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Some Further Notes on the Roylott Matter, Part 1
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Oct. 14th, 2007 | 04:43 pm
About the characters: they are far too good to be mine.
Rating: PG
The ideas of my friend Dr. Watson are, although almost universally valid in and of themselves, of a somewhat limited nature. And yet, I err in saying so. That they are limited to his own perspective goes without saying. It is equally certain, however, that I myself am confined in scope to my own experience, even if that experience may take in more surroundings than many of my fellows. For the purposes of this exercise, therefore, written solely for clarification and liable to be incinerated upon completion, I will strive to be equitable in my judgments. That Watson makes an effort to be fair is widely known, but my own far more impatient nature requires a stronger hand at the reins.
I suppose the primary impetus for my setting pen to paper--although I've a strict habit of recording all criminal matters which come within my purview--is my companion's latest publication, entitled in his habitually dramatic fashion, "The Adventure of the Speckled Band." That he wrote it in such an abbreviated manner is commendable; and yet, I fear losing the thread of the true facts. My freedom from the demands of a public audience will no doubt make my task far easier, and more objective. No matter, after all, if only I shall ever lay eyes on the thing. My friend suffers under the onus of widespread scrutiny. He does not suffer overmuch--but still, it remains a factor.
I knocked on his bedroom door far more softly that morning than was required to awaken him, and stole into the still dim bedroom. It was as calm as the grave there, and more peaceful. The sun was just beginning to make efforts on behalf of day, but had not yet afforded him enough light to arise of his own volition. I grant I took advantage of his deep slumber, standing over him until the sheer force of my presence was enough to arouse a former soldier from his dreams. He woke with a start and looked me over in astonishment.
"Very sorry to knock you up, Watson," I apologized. It was a lie, for I wasn't. I was an accomplished liar in those days...or perhaps it is better to state that my evasions were immaculate. In either case, it was an untruth; I had knocked him up six separate times previously and had relished every one of them. "It's the common lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, and she retorted on me, and I on you."
He had the decency to look alarmed. "What is it, then? A fire?"
We had been rooming together at that moment for slightly over two years time. I am aware of the exact number of days, but that is doubtless irrelevant. More to the point, he was not actually surprised that I had roused him from his sleep, nor did he suspect conflagration the cause. In turn, I am afraid I did not find his prevarication vexing in the slightest.
"No, a client," I returned. "I have hardly ever encountered anyone so eager to see me. She is positively adamant. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. You know the value of first-hand testimony. I thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give you the chance."
It would have been a fuller disclosure if I had owned that, from the instant Mrs. Hudson brought me news of an early-morning caller in deep distress, I had been looking forward keenly to his reaction--to his reaction, still in his bed, with me hovering above like a perverse spirit. One cannot pay for such small pleasures; they arrive out of the blue, or not at all. But no matter if my ardor was masked. He provided the correct response anyway.
"My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything."
To say that Dr. John Watson knew me intimately at that point in our relationship would no doubt be perfectly true. To say that I knew him intimately would be an understatement of the grossest character. I had memorized him. What so gratified me at that moment was that he had admitted the exact truth. He would not, in fact, have missed it for anything.
"Let us be off, then," I declared. "Mrs. Hudson is showing her in as we speak and declares her in a pitiable state."
I think he imagined I would leave the room and await him downstairs. I did not. My manifest eccentricities afford me greater freedom than the duller fellow can lay claim to. I crossed my arms and leaned against his wall and assumed an air of aggrieved impatience and wondered what crumbs would be thrown me from the feast upon the table this time.
I knew him an invert from the start, of course. It was as clear as a pane of glass. He never hid it from me. I may as well have said to him, "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive, where you dallied with other men," for it would have saved us both a mountain of trouble. No one else could have begun to recognize it, for he is irredeemably masculine, but I have found it fruitful to study where men's eyes wander when they are first introduced. This habit not only garnered me multiple trysts in my youth, but has solved six cases without requiring me to arise from my armchair. The system is a simple one: I look initially at the eyes, and at the shoes, and at the knees of the trouser, for I am first and foremost a criminologist. Dr. Watson looked discreetly elsewhere, for therein his interest lay.
"She'll think it amiss if you arrive in your nightshirt," I said when he appeared at a loss how to proceed.
He wanted to be annoyed, but recognized he had no viable cause. He is reasonable in that way. I was merely another man, after all. I wanted to pity him, but was enjoying myself far too much. At last, he rolled his eyes, drew back his quilt with a flourish, and proceeded rapidly to throw on his clothes. I did not seem to observe him, but Watson has never quite grasped the principle of sightlines, and thus had no notion of what satisfaction I drew in that interim from the highly polished mirror above his basin. Or, to be fair, he did--but there I enter the realm of unfounded conjecture. In any event, he was ready in a few minutes to accompany me down to the sitting room, and in those few minutes, I had gathered enough fresh images of defined pectorals, square shoulders, solid neck, and muscled back to last me a fortnight.
At length, I threw open the door for him and followed him down the steep flight of stairs. I can recall a deep sense of underhandedness in our relations at that time, at least upon my part, which caused me fitful slumbers and uneasy mornings. His presence altered me in ways I had not expected when we took rooms together, and there was so much unspoken between us that at times I felt duplicitous merely sitting across from him smoking my morning pipe. He had seemed an amiable sort when we met, self-assured and intelligent if still seriously ill, and the reason for my agreeing to share digs with a man of his sexual proclivities was the obvious one; I needed the money, and if I myself were found out, he would not wire the Daily Telegraph or contact the nearest police station.
That was before I had spent any time with him. Spending time with John Watson is not an affair to be lightly taken up.
The girl was indeed in a sorry condition. I made an effort to be cheery, for she seemed a perceptive sort and likely to recover herself when in self-assured company. It is always useful to appear confident with clients, and often useful to give them the opportunity to ignore their own nerves. I asked her to draw nearer the fire.
"It is not cold which makes me shiver," said the woman in a low voice, changing her seat as requested.
"What, then?"
"It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror."
She lifted her veil. I had been mistaken in my optimism. She was terrified, and for a very good cause. In this case, I have discovered that it is best to make a series of small deductions, informing the client of one's prowess even as one learns more about the subject. I think I prattled of trains and dog-carts. The topics hardly bear repeating. In any event, she had calmed visibly within two minutes conversation about the merest trivia, and after a few casual remarks about the friend who recommended her to me, she was ready to proceed.
The Doctor has already given a very thorough account of that interview, with his characteristic regrettable additions of style. See, for instance:
"A vague feeling of impending misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely allied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against the windows."
Helen Stoner was, to be sure, an expressive female. However, I recall that morning vividly, and I believe she said:
"I was frightened, and for no valid reason. I was afraid most of all for my sister, and the weather did nothing to calm my shattered spirits."
Watson enjoys speaking of souls. He believes in them, and so he must, for his own is so very present. But he will go on about weather quite unnecessarily. The elements can be of use if footprints are involved, or other such impressions, but he may as well introduce the sky as a character in the majority of his narratives. It is all quite useless. But in any event, she told us her story, and told it remarkably well.
And what a curious story it was! It was the motive which most concerned me at the time--the motive, and of course the whistle. A clear motive for killing both young ladies, and a correlating event preceding their marriages. The gypsies could not begin to account for any of it, though they may well have been allies of her tormentor. And of course, she had been cruelly used. I wondered if she were screening her stepfather. I pushed back her sleeve in order to prove it.
Miss Stoner coloured deeply, but regained her dignity in an instant. She declared her stepfather did not know his own strength. I pitied her, and masked it. Those most deserving of pity, I have found after long study, are most likely to shun the sentiment. I glanced at Watson. He pitied her, and in an effort to mask it exuded a positive cloud of quiet sympathy. If the man were, Heaven save us from it, to be autopsied, I believe the coroner would find he is made of better materials than most. Such kindness is not to be feigned.
"If we were to come to Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms without the knowledge of your stepfather?" I asked at length.
"As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and that there would be nothing to disturb you."
"Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?" I did not need to ask him, but I will confess I desired his answer.
"By no means."
"Then we shall both come."
She left us, with all necessary assurances. I was alone once more with the Doctor.
"And what do you think of it all, Watson?" I mused, leaning back in my chair. I had slowly grown to value his opinions as a foundation for more advanced speculation.
"It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business."
I offered my assent.
"Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious end."
He is quite systematic in his thoughts, Watson, even if his deductions are poor. "If the lady is correct," and other such caveats are often enough our bread and butter, for most mortals take such adjectives as "impassable" for granted without subjecting them to test. But in this instance, we had not long to ruminate pleasantly before the fire over the grotesque tale Miss Stoner had spun for us. The door flew open and a man dressed half as a farmer and half as a stockbroker burst in upon us.
"Which of you is Holmes?" asked this apparition.
"My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," I replied. I was not much concerned about the ruffian once the initial surprise had passed, but I made no effort to prevent the Doctor's slow progress toward the drawer in which the pistols were kept.
"I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran."
I invited him to be seated. I wanted a better look at him. And it is always to one's advantage to observe the niceties, after all.
"I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. What has she been saying to you?"
I concealed a smile at this. If the villain imagined he could elicit my client's story from my lips merely by banging through my door, he had fallen into a serious error. "It is a little cold for the time of the year," I observed. I made an effort to steer the conversation away from Miss Stoner and toward seasonal flora. Yes, I was needling him, but such a man is more dangerous when he is calm than when he is angry.
"Ha! You put me off, do you?" said our new visitor, taking a step forward and shaking his hunting-crop. "I know you, you scoundrel! I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler. Holmes, the busybody! Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!"
I could not refrain from laughing at this attempted calumny, for I am none of the above. He may as well have insulted me by calling me a mouse, or a garden beetle. It was in fact a thinly disguised blessing--my friend's brows had furrowed in defensive irritation, so if anything, I was grateful for the impetus. "Your conversation is most entertaining. When you go out close the door, for there is a decided draught."
"I will go when I have had my say!" he cried. Then he did something rather unprecedented, I admit. Hurling threats at my person if I should have anything more to do with Miss Stoner all the while, he proceeded to bend the steel poker propped before our fireplace in half. Then he stormed out the way he had come.
Watson replaced the gun in the drawer the instant Roylott had slammed the door behind him. "He seems a nice, amiable fellow," he remarked ruefully.
"Quite so--and unafraid of expounding upon his opinions with force and conviction," I smiled. "He had a very arresting way of stating his arguments."
"I am grateful it was only a poker."
"I cannot suppose you would have allowed him any further freedom of movement," I pointed out. "I imagine we both rather draw the line at housebreaking with vandalism."
"No, I would not have tolerated much more. The shovel and the steel brush were safe, I assure you."
I was awash in the exhilarated feeling of having experienced a bizarre occurrence with the perfect companion. It was very amusing indeed that the brute had bent our poker in half, but the event would not have had a fraction of its value if the Doctor had not still been dividing his incredulous gaze between me and the door. Then I did something which I am rather loathe to admit.
"I am not quite so bulky," I stated with amusement, "but if he had remained I might have shown him that my grip was not much more feeble than his own." I then straightened the ruined implement out again.
It was a gesture worthy of a twelve year old boy in a schoolyard, or a peacock fanning its tail before a potential conquest--and if I am severe with myself, so much the better. I was twenty-nine at the time, and old enough to know my own faults thoroughly, an essential undertaking if one is to walk through this cold world with any degree of safety. I am under no illusions about my own vanity, for it is profound, and at that instant I would probably have entered an archery contest or a steeplechase if I could guarantee the Doctor would be attending.
Not all of love is selfless, after all, or noble. Some is it is quite sickeningly egocentric.
"That was rather impressive," he said in some surprise.
I have not yet, nor do I think I ever will, grow tired of surprising Watson. His brows lift incredulously, his whole body assumes an air of tolerant amusement, and his eyes squint at me as if he could work it out if only I would give him a hint in the right direction. It is more than worth while to spend half an hour staring at him in order to break into his thoughts, or detail casually where he has been in London that afternoon, or refrain from noticing him for three or four days before subjecting him to a day in bed. The last example was not yet, of course, part of my repertoire. But when I could surprise the Doctor, I did so. He enjoyed it so much I could scarcely help myself.
He glanced at my upper frame, which is just barely broad-shouldered enough not to be termed skeletal. "Do you know, just when I imagine there may be something you cannot do, you generally do it. I had thought you could not attempt Russian composers, but was proved wrong last week. I had thought our poker irredeemable," he went on good-naturedly, "but I was mistaken."
"I am not to be underestimated," I assented, "but I cannot speak of it further. The element of mystery is essential, you will admit."
I was teasing him, but it was perfectly true. My best results are almost always intriguing rather than genuinely impressive. Lord knows they are not difficult.
"You surprise me all too often. But you must run out of tricks eventually."
"I should not drop my guard just yet, if I were you."
His eyes grew rather wistful. "You've other talents lying in wait to shock my system?"
I wanted to tell him. He spoke so dangerously at times. I had, on the other hand, vowed not to tell him. "I am an accomplished pickpocket," I admitted, clearing my throat, "and a rather dab hand at chess. I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to Doctors' Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this matter."
He let it go, as I knew he would. He would always let it go. Whether for fear of me or fear of himself, I could not say. We went about the business of preparing for the journey to Stoke Moran.
It was a pleasant enough little jaunt from Waterloo, under the wisps of white cloud and the occasional shadow of a great oak. The only passersby were sheep, and the only sound the clop of our horse's hooves. Dr. Watson had fallen into a reverie of sorts. I knew it the moment we disembarked from the train. He was contrasting his innocent surroundings with the evidently dark purposes we had arrived to combat. I was in a similarly non-communicative state, my hat pulled down to my brow and my arms crossed thoughtfully, casting him an occasional glance.
It is a great defect of his stories--among many defects--that he never once makes his physical presence felt in his narratives. John Hamish Watson could be a Red Indian for all we know of his looks from his tales, while my ghostly angles jut out at every opportunity, like some grotesquerie in a Punch and Judy show. He never lost the subtle browning from the desert sun even after he had regained his health and figure, and his close-trimmed military moustache is only two or three shades darker than his lip. His jaw is square and confident, and his upper body more graceful than his lower, due to his still-uncertain leg. He has a fine brow and cheekbones, all smooth planes and rectangles, and his eyes are blue except when he is moved by something--then they are very, very blue indeed. They are like water in that you can see straight to the bottom of them. I do not mean to imply that nothing is there, only that what is there glimmers beneath the surface like a lost coin or trinket, to be spotted in an instant. They would be innocent eyes if they had not seen so much war. His hands are steady and calm, and his hair the exact shade of the mud between the Paddington underground stop and the adjacent apothecary. The reference may be isolated, but it is an apt one. It is as easy to elicit a smile from him as it is to tell a sailor from his palms, his chin brings our female clients (and a few of the males) to tears, and yet with all this, I have never once seen his gaze arrested by his own reflection. It boggles the mind. I closed my eyes and attempted a few minutes peace.
The ride from the station could not have taken more than fifteen minutes. Miss Stoner was very distraught when she learned Dr. Roylott had traced her, as well she should have been. I assured her she was in capable hands as we three stood outside under gentle breezes at the front of the grey stone estate. Indeed, I was beginning, as I always do, to take the matter rather personally. I do not like to see women browbeaten so, and if she had been a sister of mine, I would have done more with the poker than merely to have straightened it out again. I recognized very early in our acquaintance that Dr. Watson enjoys a bully even less, if such is possible, than I do, and so the activity we were engaged upon at the time thus held a deep-seated interest for us both.
We walked about the grounds and had a look at the windows. She led us into the room which had been hers, now under construction. Then we saw the room which had been her sister's, in which she was now sleeping, and my heart began to race.
"Where does that bell communicate with?" I asked, pointing to a thick belt-rope which hung down beside the bed.
"It goes to the housekeeper's room."
"It looks newer than the other things?"
"Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago."
"Your sister asked for it, I suppose?"
"No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we wanted for ourselves."
Watson will tell you that I made a very thorough examination of that room, from the floorboards to the ventilator, but I can say just as readily that it was unnecessary. A crisis had occurred, but I did my level best to bite my tongue.
I led them to Roylott's chambers, where a saucer of milk awaited us.
"What's in here?" I asked, tapping the safe.
"My stepfather's business papers."
"Oh! You have seen inside, then?"
"Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers."
"There isn't a cat in it, for example?" I inquired hopefully.
"No. What a strange idea!"
It was indeed a strange idea, and one I had made half in jest to see whether she knew to what creature the milk belonged, but my heart sank nevertheless. When I found the dog-leash, I asked Watson why it should be tied, and he could conceive of no good answer. I could think of a very good answer indeed, but feared that answer was about to cost me the only thing of value I'd yet encountered in all my years in London.
Finally I could perambulate no more. We returned outside and I faced Miss Stoner. "It is very essential that you should absolutely follow my advice in every respect."
"I shall most certainly do so."
"The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend upon your compliance." I was speaking to her, but I was looking at Watson. He stared back at me quizzically.
"I assure you that I am in your hands," Miss Stoner assented.
"In the first place, I must spend the night in your room."
Both Miss Stoner and Watson gazed at me in astonishment. I cannot say I blame either of them. They are not trained in deductive reasoning, as am I.
"Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the village inn over there? You must confine yourself to your room, on pretense of a headache, when your stepfather comes back." I gave her full instructions regarding signals and lamps, latches and hasps. She appeared quite disquieted when I was through, but ready to comply. I think she would have done far more to be released from the hell in which she had been living. Watson listened quietly and made no outward sign, but he knew something was amiss.
"The rest you will leave in my hands," I told her. I then turned on my heel and made for the Crown inn, Dr. Watson following behind me.
From the second I saw the bell-pull in Helen Stoner's chamber, I knew I would have to reveal my true nature to the Doctor, or find a new flat, or perhaps both. That much was elementary. But perhaps the steps bear repeating, simply as an exercise in logic. The points were all quite clear in and of themselves.
Miss Stoner's sister Julia had died unnaturally due to an element introduced into her bedchamber. That the element was repeatable and not isolated was evident from Miss Helen Stoner's abrupt removal to the same environs. So far so good. The bed was fastened to the floor, the ventilator communicated with another room in the house, the bell-pull was a sham, and the saucer of milk had been laid out for an imaginary cat.
It could not have been a vapour introduced through the ventilator and making a whistling sound, for a deadly atmosphere is not avoidable--the whistle would have been heard once, and neither sister would ever have lived to repeat the experience. The whistle, therefore, was a signal to a creature that could fit through the ventilator. Scorpions are not trainable, and neither are spiders or other venomous insects. Mammals are highly impressionable, but when they are poisonous, as in the case of hydrophobia, they are impossible to control. Deadly fish exist, but require the medium of water. Birds were out, for birds have no need of bell-pulls. I could reach only one conclusion.
Is there one among us who has not felt a creeping, shrinking sensation when one stands before the serpents in the Zoo, and sees the slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with their deadly eyes and wicked, flattened faces? I am not implying that I have any fear of snakes. I loathe snakes, yes, and have done since childhood. There is very little to redeem them in my estimation, and I will go far out of my way to avoid their company. But this snake was guaranteed to be a monster, a poisonous villain of a snake trained to kill the occupant of the bedchamber I intended to guard. It was probably half-crazed and half-starved, purchased and reared for the sole purpose of inflicting a horrible death on its victim, and I would no more allow Dr. John Watson into that bedchamber than I would pick up a knife and stab him myself. If it is to be snakes, I thought, let it be snakes. But I shall go alone.
I had imagined that I could live with him safely, if blissfully. But I had been mistaken. There are certain perils to lives like mine, and the Doctor's, and one of the greatest is co-habitation. If two men are observed parting company on a darkened street in an over-familiar manner, all could be lost, but often no one is the wiser regarding their identities. There the matter dies, an isolated event between isolated men. With men lodging together, it is another matter. The instant even a hint of scandal were to touch the household, the whole of it would be engulfed in flame like a house of matchbooks. That he was fascinated by me, I knew, and had cultivated, fool that I was. I would have cut off my arm rather than ruin him, however. I truly believe that was so.
Yet I realized that afternoon I had spent so much time in observing him that I had neglected to keep track of myself, with bitter and unexpected consequences. It had taken all my power, once I had divined the snake, not to evacuate him bodily from the room.
Dr. Watson's limits I had drawn up some three weeks prior as a private gesture of retaliation after having spotted my own chart from two years previous in the papers on his desk. It had not been published as yet--indeed, none of his tales had at the time--but I had seen his draftwork on a regular basis:
1. Knowledge of Literature.—Extensive. Everything from Horace to yellow-backed seafaring novels.
2. Knowledge of Astronomy.—Tolerable. Can find his way in the woods.
3. Knowledge of Politics.—Indifferent.
4. Knowledge of Botany.—Generalized. Knows something of herbs, and something of poisons. I would credit myself for the latter, but his original medical training was far from shoddy.
5. Knowledge of Geology.—Nil.
6. Knowledge of Chemistry.—Limited to medicine.
7. Knowledge of Anatomy.—Immense.
8. Knowledge of Sensational Literature and Criminology.--Improving.
9. Knowledge of Arts.--Appreciates music spiritually even though he cannot play an instrument if his life depended upon it. Can make the sort of empty remarks about painting expected of any gentleman. Is a fluent and engaging writer if also a sensationalistic one.
10. Is an excellent shot with a pistol, a decent boxer, and can run, swim, or otherwise perform physical activity with the best of them now his health has recovered, excepting some residual tenderness in his leg.
11. Is without a doubt the best man in London.
My own truly dangerous limits I could have summed up for the reader far more effectively than Watson's meandering notes, I thought that day as we walked back to the inn:
1. Is an avowed invert.
2. No longer feels capable of keeping his devotion entirely secret.
"What is it, Holmes?" The familiar voice broke in upon my reverie, warm and companionable. He does not often interrupt when I am thinking, and I love him for it. But I do not often look the way I did just then.
"This is a very serious matter," I managed to growl in return.
"So I have gathered. You have evidently seen more in those rooms than was visible to me."
"No, but I fancy that I may have deduced more." I am not a pleasant fellow when I am anxious, but I can do little to stop myself. "Your eyesight is more than functional. I imagine that you saw all that I did."
"I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that could answer I confess is more than I can imagine," he replied patiently.
"Allow the question of spatial relations to seep into your mind. The bed, the rope, the wall. You saw the ventilator, too?"
I was talking with my hands, as I always did with Watson. My hands are the one thing about me which might even be termed alluring. When I allow them to get away from me, the results can be positively baroque. I shoved one in my pocket furiously and gripped my cane with the other.
"Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have a small opening between two rooms. As for spatial relations, what on earth can you mean? Is there a danger in the position of the bed itself?" A light entered his eyes. "And why have you said that you would be keeping watch in her room? Where shall I be positioned?"
"I am considering the matter." Not on the street. Dear God, we could not begin to broach the subject on the street.
"There is a great deal of danger this time, isn't there?" Watson said quietly. He is far too clever at times.
"I am not certain. Perhaps I will manage to work it out when you have ceased asking me fruitless questions."
"You have already worked it out," he protested with some warmth. He lowered his voice at once, but I knew he was angry as we stormed past a carriage house and made our way into town upon the cobblestones. "You worked it out in Miss Stoner's bedroom, and you confirmed it in Roylott's."
"At last, inferences!" I exclaimed. "And a pair of them, at that! Now lead me through your steps of reasoning, if you would, Doctor. I have been longing for this moment. Pray continue."
My tone was wounding him cruelly, and I could not see my way to stopping. If I stopped, I would tell him something far worse.
"I know your habits," he said with averted eyes.
"Very disappointing, Doctor," I continued as we passed a small tobacconist's and made a turn. "Lacking in logical structure and incorporating a factual fallacy to boot. You do not know my habits."
"I had thought that I did," he ventured, but beneath the mildness there was steel this time.
"If you knew my habits, you would know what this is about," I said heartlessly, "and therefore I leave you to your studies, your lunch, and your newfound deductive reasoning. I wish you well with the lot. I am engaging us a room, and I beg that you will not be in it for at least two hours, as I must needs be free from meaningless prattle. Make it a three-course meal."
Casting that final parting shot at him, I strode into the Crown. I must have looked perfectly serene. I've a habit of looking perfectly serene. Often when I manage to appear calm, I can actually achieve it. It is a trick I picked up from my acting days. But I was half out of my senses by that time. When I reached the room, I curled up in a heap of pillows on the floor and sat there smoking until I could form coherent thoughts once more. As anticipated, they were all of him.
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liederlady221b
date: Oct. 15th, 2007 12:57 am (UTC)
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This line made me go gooey inside. An enamored Holmes is at once touching and hurful. He can be incisively cruel to cover those troubling emotions and you've captured that perfectly. I'm not sure which part I love more--his maneuvering Watson into dressing before him (the wolf!) or his palpable terror, It had taken all my power, once I had divined the snake, not to evacuate him bodily from the room.
Just perfection. Please consider continuing this story. I want to see sparks fly (amorous and otherwise) once Watson returns to their room at the Crown.
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katieforsythe
date: Oct. 15th, 2007 08:39 pm (UTC)
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Thanks for the truly gracious feedback, and enjoy part 2.
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spacefall
date: Oct. 15th, 2007 10:24 am (UTC)
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PS: I think Holmes has typoed "reigns" for "reins". ;)
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katieforsythe
date: Oct. 15th, 2007 08:38 pm (UTC)
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I hope you like part 2!
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derien
date: Oct. 16th, 2007 11:03 am (UTC)
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Your Holmes voice is very good, and I love how intensely he adores his Watson!
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katieforsythe
date: Oct. 21st, 2007 08:52 pm (UTC)
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bone_lady
date: Oct. 23rd, 2007 04:01 pm (UTC)
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katieforsythe
date: Nov. 1st, 2007 08:52 pm (UTC)
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I know I'm behind,
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ryui
date: Apr. 4th, 2008 04:40 am (UTC)
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Just wanted to drop a line about how much I enjoyed this story. Holmes' voice successfully maintains Victorian character without sounding exactly like Doyle's Watson. My favorite bits were Holmes' commentary on everything Watson said in his rendition of the story (thereby proving he read the thing so carefully as to have memorized it, while still fussing about the romance of it!). This bit especially made me chuckle:
"But he will go on about weather quite unnecessarily. The elements can be of use if footprints are involved, or other such impressions, but he may as well introduce the sky as a character in the majority of his narratives. It is all quite useless . . ."
Charming! And of course, all the protectiveness and Holmesian ego. Lovely!
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katieforsythe
date: Apr. 5th, 2008 09:03 pm (UTC)
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Enjoy the others, and thanks again!
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