HIP! PIP! TOP! DERPY-DERPY! MY NAME IS HALL PYCROFT, and I have the most extraordinary adventures! Oh yes I do! Why, it is a joyful thing to be me! I sometimes think the only dark spot in this bright, wonderful world is that I’m the only fellow who gets to try it.
On the other hand: what a lucky fellow I am! Hip! Pip! Top!
Now, I know I have not written in you for some time, my dear journal. Please forgive me. The last entry, if I recall, involved that extraordinary occurrence when I showed up to my old job at Coxon & Woodhouse’s and everybody said they had no idea who I was. So strange! I repeatedly asked everyone to stop their nonsense and show me to my desk but everybody kept saying I had none and matters escalated until I was ejected from the premises and asked never to return.
A rather extreme method of sacking someone, I thought. And more than a little cruel. Especially since, so far as I could recall, I hadn’t done anything wrong. Ah, I remember how low I felt—hanging my head in shame as I walked all the way home to tell my wife, Mary, that I had lost my job and was no longer a stockbroker.
And she asked if I meant “doctor”.
And I said, “no” and “what an extraordinary thing to say” and “I have always been a stockbroker, Mary, you know that!”
What I should have said was, “Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy!” How I regret, dear journal, that in the depths of my disappointment, I forgot the advice—my mother’s sage advice—that has carried me so far in this tempestuous world. She took me aside one day, when I was only a little lad, and she told me, “Hall, my son, the world is strange. Wonderful! But strange. There will be days you encounter a thing that you simply cannot understand. For example: why anybody would name their son after a long room whose only purpose is to contain doors to other, more interesting rooms. Now the temptation, my precious boy, when you discover something that doesn’t seem possible, is to stop and examine it. But why? You’ll only throw yourself deeper into confusion. Try this instead: just cry out something wonderful. Something loud and happy and confident! It needn’t make any sense. After all, the thing that made you say it didn’t make sense either. So just say, ‘Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy!’ and you’ll feel better in no time!”
Ah, what a wise woman Mother was! How often I can be stunned into complacency and inaction by the simple (and let me say, extraneous) fact that I don’t know what I’m doing. On such occasions, a good, loud “Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy!” is all that is needed to remind myself that it doesn’t matter if something seems wrong. I am Hall Pycroft, by God! You can’t stop me! I’ll just carry on regardless, even if nothing makes sense.
Yet I must confess, in those terrible months following my sacking, I forgot my mother’s advice far too often. I was adrift. Though it took me less than half a cup of tea to decide to pull myself back up by the bootstraps, I found it was an easy thing to resolve but a difficult thing to effect. It’s very hard to find new employment when one’s chief reference continues to insist that one does not exist. It seems Coxon & Woodhouse’s took the rather ungenerous course of warning each prospective employer who contacted them that I was a dangerous madman whom they had only met on one occasion. I was perhaps to be feared, perhaps to be pitied, but under no circumstances to be hired, they said—which dimmed my employment prospects significantly.
So, I started leaving their name off my résumé. My luck improved immediately and I even managed to secure a few interviews. Unfortunately, the gentlemen who conducted these interviews had all sorts of questions about… well… I don’t even know what. Stocks, I suppose, and why they must be broken. Or how to break them. And they seemed very confused that I could not make better answers to these questions which—they insisted—were very basic ones about the function of the market. And in fact, I was rather upset that I couldn’t answer, too. Didn’t it make sense that I should be able to? I mean, if this had been my job for as long as I could remember, shouldn’t I know something about it? How might it be possible that I did not? So I would always shout, “Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy!” in the middle of my interview, which seemed to startle a few fellows, but did make me feel better.
What it did not do was furnish any knowledge of stock-brokery, and all my efforts came to nothing.
Nothing, that is, until the great English firm of Mawson and Williams’s entered into a rather heated, rather public feud with Coxon & Woodhouse’s. The day after that happy, happy day I received a letter from Mawson and Williams’s managing director. Now I’d never met the man, but I had written to inquire after employment. He said he regretted how hard he’d laughed at my letter when he first received it. (Apparently, it was clear I was not qualified for the position in question.) But present relations being what they were between the two companies, perhaps I might be a fine fit in the capacity of an entry-level stockbroker’s clerk—so long as I thought I might have one or two scandalous secrets regarding Coxon & Woodhouse’s dealings and a steadfast realization that I certainly did not owe them any favors. He offered me four pounds a week! Now, I’d no idea how much money that was, but he seemed very impressed by his own offer, so I decided to be impressed, too.
Oh, dear journal, let me tell you: I was over the moon! I rushed to Mary to share the good news. Then I told everybody at the employment agency and everyone at the local pub and everyone I passed on the street of my great fortune! I rather hoped this might help my household staff feel more comfortable in my presence. They had been treating me rather oddly of late—avoiding me as if there were something wrong with me, or I was a sick man. But what of that? It is perhaps natural for them to quail from their master’s fury, as hyenas who skulk into the shadowed bushes when the lion roars!
I thought I could not be happier. And yet—wonder stacked upon wonder!—it was only a few hours later that my fortunes redoubled! You see, that night I had a caller. I had many callers in those days. Strangers, usually, who insisted that they were patients of mine, somehow, and that I was supposed to be giving them medical treatments of some kind. Well, I always shouted that I did not care for this strange prank the whole neighborhood seemed to have agreed upon, and that they must go away. I was prepared to do the same to this latest visitor, but he insisted he was here on a different business entirely.
His name was Arthur Pinner, financial agent—a middle- sized, dark-haired, dark-eyed, black-bearded man. His second tooth on the left-hand side had been very badly stuffed with gold. He had a brisk kind of way with him and spoke sharply, like a man who knew the value of time. I was just about to explain to him that I was not a doctor, nor was my name John Watson, even though all the cards in my wallet and the plaque on my door said so—due to some strange misprint, the nature of which eluded me entirely.
But he said, “No, no! I am here for Mr. Hall Pycroft. Are you not he?”
And I heaved a huge sigh of relief and said I was.
And he said, “The truth is I have heard of you. Do you remember Parker, who used to be Coxon’s manager?”
And I said, “Yes. I believe he’s the fellow who pushed me out the window when I tried to reclaim my desk from the stranger I found there.”
And he said, “Well that’s funny, because he speaks very highly of you.”
Ah, how happy I was that he had repented of all those rather ungenerous things he shouted at me as I lay in the dirt outside that window. One can never have too much faith in humanity! We are wonderous in our capacity to grow and forgive—second only to the divine.
Apparently, Mr. Pinner had heard of me and had come to the opinion that he might have an even better job for me than Mawson and Williams’s! He asked if I’d been keeping up with the market while out of work and I began to sweat a little and said of course! Of course, of course, of course, of course, of course! Why wouldn’t I? Ha, ha! I knew what was coming next: he was going to ask me the horrible kind of questions that had doomed all my previous interviews. And sure enough, he asked me, “How are Ayrshires?”
Now that doesn’t seem like any kind of proper sentence, does it? I didn’t know the answer. But I did know what the answer should sound like, so I told him, “Oh, twenty-five or six to four.”
And he asked me, “And New Zealand consolidated?”
And I said, “867–5,309.”
And he smiled at me and said I was perfect. “You see, Mr. Pycroft, I represent Franco-Midland Hardware Company Limited, with 134 branches in the towns and villages of France, not counting one in Brussels and one in San Remo. We are preparing to expand our trade, but we require a new business manager. From what I can tell, you are the perfect candidate.”
I thanked him, but told him I could not possibly accept. After all, I had just received a generous offer from Mawson and Williams’s and did not wish to appear the sort of fellow who has no gratitude. But Mr. Pinner waved that concern off and asked if they could match a salary of 500 pounds a year, with commissions on my underlings’ sales that were expected within a year to clear over 500, just by themselves.
Which made me realize something very odd: I did not know if they could match that. Certain vital facts were absent from my memory. Mawson and Williams’s had offered four pounds a week. But how many weeks were in a year? And weren’t pounds a measurement of weight, not of money? Why did I not know such things? Wouldn’t I have needed to, to be the successful stockbroker I was sure I had been?
I think my brow must have begun to look rather wrinkly and worried, for Mr. Pinner’s expression started to darken as he watched me. So I quickly shouted, “Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy! That sounds great!” and he looked very relieved.
“Excellent!” he said. “Most excellent! Here is a letter of introduction to my brother, Harry Pinner. He must confirm your appointment, of course, but between you and me: it will be fine.”
“Where shall I find him?” I asked.
“The office,” said Mr. Pinner, as if this were the silliest question in the world. But then he suddenly recoiled and said, “Oh, bugger! The office!”
I did not understand why he seemed so upset, so I asked, “What is the address of this office?”
“Right, well it’s… it’s… far from here, clearly,” he stammered. “Birmingham! Yes, Birmingham. Now I… erm… I cannot recall the exact address. It has slipped my mind. Which is a natural thing that could occur to anybody.”
“Of course,” I agreed.
“So, I must wire the address to you. Do not fret, Mr. Pycroft, you shall have a cable with the exact address late this evening or early next morning. You will then report to that address and present that letter. Agreed?”
“I should think that would be all right,” I said.
“Good. Very good. Now, for the conditions of your employment. Firstly, it is of paramount importance that you do not inform Mawson and Williams’s that you are declining their offer.”
“Why ever not?” I wondered.
“Erm… well… it’s their office manager, you see. I know him. And he… oh! He said he’d hired you for much less than you were worth and he seemed to think you were rather stupid for accepting their offer.”
“No!”
“But, yes,” Pinner assured me. “I must say, it struck me as very rude of him to call someone stupid before he’d even met them. And I thought that if you came to work for me instead of him without informing him, that would be no less than he deserved.”
“Oh, the cheek of him!” I shouted, shaking my fist at the ceiling. “Yes, I agree absolutely; it’s no less than he deserves!”
“Ah, good,” said Mr. Pinner, appearing most relieved. “Now for the other matter: we require your services immediately. Tomorrow. In Birmingham. The hours are likely to be quite long and we would need you at our disposal, so you may need to move your residence—at least temporarily. I trust, for the sum involved, this would not be too much of an inconvenience?”
“Hmmm…” I said. “It seems like I should ask my wife.”
So I popped upstairs and told Mary to disregard what I’d told her earlier about getting a new job. That was my old new job. Now there was a fellow downstairs whom I had never met or heard of before, but he was offering me a new new job, and all I had to do was agree not to tell my old new job that I wasn’t coming, pack up all my things that very night, then first thing next morning I must leave her and go live in Birmingham for an indeterminate amount of time.
She said that was fine.
Overjoyed, I ran back down to tell Mr. Pinner the happy news.
“Very good,” Mr. Pinner said. “Now, there are just a few formalities to attend to. Here is a sheet of paper. Kindly write, ‘I am perfectly willing to act as manager to the Franco-Midland Hardware Company Limited, at a minimum salary of 500 pounds’ and sign at the bottom.”
Which I did. But when I handed it back to him he got all frowny, as if there had been some kind of mistake. “Um…” he said, and stared at me long and hard, as if appraising my character or wondering how far he could push his luck. “Do you know, I’ve just remembered my brother is terribly frightened of zebras. I know it’s a funny thing, but he often suspects that some of the people he meets might be zebras in disguise. I don’t suppose you’d mind adding ‘I am not a zebra’ to the bottom of the note and initialing the change?”
Dear journal, I got the strangest feeling. From somewhere deep inside of me came a wave of doubt. Yet the oddest thing was this: it didn’t feel like my doubt. It seemed as if someone else who lived inside of me was waking from a deep slumber, horrified at my recent behavior. He seemed to feel it was very important that the word “zebra” contained a “z” and a “b”, which the rest of the note did not. Was it perhaps possible that Mr. Arthur Pinner might be trying to obtain a complete sample of my handwriting? I could feel the other mind welling up within me, struggling to be heard. I think I nearly stumbled. Fortunately, I gasped out a quick “Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy!” and he receded into my inner depths once more. Mr. Pinner was staring at me, waiting. So, with shaking hands, I took the paper and wrote what he had asked.
He watched patiently over my shoulder. Part way through, he gave a cluck of frustration and asked if I could add “j”, “k”, “q”, “v” and “x” to the lower corner. Some sort of Latin inscription, I think it was. So, I added it.
With a happy smile, he took the note, folded it once, pressed it into his breast pocket and told me he would see me tomorrow. But then he corrected himself and said that what he meant, of course, was that his brother would see me tomorrow.
Dear journal, I was so excited I could hardly sleep. I had the profound joy of a man who had stumbled—who had failed, for a time, to fulfill those duties of modern adulthood upon which the fortunes of his family and his self-worth depend—but who had now regained his stride and found himself redeemed entirely. I felt so blessed! The expression of Mary’s sleeping face might seem neutral to the untrained observer, but to me I was sure I could read a kind of triumph in the silence between her snores. She was proud of me! And I was glad of it. I knew that despite all the servants’ mutterings about how suddenly I had changed and how surely Mary seemed to be changing too, everything would be all right.
Oh, I forgot to mention that, journal. All the servants seemed convinced that Mary’s personality had transformed.
In a particularly dark and worrisome way.
Especially Chives.
He had mentioned something about it to me some months ago.
Right before he disappeared.
Sure enough, I rose the next morning to find a telegram waiting for me with the address of 126B Corporation Street. As a special dose of luck, the train to Birmingham was one of those pretty red ones, which made me happy.
Pausing only long enough to hire myself a room at a hotel on New Street, I made my way to Corporation Street, eager to see the office. Imagine my surprise when the building at 126 contained no signage for Franco-Midland Hardware Company Limited. For a moment, I had this terrible sense that I might have been made a fool of and that the whole situation was just rotten. Luckily, at that very instant came a tap at my shoulder. Turning, I beheld the smiling face of Harry Pinner.
Let me say, the family resemblance to Arthur Pinner was striking! Harry was the same height, the same weight, and had the same voice. The same age, even! But his clothes were different. And where Arthur had had dark hair, a dark beard, and dark eyebrows, Harry Pinner had none of these features at all. He must have quite recently, though, for the skin was still pale where his hair, beard, and eyebrows should have been—as if it had not felt the touch of the sun in some time.
He greeted me and asked if I was the remarkably gifted man his brother had told him about. I blushed, and admitted that I was. We shook hands in a firm but friendly manner. Oh, and I even thought to extend him my personal assurance that I was, in no way, a zebra.
He told me not to worry about the lack of a plaque to proclaim the business; he had only just rented the premises and had not yet labeled them. I was very excited as I followed him up the stairs, but instead of a bustling office, he ushered me into a disused storage room. There were plenty of desks and chairs, I had to admit, but they were stacked along the walls. He laughed at my dismay and explained that he was only in the most early stages of assembling the English branch. Yet, what was that? He had a promising new business manager; the rest would follow. Now, didn’t I want to know what my duties would be?
And I said, “Yes! Very much!”
He set me up with a desk and chair in the middle of the room and deposited a heavy, three-volume set of tomes in front of me. This, he explained, was the extended Paris directory. Here I would find the name, address and occupation of everybody who lived in and around Paris. The problem, he said, was that there was no reliable list of the hardware sellers. To serve the deficiency, he would very much appreciate it if I could go through all three volumes, finding every person associated with hardware in the greater Paris metropolitan area, and write their names and addresses down for him.
I told him that of course I would and—since there didn’t seem to be any employees for me to manage yet—this was a fine use of my time. He stared at me long and hard, as if trying to determine if I were in earnest or not. I looked back at him and—as I could not guess which expression he wanted me to show—kept my face as neutral as I could. After a time, he gave a shrug and went off to fetch me a pen and paper. He then took his leave, saying that he must go do “business stuff ” but that he would return later and check my progress.
He returned several times over the next few days. He often smelled of drink and sometimes even seemed a bit unsteady on his feet. I asked if he was quite all right, and he assured me he was. “Business often requires a lunch meeting, where drinks are served,” he told me. “And at some meetings, it isn’t lunchtime, so drinks are all we’ve got.” He seemed always glad to find me at my desk but took little note of my progress on the list. This, I ascribed to his great trust in me and I resolved not to disappoint him.
Thus, I would report to the office every morning, open the tome, then write my little heart out, as fast as I could. Sometimes my eyes would hurt from the lack of light. Or my fingers from clutching the pen. Oh, and I’d get nosebleeds from concentrating so hard for so many hours. But what else had I to do? I could go sit in the hotel room, but that was no fun and not nearly as industrious a way to spend my time. And hadn’t Arthur Pinner told me the hours would be long? So, there I sat, and applied myself with every ounce of resolve I could muster.
It was Sunday when I began it—a strange day to report to work, I now realize as I put it to paper. On Saturday afternoon, Harry Pinner came to see me. He jarred me from a deep reverie. Almost sleep. I don’t know how long I’d been sitting at that desk doing very little, really, except deep and ragged breathing. I must not have looked very well, for in a cautious, doubtful tone, he asked, “Mr. Pycroft? Are you quite all right?”
“Oh! Mr. Pinner! Why… I am done.”
He stared for a moment at the book that lay on the table before me, open to its last page.
“But no,” he said. “I mean… it’s quite an accomplishment, no doubt, but we must ask you to complete all three volumes. The whole directory.”
“I did,” I told him.
He got quite pale at that point. “Already?” he asked, his voice a whisper. “God’s socks... The whole directory?”
I didn’t quite understand. I had the feeling, dear journal, that I had done something wrong—that Harry Pinner didn’t really want me to complete his task.
Oh, but then… you know… I was tired. Probably these things don’t seem quite right when one’s mind is near the point of exhaustion. “Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy!” I told myself and gave him a smile.
“Of course, the whole directory,” I said. “I know it was an important undertaking and I wished to be of use to the firm. I’m very sorry about all the nose blood on the floor. And the desk and the chair and the walls. But I was most careful not to get any on the list or the directory and I’m certain the rest will wash.”
He stared at me. Blinked. “Did you even stop to eat?”
“I probably should have,” I admitted. “I walked out of here rather light in the head most nights. But in any case, my job is done. Now, we should discuss how else I might make myself useful, eh?”
To which he replied, “Um… um… um…” while he walked around the office for a number of minutes. At last he snapped his fingers and said, “Ah! Furniture dealers! They sell crockery, don’t they? We sell crockery!”
“Oh! The furniture dealers!” I yelled supportively. “I should have thought of that!”
“I’m afraid we’ll need another list,” he said.
“Of course we will,” I agreed, then flipped all three volumes over and sat down.
But Harry Pinner leapt to my side and put a hand on my shoulder, crying, “Wait! Please, just hold on a moment, won’t you, Mr. Pycroft.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Well, because… because we don’t want you overworking yourself, do we?”
“Overworking?”
“Yes! By God, man, do you realize what you’ve done? In only seven days? It is unaccountable! I thought in seven weeks you’d be halfway through.”
“Oh no, no! Seven weeks? The company needs this list, Mr. Pinner.”
“All right. Sure. We do,” he said, bobbing his head. “But do you know what we really need, Mr. Pycroft? A business manager who has not completely ruined his intellect or died of a nosebleed. Now, here is what I want you to do: go rest. Go back to your hotel and have a nice big meal and a lie-in. Maybe go to a show. Birmingham has some wonderful music halls, you know. And then sure, come to work. But not that much work.”
“But… the second list!”
“I am confident you will have it in a more than satisfactory timeframe,” said Mr. Pinner, rolling his eyes a bit. “Yet, here is the thing, Mr. Pycroft: I will now be checking more carefully on your progress. Today is Saturday. I will be absent from this office until Monday. Business stuff—you know. Monday afternoon I shall check in on you. If you have made no progress, I shall be disappointed.”
“Of course,” I agreed.
“But if you have made too much progress, I shall also be disappointed. I want you to be able to tell me about a musical you’ve seen, or a puzzle you’ve done, or something. Do you understand? Something! Go to a museum! Maybe see a doctor about that nose. In fact, definitely do that; it looks like someone murdered a cow in here.”
I felt so terrible, dear journal. I had this feeling of betrayal—like all my labors were of no true value to this man in whose interest I had strived so hard. But there was something else, too. A little voice from inside me, screaming, “His teeth, you idiot! His teeth!” It was not the first time this thought had occurred to me, but in my exhaustion, my natural defenses seemed weaker and the voice was louder than ever before.
“Yes, Mr. Pinner,” I said. “You are quite correct. I shall endeavor to do my best for you. But not too much best, eh?”
“Just so, Mr. Pycroft. Just so,” he said, and patted my shoulder.
And smiled.
Smiled rather broadly.
And there it was: the second tooth on the left. Badly stuffed with gold! My mind reeled. He saw me down the stairs and made sure my feet had me pointed roughly in the direction of my hotel. Yet as I staggered through the streets of Birmingham, the flood of unwanted thoughts nearly overwhelmed me.
It was too much of a coincidence. I could deny it no longer. Harry Pinner was Arthur Pinner.
But why? Where lay the limit of his contrivances? Was the list truly necessary? Was the company even real? Why had he sent me from London to Birmingham? Why had he got there before me? Why had he had me bear a letter from himself, to himself? I could not fathom it. More than anything, I wished not to try!
“Hip! Pip! Top!” I stammered. “Derpy-derpy! Oh, please! Oh, God! Hip! Pip! Top!”
I made it all the way back to the hotel, but not to my room. I collapsed on the sofa in the lobby, with my head in my hands and tears in my eyes, rocking back and forth and weeping, “Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy! Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy!”
Presently, this attracted the attention of the proprietor, who strolled up with one of those big, tooth-blackening cigars she liked and inquired, “Mr. Pycroft? You ’right?”
“Oh! Mrs. Whitesides! Yes… yes, of course.”
“Don’t you lie to me, you little twerp!”
“Okay! No! I’m sorry!” I sobbed, and the whole story burst forth from me.
Mrs. Whitesides listened from start to finish, sucking down four or five cigars. Finally, when my story was done, she raised her eyebrows and opined, “That’s weird, son. Right weird.”
“Isn’t it?” I asked, as a bit of hysterical laughter escaped my lips. “Can you make anything of it?”
“Nope,” she said, striking a match and touching it to the tip of her next smoke. “But I know who can. M’ brother—Carl, that’s his name—he had a spot of trouble with his cellar. Everyone who went down there disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yeh. And he never could find out why. So, he went and saw this London fellow, Warlock ’Olmes, and he put it right.”
“He found out what was wrong with the cellar?” I asked.
“Yeh. It were diamonds.”
“Diamonds?”
“Or… no… demonds. That were it. Demonds.”
“And… and you think he might help me?” I asked.
She shrugged. “You might inquire after him at 221B Baker Street. Also, get off m’ bleedin’ couch and go upstairs, will you? You’re scarin’ off business.”
And so I came upstairs to you, dear journal, to write of this peculiarity. Now, the hour grows late. Yet, it feels better to set this to paper somehow. And in my breast, hope has grown to resolution!
Tomorrow, I will go to Baker Street.
* * *
Oh, what a strange day. The train to London was one of those brownish-gray ones, which made me indifferent. The cab to Baker Street was one of those grayish-brown ones, which made me morose. All the buildings we passed were those brownish-grayish ones, which made me think that—for all that people love it—sometimes it seems as if London just isn’t putting forth much effort.
221B was easy enough to find. At my ring, the door was answered by an elderly crone of diminutive height. Despite my size advantage, I felt quite unsettled by her. True, she smiled at me as she opened the door, but it was much like the smile of a seagull when it turned over a rock, found a few delicious pill-bugs beneath and said in the language of beasts, “Oh. Hello. I’m so pleased to meet you.”
“Er… greetings, madam,” I told her. “My name is Hall Pycroft.”
“Oh?” she asked with a sinister sort of glee. “Is it?”
“Why, yes. I am looking for Mr. Warlock Holmes. Are you his wife?”
Her smile instantly hardened into a furious scowl and she gave me a savage kick (I’ve no idea why). I cried out, grabbed the shin of my damaged leg and began hopping about on the good one. I was going to protest my treatment, of course, yet before I could find my voice, the old witch had made it halfway up the stairs and called back, “This way.”
Blinking away a stray tear, I followed her up to the first-floor landing. We stopped in front of a door that was utterly unremarkable, save for a few dents down at its base. I had only just enough time to wonder what the source of these might be, before she gave the door four or five good kicks and hollered, “Oi! Warlock! I’ve got a special little present for you!”
From within came a squeak of fright, then the sound of somebody falling off a couch and scuttling around. Presently, the door opened just a crack and a man peeped through. His expression was cautious, bordering on terrified, as if he expected at any moment to be shot in the face. The instant he saw me, his jaw dropped open in shock. He lost his grip on the door, which began to swing slowly inwards.
“Heh. I’ll just leave you to it, shall I?” the old lady suggested, and wandered off down the stairs.
If the man who stood before me seemed surprised to see me, I will confess I felt the same. He was an exceedingly shabby fellow. His hair had been allowed to grow into an uncontrolled mane. His sharp features were overgrown with a shaggy beard that seemed to have permission to travel off in whatever direction it wished. His fingernails were frighteningly long. He wore a dirty bathrobe and had dark circles under his eyes. Behind him, I could see the room was full of an assortment of dirty soup pots and crusts of half-eaten bread, which sent up a terrible stink. The window shades were half-pulled and a greasy light shone through the dusty panes.
He stared agog for a moment, then, almost silently, gasped, “John?”
“No. My name is Hall Pycroft.”
“Oh! Yes, of course!” he said, as if shaking himself from a deep reverie. “I knew that.”
“Did you? How?”
“No, I mean I didn’t know that. Right? How could I? What I intended to say, Mr. Pycroft, was… um… how may I be of service?”
“The lady who runs the hotel I’m staying at says you are an unraveler of mysteries, Mr. Holmes, and a solver of problems. If you are, I think I need your help, for I seem to be in a spot of trouble.”
This provoked a sudden burst of anger. “Trouble?” he shouted. “No, no, no! Trouble? That’s the whole point of all this misery—that you’re not supposed to be in any trouble? What do you mean, trouble?”
“Oh… well… it’s a long story,” I told him.
He gave a deep sigh and muttered, “Damn. Then I’m supposed to invite you in and make tea and all, aren’t I?”
I just stood and blinked, for to confirm his suspicion would be tantamount to inviting oneself in for tea, wouldn’t it? And one does not like to be rude. After a moment, he sighed, “Dash it all… you’d better come in, eh? I never learned to make tea, though. And the fellow I usually get to do it is… um… do you know what? Let’s not get into that. Suffice to say he is unavailable. Oh! Or maybe not! Look, if I hand you all the tea-making things I can find, could you make the tea, Mr. Pycroft?”
“Oh! I suppose.”
“Capital! Do come in. Don’t mind the mess. I’m engaged in an experiment to… erm… ah! To determine whether and to what extent bruising can be caused, postmortem, in soup!”
He ushered me in, cleared some wrinkled trousers and soup pots off one of the overstuffed chairs, invited me to sit, then settled onto the couch to hear my tale. Though his appearance had been off-putting, I found myself surprised by the look of deep concern he wore as I told my tale. It was clear that he cared—earnestly cared—for my happiness and safety. I began to feel embarrassed that I had judged him so harshly. For indeed, what is personal hygiene in comparison to the ability to put oneself so totally in the service of another? I was chastened and humbled.
I quite enjoyed my tea, but my host had none. Instead, he sat puffing thoughtfully at his pipe while I told my tale. Great gouts of blackish-greenish smoke emanated from its bowl. Which was odd, as I did not see him put any tobacco in, or ever light the thing. When I finished, he sat back and shook his head.
After a few minutes, I realized he wasn’t going to say anything, so I asked, “What do you think, Mr. Holmes?”
“I think it would be nice to have Watson here,” he grunted. “I used to have this friend, you see, who was… well… do you know that worst kind of sommelier? Those fellows who know everything about the history and composition of a thousand types of wine? But the only reason they cultivate and maintain that knowledge is to have an excuse to gulp down every glass they can find? They’re very smart and very apt and just horrifically addicted. My friend was like that, only for mystery instead of wine. And let me tell you: if John Watson could get a sip of this case, I’m sure he’d find it a comet vintage.”
The statement was deeply upsetting to me. I could feel a sudden sweat break forth upon my brow. I rose from my seat and began to pace.
“John Watson, you say? No, no, no… something is not right, Mr. Holmes. Not right! I don’t know if you know it, but that’s the name that’s on all my personal cards!”
“What? Damn!” Warlock Holmes shouted.
“Yes, and the plaque outside my door!”
“Double damn!”
“And all his mail comes to my house, for some reason.”
“Treble damn!”
“And that’s what all the people call me when they come to me for medical aid. But I don’t know anything about medicine. I’m a stockbroker! But here’s the funniest thing: I don’t seem to know anything about broking stocks, either! Some days I think I just do not know who I am at all!”
“Quadruple damn! Quintuple damn! Sextuple damn!” my host cursed.
I began to shake all over. “Something is broken, Mr. Holmes! I feel… I feel all wrong!” And a terrible sensation began to rise up in me. Like another person—strong and indignant.
“Oh! Hey!” cried my host, jumping to his feet. “Isn’t there an expression your mother taught you?”
“Yes, but… what has that to do with anything?”
“It is of paramount importance,” Mr. Holmes insisted. “You must teach it to me, right now.”
“But…”
“This instant!”
“Oh, very well! It’s ‘Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy!’”
And suddenly, I felt much better.
And I sat back down again.
“Can you make anything of it, Mr. Holmes?”
“Well, it seems as if I’d better, eh?” he asked, wiping his brow and giving forth a great sigh of relief.
“How will you proceed?” I wondered.
“Hmm… well… what would Wat—” but he stopped himself and said, “What would my friend do? I’m sure he’d feel he had enough clues already, but I confess I wouldn’t mind a few more. What to do…? What to do…?”
“Do you want to come meet Mr. Pinner?” I asked.
“It might be most helpful,” he agreed. “But how would we manage it?”
“Very simply, I think. He told me to find some other way to spend my time. I could tell him I went and made a friend, then display you as proof.”
This statement seemed to make Mr. Holmes uncomfortable, so I quickly added, “Only to fool Mr. Pinner, of course. I do not wish to presume upon your emotions, especially since we have known each other for so short a time. No, no. I would not make the claim that I am truly your friend.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Holmes as a strange flash of guilt and pain crossed his features, “you probably could.”
I was deeply touched.
“Then it is settled, Mr. Holmes,” I told him. “I shall call upon you here, tomorrow, so we can catch the 10:35 to Birmingham. That should get us there in time. There is really no point arriving before that hour, as Mr. Pinner is quite punctual and only comes in to check on me.”
Mr. Holmes smiled and bid me good day. I then returned to my house to pass the time. Mary was excited to see me, she said, but had not expected my return. As such, she was very busy. This was true. She seemed to be holding a meeting with a number of tough-looking gentlemen. As this meeting was being held in my room and—Mary assured me—was likely to go on until quite late, I settled into one of the overstuffed chairs in the library. That brings me to this very moment, dear journal. I have taken the time to record these peculiar events on your pages and now shall tuck myself under this blanket to slumber. Tomorrow, with the help of God and Mr. Holmes, I may at last come to the bottom of this whole strange affair.
* * *
Hello, dear reader! I have been asked to step in to finish the tale, as the remembrances of the previous narrator are now at an end.
So… where to begin…
I suppose I must admit I was rather shocked to see Watson on my doorstep, coming to me with an adventure. I had taken rather a bit of trouble to ensure that this sort of thing never happen again. Rhett Khan is a powerful fellow, whose spells are hardly less solid than the realities they replace. Even so, I had taken the precaution of weaving a failsafe into the new personality we built into my old friend. Watson’s mind was quite strong, you know, and it is no easy thing to cast a one-time spell that will endure against so many unseen challenges of logic. So, I’d included a little phrase he could use to comfort and re-hex himself, if ever his false realities were challenged.
I could not fathom how he’d managed to get himself in trouble despite my and Rhett Khan’s best efforts. Yet, who can account for the strange twistings of fate, especially for those individuals who dwell along the brimstone thread?
Though, that said, I probably should have stopped by in the dark of night at some point and pried that stupid plaque off his door. And stolen the cards out of his wallet. And stopped in at the post office and changed his address to some non-existent street in Greenland. But—ah, well—hindsight is 20/20, they say.
The most important thing, of course, was to unravel this little mystery before it could completely undermine my rather brilliant Watson solution. His life must be straightened out quickly and quietly, so that he might return to the job I’d assigned him: being Hall Pycroft. Granted, I didn’t know how to solve the case, but I knew I must do it. I wished nothing to threaten Watson’s new reality.
And… much as I hate to admit it, I wanted to be free of his company. I mean, I missed his company quite a bit. But his company. Not Hall Pycroft’s. Indeed, I felt such a swell of revulsion and guilt when I was with Hall Pycroft that it was even worse than the swell of revulsion and guilt I felt when I was alone.
Let me go ahead and admit, these were not my best days.
I probably should have cut my fingernails.
I probably should have combed my hair.
I probably should not have made a pact with the darker powers to provide me with pot after pot of soup, just so I wouldn’t have to go down to the shops.
But again… hindsight.
Watscroft and I boarded the 10:35 to Birmingham on Monday morning. It was one of those pretty red ones, which made me happy. We talked rather more than I’d have liked. Watscroft kept trying to teach me all about stock-brokery. But then he kept stopping to ask me if I thought he’d got it right.
At last, we reached Birmingham. We were slightly behind our hour, which was a matter of some concern to Watscroft, for he seemed quite mortified to reflect that he hadn’t made any progress at all on his second list. He very much wished we might beat Mr. BothPinners to the office, so he might at least have a heading and a few entries done when his boss arrived.
This anxiety was only compounded when he spotted Mr. BothPinners’s freshly shaved head in the crowd, only a few steps ahead of us. BothPinners’s mood seemed to be exemplary; he whistled one of the tunes from those music-hall shows he loved so well. Bully Billy Big-Pants, I think it was. Sadly, his joie de vivre did not seem to extend to his only subordinate. Watscroft began to fret in guilty whispers. He feared he had let down the possibly fictional firm of Franco-Midland Hardware Company Limited. I tried to comfort him, keeping my voice low enough that Mr. BothPinners’s suspicions might not be aroused. Yet, Watscroft was inconsolable. Luckily for us, Arthur/Harry Pinner took a sudden detour. He stopped at a news vendor’s stall to pick up a paper, allowing Watscroft and I to slip past behind him, quietly hissing, “Now’s our chance! Go, go, go!” to each other. Once past, we redoubled our pace. My companion raced up the steps to 126B, flung himself into his seat and began furiously reviewing the Paris directory for furniture dealers.
Mr. BothPinners was rather slow in coming so—much to his relief—Watscroft had a few entries scrawled onto his list before his possible employer arrived. The instant Mr. BothPinners entered, Watscroft jumped up, waving the list and shouting, “Look! Look! I’m working, Mr. Pinner! And not only that, I did what you said. You see? I made a friend! There he is!”
Mr. BothPinners did look at me. But not very much. And he didn’t seem to mark me. He just gave a half-stunned sort of nod and plopped down at one of the desks with the newspaper spread out in front of him. His hands shook. He was pale and seemed quite distracted. I was not the only one to notice, either. Watscroft gave him a quizzical look and asked, “Mr. Pinner, are you well?”
“Oh, um… ermf,” he replied.
“Mr. Pinner, that is hardly an answer,” Watscroft remonstrated.
BothPinners shook his head to clear it, then mumbled, “No, no. I’m fine. It’s all… It’s all…” and he rolled his eyes back and forth across the room in the manner of a man whose next words are going to be “in ruins” or “coming down” or “turned out rather badly”. But instead he only said, “…fine.”
Watscroft and I looked at each other. He gave me some “what do we do?” eyebrows and I gave him a little “I don’t know, do I?” kind of shrug. Watscroft looked at me hopelessly and I cursed to realize he was going to be very little help. Apparently, everything was going to be left to me.
Which is a dashed stupid place to leave things, I must say.
I cleared my throat, marched to BothPinners’s desk and loudly proclaimed. “Yes. So. It’s all good. Mr. Pycroft has made progress on his list—please wave that about triumphantly, won’t you? Thank you—and he’s also followed your instructions to do extracurricular work as well. Behold he has made a friend—please indicate me, proudly, with both hands. Well done—so, what do you think of that, eh?”
BothPinners gave me a look like he didn’t think anything of it at all.
So, I improvised. “But I’m not a good friend, it turns out, as I was only using him to procure employment. Give me a job, all right?”
“Yes. Fine,” Mr. BothPinners said, and turned his attention back to the newspaper.
I knew I could not let him go, so I shook his desk and insisted, “All right, but what’s my title, eh? What are my duties?”
“I don’t know!” he shouted, jumping to his feet and crumpling the newspaper into an untidy wad. In just a moment, he recovered himself, dropped the paper into his rubbish bin and said, “I… I shall have to think on it for a moment. Yes. Please excuse me.”
He then walked to a dusty old door at the back of the office, opened it, stepped inside, gave us a little nod, and closed the door behind him.
“Where’s he going?” I wondered.
“I don’t know,” Watscroft shrugged, “but that’s a closet.”
From behind the door came the gentle swish of someone hanging his jacket from the doorknob and that funny snapping sound trouser suspenders make.
“What? Well that doesn’t make any sense, does it?” I cried, and began to pace back and forth. “There’s something I’m missing here… What am I missing?”
“Nothing,” came Watscroft’s voice, strained and frustrated.
“What am I to do?”
He gave a sigh of exasperation. “Deduce it. Concentrate.”
“Oh, easy for you to say! Just deduce it! Deduce! Well, how? It’s hard!”
“No. It isn’t. We’ve had this same case before.”
“What? You’re not supposed to know that!” I cried. I ceased my pacing and turned my gaze on Watscroft.
He didn’t look well. He was leaning on his desk, sweating, with just a hint of blood visible at one nostril and a strained expression on his face. “All wrong…” he mumbled. “I feel all wrong… Not me… Done this case before…”
“No! No! I’m sure you must be mistaken!” I shouted. “Though, as a point of interest, which case?”
“Red… heads…”
“Eh?” I could hardly fathom his meaning. He did seem to be regaining some of Watson’s memories. Yet there were no charming skull-hair-spiders here. No red-headed soul-sucker. So, he must be wrong, right? There were also distracting grunt noises coming from behind Mr. BothPinners’s door.
Yet I had more pressing worries, for at that moment Watscroft fixed me with an exasperated—and all-too-familiar—gaze and said, “Holmes!”
“Aaaaaagh! No, no, no! Hey, um, what was that expression your mother had?”
“Hip! Pip! To—uuugh!”
“Hip! Pip! Top!” I prompted.
“Derpy, derp—ow!”
“There,” I said, with a self-congratulatory smile. “Now, don’t you feel better, Mr. Pycroft?”
“Yes… Yes, I…”
“Now you just relax over there and be Hall Pycroft. I shall reason this out, all right?”
He nodded his agreement and slumped down at the desk, looking utterly exhausted. Still, I was glad to see it, for the fierce spark of Watson’s intellect had died within his eyes, replaced by a dull, tired stare.
I was so relieved, even the sound of something heavy falling to the floor and a sudden curse from behind the closed door could not dampen my spirits.
“Good,” I sighed. “Good. But you must give me some time, all right, Mr. Pycroft? It’s hard.”
“No! Easy!” he shouted, and pounded his fist upon the desk. A fresh spurt of blood spattered down from his nose. When he looked up at me the sharp, disapproving gaze of John Watson was unmistakable.
“Oh no! Oh no! Quick! Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy! The whole thing! You must say it! Quickly!”
He did try. I really think the part of him that was Hall Pycroft did its very best. Say what you will about Mr. Pycroft, but this much must be conceded: he always gave forth his maximum effort. He clutched the desk, rocking back and forth with his eyes clenched shut and his nose practically rocketing blood, shouting, “Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy- derpy! Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy! Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—”
And then came a horrible sound. Well… I’m not sure if “sound” is the right word. It probably was not audible. Not to most. But to those of us who can hear the hidden voices, who have smelt the sacred smoke and felt the furtive touch of the lonely damned, the sound was unmistakable.
Rhett Khan’s most powerful spell. All my hard work and careful foresight.
Tearing right in half.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAod damn it, Holmes! Don’t you see? Pycroft wrote to the director of Mawson and Williams’s! He never met the man! Therefore, anybody who was able to present themselves Monday morning, bearing a letter that appeared to be written by Hall Pycroft, could pass himself off as the new stockbroker’s clerk. And let us remember: Pycroft was utterly incapable of doing that job, as Mawson and Williams’s well knew. The impostor would not even need to furnish himself with any knowledge of the trade in order to pull off the substitution. All he’d have to do is make up one or two scandalous stories about Coxon & Woodhouse’s and his new employer would be absolutely satisfied!”
“Oh…” I said, somewhat horrified, but still interested to learn what was going on. “So then, Franco-Midland Hardware Company…”
“Is a complete fabrication! Look around you, Holmes! This is not an office! This is a storage room! This is somewhere to stick Hall Pycroft to keep him far from his actual place of business, just like when John Clay dreamed up the League of Red-Headed Men to keep Jabez Wilson away from his pawnshop four hours per day! Remember? He even used the task of repetitive copying to distract his victim!”
“Ah! But then, why would—”
“Last time the motive may have been difficult to divine, Holmes, but this time it is clear. Hall Pycroft—or whoever chose to use his name—would have been expected to handle any number of valuable securities. Many of those bonds are payable to whatever man is currently bearing them. If one could secure a position within a house like Mawson and Williams’s, well… even the very clumsiest of thieves would be in a fine position to duplicate keys, to look over shoulders at safe combinations, to learn where the most valuable and negotiable papers were kept. Why, in a week or two, he might be in a position to lift a king’s ransom!”
“So then, Mr. BothPinners is a bona-fide criminal masterm—”
“No, he’s an idiot. Please! That feeble attempt to get a handwriting sample? That unnecessary complication of the letter to his fictional brother? No, no. Whoever Arthur/ Harry Pinner is, he’s perfectly awful as a conman. Only Hall Pycroft’s credulous simplicity allowed him to carry it off. And it was still a close-run thing; he let his story get so badly out of his control that he had no choice but to shave every single hair of his head, run up to Birmingham on the next train and rent out the first vacant room he could find. Even then he nearly ruined it. He badly underestimated Pycroft’s work ethic, thereby short-shrifting his confederate on the amount of time they had to carry off the crime.”
I wanted to say something smart, to prove I was keeping up, but it was hard to think of anything. Especially since more strange suspender noises were coming from behind the door. Still, I triumphantly declared, “Ah-ha! Just as I suspected! There is a c—”
“Of course there’s a bloody confederate!” Watson howled. He looked as if he were about to faint. Yet he also looked as if—even if he did—he was likely to go on yelling everything he’d figured out about this case. I guess that’s what I get for not letting Watson talk for five or six months. “Mawson and Williams’s expected somebody with the name Hall Pycroft to come walking in last Monday morning. And believe me, someone did. The man we know is only half of the plan. From what we’ve seen of his criminal ability, probably the lesser half. Still the confederate may not be the aptest hand either, for he seems to have messed things up badly enough to have wound up in the newspaper.”
“The newsp—”
“Yes! You saw Mr. Pinner just now! Did he look like a man for whom everything’s going swimmingly? No, he looked like a fellow at the very end of his rope! You cannot pretend that it was our brilliant intervention that caused the change—he was dazed before we even said hello. Yet he was whistling a happy tune when we first saw him on the street. What changed? What source of information caused this sudden reversal? The newspaper, Holmes!”
And he was correct. Halfway through his harangue I’d dived for the bin and pulled forth the crumpled pages.
“By the Twelve Gods! You’re right, Watson!” I cried. Oh, it was a refreshing change to get to finish a sentence. But that’s Watson for you: always a decent listener if you had anything he wanted to hear. “According to this, the notorious criminal Harold Pinner was taken as he fled the brokerage firm of Mawson and Williams’s. It seems he’d gone in Sunday night, using a set of cleverly duplicated keys, and stolen nearly a million pounds’ worth of securities. He might have made it, too, were it not for the timely intrusion of a night watchman named George Boyd.”
“Who apprehended Pinner?” Watson asked.
“No. Who got cut in half by Mr. Pinner.”
“In half?”
“Well, apparently Mr. Pinner is usually a smash-and-grab man and is more known for his ferocity than his intellect.”
“Apparently, yes.”
“Mr. Pinner tried to cover both of his crimes by emptying the contents of Mr. Boyd’s torso into an office rubbish bin, stuffing all the stolen securities into the hollow, tying the dead man’s shoelaces to his own, tucking the dead guard’s shirt into his pants real hard to hold his halves together, throwing Boyd’s arm over his shoulder like they were good friends and attempting to walk out of the place.”
“Only attempting, you say?” said Watson. He was very good at spotting meaningful words in stories.
I turned the page and looked for the details he craved, doing my best to ignore the sound of something tapping gently against the closet door. “Yes. It seems it was early morning by then and a few of the neighborhood lads were gathered on the steps of the building for a game of conkers. As he came down the stairs, Mr. Pinner nodded to them and explained his friend had had a bit too much to drink. Just as the boys were starting to wonder, ‘Eh? In an office building?’, Boyd’s bottom half fell out from under his top half, spilling blood-smeared financial papers all down the steps. The boys… you know… noticed. There seems to have been a great deal of screaming. This was overheard by the neighborhood constable, who cried a challenge. Mr. Pinner fled. But not very well, it seems, as the laces of his right shoe were quite well secured to half of Mr. Boyd. He made it less than a hundred yards. Once apprehended, he made no attempt to conceal his crimes. He only asked for help reclaiming his shoelaces and expressed regret that his idiot brother had talked him out of simple, direct burglary and into such a complex infiltration.”
“That’s all bad news for… I mean… I can only assume his name actually is Arthur Pinner,” Watson harrumphed. “Not only is his brother bound for the gallows, but he let himself be taken alive. That means he’ll have more than enough time to fill the authorities in on the entire plot. Arthur Pinner is going to find himself an accessory to robbery and to murder. That’s probably why he ran into the other room to hang himself.”
“To what?”
“Rather badly, from the sound of it. Can’t you hear him bumping around in there?”
I gave Watson an urgent—and I must admit, probably ungenerous—look.
“What are you glaring at me for? I’m the one who solved the case! I’m the one who…” but he trailed off. I think that as his diatribe about what had been happening was now spent, he had some time to turn his brain to what was happening now. A look of shocked realization spread across his features and he stammered, “Oh! Right! We should probably… right.”
I reached the door a second later and yanked it open. Sure enough, there was Mr. Arthur Pinner, dangling from the neck by his own suspenders, with his face turning purple. Watson always tells me I should call them “braces”. He says I sound disgustingly American when I use the word “suspenders”. Yet, as Mr. Pinner was currently being suspended by some, I stand by my decision.
“Melfrizoth!” I cried, and my trusty soul-blade materialized in my hand. A simple flick of the wrist sent its black blade slicing through the offending, suspending suspenders like a hot knife through butter.
Or, no…
That’s not quite right…
Like a razor-prowed battleship through a slice of wet bread. More like that.
Mr. Pinner fell heavily to the floor, as I screamed out, “Help him, Watson!”
“Me?”
“Yes, you! You’re the doctor!”
“No, I’m the… Oh! Wait! I am! Help me get him over to the window, Holmes.”
Which I did. Watson told me to stand back, then threw the window open, crossed both of Mr. Pinner’s arms over his chest, and began pumping them up and down as if the man were a bellows. I had rather an uncomfortable moment where I’ll confess I began to worry about any potential damage my spell may have done to Watson’s cognitive facilities.
He must have seen the look I gave him, for he explained, “The two fundamental pillars of Victorian medicine, Holmes, are ‘By God! Get this man a brandy!’ and ‘By God! Get this man some air!’ Now tell me: do you happen to have any brandy on you?”
“Well… no.”
“Air it is, then!”
I watched Watson pumping furiously for a few minutes, though it was clear he had passed the point of exhaustion. After a time, he panted, “Come on! Breathe, you fool! I’ve got to save you!”
“Hmm,” I reflected, “and I’ve got to save you.”
“No, you bloody well don’t, Holmes.”
“You’ll die if I don’t.”
“So what? I’m a goddamn soldier!”
“All right, but maybe you’re a stockbroker’s clerk instead. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Don’t you see?” Watson shouted, his brow slicked with sweat. “I was a soldier who nearly lost his life in a country he didn’t care about, in a war he didn’t understand. That is how tenuous my hold on life is: I should be gone already. Now, I did not choose that war. And I would not choose that war. It was pointless. But your war isn’t! It’s right! And it’s noble! And I do care! That’s why I choose to fight by your side! If it happens to cost me my life… well… what of it? That is the soldier’s price, Holmes, and I’m not above paying it! I never have been!”
Who knows how long he might have gone on yelling like that? But at that moment, Arthur Pinner began to wheeze and cough.
“Oh…” said Watson, teetering deliriously. “That’s good. Yes… Good…” Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out over Mr. Pinner’s legs and began producing another grand puddle of nose blood. I was the last man standing, at the end of a very strange case indeed.
So, I lammed it down the stairs, out into the street, all the way to the station, onto the nearest train, and straight back to London.
Well… not straight back to London. It turns out the train I’d run onto had been going to Edinburgh. So… eventually back to London. As soon as I got there, I rushed to 221B, went upstairs, yanked the shades down over all the windows, threw myself in bed, pulled the covers up over my nose, and stayed there for days.
Because John Watson was back.
Despite all my best efforts to keep him safe, he was back.
And he had every reason to be cross with me.