Work Text:
1890
“I must admit, Holmes, that this was not what I had expected.” I murmured into my close associate’s ear,
Sherlock Holmes arched one of his thin black brows, “No?”
We were sitting in a dimly lit corner of a club, underground in more ways than one. A small, hand-painted sign above the set of stairs leading down proclaimed that the establishment was called The Lark.
“Should we not be at the bar, asking questions?” I asked,
“And miss the show?”
There was a twinkle of keys from the piano next to the curtained stage and the audience, previously engrossed in their own drinks and petty conversations, were stirred to silence.
“What happens now?” I asked, unfamiliar with the usual goings on of these sorts of places, “Will there be a performance?”
The corner of Holmes’ mouth tugged upwards, showing me he knew more than he was letting on and was delighting in it, “You will just have to wait and see, Watson.”
“Holmes, I-”
“Ladies, gentlemen and gentlefolk!” An announcer appeared on stage, triggering a round of cheering and applause, which my companion and I joined, “You are about to witness the most fabulous Marnie!”
The two halves of the rather faded red curtain sprung apart to reveal a woman, dressed in emerald green, with a face framed by blonde ringlets. They struck up the band and Marnie opened her painted red lips and began to sing.
Oh! My goodness, what a voice! It was deep, deeper than anything I had heard from a chanteuse, yet sultry.
“The boy I love is up in the gallery,
The boy I love is looking now at me,
There he is, can't you see, waving his handkerchief,
As merry as a robin that sings on a tree.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Holmes had taken on the heavy-lidded expression he usually reserved for listening to a violin symphony composed by Brahms or Elgar.
“Now, if I were a Duchess and had a lot of money,
I'd give it to the boy who's going to marry me.
But I haven't got a penny, so we'll live on love and kisses,
And be just as happy as the birds on the tree.”
“The boy I love is up in the gallery,
The boy I love is looking now at me,
There he is, can't you see, waving his handkerchief,
As merry as a robin that sings on a tree.”
Marnie’s song concluded with a flourish, a curtsey and a resounding cheer from the audience, seated at small, round tables topped with tankards and tumblers.
“Do you remember, Watson,” Holmes murmured as he stood and, along with a few other patrons, made his way towards the stage door that separated the performers from the people watching them, “When I described our witness after following him in disguise? That he is bald, with green eyes and a slight silhouette?”
“I do, Holmes.” I confirmed, not really following his train of thought, though I was following his steps as we weaved through the cluster, “Though I fail to see how we might find him in a singer’s dressing room. Is he her agent?”
At my question, Holmes burst into one of his abrupt bouts of laughter.
I flushed, unable to hide my growing irritation at my friend’s vagueness, “Then who is he? I don’t know why you wouldn’t let me come along when you first tailed him - at least then I would be able to recognise him!”
“You can do better than that - you can meet him!”
With that, Holmes swung open the door to Marnie’s dressing room. She was alone, and clearly shocked to be intruded upon.
“I’m terribly sorry, Madam.” I began, feeling exceedingly awkward standing there, “It’s my friend, you see-”
“Ah! Sherlock Holmes! My old pal!” To my tremendous surprise, recognition emerged in the singer Marnie’s features, and she - or rather he - stood from the dressing table with one pearl earring still dangling,
“Theobald Thacker!” My friend’s tone was genial,
“You know, I knew it was you who was following me around all last week!”
“And I knew I could never fool you. Your eyesight is much too keen!”
“It’s both a blessing and a curse - got me into trouble before, it has.”
“That is exactly why I sought you out.”
“But why the disguise if you knew I’d see right through it?”
“I endeavoured to protect your safety. Heaven knows what that devil would do if he saw you being observed by Sherlock Holmes.”
“That devil, you say? Whoever do you mean?” Theobald asked in earnest, removing the earring, followed by his wig.
Holmes’ tone became much more serious, “Do you remember the crime you witnessed two weeks ago?”
Theobald’s face drooped, “Oh. You’re here about that. And here I thought it was simply to patronise the arts.”
“My friend, I need you to describe it to me. Spare no detail.”
Mr Thacker’s rouged cheeks flushed an even deeper red, “I most certainly shall not.”
“Please, Mr Thacker,” I stepped in, “We implore you. Justice must be done.”
He scoffed, “Justice?! When has justice ever been done for me? What would you know about it? I’ve read your writings in the papers - you’re a respected doctor, a military man.”
I sighed, choosing my next words carefully, “I understand more than you - or anyone else - can ever know.”
Theobald’s expression changed, “Oh. I see.”
“Will you help us, Mr Thacker?” I tried again,
“Yes. Yes I will. It happened like this, you see…”
— — —
“I apologise for my impatience earlier.” I said to Holmes once we were safely back at our rooms in Baker Street.
The perpetrator had been caught, although the orchestrator: Moriarty - that Professor of Crime - remained at large.
“There is no need for an apology, my dear friend.” Holmes reclined in his armchair, nibbling at his elegantly carved meerschaum pipe, “Though I sense that you want to question me.”
“Er- Yes. How exactly did you meet Mr Thacker? Was it…?”
“Come out with it, Watson, my love.”
“Have you ever done what he does? I mean- dress as a woman?”
“And perform before a crowd? No.” His lips curled into a mischievous smirk, “As to what has taken place when I have been chasing a suspect in a case of mine, who is to say?”
“Holmes!” My exclamation was halfway between surprise and curiosity,
“Yes, Watson?”