A/N: I'm back, most of a year later, with another combination entry, because I do intend to finish this challenge! Hopefully before another December begins… but we'll see.
Please excuse my bold creative license when it comes to hypnosis and hypnotists.
December 5: "What does Lestrade do in his free time?" (from sirensbane)
December 8: "Interrogation with a hypnotist" (from goodpenmanship)
December 10: "London fog" (from Michael JG Meathook)
December 17: "Lestrade's opportunity to brag" (from sirensbane)
December 22: "London sewers" (from Michael JG Meathook)
It was a dreary London evening, with the chilly air and neverending rain that seemed to chill one to the bone after mere minutes in it; nothing like the Decembers depicted in paintings and post cards, but perfect evening to spend in the warm and lively atmosphere of a pub. So thought good Inspector Lestrade, as he ordered another brandy. He and Inspectors Campbell and Sutherland were passing the time, talking and laughing, when they were joined by Inspector Bradstreet.
"Well good evening, gentlemen," he said with a smile, sitting down next to Sutherland. "A fine chance seeing you here tonight, Lestrade."
Campbell shook his head in mock dismay. "Don't tell me you're bringing the poor fellow work on a Friday evening again."
"Guilty as charged, I'm afraid," Bradstreet replied, pulling a calling card out of his breast pocket. "I've got too much on my plate right now, so I'll need you to take this one on," he said, handing the card to Lestrade.
Lestrade quickly scanned the card. "Who's this John Atkinson fellow then?" he asked.
"He came in to say he's had a pocket watch stolen, similar story to a couple others I've heard in the past couple weeks. All said they went to see a hypnotist on the south end of Fleet Street, had a watch or necklace or bracelet stolen, and didn't realize until they returned home that it was missing."
Lestrade cocked an eyebrow. "Surely they know which hypnotist they visited."
Bradstreet pursed his lips. "It would seem not."
Sutherland scoffed. "I've always held that this hypnotism nonsense was a load of poppycock. These wealthy fools are practically asking for to have their jewelry stolen if they can't even remember the establishment they went to be swindled by some silly mind tricks."
"Still our job to put a stop to it, Sutherland," said Lestrade. "I'll drop by this Atkinson's address tomorrow."
Whether yesterday's rain or today's thick fog was preferable was a matter of debate wherever Saturday morning small talk occurred. While it was true that one could hardly see more than half a block away, a damned nuisance for anyone travelling faster than on foot, at least it took a good deal longer for one's clothes to be soaked through by fog. Lestrade drummed his fingers impatiently on the seat of the hansom cab as he was carried through the streets of London at a snail's pace. At this rate, he might as well have waited till mid-morning when there was a chance of the fog lightening up. But, he had wanted to get this out of the way, so here he sat, growing more irritable by the minute.
When he finally reached his destination, he hopped from the cab, paid the driver, and was on the doorstep ringing the bell in half a blink. A kindly housekeeper ushered him in to the sitting room, where he was greeted by a ruddy balding man in a tweed suit.
"Inspector Lestrade," he shook the man's hand.
"John Atkinson," the man replied, and gestured for Lestrade to take a seat.
"I'm here to see what I can do about finding the hypnotist who stole your watch," said the Inspector. "Tell me everything you remember about the circumstances of the theft."
"I wish I could remember more," said Atkinson, dabbing at his brow with a green handkerchief. "It was yesterday afternoon, and I decided to see a hypnotist over on Fleet Street. I don't remember what time I arrived; most likely three or three-thirty, because I arrived back at home at a quarter past four. I have some vague memory of leaving, but I cannot for the life of me picture the building, or the man who hypnotized me."
"You recall your hypnotist was a man, then," noted Lestrade, scrawling in a little notebook.
Atkinson frowned. "Well, I think so. I'm not completely certain."
Well, that was less helpful, then, he thought. "May I ask why you wished to see a hypnotist?" he asked. "Perhaps talking about it will jog your memory."
Atkinson sighed. "Ever since my daughter passed away suddenly a few months ago, my nerves have been shot, and I've had trouble sleeping. My wife suggested hypnotism as a way to help."
Lestrade nodded. He asked a few more questions, but failing to gain any more clues, bid Atkinson farewell.
He stopped next at the southern end of Fleet Street and made note of all the establishments that advertised themselves as offering hypnosis. There were a dozen of them all told, among the mish-mosh of mediums and other such places. He wrote down the addresses.
That afternoon, Lestrade was out for a stroll in the rare instance of sunshine when he heard his name called from across the street, by none other than Dr. Watson.
"Good afternoon, Lestrade!" said Watson, crossing the street to join him.
"And to you," Lestrade replied with a smile.
The two exchanged a few more pleasantries, then Watson asked, "Any interesting cases on the docket?" asked Watson.
"Oh, just one in particular that is niggling at me," Lestrade replied. "There's a hypnotist pickpocketing customers and then hypnotizing them to forget who their hypnotist was." He sighed. "A bit difficult to go on when none of your witnesses can remember a damned thing."
Watson clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm sure you'll work it out. And if it keeps giving you trouble, you know where to find Holmes."
Lestrade smiled. "Thank you, Doctor."
Monday morning found Lestrade in his office at Scotland Yard, reading a brief note addressed from Fleet Street.
To whom it may concern,
I, a professional hypnotist, recently learned of the abhorrent thieving behaviour of another so-called hypnotist who works just down the street. She has taken to pickpocketing her clients, and as an honorable man, I will not see her besmirch the name of my profession.
Her name is Violet Lewis, and here is her address:
Regards,
James Bailey, hypnotist
What a stroke of good fortune! Lestrade thought. Though, this letter referenced a woman, and Atkinson said his hypnotist was a man - though he was rather unclear on that point. Whether this Bailey fellow was truthful and correct or not, it was certainly a lead, which was more than he'd had since he started on this case. He called a cab, and off to Fleet Street he went.
A young woman answered the door when he knocked. "Do you have an appointment?"
"Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard. I have a few questions for your employer." The girl's eyes went wide. "Right this way, sir."
He was led into a dimly lit, comfortable looking room, though it smelled quite a lot more strongly of perfume than he would have liked. A woman in a maroon gown, who Lestrade correctly presumed to be Violet Lewis, rose from a chair, her brow furrowed.
"Cole, I thought I told you not to bring clients in without an appointment," she scolded.
Lestrade quickly introduced himself again. "Please sit down," he said. "I have a few questions for you."
"Very well," she said.
The interrogation was surprisingly short. Once Lestrade saw a flicker of recognition in her eyes at the name of John Atkinson, he was certain he was closing in for an arrest. Minutes later, she burst into tears and confessed that she and her assistant, Eleanor Cole, and another young woman were running a small jewelry smuggling operation. Cole would lift jewelry off the clients while they were hypnotized, and at the end of a session, Lewis would hypnotize them to forget they had ever been there. Then Cole would take the goods through a small section of sewer and deliver them to another compatriot, who would pawn them. All three women would split the proceeds.
It was oddly ingenious, Lestrade thought as he brought the two women back to the police station with him. Holmes and Watson would certainly enjoy hearing about it when next their paths crossed.
Tuesday morning, when Watson came downstairs to the sitting room, Sherlock Holmes sat smoking at the breakfast table with the newspaper in front of him.
"Ah, Watson," he said. "Would you look at this headline? Inspector Lestrade Solves Hypnotic Pickpocketing Case."
Watson grinned. "Why, he's done it again, the clever fellow. I'm sure he didn't even need your little note from 'James Bailey'."
Holmes chuckled. "Come now Watson, don't poke too much fun. He perhaps could have cracked it eventually. But it was a delightful one to investigate, and he does need the occasional opportunity to brag or he'll never get that promotion from Inspector Campbell."
"To be sure, old fellow," Watson replied. "To be sure."
