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“…simply adorable, of course,” Mrs. Gregson was saying. Holmes ducked the wide gestures emphasizing the young one’s mischievous ploy. “He knows the pose sometimes lets him get away with trouble, the little rascal, so we have to hide our amusement until he’s out of the room.”
As most young ones did. Holmes had noticed the same among the Irregulars, both at home and when they Ran the streets. Several times, he had seen one of the littles easily distract the target while an older child lifted a few coins from his pocket, and the adult rarely noticed. The plan had forced Holmes to have a talk with them more than once about only taking what they needed and only from those who would not miss the currency. They hardly wanted to make another young one go hungry in their quest to feed themselves.
Not that the tangent mattered at the Yard’s Christmas party, however. He shoved the thought aside to inspect a small scuff on the floor, then wandered toward the next group.
“Someone in here has lost an item,” Watson had said. “They do not know that they are missing something, but the thief hid the stolen item somewhere in this or a neighboring room. Identify both item and thief, and find the item, before the party ends to solve the case.”
In the absence of the disturbance that would arise when the target noticed their item missing, Holmes had taken to checking the typical hiding places and tracking movement around the room. More than one scuff along the walls could not have come from an adult, but with this being a rented room, the scuffs could have come from anyone—at any time. He would find nothing more from them, so a winding path moved from group to group, listening to conversations, interjecting where he could, and generally watching for rumpled clothing or missing jewelry. Nearly half the party had already slipped away, and he had found nothing.
There.
A sudden break in conversation pulled his attention to the group against the far wall. One of the constable’s wives frowned at a slip of paper, then showed it to Gregson. Gregson laughed, said something, and the paper disappeared once more. That probably had something to do with this “case.”
Now how to get that paper?
He could ask, of course, but he did not remember the woman’s name. That sounded singularly awkward. ‘Hello, I did not bother to learn your name, but can I read the note in your pocket?’
Not a good idea. Watson had warned him more than once that the lack of social graces that people tolerated when desperate for him to solve a crime would get him scorned in other situations, and the effort to learn her name from someone else at the party—probably Watson—did not negate the awkwardness of the question.
A glance confirmed the Irregulars’ absence. He had not seen them all night, which usually meant that the door security had not fallen for the “my pa’s in there” that had worked so well the other year. He could not ask them to steal it for him, Watson would tell him to ask her, so Holmes could not go to him, either, and Lestrade would refuse to help solve Holmes’ “case.”
Which meant he would have to steal it himself. At least she had shoved it into her purse. Holmes kept her in sight as he drifted across the room, snacked from the buffet table, and grabbed a miniature pie. He used the small dessert as a reason to watch his hands instead of the people around him on his way closer to where she now spoke with another wife. A noise behind him caught her attention, and he looked as well even as he solidly put himself in her path. His last bite of pie splatted the floor as one hand slipped into the purse and the other kept her upright.
“My apologies.” The paper disappeared into his pocket though he kept his eyes on her. “I looked away at just the wrong moment. Are you alright?”
The unexpected contact had clearly startled her, but a faint smile appeared the next moment.
“I’m fine, Mr. Holmes, and I was not watching, either. Are you enjoying the party?”
He was enjoying the case, though he would never admit as much to Watson. The dropped pie got him out of the exchange of small talk after only a couple of minutes, and once he cleaned up his mess—Watson would scold if he left it to be trampled—he took himself to the other side of the large room to read his clue.
“Your fan will be returned at the end of the night,” Frankie’s handwriting informed him. “Please don’t announce the loss until half an hour before the party ends. P.S. Our resident consulting detective enjoys parties a lot more when there’s a case involved.”
He searched for a lady’s fan, then, though Frankie had probably not done the thievery. That boy focused far too much on the example he set for Gabe to ever practice such a dishonest skill. Besides, the handprint on the woman’s parasol in the corner strongly suggested young Oliver. That boy had nearly gotten himself into an unfortunately permanent amount of trouble multiple times, and several conversations had outlined the difference between the free-for-all his former “home” had encouraged, what he should do, and what the Irregulars could do when needed. To his credit, the boy had learned quickly.
Though Holmes had more than once caught the boy honing his skills by picking pockets then immediately returning what he took. He could have easily stolen more than just that woman’s fan. Holmes only had to figure out where Oliver had hidden the item.
Considering the sheer number of nooks and cubbies around this room, this might take a while.