I could not fathom how he’d managed to get himself in trouble despite my and Rhett Khan’s best efforts. Yet, who can account for the strange twistings of fate, especially for those individuals who dwell along the brimstone thread?
Though, that said, I probably should have stopped by in the dark of night at some point and pried that stupid plaque off his door. And stolen the cards out of his wallet. And stopped in at the post office and changed his address to some non-existent street in Greenland. But—ah, well—hindsight is 20/20, they say.
The most important thing, of course, was to unravel this little mystery before it could completely undermine my rather brilliant Watson solution. His life must be straightened out quickly and quietly, so that he might return to the job I’d assigned him: being Hall Pycroft. Granted, I didn’t know how to solve the case, but I knew I must do it. I wished nothing to threaten Watson’s new reality.
And… much as I hate to admit it, I wanted to be free of his company. I mean, I missed his company quite a bit. But his company. Not Hall Pycroft’s. Indeed, I felt such a swell of revulsion and guilt when I was with Hall Pycroft that it was even worse than the swell of revulsion and guilt I felt when I was alone.
Let me go ahead and admit, these were not my best days.
I probably should have cut my fingernails.
I probably should have combed my hair.
I probably should not have made a pact with the darker powers to provide me with pot after pot of soup, just so I wouldn’t have to go down to the shops.
But again… hindsight.
Watscroft and I boarded the 10:35 to Birmingham on Monday morning. It was one of those pretty red ones, which made me happy. We talked rather more than I’d have liked. Watscroft kept trying to teach me all about stock-brokery. But then he kept stopping to ask me if I thought he’d got it right.
At last, we reached Birmingham. We were slightly behind our hour, which was a matter of some concern to Watscroft, for he seemed quite mortified to reflect that he hadn’t made any progress at all on his second list. He very much wished we might beat Mr. BothPinners to the office, so he might at least have a heading and a few entries done when his boss arrived.
This anxiety was only compounded when he spotted Mr. BothPinners’s freshly shaved head in the crowd, only a few steps ahead of us. BothPinners’s mood seemed to be exemplary; he whistled one of the tunes from those music-hall shows he loved so well. Bully Billy Big-Pants, I think it was. Sadly, his joie de vivre did not seem to extend to his only subordinate. Watscroft began to fret in guilty whispers. He feared he had let down the possibly fictional firm of Franco-Midland Hardware Company Limited. I tried to comfort him, keeping my voice low enough that Mr. BothPinners’s suspicions might not be aroused. Yet, Watscroft was inconsolable. Luckily for us, Arthur/Harry Pinner took a sudden detour. He stopped at a news vendor’s stall to pick up a paper, allowing Watscroft and I to slip past behind him, quietly hissing, “Now’s our chance! Go, go, go!” to each other. Once past, we redoubled our pace. My companion raced up the steps to 126B, flung himself into his seat and began furiously reviewing the Paris directory for furniture dealers.
Mr. BothPinners was rather slow in coming so—much to his relief—Watscroft had a few entries scrawled onto his list before his possible employer arrived. The instant Mr. BothPinners entered, Watscroft jumped up, waving the list and shouting, “Look! Look! I’m working, Mr. Pinner! And not only that, I did what you said. You see? I made a friend! There he is!”
Mr. BothPinners did look at me. But not very much. And he didn’t seem to mark me. He just gave a half-stunned sort of nod and plopped down at one of the desks with the newspaper spread out in front of him. His hands shook. He was pale and seemed quite distracted. I was not the only one to notice, either. Watscroft gave him a quizzical look and asked, “Mr. Pinner, are you well?”
“Oh, um… ermf,” he replied.
“Mr. Pinner, that is hardly an answer,” Watscroft remonstrated.
BothPinners shook his head to clear it, then mumbled, “No, no. I’m fine. It’s all… It’s all…” and he rolled his eyes back and forth across the room in the manner of a man whose next words are going to be “in ruins” or “coming down” or “turned out rather badly”. But instead he only said, “…fine.”
Watscroft and I looked at each other. He gave me some “what do we do?” eyebrows and I gave him a little “I don’t know, do I?” kind of shrug. Watscroft looked at me hopelessly and I cursed to realize he was going to be very little help. Apparently, everything was going to be left to me.
Which is a dashed stupid place to leave things, I must say.
I cleared my throat, marched to BothPinners’s desk and loudly proclaimed. “Yes. So. It’s all good. Mr. Pycroft has made progress on his list—please wave that about triumphantly, won’t you? Thank you—and he’s also followed
