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Chapter Text

Meeting Mr Sherlock Holmes, my closest friend and confidant, was a cataclysmic event in a number of ways- one of which was my newly-discovered talent as a part-novelist part-biographer, recording some 60 cases for the loyal readers of the Strand magazine. However, there are a great many cases which I am afraid must remain hidden- either because of the increased danger that would surely arise if they were so easily divulged, or due to the scandal they would undoubtedly create.

This case was one of the both the former and the latter- if revealed it would have ruined the reputation of a gentleman held in high regard by many, and, if told in honestly, ourselves- it would have almost certainly resulted in our imprisonments and possible deaths. I am aware, in the years since, of the dual fates of imprisonment and death that have since befallen Mr Manders and Mr Raffles, and if they have not been friends then there was at least a level of understanding and solidarity between us four. I regret it deeply, and in a strange attempt at a eulogy, I have decided to put this case to paper- although, of course, it will never be able to leave this room.

Dr. J. H.Watson, 1901.

It was late June, and in an act of compromise, sunlight streamed through the furthest of windows that opened to the street from our Baker Street flat.

I sat in my chair, perusing the usual pile of newspapers for articles of possible interest and reading them aloud to Holmes. 

"Lady Annabel Wallace- youngest daughter of Lord and Lady Wallace and engaged to Lord Gerard Birling- has been reported missing," I said, and received a cloud of pipe-smoke for my troubles. I was disappointed, but unsurprised- my friend had sunk low into one of his 'black moods', as he called them, when a combination of forced mental innaction and a natural propensity towards bouts of melancholy forced a misery and lethargy upon his soul. My aims in reading the papers aloud, then, were three-fold: to keep the both of us informed; to keep Holmes company without an obligation to talk or entertain (as it were); and to possibly raise him from his current state. After the Adventure of The Devil's Foot, he had rid himself of his dependence on his 'seven percent solution', and i believe that his determination not to become caught again in its clutches is strong. But I am a medical man, and more than that, a friend- it is a constant temptation, i know, and the strongest of men have seeken solace in it's artificial ecstasy. 

I turned the page. Sports. I debated relaying it aloud, but although my friend is a professor of a wide range of esoteric subjects, from tobacco ash to the opera, Holmes ordinarily cares little for sports, and in his current state I felt it more likely that a more dynamic piece would excite him.

I checked the results of last week's races- Silverstone had won with the odds 7 to 2, and was likely to win again next week, this time at the odds 5 to 1. At Lord's, the Gentlemen had won- the Players being bowled out for 77. The Gentlemen had been captained by one A.J. Raffles, an all-rounder and particularly good slow bowler. And at the Wimbledon Championships, I was pleased to hear that Mr Ernest Renshaw had secured an easy victory.

As I was finishing the paper, a gentle knock on the door informed me that dinner had arrived, and Mrs Hudson's presence mere moments later confirmed it. The good landlady had recently taken ill, and so food was nothing much- bread, cheeses, and cold meats- although it was delivered in enough abundance that my hunger never went unsatisfied. She left the plates on the table with minimal fuss, made some whispered enquiries as to the state of my friend's health, and then left, accidentally slamming the door behind her. Holmes did not stir.

"Holmes?" said I, leaning forward. I kept my voice gentle but firm, as though I was dealing with a patient instead of my closest friend. "Holmes?" 

I rested my hand next to his, close without touching, and was rewarded with a cautious rising of the head. His eyes were rimmed red, and they showed a deep weariness. I was- not for the first time- intently aware of the man that hid behind the reputation of a cold, unfeeling machine, a man who felt strongly- stronger than most- the weight of the world's injustices, and assumed responsibility fix them. 

"Watson?" His voice cracked slightly, hoarse with the combined effects of prolonged silence and smoking, and I made a mental note to send for some hot water with honey to soothe his throat. "What day is it?"

"Tuesday the seventh. June. It is evening time- dinner has just been sent up for us."

"Watson…"

I looked into his eyes, taking no offense when they quickly darted away. I moved my hand to cover his. 

"Some hot water and honey will soothe your throat, hm? And after that- we shall see what we can do."

He flashed me a smile, weak but grateful, and I squeezed his hand once before helping him rise to his feet.

Chapter Text

The next morning I awoke to a frantic rendition of Vivaldi's Summer, emanating from the living room. Blinking away the last few vestiges of sleep, I allowed myself a few minutes of gentle stretching- my old war wounds, whilst now considerably better, still ache from time to time, and a little light stretching in the mornings did wonders for my shoulder in particular. My pocket watch told me the time was eleven- Holmes had kindly allowed me to sleep in- and so, concerned that I may have missed breakfast, I dressed hurriedly and left my bedroom. 

He had been facing the window looking out onto the street, but on hearing my footsteps he whirled around, his Stradivarius hastily (albeit with care) abandoned to the sofa. 

"Watson! You slept well, I trust, although your late awakening has made you worry about the state of your breakfast. Never worry, my dear fellow, for Mrs Hudson brought it up mere moments ago. Sit, sit!"

He waved his hands, shoo-ing me towards the table, before returning to his violin-playing. I gratefully started on the bacon and eggs, setting aside some toast for my friend, and took the opportunity to observe him. I may not have Holmes' talent for observation- as he so often had opportunity to remind me- but under his tutelage I have become far more accomplished than I once was, especially where he was concerned. He looked paler than usual, and gaunt, and his delicate, scarred fingers trembled almost imperceptibly as he pulled the bow across the strings. This could've been down to his recent disinterest in eating, his current state of health, or simply an expression of the almost manic energy that had gripped him. There was a certain glint in his eye, an energy in his movements, that told me far more plainly than he himself would've that he had a case. I felt faintly dismayed- I was glad, of course, that he had recovered from his 'black mood', but he has a tendency to neglect his health when at both his highs and his lows., and I worried. He may not allow me to treat him as well or as often as I'd like, but I did not earn my doctorate by being idle and easily swayed, and I resolved to pay more careful attention than usual to Holmes' state of health.

"Holmes!"

He spun around, eyes staring intently like a hawk, before his face softened.

"Yes?"

"Holmes, my dear, please. Come and sit. Have something to eat- this toast, at least, and some tea." I sensed he was about to voice his protestations, and so quickly continued talking. "You have a case, I know- and I would like to hear about it, whenever you choose to tell me- but as your doctor and friend, I cannot in good conscience let you go without food." 

The weariness in my tone must have come through, because he looked rather alarmed.

"Watson? Are you alright?"

"Perfectly, my dear fellow. Just a little- tired, is all. It has been a long few weeks."

His face seemed to fall at this, although I had no idea why, but it quickly resumed the careful blankness he favoured, and he sat down to eat. 

We finished the meal in companionable silence, and I took my seat as Holmes paced back and forth, hands gesturing vividly, as he relayed to me the details of his latest case.

A young woman- Molly Baker, a maid at Ashdown House in Oxfordshire- had written to him, pleading for his help in clearing her name. She wouldn't reveal the details, but had requested an appointment with him at half-past one to explain.

He handed me the letter in its envelope. "What can you tell me about young Miss Baker, Watson?"

I looked at it. "The paper's good quality- she must be reasonably well off, although her handwriting looks almost child-like in it's irregularity." I unfolded the letter, and skimmed through it- it was just as vague as Holmes had described. "She seems incredibly vague and seems to be attempting to be seen as unemotional. I'd say she's lying- about her situation, or- or something. It seems like a fake letter although… perhaps that's too obvious. Perhaps she's a foreign spy sent to spy on us- on you, or-"

He looked amused. "That sounds closer to one of your stories than to reality, does it not?" 

"My loyal readers of The Strand are far more appreciative of my work than you are. Besides, it is possible."

"It is possible, true, but unlikely. Note the writing? She has been taught the basics of writing, possibly by a former employer, later than most, and has little occasion to practice it. Her attempts at more eloquent language show a desire to impress or perhaps merely be taken seriously- the envelope I would assume to be stolen, most likely due to worry that I would dismiss her letter due to her inability to compensate me financially. Her vagueness is...concerning. Blackmail, perhaps, or murder. We shall see, soon, anyhow- see her approaching now."

I moved to the window and was surprised to see a young girl in an old light blue dress hovering anxiously by the door.

"Why, it's only twelve o'clock!"

"She must have taken the 6:05 train- worried about being late, presumably, and on arriving had no way to check the time, or else had nowhere to go."

I retreated to my usual seat, notebook at the ready; Holmes had turned to fill his pipe. He leant over expectantly, and I lit it for him obligingly, filled with that sudden rush of fondness as one feels for a companion of many years when faced with some mundane act of intimacy. He bestowed a brief kiss upon my lips by way of thanks, and then sprawled into his usual armchair.

I heard the echo of footsteps in the stairwell, and readied my pen in anticipation.

A sharp knock on the door. 

"A woman here to see you, Mr Holmes. A Miss Baker."

"Send her in. Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

Retreating footsteps, and then the door opened to reveal Miss Molly Baker. She was young- around 17 or 18- with long dark hair and a complexion that suggested Spanish or Italian descent. Her hands played nervously with a loose thread on her dress, and her eyes darted around our rooms, never quite settling on anything.

"Mister Holmes?" she asked, with a slight accent I could not place- something English, though, rather than the European one I had been anticipating. My friend nodded once- gave the usual introductions and assurance of my trustworthiness, of which she seemed unconcerned- and bade her to sit down. She did so with some small level of relief. 

"Miss Baker," he said, still sitting at odd angles in his chair. "If you would be so kind as to lay out your case before us? I'll admit, the vagueness of your letter rather piqued my curiosity."

She took a trembling breath, and then began.

Her name was Molly Baker, and she was the bastard daughter of an Italian sailor and an English mother, the latter of whom had married her step-father few years later. Her childhood, she explained, was poor but happy, and from a young age she had taken up work as a maid to support her family.

Three years ago, her then-employer, a Mrs Maud Smith, had had an emerald necklace stolen. The culprit had never been discovered, although Mrs Smith had suspected her domestic staff, and all of them were let go with a decent reference and a month's pay. It had been stressful, yes, but she had thought nothing of it.

Then, last year, a similar thing happened- this time ruby earrings stolen from a Lady Constance Rigby. The butler was accused, although he maintained his innocence, and was fired quietly so as not to cause scandal.

The recollection of these two occurrences had seemed to take a lot out of her, and I subtly indicated to Holmes that she might benefit from a little food. She took a little convincing, but hunger won out over decorum, and she accepted the leftover breakfast-foods thankfully. 

"If you are ready, please- continue."

Her most recent employer, she said, was the Countess Caroline Fitzroy, who had had a pair of valuable gold earrings, a gold necklace studded with emeralds, and a sapphire-encrusted dress all stolen from her on Tuesday last while staying with a friend in Mayfair. Enraged, she had summoned the police (privately, of course)- and with her previous ties to two other similar robberies, Miss Baker was convinced that she would be hanged. 

My friend had by now sat up straight and was listening to her intently. She looked close to tears, but kept her composure admirably. He asked her a few questions, his tone kind but firm; yes, she, and a few other servants had joined her mistress at Mayfair; no, she hadn't had anything to do with it; and no, she hadn't the faintest clue of who it could be, nor whether this was a deliberate framing. She hesitated slightly when asked if she had any enemies, but surprisingly, Holmes didn't press further. They talked quietly for a bit longer, as she described the cases as she remembered them. I made a note to send for Inspector Lestrade, for I knew Holmes would want a copy of the police investigations as soon as possible.

Eventually, he thanked her, taking down her address and firmly refusing payment. He showed her to the door and then suddenly lay down on the floor. This alarmed me, but it was soon clear that this was deliberate and not some kind of fit, and I made a mental note to voice my frustration and brief fear later. Holmes was completely motionless and deep in thought, and was entirely unresponsive to any of my attempts at discussion, and so I took the hint and let him be. In lieu of anything more useful to do, I started editing my first draft of my latest case, 'The Haunting of Hill House', glancing over occasionally to ascertain my companion was still breathing.

Chapter Text

It must have been more than a few hours that had passed by the time that I gratefully closed my latest manuscript, shaking my hands vigorously to relieve them of the effects of cramp. 

I felt a sudden desire to go for a walk, but my leg was paining me terribly, and besides- I could hardly leave Holmes as he was, lying on the floor. I glanced down at him, back aching in sympathy, and was surprised when he met my eyes, blinking slowly in the manner of a cat. 

"Holmes?" I asked, somewhat cautiously. He didn't answer, choosing instead to gingerly attempt to lift himself up with a poorly-disguised wince of pain. I turned my chair fully away from my writing desk, the scraping sound almost as painful as it was incongruous in the silence.

"Holmes," I began, making an effort to keep my voice level. In all ways other than legal I have promised to love him for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, but at times he can be the most trying man! "For Heaven's sake, Holmes, what was that?"

He looked confused.

"The minute our client left, you fell to the floor as though in a fit and have stubbornly refused to respond since!"

"Ah," he said, looking sheepish.

"What on Earth did you have to gain by playing dead?"

He seemed to sense that he had upset me somewhat, for his tone, when he answered, carried both apology and a slight confusion.

"I simply find the floor….conductive, to good thinking. It centres the mind somewhat, focuses it. I really did not intend to scare you, you know."

My tone softened. "I'm aware. Still, a little warning would have been helpful."

"I will bear that in mind."

My more…. opinionated readers have written to me on more than one occasion to remark on how easily I forgive Holmes. My writings, I'm afraid, sometimes give a rather unbalanced image when regarding our state of affairs, but he puts up with my numerous idiosyncrasies and faults as much as I, his. And besides, the simple fact is that I have a great love for him, and in his own way I believe he holds the same affection for me. It is a sobering thought- to be trusted by a man who by nature or profession trusts so few; who, despite his kindness, proclaims to shun all softer emotions for fear of his own ones being poorly received. 

For a few moments we sat together, luxuriating in each other's company. The faintest of rain had started, and the light meditive patter did much to silence my mind. I allowed myself to be lulled somewhat into contentment, my drowsiness a slight reprieve from the aching of my old injury. Caught between the twin hazes of pain and sleep, I was therefore mildly startled by my friend's voice, when it came.

"What did you make of the case, Watson?"

I half-turned my head to look at him properly. He was now sitting at the foot of my usual armchair, legs contorted and head thrown back dramatically to rest on the seat. When I did not reply, he moved his head to the side so that his sharp gaze was thrown upon me, observing a hundred minute details in the span of a few seconds.

"Watson?"

"Sorry, Holmes, I just got a little lost in thought." I considered the case we had been presented with, having put it aside earlier. "Well. At first it seems obvious."

He gestured impatiently for me to elaborate.

"A young girl with almost nothing to her name- she has motive. As a maid, she has opportunity, and if you are right, as you say, about the stolen envelope-"

"The money?"

"Gambled, perhaps, or drunk away. Or perhaps she is simply saving it until she has enough to flee the country. Back to Italy, perhaps."

"Hm."

The twist of my friend's mouth told me he was displeased, and he bridged his hands together thoughtfully. "But then, why come to me? I have little ego-" (I felt that here it was wiser to bite my tongue, as they say) "-but it is true to say that I am one of the smartest men in England, and certainly one of the few in the public eye (as it were). I am, at least, far more advanced than those buffoons down in Scotland Yard- so why would she come to me, knowing that I would surely find her out?"

"Gloating, perhaps, or simply due to her not believing in your abilities-"

"Which, of course, you greatly exaggerate-"

I glared at him, and he looked back with an almost playful look in his eyes. I continued as though he had not interrupted.

"-admittedly, her character suggests otherwise, but women in particular can be admirable actors when it suits them. Or,'' I said, suddenly remembering the case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra, "perhaps she wants to get caught. Unconsciously, she knows that she has done wrong and some part of her desires penance."

There was a brief silence, broken by a loud bark of a laugh from my friend.

"My dear Watson, for all you may paint me as an unfeeling automaton and yourself as the very model of empathy, you can be as cruel as anything in your judgment of character."

This, I'll admit, stung. I was used to slights against my writing and my judgment, and on occasion found amusement in them, for they were said lightly, neither in jest nor seriousness. But to question my kindness- something integral to my role as a doctor, assistant-detective and friend- it was damning for the simple reason that it was true. I had been unduly harsh in my judgment of this poor young woman, although I was thankful that any interaction I had with her was rather limited. polite, albeit with a slight coolness of manner, and I bitterly cursed my friend's skills of observation and his clever and succinct character assessments.

"Why, what do you think then?" I asked, somewhat sharply, regretting my misplaced anger, for it was more at myself than him. Luckily Holmes- whether by intention or not- rarely reacted to my subtler changes in tone, and, when it suited him, had a tendency to ignore it entirely.

He closed his eyes. "Her fear seemed genuine, as did her desperation. Whilst I can believe she has the motive , being poor with two others to provide for, I do not believe that she has the nerve- nor, if memory of the cases serves, the skill. So here we have our questions. Assuming she is innocent- which I am inclined to do- firstly, are these robberies linked? and secondly, is this a deliberate act of framing or an unintentional consequence?"

He paused, seemingly torn between continuing or not. 

"She is hiding something- you are right about that. Watson, how old would you say she is?"

"Young, I'd say. 18 or so."

"I see."

"You disagree?"

"She is at least 23 by my own estimation, but it is gratifying to hear you say otherwise. It seems that she was, consciously or otherwise, trying to project an image of youth. Curious."

I made a vague noise of  affirmation- in truth, I was still concerning myself with Holmes' earlier comment.

He opened his eyes, apparently having noticed my distraction. "Oh, do not fret, my dear fellow. I didn't mean to accuse you of cruelty- or, that is incorrect. I did, but it is understandable. We have, time and again, been confronted with the worst of humanity, and it is only natural to assume this- in fact, it is often safer. It is only due to my observations and my…..experience in these matters that I can be so assured of her innocence- or at least, the need for kindness. You are by nature a rather selfless man, and your kindness can be found in abounds. A momentary lapse in judgment need not concern you so. Besides, no-one is at their most generous when experiencing discomfort of any sort." 

He had said the last bit lightly, and I knew that he easily taken note of my condition, and in his usual manner had simply accepted it and accommodated accordingly. I thanked him, taking this for what it was, an olive-branch and an attempt at comfort, and moved to sit in my armchair, aided greatly by my stick. Holmes had leapt up, procuring an indian-rubber hot water bottle from inside a slipper and somehow managing to fill it, and both the kind act and gentle heat went some way to alleviating my pain. Now, he had resumed his position at the foot of my chair, head resting on my uninjured leg, and was busy muttering quietly to himself, although I confess I took little notice. I was still rather preoccupied with his earlier comments, remarkably perceptive as they were, and resolved to make an effort to be kinder to the unfortunate Miss Baker when we next encountered her. Still, it troubled me somewhat that something I had believed so integral, so inherent to myself could be so easily called into question, experience and minor amounts of pain so easily changing my personality. I felt both shaken and embarrassed at this disproportionate reaction throughout dinner, but I was hardly a talkative companion whenever my injuries flared up usually, and so I managed with only a few curious- but never pitying- looks from Holmes. Soon after, I retreated to bed, where my dreams were haunted by a large black dog and an inexplicable feeling of dread.

Chapter Text

The following morning, I rose rather later than is my norm, and it was with a small level of embarrassment that I ventured into our sitting room, luckily free of clients. Holmes was nowhere to be seen, although a discarded teacup and plate on the table at least told me that he'd eaten, and so I did not worry myself unduly. Instead, I poured myself a cup of tea, and sat down to breakfast. 

Holmes had evidently been busy during the night, for a stack of newspaper clippings, underlined and annotated in his scrawling, spidery hand, had been left by my seat at the table. I took this to mean that he wanted me to familarise myself with them, and after eating, I endeavored to do so. They were as much as I had expected- a collection of articles and information relating to the robberies Miss Baker had described, as well as some earlier robberies that resembled them, both in method and where the domestic staff had been blamed. I made a few notes- had a telegram sent to Lestrade, requesting the police reports of the listed cases, although I had little hope that the request would be fulfilled- and had started on dealing with my small pile of neglected correspondence, when echoing footsteps on the stairwell told me that Holmes had returned, closely followed by Mrs Hudson.

"Ah, Watson! I see you have read through the cases I left for you."

"I've sent a telegram to Lestrade- I thought you might like a police copy of the cases."

"Thank you, my dear fellow," he said, before abruptly turning on his heel and running to the window. I met the eye of Mrs Hudson, our landlady, and shrugged- she smiled back, fond if a little exasperated at Holmes' antics. I assisted her with clearing away the breakfast things, and laying out all manner of breads and pastries that she told me she'd purchased from a recently opened bakery close by. These were then covered with a thick white tablecloth. I was curious, of course, but by the time I had thought to ask her, Mrs Hudson had already hurried back downstairs. 

I didn't have to wait long for my curiosity to be sated. A motley bunch of young street boys dashed up the stairs and through the still-ajar door, to the sound of Mrs Hudson's feigned annoyance. Holmes, who until now had been eerily still at his windowed vigil, spun around. His face was that of utmost seriousness, but the faint smile in his eyes betrayed him easily, for he was secretly rather fond of what he described as 'the Baker Street division'. Despite their ragged clothes and filthy appearance, these young boys were some of the keenest and cleverest fellows I have met, and at Holmes' clap, the Baker Street Irregulars lined up, backs straightened, like an army under the inspection of a general. With their keen eyes, knowledge of the city and their ability to go undetected by the vast majority of people, they were a formidable force and Holmes often used them as a way of gathering information he may not otherwise have got. 

A young lad- Wiggins, their unofficial leader- gave a report. Holmes asked a few questions which were duly answered and then, taking a gold sovereign out of his pocket, gave his orders. the boys eyes followed the coin with eagle-like accuracy, listening intently as he promised a sovereign to anyone who could find out any information regarding the recent robbery at a house in Mayfair, the address of which he wrote out in large careful letters and gave to one of the few literate members, a boy called Billy. 

During this all, boys had been eyeing the cloth-covered table with ill concealed curiosity, and finally, with a rather unnecessarily dramatic flourish, Holmes removed the cloth and revealed the contents of the table. He invited them to eat and they descended on the table like drowning men making vague noises of appreciation loud enough to be heard from the kitchen, where Mrs Hudson would undoubtedly be able to hear. The sight was rather sweet, in its own way. And then, as soon as they had come, they had left in a whirlwind of murmured thanks and stomping feet, leaving only silence and dirty plates in their wake. 

I had half-expected Holmes to rush out again, or at least do something , but he seemed perfectly content to wait. His earlier vitality was gone, but he appeared quite calm, choosing instead to focus on his latest monograph about tobacco ash.Any questions I asked were distractedly answered, and eventually I gave up. He may have been content to wait, but the prospect of a case was always thrilling regardless of what it might entail and I felt restless in our flat. The day was pleasant enough, and so I went out for a slow, ambling walk, for I dared not risk anything too strenuous lest I end up bedridden when needed for the case. 

On my way back, I was intercepted by the telegraph boy. As expected, my- our- request had yielded no results, and Holmes only gave a dismissive wave of his hand when I relayed this outcome. 

We continued like this for several days, and I resorted to occupying myself with long walks and absolutely awful novels, the cheaply-bound sensationalist kind sold near train stations that sell out as fast as anything. My choice of entertainment amused Homes to no end, and I enjoyed relating the stories over dinner, and hearing his often quite ridiculous commentary. It was companionable enough, and I rather enjoyed spending time with Holmes without the spectre of a case- but soon enough, young Wiggins returned with a message. 

Holmes listened sagely, asked me to give the boy his earnings- a gold sovereign- and the boy left, almost certainly intending to ask our landlady for some food. Despite her complaints, she always gave them more than enough, being as fond of them as myself and Holmes. 

The information he'd been given, far from fueling the flames of his enthusiasm, made him grave and somber. He said very little for the rest of the evening, meditively smoking his pipe, but his eyes blazed with- something. He had the tenacity of a bloodhound when on a case, and so I was bewildered by his inaction. 

The next morning, he was in rather more cheerful spirits, informing me that he had sent Miss Baker a letter, and that she would be visiting later today.

"Miss Baker!" I exclaimed. "Whatever for? And what was Wiggins' news yesterday?"

"Gossip, Watson, is the great tool and greater hindrance of the detective. Sordid lies spread faster than mundane truths, but if one knows how to use it, it can be a great asset! In this case, Wiggins arrived with two important pieces of news- from the men and women of the city, the rumour of a runaway wife and disappearing husband involving our good client. And from those would-be criminals, aspiring pickpockets and boys keeping vigil for cracksman, we have the rumour of a thief, Crawshay, whose now prematurely deceased acquaintance boasted of a successful sapphire-dress based robbery two weeks back."

Well! That was certainly a revelation about Miss Baker, and not one which I felt well equipped to handle. A runaway wife- although, if her husband had anything to do with our man Crawshay, I certainly could not find it in myself to fault her for her actions, whatever the specifics may have been. And as to the identity of our thief-

Holmes, as though he had read my mind, continued.

"I wish to ascertain a few more facts before we make our plan. Moreover, it would be helpful to hear from Miss Baker- her position, if you remember, is still somewhat endangered."

"Do you know our thief, Crawshay?"

"By that name? No. But I suspect that he and her husband are the same- and his pseudonym certainly sounds familiar, although I confess I am struggling to think from what. My mind is far too cluttered!" he cried, hands gesturing in frustration. He paced the living room for a while longer, scribbling odd things down on the cuffs of his shirt, and so I occupied myself with some mundane tasks as we waited for our client to arrive. 

Chapter Text

It was early evening when our client arrived, the late hour peculiar if not for the still-light sky that made a solitary woman's walking around London rather safer than it might have otherwise been. I observed that she was once again wearing the same light-blue dress- no doubt her finest- and she sat stiffly in the chair, hands clasped tightly as though expecting to be lectured on some minor offense. 

Holmes and I greeted her, and in lieu of the usual basic pleasantries, she filled us in on the latest developments of the case. As she had predicted, the police suspected her, due to her previous ties with other robberies and the opportunities for thievery afforded to her by her position. Somewhat serendipitously, Miss Fitzroy's brother had not taken kindly to the presence and interference of the police, and had been steadily obstructing their progress. 

Holmes' countenance grew grave at hearing this, for he knew as well as she that her luck would not last much longer.

"Those damned fools at Scotland Yard! They come up with the easiest answer from the comfort of their offices, whatever the facts themselves say! But I thank you for your honesty, and commend your bravery. In the meantime, I would advise you to take care- go along with what they say, as long as it doesn't put you under any threat- Watson and myself are available if any references or bail are needed, although I hope it will not come to that. Stay strong, Miss Baker, for even as we speak, I am beginning to formulate a trap. However, I believe you are aware that this is not the only reason I have requested your presence." 

He paused, and then, remembering himself, instructed me to ring for some tea for ourselves and Miss Baker. The tea was done with a peculiar solemnity, Miss Baker afflicted by a nervous anticipation, and myself by a far more curious one. Luckily, I had not long to wait until my curiosity was sated.

Holmes leaned forward, and took her hands lightly in his own. He held them for a moment, before letting them go.

"Miss Baker," he said, gently but firmly. "You were married, were you not?"

She seemed to shrink into herself, eyes wide with shock and- terror?

"How- how did you-?"

"Please, Miss Baker, do not be alarmed. Myself and Watson are the very model of discretion, and I wish to cause you no further distress, but I must ascertain a few facts, do you understand? I can promise you they will go no further than here but they could be vital to solving the case."

She steeled herself, although her hands still trembled, and refused my offer to find her some brandy. "Very well, Mr Holmes. I will do my best to assist you."

He looked at her with no small amount of admiration. "Thank you. I will try to be brief. Here are the facts as I see them- you were once married to a man, who later turned out to be a thief known professionally by many names, including Crawshay. He was- unkind to you, and frequently abused his position as your husband."

Holmes' lip curled in distaste- he reserved a special sort of anger for that sort of man, one that I currently shared.

"You managed to leave, but I suspect that you worry these current robberies are his way of vengeance by the means of drawing suspicion upon yourself. Am I correct?"

"Y-yes, although I have no idea how you could know all that. He was a dock-worker- a little rough, quick to anger, perhaps too fond of a drink, but where I was raised, those are all so commonplace as to longer be considered vices. He called himself George whilst we were married- I overheard one of his friends call him Crawshay, but when I asked him about it…." she trailed off, a haunted look in her eye that I recognised from my time as a soldier. It took her a few moments to shake herself out of it. "It was my mother, bless her soul, who helped me escape, and he didn't try anything beyond lurking 'round the door a couple of times. I thought- I thought- But then, the robberies- I don't know for certain, but call it womanly intuition for I am sure it is him!"

"And I agree, in that it looks likely, but one must not confuse coincidence with fact. Miss Baker, is there anything you could tell us about this man or his friends? Anything at all, no matter how small or insignificant."

Miss Baker proved to be most helpful, providing us with both the assumed names and physical descriptions of her former husband and his associates, as well what spoils of his trade that she had been privy to. I took notes obligingly, while Holmes occasionally asked questions or sought to clarify details. Eventually, she finished. 

My friend clasped her hands in his own.

"Thank you, Miss Baker. And please, if there is anything at all that you need, or any more information, however unnecessary, that you can recall, please do not hesitate to pay us a visit or communicate with us via a letter. If you would not object, Dr Watson will accompany you to a cab, for the dark streets of London are no place for an unaccompanied woman."

"Will I? I mean- of course. I would be delighted to."

He tossed me a sovereign, which I assumed was meant to pay for the girl's cab.

"Thank you- thank you very much, Mr Holmes, Doctor."

He smiled at her, but with a peculiar expression upon his face that I could not decipher. Then, without any further preamble, he turned on his heel and walked briskly out of the door. The young woman- Miss Baker- turned towards me, and I schooled my face into one of sympathy, feeling guilty for my earlier poor judgment towards her character. "Shall we?"

For the following few weeks I barely saw Holmes', his appearances in our flat due to necessity only. An Inspector Mackenzie of Scotland Yard had apparently found a similar lead in Crawshay, and although he hadn't taken kindly to my friend's involvement, he had supplied him with enough information to carry out his own, disguised investigations. And as for our client, her luck seemed to hold true, as various unforeseen factors increased the delay which seems to often plague Scotland Yard when solving cases, although as time crept on the spectre of the noose seemed heavier than before, and I felt my impatience grow. 

Chapter Text

It was Friday evening, four days after I had last seen my friend. Whilst I had retired from my practice, I had retained a number of private patients and had been to see one who lived nearby- near enough that I had deemed a hansom cab unnecessary and chosen to walk. It was a pleasant enough evening, warm with a light breeze, and as the last vestiges of sunlight disappeared, I saw by the doorway a figure. Standing tall and sharp, painted in stark chiaroscuro was-

"Holmes!"

"Ah, Watson!" he exclaimed warmly, as he twisted the key in the lock and let us both in.

We settled ourselves back into our rooms, calling on Mrs Hudson to request a light dinner- our landlady, although used to and fond of Holmes' habits was nevertheless thanked profusely for her troubles, it being almost half-past nine.

Throughout dinner, we found contentment in both the food and each other's company, and filled the silence with the sort of inconsequential yet amusing conversation that one can only achieve with one's closest friends. Afterwards, we cleared away the plates and relocated into our usual armchairs, pipes and brandy in hand.

"Holmes!" I cried, once we had been comfortably settled. "You have been promising to tell me of what you have been doing for these past weeks, and yet I am still in the dark. I fear I know less about my husband than anyone else in London!"

He grinned leisurely, stretching as he did so, and putting me rather in mind of a cat. Lazily, he entwined his fingers with my own.

"Patience, Watson, patience! But I will tell you. With the aid of the help given to me by Miss Baker and Makenzie (in the latters case, reluctantly), along with my own contacts and disguises, I have managed to predict with considerable accuracy where I believe Crawshay will make his next venture. "

"You have? Where?"

"Dorset. Milchester Abbey, to be precise. Home of one Lord Amersteth.'

"Milchester Abbey?" I echoed, for the name sounded familiar, although I could not think why.

"Yes. Do you know of it?"

"Perhaps. I cannot say I'm sure."

"Hm. I believe that he- Crawshay, that is- intends to steal a valuable bejeweled necklace, the current possession of the Dowager Marchioness of Melrose, who will be, of course, the guest of honour (as it were). "

A necklace?"

"Not just any necklace- I would estimate its worth at around five thousand pounds, although I am by no means an expert; and anyway, it is quite impossible to guess at these things without ever seeing the item in question."

"Good lord. With an accomplice on the inside I suspect? Have you any idea when this will happen?"

"I agree. A temporary servant, perhaps."

He closed his eyes.

"I... hypothesize that he will attempt the robbery at some point from the 10th of August onwards, when Lord Amersteth is to host a week of cricket matches, balls and dinner parties- something about his son's coming of age, I believe. The Lady Melrose will undoubtedly want to show off her necklace, especially in such…. illustrious company."

He opened his eyes again, watching me with the same hawkish intensity he often directed at our clients.

"To that end, I have managed to secure us invitations, in the guise of an amateur cricket enthusiast intending to write for a medical journal on the effects of cricket on the body."

"And what am I to be?"

He barked a laugh. "You shall be the Doctor, Watson. I hope it shall not be too much of a strain upon your acting capabilities." 

I swatted him lightly with a nearby copy of The Times, which caused him visible amusement. For some moments, we silently smoked- I, for my part, was occupied in digesting the information recently revealed to me, although I cannot fathom what was taking place inside the great mind of my friend. Although I could not comprehend why, the details of what he had said seemed oddly familiar, and I ruminated on it- to the extent, I am sorry to say, that I barely listened when my friend started outlining his plan. I knew, of course, that it was important- but so, I felt, was this, whatever this was! Lord Amersteth....Crawley….Milchester Abbey….

"Of course!" I exclaimed aloud, inadvertently cutting off Holmes. He gave me an annoyed glare, but looked curious despite it.

"The match!" His face was blank. "The match? For Lord Amersham's son?"

"Yes, yes, what about it?"

"It was in the papers. His son, Crowley, played for Harrow last year. I've heard A.J. Raffles will be there-" I confess, I was a little excited at the prospect of seeing the famous cricketer play- although knowing Holmes, I probably wouldn't get a chance.

"A.J….A.J….A.J Raffles! A-ha!"

Pipe still in hand, he leapt over the sofa like a man possessed, and started burrowing into the pile of files that, despite my best attempts, stubbornly remained as his excuse for a filing system. He pulled out a slim folder with barely anything in; tossed it in my general direction (I caught it rather well, considering) and I took my cue to start reading it aloud.

"Arthur J Raffles- Oxford- Cricket, Gentlemen's- cases of S.P (B), E.N (B), M.B (B). Holmes, do you mean to say-"

"He was a suspect in the cases of Sylvia Peake and Ernest Nelson, as well as being associated with the burglary at the Bingley house in…May, I believe? Of course, both times the perpetrator was easily found to be a professional- not all the same one, I don't believe. The connection, however, was curious, and I made a note of it- although it seems a simple coincidence, the burglaries were professional, and there is no better cover for a criminal than anonymity or innocuous fame."

I could hardly believe it! A.J Raffles, one of the finest men to play for England, master slow bowler and batsman- and possibly a thief! It seemed unthinkable, I thought, that a man so well esteemed should be a common criminal, and a professional at that, but I opted not to say this aloud- my friend would undoubtedly (and rightly) tease me for it, I was sure.

"But your information- about Crawshay- doesn't that rule out Raffles?"

Some of my feelings on the matter must have come through in my voice, for Holmes once again looked rather amused at my obvious defense of the man based on his standing. A small, prideful part of me was offended at this, but I dare say that if I had been faced with such a statement, such clear evidence of this potential cover working, I too would have been feeling a little superior.

Nevertheless, he gave my question due thought.

"It would seem the case, although I should wonder if your Mr Raffles isn't an opportunist- that is to say, to steal from underneath the very nose of a professional provides the perfect cover, as well as being rather amusing, I suppose...in a self-congratulatory way."

For the next few weeks, nothing of much consequence happened, save a sudden flurry of correspondence between ourselves and the Inspector Mackenzie Holmes had previously written to. Holmes had, in exchange for the information he had discovered regarding Crawshay, managed to secure the temporary release of Miss Baker, who had been awaiting trial. This trial was to be postponed until after the match, wherein either Crawshay would be discovered as the thief responsible for a great many burglaries, or else Miss Baker would be hanged. She took the news sadly, but with great equanimity, for she realised her continuing life depended on a great many factors, not only our (admittedly dubious) plan, and I felt both sorrow and admiration for her in equal measure.

Chapter Text

It was on the Friday that our plan was finally set into motion. We were to travel down to Milchester Abbey, with the intention of staying until early Sunday, when having hopefully achieved our aims, we would make our excuses and quickly return to London. 

We would present ourselves as Doctor and Mrs Harrison, with Holmes posing as my wife. One may have supposed me to be shocked, nay, horrified by this, but he had explained it in a way that made it seem perfectly logical- it was necessary to go in disguise, lest we be recognised by the guests, Crawley, or even somehow Mackenzie; it would offer a more fundamental disguise as well as increased opportunities for gossip and perhaps less scrutiny; and besides, whilst our necessary closeness was allowed in the sanctum of Baker Street, only a man and wife could have the same outside it. It did not trouble me- Holmes, as  I have said before, is proficient at both the arts of disguise and acting, and our situation is already unorthodox- a small thing such as this makes no difference. Besides, I felt a certain thrill at being able to show casual affection- to love him as openly as I could love a wife- without fear or consequence.

"Holmes!'' I cried, checking my pocket-watch. We would have to catch the train from Paddington, and for all his untidiness, Holmes was a fastidious man and so had spent over an hour transforming into an equally fastidious woman. When I received no reply to my insistent shouts, I rose to sharply rap on his door; and when that received no response, I fetched the spare key from that horrible stuffed ferret on the mantelpiece and opened his door.

He was sitting straight-backed on a wooden chair, intently reading a letter whose penmanship marked it as being from Irene Norton neé Adler. He wore a dark green dress of good quality- it was out of date without being unfashionable, which suited the character he was to play. Without turning around, he waved me towards him, and placed a thin silver chain in my hand- it was one he wore often when disguised, and in a moment of rare vulnerability he had once revealed to me that it had belonged to his mother. I guided his head forward and fastened it with ease, before leaving to fetch the hand-mirror Mrs Hudson had been so kind as to lend me. I handed it to Holmes, and chuckled slightly as he pretended not to preen- he is not a vain man, but I have remarked before that he is as sensitive as any girl to flattery of his work, including his work of disguise.

"You look marvelous, my dear. Just like a woman."

This was undoubtedly true- how he had done it, I did not know, but he had. He made a handsome woman, if not a beautiful one; his features were naturally quite striking, and the careful use of make-up had highlighted the sharpness of his cheekbones whilst going some way to soften his natural gauntness, so pronounced after his recent spate of bad health. The dress had been altered to emphasise the features he was missing, and to mask the more masculine ones, and a simple wig of dark hair was appropriately arranged beneath a rather ornate hat, which was at any rate guaranteed to draw the attention away from the rest of him. 

He snorted, thoroughly unladylike. 

"You do!"

"Of course I do- all that must be changed are the clothes and the demeanor, and people are far too polite to see anything other than  what they expect."

He turned, looked me up and down.

"Henry Poole, yes? It suits you rather well." 

"Thank you," I said, flushing slightly under the  intensity of his gaze. I helped him to stand- and how he had managed to turn his usually towering figure into one belonging to a tall, if not unusually so, woman astounded me. He folded and put away his letter; I collected our tickets and he picked up our bags as I locked the door, leaving a note for our landlady.

"How ungentlemanly, my dear!" he exclaimed, once we were safely in the hansom cab. "Leaving a poor woman to carry the bags!"

For a brief moment I felt irrationally angry- after all, he knew better than anyone about the wounds I had sustained during the war- but his tone was playful, and his eyes positively sparkled with anticipation and excitement, and so I took it in the spirit that it was meant.

"You managed admirably, my dear, although if your strength is so poor, perhaps we ought to hire a fainting couch!"

His shoulders shook slightly with silent laughter, and I clasped his gloved hand. Part of me was terrified that we would be caught, as it was whenever we did anything of this sort, but the thrill of being able to do this publically won out, and I was gratified to see a little colour beneath the light rouge on my friend's cheek.

From the station, our host had been generous enough to send a carriage. The journey to the Abbey was thankfully rather smooth, and the countryside offered a rather pleasing view of the sloping green hills and thick patches of woodland that characterise these areas. Inevitably, the thick mass of green trees parted just enough for me to catch a glimpse of Milchester Abbey itself, a large grey quadrangular pile, twinkling with triple rows of windows. It briefly disappeared from and into my view as the carriage barreled under I know not how many triumphal arches in the process of construction, and past the tents and flag-poles of a large cricket-field, grass freshly trimmed and waiting. I shook Holmes slightly, for he had been lulled by the regular rocking motion of the carriage into a light sleep, and he took the few minutes of privacy we had left to re-adjust his disguise. Eventually, the carriage pulled to a halt; I exited, and, as any gentleman would, gave my hand to the regal woman who gracefully joined me on the gravel drive. We only had less than an hour until dinner, and so took only a few moments refreshment before we went down, minds occupied with our task. 

Chapter Text

NOTE: Mr Manders, as it later turned out, is- was- somewhat of a chronicler of the crimes done by Mr Raffles and himself, dramatising them for the masses in a way that I am rather familiar with. In order to fill in the gaps, as it were, he has kindly agreed to lend his account of the matter, assured that this is for personal records and shall never reach the public's eye. I believe a revised edition of his narrative, heavily edited, with many of the details changed, has been published under the title of Gentlemen and Players. I have attached his narrative where appropriate.

My part of the story (as it were) began a month before. We had gone down to Lord's, both myself and Raffles- him to play and myself to watch. I have minimal interest in the game myself, being hopeless at playing and finding it invariably dull besides, but Raffles was always a treat to watch. He was calculating yet elegant; he possessed a quietly theatrical way of playing that counterbalanced the intelligent accuracy of his skill. I admired in particular the combination of resource and cunning, of patience and precision, of head-work and handiwork, which made every over an artistic whole. It was all so characteristic of that other Raffles whom I alone knew!

Today, however, Raffles had done not quite so well as usual; and for a player who claimed to care not a jot for the game, he was uncommonly cross. Merely taciturn with me, he was positively rude to more than one unfortunate soul who was foolish enough to approach him; he sat with a straw hat tilted over his nose and a cigarette stuck between lips, feigning over-acted indifference at the game, its players, and the world in general.

I was therefore surprised- and, dare I say, not a little put out- when a young over-eager fellow came and squeezed himself in between us, and was met with a perfectly civil reception despite the liberty. I did not recognise the boy by sight, nor did Raffles bother to introduce us; but their conversation suggested both a vague, tenuous acquaintance and a license on the lad’s part which mystified me. My confusion only increased when Raffles instantly, with seemingly no reluctance or ill-will, consented to meet the father of the young lad, who apparently wished to see him.

They left for the Ladies' Enclosure. With Raffles gone, I held no interest in the game and alternated between privately mocking some of the more outrageous outfits worn and searching wistfully for a sight of that hideous Zinger blazer that my friend still insisted on. Eventually, I was rewarded by Raffles beckoning me from the side.

“Want to introduce you to old Amersteth,” he whispered. “They’ve a cricket week next month, when this boy Crowley comes of age, and we’ve both got to go down and play.”

“Both!” I echoed woefully. “But I’m no cricketer!”

“Shut up,” said Raffles. “Leave that to me. I’ve been lying for all I’m worth."

There was a gleam in his eye that I knew well enough, but there was little time for misgivings before I was thrust unceremoniously in front of Lord Amersteth. 

He received me politely enough, although it was as obvious in his manner as it may have been in his wording that he did not wish to talk with me, and that his doing so was only in the hopes of securing the invaluable Raffles. I would've been insulted; as it was, I was far too preoccupied by being angry with Raffles and suppressing a nervous fit to care.

“I have been bold enough," began Lord Amersteth, “to ask one of the Gentlemen of England to come down and play some county cricket for us next month. He is kind enough to say that he would have liked nothing better, but for this little fishing expedition of yours-" he said, abruptly cutting off, having already forgotten my name. 

This was, of course, the first I had ever heard of such a fishing expedition, but I hastily assured him that it could- and must be- postponed. I could feel Raffles' approving gaze upon me as though it were the heat from a fire.

"That's very good of you, I'm sure. I understand that you’re a cricketer yourself?”

“He was one at school,” said Raffles, quickly.

“Not a real cricketer," I meekly protested, for in truth my abilities are lackluster at best and utterly atrocious at worst.

“In the eleven?”

“I'm afraid not.

“Didn't get the chance. Had to leave early, awfully tragic for the school.” declared Raffles, to my horror.

“Well, well, you might as well come along then. You shall flog a stream before breakfast and after dinner, if you like.”

“I should be honoured,” I began, intending to lay the ground for more convincing excuses; but I felt Raffles' gaze once again upon me, and I faltered weakly in the face of it. 

“Then that’s settled,” said Lord Amersteth, briefly hashing out the details with Raffles whilst I let my attention wander. No sooner had they finished did I grab Raffles and draw him near. 

“What ever were you thinking of?” I whispered savagely. "I’m no sort of cricketer, and I can't fish. I shall have to get out of this!”

“You must," he whispered back, equally vehement. "You needn’t play, but you must come. If you'll dine with me tonight, I'll tell you why."

But I knew the reason; and I am ashamed to say that it horrified me far, far less that the thought of making a fool of myself on the cricket-ground did.

Dinner passed fairly pleasantly, with good wine and pleasing conversation. It was only on the walk back to the Albany, free of prying eyes and ears, that the topic of young Crowley re-emerged. 

"You know, nothing riles me more than being asked for my cricket as though I were a waiter, to be hired for my services!" 

“Then why on earth go at all, if you feel so insulted?”

“To punish them, and- because we shall be jolly hard up, Bunny, before the season’s over!”

“Ah!” said I. “I thought it was that.”

“Of course, it was! It seems they’re going to have the very devil of a week of it; balls, dinner parties, diamonds galore!" (Raffles always had a terrible fondness for diamonds.) "As a general rule nothing would induce me to abuse my position as a guest, but Old Amersteth's engaged us like the band, and by heaven we’ll take our pay!"

“It seems rather a vulgar sort of theft,” I said weakly, a singular protest that had survived. Raffles instantly agreed.

“It is a vulgar sort, but I can’t help that. We’re getting vulgarly hard up again! Besides, these people deserve it, and can afford it. There's nothing too bad about that."

In the weeks that followed Raffles dedicated himself to careful planning- as detailed and in depth as any professor, i'm sure- and in-between forced me to participate in endless rounds of catching a ball, to the end that though I never was a cricketer, I came nearer to being one by the end of that busy month than I had ever been.

Amersteth's home was in Dorset; we were to take the lunch-time train, to arrive with enough time to take a look around the outside before seeming to arrive on time for dinner.

The train journey itself was of very little consequence. Despite his previous annoyance at being hired for his cricket- 'like a waiter', he had complained- he was enthusiastic at the prospect of enjoying the twin pursuits to which he dedicated his time.

For my part, I dreaded the approaching game of cricket, but enjoyed basking in the company and conversation of my friend. There was only one peculiar incident which caught my attention.

Raffles had refused a carriage- first class, obviously- had gone almost pale as a ghost and demanded to be shown to another. The carriage's sole inhabitant- a red-faced fellow in a horribly florid suit, sullenly puffing out clouds of noxious smoke- provided ample reason enough, but for a reason I couldn't quite place, the incident disturbed me. How quite unlike Raffles! Although I do admit he was back to his old self within an instant of me noticing, yet still I dwelt upon the incident until an amusing tale of his banished all such thoughts from my mind.

The train had pulled into the station on time, but our hansom cab down to Milchester Abbey had an unfortunate tendency to get stuck in the potholes often found in the crumbling countryside roads. By the time the old thing had rattled past all the triumphal arches, tents and flag-poles- not to mention the cricket-ground- and had arrived at the door to the sprawling grey building poking its way through the trees, we had but little time before we were expected to arrive. Therefore, we presented ourselves on time; Raffles alone took his twenty minutes to map out the Abbey whilst I occupied myself with preparing for dinner, an event which I was wholeheartedly dreading.

Chapter Text

Dinner approached with far too much speed, for I dreaded such events immensely. However, my low status in the eyes of my host had turned out to be rather in my favour, for I was seated next to a much less formidable young lady than I might have otherwise had to face. Miss Melhuish was merely the rector’s daughter, and she had only been asked to make an even number, two things that she duly informed me of before even the soup reached us. Her subsequent conversation was characterised by the same engaging candor,  exposing what was little short of a mania for imparting information. I had simply to listen, to nod, and to be thankful that my rather poor conversational skills could rest far easier than they might have been allowed.

When I confessed to knowing very few of those present, even by sight, my companion proceeded to tell me who everybody was, beginning on my left and working conscientiously round to her right. To her credit, she was an engaging speaker, and I found conversation with her both interesting and informative; but all to quickly, my attention was inevitably stolen by Raffles. How grand he looked, his high spirits, his buoyant wit, his perfect ease and self-possession! He, of course, had been seeting much further up the table, and was currently charming the Dowager Marchioness of Melrose. I am pleased to say that she was one of the few people it had been unnecessary to point out to me, for her reputation preceaded her;  she sat on Lord Amersteth’s right, flourishing her ear-trumpet and drinking champagne with her usual notorious freedom, but it was the necklace of diamonds and sapphires that stole my attention. I knew, beneath every flirtatious comment and amusing anecdote, that Raffles would be watching them with his cool calculating eyes, weak as he is to diamonds. 

Miss Melhuish, however, obviously felt that the blame for my wondering attention lay with her, and it was with a sensational whisper that she suddenly asked me whether or not I could keep a secret. I replied that I believed I could, having kept my twin crimes of thievery and- deviance, I suppose, although I can hardly bear to think of it as such- long secret.  She appeared satisfied, although I dare say she would have continued without my answer, and whispered, "Are you afraid of burglars?”

Burglars! I felt a sudden cold fear settle over me, and I could do naught but repeat the word back at her with a horrified curiosity.  

“So I’ve found something to interest you at last!” said Miss Melhuish, in naïve triumph. “Yes- burglars! But don’t speak so loud. It’s supposed to be kept a great secret. I really oughtn’t to tell you at all!”

“But what is there to tell?” I whispered with impatience.

“You promise not to speak of it?”

“Of course!”

“Well, then, there are burglars in the neighbourhood.”

“Have they committed any robberies?”

“Not yet.”

“Then how do you know?”

“They’ve been seen. In the district. Two well-known London thieves!”

Two! I looked again at Raffles. Just moments ago, I had admired and even envied his high spirits, his buoyant wit, his charming conversation with his enraptured targets. But now I pitied him; through all my own terror and guilt, I pitied him as he sat there, eating and drinking and laughing and talking, without a suspicion of what was to come upon his handsome countenance. I emptied my champagne flute quickly.

“Who has seen them?” I asked, calm as anything. 

“A detective. They were traced down from town a few days ago. They are believed to have designs on the Abbey!”

“But why aren’t they run in?”

“Exactly what I asked papa on the way here this evening; he says there is no warrant out against the men at present, and all that can be done is to watch their movements.”

“Oh! So they are being watched?”

“Yes, by a detective who is down here on purpose!”

“This is really quite exciting, Miss Melhuish,” said I. “May I ask how you came to know so much about it?”

“It’s papa,” was the reply. “Lord Amersteth consulted him, and he consulted me. But for goodness’ sake don’t let it get about! I can’t think what tempted me to tell you!”

“You may trust me, Miss Melhuish. But—aren’t you frightened?”

Miss Melhuish giggled.

“Not a bit! They won’t come to the rectory. There’s nothing for them there. But look round the table: look at the diamonds: look at old Lady Melrose’s necklace alone!”

“They say it’s worth five thousand pounds at least,” continued my companion. “Lady Margaret told me so this morning (that’s Lady Margaret next your Mr. Raffles, you know); and the old dear will wear them every night. Think what a haul they would be! No; we don’t feel in immediate danger at the rectory.”

When the ladies rose, Miss Melhuish bound me to fresh vows of secrecy; and left me, I should think, with some remorse for her indiscretion, but more satisfaction at the importance which it had undoubtedly given her in my eyes. The opinion may smack of vanity, though, in reality, the very springs of conversation reside in that same human, universal itch to thrill the auditor. The peculiarity of Miss Melhuish was that she must be thrilling at all costs. And thrilling she had surely been.

I spare you my feelings of the next two hours. I tried hard to get a word with Raffles, but again and again I failed. In the dining-room he and Crowley lit their cigarettes with the same match, heads bent together all the time. I, knowing none of the men present, found myself trapped in the company of a very serious Scotchman called Clephane, who could not be swayed from his favourite- and only- topic of the recent improvements in photography. Despite my best efforts to distract my mind with other things, I learnt that he had not come to play in the matches, but to obtain for Lord Amersteth such a series of cricket photographs as had never been taken before; whether as an amateur or a professional photographer I was unable to determine. Eventually, the ladies were invited back, and if I had hoped to get a chance to speak with Raffles at this juncture I was sorely misguided, for he resolutely ignored my eye in favour of the endlessly rotating cast of dolled-up ladies who hung limply on his arms. I fumed silently at both his obvious dismissal and at those dull vapid women he danced with. He held them in his arms as he danced with the skill of a professional, but they gave him nothing in return save the incessant girlish giggling- surely a man of his intellectual calibre desired something more! 

I engaged in a few dances with Miss Melhuish, who made up for her lack of skill with a charming, light pleasant conversation which she single-handedly kept sustained during our dance. I, I am sorry to say, lacked this redeeming quality, and added to my list of faults a sustained lack of attention, for as ever the magnetism of Raffles was too much to bear. 

Eventually, thoroughly fed up, I made the briefest of excuses to Miss Melhuish (who, I'm afraid, saw right through them) and headed to the terrace. It was a lovely night, clear and clement, and I found myself enjoying the quiet. I am not a jealous man, but Raffles had quite frustrated me tonight, dancing and flirting incorrigibly with all those women, and blatantly refusing to meet my eye! We were in such immediate danger of being discovered, and yet I could hardly get a moment with him alone.

Of course, my sanctum was not to last, and I soon found my silence interrupted by the shuffling footsteps of an older man. He offered me a cigar, which I took, I'm afraid, rather rudely. He lit them both and, undeterred by my sullen mood, attempted to strike up a conversation.

"Doctor Harrison," he said, and I reluctantly shook his hand. "Amersteth was good enough to invite me down here to observe the cricket- for a medical paper, unfortunately, although I do enjoy watching the odd match at Lords when I can. 

I vaguely remembered Miss Melhuish pointing him out at dinner, where he had been seated mid-way up the table. His wife was a rather imperious looking woman, who, if she had been enjoying herself, showed no sign of it on her face. Mr Harrison, by contrast, seemed a rather amiable fellow, if a little too inclined towards striking up conversations with strangers.

"Bunny- Harry Manders," I introduced myself. "I'm a friend of A.J. Raffles."

"Ah, the cricketer. I saw him at Lord's last month- a fantastic bowler, I thought."

"He is," I said, with feeling, for my annoyance at Raffles was easily dwarfed by my regard for him. "I'm not much one for cricket, but I've heard it said that he is the finest slow bowler of our generation, and I'm inclined to agree. He is a wonderful sportsman, truly."

"A wonderful dancer as well- my wife, Constance, seems rather enamoured with him."

"Oh."

"You know what these women are like!" he said, laughing somewhat weakly. I did not, and in all honesty did not particularly want to.

I was surprised, however, that Mr Harrison appeared far from upset. He almost looked fond, as though Raffles seducing his wife was of no concern to him- and whilst he seemed rather amiable, there was a certain steeliness in his eyes that assured me he wasn't the sort to be cuckolded. A former soldier, I should have imagined, or something of that sort. 

"You aren't- jealous?"

"Of who? Mr Raffles? Perhaps a little. Your Mr Raffles has a certain…way about him-" (He smiled here, as if at some private joke.) "But my health can't withstand anything more energetic than a Waltz, I'm afraid, and my dear Constance does so rarely get the opportunity to dance nowadays."

At his remark about his health, I noticed for the first time that he was leaning heavily on a stick, and I motioned for him to sit. He did so, gratefully, and I joined him on the cold stone. For a while, we smoked in silence, watching the silhouettes of dancers whirl gracefully around the hall. I felt a sudden pang of sympathy for Miss Melhuish, who had confided to me that her dance card was all but empty to-night,  but I could not bear to see Raffles with another powdered lady!

Mr Harrison was watching me keenly, and I flushed suddenly, for his gaze was sharp and it was as though he was reading my thoughts. 

"Most young men I know would be thrilled at the opportunity to dance with all these fine young ladies."

"I suppose I must not be most young men, then. But anyway- I am no dancer. These poor ladies would surely come away limping with bruised shins and stamped-on toes!"

He chuckled. "I dare say that is true for many a young man, but such resistance usually disappears when confronted with the object of his affections."

I made a vague noise of assent, wishing sharply that he should go away and leave me to my sulking. I had been enjoying it immensely- a good morose glowering does much to take one's mind of one's fear or embarrassment, I have often found. 

“You have known each-other long?” 

He didn’t have to elaborate for me to know he was talking about.

“Since our school days,” I answered. “I fagged for him, you know, although it was not so long ago that my…ill-fortunes reconnected us in such a way."

He kindly chose to ignore that line of questioning, for which I was grateful, being unwilling to dwell upon that terrible time, and unsure of why I had unthinkingly mentioned it.

“Ah,” said he, discarding his cigar. “I thought as much. You have a closeness to you. The sort of relationship you find in the army- or, if you will excuse me saying so, in the navy. A rare thing indeed, these days.”

I flushed with a sort of possessive pleasure at the idea despite myself, although in my heart I suspected it of not being the truth; the predicament that had sent me into this self-imposed exile being just one of the many points against it! Still, it pleased me to think that even a casual observer could recognise my affection for Raffles- and, I hoped, any affection he might hold for me.

“And now,” said the doctor, standing up with a wince, “I shall have to take your leave. My wife is once again free, and I desire to rejoin her company once more. Pleasure to meet you, Mr Manders.”

“Likewise.”

For a moment, he looked as though he were about to speak again; but he evidently thought better of it, and with a final nod in my direction, turned his heel and left. I enjoyed my little sanctuary for a while longer, before Miss Melhuish appeared, and with the slight mania so characteristic of her, entreated me to dance one more. Feeling far more generous, I acquiesced, and we took a good few dances before retiring. 

Chapter Text

NOTE: It appears that I had not quite thought through the logistics of inserting Mr Manders narrative between my own, when the majority of the events taking place from here on overlap; I see no reason to bore either any future readers- should the world suddenly become a much gentler place, which seems, to my regret, unlikely- or, in truth, myself. I suppose a little repetition must suffice, in order to give as complete a picture as possible; and I shall endeavour to keep clear which of us is relaying our story. (Holmes has requested it to be noted, ‘for posterity if not an audience’ , that my handwriting is so clearly that of a doctor's that it would be impossible to mistake our two writings. I will very firmly make no comment on the relative legibility of his writing, or indeed say anything to the effect of the pot does so often call the kettle black).

Dr. J.H.Watson

Dinner was unfortunately a rather dull affair, although admittedly tasty enough. Holmes spent the evening engaged in conversation with a young woman, to whom he was having far too much fun giving ‘maidenly advice’, although I was glad to see that this didn’t prevent him from sampling some of the meal. I, for my part, was trapped in conversation with a photographer- Clephane- whose dogged determination to enlighten me as to the various elements of the photographic process would have rivaled even Holmes’ greyhound tenacity when on a case. Unlike Holmes, the conversation of the man was a dreadful bore (and anyway I felt no more good-will towards him than the requisite)- but I nevertheless felt that there was something more to him. It was only once the dancing had started that I managed to briefly take Holmes aside to question him on it. Thankfully, a man may whisper in the shell of his wife's ear without receiving too much attention, although the replying laugh at my expense, head tossed back like a horse and eyes a-twinkling, received quite a bit more. 

“Constance,” I said quietly, in the reprimanding tones of a husband; “You are having far too much fun!”, but to tell the truth of it I was glad, and gave Holmes’ hand a quick squeeze in order to convey this.

He fluttered his eyelashes at me, smiling unrepentantly, and declared that I was no sort of husband at all, to leave his wife without a dashing dance partner to take her around the ballroom. I glared at him, even as immeasurable fondness swelled within my chest, and then offered him my hand. He hid the surprise in his eyes well.

“Are you sure you can manage the dances, my dear? Your leg-”

“Will be fine, as long as I am careful and don’t exert myself too much. And anyway,” I added, amusement almost certainly audible, "I've heard it being said that the only husband worth having is one who will dance, and I certainly wouldn't want to be seen as lacking in that respect. May I?”

He took my hand with imperious grace, belied only in my eyes by the faint blush beneath the rouge on his cheeks. 

We stuck mainly to the corner of the room, as befitting our comparative lack of status and youthfulness- and, it should be said, our comparative lack of skill, although I am pleased to say that we held our own. And I later saw Holmes take to what I considered a very respectable waltz, with a ruddy-faced gentleman who had arrived after dinner, so at least we gave our (fake) names some credit. Nevertheless, it was a delight- a delight, I think, that was shared- to hold Holmes in my arms; to so publicly demonstrate him as mine, quietly but undefensive, even if under an assumed name. With that impish humour he at times was shown to possess, he subtly showed off his skill, challenging me to improve my game (to borrow the language of our cricketing friends); I struggled to keep up, but fancied I did quite well, and felt so joyfully light during the whole thing anyway that I dare say it wouldn't have mattered if I’d have just trampled all over his toes. 

It was during our third dance- a Waltz, thankfully, and thankfully less competitive between us than the first one- that I finally received my answer. Holmes leant in close, and again I felt both grateful and resentful that married couples were allowed these quiet intimacies without fear; but it was a mild sort of resentment, anger long dulled by the years and by my own good luck at what companionship I had managed to gain. Still, Holmes was not a man who knew how to whisper sweet nothings, let alone would deign to ever do so; and so instead, in that dreadfully intimate-yet-public manner, he began to enlighten me as to what he had observed so far.

His first point of call was that tedious soul, Clephane, from somewhere around Aberdeen. Throughout the past few weeks, Holmes had militantly avoided any meetings between that Inspector Mackenzie of his and ourselves, and now I saw why- for Clephane was in fact he, disguised to all but his host! ( ‘A dreadfully basic disguise, Watson, really! Although I suppose the virtue of sheer dullness does have its uses’ , as my companion, somewhat archly, would later put it ) . 

With this revelation, he amused himself at my expense, and if I overplayed my shock slightly, and a little overdid my flattery- well, then, there was no-one else to know but myself. We were soon forced to withdraw from the floor due to the sudden increase in tempo of the music, and Holmes repaid for his amusement, consoling me by rattling off idle observations about our fellow guests, from the state of their finances to their marital (and more often than not, extra-marital) affairs. Which, I suppose, were his own variation of the idle murmurings of young lovers; certainly, they were just as affectionate, and I suppose it can only be to their credit that they were interesting and potentially useful as well.

Eventually, however, the music returned to a slower speed, the sort of dance more suitable for a refined lady of a certain age, and Holmes elected to rejoin our dancing companions. he affected just enough demureness that his shrewd calculations were disguised; from the vantage point where we had retired, he had been watching the guests with hawklike intensity, and had formulated a plan of attack in order to make the best use of the opportunity Mrs Constance provided. On my part, meanwhile, my leg- to my shame- was starting to pain me most awfully, the day's events liberally taking their strain, although I could not bring myself to regret the indulgence. I stood, feigning casualness, at the sideboard, striking idle conversation with the other men milling around at the edges of the dance, and making observations on them all the while. (More than once, I had to restrain myself from archly making a comment about some little titbit of gossip Holmes had described). Perhaps more fruitfully, I overheard a great deal of conversations exchanged between drunken men, easily identifying Mr Crowley as the loudest of them all; the conversation ranged from the inane to the vulgar, but were enlightening regarding aspects of their character, and their potential criminality. 

I was about to make a retreat, with the halfhearted idea of finding Holmes once more, when I observed a young man- made younger by the sulky expression on his face- march determinedly out into the grounds of the house.  Intrigued, and suddenly desperately in need of some fresh air myself, I took to following him. I had observed him earlier, making increasingly desperate glances at A.J. Raffles- who, forever the dashing young gentleman, was far more preoccupied with charming whichever lady was on his arm. Which, I noticed, now appeared to be Holmes, to the apparent resentment of some of the other much younger ladies there. I suppose in another world I may have had cause to feel jealous; but Holmes, although bound to me, was not my wife, and A.J. Raffles, although charming, was not quite the type of man he preferred. And besides, I thought it good that he should get to enjoy a dance or two with an equally able partner, and hopefully exercise his intellectual mind in the process. I remembered what Holmes had said about A.J. Raffles- not a criminal, surely, but certainly a man to keep an eye on- and had enough residual curiosity about the young man that my mind was quickly made up. I spared another glance at Holmes, who for all the vacant smile on his face, was, to my eyes, clearly at work; and content with that thought, I set out into the night to take my own line in the investigation, and see what I could discover.

Chapter Text

NOTE: I believe Mr Manders has already recorded our subsequent conversation as he saw it; therefore, despite the unpleasantness of an incomplete narrative, I have decided to take the step of leaving out the conversation entirely, as to resume from my return back inside.

J.H. Watson

My return to the interior of the house was a somewhat reluctant one, for the brief respite of the night air had made the frivolities seem but louder. Nevertheless, I played my part for a short while longer, drifting through various inane conversations with men far too concerned with their own voices to notice my lack of attention. I saw Holmes dance once or twice more with Mr. Raffles, and Mr. Manders, on his return, take a few turns with a lady I did not recognise, but who’s mouth seemed to move unceasingly for most of the evening. 

More importantly, perhaps, I made an attempt to focus on the activities of the staff, who unobtrusively seemed to coalesce from the shadows when required, and otherwise disappear seamlessly into them. I am not, it should be said, in any way of the detectiving sort, as Holmes will loudly attest to; but neither have I learnt nothing during our years of partnership, and I put to work his methods as best I could. Holmes believed our man Crawshay would have an accomplice; the most likely choice one of the many temporary staff, who had both the freedom of movement and the easy avoidence of being noticed, let alone scrutinised, required for such a position. I came up with one or two suspects- a middle-aged butler with impressive sideburns and a steely gaze, and a young, arrogant footman whose eyes scanned the room with a calculating intensity. 

Eventually, however, I was forced to retire. I had lost sight of Holmes long ago, and so was unsuprised when he greeted me in our quarters, gesturing impatiently at me to secure the door. 

“Sit, Watson. I have procured an armchair from our good hosts- no, do not protest, it is both pointless and unbecoming of you.”

I glared at him, albeit with good humour, and sat down with no small measure of relief. He smiled sharply, a quick flash to teeth, and steepled his long, lean fingers, now ungloved. 

“To business, then?”

“Indeed. Firstly, the object of our thief's desires, which must surely be the Lady Melrose’s diamond necklace, both for its value, and- if our previous incidents are to follow a pattern- the sheer audacity of it. Secondly, Clephane. Or Mackenzie, if you like. Did he say anything of use, amongst all the blather?”

“He did not, although I can’t be sure; l could hardly stay awake, with all the dry lecturing on the minutiae of photography.”

“Ah, pity- all that dreary conversation and for nothing. Still, he is a point to consider, and although his instincts may be dull, we would do well to be cautious in our interactions with him. Then, what else? I am confident in my belief that Crawshay has an accomplice, and almost certain in my hypothesis it is one of the temporary staff. Have you anything to add, my dear Watson?”

I proudly informed him of my observations in that matter; he laughed delightedly, and with an approving glint in his eye, said, “My dear Watson! I’ll be out of business before next Spring.”

“Never,” I replied, with perhaps more passion and sincerity than the situation deserved. Holmes quietened, and looked bashful, but said nothing.

“As for Mr. Raffles… I confess I could get very little out of him, other than his obvious proficiency at dancing. Very cool in his demeanour- there's no telling what lies beneath the surface. I take very little interest in sport, as you know, but I believe I begin to see why he is so renowned. He has something calculating about him, some hidden plan.”

“You still suspect him then?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t notice him eyeing up Lady Melrose's necklace, subtle though it was. Which is more than can be said for his friend- did you notice him? Nervous young man, obviously not quite so desired a guest, if him being seated with the rector's daughter is an indication.”

I relayed to him my encounter with Mr. Manders, whom I had also witnessed attempting to unsuccessfully catch Mr. Raffles' eye all evening.

"And what were your impressions of him, my dear?"

I thought. "He seemed- innocent. Almost cherubic. He has the sort of face that practically screams it-” (here, Holmes gave me an incredulous look, which I suppose in light of past experience was entirely justifiable) “...He was worried, though. Guilty, I think, about something, and irritated and obsessed with Raffles at the same time. You mentioned that you suspected Raffles of hiding something? Well, it's my opinion that what they're hiding is illegal, but not burglary."

He looked surprised. "You think that-?"

"Well,” I amended. “I think that Mr. Manders certainly wishes they were, and probably fears it too. Mr. Raffles did genuinely seem to enjoy the female company,” I said, pointedly; Holmes gave a snort of amusement, colour rising faintly to his cheeks. 

“Enjoyed the attention, you mean. He certainly has experience in flattering women-”

“Charming, was he?”

Holmes glared at me without any heat. “ Far more charming than some I could care to mention.”

“Like Mr Crowley?” I said amused, feigning innocence.

“Pah! A fine specimen of the insolent young rich men England produced by the dozen, nurtured no doubt on assurances of his own skill that border on fiction. No, he is not unskilled, but he is arrogant and far too unmannered when talking to a lady.” Holmes’ indignant tone at the end reminded me strongly of a spinster aunt I once had, although I decided in this case discretion was the better part of valour.

A comfortable silence settled, and by mutual agreement our conversation meandered around some light topics, instead of pursuing our discussion of the case further. I could see that he was still thinking about it, mentally flitting through possibilities and probabilities, but nevertheless we both held our side of the conversation up admirably, until it came to its natural end.

He had not yet removed his dress, although the wig, hat and shoes had been carefully set out to the side of the bed, and he rose somewhat gingerly, age having not been entirely kind to either of us. I moved to help him with the garment, making my offer as I did so; but he slapped my hands away, declaring rather haughtily that he could do it himself just fine, and so, laughing slightly, I removed myself to the bathroom.

I was not unaccustomed to sharing a bed with Holmes, fear of being caught and regular bouts of insomnia for us both being the main reasons it was not a regular occurance. He was a little like a cat in his manners of affection, preferring it on his own terms and delivering it somewhat unconventionally, but I was unsurprised that we should find our way into each other's arms so easily. For safety's sake, Holmes had opted to sleep in a nightgown tailored specially to give him a more feminine appearance- he had warned me earlier that it may be necessary to awake suddenly in case of a robbery, and I had reluctantly acquiesced.

As he had predicted, I was awoken, rather rudely, with a shake of the shoulders in the early hours of the morning.

I winced.

“Watson!” he hissed, wrapping a gown around himself for decency’s sake. “Watson, quickly, come!” 

Somewhat dazed, I rose a little unsteadily, by which point Holmes had- with ill-concealed impatience- donned his wig and suitable shoes and was hovering by the door, ready to rush out.

There was, I was now hearing, a dreadful commotion outside, and I shook myself awake, quickly assured myself that I was decent, and ran out into the hallway, where the Inspector Mackenzie was attempting to subdue a man. Mr. Manders stood watching, a sort of dumb, nervous look upon his face, as they backed into him, upon which he regained himself and leapt at the man with admirable intent, if not co-ordination.

I froze, briefly shocked, before my instincts kicked in and I joined the fray, wrestling down the man's arm. It was the footman I had noticed yesterday, although somewhat less smug now he had been so unceremoniously caught. 

Together we manhandled him while he glared and swore ferociously at us; by the time we had succeeded in completely quietening the man, Holmes had long since disappeared. 

Mackenzie, upon being satisfied that he no longer posed a threat, was off like a shot down the hallway; Mr. Manders looked at me, half nervous, half confused and I was torn between following my instincts (and therefore Mackenzie), or staying behind to keep watch of the man.

The sound of doors opening made up my mind for me, and with an apologetic glance at Mr. Manders, I quickly made my exit, leaving the poor man to deal with Lord Amersteth and his son.