Sherlock's Home

by Steve Emecz

  As they turned to the car Holmes pointed back to the moonlit sea and shook a thoughtful head. “There’s an east wind coming, Watson.” “I think not, Holmes. It is very warm.” “Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age.”

  The Case of the Silk Parasol

  By Jude Parsons

  Corsham, UK

  Gladys placed her cup back on the saucer and leant over the table towards her sister. “Mr Holmes? A singular man, my dear, and so clever!” She nodded, picked up her cup again and wriggled her hips into a more comfortable position in the chair, as if staking her claim to that too. She took a delicate sip of her tea and continued. “Oh yes, most respected. A little strange in his habits, perhaps… Now! His colleague, dear Dr Watson. Quite different. A most congenial gentleman.” She blushed a little and a tell-tale hand strayed upwards to pat her hair. “‘Always most polite.” She added with a tinge of regret, “Married of course. Not that I have ever met his wife. Goodness me, no. We don’t move in the same circles, no indeed,” she rallied and added crisply, “But I am sure she is very nice.” Marjorie nodded encouragement and sipped her own tea in a mirror image of her sister. She knew from experience that she would get more out of Gladys if she didn’t interrupt her. The well-timed nod and the occasional raised eyebrow would be sufficient to keep the gossip simmering. She waited with an attentive smile for Gladys to rummage in her thoughts for the next titbit. But Gladys had lost her thread for the moment and had remembered her manners instead. “How was your journey?” she enquired. “Not too arduous I hope?” “Quite comfortable,” replied Marjorie. “I had the carriage to myself most of the way. The view of the countryside was magnificent. Is it my imagination or are the daffodils out a little early this year?” “Well, I hadn’t thought. They might be. I don’t suppose I notice them as much as you do, dear.” Gladys glanced at the window as two laughing children ran past chasing a dog. “Being on your own…” she began. “Well, it’s hard sometimes. I thought at first when such a distinguished looking gentleman took lodgings with me… but no. Not my type; too brusque. Not that anything improper, you understand…” “Goodness me, no,” interjected Marjorie. “One does have to be so careful though, doesn’t one?” “Oh, there’s no question of that sort of thing and people know it. I keep a respectable house.” “You certainly do,” agreed Marjorie, “and you keep it lovely, too.” “It’s nice of you to say so, dear. And your Frank? Is he well?” “Oh, yes, quite well thank you,” said Marjorie politely. Gladys could never be sure if she was jealous of Marjorie’s rather dull marriage and the security it offered or whether she preferred her widowed state and enviable position as landlady to the famous detective. She supposed that whichever position one was in, there were attractions to be had in the other. “Is Mr Holmes home at present?” Marjorie offered the question more as a prod to Gladys’ easy tongue than a genuine enquiry. “No, dear,” Gladys sniffed. “He’s out on business,” she nodded sagely, as one who was au fait with certain particulars. “A lady called this morning and asked to see him. Half past ten it was, because I had just set the kettle to boil for morning tea. Very genteel she was, too. Her cloak was handmade the finest stitching, and her boots polished to perfection. Italian I’d say.” “Italian? Was she really? And she came all this way for a consultation!” “No dear, the boots were Italian,” Gladys corrected. “The lady herself was definitely English; her accent was of the highest calibre. And such an unusual case too,” Gladys paused for the effect she knew this would have on her audience. “You were present at the interview?” “Well, no,” admitted Gladys. “Not present as such… but you see the cabinet in the hallway was in need of a good polish, and naturally I couldn’t help overhearing some of the conversation.” “Sound does so carry in these wood panelled houses,” said Marjorie, to add substance to Gladys excuse for prying. “Precisely. And, of course, Mr Holmes has such a distinctive voice. One really cannot help but hear it no matter how hard one tries not to.” Justification thus proffered and accepted, Gladys continued her story. “It seems the lady’s parasol had gone missing the day before; a very exquisite and expensive one, apparently.” Marjorie leant in a little closer, but Gladys was staring at the wall in reminiscence. “Do you remember the parasol I used to have? The one with the yellow ribbons?” Gladys sighed. “I adored that parasol; I was so upset when I lost it.” “I remember.” Marjorie certainly did. What a fuss Gladys had made about the loss of the silly parasol. “And the missing parasol. Was it also yellow?” Marjorie prodded. Gladys focused on Marjorie’s inquisitive expression. “No! No indeed! This one was of the finest silk, a gift from the lady’s aunt from whom she and her husband expect to inherit a considerable amount of money, it seems. Apparently the aunt would not take kindly to the young lady having lost it.” “Hmmm.” Marjorie thought for a moment. “Is there more to the story then perhaps? Some subterfuge to disinherit the young couple?” “That is one possibility,” agreed Gladys. Marjorie frowned. “But surely Mr Holmes would not be interested in the small matter of a lost parasol?” “Oh, no!” countered Gladys. “Mr Holmes has a very good instinct for these things. Besides, he often says that things are seldom as simple as they appear.” “So, Mr Holmes suspects there is more to the story then? And that is where he is now? Investigating the matter?” Marjorie asked. “Yes, he left earlier this morning. But what am I thinking of? You must be tired after your journey. And here I am chattering away and you have had no opportunity to tell me your news. Dear Marjorie, it is so good to see you,” Gladys reached across the table and patted her sister’s hand. “But shall we retire now, and in the morning you shall tell me how you, Frank and the children are managing?”

  Marjorie’s eyes flickered open in the dark. She was sure something had woken her. She listened carefully. There it was; a shuffling noise and the faint squeak of a hinge. Her bedroom door was silhouetted by a dim light coming from the passageway outside. She climbed out of bed and crept towards it. She could hear voices downstairs. “Come on, my dear chap, that’s right, sit down.” There was the soft creak of a body settling into a leather chair. “My dear friend, you have rescued me again from my descent into weakness.” “Yes, well, I thought I might find you in that dreadful place.” “Amongst the devils and angels,” boomed the cultured, slightly slurred voice. “That’s where the solutions are to this case.” “I really think you should give this stuff up, you know. It’s not good for you,” said the second, softer voice. “My dearest friend. Ever the doctor, eh? But it is good for me! It’s my inspiration! My muse is in the smoke filled murmuring of the opium den. The delightful poppy growing so wild in faraway fields releases my mind to the wisdom of the Orient. The things I see. It all becomes quite clear.” “And tomorrow you will be nursing your head and cursing the same.” “You are such a steady fellow, Watson, and a damned good friend. Even when you are quite wrong. Have I told you how much I value your friendship?” “At least a dozen times on the way here, my good fellow. Now, get some sleep. Tomorrow we must solve this case; the fee has been spent already, I suspect.” A brief draught against Marjorie’s feet signalled the opening of the front door followed by a soft click. Marjorie moved to the window and caught sight of a short, dapper man disappearing along the pavement below. The dark house flooded with silence once more, punctuated only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

  When Marjorie opened her eyes again, sunlight was filtering into the room through the curtains. Gladys tapped the door for a second time and came in carrying a tea tray. “I thought you might like tea in bed, dear. I don’t suppose you get the chance at home, what with a husband and children to see to in the mornings.” Marjorie smiled and wriggled into a sitting position. “How kind, that looks lovely.” Gladys put the tray on a small table and poured out a cup of tea, which she handed to Marjorie before pouring a second cup for herself. She sat on the bed. “Did you have a good night’s sleep?” “Oh yes, thank you.” “Nothing disturbed you?” So Gladys had heard
it too, thought Marjorie. “No, not at all,” she replied, as she sipped her tea. If Gladys had heard the conversation between Holmes and Watson last night, there was no need to draw attention to it now. Besides, a woman had her dignity to maintain, and Marjorie was loath to deprive her sister of the pride she felt in her position as landlady of the most famous detective in England. Some things were best left unspoken. Like her unhappiness in her own marriage. Frank’s temper. Appearances must be kept up, dignity maintained. What else was there left to lean on in difficult times? “Now,” said Gladys, breaking into her thoughts. “Tell me all about Frank and the children.” Marjorie laughed. “Oh, you know. Frank works hard. We manage. The country is far less exciting than the life you lead here. And the children are growing up. Elizabeth is eleven now, you know, and helps out in the dairy. I don’t know how I’d cope without her. And Geoffrey feeds the chickens every morning and helps his dad in the fields. The weather’s been good so far and we expect a decent crop this year, which is a relief after last year’s disaster.” Gladys nodded sympathetically. She kept her eyes on her teacup as she enquired, “And your arm, is it better now?” “Better? Oh yes,” Marjorie rubbed her right arm. “Much better now, thank you. Silly thing to do, fall over in the yard. You would think I would know better after living there all these years.” “Silly? Not really.” Gladys raised her eyebrows. “Lucky that Frank was there when it happened. No lasting damage I hope?” “No, the bones are quite mended now, so the doctor said. Like I said, just a silly accident,” said Marjorie dismissively. “Well then,” said Gladys. “Once you are up and dressed, I fancy we might take a walk. There is a little errand I need to complete before lunch.”

  There had been no sign of Gladys’ lodger at breakfast, or during the hour or so that Marjorie had helped Gladys with a few household tasks before leaving the house. The beds made and the kitchen floor washed, they set out with walking boots and umbrellas along Baker Street and turned into Marylebone Road. “I’d forgotten how tall the buildings seem, and the awful smell of the drains. And the noise!” exclaimed Marjorie as a man holding a bundle of newspapers bellowed something unintelligible close to her left ear. “You get used to it.” Gladys peeked out from under her umbrella. “There, it’s stopped raining.” The folded umbrella became a walking stick, tap tapping on the pavement as she marched along. Marjorie tucked her own umbrella under her arm and kept pace. “The city is so busy. How fast people seem to live these days. Do you ever wonder, if you had stayed in the country, how different things might have been?” “Yes.” Gladys replied. “Quite often.” She had hated the country. She thought pigs were ugly and dirty, and the smell of them! She would rather have the smell of the city drains any day. At least you could go indoors and shut the smell outside. There was no such luxury in the countryside. The smell of pigs pervaded everything, until you were certain you must smell like a pig yourself. “Where are we going?” asked Marjorie. “To collect something.” Gladys bit her lip. “Sometimes, Marjorie, people are so clever that they can’t see the beach for staring at the pebbles.”

  The police constable showed the sisters into a tidy, well furnished office. “If you don’t mind waiting, ladies,” he waved them towards two chairs set to one side of an expensive looking desk. “I’m sure Inspector Lestrade won’t be long.” Drops of rain started to tap on the window. Gladys turned her head to see how hard it was raining and was about to remark to Marjorie that perhaps they had better take a cab home and never mind the expense, when the door opened. “Gladys Hudson!” exclaimed the tall, well dressed man, his moustache puffing in rhythm to his words. “What a wonderful surprise! To what do I owe this pleasure?” he grasped Gladys’s hand. “My sister, Mrs Perriman.” Gladys waved the other hand vaguely in Marjorie’s direction. “The thing is, Inspector, Mr Holmes is a little under the weather today and he asked me if I would call in and collect something for him.” “Oh? I hope he is not suffering from anything serious?” Gladys avoided the question. “He was certain it would be here.” “Well, whatever it is, I hope we can accommodate our good friend, Mr Holmes. I’m quite sure we owe him a favour or two. What was it you were sent to collect?” “It is a parasol, a fine example of printed silk in shades of blue with lilac ribbons,” said Gladys. “The handle is of ivory, and there is an inscription on it. ‘Fortius quo fidelius’. It was left in a hansom cab on Tuesday morning and is certain to have been brought here to the lost property department by the driver.” “Well now, let me see if we have such an item.” Lestrade opened the door and shouted along the corridor. “Gillings!” Constable Gillings appeared and was given the description of the parasol. He saluted and set off to look for it. The Inspector leant against the edge of his desk and took a cigar from a box. “If you don’t mind, ladies?” “Not at all.” Gladys waved the idea of objection away. “I’m quite used to gentlemen smoking.” He lit the cigar and took a puff. Pungent smoke seeped across the room. “Will you be staying long in London, Mrs Perriman?” he enquired. Marjorie smiled. “Only a few more days, I’m afraid. My husband and the children will be missing me.” “Of course,” the Inspector blew smoke thoughtfully towards the ceiling. He turned to Gladys. “Did you…?” Constable Gillings reappeared holding out an exquisite silk parasol with an ivory handle. The Inspector turned the parasol over in his hands. “Well, I never. How does he do it? How did he know this would be here? I mean, this precise one? Marvellous. I take my hat off to the man.” He handed the parasol to Gladys. “Please tender my regards and convey my wishes to Mr Holmes for a speedy recovery.” “Thank you.” Gladys rose. “Mr Holmes would be grateful for your discretion. The thing is… the young lady concerned… well, I’m sure I don’t have to mention to you how delicate these situations can be.” The Inspector raised his eyebrows. “Well, well! Like that is it? Oh, yes I quite understand.” He tapped the side of his nose. “You can rely on me, discretion is my byword.” “Thank you. Now we must be getting along, or I shall be late preparing lunch. Thank you so much, Inspector.” “Always glad to be of help. Shall I get you a cab? It’s raining awfully out there, you know. Gillings!”

  Marjorie frowned as the cab driver jiggled the reins and the horse trotted into a steady pace. How did you know the parasol would be there? Marjorie lowered her voice. “I’m surprised the cab driver didn’t take it and sell it. How did you know he wouldn’t?” Gladys smiled. “I didn’t but, you know, there are still a lot of honest people about, Marjorie, even in London. A cab driver’s reputation is worth a great deal to him if he wants to keep his wealthy customers. I suspected that the lady, not wanting anybody to know of her loss, had hired the cab herself in the street, instead of having a servant hail it. The driver wouldn’t know where she was staying so couldn’t return the parasol to her hotel. The only other safe option was the police station.” “Won’t Mr Holmes be pleased that you have found the parasol,” exclaimed Marjorie. “I shan’t tell him,” said Gladys firmly. “But… then how will you…?” Gladys patted her sister’s knee. “My dear, you are a married woman and I was too, once upon a time. We both understand how it goes with men, even one as clever as Mr Homes. He will not enquire too deeply because that would be admitting to a woman that there is something he doesn’t know. A man’s ego really won’t allow that sort of thing. He will believe me, therefore, when I tell him that we went for a walk, it started to rain, and we took a cab home. Imagine our surprise to find somebody had left a parasol in the very cab we hired. I shall show it to him and tell him that, rather than leave it for the cab driver to steal, I have decided to take it to the lost property department at the police station.” “Whereupon,” interjected Marjorie, “he will insist on taking it there for you.” Gladys smiled. “As you say.” “And the parasol’s owner,” Marjorie continued, “will be summoned and the fee shall be paid.” Gladys winked. “And I shall get my rent, and keep my reputation as landlady to the greatest detective that ever lived.”