I gave Holmes a contented smile and remarked, “It does my heart good to see you continuing your studies in the art of deduction. Yes, the only hats upon that rack are ones that you have seen me wear in the past. It therefore stands to reason—”
But my reflection was cut short by a shrill voice as my hat rack wiggled its little wooden arms at me and shrieked, “No, he don’t got no man friends over, do he? ’Cos he don’t got no men what likes him. And ladies? No, no, no. Oh, but you know who likes him? Dargs. But they never comes round, do they, less they slips off leash.”
This was answered by the voice of poor Little Sally, who shouted from the other room, “Hey! I told you! Furniture don’t talk!”
“She’s right, you know,” said Holmes sympathetically to my hat rack. “Best to hush up, eh?”
But the hat rack would not be distracted or denied. It continued to rail on about how it never got to meet any hats but mine, except at Mary’s parties, and then it had so many that it could barely hold them all.
My gaze hardened. “You put a spell on my hat rack?”
“I didn’t mean to, Watson, you must believe me. Look, I just ran in here all flustered because of the assassins. And I was wondering if you had anybody else over. And I didn’t concentrate hard enough to not cast a spell, so…”
“Holmes?”
“Yes, Watson?”
“Assassins?”
“Well… I mean… attempted assassins, yes.”
“Just outside? This whole time we’ve been talking?”
“Probably. I haven’t actually checked. Look here, Watson, if you’re going to stand there asking judgmental questions about my current lifestyle, might I at least take a moment to close your shutters? I’m afraid it won’t do to stand about casting visible silhouettes on the windows with so many assassins lurking about.”
He then promptly ignored his own advice, stepping directly in front of my window to close and fasten the shutter. Hardly had his hand reached the latch than the familiar poot! poot! poot! of Straubenzee air rifles filled the night. Holmes gave a cry of alarm as two bullets came ripping through the shutter and a few more thudded into the far side of my front door. One bullet must have struck at a narrow point in the sculpted woodwork, for it penetrated into the interior of my house.
“—think there should be more of those yellow rubber hats, with how much it rains around AAAAAIIIEEEEE!” shrieked my hat rack, as the bullet tore it in two and sent its top half and two of my hats clattering into the corridor.
Have you ever had an item of your furniture shot in half while you were standing right next to it? Can you imagine what emotion that might give rise to? Pure relief. But then such were the peculiarities of adventuring with Holmes. I turned to give him my most disapproving eyebrows, but he wasn’t paying attention to me.
Instead, he leaned down to one of the bullet holes and shouted out through it, “Good job, out there! That’s done it! That’s killed us all!”
“Thank you!” called a thick but happy-sounding voice from without, but then a moment later, it added, “Hey!” and a fresh series of air-gun shots spattered my house.
“Do you know what, Watson? I’ve just thought of something: let’s go on holiday,” Holmes suggested. “How does out-the-back-window-and-over-the-garden-wall sound?”
“Very well,” I said, with a resolute nod. “I can be ready in ten minutes.”
He stared at me, dumbfounded, then waved one hand back towards my door.
“Yes, yes, I understand the urgency, but I am simply not dressed for trave—”
“There’s your boots, John! Right there!”
“Well yes, but the rest of my raiment—”
“—is a bathrobe. Perfect for adventuring. Why, I once had a friend, Arthur, who went on grand adventures in a bathrobe,” Holmes said, scooping up a pair of boots and one of my hats, thrusting them into my hands, then grabbing the front of my robe and dragging me deeper into my house.
As we left, a gentle rapping came against the door and the voice we’d heard earlier announced, “Hello… um… milkman, here.”
I just had time to catch a glimpse of Little Sally bustling towards the entryway as Holmes shoved me into the library. “No!” I called back over my shoulder. “Do not answer that! Nobody answer that! Milk comes on Thursday, remember? And not in the middle of the night.”
From outside, I heard a voice mutter, “Bugger.”
Holmes dragged me to the back of my library, selected the largest of my windows, and gave it a savage kick.
“Easy!” I protested.
Holmes rolled his eyes, shoved me out into my garden and hissed, “Get your boots on then, Mr. Dress-up!”
From within my house came a horrible sound—Mary howling her rage as she descended the staircase to the main floor. I heard her scream, “You idiots! How dare you?”
I lunged back towards the open window, crying, “Mary!”
But Holmes pulled me back and said, “Come on, Watson, she’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Does she sound worried?” Holmes asked. He began surveying my garden wall for a good place to scramble over, mumbling, “Not sure about those poor assassins, though. Ah! Here we go. Give me a leg up, won’t you?”
When we’d cleared the first obstacle, Holmes dropped into a low crouch and whispered, “Now, we must gather our wits, Watson. First challenge: discern our location.”
“That’s not hard,” I told him. “It’s Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy’s garden. They’re my neighbors. Nice old couple.”
“So you think, Watson! So you think! But you must be always on your toes. Anybody might be an agent of Moriarty!”
“Holmes…”
“I am telling you: anybody! You don’t know him like I do. The level of caution we must now employ is beyond that which you have ever seen me use before! You may think you understand what is going on, but I promise you this: Moriarty is always
