by Marvin Kaye
Very truly yours,
Enquiring in Edinburgh
* * * *
Dear Enquiring,
Doctor Watson is a kind and generous soul, but I speak with authority when I write that neatness and order are not appreciable parts of his character, at least regarding his domestic arrangements. To be perfectly honest, which I always endeavour to be, even if he were of such a disposition, a week in the company of Mr Holmes would either break him of the habit or send him into the streets, clutching his hair and tearing his clothes in despair.
Both Mr Holmes and Dr Watson are excellent tenants in many ways. Please do not take my comments regarding their personal habits as a condemnation of them as gentlemen, for they are generally thoughtful (the Doctor moreso than Mr Holmes), undemanding, and promptly settle their accounts (in this case, Dr Watson occasionally falls behind Mr Holmes, most frequently during the racing season). However, their favourable traits end decisively when speaking of neatness and order. Many is the time the girl and I would enter their chambers, intent upon cleaning the hearth or clearing away the breakfast dishes, only to have Mr Holmes leap up from his chemical apparatus and forbid us entry because he is at a delicate moment in his experiment, or peer at us from a seat on the carpet, surrounded by swaths of paper, and request that we quickly exit and close the door behind us, for he is conducting research and cannot be disturbed. It is true that Dr Watson does not actively object to our cleaning the rooms, but he certainly does not appear to take any part in maintaining any semblance of order in those selfsame rooms.
I am certain the good Doctor would not object to my confiding to my readers that his bedchamber is less untidy than the parlour for the reason that he keeps very little there, save his clothing. He has the generally masculine habit of draping various pieces of clothing over any convenient surface, so I will find cravats over the back of his chair, collars on the washstand, and once I even discovered his waistcoat hanging from the gas fixture!
Despite my complaints, I would be very distressed to see either of my gentlemen leave. They might not be perfect tenants, but one is never bored with them around.
Yours,
Mrs Hudson
* * * *
Dear Mrs Hudson,
We often read of Mr Holmes donning a disguise for a case. Do you help him clean and organize all the various costumes for his disguises? When he is disguised as a woman, where does he purchase women’s clothing large enough to fit a tall man?
Humbly yours,
Wondering in the West End
* * * *
Dear Wondering,
In general, the types of disguises that Mr Holmes assumes need little in the way of cleaning or maintenance. In other words, they gain verisimilitude from a certain amount of filth and wear. For those which do require cleaning, either the girl or I will give them a good brush and mend any small tears, or we will send them out to be laundered with the rest of the household linen. Mr Holmes keeps a certain number of these disguises in his chambers, but as far as I can see, there is absolutely no organizing principle for them, and he had forbidden me to ‘meddle with his things.’ How he manages to find anything is still a mystery to me.
Suitable women’s clothing may be acquired in a number of ways, including having private fittings with a discreet seamstress (we know several whose discretion is legendary), purchasing used clothing in a variety of shops, or combing through donations to a mission or other charitable organization. A thrifty housekeeper is able to alter a dress to accommodate a taller figure by letting out hems or adding a contrasting strip of fabric to the bottom of the skirt. Shawls or loose jackets may be used to cover up any little difficulties one may have with loosening fitted bodices or shoulder seams. Of course, in Mr Holmes’s case, he is an excellent actor and can contrive to appear to lose several inches in height when necessary, so although he is indeed a tall man, he does not necessarily seem so when assuming the character of a woman or small man.
Yours very truly,
Mrs Hudson
* * * *
Dear Mrs Hudson,
I have thoroughly enjoyed reading about Mr Holmes’s thrilling adventures, and yet would be loath to actually experience the dangers encountered by both Mr Holmes and Dr Watson. In several cases, the dangers did not stop at your front door. Are you ever frightened of Mr Holmes’s clients?
Your obedient servant,
Frightened in Finchley
* * * *
Dear Frightened,
It would be foolish and vainglorious of me to boast that I have never been frightened by one of Mr Holmes’s clients. In fact, there were a number of times when there was such a commotion coming from Mr Holmes’s chambers that I was near to sending Billy out to fetch a constable.
Occasionally, when Mr Holmes is not at home and a dubious person has called, Billy and I have taken a more active part in protecting ourselves and Mr Holmes. I particularly recall one day, when Mr Holmes was out investigating a robbery. I was in the front hall when there was a peremptory knock at the door. When Billy opened the door, in rushed a greasy weasel of a man, followed by another, so broad of shoulder he almost had to turn sideways to enter, and so bulging with muscle it was a wonder he managed to find a decent tailor.
‘Where is Mister Sherlock Holmes,’ cried the small man, his accent pure and refined. I could scarcely believe so unprepossessing a person could speak so. ‘Where is the blackguard?’
‘He is not at home, sir,’ said I, registering as much disapproval as I could. ‘If you would care to leave a card, I will ensure he receives it upon his return.’ No matter how refined his accent, I would not allow anyone who dared to call my boarder a blackguard into Mr Holmes’s chambers.
‘Leave a card?’ He turned toward the stair. ‘No, that will not do! I know the scoundrel has my papers, and by Gad [Pray excuse the term, but I endeavour to be honest in my reporting, even at the risk of shocking my readers. —Mrs H.] I will find them if I have to tear his rooms to pieces!’
Before he could mount the stair, Billy grabbed an umbrella from the stand and leapt onto the treads, holding the umbrella before him as one would a rapier. (Mr Holmes had recently been instructing Billy and several other boys in the fine art of fencing, and I was pleased that Billy decided this was the perfect time to practice.)
‘Back, sir! Back!’ Billy brandished the umbrella.
The man reared back, smacking into his large companion. ‘You young—’
‘Have a care, sir!’ I cried, snatching up another umbrella and, since I have never received instruction on how to wield a sword or rapier, I assumed a combative stance and held it in both hands, as if it were a cudgel. ‘Leave at once or I shall call for the constable!’ I believe my voice wavered only slightly.
At that, the large man began to laugh, slapping his massive knee and wiping the tears from his eyes.
‘Well, Reggie, I believe you must concede the field to Mr Holmes’s valiant defenders.’ His gaze traveled from Billy to me, and his shoulders shook with his chuckles.
The small man frowned as he exchanged a glance with his companion. ‘But Bert, I must have those papers!’ His voice took on a keening quality, very like that of a young child who has been told to put away his toys and prepare for bed.
‘So leave your card and we’ll return to discuss this with Mr Holmes when he’s at home. From what I have heard, he’s a reasonable man who might be open to negotiation.’
For a moment, I thought that ‘Reggie’ would continue to argue, but he suddenly bowed his head and sighed. ‘Very well. Please give this to Mr Holmes.’ He extracted a calling card from his pocket and laid it on the coat stand.
With a brief, rather shamefaced apology for disturbing us, both men hurriedly left, and Billy clattered down the stair to shut the door behind them. I collected the umbrellas and
returned them to the stand, then picked up the card.
Well, dear readers! I must not mention names, especially names so readily recognized by the general public, but rest assured that Mr Holmes came to an understanding with ‘Reggie’ and ‘Bert.’ Papers were returned, and Billy and I both received a handsome apology for the invasion, as well as a generous pour boire.
Afterward, Mr Holmes did offer to give me a few fencing lessons; I politely declined.
Very truly yours,
Mrs Hudson
* * * *
A SCANDAL IN BO MEDIA, by Hal Charles
I
As the elevator rocketed toward the penthouse, Kelly Locke couldn’t decide if she were more nervous or curious. In the fifteen years she had worked for Channel 4, first as a reporter, then as a news anchor, she had never been invited to the office of the TV station’s owner. She had met Bruce Count at the office holiday parties, even used his lavish suite at the stadium, but being summoned to his office immediately after The Six O’ Clock News was a first.
As the elevator arrived at her destination, she buttoned her short jacket and ran her fingers through her Katie Couric-styled auburn hair. The door opened to reveal a handsome, middle-aged man in a dark suit and club tie, which suggested to Kelly her boss was matching her professionalism.
“Really insightful interview with our senator on the news tonight,” he said. “How did you get him to reveal his views on Social Security reform?”
“The senator and I are old friends. I did him a favor a few years ago.”
“Hope it didn’t compromise your journalistic integrity.” Count smiled warmly at her.
“Hardly. He’s part of a golf foursome with my father, and I merely partnered with him.”
“And they beat us by twelve strokes,” boomed a familiar voice from behind her host.
“Dad,” Kelly said, greeting the city’s Chief of Detectives, “what are you doing here?”
“Actually,” said Bruce Count, “you wouldn’t be here tonight if it weren’t for your P. R. rep…I mean, your father.”
“I have to admit I’m intrigued,” she said, giving her dad a hug.
“Let’s go into my study,” said the CEO.
When they had seated themselves in plush leather chairs, a butler brought them monogrammed glasses of cognac.
“Don’t worry,” said the CEO. “I caught your series last week on the dangers of second-hand smoke, but”—he said with a laugh—“you’re welcome to use a meerschaum pipe.”
Her father almost spit out his drink.
“Who,” continued the CEO, “doesn’t know of your off-air avocation of private investigation with your partner, Dr. Watson…I mean, Detective Locke.”
“Bruce contacted me a few days ago, and I assured him the stories were all true and that you are indeed the reincarnation of a fictional detective. I filled him in about some recent cases—that business with the jewelry store, the adventure at my high school reunion—”
“And even that birthday party your father threw for you,” concluded her host. “Now don’t keep me hanging. Aren’t you going to look at my clothes and tell me where I’ve been today?”
“That’s easy. You’ve stayed in your penthouse office all day,” said Kelly. “Rumor has it you rarely leave.”
“And do you as a veteran reporter subscribe to rumors?” asked her boss.
“No, but I do follow you on Twitter.”
“Touché,” he said, pressing a remote and starting a blazing fire. “Now that we’ve established your extraordinary credentials, I need to tell you the specific reason I invited you up tonight.”
II
Over the hiss of the gas logs, Kelly could hear the late March winds assaulting the CEO’s citadel. Bruce Count picked up a gilded picture frame from the oak mantel. “Do you know why this news corporation is technically known as BO Media?”
“No,” said Matt Locke. “I don’t believe I do.”
Smoothing her dark skirt, Kelly said, “I’m pretty sure the ‘B’ stands for Bruce and the ‘O’ is for your business partner, who is—”
“Olivia, my wife. When Flaubert proclaimed the ideal narrator of fiction as ‘everywhere present, but nowhere visible,’ he might have been describing my young wife.”
Kelly remembered how after Olivia’s being a no-show at the last Christmas party, the water cooler chatter centered on why she never appeared at public functions. One reveler had even suggested jestingly, ‘It’s as if he killed her.’ Or, suggested another, ‘She’s just a figment of his imagination.’ “I’m sorry,” Kelly said, “but I’ve never met her.”
“Almost nobody has. Olivia, I’m afraid, is painfully, perhaps neurotically shy. She loves her charity work, but prefers to be the great invisible hand. I’m sure it has something to do with the untimely death of her father and the inheritance of all that money at such a young age, but that’s between her and her well-paid psychiatrist.”
“Before coming here tonight, I tried to find a picture of her in our files or on the Internet,” Kelly’s father admitted, “but I turned up zippo.”
“Like Greta Garbo, my wife wants to be alone in her little room above us now. She calls it her aerie. In fact, I think that aside from Dr. Carpenter, her shrink, I’m the only person she allows within gun range.”
Kelly noted the odd metaphor.
Count sat down slowly. “I once was a venture capitalist with a good idea for a media company, but if it weren’t for Olivia’s capital I might still be venturing. And”—he paused dramatically—“that could still happen…without your help.”
Kelly said, “You sound like you’re about to lose her.”
“I might,” said the CEO. He carefully set his wife’s picture on the mantle beside a bronze statue of Neptune taming a seahorse. “There’s no way to say what I’m about to, so I’ll dive right in. Do you know who Abby Addison is?”
“Our city’s version of Kim Kardashian,” said Kelly. “She’s famous for being famous.”
“And for being a big pain in the patootie,” said her father. “She’s always complaining to the mayor we don’t provide her enough protection when she’s the one creating the crowds that necessitate protection.”
“I wish somebody had protected me from her,” said Bruce Count ruefully. “About a year ago I committed…let’s call it an ‘indiscretion’ with her.”
“If the papers are to be believed,” said Kelly, “you and a lot of the city’s males.”
“That, however,” said the CEO, doesn’t excuse my ‘indiscretion.’ In all the years we have been married I promise you I have cheated on my wife only this once.”
“Have you told Olivia?” broached Matt Locke.
“That would be the equivalent of pushing her off her aerie’s balcony. I cannot let her under any circumstances discover what I have done.”
“If she’s this isolated,” Kelly posed, “how is she to find out?”
“That’s just it. Abby has threatened to expose me to my wife in two days on our tenth anniversary…”
“You’re being blackmailed,” Kelly concluded.
“The good reporter that you are,” said Bruce Count, “you have just answered a question posed by some of the city’s less reputable news sources—how does Abby Addison maintain such a high style of living when she has no apparent means of support?”
“Blackmail R Us,” said Matt Locke.
“I’m afraid I’m not the only male in this city who has been put in such a compromising position,” said the CEO. “Abby’s parents died and left her destitute she told me, but she vowed she would always enjoy the highlife.”
“Would you like me to arrest her?” asked Matt Locke.
“On what count?” said the CEO. “I have no evidence, just the memory of someone whispe
ring in my ear last week while I was having lunch downtown of what my ‘indiscretion’ would cost.”
“Abby,” said the Chief of Detectives.
“I’m just lucky no paparazzi caught that,” said Bruce Count. “You see, there can’t be even a whiff of a scandal.”
“How much does she want?” said Kelly.
“One million in cash,” said Count.
“And for that what do you get?” pressed Matt Locke.
“The only record of my ‘indiscretion’.” Count dusted off the statue with his handkerchief. “Of course, I can easily afford that.”
“But what you’re afraid of,” Kelly figured out, “is that because she knows how much you fear exposure, she’ll keep coming back to that well.”
“I don’t know how many married men can honestly say this,” said Count, “but I truly love my wife and will do anything to prevent her from being hurt.”
And probably losing the financial underpinning of BO Media, thought Kelly. “So what would you like us to do?”
“Why, why,” stammered the CEO, “recover the evidence and prevent this new breed of venture capitalist from ever being able to harm my wife.”
“Why us?” said Kelly. “The city has plenty of investigators…and worse.”
“I want someone with as much scruples as sense…somebody I can trust…somebody to make sure no hint of this impropriety takes wing. Obviously both of your credentials are impeccable.”
“When do we start?” said Kelly.
III
Kelly stood before the roaring fire. “My first thought was to try to get the evidence back from Miss Addison, but we don’t live in the 19th century with its limited amount of places to conceal the goods.”
“According to her,” said the CEO, “the evidence is a video of our pas de deux.”
“You were honey-trapped,” said Matt Locke.
“And lucky the world isn’t watching you on YouTube right this minute,” added Kelly.