"How does one go about getting a Christmas present for someone?"
I nearly choked but managed to keep my composure with a superhuman effort; the man could not be serious! But the fellow's sharp gaze was far too intense to agree with the notion of his pulling my leg…this was simply too peculiar.
"Erm…you choose it, and then pay for it at the counter?" I ventured somewhat dryly.
"No, no, I mean…how does one decide what to get for a person?" he asked, shooing off my veiled sarcasm with an absent wave of his thin hand.
I chewed my lower lip in some surprise, for the man had to be thirty or so, possibly a bit younger – but surely before now he had had occasion to purchase a Christmas present??
"Have you not done much Christmas shopping, sir?" I inquired cautiously. I had no wish for the fellow to think I was being nosy, but my curiousity would not let this interesting matter drop unasked.
"For a brother, yes, but never for a friend." The uncomfortable mutter was accompanied by a small squirm, for lack of a better word; he was behaving for all the world like a truant schoolboy being called up before the headmaster.
Never? I took in this piece of information and digested it slowly. After only a moment I rejected the thought of madness, for the fellow was sharp as a hypodermic needle and obviously brilliant – though entirely clueless in this particular department. Not mad, then. But surely individuals as friendless as Scrooge himself did not exist outside of literature?
"Truly," the man pressed, "I have done everything within my power to discover what might be appropriate or welcomed in such situations, but even my formidable powers have come up blank in deducing what might be a suitable Christmas present for him. I've even had him followed for the last three days…"
I took a step back, feeling my eyebrows move toward my hair and my skin creep ever so slightly, as if a wet earthworm were crawling down my spine. Followed? What was the man, some sort of psychopath?
"…three days, but the lads couldn't get into the places he frequented, and besides he finally caught Bert at his shadowing the other night…" The man was continuing to ramble to himself, either oblivious to my increasing suspicion or else, to use another of Mother's favourite sayings, simply off his rocker. I suspected more the former.
"And so I have come up against a complete brick wall in that respect," he finished, his tone rising in exasperation. He unexpectedly brought the flat of his hand down on the counter with enough irritated force to make me jump and a nearby music-box chime suddenly into a plinking rendition of Good King Wenceslas.
"Perhaps, sir," I began cautiously, attempting to make my tone more calm than his (for he had drawn undue attention my direction with that physical manifestation of his frustrated state), "if you told me something about him, I might be able to suggest a suitable present – unless you would like to just give him money and be done with the matter?"
The fellow's grey eyes lit up suddenly in pathetic hopefulness, and he bent his head to my eye level. "Is that acceptable in these situations?" he asked me confidentially.
"Frankly, it is usually frowned upon as being the rather unsophisticated and impersonal method of gifting," I admitted. The poor chap's face fell miserably. "Then," I went on, "tell me about him, and perhaps together we may come up with something, eh?"
He nodded in reluctant agreement and glared a melting hole into the music box as it tinkled and ground slowly to a stop halfway through the second verse, leaving the "poor man" still gathering his winter fuel for eternity (or at least until someone else started up the infernal things). "Well," he began, tapping a long finger upon his pursed lips, "he is…about my age, slightly older, actually…he is a doctor, and a veteran…and he does a good deal of writing…"
"Perhaps a fountain pen or writing set?" I suggested. "We have a fine collection of pens, stationery, and the like?" A dismal frown. "A blank journal? We've a leather-bound collection that is very popular about now."
"But he already possesses a surfeit of such things – they turn up everywhere in the entire house; including the most undesirable places, like on the stairs and in with my collection of animal teeth and claws," he protested grumpily.
I gulped a bit uneasily…was the fellow a taxidermist, or just an eccentric? I attempted to put away the disturbing mental pictures that my mind was conjuring up as to what his other collections might possibly be.
"You said he's a doctor? Perhaps a new doctor's bag?" I inquired desperately. I was running low on both suggestions and patience by this point with the curious fellow.
"His own is barely used, though." This with a low growl, showing that his frustration obviously was increasing by the minute.
I winced as an infant close by us suddenly began shrieking for all it was worth (which in my opinion could not be much), and a sudden crash told me that the child or one of its hellions of brothers had toppled over the stack of wooden blocks in the children's section, sending randomly assorted letters clattering across the floor in a wooden stampede.
The fellow opposite me barely noticed the cascade of blocks, however, for he was gnawing his thin lips anxiously, his desperation for a suitable gift idea increasing exponentially the more seconds that passed. I was forced to wonder what type of man was only now, in his late twenties, shopping for a close friend's Christmas gift for the first time.
I was startled, and very much entertained, when the fellow in question erupted into a quiet but very clear streak of French swearing and punctuated it with a moan of absolute hopelessness.
"Perhaps a set of books, sir? Most people enjoy getting new reading material," I suggested, my irritation with the peculiar fellow slowly melting into a sort of pity for his obvious disconsolation.
"I suppose." His whole face assumed a most mournful aspect. "But that is so…"
"Impersonal?" I supplied understandingly.
He nodded, and his eyes contracted and intensified as they flitted from object to object until I squirmed reflexively, hoping that piercing gaze would not be directed at me; I would have been willing to believe it could pierce straight through bone and skin and anything else that got in its path.
"Confound it, if I only knew what the devil the man wanted!" the fellow exclaimed. "I know he was in here recently, Bert saw him just last night in some of these shops along here!"
Whoever Bert was. "Then perhaps I saw him as well, Mr. – " I stopped hopefully, for it was always easier to do business with a man knowing his name. But I did not want him thinking I was attempting to be rude due to my unfortunately younger age; why the devil one must be politer as a child than as an adult is entirely beyond me. Besides, I truly did not want to tell him mine in return, thank you very much.
"Mmph," the chap grunted distractedly. He had apparently picked up a nearby set of leather-bound folios, and only an instant later realised he had been spoken to. Finally he sighed and turned back to me. "Oh. Holmes, Sherlock Holmes."
"Mr. Holmes, then, I work this same counter here by the door every weekday evening – perhaps I saw him," I said sensibly.
I stepped backward and hit my back on the wall (and near impaled myself upon the hooks holding the rolls of brown paper, blast it) as the fellow nearly pounced upon me in his eagerness. I was uncomfortably reminded of Oliver's pet garter snake and how it struck without warning upon unsuspecting people's toes when hungry.
"Did you?" he demanded. He was fairly wriggling in suppressed nervous energy, his fingers drumming on the countertop in a most annoying rapid pattern.
"I would be able to tell you, had you described him yet to me," I drawled.
"Oh. Yes, yes of course. Well, as I said, about thirty, a few inches shorter than I, light brown hair and a moustache, walks like a soldier but he limps on the right leg. Usually wears a brown overcoat and bowler…you've seen him?!"
He must have noticed the recognition in my eyes, for the description matched perfectly with that bizarre fellow I had met only last evening across this same counter. A doctor…was this strange chap one of his mental patients, then? That would be a logical explanation to cover the facts…
"I believe so, yes – what is the man's name?" I asked, scrambling round for the paper Higgins had left me earlier.
"Watson, John Watson," the Holmes fellow replied eagerly, peering at me with more impatience than David and Estella would possess upon watching the chimney flue on Thursday night.
"Yes, actually – he was just here last night," I declared, triumphantly holding up the paper bearing the correct name. "And he's supposed to be coming back tomorrow to see about an item I set aside for him."
Mr. Holmes's face had animated into an enormously excited grin as he eagerly absorbed this information. "Listen, my lad, do you think you could…well…pump him for information, so to speak, tomorrow when he returns?" he asked with an attitude of deathly conspiracy.
I eyed the fellow a bit suspiciously – why could he not do so on his own, if the chap really was a friend as he said?
"Information regarding a Christmas present?"
"Yes, of course."
This entire affair was too strange. This doctor fellow wanting to purchase lethal weapons last night, this man having him followed for three days, ostensibly to find out what he wanted for Christmas…
Close friend, my eye. I smelt a rat – no one could possibly be as bizarre as those two, not in real life.
"I shall of course recompense you for your trouble, if you could," he added hastily, seeing my hesitation.
"I'm having no part of any of this!" I made certain I was well away from the counter and those strong-looking hands, for I had no idea what this man's true character was like and I'd no desire to find myself on the receiving end of it.
"Oh, come now." One bushy dark eyebrow rose into a sharp arch. "Somehow I doubt apprentices are paid these days, and it's a chance for you to make some honest money, and quickly too. All above board and proper, I assure you. Now what about it?"
My wariness at the whole strange situation melted into the background, effaced by my startled wonder at how the deuce he could tell I was an apprentice and not an employee (for I looked every bit eighteen or older and had fooled many a man before him). The trick was beyond me, but apparently he had done it.
"How on earth did you know –"
"The same way I know that you've two brothers and one sister, that your maternal uncle owns this emporium, that your favorite subjects are mathematics and history, that you would much rather be preparing for law school than minding the store here, that you are overly fond of chocolates and oranges, and that you spent your last week's holiday in Brighton, Master Timothy," said he casually.
I felt my chin hit my stiff collar, and the man laughed at my amazement – who the devil did he think he was, poking into my private life in that manner? And how had he discovered those things - including my name? There was no legal way he could have found out those things about me!
I said as much, quite angrily, but only elicited another laugh from the fellow, the first amusement I had seen from him all evening. He proceeded to blather some nonsense about it being a chain of logic he drew from my trouser-knees, boots, and my small knapsack behind the counter, which I ignored as the very idea was far too absurd even for consideration. I folded my arms and glared at the man, for I did not appreciate being made the object of some stupid parlour trick, but this only served to further widen his infernal grinning.
I was about to tell the man where he could go with his invasive "deductions," customer courtesy be hanged, when suddenly a uniformed bobby came tearing through the door, accompanied by a ragged little beggar in a shredded jacket and equally ragged shoes. The small urchin pointed our direction and the constable rushed through the merry crowd, reaching us within a matter of seconds.
"Mr. 'Olmes!" the child bellowed at the top of his healthy young Cockney lungs before they reached us, and the gentleman instantly whirled about to seek out the source of the shouting.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir," the constable briefly touched his helmet and gasped, breathless from an apparent run, "but the Doctor said for you to come at once, sir, if he wasn't out o' the 'ouse in ten minutes, and this lad 'ere says it's been all o' twenty –"
I was somewhat startled to see the flush of the Holmes fellow's face pale suddenly into a fishy white. "I told him to wait for me, or at least for Lestrade!" he snapped viciously, shoving a thin hand back into its glove with an audible and angry thworck. "Blast it, this was the only time I could get to myself!"
"The Inspector's comin', Mr. 'Olmes, but the Doctor wouldn' wait no longer if there was a 'ninjured woman in the 'ouse, 'e said," the filthy little boy interjected eagerly, and I was surprised to notice that he rather unusually paid no mind to the festivities around him that would fascinate most normal children.
"I'll kill him," the tall fellow snarled (I hoped he did not mean it literally but it would not have surprised me; at least he would have the constable as witness to the deed if he did so) and bolted for the door without another word, leaving me staring in absolute bewilderment after him and wondering if I would be forced to eject the street urchin before Uncle Dearest had an apoplectic fit at a Savile Row emporium being invaded in such a manner by vagabonds, even small and relatively innocent ones.
I was not forced to do so, as the child took off flying after the strange Holmes chap, followed closely by the bobby – the strange trio drawing the attention of everyone within eyesight. For a moment all festivities stopped in the well-bred shock and horror that someone would dare invade the jovial holiday spirit with something so rude as a policeman, and then in just as swift an instant the scene reverted to how it had been before the night's strange events and time returned to normal speed once more.
I've no idea who this gentleman was, besides a very strange and apparently hitherto friendless fellow. And what connection has he to the bizarre physician whom I was visited with Monday evening?
I have a horrible shivery feeling crawling down my spine again that I shall in all probability find the answers to those questions tomorrow, unfortunately…
To be continued.