The Beginnings of a Very Curious Case
Irene Holmes sat on the cushioned chair in her landlady’s living room in the bottom flat of 221 Baker Street with a pair of trousers draped over her lap. She scowled at the threaded needle between her forefinger and thumb as she stabbed the fabric. The point poked through and caught her skin, drawing blood. A curse teetered on the tip of her tongue, but she quickly bit it back as that would have her in hot water with Miss Hudson. Instead, she dropped everything on the ground and huffed.
“Pick those up.” The older woman chided, white hair bouncing as she nodded to the heap. “And if you throw another fit, you will finish all the stitching, not just the one leg.”
Arguing with Miss Hudson was futile. All of Irene's trousers needed mending after the rigorous winter that befell London earlier this year. And it wasn't particularly fair to rely on Miss
Hudson to stitch both her and Joe's clothing. The winter had also taken its toll on the landlady, and though she remained spry and sharp-witted, she was slowing down as her age – and stress caused by Irene and her antics – caught up to her.
Irene scooped up the trousers again, finding the needle. As much as she wanted to help Miss Hudson, sewing was a most tedious task. Her mind wandered to literally anything and everything else. The needle met skin yet again, causing an involuntary curse under her breath.
Miss Hudson tut-tutted. “You are grand at so many things, Irene Holmes, I know that you can do this.”
“Perhaps this is the one task that I lack skill in.”
“Nonsense. I know what you’re doing. You think that if you do so terribly at this, I will let you off the hook to bury yourself in your chemistry set.”
Irene wished that to be true. Of course, she could always try to learn, but she wanted to be good at sewing immediately, and that wasn’t happening. Most every other task came easily to her, and those that didn’t, she simply didn’t pursue.
Sewing, however, was one such activity that would take her more than a day to learn, and therefore was a waste of time.
Miss Hudson nudged her leg. “Carry on.”
As Irene started into yet another stitch, the front door to opened and shut. Wellies thumped in the front hall and a sharp bark sounded throughout the halls as Isla, the little West
Highland Terrier, arrived.
Irene instantly perked up, seeing her opportunity to escape the dreadful task.
Miss Hudson was on her immediately though, smacking her leg.
“You stay put.”
Irene carefully tied off the needle and thread, folded the pants and placed them gently on the table, all under the stern glare of her landlady.
“Joe is walking with heavy steps,” she said, listening as her flatmate thumped up the stairs. “And he is home precisely twenty-seven minutes earlier than usual. Something is wrong, and it's my job to figure out what is troubling my dear friend. I shall finish the trousers, have no fear. But today will not be that day.”
Miss Hudson sighed and gave a flick of her wrist. “I'll be up in ten with the tea. If Joe truly had a lousy day, then perhaps meat and potatoes are in order for supper.”
“Real potatoes? Not the dreadful ones from the box?”
“Those dreadful ones are the food that's keeping you from fainting in a hungry spell, missy.”
Irene grinned at the woman before spinning and heading out of the flat. She paused for a fraction of a second to glance at the wall along the stairs.
The flooding from the melt in the spring had seeped right into
the building and left horrid stains. They had pooled their money for replacement rugs and carpeting for the front hall. And while the new carpet looked grand, the inch-high stains remained on the wall.
Irene hurried up the stairs, skipping the squeaky fifth out of habit. Despite her wraith-like ascent, Isla heard her and gave a few excited yips. She crouched to the ground immediately, meeting the little white dog at the top of the stairs.
Isla was full grown now, weighing close to two stone, and – despite Joe bathing her often – her paws and skirt were always singed with London dirt. Much like the hem of Irene's trousers.
She scratched behind the pup’s ears, fluffing her face and nose.
“Go find Joe.”
The door to the flat lay wide open giving a clear view to half of the sitting room, including Doctor Joe Watson. He sat in his armchair, tall frame splayed out on the cushions, head back and eyes closed. His dark auburn hair stuck out at every strand as if he'd run his hands through it too often.
Isla bounded into the room, leaping onto his lap. He grunted. Just as quickly as she’d pounced, the little white terrier jumped off to run back to Irene.
Joe straightened and gave a disheartened smile when he saw Irene, trying to give the appearance that he was in a better mood.
“How are the trousers coming along?” She held up her bandaged finger. “Well, at least you’re finished them.” “I am not.”
“Then why are you here? I thought you were determined to finish them today.”
Irene flopped on the couch. “You are home. How can I concentrate on another task when you are up here all by–”
“Oh no.” Joe leaned forward and shook his head. “You are not using me as an excuse to skip out on a lesson with Miss Hudson.”
Irene crossed her legs, looking at him in the most attentive manner. “Well, you've had a hard day at work and I simply cannot leave you alone.”
“You leave me alone all the time. Besides, you have no obligation to dote on me like that. You're not my wife.”
Irene straightened, raising an eyebrow. “You expect your wife to dote on you?”
“What?” He sighed, clearly distracted at whatever thoughts raced through his mind. “No, I don't. I just...”
She frowned at her friend. Joe always seemed to have a million thoughts rushing about in his mind. He was hyper-aware of everyone's feelings and did his best to not tread on anyone. But this all weighed heavily, it was clear. 221B was where he was most relaxed. Yet this evening, something had followed him
to his sanctuary.
“Tell me what ails you and I shall do my best to help.” “I am fine.”
“Joe,” Irene sighed. “Must we go through this back and forth? You are rumpled and ragged. Your right cuff is torn and there is a large splatter of dried blood on your pant leg. Your hair is wilder than the Moors, meaning you've messed it with stress probably every half-hour on the dot.”
He stared at her, as he often did, trying to counter the deductions. In the end, though, he let out a great sigh and reached down to pet Isla.
“I lost a patient today. A Great Dane with a bloated belly. And earlier in the morning, a lady could not afford the services needed to fix her dog's leg. I ended up doing the procedure at half cost and told Michael to take the rest out of my payment. He refused, of course, which was kind of him.”
“If all of this is about money then–”
“It isn't. I am forever thankful that the rent here is just the cost of upkeep, and I will be eternally grateful to Miss Hudson for being so kind to me. It's...”
He trailed off again and shrugged. “You wish to eat better food?”
His eyes widened and he looked to the door in a panic. “Goodness no! Don't let Miss Hudson hear you say that.”
“You wish to live in a bigger house?”
“Of course not. I truly love living here.”
“Would you prefer to work at another vet practice?”
He paused at this suggestion. “There is a nice practice up north. It caters to wealthier clients. Or I could get back into large animal practice. But both of those require travel, and I couldn't possibly take up that much use of the car.”
Irene furrowed her brow. “If working at another vet practice, or treating cows, would make you happy, then you can have the car as much as you want. Unless we are on a case, of course.”
“Of course.” He gave her a tired smile, gazing at her with a certain fondness he only saved for her and Isla.
Irene had yet to decipher what that look meant, but it warmed her heart and made her feel like Joe was truly her best friend.
The best friend in question sighed and ruffled the pup’s head before standing. Something on Irene’s desk caught his eye as he passed by the window.
“Henriette is visiting London next week?” He lifted a letter from a pile of papers. “Oh, lovely. Are you going to ask her to pop by for tea?”
“Almost certainly.”
They'd met Henriette Grouper and her husband during their second case together. The woman had worked for Bletchley Park during the war. She had a knack for puzzles and cyphers, and a level of intelligence that Irene respected.
Over the winter, they'd taken up writing to each other a few
times a month, chatting about everything from what they’d done during the war, to politics in the news, or everything new and wonderful in the city.
Irene considered Henriette a friend, even though she felt as though she had enough people's lives to keep up with. Still, she was making an effort. Having someone new to correspond with every month, who could keep up with her intelligence, was pleasant.
Suddenly, Isla leapt up and out of the flat.
“Oh heavens,” a voice chided from the hallway. “Get out from under me you little wee hairy bampot.”
Miss Hudson stomped about, a tray of food in her hands, as she tried to avoid the dog.
Joe rushed over and scooped Isla out of the way.
Irene laughed. “Miss Hudson, she has no idea what you’re saying.”
Joe mumbled as he passed his partner. “I have no idea what she's saying either.”
Irene tried not to burst out laughing again as she took the tray of food and set it on the table.
Miss Hudson scoffed. “Aye, well she will when I step on her feet and fall on her like a sack of potatoes.”
The pair settled into their dinner, grinning at each other, as Miss Hudson scolded the dog then proceeded to pat her and make kissy noises.
* * * * *
The next day, Irene stared up at the ceiling, with Isla tucked beside her on the couch. The dog snored lightly, making tiny barking noises as she dreamed. Irene didn't want to wake the small creature, so she'd stayed put. Not that she had much else to do.
She lifted her right arm straight up, waiting for the pins and needles feeling to start.
“I doubt that's good for your appendages,” Joe called from the small kitchen. He had the day off and Irene only now just remembered that he was even home.
“Morning, Joe.”
“I’m afraid morning's almost over. I'm off to Sarah's shortly." “Hm.”
Sarah James, Joe's girlfriend of about five months now, had moved into a townhouse with three of her friends a few days ago. They'd asked Joe to come and peruse the property, to ensure everything was satisfactory before they hauled their furniture in.
Irene had quipped that they should've done that before they signed any agreement, but Joe had hushed her.
“Do you know much about craftsmanship?” She called to him. “Not at all. I can get by with basic knowledge, only because I
watched my father do odd jobs at the farm. Even then, I was so distracted by the animals that only some of the lessons stuck.”
“So, what are you going to today, then?” “My best.”
Even from her place on the couch, Irene could hear him fidgeting.
“What are you doing today?” he asked, clearly stalling for time. “Working on those trousers again?”
She sat up quickly, startling the dog. Poor Isla wiggled and flailed, trying to right herself.
“Do not speak so loud,” she snapped, “lest Miss Hudson hear you and drag me downstairs by my ear.”
An amused smirk crossed Joe's lips. “I shall try to keep that thought to myself as I head out.”
He kept the smirk on his face and gave her a wink despite the glare he received. Irene let out a huff and rolled her eyes, then flopped back on the couch.
“Begone.” She waved her hand dramatically, then noticed Isla's tousled fur. “Oh goodness.”
Joe chuckled, leaving his flatmate to deal with the dog’s rumpled face.
* * * * *
Joe hadn’t been gone ten minutes before the doorbell went.
Irene had moved to her desk in an attempt to organize the monumental stack of papers. At the sound of the door, the terrier went mad, barking and rushing toward to the hallway.
“Isla!” Irene shouted. “Quiet!”
The dog silenced, but kept a low growl in her throat.
“Good girl.” Irene grabbed a treat from one of the many jars they kept around the flat and fed it to the dog. Joe had all these ideas about dog training and so far, they worked. Except for the stubbornness of terriers, of course, but that was their way, according to the professional veterinarian living in the flat.
The front door creaked as Miss Hudson answered the call. “Irene!” The landlady’s shrill voice rang from the stairs. She
stomped up, huffing and puffing, as if carrying something large and heavy.
Irene stood lazily and sauntered to the door. She opened it just as Miss Hudson reached the threshold. A large bouquet of flowers obscured her face.
Irene stepped back, letting her into the flat. “Oh, aren't these just lovely!”
Miss Hudson set the bouquet on the table, next to a pile of organized papers.
“My work!” Irene rushed forward, scooping the papers lest water splashed onto them. She set them on the couch as Miss Hudson beamed at the arrangement.
A few pink roses were dotted in amongst a bouquet of
carnations and baby's breath. The scent quickly spread through the flat.
Irene raised her brow at the whole grand affair, then plucked the card from the centre.
“This is a bit excessive.”
The front had her name scrawled beautifully in expensive pen by a left-handed gentleman. She immediately knew who'd sent these. The message at the back read:
Dearest Irene,
I hope this bouquet finds you well . My offer for dinner still stands should you wish to accompany me.
Yours truly, Basil
She rolled her eyes. “What am I going to do with these?”
“Display them, of course!” Miss Hudson spun around, looking for a more permanent spot for the large vase.
“I already have flowers on display.” Irene gestured to the collection of dying plants by the window. Joe had collected them one day on his way home from work, claiming he'd never seen Irene with flowers before, and perhaps these would brighten up her often dreary-looking desk.
The older woman tsk-tsk'd. “Half of those are weeds.”
“Well, I like the look of weeds and wildflowers much better. These look like they belong in the palace, not our well-worn
flat.”
“Oh, come now.” Miss Hudson snatched the card from her and tucked it back into the bouquet. “There must be some feminine part of you that thinks this is ever-so-slightly lovely.”
Irene gazed at the flowers, the sickly-sweet scent tickling her nose. She and Basil Cullens had gone to lunch twice, but she'd kept everything casual on both occasions. He'd asked her to dinner, but she knew that inched into the dangerous territory of an actual date. The thought made her weary and nervous all at once.
She sighed, despite herself, and plucked a carnation. These flowers must've been hard to come by, even for a government agent such at Mr. Cullens.
“I suppose I shall write him a thank you note.”
The landlady nodded in approval. “That's the right thing to do whether you intend to keep them or not. And if you want rid of them, then I shall take them down to my own place.”
With that, Miss Hudson left the flat.
Alone again, Irene sat down at her desk. She poked at the drying purple wildflowers that Joe had brought her as she thought of what words to use for her thank-you note.
After five minutes of staring at the blank stationery, she stood, knocking her chair back. She needed to do something else – something that didn't involve the man who’d sent her flowers. Perhaps she'd wander down to Sarah's new house and see how
Joe was doing with his inspection. She'd bet a crisp tenner that she could offer more information than her oblivious partner could.
With the decision made, she popped into her bedroom and applied lipstick, ran a brush through her hair, and clipped up her dark curls to keep them from blowing around. She spent way too long pondering which hat to wear, and in the end left without one.
“Goodbye, Isla.” The dog followed her to the basket by the lavatory where they kept her things and Irene pulled out a hearty bone. “Sit.”
When Isla obeyed, Irene handed her the bone and the pup scurried under Joe's desk.
As Irene hurried down the steps, she heard Miss Hudson bustling in the lower hallway.
“Off to mail that thank you note, love?” she called.
Irene winced, having completely forgotten about the note, even in this short time.
“Uh, yes, Miss Hudson!” “Good lass.”
Irene hurried out the door before the older woman could ask any more questions.
London was a soggy mess after the intense winter months. Snow unlike Irene had ever seen before had fallen in waves upon the city, stopping traffic. She was grateful it had all melted,
but it left the streets, and all the building repairs, in such a state of disarray.
The taxi dropped her off at the top of the Sarah's street as the driver wanted to avoid the large pothole further down.
Irene paid, then started down the pavement.
All the houses sat in long rows, with small empty gardens out front, connecting to the pavement. Some of them bombed out and some of them were simply in need of general repair.
There were a few dotted throughout that were recently refurbished – diamonds in the rough of the somewhat dilapidated street. Once construction was finished on these houses, they would be quite desirable.
Half a dozen people filled the pavement:
An elderly couple strolling at their leisure.
A young businessman arriving home from work. And a man, alone, walking deliberately slow.
He piqued her curiosity. She paused, stepping behind a small wall to conceal herself as she watched him. He gazed up at the houses, not looking at anyone in particular. He could've been another passer-by, but he was trying too hard at attempting to amble, planting his feet in a very specific, slow way.
He hesitated in front of every front garden, looking downward at something. The first house seemed to pass whatever inspection and so he moved on to the next.
Irene stepped out from her hiding spot and slowly trailed
behind him, observing as much as she could.
This was an older gentleman, walking with a cane to help with a limp on his right leg. His clothing was slightly big, but might have fit him at an earlier point in time. Under his hat, greying hair suggested he must’ve fought in the war – unless his injury had prevented him.
The pavement gave no indication of shoe print or size. Irene needed to catch a glimpse of his face or move closer to gain more insight.
But the man kept pausing in front of every house along the street. Soon, they approached Sarah’s rented property.
There, he slowed, just like the previous houses, but this time, the cane fell. Irene had no idea how; it was as if the man simply let it fall from his fingers. He stooped to pick it up and hesitated for the briefest moment before carrying on.
He continued in this manner, snooping and peering at the different residences.
Irene set her shoulders. This simply would not do. There was a mystery here, and she was determined to figure out who this man was.
He quickened his steps as he approached the end of the row, and she kept pace. As he moved, he used the cane less and less, until the tip barely touched the ground.
There was a small alleyway up ahead. As soon as he got to it, he pivoted. Irene turned the corner moments behind him and
came to an empty dead end.
The alley had wooden crates and bricks piled at the chain fence to the next street over. While she could easily climb up and over to the opposite alley, the supposedly crippled man she observed simply could not.
Something was afoot.
Irene stepped out of the alley, carefully observing the street. After a few moments, she headed to Sarah's house with a newfound determination in her step.
