“Oh! Mrs. Whitesides! Yes… yes, of course.”
“Don’t you lie to me, you little twerp!”
“Okay! No! I’m sorry!” I sobbed, and the whole story burst forth from me.
Mrs. Whitesides listened from start to finish, sucking down four or five cigars. Finally, when my story was done, she raised her eyebrows and opined, “That’s weird, son. Right weird.”
“Isn’t it?” I asked, as a bit of hysterical laughter escaped my lips. “Can you make anything of it?”
“Nope,” she said, striking a match and touching it to the tip of her next smoke. “But I know who can. M’ brother—Carl, that’s his name—he had a spot of trouble with his cellar. Everyone who went down there disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yeh. And he never could find out why. So, he went and saw this London fellow, Warlock ’Olmes, and he put it right.”
“He found out what was wrong with the cellar?” I asked.
“Yeh. It were diamonds.”
“Diamonds?”
“Or… no… demonds. That were it. Demonds.”
“And… and you think he might help me?” I asked.
She shrugged. “You might inquire after him at 221B Baker Street. Also, get off m’ bleedin’ couch and go upstairs, will you? You’re scarin’ off business.”
And so I came upstairs to you, dear journal, to write of this peculiarity. Now, the hour grows late. Yet, it feels better to set this to paper somehow. And in my breast, hope has grown to resolution!
Tomorrow, I will go to Baker Street.
* * *
FROM THE JOURNALS OF HALL PYCROFT 13 JULY, 1884
Oh, what a strange day. The train to London was one of those brownish-gray ones, which made me indifferent. The cab to Baker Street was one of those grayish-brown ones, which made me morose. All the buildings we passed were those brownish-grayish ones, which made me think that—for all that people love it—sometimes it seems as if London just isn’t putting forth much effort.
221B was easy enough to find. At my ring, the door was answered by an elderly crone of diminutive height. Despite my size advantage, I felt quite unsettled by her. True, she smiled at me as she opened the door, but it was much like the smile of a seagull when it turned over a rock, found a few delicious pill-bugs beneath and said in the language of beasts, “Oh. Hello. I’m so pleased to meet you.”
“Er… greetings, madam,” I told her. “My name is Hall Pycroft.”
“Oh?” she asked with a sinister sort of glee. “Is it?”
“Why, yes. I am looking for Mr. Warlock Holmes. Are you his wife?”
Her smile instantly hardened into a furious scowl and she gave me a savage kick (I’ve no idea why). I cried out, grabbed the shin of my damaged leg and began hopping about on the good one. I was going to protest my treatment, of course, yet before I could find my voice, the old witch had made it halfway up the stairs and called back, “This way.”
Blinking away a stray tear, I followed her up to the first-floor landing. We stopped in front of a door that was utterly unremarkable, save for a few dents down at its base. I had only just enough time to wonder what the source of these might be, before she gave the door four or five good kicks and hollered, “Oi! Warlock! I’ve got a special little present for you!”
From within came a squeak of fright, then the sound of somebody falling off a couch and scuttling around. Presently, the door opened just a crack and a man peeped through. His expression was cautious, bordering on terrified, as if he expected at any moment to be shot in the face. The instant he saw me, his jaw dropped open in shock. He lost his grip on the door, which began to swing slowly inwards.
“Heh. I’ll just leave you to it, shall I?” the old lady suggested, and wandered off down the stairs.
If the man who stood before me seemed surprised to see me, I will confess I felt the same. He was an exceedingly shabby fellow. His hair had been allowed to grow into an uncontrolled mane. His sharp features were overgrown with a shaggy beard that seemed to have permission to travel off in whatever direction it wished. His fingernails were frighteningly long. He wore a dirty bathrobe and had dark circles under his eyes. Behind him, I could see the room was full of an assortment of dirty soup pots and crusts of half-eaten bread, which sent up a terrible stink. The window shades were half-pulled and a greasy light shone through the dusty panes.
He stared agog for a moment, then, almost silently, gasped, “John?”
“No. My name is Hall Pycroft.”
“Oh! Yes, of course!” he said, as if shaking himself from a deep reverie. “I knew that.”
“Did you? How?”
“No, I mean I didn’t know that. Right? How could I? What I intended to say, Mr. Pycroft, was… um… how may I be of service?”
“The lady who runs the hotel I’m staying at says you are an unraveler of mysteries, Mr. Holmes, and a solver of problems. If you are, I think I need your help, for I seem to be in a spot of trouble.”
This provoked a sudden burst of anger. “Trouble?” he shouted. “No, no, no! Trouble? That’s the whole point of all this misery—that you’re not supposed to be in any trouble? What do you mean, trouble?”
“Oh… well… it’s a long story,” I told him.
He gave a deep sigh and muttered, “Damn. Then I’m supposed to invite you in and make tea and all, aren’t I?”
I just stood and blinked, for to confirm his suspicion would be tantamount to inviting oneself in for tea, wouldn’t it? And one does not like to be rude. After a moment, he sighed, “Dash it all… you’d better come in, eh? I never learned to make tea, though. And the fellow I usually get to do it is… um… do you know what? Let’s not get into that. Suffice to say he is unavailable. Oh! Or
