And why was everybody down there laughing so hard? Egads, from the hooting that drifted up through my floorboards, it was easy to imagine three or four of Mary’s guests must be actually rolling about on the floor.
In went the bookmark. The father of history found himself plunked unceremoniously onto my end table. And I, John Watson—presumably master of the house—crept silently to the top of my own stairs to peep down at the festivities below. No good. I had to get closer. I slipped down the steps as casually as I could—as if I needed nothing more than a biscuit to go with my tea, but had not wanted to trouble any of the servants for it. Not that they’d have heard me. Mary’s gathering had reached a fever pitch. Peeping at last through the double doors into our sitting room, I saw why.
Wild-eyed Garrideb Grub stood amid a circle of laughing celebrants, displaying a tarnished coin in his upturned palm. “Syracusan—of the best period. They degenerated greatly towards the end. At their best, I hold them superior to the Alexandrian.”
“Superior?” scoffed one of Mary’s regulars. Artie Arthurs was his name and he seemed to have been given a seat of honor on the dais with Grub. At first, I could not guess why. “Superior in that you can get one for tuppence?”
Mary’s gang of idiots roared with laughter.
“But, no. Look at the quality of the die!” Grub retorted. “Such standardization was not accomplished again until—”
“Do you know, I think I’ve got an Alexandrian you might have borrowed,” Artie mused. “Funny story how I got it. Word got around that Sotheby’s was to offer a pristine Alexandrian coin of the first Egyptian striking. And not just any old auction house, mind you, but Sotheby’s! So, of course, a dozen of England’s richest collectors came out to try each other’s mettle, to see who would carry off the prize. A dozen men of means and—and—one penniless old pensioner, who rather thought that if he stopped eating for a week, the money he saved on groceries might just be enough to win the day!”
Artie Arthurs struck a heroic pose as he said it, waving his wine glass above his head like a sword and slopping a little sherry down onto my rug. As the crowd howled their appreciation, Arthurs added, “I say, Grub… that wasn’t you, was it?”
Garrideb Grub colored with fury and embarrassment. “My collection may not boast many items of particularly high monetary value—”
“We like your dirty old teapot, though!” one of the attendees interjected.
“—but I shall be the Hans Sloane of my age!”
“Who’s that?” asked one of Mary’s rabble. “The man who empties the rubbish bins?”
And that was it; I’d had enough. I knew there to be an unspoken rule that I was never to interfere in Mary’s events, but I simply could not stand there and watch that poor old collector be pilloried in that manner. Thrusting my way past a few giggling philistines, I reached Garrideb Grub and declared, “Yes, well, thank you, Mr. Grub, for your insights this evening—”
A fresh wave of laughter.
“—but I fear your words have fallen on unworthy ears.”
“Ooooooooh,” said a few of Mary’s friends, in that mocking oh-dear-it-sounds-as-if-father’s-displeased-with-us tone.
“Oh look,” came Mary’s scornful voice, “here comes my noble husband to save Mr. Grub. He’s very good at saving people, you know. Why, the next time any of us lays eyes on Garrideb Grub, I shouldn’t wonder that he’ll be thirty years younger and have a collection to rival the British Museum.”
Another wave of laughter.
“And maybe even a haircut,” Mary added.
I tried to ignore her. “Here, let me help you gather your things,” I told Grub. “Have you a carriage waiting?”
The idea that this shabby gent might have a carriage drew fresh hoots and I inwardly cursed myself that I had thrown more fuel on the fire of this man’s public shaming.
“No, no, of course,” I said. “A cab, then. Let me secure you a cab, sir.”
As I dragged him from the room, he shouted, “You may laugh at me now—”
“All right!” somebody shot back, and they all did.
“—but the True Garrideb will be here soon! Days! Days only! And the rewards he brings will be vast, I am told! Why, by this time next year, my collection will be a thing of wonder!”
The neighborhood wags seemed to doubt that very much. I continued pushing him towards the door, saying, “Is this your bag, Mr. Grub? Yes, it must be, of course. Come along now. I shall see you out. Oh, are you… are you owed anything for tonight’s presentation?”
“No, that’s the thing,” Artie Arthurs crowed. “He agreed to do this for free!”
As I shoved Garrideb Grub clear of the latest tide of ribald laughter, there did seem to be some mild disappointment that I had robbed the gathering of the evening’s entertainment. But what did it matter, really? Were there not several dozen bottles that needed emptying, while everybody savoringly repeated every foolish thing to have left their lecturer’s lips?
Twenty seconds later I was in the street with my hand in the air for a cab while my honored guest gathered himself on the walk behind me, trying—I was certain—to keep from crying. Fortunately, cabs were never far off on the nights of Mary’s revels, for they knew there would be no shortage of foolish, rich drunks to cart home. I had one in a moment and—though I suppose I could simply have loaded the old fellow in and paid the fare—I found myself climbing guiltily up beside Mr. Grub. Was it not the least I could do, to see him safely home? As the cab pulled away, I found myself stammering,
