ACADEMIA
Based on the movie "Sherlock Holmes"

The Investigation Begins

"Nothing contributes so much to tranquilizing the mind as a steady purpose – a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye." –Mary Wollstonecraft Shelly

My eyes opened to the sound of Mrs. Hudson knocking on my door. "Are you up dear? It's time to serve Mr. Holmes breakfast." I responded with a grunt she took in the affirmative as I sat up in bed. My head ached with exhaustion. The insomnia coupled with my excitement at Holmes' offer of my own investigation allowed me only a few hours of sleep. My limbs moved sluggishly to lift my person up and out of bed. I stumbled toward the desk chair and wrapped my robe and then a shawl around my shoulders. The chilly air felt damp after the intense rain from last night. September in London definitely differed from the same month in Texas by twenty to thirty degrees.

As I splashed my face with water from the basin, not even the scent of my homemade mint soap served to keep the familiar tiredness from settling into my bones. At twenty-five years old, I was fortunate that I only appeared about eighteen, maybe twenty. That did not change the fact I was on my way to becoming an old maid, but it kept people from giving me piteous looks, at least at present. Since I had entered my teen years and first experienced my severe change in mood, the second half of my short life was filled with mental anguish and emotional instability.

I had resigned myself to the idea, which day by day, seemed to be growing into a fact; that I would never marry. I think my mother took the disappointment to heart more than I did. Even if my personality had not changed so dramatically, I doubted the possibility of marriage. The idea of dedicating my life to some man who could never understand what I was going through seemed abhorrent. And yes, I assumed no one could understand what I was going through because no one really did. No one except William.

And William, well, he was a special man. William had become my best friend and I had even thought I was in love with him for quite some time. Mother was certain he and I would marry, but gave up that hope once I explained to her, rather delicately, that he was not the 'marrying kind.' He had never put it into words, even after all these years, but I could still sense the reason he did not wish to marry without ever discussing it with him. William had said I was exceedingly perceptive, and he was right, never knowing how I had pieced together the secrets of his preferences and forced my aching heart to view them honestly. I would always love him, but the love I once imagined as romantic had grown into a deep and sincere friendship.

I gazed at my pale reflection in the vanity as I brushed and braided my wavy brown hair. It was so thick it took some time to arrange properly. I settled for one large braid coiled and tied up with two smaller ones. After adding what felt like dozens of hairpins, I turned toward my wardrobe and picked out a dress decent enough for traveling to visit Mrs. Weatherby later that morning. As I stumbled slightly descending the stairs toward the basement kitchen, I crossed paths with Maggie as she came down from the third floor.

"Why, Good Morning Miss Catherine," she greeted me looking crisp in her maid's uniform.

"Good Morning Maggie, have you visited Mr. Holmes yet this morning?" I teased her. I knew the answer to that question.

"Why, you know you are the only one who really has much to do with him nowadays. Ever since Mrs. 'udson told me he once 'ad her worm a goat, I've made up my mind never to step foot in that man's room again if I can 'elp it." Her soft cockney accent always sounded pleasant. She instantly brightened my gloomy day.

Her elaborate updo of red hair sat perched underneath her maid's cap. I was always so envious of her talent with ornate coiffures. I told her as much, and she said, "Why Miss Catherine, all you 'af to do is ask and I would've 'elped you with your 'air."

"Maybe you could teach me a few skillful tricks some other time. Right now, I need to serve the gentleman his breakfast."

"That is," she added, "if 'e eats it. I swear, I've never really seen him eat anyfing substantial. Just tea and biscuits. It's a small wonder 'e's still alive."

"That man's eccentricities will never cease to amaze me," I commented as we entered the kitchen.

"Good Morning Mrs. Hudson," I nodded at her and the cook, "Mrs. Gosling. Is breakfast ready for Mr. Holmes?"

Mrs. Gosling handed me a tray of ham and eggs with toast. "Good luck dearie," were her parting words to me as I ascended back up the stairs to Holmes' lair.

"Give Mrs. Weatherby my regards." was the only advice he offered.

I rang the bell to Mrs. Jonathan Weatherby's residence at approximately 11:00 am. A tall, thin, balding man with the largest mustache I had ever seen (even larger than my father's) answered the door asking rather boredly, "How can I help you?" He adjusted his monocle then stroked his mustache in one practiced movement. He reminded me of a picture book I had as a little girl of a large walrus who had escaped from the zoo.

"My name is Catherine Keaton. I am an associate of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. We received a letter from Mrs. Weatherby asking for his assistance. Is she available?"

"And where might the great detective be?" He looked at me suspiciously, but I decided I could catch more flies with honey.

"He is currently very busy with his caseload, but has asked that I meet with Mrs. Weatherby to get more information about her request before he commits himself." Then I added, a little louder, "I'm sure Mrs. Weatherby doesn't have a moment to spare. Is she able to take visitors? I am only here to help her. She did ask for our assistance."

Just then, a middle-aged woman with graying hair and harried blue eyes appeared behind the mustached man. "Charles," she chided sternly, "let this young woman in immediately." The bite was still felt without the need for raising her voice.

"You must excuse me Miss Keaton, I have been in a terrible humor the past two days. I really am beside myself. Please come in." The woman I presumed to be Mrs. Weatherby swished out of sight, and Charles, who I presumed to be the butler, let me in with a slight frown and a nod.

After the initial ritual pleasantries, Mrs. Weatherby led me to an old-fashioned, yet well furnished parlor. I surveyed the room, and noticed right away something odd. Along the wall opposite the door hung a painting, but no ordinary family portrait or picture of still life. The painting on the wall was of a large, white, long-haired cat with emerald green eyes. As Mrs. Weatherby led me into the parlor and invited me to have a seat, I turned to my left and was struck by an even larger painting. This time, the picture depicted Mrs. Weatherby holding her precious cat in her lap. The cat's eyes seemed to eerily follow me around the room and I wondered if this was some cruel joke on the part of the artist.

Mrs. Weatherby practically dropped into her own chair and her out-of-fashion bustle gave a creak beneath her olive green house dress. I was preparing to navigate the situation when Mrs. Weatherby burst into dainty sobs and produced a handkerchief she proceeded to bury her face in.

She attempted to collect herself as she said, "Miss Keaton, you must know already, a great tragedy has befallen me. I withheld the details in the letter for fear of compromising my husband's name, but now I must tell you the whole terrible tale." She began sobbing again, and I tried to console her as I said, "Please Mrs. Weatherby, tell me what has happened and I will try to be of as much help as I can."

She took a deep breath to calm herself, dabbed at her nose, and explained, "It happened the day before yesterday at around tea time. I noticed that Princess Catherine, my precious prizewinning Persian, was nowhere to be found. I asked all the servants and searched the entire house, but found no sign of her. At around 7 o'clock in the evening, one of the servants noticed a note tacked to the back door." At this she started, and rose from her seat. She walked over to an antique box, and pulled a folded paper from within. She held it out to me and as I took it from her trembling hand, I read:

Mrs. Weatherby,

We have your cat. If you ever wish to see her again, please leave 50 pounds in a paper bag in your back garden by midnight tomorrow.

My mind was already reeling from the note, but I refocused back to Mrs. Weatherby. "After we received the note, I knew I could not notify Scotland Yard. I was terrified of what they might do to my poor Princess Catherine if I reported her kidnapping to the police, so I asked my husband to leave the money in the garden. I waited up all night, but…b-but we never saw anyone."

She began a fresh wave of sobs. I felt lost. A kidnapped cat. What was the world coming to? Think of what Holmes would do.

"Mrs. Weatherby", I began softly, as I rested my hand on her lower arm, "what business is your husband in? What does he do for a living?"

"He's in shipping. His company ships all over the empire." Think Catherine, think. What needs to be done?

I took out a small notebook from my reticule for this specific purpose, and began writing down the facts in an attempt to sift through my thoughts.

"May I interview the other members of the household? Your husband or servants? Anyone who was home at the time of the…incident?"

Suddenly, I knew exactly what I had to do. Princess Catherine would soon be safe with Catherine Keaton on the case. I could not let my namesake down.

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