Hello my dears, I am so sorry it took me so long to finish this chapter. It is not even that I gave precedence to the other stories, but I just couldn't wrap my head around the problem and I am still not quite sure whether I really made sense of this case. This is not yet the last part of it, and I hope I can get on with this story asap. It is just that the other stories are so much easier to write, especially since my mind is reeling with so many things going on at present.

This is not yet edited, so there might be some mistakes. Still, I hope you like where this is going, so please read and review.

Love

Nic

Methinks the lady absent – Part 7

Sherlock:

I could not quite suppress the pride when I saw my wife at last devoid of her corset and in much looser fitting clothes than she normally wore, showing her condition to the world at last. Though I have to say, that I was taken by surprise that one night away should have made such a difference. - Not that I was complaining. And on occasion just a little distance could make one notice things that before had gone undetected. Even I, observant as I was, was prone to not always noticing things that went on around me on a daily basis, while changes that I had not witnessed immediately jumped out at me. Perhaps this was one of these cases, for, after all, I had long since realised that my wife's stomach started to swell.

As Harriet was munching away on her sandwich I quickly got changed back to my respectable self and then poured myself a cup of tea and helped myself to a biscuit.

"So?" my wife inquired.

"Hm?"

"Oh, come now, you know exactly what I want to hear."

"But of course. I love you, my dear," I chuckled, earning an exasperated glance from her. "Oh, yes, that was not it..."

"Sherlock!" She scolded laughinly.

"Ah, alright, that you mean... I see you have come pretty much to the same conclusion than I have – namely that Lady Penelope must have been brought somewhere out of London. Accidentally, of course, but away from here. I am also pretty sure that you have narrowed it down to a certain area."

"Yes, she must be somewhere north-east. Cambridge, Norwich..."

"Correct," I interrupted her. "Cambridge is actually pretty close. We've found her in Newmarket."

"Really? But how on earth did you know she would be there?"

"Ah, well, I approached the problem just like you initially did," I pointed at the notes that still lay on the table. "Starting with the essential question: Where can such a large amount of counterfeit money be exchanged without the danger of detection?"

"And?" she dug deeper, her face flushed with eagerness.

"The answer was an easy one, once I remembered that I read that the first major race of this year at Newmarket would be held the coming weekend. Betting, of course, was the answer! To bet large amounts of money is not uncommon, and, after all, it can be divided into smaller sums amongst a couple of people, so it would not rouse suspicion," I answered smilingly.

Harriet frowned slightly at my words and then asked sceptically: "Betting? But isn't there the danger of them losing?"

"Yes, if they would make risky bets – but when they go with the usual favourites, it is fairly safe, even should they lose a little bit – after all, their objective is to get real money into their hands in exchange for their counterfeit one, with as little risk as possible and as such, and considering that their stakes are low anyway, since it's fake money, what does it signify if they get back just about what they have put in?"

"Good point. But how on earth did you find them?"

"Ah, I see you are only lacking information otherwise I am sure you would have found out yourself. You are not a betting person, are you?"

"Though I like to ride, I have never been tempted to go to a horse race. So no, I am most certainly not a betting person. - As you very well know, my love."

"Yes, I do know that. Anyway, if you intend to bet a larger amount of money – that is anything over a hundred Pounds, you have to contact the bookmaker beforehand to let him know."

"So you inquired in the betting shops?"

"Hopkins did. I doubt in my attire they would have attended me. - Rather the contrary, I dare say."

"So. is there a particular reason why you went dressed up as a tramp?"

"Yes, so I could snoop around the stables at the race course. Not all bets are done in official betting shops, you know?"

"I thought you had to have a license?"

"You ought, at least if you call yourself officially a bookmaker, that much is true, but has it ever kept anybody from making private bets? - No, of course not. And since that is so, there are many private people who do a bit of unofficial bookmaking on the side."

"I had no idea," Harriet admitted, reaching for another sandwich.

"How could you? And hence it might astonish you that these private men are often much more in demand than the licensed bookmakers, since for them there are no restrictions and hence they often offer the better tips – and most of the time without the awkward questions that come with the profession and often with higher stakes, needless to say."

"But would that not mean they earn less?"

"Only on the surface, my dear, for don't think that they don't have the people pay for a good tip."

"That all sounds a bit dodgy to me."

"Oh, it is. Very shady in fact. Which is, why wise men choose the safer route and go to a registered bookmaker. At any rate, while those can't be seen anywhere near the stables, the unofficial ones can, of course, and that was why I lingered around there while Hopkins took care of the actual bookmakers."

"And, what did you find?"

"Ah, I was lucky to overhear a man, Wallis was his name, that he's got a very important client who is willing to pay for any information he can get. I did not believe a word he was saying, for he did mention several supposed clients, presumably to make him more credible and while with many I would not be surprised that they would bet large amounts of money, I know for a fact, that this does not apply to Lord Henley. He used to be a betting man, at one point in his life, but since he fell down the stairs at the Diogenes Club six weeks ago, and I have that from the most reliable of sources, namely my brother, he has been in a catatonic state. In short, it was highly suspicious."

"Does that not contradict your statement that they didn't really care to win a lot?"

"It would technically..."

"Unless the man is in league with the counterfeiters and tries to merely find out, which horses are the safest while claiming that he's looking for special information?"

"Ah, there we go! Exactly. Moreover, he is actually one of them, but to that we get later."

"What I still don't quite get is, how this information helped you find Lady Penelope. I know, you could have, of course, followed him, but..."

"I did not, you are right. But again I was in luck," I replied, poiuring another cup of tea for the two of us, "as I have said, the fellow was of the chatty sort and talked on and on to one of the grooms, presumably thinking that some kind of camaraderie might help milk the man – and admittedly it did. Thus he eventually revealed that he stayed at a small hotel just outside town and after I finished feeding the horses, meaning dragging hay across the courtyard for an hour or two, which earned me a couple of pence, that is where I went. - Picking up Hopkins on the way. Seriously, it was more difficult to get hold of the inspector than finding Lady Penelope..."

That, of course, was not exactly true. I had just been in good luck to have come across this man that early in the day. Had he only made for the stables by lunch or not at all, for after all there was no reason for him to come there in a daily basis, it would have taken me much longer.

"Sherlock, that still doesn't explain how you knew he was the very man you were looking for and that he was one of the counterfeiters."

"No, it doesn't. From what he said, he could have been any man offering his services to people who'd rather stay hidden when making humongous bets, but you know my methods. He was well dressed, but his clothes, though fitting well enough, had certainly not been made for him, meaning that he was by no means the man he wanted people to believe he was. His trousers were too long, his coat slightly too small and the collar of his shirt showed that it was well-worn. And then there was that tiny wee fact, that he was a typesetter..."

"And how would you know that?"

"Well, every professional person develops certain characteristics over time that hint at the work they do. A groom's hand adjusts to his holding the reins, and callouses develop between his ring finger and his little finger as well as the top of his palm where the leather grazes his skin. A gardener never has clean fingernails and the palms of his hands are rough and lacerated. A cook usually has cut-marks on his left, while his right is more likely to have burn blisters and then there is this distinctive grove of rough skin, where the back of the knife's blade presses into his hand... - With a typesetter it is typical that his hands are both stained with ink, though it washes off, of course, but then there is still the typical callous at the right side of his index finger with which he repeatedly pushes the types into place, as well as a grove at the index and middle finger with which he presses down the types in the first place so they are even."

Harriet did not say anything at that, but her wry expression was expressive enough. Shaking her head she got up and kissed the top of my head.

"I think you would do well, my dear, if you lay down a little," I mused, seeing that she once again looked a bit tired, and admittedly, I was no less so.

"And what will you do in the meantime?"

"Rest likewise and then see how I can get the remainder of this gang behind bars."

xxx

Harriet:

We crawled into bed for a short nap for though I hated to admit it, I was tired after my morning's adventures and I hadn't slept all too well the previous night either. Well, I had slept long, but not restfully and snuggling up to my husband now, even if it was only for an hour or two, did me a world of good, despite the many questions I still had in regards to betting. There I was really clueless, it seemed.

We had just gotten up again, shortly before dinner, when Watson arrived at Baker Street with two letters in his hand.

"Ah, Holmes, glad to find you here. No, don't look so hopeful, I haven't got a new case," he grinned. "But I've gotten an invitation from my wife to yours, for tea tomorrow and one from Stanford addressed to me and Mary for dinner the Saturday after next."

I nodded in acceptance, taking Mary's small note from him.

"And?" Sherlock looked slightly puzzled, still not quite awake, but for that even more adorable.

"He invites you as well, of course, and you, Mrs Holmes. - There is just that tiny wee problem that he doesn't know you are married..."

Watson looked slightly sheepish, and when his gaze fell onto my midsection his jaw dropped slightly. Funny, I had been almost sure he knew.

"Then how can he invite Harriet?"

"He asked me to invite Doctor Stephens for him, since he doesn't know her personally, so you would have a lady by your side as well that you can entertain and be entertained by."

"And though I completely agree with his choice, how does he get the idea that Hattie might be just the one woman to entertain me?"

"Well, last time I saw him, for obvious reasons he asked what the case was about you were working on. I told him - and that Doctor Stephens contrary to popular belief is actually a young woman. He is also interested in meeting you professionally, Mrs Holmes, since his wife has, only two months ago, given birth to another set of twins and thought that with your line of expertise it might be an interesting study for you."

"I take it then, it isn't the only set of twins?" I inquired, awkwardly conscious of my own condition and the suspicions regarding it.

"No, it is their third set of twins..."

Now that was unusual.

"Do you know whether they are identical ones or only fraternal?"

"I have to admit that I do not know. The only thing I do know is that he's got three boys and three girls."

"Good, meaning that at least one set is obviously fraternal, and I dare say so are the other two. There indeed seem some families in which there seems to be an unusual cluster of twins – fraternal ones, never identical, I have to add. I would be glad to look into it."

I glanced over at Sherlock. While on one hand he seemed fairly amused, on the other he did look a bit worried.

"What is it?"

"Nothing, my mind was just straying a little, that is all," he answered evasively.

"So, can I tell him you'll be accepting his invitation?"

Grinning Sherlock replied: "Since my wife has already decided that she is interested in the curious fact that the young Stanfords only ever come in twos, yes, we'll be there. - Though I have to say, I am tempted to play a little trick on him..."

It happened but rarely, but on occasion my husband did like to embrace his mischievous side.

When Watson had left, I could not help asking: "And, what had you look so worried?"

"It might sound silly, but the other night I had an odd dream about us having identical twins - boys just as inquisitive as I was and the whole house came down on us, needless to say."

"We might be lucky, they might turn out to be girls," I comforted laughingly, glad, once I realised what I had said, that Sherlock Holmes did not pick up on it.