“Oh! I suppose.”
“Capital! Do come in. Don’t mind the mess. I’m engaged in an experiment to… erm… ah! To determine whether and to what extent bruising can be caused, postmortem, in soup!”
He ushered me in, cleared some wrinkled trousers and soup pots off one of the overstuffed chairs, invited me to sit, then settled onto the couch to hear my tale. Though his appearance had been off-putting, I found myself surprised by the look of deep concern he wore as I told my tale. It was clear that he cared—earnestly cared—for my happiness and safety. I began to feel embarrassed that I had judged him so harshly. For indeed, what is personal hygiene in comparison to the ability to put oneself so totally in the service of another? I was chastened and humbled.
I quite enjoyed my tea, but my host had none. Instead, he sat puffing thoughtfully at his pipe while I told my tale. Great gouts of blackish-greenish smoke emanated from its bowl. Which was odd, as I did not see him put any tobacco in, or ever light the thing. When I finished, he sat back and shook his head.
After a few minutes, I realized he wasn’t going to say anything, so I asked, “What do you think, Mr. Holmes?”
“I think it would be nice to have Watson here,” he grunted. “I used to have this friend, you see, who was… well… do you know that worst kind of sommelier? Those fellows who know everything about the history and composition of a thousand types of wine? But the only reason they cultivate and maintain that knowledge is to have an excuse to gulp down every glass they can find? They’re very smart and very apt and just horrifically addicted. My friend was like that, only for mystery instead of wine. And let me tell you: if John Watson could get a sip of this case, I’m sure he’d find it a comet vintage.”
The statement was deeply upsetting to me. I could feel a sudden sweat break forth upon my brow. I rose from my seat and began to pace.
“John Watson, you say? No, no, no… something is not right, Mr. Holmes. Not right! I don’t know if you know it, but that’s the name that’s on all my personal cards!”
“What? Damn!” Warlock Holmes shouted.
“Yes, and the plaque outside my door!”
“Double damn!”
“And all his mail comes to my house, for some reason.”
“Treble damn!”
“And that’s what all the people call me when they come to me for medical aid. But I don’t know anything about medicine. I’m a stockbroker! But here’s the funniest thing: I don’t seem to know anything about broking stocks, either! Some days I think I just do not know who I am at all!”
“Quadruple damn! Quintuple damn! Sextuple damn!” my host cursed.
I began to shake all over. “Something is broken, Mr. Holmes! I feel… I feel all wrong!” And a terrible sensation began to rise up in me. Like another person—strong and indignant.
“Oh! Hey!” cried my host, jumping to his feet. “Isn’t there an expression your mother taught you?”
“Yes, but… what has that to do with anything?”
“It is of paramount importance,” Mr. Holmes insisted. “You must teach it to me, right now.”
“But…”
“This instant!”
“Oh, very well! It’s ‘Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy!’”
And suddenly, I felt much better.
And I sat back down again.
“Can you make anything of it, Mr. Holmes?”
“Well, it seems as if I’d better, eh?” he asked, wiping his brow and giving forth a great sigh of relief.
“How will you proceed?” I wondered.
“Hmm… well… what would Wat—” but he stopped himself and said, “What would my friend do? I’m sure he’d feel he had enough clues already, but I confess I wouldn’t mind a few more. What to do…? What to do…?”
“Do you want to come meet Mr. Pinner?” I asked.
“It might be most helpful,” he agreed. “But how would we manage it?”
“Very simply, I think. He told me to find some other way to spend my time. I could tell him I went and made a friend, then display you as proof.”
This statement seemed to make Mr. Holmes uncomfortable, so I quickly added, “Only to fool Mr. Pinner, of course. I do not wish to presume upon your emotions, especially since we have known each other for so short a time. No, no. I would not make the claim that I am truly your friend.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Holmes as a strange flash of guilt and pain crossed his features, “you probably could.”
I was deeply touched.
“Then it is settled, Mr. Holmes,” I told him. “I shall call upon you here, tomorrow, so we can catch the 10:35 to Birmingham. That should get us there in time. There is really no point arriving before that hour, as Mr. Pinner is quite punctual and only comes in to check on me.”
Mr. Holmes smiled and bid me good day. I then returned to my house to pass the time. Mary was excited to see me, she said, but had not expected my return. As such, she was very busy. This was true. She seemed to be holding a meeting with a number of tough-looking gentlemen. As this meeting was being held in my room and—Mary assured me—was likely to go on until quite late, I settled into one of the overstuffed chairs in the library. That brings me to this very moment, dear journal. I have taken the time to record these peculiar events on your pages and now shall tuck myself under this blanket to slumber. Tomorrow, with the help of God and Mr. Holmes, I may at last come to the bottom of this whole strange affair.
* * *
FROM THE CRAYON-SCRAWLED JOURNALS OF WARLOCK HOLMES
Hello, dear reader! I have been asked to step in to finish the tale, as the remembrances of the previous narrator are now at an end.
So… where to begin…
I suppose I must admit I was
