of respect in your chimpanzee corporal?"
"Oh, you've met them already?"
"Actually, I only know Carrot by the scale of his clothing," Holmes plucked at the outsized shirt, "Which suggest someone with the well-developed torso of a farmer's son, and by the short red hairs left on the collar."
"Just one problem with your deductions," Vimes informed him.
"Yes?"
"It wasn't a farm. It was a mine. His parents were dwarves."
"I see," said Holmes, who didn't.
*
(a) or as reasonable as one might expect when scavenging the Watch laundry for a makeshift wardrobe to fit someone who was mainly angles and straight lines.
*****
::Still Ankh-Morpork::
Ponder stood on the front steps of the Palace, hoping against all evidence to the contrary that his tracking had gone wrong, that he'd made a mistake somewhere. But double-checking only confirmed that it hadn't, and he hadn't.
"Skazz," he said into his pocket omniscope.
"Yo," came Skazz's tinny voice.
"I think we've stepped in it deeper than I first thought."
"How do you figure?"
"I'm in front of the Palace."
There was a cogitative pause, which culminated in two words: "Oh, bugger..."
"Oh bugger is right. We sent the Patrician to Lon-Don."
"So... who did we send to Ankh-Morpork?"
*****
End of Part 5