Chapter Fourteen

On Small Battles

Andrews, displaying the keen instinct for opportunity that characterized the Irregulars, had ordered a huge supper and promptly set about demolishing it. I found him and Jensen in the hotel room; the professor in scribbling on a long sheet of equations and the boy halfway through a large piece of cake. Jensen didn't acknowledge my entrance, but Andrews waved and sprayed crumbs across the table.

"Don't talk with you mouth full," I admonished him, only half joking.

"Sorry missus."

"I suppose you realize that Mr. Holmes will want to know why this food is being charged to the room." Andrews shrugged unconcernedly.

"The pro-fess-or said he wanted coffee." He said, pronouncing the syllables with care.

"You don't think you may have overstepped your mandate in obtaining sustenance?"

"Mfft?" Andrews asked through another mouthful of cake.

"Never mind." There was indeed a silver coffee pot sitting half-empty among the dishes. I helped myself to a cup and decided that I could permit myself a slice of the cake as well. Jensen acknowledged my entrance with a brief, annoyed glance before turning back to his work. His wife must have the patience of a saint, I thought idly.

Holmes was likely to be some time at the police station. Watson never bothered with the details of the aftermath of a case. For one thing, police procedures and depositions make for very tedious reading. For another, Watson had once confided to me that it was always best to end on a strong note -- Justice Victorious and all that. It was one of the many points of dispute between him and Holmes, although Watson's stories could be considered one huge point of dispute.

I formulated a plan of action over the coffee and took myself down to the lobby to negotiate another room for Jensen and walked directly into a multi-lingual dispute over reservations.

A French family consisting of a father, mother, young daughter and a toddler was facing off against an Italian family with twin sons, an older girl and a babe in arms. The men were yelling at the clerks, the women were yelling at their men and the children were just yelling. Despite the clerks' best efforts to the contrary; the argument had attracted the attention of the entire lobby and threatened to break into outright violence in a few moments.

I carefully edged around the battle and tried to attract the attention of the manager.

"Excuse me!" I yelled for the third time. The manager finally heard me and whirled around with a desperate gleam in his eye.

"Are you the translator?" He cried, and continued without waiting for a response. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. The gentleman we usually contact is unavailable. I'm afraid none of them have enough English to make themselves clear."

I was about to protest that I was not a translator when a sudden thought occurred to me. A female translator might be an oddity, but it was an acceptably genteel position, and would be a very useful occupation for an Irregular. At the very least I could use the pocket money.

My French was better than my Italian, so I attacked from that front first. The situation seemed to have progressed beyond a simple "Excusez-moi?" so I jumped in without preamble, steamrollering over the French gentleman's protestations by repeating the desk clerk's reassurances in French. The Babel slowly ceased as the two families realized help had arrived, except for the infant who had just hit his stride and refused to be soothed.

The matter of the hotel rooms was quickly settled once communication could be established, to the intense relief of the hotel manager. I believe I could have asked for best suite in the hotel and received it gratis. I curbed the impulse and secured the room next door to mine for Jensen. The manager also insisted on paying me the customary interpreter's fee. I protested, but not too strongly. It seemed oddly amusing that a woman with nearly a million pounds gathering dust in a bank vault somewhere should be so glad to lay her hands on a half-sovereign.

"You handled that very well." A voice behind me said. Holmes had tried to sneak up on me, but I had sensed his approach.

"Not terribly difficult. When did you come in?"

"When the good signora started to wail about the injustice of the British hostelry system after one of the clerks refused her bribe. A sensible move on the lad's part, I thought."

"Especially since he probably didn't understand a word of it. When were you planning on intervening?"

"A proper English gentleman never demeans himself so far as to get involved with a stranger's business."

"To say nothing of the entertainment value." Holmes had no reply to that, but I saw a smile twitching at his lips.

"I would venture to guess you have not eaten since luncheon. Would you care to join me for supper?"

"I can evict Jensen from my suite any time. That street brat of yours took the liberty of ordering supper for Jensen, then eating most of it himself."

"The Irregulars do have a remarkably keen instinct when it comes to finding free food. We shall have to fend for ourselves then. Do you have any particular preference?"

"My knowledge is somewhat out of date, I'm afraid." Holmes raised a curious eyebrow. Either he had forgotten my claims of being a time traveller, or he was surprised that I noticed the trap he was laying. I doubted the former.

"I don't know if it has survived the ravages of time and new management, but perhaps you've heard of a little place called Simpson's."

He could not have picked a place better calculated to throw me off my stride. Simpson's was the place to eat in London, both now and in later days. It was also one of Holmes' favourite restaurants. We had gone there together countless times. Holmes had remarked more than once how the place appeared to remain unchanged through the years, right down to busboys.

"No!" I said forcefully. "That is, I've heard of it and I know it's very good but I would really rather not, and anyway I don't have a thing decent enough to wear in any case." I forced myself to stop babbling with an effort. My sartorial complaint was valid enough, at least. I could be seen in public without causing a fuss, but Simpson's standards were high. I might have been more believable, if only I could have kept the shakiness from my voice.

"Not Simpson's."

"Very well then." Holmes said, deducing the source of my sudden distress, if not the actual cause.

We went instead to a restaurant located in the lobby of a large hotel not far from Hyde Park. The hotel itself seemed of dubious quality, but the restaurant was excellent. Conversation was kept firmly to the inessentials, like the details of Sauvignon's escapades through middle class society. It was a blessedly mundane end to a frenetic and confusing day.

I hoped that it wouldn't always take me like this; the sharp, sudden realization that my Holmes was gone, and in his place there was only a stranger.

.•´¨•»¦«••»¦«•´¨•..•´¨•»¦«••»¦«•´¨•..•´¨•»¦«••»¦«•´¨•..•´¨•»¦«••»¦«•´¨•..•´¨•»¦«••»¦«•´¨•..•´¨•»¦«••»¦«•´¨•..•´¨•»¦«••»¦«•´¨•..•´¨•»¦«••»¦«•´¨•..•´¨•»¦«•

Gah. Okay, so I didn't mean to wait that long between updates, but you know how it goes.

I've made some minor edits to the first few chapters to fix some errors spotted by the wonderful Maer aka "Merely a whim." She is not responsible for any errors which remain through authorial misunderstanding or sheer bloodymindedness. )

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.