There was a loud rap on the door to Johnny’s bedroom, and a moment later he cried out, “Mother! Mother! I can’t move my legs!”
We rushed to the bedroom, with Joanna leading the way.
10The Rumor
Johnny was curled up on the edge of his bed, grasping his knees and holding them firmly against his chest. The grimace on his face and the moaning sound he made told of his terrible discomfort.
“They won’t move, Mother!” he complained bitterly, his agony heartbreaking. “The pain is more than I can bear.”
My father hurried to the bedside and carefully examined the lad’s legs with gentle palpitation. “Cramps! Severe muscle cramps brought on by the loss of nutrients,” he diagnosed.
“Should he ingest more of the salty brew?” I suggested.
“Definitely not,” my father replied. “For some strange reason, additional salt intake only worsens the condition.”
“Is there any treatment?” Joanna asked anxiously.
“Pickle juice,” my father answered.
“What!”
“Pickle juice,” my father repeated. “It’s an old remedy, but it works quite nicely. The juice seems to contain the nutrients which Johnny is now deficient in.”
“Where can I find this pickle juice?” Joanna inquired.
“In Miss Hudson’s pantry, for she oddly considers pickles to be a delicacy of some sort. Tell her you need it for one of your experiments, which she will believe without question.” My father slowly stretched out Johnny’s legs and began a deep massage to the large muscles, first to the gastrocnemius, then to the quadriceps. The agony gradually left Johnny’s face.
“Thank you ever so much, Dr. Watson,” the lad said, breathing a sigh of relief.
“You are most welcome,” my father replied. “Now, you should walk about in your bedroom while your mother goes to fetch Miss Hudson’s pickle juice. It has a disagreeable, sour taste, but its therapeutic effect cannot be denied. You must drink it to prevent further attacks.”
“I shall manage, sir.”
“I know you will, my boy. And be sure to swallow the pickle juice in small gulps, for otherwise it may back up on you.”
“Tiny swallows, then.”
“Exactly so,” my father said and, after patting the lad’s shoulder, led the way out of the bedroom. He then washed his hands with an antiseptic solution and advised us to do the same, in the event we had touched anything contagious in Johnny’s room.
After drying her hands, Joanna hurriedly rang for Miss Hudson, then retreated to the long table where she carried out her experiments. In quick order she cleared an area before lighting a Bunsen burner, atop which she placed an Erlenmeyer flask filled with water.
“What sort of experiment do you plan?” asked I.
“None,” Joanna said. “I am boiling water so I can brew fresh black tea for us. But it will also be useful in impressing Miss Hudson that I am deeply involved in my work, and thus she won’t ask too many questions regarding her pickle juice.”
As if on cue, Miss Hudson rapped gently on our door and quietly entered.
“Ah, Miss Hudson,” Joanna greeted our landlady. “We are in need of pickle juice.”
“How much?” Miss Hudson inquired.
“As much as you can spare.”
“May I ask its purpose?”
“Of course. I wish to determine how long the odor of pickles will remain after staining various materials.”
Miss Hudson’s eyes brightened at the sight of the lighted Bunsen burner. “A clue to a mystery, then.”
“Quite.”
“Do you prefer sweet or dill?”
“Both.”
Miss Hudson scurried out and returned minutes later with two large jars of pickle juice. Before Joanna’s freshly brewed black tea was ready to serve, Johnny was sipping the vile liquid and, according to my father, tolerating it remarkably well.
“Well, then,” my father said, returning to the fireside and wearily dropping into his comfortable chair. “Let us hope that is the last of today’s excitement.”
“Will the terrible muscle cramps recur?” Joanna asked.
“Probably not, but if they do it will be in a milder form,” my father answered. “Once the lacking nutrients are replaced, the cramps will be gone for good.”
“Excellent,” said Joanna. “And thank you for your superb care.”
“It was my pleasure to be of help.”
The phone suddenly rang and we all instantly wondered what news it might bring. It was now early evening and only essential or dire revelations would be delivered at such a later hour. My father rushed to the phone saying, “It may be the laboratory. Sometimes they perform a Gram stain on the specimen and can preliminarily identify the infecting bacteria.”
It was not the laboratory, but Edwin Alan Rowe who was calling.
“Hello, Edwin,” my father greeted the art historian warmly. “Oh, not at all. I always look forward to hearing from you.”
Joanna and I tried to interpret the phone conversation by piecing together the unconnected words and phrases we heard. The terms masterpiece and black market came up over and over. My father motioned to us for pen and paper which we rapidly supplied. He scribbled one note after another, often asking Rowe to repeat or clarify. Finally the lengthy conversation came to an end and my father hurried back to us, gleefully rubbing his hands together. “Oh, how the plot thickens!”
“Start at the very beginning, Watson,” Joanna urged. “Provide us with every word and every detail.”
“Our colleague Edwin Alan Rowe knows how to sniff out criminal behavior and he has demonstrated this talent yet again,” my father commenced. “He of course has contacts in the not-so-reputable section of the art world, which includes London’s black market. Rowe has learned there is a strong rumor circulating that a masterpiece of incalculable value will shortly be put up for sale.”
“Did Rowe use the word shortly?” Joanna interrupted.
“Several times,” my father replied. “He could not determine the nature of the artwork, other than it was a masterpiece which of course indicates it is a painting by one of the great masters.”
“Could it be a sculpture, for those, too, can be considered masterpieces?” asked Joanna. “If that were the case, we would be following the wrong lead here.”
“I so inquired, but was told that sculptures have little
