ACADEMIA
The next morning (Friday) I danced on the balls of my feet as Mrs. Gosling prepared breakfast. My apron twisted in my hands and I hardly heard Maggie as she went on about some boy from the market. Small beads of sweat appeared on my brow and excitement bubbled in my stomach. After what felt like hours, Mrs. Gosling handed me the tray of food to take up to Holmes. Alrighty then, it's time to begin. I marched upstairs and only tripped twice. The second time, the tea nearly suffered a casualty, but I managed a near miss as I lurched forward and caught myself at the top of the stairs on my elbows. I scrambled up, and knocked on the door with the toe of my boot (as Mrs. Hudson had instructed me not to do). A bored "Enter," was heard from within, and I obliged. I must remain inscrutable. He's expecting me to come begging him for help. Total nonchalance is critical to the outcome of this conversation. Holmes was bent over his desk with his back to me. "And what's cook prepared this morning?" He still had not turned around, but I heard him tinkering with some contraption or other. "Your favorite. Scrambled eggs. And I will stay here until you eat every bite." As I set the tray down, he turned towards me and something flashed across the room like a bullet, bouncing off the walls and finally imbedding itself in an armchair. A flurry of feathers announced its landing. What on earth…? "I am testing the traveling velocity of foods frozen in liquid nitrogen. This," and he picked out the projectile from the chair with a pair of long tongs, "is a pea." I finally noticed his face and saw he was wearing goggles that magnified his eyes to twice their normal size. He looked the perfect mad scientist standing holding a specimen in his apron with a smoking beaker of strange liquid behind him. Sunlight filtered into the dark room and dust motes danced in the air. The light glinted off his glass goggles and I realized I was standing with my mouth open. I shut it with a snap and struggled to gather my thoughts after such an unsolicited attack on my person. I had just been nearly struck by a flying vegetable while serving breakfast to a world famous detective. He is trying to distract me. Well, he won't succeed, even if he is throwing food at me. "Well, since you are determined to assault me with peas, I suppose you do not want to hear about how my case is going." "Oh no, on the contrary," he hopped over to where I stood and growled, "enlighten me." I struggled to keep a straight face looking him in the eye so I settled on pacing about the room, just as I had seen him do on so many similar occasions. I folded my hands behind my back and strode over to peek out the window, as though something had caught my eye. Carriages passed on the street below, splashing through the mud. The sound of horse hooves and wheels on cobblestone clattered in the background. "I visited Mrs. Weatherby yesterday, and she was most obliging. She took me through the events of the day and even gave me a miniature portrait of Princess Catherine to help me locate her." I pulled the tiny painting out of my pocket and showed it to him. He took a look at the kidnapping victim and noted, "She does have the look of royalty about her." I ignored him as I re-pocketed the portrait and resumed my pacing. "Mr. Weatherby, on the other hand, seemed overeager for me to leave. When I interviewed him, he kept insisting what a ridiculous request it was to find a stolen cat and that I really shouldn't bother Mr. Holmes with such nonsense when he has so much more important matters to attend to. Mr. Weatherby," and at this I nodded back at Holmes," is obviously unaware of how you spend your spare time." He seemed to be listening as he twirled the tongs in the air, standing with his weight on one foot. Mr. Weatherby's beard had been red once, now it was nearly all grey. I pictured him sitting across from me, constantly yet deftly checking his pocket watch. His grey eyes seemed to hide something. The butler, Charles, had stood at attention the entire time I asked questions, either unwilling or not permitted to leave his master. I guessed the former. "Miss Keaton, I am sure you are aware what a lost cause this is," he shook his head gravely,"I am sorry my wife has troubled you. She is grief-stricken and only wishes to have her darling pet back. But, alas, I do not see what more can be done." "Please Mr. Weatherby, allow me to look into this case. Mr. Holmes is an excellent detective. I am sure he can get to the bottom of these strange events." I placated him, using Holmes' name to elicit some degree of confidence. I sat across the coffee table from him, using my tea cup to anchor my unsteady hands. Visiting strangers always made me nervous. He seemed not to hear me, and instead took out a very expensive looking fountain pen and began writing a message on specially monogrammed paper. He finished his note, and folded it, getting up to open the writing desk and take out a stamp, sealing the letter. He passed the letter to Charles, who walked over to hand it to me. "I am afraid there is no case to solve Miss Keaton," he continued as if I had not spoken, "please do give Mr. Holmes my regards. I have enclosed a note of thanks for his trouble." I was dismissed. I described the events to Holmes, finishing "He would not even allow me to say goodbye to Mrs. Weatherby." Holmes responded, "Interesting. What is the timeline of these events? Go over it." He pointed his finger in the air. I stared into empty space, focusing my concentration inward. "We received the letter Wednesday asking for help. Mrs. Weatherby said the cat went missing on Tuesday afternoon, and the butler found the note on the door at around 7 o'clock. The ransom note stated that the cat had been kidnapped, and to leave 50 pounds in the garden the following night. No other visitors had been in the house that day. Mrs. Weatherby sent us her plea Wednesday, before the time the money was to be left for the kidnappers for fear that something horrible would happen to Princess Catherine. She then left the money out Wednesday night, and waited up all night but never saw anyone approach the house. Thursday morning at 11 o'clock I arrived to investigate the case. I interviewed Mrs. Weatherby, her servant Sarah, the butler Charles, and Mr. Weatherby, all of whom contested to not seeing the cat after lunch time on Tuesday." By this time, Holmes had remembered I had brought him breakfast, and had sat down at his desk to eat. He picked up his napkin with a flourish and tucked it into his collar. He sat munching on toast and eggs as I contemplated the best way to go about ascertaining advice from him in as unobtrusive a manner as possible. My hand strayed to my pocket subconsciously, betraying my next move. "So, where's the letter?" "What letter?" I played dumb. The chances of him actually foregoing the opportunity to poke fun at me were dwindling by the second. "The one the old chap gave you to give as an apology to the 'excellent detective'." "He never called you an 'excellent detective'." I raised my brow, foolishly thinking I had won. "No, those were your words, as I recall." I glowered at him. He was right. I hated when he was right. Incidentally, that happened much more often than I would care to admit. I pulled the letter from my pocket and handed it to him just as he snatched it from my fingers. He raised his eyebrows at me, "Trouble with the delivery?" He nodded toward the aforementioned letter in his palm, the seal already broken. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." I walked off, away from his scrutinizing gaze. "I happen to know that the letter contains exactly what Mr. Weatherby said it did; an apology, to you, for wasting your time. Never mind that I was the one doing the investigating and taking time out of my busy schedule of cleaning up after you to look into the kidnapping." "I resent that. Watson never complained about cleaning up after me." He jutted his chin out and crossed his arms. "And at any rate, you are missing the most important clue." "And what would that be?" My heart leapt into my throat. I could not even pretend to hide my interest. "If I told you," he continued, "then your investigative career would be cut short and you would spend the remainder of your time in London only picking up after the great Sherlock Holmes instead of working with him." I bristled. This was not the help I was hoping for. He held the letter out to me between his thumb and forefinger, as I went to grab it he jerked it upward, out of reach. I took a deep breath, reached for the paper again, and proceeded to wrench it from his grip. He stared up at me innocently, his dark brown eyes wide as a doe's eyes. I snorted derisively, as a lady should never do, and looked over the letter for the tenth time. Holmes began scraping his plate with toast. "It's right under your nose," he conceded. I sighed in frustration, trying to control my temper. I was more frustrated with myself than with him. Why couldn't I solve this if it was so obvious? Think Catherine. What do I know? What do I feel? My instinct told me Mr. Weatherby was to blame for Princess Catherine's disappearance, but how to prove it? Why would he steal his wife's cat? What was the motive? "Are you quite finished?" I asked, exasperated by the entire situation . By this time he was licking his fingers. I prepared myself for watching him lick his plate, but was spared such a scene by Maggie bringing in today's post. "You've got mail" I announced without ceremony, and dutifully brought him the letters. I knew his manners horrified the other women of the household but they did not bother me at all. I had two brothers and a father that were hardly better equipped than cave dwellers with silverware despite my mother's protestations. You could say I was immune to less than proper table manners. It was belching and blowing noses at the table that got to me. I still winced when my grandmother or father did either. Fortunately, Holmes was not inclined to those less favorable traits. He tossed all but one of the letters in the floor, tore open the one that interested him, and began reading. My mind was still reeling from his commentary. After a few moments of silence he announced, "Well well well, it appears I have more important matters to attend to." "Like licking your plate clean?" I teased him. "Precisely," he said without missing a beat. "Away with you!" And he waved me out of the room without so much as a 'thank you'. "B-but, wait just a-" I managed to stutter as he ushered me out the door, "-minute." I finished my pitiful sentence on the landing, his door shut in my face. I was terribly confused, but, maybe all I needed was some time to think things over. I marched toward my room with more confidence than I felt. Walking over to my desk, I placed Mr. Weatherby's letter next to the ransom note Mrs. Weatherby had given me the previous evening. "This will probably be of more use to you," she had stated before bursting into a fresh wave of tears, "I have no need for it now." I really did feel sorry for the poor woman. Her husband did not even want to help her. No wonder he seemed so suspicious. Just then, I took a look at both pieces of paper side by side. Something struck me about the writing. It took a moment before I realized, both the letters had the same handwriting, only opposite. As if one had been written with the right hand, and the ransom note, with the left; but both written by a right-handed person. Excitement seized me as I realized what Holmes had said. The answer had been literally under my nose when I was reading the letter. Mr. Weatherby must have been responsible for the cat's disappearance, but was afraid of telling his wife. But why go through all of this trouble? Was he that afraid of her? He had gone to great lengths to hide his involvement, but to what end? I needed to confront Mr. Weatherby. This would take some gumption, but I knew that my partnership (assistant-ship) with Holmes was hinging on the outcome of this investigation. My head buzzed with the new information. I sat at my vanity to put on my hat and smiled at my reflection. Maybe I would be handy at this detective work after all. Author's note: So what do you think? Review please!
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