Foreword: Greetings all. It has been some years since I last took part in this challenge. Actually, I have done little writing in the Sherlock Holmes universe for quite some time. Hades was kind enough to invite me once more and glad I am to be here.
These challenges are always stimulating, yet there is so little time to edit. I hope you all will enjoy my stories, even if they might be riddled with simple errors.
Without further ado, I present my first offering of the December 2021 Challenge!
AN: Dedicated to Captain Nytd. May the sun shine on your face and the wind be at your back. I miss you, my friend.
AN: Prompt at end of story.
The Adventure of the Ill-tempered Patient.
I recall on that particular first of December it was quite cold and there was snow falling, gently blanketing the streets of London. I had nearly done with my rounds with only a single patient left to see and was looking forward to an evening with Mary and a warm meal. Such thoughts had a smile on my face as I stepped up to the most familiar door in the old city and knocked.
"Doctor Watson!" cried my former landlady in greeting, swinging wide the door and waving me in. "So good to see you again."
"And you, Mrs. Hudson," said I, doffing my bowler and shaking the accumulation off of it. "How is Holmes? Any improvement?"
"I fear not much," she said, taking my hat and ulster. "He was able to keep down the soup and bread I made for his lunch, though. I believe he was asleep until his visitor arrived."
"Visitor?" I had cautioned Holmes to rest and receive no one until his fever had broken.
"A woman," she said. "Middle aged. A maid or housekeeper, I think."
"I cannot believe you allowed her to see him," I said, not hotly but with some reproach in my tone.
"Seemed quite beside herself, Doctor."
Resigned and not wishing to upset Mrs. Hudson, I took out my stethoscope and ascended the seventeen steps to the landing outside of my old lodging. Knocking, I did not wait for Holmes to answer. He was in no state to get out of bed.
"Hello Watson," I heard him faintly call from his bedroom as I stepped inside.
Forcing false cheer into my words, I said, "How is my patient? Feeling better?"
Stepping into his room I found my old friend propped limply against his pillows, eyes drooping near closed. As had been the case on my previous visit, his nose was quite red and his cheeks were flushed. Upon his brow beads of perspiration. The expression on his face, though, spoke more of frustration than illness, which was an improvement.
Only after taking in Holmes did I spare any attention for his visitor. She was a workingclass woman of perhaps forty years, neatly dress but obviously care worn. The redness of her eyes told me she had recently been weeping.
"Allow me to introduce Mrs. French." Holmes indicated the woman with a limp hand. "Mrs. French, this is my friend and physician, Dr. John Watson."
"Pleased to meet you, sir," said Mrs. French, bobbing to her feet long enough to give a vague courtesy before sitting again. I nodded in return, wondering how to explain to her that Holmes was in great need of rest.
"Watson, do sit, please," Holmes said, indicating the wicker back chair in the corner. "And please spare this lady a moment while she explains the difficulties that brought her here."
"Holmes," said I, "you cannot be thinking of a case right now. If you could see yourself!"
"I know, Doctor." He dabbed at his nose with a kerchief, dropping his hand to his comforter as if it were made of lead. "I have little strength. I dare not risk getting out of bed. I have explained this to Mrs. French, yet she is in such a state that I cannot help but listen and advise."
"Well, I suppose she can speak while I examine you," I said, crossing to his bedside. "Forgive the necessity, Mrs. French."
"Of course, sir," said the woman. "And I wouldn't trouble Mr. Holmes at all, only it's my Robert."
"Your son?" I asked, taking my thermometer from my bag.
"No, sir." Mrs. French looked a little embarrassed.
"Mrs. French is a widow, Watson," said Holmes and I put the thermometer under his tongue.
"That's right," said Mrs. French. "Robert Yarwood is a widower and he and I have an understanding, if you see my meaning. We plan to wed next year. That is, we were planning to until two days ago."
"Two days ago?" I asked, lifting Holmes's wrist to feel his pulse. He began to speak but I held up a finger, silencing him. I am afraid he took this with bad grace, but he did subside.
"He was…" Mrs. French burst into tears.
Forgetting my purpose, I turned from Holmes, intending to comfort her. At that moment, she drew herself upright in the chair, banishing her tears with a deep intake of breath.
"Mr. Yarwood was arrested, Watson," said Holmes, holding the thermometer out to me. "One hundred one degrees. My fever is worse."
"Only by a degree," I said, returning to my examination. "Your pulse is steady and strong, though. How is your cough?"
"Would you like some brandy, Mrs. French?" asked Holmes, ignoring me.
"No. Thank you, sir," she said, blotting her eyes.
"Your cough, Holmes?" I insisted.
"Better. I did as you suggested and have not had a pipe since Wednesday." His tone was resentful, but I noted his voice was stronger. Turning his attention to his guest, he said, "Please continue with your account, madam."
"Of course," she said, blotting her tears again before going on. "Doctor, Robert and I both work for Mr. Alistair Lowell. Robert is his butler and I am the housekeeper."
"Lowell?" I said. "That name is familiar."
"Yes, Watson." Holmes cleared his throat and I handed him a glass of water. Frowning, he took it. When he had swallowed, he said, "You may recall that business of the forged ledger. He called me in to recover the actual one and learn which of the employees was the culprit."
"I do recall," said I. "You did his firm quite the service."
"Indeed. Please continue, Mrs. French."
"Seems you already know Mr. Lowell is well off. It has been a nice position for Robert and me. Until a few weeks ago, we were all quite happy and content. It was when Mrs. Lowell noticed some of her jewelry had gone that things became strained. None of us had any idea how it could have gone missing. Mrs. Lowell even joked it must be a ghost. Then Thursday, Timothy said his St. Christopher medal had gone. He lays it on his night table before bedtime, you see, and when he woke it wasn't there."
"Who is Timothy?" asked Holmes.
"The elder son, sir. A lad of twelve and as dear a boy as I could ask for."
"How many children in the house?" asked Holmes. I took note of a certain amount of energy returning to him.
"Two," she said. "Timothy and Joseph who is nine and as dear as his brother."
"Could it be one of them, Mrs. French?" I asked. "Boys do get into mischief."
"I am sure it is not," she said. "It would be very unlike either of them."
"Has anything else gone missing?" asked Holmes.
"Yes," Mrs. French said. "Mrs. Lowell had a pearl necklace, inherited from her great aunt. She meant to wear it on Friday night when she and the master were to attend a concert. She says she left it on her vanity when she stepped out to find me. The seam of her sleeve had parted and she needed me to sew it for her. Well, by the time she returned to her room, the necklace was gone."
"Robert was then accused and arrested?" asked Holmes.
"Not right away," she said. "Mr. Lowell called him to the library and closed the door. Robert told me that Mr. Lowell told him he would not involve the law if Robert returned the jewelry and left the house. Robert said he didn't steal anything and if the master wished to call in the police, he would rely on them to prove he was innocent."
"Were the police called at that point?" I asked.
"They came two days ago and an inspector searched the house. He fair went through everything. Every drawer, closet and box."
"And?" I asked.
"The jewelry was tucked into the bag in which Robert keeps his shoe polishing kit. It was under his bed."
"I am afraid that is quite damning," I observed.
"He didn't steal it!" Mrs. French said, twisting her hands in her lap, her voice strained. "Robert would never steal. He's honest, Doctor. I swear to it!"
"Calm yourself, Mrs. French," said Holmes, lifting a hand. "This would not be the first time evidence suggested guilt and yet there is a perfectly innocent explanation for it. Do settle yourself and tell me, aside from the jewelry and the usual contents of the bag, was anything else found there?"
"Yes," she said, once more restrained. "Trifles. Two marbles and one of Timothy's lead soldiers."
"Describe the marbles." Holmes propped himself up higher on his pillows. I lifted his blankets to cover his chest and he brushed my hand away, rolling his eyes. "You do fuss, Watson."
"I am your doctor, Holmes."
"Indeed, you are," he grumbled with bad grace. "The marbles, Mrs. French?"
"One was glass. What they call a cat's eye," she said. "The other was clay. Glazed a bright red."
"The soldier was a redcoat?" Holmes asked.
"Yes. A Scotsman with his bearskin and kilt."
"I see." Holmes remained in silent thought a moment then asked, "Are there mice or rats in your house?"
"Of course not, Mr. Holmes!"
"I meant no offense," said he. "Watson, do me a service and get one of my cards, a sheet of stationary and a pen from my writing desk, please."
When I returned with the items plus a large book on which Holmes could support the paper, I found Mrs. French standing beside his bed, slowly turning in place, arms held out to her sides. She gave me a puzzled look as she continued her turn, stopping when she faced Holmes.
"Thank you, Mrs. French," said Holmes. "I am confident we will be able to put this matter to rest and I have no doubt your employer will be satisfied that Mr. Yarwood is innocent."
"Truly, Mr. Holmes?"
"Yes." He waved me over, holding his hand out for the pen and stationery. "If you would wait a moment while I write this note to Mr. Lowell, I think everything will be resolved tonight. At least, if I can persuade Dr. Watson to help."
"Holmes, you must not get out of bed," I said as he wrote.
"I shall remain here," he replied without looking up. "You must be my proxy, though."
"Do you promise to eat something and keep warm?"
"Naturally," he grumbled. "I will read the Times and the Gazette and sleep the night through."
I confess, Holmes seemed stronger and his hand did not shake as he wrote. When he had done, he blew on the ink, folded the stationery and handed it and his card to Mrs. French.
"Present both of those to Mr. Lowell when you return to his residence."
"I will, sir," Mrs. French said, clutching the paper as if it were a bar of gold.
"And remember, you must say nothing to the boys."
"Indeed, sir," she said.
"Very well," he said, a thin smile on his lips. "Please do not distress yourself with more worries for your Robert. I am confident he will be restored to you on the morrow."
Mrs. French, smiling and blushing, expressed her thanks and said her goodbyes, then departed.
"How am I to help?" I asked, taking a spill of powder from my bag and pouring it into Holmes's glass. I added sufficient water and stirred it before passing the glass to him.
"I am feeling much stronger, Watson," he said sullenly.
"Take your medicine, Holmes," I insisted. "How am I to help?"
Making a face, he drank and set the glass aside.
"Awful. Simply awful." He blotted his mouth and scowled at me a moment before saying, "This evening you will go to the Lowell home and enter via the servants' door. Make no undue noise and speak in low tones. It is important the boys do not know you are there. Mrs. French will take you to the butler's room and there you will spend the evening. Keep the lights out and do not change anything once Mrs. French leaves you. She has instructions. It is also important that you keep your feet off the floor, Watson. Lay upon the bed."
"Why? Is there some danger?" I asked.
"Perhaps. Whither or no, you must not risk it," he said and yawned. "That draught always makes me sleepy, Watson. Now, take my policeman's lantern when you go and keep it lit, shutter closed. You will know when to use it."
"But what am I to face, Holmes? Should I bring my revolver?"
"Well, yes. Of course, you must. Where is my mind? Those confounded tinctures of yours!"
"Holmes, what danger are you sending me into?" I demanded, concern growing in my mind.
"I do not believe you have faced this sort before, Watson," he said gravely, his expression grim. "Remember to keep your feet off the floor. If the worst comes, that will save you. And, touch nothing once Mrs. French leaves you. Promise me, Watson."
"I will touch nothing and I will remain on the bed," I promised. "What am I to face, Holmes?"
"I dare not tell you," he said, sagging back on his pillows. "Be sure to kiss your wife before leaving her this evening, my friend. Were I able, I would go in your place."
And with those final words, Holmes was asleep.
I made light of the situation when leaving Mary that night, though my heart beat rapidly and doubt sat in my belly like a lump of bad beef. Arriving at the servants' door of the Lowell residence I was greeted by Mr. Lowell and Mrs. French.
"Holmes writes that a grave mistake has been made," said Mr. Lowell once I had passed into the kitchen. He held up the folded stationery and said, "I have good reason to trust his judgement and I confess, Doctor, I did not like accusing Yarwood. He has been an excellent butler for the last seven years."
"I am sure you may trust Holmes," I said. "He explained his reason for not being here himself?"
"A fever, yes," Lowell said. "My sons know nothing of your presence. Mrs. French will take you to Yarwood's room. If you should need anything, call out and I am ready to assist."
I thanked him for his offer and his indulgence before Mrs. French escorted me to the butler's room. I lit the small lantern, made certain its shutter was closed and set it upon the bedside table.
"My room is down the hall, Doctor," Mrs. French said. "I hope all will be well."
"It will be," I replied with more confidence than I felt.
When Mrs. French departed, she left the door slightly ajar, a sliver of light cast by the gas lamp in the hallway alleviating the darkness. Keeping to my promise, I touched nothing but feeling apprehensive after Holmes's foreboding words, I opened the shutter of the lantern and cast its light about, taking in the room. The place was neat and orderly with simple furnishings. In the corner was an armchair. One wall was occupied by a small wardrobe, no doubt containing the clothes of Robert Yarwood. The wall beside the door was hung with a small landscape painting of what I took to be a Welsh countryside. Opposite this was a window, shut fast. Beside the bed was a small nightstand and that was it. Nothing seemed unusual. Certainly, there were no bogies to frighten the credulous. Still, Holmes's words held weight in my mind and I felt my pocket for the hard outline of my old Adams revolver. Little enough comfort there.
Settling on the bed and lifting my feet clear of the floor, I shuttered the lantern and waited in the near dark, listening to the ticking of a clock somewhere in the house. It chimed ten and nothing had happened. Time dragged on and I began to feel weary. It had been a long day for me, tramping around in the cold, and the good supper I had enjoyed with Mary had the usual soporific effect on me. I was tempted to rise and pace, but refrained. Holmes had warned me to keep off the floor. He had been vague about the danger, yet had urged me to bring my revolver. It was unlike Holmes to be duplicitous in his cautions. His fever might account for some vagaries of judgement, though. Regardless, I kept to the bed, my feet off the floor.
When the clock chimed eleven, I was sorely tired and the mattress beneath me was soft and warm. I was unwillingly giving in to sleep and shifted on the bed, sitting up and bracing my back against the low headboard. It was then I heard the door creak and saw the light from the hall increase marginally. Was someone there? I saw no shadow. Mrs. French had mentioned a ghost, but I am a man of science and remain unconvinced of such spirits. Still, the door had quite clearly made a creak.
"Keep your feet off the floor," I whispered loud enough only for myself to hear.
Was there some thing creeping in the shadows below my line of sight? A creature? Something that slithered on its belly or crawled on many legs? My thoughts raced, recalling the animal from Sumatra Holmes and I had to deal with and our adventure of the Speckled Band. I reached into my pocket as cold fingers of dread grasped my heart. Revolver gripped firmly, my other hand found the lantern on the nightstand. It was then a click or tap came from under the bed. Keyed for action I reacted, rolling to shine the lantern under the bed, unshuttering it as I did. I over reached!
Thumping to the floor, the lantern's light playing crazily in the dim room, I was confronted with the shadow of a massive beast upon the wall and drew aim upon it. My finger was tightening on the trigger even as I realized the beast was nothing more than a shadow and my finger relaxed. Breathing hard, nearly panting, I focused nearer to the lantern and discovered the lean, furry, long-tailed form of a ferret!
Mrs. French burst through the door at my laughter and was followed a moment later by the master of the house. Both stared at me wide-eyed.
"What is it, Doctor?" Mr. Lowell asked, stepping deeper into the room a derringer in his hand.
Setting the lantern on the floor, I reached out and carefully grasped the little beast, holding him up for them to see.
"Why, it's Little Bob!" he cried, his face splitting into a bemused grin. "What in Creation has happened?"
"We have found your thief, sir," I said, rising and slipping my revolver unobtrusively into my pocket.
"I don't understand," said Mrs. French.
Stooping, I reached under the bed and came out with the little animal's loot, presenting it to her.
"A toy soldier?" Mr. Lowell asked, his grin fading to a smile. "A toy soldier! Ha! Yarwood is innocent! Oh my. Oh my. I owe that man an apology."
~0~
On my rounds the following day, I made Baker Street my first stop. Keeping my pleasantries with Mrs. Hudson brief, I went straight up to Holmes, bent on bearding the lion in his den.
"You knew!" I growled, entering his bedroom.
Holmes was sitting beside his fire with a large mug of tea in his hand and the morning papers scattered about his feet. He smiled and sipped rather than answer me.
"Holmes, you took a year off my life with that nonsense," I said, getting my stethoscope out. "A year at least."
"Oh, Watson," he chided, his smile broader. "You were being such a clucking hen, and all the powders and dire warnings to stay in bed. I thought a dose of your own medicine would do you some good. Call it payback if you like."
"Put that mug down and be silent a moment," I said and used my stethoscope to listen to his breathing. "Much better than yesterday. You do not feel as hot."
"My fever broke last evening around eleven," he said and accepted the thermometer.
"Around eleven," I mused. "That sounds about right. That would have been around the time I encountered the dread beast himself. How did you know?"
"About the ferret?" he asked when I took the thermometer from his mouth.
"Ninety-eight," I pronounced. "Back to normal. Yes. How did you know about the ferret?"
"Recall, Watson, that I asked about mice and rats."
"Mrs. French reacted quite indignantly," I said.
"Recall, also, the sorts of things that were going missing."
"Jewelry, marbles, toy soldiers."
"Quite." He shrugged back into his chair, folding his hands in his lap and looking pleased. "All small objects. The pearl necklace would have been the largest, I think."
"And you had Mrs. French turn about in front of you," I said. "You were inspecting her clothing. For hairs?"
"Very good, Watson," he purred. "In my diminished state I had difficulty taking in all her details from across the room. Up close, the black and grey hairs were distinct on her dark skirt. A tidy woman, she nevertheless was unable to remove them all."
"They could have been from a cat or dog," I said.
"Not to a trained eye."
"All right. But how did you know a ferret was responsible for the thefts, such as they were?"
"I know a stable master who keeps half a dozen ferrets and a pair of lurchers. Makes a tidy sum yearly, eradicating rabbits and rats for farmers. He described the various habits of his ferrets, one of which is their penchant for placing different items where they believe those items should be. His favorite, a quite intelligent little female, steals the buttons from his coat and deposits them in one of his boots. An irritating habit, you can be sure, but as she is so effective in her duties, he tolerates it and gladly."
"Well, I am glad we were able to clear things up for Robert Yarwood. Mr. Lowell had to be dissuaded from going round last night and freeing the man. He has promised to make it up to Yardwood, whatever it takes."
"That is good news," said Holmes. "Do you think it would be all right if I had a pipe?"
"No," I said firmly. "Not for another two days. No smoking. I will tell Mrs. Hudson to make some cabbage soup. We want to clear out your system before you pollute it again. Cabbage soup for the next two days and you should avoid strong drink, as well."
Holmes narrowed his eyes suspiciously on me. I went about putting my things back in my bag in as businesslike a fashion as I knew how.
"Watson," he began, but I cut him off.
"I am your doctor, Holmes, and I expect my instructions to be obeyed."
I snapped my bag closed and strode from the room. Stopping to speak with Mrs. Hudson, I extracted a solemn promise from her to feed Holmes nothing but cabbage soup and weak tea for the next two days. I doubted it would deter him in the future, but I felt some recompense for the night he had given me.
Prompt from trustingHim17: Include an animal in today's story
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