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After five years as Iris’s sole caregiver, Sherlock had come to the begrudging conclusion that her needs were fast outpacing what he was equipped to provide. He had many an area of expertise; however, Iris’s interests did not always align with his own, and he was running out of subjects to teach her. Instruction in etiquette, for one. He could easily lead by example, and had been thus far, but the first time Sherlock had felt compelled to prompt Iris to append a “please” to her questions had given him such alarming whiplash that sent him directly to his desk to dash an anxious letter off to Japan.
The eventual reply had been both teasing and a comfort and suggested that it would not be beyond his means to seek out a woman for the role of governess. A day school was out of the question, of course. Sherlock wished to give Iris all the freedoms he could, and the thought of putting her through the same searing boredom and strictures he had endured in the classroom made his stomach turn. And yet, there were manners a young lady ought to know, after all, and though Sherlock could demonstrate the art of selectively deploying social graces, he was perhaps not to be counted on to instill them.
He would have vetted and interviewed dozens of candidates alone before presenting Iris with the perfect companion for her education if not for the ever-present voice in his heart that often steered him against his impulses, particularly in matters to do with Iris’s upbringing. You aren’t the one who will be spending hours at a time in her company, his heart thrummed, so shouldn’t you let her have a say in the final decision?
That September, after much discussion between them, he and Iris agreed to advertise for a governess. With Iris consulting the columns in the paper to decide which traits she wanted, they worked together to draft an ad of their own:
“Daily governess wanted for bright young girl (5). Well-educated and good-humoured, writing, arithmetic, sciences. Good pay. Send full particulars and refs. to—”
“But Hurley, that’s not where we live!” Iris had pointed out during proofreading, “That’s Uncle Mykie’s house.”
Sherlock snapped his fingers in confirmation. “Excellently spotted, my dear. Indeed it is.”
Which was, ultimately, what lead them to the situation at hand.
“Jane Eyre? That’s quite the large book for a little girl, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, it isn’t heavy,” said Iris. “And Hurley made me pockets and I can put the book in easy, too, look!” She slid off the settee to demonstrate. “See? I bet you you’d never have guessed it was there.”
Their latest applicant was one Miss Collingwood, originally from Cheshire, who came with excellent references and had recently left the home of a respectable family with two sets of twin daughters. She had passed Iris’s first round of questioning with unremarkable yet unobjectionable answers during which Sherlock could deduce nothing more interesting about the woman other than she was suffering through a long engagement with some fool she believed she was in love with.
“That’s very nice.” Miss Collingwood glanced Sherlock’s way, possibly anticipating he would interject to moderate his ward, but no such interference came as he stood near the mantle attentively examining its knickknacks. Finding no lifeline, she returned her focus to the child. “I more meant to comment on the subject matter of your book. Do you not find it somewhat hard to understand for a girl your age?”
Iris, now preoccupied with testing out the effect twirling had on the drape of her weighted pockets, answered without looking. “Why? Haven’t you read it?”
“Not…recently, I do confess.” Her indulgent smile was beginning to wane. “The girls I used to look after adored the Fairy Books and such like.”
“Jane Eyre has girls my age in it,” Iris explained. “The whole first part is from when she’s a girl at a really dreadful boarding school, which I think made her up into a rather boring lady, but she gets better later, and it makes sense if you know these things about her first.”
Miss Collingwood seemed eminently out of her depth, and her confidence was obviously fast escaping her hold like the final seconds of sand in an hourglass. “My, what a…spirited girl you are.”
Iris quit fluttering her skirt at this remark. She considered Miss Collingwood with a characteristic tilt of her head and a scrutinising gaze well beyond her five years. “You don’t want to be here, do you?” She asked. “You don’t want to be my teacher, not really, because you think I don’t behave properly. You probably think I’m too smart, smarter than you are, and you wouldn’t know what to do with me.”
“I do beg your pardon—”
“Hurley,” Iris called to her guardian, crossing her arms in a huff. “Mackerel.”
Miss Collingwood could make nothing of this, but Sherlock readily took the meaning. “Mackerel, indeed, Iris. I quite agree.” He began the shuffling motions of escorting their visitor out. “You must excuse us, Miss Collingwood, but we have several appointments lined up for the day. I wish you the greatest of luck in your job hunting endeavours.”
Sherlock had initially been relieved when his brother had handed over a limited shortlist of candidates, but now having exhausted most of them, he felt only frustration at the thought of going through all this fuss once again. He was not in the least inclined to settle on any of the women either, for he had agreed with Iris’s assessment of each applicant that lead to their being struck from further consideration. Miss Glazier had been patronising and a polite liar, Miss Dumal never smiled and would only address Sherlock, and Miss Kunst had a funny laugh and smelled like paint and paste. Miss Collingwood was perhaps the closest they would come to someone serviceable, but if Iris could not tolerate her, then he would not have her stay.
As their latest interview once again ended early, Sherlock and Iris found themselves with an unplanned stretch of time at their disposal. They spent it lazing together on the settee, slouched into each other’s sides.
“Hurley?”
“Yes, dear girl?”
“Why do we have to have a governess for me? I like when you teach me things.”
Five years in each other’s company, and he still grew ever more fond each day. “Now, whoever said that I would be stopping? Just because you have a governess does not mean you are released from the ever-important lessons of a great detective!” A playful pinch to her ribs elicited a peal of giggles. “But truthfully, Iris, finding you a governess is about diversifying your education. For all the things I may be able to teach you, there are twice as many facts that neither of us should ever be aware of were we to continue on as we are for the rest of our days.”
“Why don’t you get a governess too, then?”
“Ha! I say, that is quite the idea. However, your Uncle Mycroft has only promised to pay for your education and not my own.”
Iris sighed heavily and deflated further into cushions. They lapsed into silence for another two minutes.
“Hurley?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“Do you think my questions are silly?”
Sherlock suspected he knew what she meant by this, but he had well learned by now that the mind of a five-year-old, Iris’s especially, followed a unique kind of logic, and it was wiser to clarify. “Kindly elaborate for me?”
She hugged his arm, pressing her cheek against his bicep. “Are my interview questions silly? All of them have laughed or been upset when I ask, but I think the answers are important!”
“I see.” He recalled her being quite proud of her questions—Do you like music? Do you like tea, and if so, how do you prefer it? Do you like cats?—when she had submitted them to him for approval. He let his head fall to rest gently atop hers while he took a moment to consult with his heart for what to say. Soon, he answered, “Based on the evidence we’ve observed, I dare say your questions have fulfilled their intended objective, wouldn’t you agree?”
“How’s that? No one’s gotten them right at all.”
“Ah, but that is precisely my point. Your questions have served their purpose as a litmus test that reveals to us each candidate’s true character. It is all the better that we discover early on in the interview that we are dealing with an unsuitable match, yes?”
“Oh,” said Iris, “yes, I see. That’s good, then. And you’re sure my questions aren’t too silly?”
Sherlock patted her knee. “I think your questions are exactly the correct measure of silly. If you were to choose a governess with no tolerance at all for silliness, I am afraid I would be forced to object. Why, silliness is practically an essential nutrient for the young mind.” He tossed back his head in a dramatic feint of despair. “Oh, I shudder to even think what would become of you, were you to be deprived of humour, doomed to become dull and predictable—like your Uncle Mycroft.”
Iris gasped theatrically, then yielded to a fit of spring-like laughter while her dutiful guardian smiled on.
With their debrief thus concluded, the residents of 221B soon grew restless waiting for their next appointment. Sherlock took to his desk to continue sketching diagrams for a new idea of his. Iris sat at a child-sized table beside him, tiny goggles secured over her eyes, work gloves fitted snugly on her small hands, beakers and canisters arranged at the ready while a petite kettle steadily came to a boil over her Bunsen burner. When the kettle began the whistle, Sherlock reached over and shut off the gas. Iris then lifted it and poured the boiling water—under careful supervision—into an equally-small teapot filled with the day’s herbal preparation of choice: peppermint.
At nearly the same moment Iris clicked her stopwatch, the doorbell trilled. Iris looked up, her eyes wide behind her goggles, but Sherlock calmly motioned for her to stay put. “If that is our next challenger, Mrs. Hudson will see her up. Keep a close eye on your stopwatch there; this could be an excellent chance to put your second question into action.”
Two sets of footsteps on the stairs informed them that Sherlock was right. Mrs. Hudson opened the door to the sitting room. “A Miss Edna Casion here to see you, dears.”
The woman who entered was short, even in her sturdy heeled boots, and wore her hair plaited into a tidy bun. She was smartly dressed in a skirt and jacket of brown stuff, but not, Iris observed, the sort that was rough and stained easily.
“Hello, madam,” Sherlock said. He stood to welcome her in. “I am Sherlock Holmes and this budding scientist here is the prospective pupil, Iris. Forgive us if we do seem in mellow spirits; it’s been a hectic day.”
“No, of course, I can imagine,” said the woman. Her keen eyes took in the busy sitting room as one would a picture gallery. As she approached Iris’s workbench, she indicated to the second miniature seat at the table. “May I?”
Iris glanced up briefly before returning to keep a careful eye on her stopwatch. “You may.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Casion. She perched on the child-sized chair and folded her hands in her lap. “I hope I’ve not interrupted your experiment.”
“Not really. I’ve only just started timing. It’s almost to three.”
“Oh?”
“And…now!” Iris declared. She picked up the teapot and carefully poured the brew through a sieve into a small beaker until it was half full. Then she set the beaker aside and put an empty one in its place. “I do the next one at five minutes, then at seven, then at nine, and that’s when I run out of tea, so I stop there.”
Miss Casion listened attentively. “That’s a very orderly procedure you’ve devised. What is it you are testing for, if I may ask?”
Iris visibly brightened, eager to explain. “It was my idea! Well, really, Hurley said I should try it, but I came up with how to do it on my own. Did you know that different teas will taste different the longer you wait to pour them? I want to find just the right time to get the best taste!”
“How intriguing,” Miss Casion said, and Iris believed she meant it. “Do watch your time, there. You’re coming up on the five minute mark.”
Sherlock watched them from across the room as he smoked by the open window. He gathered from her affect with Iris that Miss Casion likely had younger siblings or perhaps nieces and nephews. She must be of an academic family, too, to not be taken aback by Iris’s age relative to her scientific activities. A woman of science herself, then? Definitely a scientist father, at least, and a moderately successful one at that. He must have a position of some standing but one that still involved daily work. Not a hobbyist then. A professor? No, too prestigious and detached. Curator? Most probable. Had he heard the name before? No matter. She didn’t strictly need this income to live, then, although it would go far to fund her own research. Her clothing was of a good quality but made for longevity over fashion, possibly pointing to a manual field. He thought he had detected a whiff of fresh soil earlier, though he could hardly be certain with the scent of tobacco and tea in the room. Slight signs of dirt on her boots, but nothing fresh and no stains on the hem either. Her cuffs, though…from this distance it was too difficult to tell. Light-colored gloves further suggested fastidiousness even as they annoyingly concealed other tells like calluses and dirt under fingernails. When his eyes could tell him no more, Sherlock returned his attention to the conversation.
“Have you read any on the subject of the different chemical compositions? It may be possible to chart a relationship between certain elements in the herbs and the most favourable steeping conditions.”
“Really? Do you think so?”
“I’m certainly no expert, but I suspect one could find something on the subject in the British Museum easily enough, if it would be of interest to you.”
Iris was enthralled. “We’ve never been there before,” she said in wonderment.
“Is that so? The British Museum has an extensive library with books about nearly anything you could imagine. I’m quite a frequent visitor myself. It would be a pleasure to introduce you, should you like.”
“Hurley!” Iris called, “We must go see! Can we? I mean—can we, please?”
Sherlock couldn’t help his grin. “It’s getting rather late in the day for a research excursion, but do make a note of it and we will see if we can’t find the time within the week. Assuming Miss Casion is available, of course.”
“Oh, yes!” Iris ran to retrieve her notepad from where she’d left it on the coffee table. As she passed him, she paused, eyes flickering back to Miss Casion, then motioned for him to come closer. Sherlock did, taking a knee to be at her height. Iris leaned in conspiratorially and said, “Un-mackerel.”
Sherlock replied with a nod and a wink. “Understood, my dear.”
He soon after sent Iris out of the room using their predetermined pretext of asking Mrs. Hudson if there were any more biscuits to spare, whereupon Iris would wait exactly fifteen minutes before coming back in exchange for Sherlock promising to tell her all that he had found out in her absence.
When she had gone, Sherlock beckoned Miss Casion to avail herself of the more appropriately sized armchair while he sat opposite on the settee.
“Tell me, my dear madam,” Sherlock began, “do you specialise in the same field as your father?”
As he had suspected, Miss Casion did. She was the middle daughter of Dr. Edward Casion, the Keeper of Botany in the British Museum’s natural history department, and she had followed in his footsteps, acting as his assistant at the same time she was attending the University of London. Having recently completed her studies, she sought work away from her family’s busy academic world. She had been looking for something stimulating yet straightforward that would help finance her own independent research. Miss Casion’s interests lay in plant morphology and phytopathologies, an area of specialisation which differed from her father’s well-rounded horticulture focus.
While they spoke of her work, Sherlock noted his own curiosity being piqued. This young woman was evidently very easy to converse with and ask questions of; Iris would surely adore her. There was a staidness to her as well which Sherlock—in this instance at least—reluctantly conceded as a point in her favour. She had grown up with many younger cousins and lived with her two nieces and a nephew, and thus felt at ease with children and what they required. She lacked prior formal experience as a governess, but considering their needs, perhaps that was for the best. She and Iris may be satisfied to chart their own approach. By the time Iris returned to the suite carefully balancing a plate of biscuits (and with crumbs dusting her cheeks), they had settled on a start date and arranged an outing to the museum library.
For the rest of the afternoon and evening, through dinner and up until the very last second before bedtime, Iris was abuzz with excitement. After a full day of being talked down to by strangers, all it took was one kind person to meet her where she was at for Iris to be enchanted. She asked Sherlock endless questions about the museum, about chemical compositions, about all the new ideas she had for testing different variables. He answered each one as he always did: with a smile and to the best of his knowledge.
“Do you think Grandmama—I mean, Father Christmas—would make Flower-Bear matching gloves like mine so that she can do experiments with me and with Miss Casion?” Iris asked sleepily as Sherlock tucked her in that night.
“That is a grand idea,” said Sherlock, “and I do believe your Grandmama would be very pleased to pass along your request to Father Christmas when you next write to her.” His mother was always more inclined to forgive that he never wrote her when she received semi-regular correspondence from Iris.
Her last directive before they said good night was a final reminder about keeping their appointment. Between when Miss Casion left to when he finished brushing out her hair before bed, she had reminded him nine times about their library visit later in the week, determined that neither of them should forget.
It was difficult not to be infected with Iris’s enthusiasm. In fact, it put her guardian’s mind considerably at ease. Alone in the sitting room, he lit his pipe and sat down at his desk to add the day’s developments to his next foreign-bound letter, this one far less frantic. This newest adjustment to their lives was going to be beneficial, he could tell. Just the latest of the great detective’s great ideas, indeed.