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It was a quiet, dreary Saturday morning. I'd just got home from running some errands and was about to head into the kitchen when Sherlock accosted me.
"John, good, glad you're home. We have a client."
I dropped the bags on the counter and stepped into the sitting room, where I immediately noticed a thatch of the most shockingly red hair I'd ever seen. Sherlock introduced me to Mr. Jabez Wilson, aspiring actor and owner of the offensive ginger locks. Nearly everything about him looked false, from the tan on his face to the veneers on his teeth, but I'd never seen hair that red come from a bottle, and there were no roots. His eyelashes and eyebrows seemed to match too, so I could only assume it was natural.
"Mr. Wilson here has approached us with a rather... singular problem." The look on Sherlock's face was positively impish, and I could tell he was doing his best to hold back laughter. I sat down on the edge of the coffee table and nodded at Mr. Wilson. Sherlock gesticulated eloquently with his hand, encouraging him.
"Please. Mr. Wilson, tell us your story again."
He frowned and looked up at me, but Sherlock was undeterred.
"John here needs to hear it, and it’ll do me some good to listen again."
Running a stubby hand through that improbable hair, he took a deep breath and began relating his strange tale.
“Well, I’d always wanted to be an actor. It’s silly, I know. I’m too old, and too thick around the middle, but I’ve been working on it. Going to the gym, getting a tan… I’m tired of being unemployed. I bought a townhouse in that trendy new Saxe-Cobourg subdivision right before I lost my job, and it wasn't cheap.” It would have taken a lot more than a few rounds at the gym to get him into acting, but I didn’t say as much.
"Mm, I imagine Freemasonry doesn't pay terribly well." Sherlock's voice was barbed, and Wilson let out a strangled gasp.
"How did you know?"
Sherlock pointed to the signet ring on his right hand. "That's the Masonic compass. Not exactly discreet. Don't they frown upon that sort of thing, being a secret society and all?" Wilson flushed, but Sherlock merely gestured with his hand. “Please, do go on."
He regained his composure, twiddled with the ring for a moment, and continued his monologue.
“So then a few weeks ago, a new man moved into the house adjacent to mine. Said his name was Vincent Spaulding, I remember that. Anyway, he and I were chatting in the lift, and he mentioned to me that he’d seen a casting call looking for natural redheads. Well, I thought, I finally have a chance at this one! So I thanked him profusely and took down the info.
“When I got to the audition I was a bit worried. There were lots of younger, more attractive men waiting around but none of them had quite as gingery hair as mine, you know? When I was little everyone teased me about it but it’s a matter of pride in my family.
“So anyway, when my turn finally comes around and I meet with two guys in suits. Official-looking types, you know? Producers or something. And they have me read a few lines, and I’m expecting to go home, when they clap their hands and tell me I’m hired.”
Sherlock made one of his patented scoffing noises at this point, and interrupted the flow of Mr. Wilson’s story. I was about to apologise on his behalf (since Lord knows he’d never do it himself!) when that flaming head of red hair bobbed in agreement.
“I know, I was just as shocked. But I figured maybe it was time for my big break! They told me to come in the next morning for screen tests, and I did.
“But that’s when things started to get a bit odd. For the past six weeks, that’s all I’ve done! Screen tests! I sit in a room with a cameraman and read lines off a prompter. I’ve not seen the producers again, I’ve not interacted with any other actors, nothing. At the end of the day there’s always an envelope waiting for me with £200 in it, and it’s easy work so I wasn’t asking any questions, but this morning when I went to start work, the entire warehouse was empty!”
Now things were starting to make sense. What an odd job, and why had they all vanished? Encouragingly, I asked him what he thought.
“So, you’re worried something has happened to them?”
“Hell no, I just want to continue my job. It was stupidly easy work, I was getting paid far better than my benefits were giving me, and it was finally a way to break into the acting world. We signed a contract! They had no right to do this to me!”
"Yes, how impolite of them." Sherlock's voice was laced with sarcasm, but Mr. Wilson was apparently too riled up to notice. He nodded indignantly, as Sherlock kept going. "Can you spare a moment to tell us a bit more about Mr. Spaulding?"
Wilson seemed eager to please. He described him in detail, right down to the helpful addition of a white scarred mark on his forehead. At this point, I could see Sherlock’s shoulders shaking with barely-suppressed mirth. But at the same time, his eyes had that familiar gleam in them; I could tell he had an idea. Rather than alienate our client, I stepped in.
“Well, Mr. Wilson. This is definitely an odd one. Sherlock and I will be happy to look into this for you. Please keep yourself available, and we’ll contact you if we need any further information.”
He stood up, puffing heavily, and nodding that absurd red head of his, and shook both our hands. Sherlock didn’t even bother getting up, but I escorted Mr. Wilson to the door and saw him down the stairs. When I came back into the sitting room, Sherlock was nearly vibrating with amusement and excitement.
“Well, that’s an especially odd one. Surprised you wanted to take it, Sherlock. What’s up?" I walked across the sitting room and sat in my armchair, facing Sherlock. He cocked his head at me, looking for all the world like a curious crow.
"John, it's been my experience that the stranger something seems on the surface, the more straightforward it actually is. It's the ones that seem boring at first that end up being the most interesting. Nonetheless, I do need to give this the bulk of my attention right now, and quite quickly."
I nodded. "So what are you going to do?"
"I am going to think." He folded himself up into his chair, chin resting on his knees. At that point, Sherlock slapped several nicotine patches onto his arm. He knows how much I hate it, but it was, as he put it, another 'three patch problem.'
I left him in peace and headed into the kitchen to put away the the shopping, which had been left abandoned on the table when I got home. I had just about finished - after moving a container of human teeth out of the pantry - when I felt Sherlock looming behind me. He put his hands on my shoulders and spun me around, grinning into my face.
"Come, John. I'd like to go for a walk."
"But what about the case?" He just waved his hand irritably, as if the case were the furthest thing from his mind right now. I could tell there was no point in arguing so I grabbed my jacket off the chair where I'd left it and followed him out the door.
We'd been ambling along in quiet companionship for a while when we came across a street performer, and Sherlock strode over, that damned coat of his flapping intently. One of the things I admire about him is that when it comes to music, all he cares about is talent. He ignores reviews, he couldn't care less about credit or acclaim. If someone is skilled, he'll listen. I may not know much about violin playing, but it was obvious this kid was good.
Sherlock stood, transfixed, as the young man in the scruffy clothes drew the bow furiously across the strings. I could see his fingers moving as if he were playing along, and the sublime smile on his face was something I rarely get to see. It was worth the detour.
As he drew out the last note and took a little bow, Sherlock turned to me and murmured. "Le Rêve, by Sarasate. One of my favourites." He stepped forward and dropped a 50 pound note into the busker's case. Fifty pounds! Needed a flatmate, can't do the grocery shopping, but he's actively encouraging the youth of tomorrow, apparently.
I just rolled my eyes and followed him as he walked away. We'd reached a quaint little complex of new townhouses, but the type that are meant to look old and Victorian. The illusion was shattered by the internet website storage provider on the corner. I looked around and noticed a tasteful little wrought iron sign over the gate of the complex. Saxe-Cobourg Square. No wonder we'd ended up here; of course Sherlock's aimless little jaunt was nothing but.
I looked up at him. "We've found the place where he lives. We don't have his house number though. Why are we here?"
Sherlock raised one brow and grinned shrewdly at me. "You don't, but I do." He pulled an envelope out of his pocket. It was an invoice from British Telecom, addressed to Mr. Jabez Wilson.
"Sherlock! Did you steal that from him?" I'm not even sure why I asked; I already knew the answer.
"It fell out of his coat. I'm merely borrowing it. See?" At that, Sherlock checked the house number, confirming it was the unit at the end of the row, right next to the internet place. He walked up and dropped the letter into the post-box at the door. It's what he did next that confused me immensely. Rather than coming back down to the sidewalk, he stalked across the small, neatly manicured lawn to the house next door, jumped up onto the front porch, and rang the doorbell.
For a moment there was no answer, and I was hoping we'd get to go back home, but just as Sherlock was about to leave, someone opened the door. He was a man of indeterminate age, and he seemed friendly enough.
Sherlock put on one of his best shamming grins, and suddenly shifted into an affable, slightly confused tourist. "So sorry to bother you, but my friend and I have got a bit lost, we're trying to find our way to the Strand?"
The man at the door looked a bit confused, but he shrugged and pointed in the right general direction. I had no idea what Sherlock was up to, he bloody well knows where the Strand is, but I figured he had a plan so I kept my mouth shut. He thanked the man and nodded, and bounded down the stairs as the door closed behind us.
"What the hell was that all about, Sherlock?"
He shrugged. "Just confirming a theory."
"Oh, and what theory is that?" He was being elusive again, which always makes me nervous.
"That we're dealing with one of the most dangerous men in London."
At this point I'm sure I looked completely perplexed. "How do you figure?"
"His trousers. The knees and hems. Also, I've dealt with him before."
I gave up trying to get any more information out of him as a lost cause at this point. My stomach gave an irritated rumble and I realised I hadn't eaten all day, so I turned to Sherlock.
"Alright then, Mr. Mysterious. I don't know about you, but I'm starving. What do you say to some dinner?"
He checked the time on his phone, as if he had some appointment I didn't know about, but nodded.
"We've got time. Thai?"
"Time? Do we have somewhere to be?"
He just gave me another insufferably smug grin and took off down the street, so I followed him. It's not as if I had any choice in the matter.
We sat at a table near the front window of the restaurant, mulling over a plate of green curry with fish (I'd ordered it, Sherlock just kept stealing off my plate). Sherlock kept me amused by deducing the patrons and staff of the restaurant.
"Look at that terrible home dye job; she's worried her husband is going to leave her for a younger woman. He's fighting with his boyfriend - he's not ready to come out to his family yet and the boyfriend is convinced he's embarrassed. That man's been embezzling from his job for a few weeks now; his boss called him here for a dinner meeting and he's petrified they're going to call him out."
I didn't even bother asking how he'd figured it all out; I had other things on my mind. In an attempt to distract him, I decided to breach the subject of our case again.
"So what was the purpose of that little detour anyway?"
Sherlock seemed more relaxed now, but still reticent to explain himself.
"I felt that Wilson's new neighbour -"
"Vincent Spaulding?" I interrupted, because sometimes that's the only way to get a word in edgewise.
"Not entirely. I felt he merited a little visit, and it was thoroughly enlightening."
"But you're not going to tell me why, are you?" I jabbed irritably at a hunk of sea bass with my fork.
Rather than answer, Sherlock merely pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent a couple of texts before stealing another chunk of my food.
By the time I'd finished eating, the sun had set, and Sherlock was starting to fidget impatiently. I was about to snap at him, ask him what his problem was, when he looked directly at me. He looked almost startled, as if he'd forgotten I was there.
"John! Do you have your gun with you?"
At this point I rarely go anywhere without it, so I merely nodded. He steepled his fingers under his chin and cast a scrutinising gaze over me.
"Good. Hopefully you won't need it, but it's always better to be prepared."
"Prepared for what?" I snapped at him, but I knew better than to expect an answer. He threw a twenty pound note onto the table and stood up with a flourish, leaving me to muddle along behind him. Sometimes I'm not sure why I even bother. I had the sinking suspicion I knew exactly where we were going.
A quick walk in the hazy twilight brought us back to the Saxe-Cobourg complex, where Sherlock marched confidently up to Jabez Wilson's front door and rapped imperiously on it with his knuckles. He snorted irritably and turned his head just in time for me to notice DI Lestrade and a man I didn't recognise striding up the pathway. He was thickset but in a muscular way, with a ruddy, avuncular face and a shaved head.
"Excellent, everyone's finally here."
Lestrade glowered at Sherlock. "You sent me a text saying 8 pm. It's 7:57. You make it sound like I'm late."
His expression plainly said You weren't here at the same time I was so you're late but I elbowed him lightly in the ribs and he kept his mouth shut.
I could see Wilson's flaming red hair approaching the door through the sidelight window, clearly he was home. A quick glance at Sherlock assured me that he'd been hoping this was the case. He was virtually vibrating with excitement as Wilson swung the door open warily. He was dressed in an expensive but ill-fitting suit and a revolting purple tie that clashed hideously with his hair. His manner seemed impatient, like he was eager to be rid of us.
"Hello, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. And you are?" He cocked his head, looking at Lestrade and the mystery man. I knew waiting for Sherlock to introduce us was a lost cause, so I stepped in.
"Mr. Jabez Wilson, this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard. And this is..." I gestured to the mystery man, hoping he'd introduce himself. Thankfully, he obliged.
"Ted Selders. Just call me Ted. I'm a security guard at UnitColo. Mr. Holmes sent my boss Mr. Merryweather a text earlier today. No idea why I'm here, but orders is orders."
Lestrade nodded sympathetically. "That's usually how it works with Sherlock. You get some vague summons, you show up, he does his thing. It's all a bit strange, but it works. Right, John?" He flashed me a conspiratorial grin and I couldn't help but laugh.
I turned to look at Sherlock, who was standing impatiently in the hallway.
"Mr. Wilson, at any point did you give your neighbour, Vincent Spaulding, access to your townhouse?"
"Vincent? But why? What does he have to do with anything?"
"Just answer the question!" Sherlock very nearly shouted, and Wilson jumped to attention, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. His cheeks were so flushed they were very nearly the colour of his hair, which made his tie look all more the ill-suited.
"Yes, yes. He has a key to the back door, he's been doing minor repairs around the house for me. We share a small connecting courtyard. Now, if you don't mind, I was getting ready to go out to the theatre. Vincent gave me a ticket, he thinks I don't get out enough and felt bad that I lost the job he helped me find."
Sherlock had that look on his face, the one he gets where everything is falling into place, everything is supporting the theory he's formed in his mind. His eyes go all wide and he looks almost like a little kid. It would be adorable if it were anyone else. He gave a triumphant shout and stormed back out the door without another word to Wilson. I turned to apologise to him.
Sherlock clapped Selders on the shoulder as he walked by. "Come, come, we need to get inside the server farm. You too, Lestrade." He didn't call me, but he rarely does. He seems to just function on the assumption that I'll be there whenever he needs me.
Ted Selders looked confused, but clearly he'd been told to cater to Sherlock's whims. He led us to the front office and disabled an alarm system and then inserted a small key into a panel in the wall and summoned a lift. As soon as the doors opened, Sherlock strode in as if he owned the place, and we followed. He'd pushed the button for the basement, and turned to Selders.
"I assume the actual server bays are down here, where the climate can be more carefully controlled?"
The guard nodded, clearly just as lost as the rest of us. Once the lift descended, Sherlock marched out and headed straight for the back wall. Methodically, he started tapping the wall with his fingers, clearly looking for something. He must have found it, because after a minute or so he let out an excited exclamation and beckoned us all over.
"Quickly, John, help me move this shelf. Lestrade, go turn the lights out."
Shrugging, we did as we were told, carefully sliding one of the server racks to the side without disconnecting anything. Selders paced around the unit, frowning.
"That should have been bolted to the floor."
Once there was enough of a gap for Sherlock to wriggle into, he crawled in and yelped gleefully. He worked his way back out, carrying a large panel of plasterboard. It left a trail of dust on his clothes, and I had an epiphany. I'd seen traces like that before, not a few hours ago, on Vincent Spaulding's trousers. Suddenly everything started making more sense.
Sherlock gestured for Selders and Lestrade to come see what he'd discovered. Selders gasped, and Lestrade let out a low whistle.
"So what do we do now?" Selders looked nervous, and was fiddling with his mobile phone.
Sherlock strode purposefully across the dim room and dragged a chair from the desk at the back wall to the hole he'd uncovered and dropped himself into it. "Now, we wait."
For a while, we all sat in silence, not entirely sure what we were waiting for. Well, none of us save Sherlock, of course. In the dim haze of the blinking green and yellow lights, I caught him staring intently at me again. It used to creep me out but lately I find I don't mind it. I grinned at him and he looked away; back to concentrating on the case, I suppose.
After about half an hour of contemplative quiet, Ted Selders sighed. "If I'd known we'd be stuck in here all night I’d have brought a deck of cards. I'm skipping poker night for this."
Something about his complaint must have finally stirred the orator in Sherlock, because he sat up and held a hand in the air, as if he was about to make a huge pronouncement.
"If it's excitement or money you're looking for, I assure you'll have more tonight than a poker game ever would have earnt you."
Sensing we were finally going to hear what had been going on in that great head of his, we all hushed up and stared at Sherlock. I nodded slightly, encouraging him to keep going.
"I fully expect that sometime before Jabez Wilson returns home tonight, we will have a visit here from a Mr. John Clay. John, you met him earlier, when we paid a visit to Wilson's neighbour."
"Spaulding?" I asked. Sherlock smirked and nodded at me. "The very same. The Masonic ring got me thinking about it, I know Clay had some less-than-respectable ties to the Masons. So when Wilson told me about the scar on his helpful neighbour’s forehead, I suspected it was Clay using an alias. I dropped by to visit to prove my theory. Clay is an incredibly clever, incredibly ruthless man. He's very well-educated and well-connected, and while I've indirectly crossed paths with him in the past, those connections saved his hide. I'm looking forward to springing this trap on him."
"Alright, alright, we know you're a bloody genius." Lestrade interrupted. "But why are we here?"
Sherlock fixed his gaze on Selders. "If I'm not mistaken, your company has taken on a new client recently. There was an article in the newspaper about the Credit Lyonnais opening some local branches, and needing to improve their online banking presence in the UK. Not to mention the other financial institutions who rent space from you here. In this day and age, with high-level encryption and redundant security measures, cybercrime has got increasingly difficult. If you can't sneak in through the back door, as it were, why not just steal the whole house?
"The acting job was simply a clever ruse to get Wilson - a conveniently naive patsy - out of the house while Clay worked on clearing out a tunnel to this very room. He was down there under the guise of doing handyman work, so Wilson never would have suspected anything from the strange tools or plaster dust in the area at the end of the day. I surmise that he installed a hidden doorway behind a bookshelf or something of that nature, a quick investigation there when we're done will confirm my theory."
There was a sharp intake of breath as Lestrade began to understand the implications. "So he's going to steal these..." he looked around, at a loss for words. "Boxes?"
"Boxes filled with highly sensitive personal and commercial banking information." I added in. Sherlock grinned at me again, and I felt a flush of pride heat my cheeks. Suddenly I was very thankful for the relative darkness of the room.
“Even if they have a server downtime alert, which they invariably do, it will take the team in charge at least a couple of minutes to get here. At which point Clay, and the units, will be long gone.” Sherlock added.
The security guard's eyes were wide, shining even in the low light. He stared admiringly at Sherlock. "My boss is going to be incredibly grateful for this, Mr. Holmes."
I was expecting a snarky retort from Sherlock, but instead he held a finger to his lips, imploring us all to be silent. It was at that point that I heard a faint scuffling coming from the tunnel, and saw the bobbing of a torch coming closer. Sherlock gestured silently to DI Lestrade and the two of them flanked the doorway made by the missing panel.
It wasn't long before we were nearly blinded by the beam of his torch as he approached the opening. There was a shock of exclamation from the tunnel, clearly he hadn't been expecting this end to be open, but he burst through anyway. Sherlock reached out and grabbed him by the wrist, pinning his arm painfully behind his back.
"Vincent Spaulding, or should I say John Clay?”
As my eyes readjusted to the light, I could see the look of shock and dismay on Clay's face as he realised his plan had been foiled. Something about his face jarred some memory within me, but I couldn't quite place it. Clay helpfully filled in the blanks.
"Don't you know who I am?" He shouted. "Wait 'til I tell Prince Harry about this!" Suddenly, it clicked. I'd seen him in some tabloid rags; part of the younger Highness's drunken entourage at a fancy-dress party.
For all we knew though, he'd just happened to be in the right place at the right time, and had no real connection to the Royal family. Thankfully Lestrade was having none of it. He smacked Clay with the butt of his pistol.
"I don't care if you're the bloody Queen Herself. Shut up, you're under arrest."
Finally giving it up as a lost cause, Clay dropped to his knees and held still long enough for Lestrade to cuff his hands behind his back.
"How did you figure it out?" He cast his head around, looking at each of us in turn. When he got to Sherlock, a mask of fury distorted his face. "YOU! I thought I recognised you when you rang my doorbell yesterday." He rattled his hands against their restraints, trying to reach out to Sherlock who just glared disdainfully at Clay and took a step back.
Lestrade escorted him up the lift and out into a car he had waiting outside. Ted Selders was still hovering by us, staring at Sherlock with admiration.
"Mr. Holmes, I'm sure my boss will want to reward you somehow for this."
Sherlock shrugged. "I do this for the challenge, not for the money." Thankfully, one of us has more common sense than the other, so I handed Selders a card with my name on it and told him to ask his boss to make the cheque out to me. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he'll be happy when the rent is paid and there's food on the table, even if he claims he never eats.
When we got home, I settled down in my chair with a glass of Ardbeg, waiting for Sherlock to regale me with a more in-depth story of how he did it. It’s become part of our ritual, after we get home, he’ll tell me all the details nobody else cared about. He dropped into his armchair with a thud and grinned impishly at me.
“So go on then.” I toasted him with my glass, encouraging him to go on.
“It was obvious from the get-go.” He said, eyes shining. “That whole nonsense about the acting role was so utterly ridiculous, it had to have been a front for something else. Clay needed a way to get Wilson out of the house, so he had a friend help him concoct that absurd scenario. No doubt Wilson’s ginger locks were the inspiration for that particular stroke of genius.” He looked pensive, almost admiring, and I rolled my eyes at him.
“Alright, very impressive. But how did you figure out what Clay was actually playing at?”
His face darkened for a moment. “At first I suspected something as dull and vulgar as an adulterous partner, but a quick analysis of Wilson’s clothing, his personal hygiene, and general attitude led me to concur that he lived alone. He’s unemployed, and so not likely to have any fancy electronics or possessions worth stealing. Ruling out all the more logical possibilities, I was left to concur that Clay was using his house as a base for something. The tunnel was just conjecture at first, but the visit cleared all that up.”
He gave me that smug look I’ve come to be familiar with, the one that says Go on, ask me. I indulged.
“And how, exactly, did you figure that bit out?”
Sherlock pursed his lips and steepled his fingers under his chin. “The state of his trousers told me everything I needed to know. They were rumpled and covered in plaster dust and concrete rubble. It also took him far longer to get to his front door than it should have – I suspect he had some kind of intercom or monitor with him in Wilson’s basement. As soon as he heard the doorbell he would have had to run out the back of Wilson’s house, into his own, and to the front door. Seeing the server colocator next door made me realise what the target was. At that point I remembered the news article about the Credit Lyonnais business and it fit my theory.”
I whistled. I hadn’t noticed any of that, and I suspect nobody else would have. Except Sherlock, of course. “But how did you know he’d be at it tonight?”
He waved a long-fingered hand in the air. “That was easy. The fact that Wilson’s mysterious acting job was cancelled suddenly made it clear that the tunnel was finished. Clay had no reason to keep him out of his house any longer.
“Tonight seemed most logical, since the colocator is closed for the weekend, except for minor security and hardware emergencies. Nobody would notice the missing rack immediately. Wilson confirmed it when he told me that ‘Vincent’ had arranged to have him out of the house for the evening.”
Suddenly it all seemed so straightforward, so logical, that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t figured it out myself. But then, Sherlock makes everything look effortless.
“Sherlock, that’s absolutely brilliant.” The words slipped out of my mouth before I realised what I was saying, but it didn’t make them any less true.
He slunk down into his chair, suddenly humble. “It kept me from being bored for a day, at least.”
I chuckled quietly and grinned at him. “Such noble motives.”
He scowled at me. “You’d just better hope I get something else tomorrow. Or you’ll have to entertain me.”
I emptied my drink and put my hand over my chest, feigning a dramatic reaction. “Fate worse than death, that is.”