A Case of Domestic Pilfering by Rohase Piercy and Charlie Raven is a lighthearted tale of two friends who find themselves caught up in an adventure involving blackmail, theft, mistaken identity and 'the love that dare not speak its name' - an adventure in which, for once, Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson find themselves repeatedly and hilariously wrong-footed.
It's the summer of 1890 and Max, a passionate reader of detective stories, is staying in London with his spoilt but charming friend, Guy. They've recently made the acquaintance of a certain Dr Watson - and glimpsed the legendary Sherlock Holmes. In this extract, we find them dutifully taking tea with Guy's mother - and Guy, as ever, has no concept of discretion.
Lady Esher absently poured tea for her guests. A shaft of morning sunlight caught her hand,
modelled its plains and dimples and came to rest flatly on the white cloth. The fine china rang as she handed a cup to Max with a smile. So typical of Guy, she thought, to turn up on her morning ‘At Home’ instead of the Tuesday hour she reserved for him; but at least it varied the company.
Lady Lillingford and her daughter Alicia were quite animated for once. The conversation had
achieved new heights. Alicia had twice opened her mouth to speak, and on the second occasion some actual words had been emitted. What the import of these might have been, had not her mother at that moment fired a descriptive broadside of Mrs Carnforth’s weekend party, Lady Esher pondered with mild interest.
Max, the dear boy, was being attentive; he was charming Lady Lillingford simply by watching her face with his deep brown eyes as she spoke. Whatever one said, if Max listened, one felt that he was giving it a flattering degree of attention.
Guy, on the other hand, was picking cherries out of the madeira cake and feeding them to Candace, her pug. Candace would shortly be sick, probably in the hall by the hat stand. Really, that boy was impossible…
Lady Esher smiled dutifully at Guy, at Candace, at the teapot and then at Max and Lady Lillingford. Alicia, she decided, needed an extra squeeze of a smile, for she looked equally fascinated and dismayed by the presence of so many young men – her eyes signified that they might number several hundred in their mild grey alarm.
‘Come over here, my dear,’ she said kindly. Max looked up surprised, but immediately perceived his mistake and returned his gaze to Lady Lillingford’s doughy face with a hint of resignation. Alicia rose, dropped her parasol, blushed scarlet, and dutifully navigated her way around the tea table to sit beside her hostess.
‘Now tell me,’ Max heard Lady Esher say with an air of delicious confidentiality, ‘Tell me about all your conquests at the party!’ Alicia’s response was inaudible. Max felt very sorry for her.
‘And then, my dear, who do you think was announced?’ breathed Lady Lillingford, and he patiently returned to his contemplations. Composed and serious as his face was, his mind was quite elsewhere; not one word of her long account had registered in his understanding. As he watched the loose, pale lips forming and ejecting their words, his mind moved in realms of gold and pearl, reviewing and re-inspecting the austere, possessed figure emerging from the dim hallway of 221B Baker Street. In his heart was ineffable bliss, exquisite pain. He sighed unconsciously as Lady Lillingford concluded her description of the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball gown.
This young man has taste, she noted with approval; taste, good manners, and obvious breeding. But does he have prospects? If so, Alicia could do worse … she changed the subject abruptly, barely pausing for breath as she set about the task of exploring Max’s background with the all subtlety of an Amazonian explorer wielding a machete.
Guy had discovered that there was a limit to the number of cherries a small, fat dog could consume. This limit had just been reached, and Candace did the decent thing and exited the room. Guy watched her go. What should he do next? His eye lighted upon Max, bravely holding his station whilst buffeted by the sou’wester of la Lillingford’s interrogation. I shall rescue him, thought Guy lovingly.
‘Oh, Mother!’ he cried, suddenly and loudly, causing all heads to turn towards him – not because more than one person in the room was under the impression that she was his mother, but because he had hitherto spoken only four words: ‘Hello,’ ‘Charmed,’ and ‘How tedious‘.
Guy simpered, pleased with himself. ‘We met the most fascinating gentleman yesterday. Actually we met two fascinating gentlemen. The first one – he is so sweet – I’d already made his acquaintance at the races over champagne, and we were sitting yesterday in the bar at -‘
‘Guy, dear, please pick up that cherry before you grind it beneath your boot heel!’
Lady Esher’s voice carried a warning note. Alicia’s eyes had become very round; mention of ‘champagne’ and ‘races’ had quickened her breath. Lady Esher was all too aware that her son’s friends – always excepting Max – were inclined to be somewhat disreputable.
‘… smoking and chatting,’ continued Guy, tossing the cherry onto the table, ‘When there he was. And do you know what? He turned out to be a close friend – indeed, the close and intimate friend, of -‘
‘I do hope, Guy, that you have not issued these gentlemen with one of your invitations to dine here,’ interrupted Lady Esher again, hoping to stave off the name of the intimate friend. Could it be that Beardy, or Beardsley, or whatever he called himself? Surely not that awful Wilde man …
Lady Lillingford, on the other hand, was listening attentively. Beardies and Wildies were
beyond her ken; a more illustrious Beard was in her mind, a Beard definitely associated with horseflesh and champagne …
‘Of course not, mother! He never dines out, you know. He is so fascinating! So different. And we had tea in his rooms afterwards, but he couldn’t join us himself as he’d just been summoned to Scotland Yard.’
There was a small flurry as Lady Esher pressed several different kind of cake upon Alicia.
‘Scotland Yard?’ repeated Lady Lillingford, with a dawning realisation that the P. of W. was not, after all, the protagonist of this adventure.
‘Yes, Lady Lillingford!’ emphasised Guy gaily, aware that he was making an impression. ‘He is
professionally associated with Scotland Yard – you must know that.’
‘Who is, dear?’ Lady Esher felt she could begin to relax. Sir Edward Carson, could it be?
‘Mr Sherlock Holmes, of course! I told you!’
‘No dear, you never mentioned the name.’
‘Only because you kept interrupting me, going on about cherries and dinners and suchlike.’
‘Mr Sherlock Holmes?’ repeated Lady Lillingford slowly; ‘Ah, yes! My dear, it’s that wonderful detective man – you know, he cleared up the matter of Lord St Simon’s little problem so discreetly. You remember, dear! Mrs Tattershall told us about it a while ago. Shocking business.’
Lady Esher metaphorically unstopped Alicia’s ears by withdrawing the tray of cakes, and seemed remarkably to have unstopped her mouth in the process.
‘But I have read all about him, Mr Clements! He is remarkable, as you say. It must have been wonderful to meet him in the flesh.’
Her small, clear voice turned all heads in her direction, and Max nodded vigorously, his heart swelling with affection for Alicia. Guy had more than appropriated his hero in the last few minutes, and he was determined to retrieve the honour.
‘We didn’t really have time to introduce ourselves, Miss Lillingford; he passed us on the doorstep.’ Max blushed deeply. ‘But we had tea with Dr Watson in his rooms.’
‘And what rooms!’ crowed Guy; ‘Utterly Bohemian, Miss Lillingford! So thrillingly unconventional!’
‘Bohemian?’ Alicia leaned forward, fascinated; Lady Esher thought she detected an
unhealthy gleam in her eye.
‘Yes, yes! Oh, how can one describe them? Filled with chaos, but such artistic chaos! Chemistry, tobacco, Persian slippers. Revolver practice. You see, he eschews all the petty concerns of daily life and lives in splendid isolation, either driven by the white heat of his genius, or – or -‘
Max chose not to leap into the breach and save his friend; really, this was too much. Guy
knew nothing whatsoever about Mr Holmes.
‘Well, well,’ said Lady Esher mildly into the the pause that followed, ‘Obviously a remarkable man. Perhaps we could invite him to dine one evening – with Mr Percy, Sir Edward’s solicitor, and other people of that sort.’ She smiled wearily at Lady Lillingford. ‘One does well to entertain one’s professional men from time to time, don’t you find? They do give of their best when favoured with good wine and conversation.’
Lady Lillingford nodded. ‘Oh, quite – Sir Charles’ physician is a charming man, quite convivial company in the right circumstances.’
Max could not bear it. ‘He would not come, Lady Esher, I think,’ he said in stilted tones,
straining the boundaries of politeness. ‘As Guy has already mentioned, he does not dine in company.’
Both ladies looked taken aback, and his hostess raised a well-bred eyebrow. There was an
awkward hiatus before the conversation picked up harmlessly again, and Guy sulkily began to pick walnuts out of the walnut cake. A shaft of sunlight pressed itself into the nap of the carpet, and slept at its twisted roots.
The breakfast table at 221B Baker Street was also bathed in warm yellow. The blind was up, the windows were open and the noise of mid-morning traffic chattered behind the ticking of
a clock and the occasional crackle as Sherlock Holmes turned the pages of his newspaper. Dr Watson was relaxing in the warm sun, smoke curling from his cigarette.
‘Watson.’
‘H’mmm?’
‘Who were those two young men you entertained for tea in my rooms yesterday?’ Holmes spoke from behind his newspaper.
‘Oh – just an acquaintance, and the friend of an acquaintance. I met them when I went out
for a walk.’
‘Obviously.’
‘Admirers of yours, as it happens.’ Watson pushed a crust of toast around his plate and smiled at the shimmer of sun on the silver coffee pot.
‘I would have thought admirers of yours would be a more apt description. Your little
stories are gaining you a reputation you know, however inaccurate they may be, and however inappropriate a form in which to embody my professional achievements.’
‘You never read them, Holmes, so I don’t see how you can judge.’ Watson smiled again, and
poured the remains of the coffee into his friend’s cup.
‘I’ve glanced at one or two,’ sighed Holmes, laying aside the paper and taking up his pipe. ‘It seems to me that you take some quite unjustifiable liberties, not only with the material but also with my character.’
‘So you keep saying, my dear. You haven’t finished your coffee.’
Holmes picked up the cup absently, and sipped.
‘You look better today,’ ventured his friend; ‘Might I enquire about the investigation on which you’re currently engaged?’
‘You might, my dear fellow, but I’m not yet able to give you much information. It’s a
Government matter.’ Holmes passed a thin hand over his hair. ‘Brother Mycroft is responsible for involving me. Some War Offices documents have gone missing; of no great moment in themselves I understand, but related to the nation’s security nonetheless.’
‘You were away all night?’ asked Watson carefully.
‘Indeed. But so far I have little to go on. Perhaps you’d care to join me today in a number of enquiries I’m planning? That is, if you’ve nothing planned yourself – meeting your young drinking companions again, for instance?’
Watson ignored the sarcasm and met the grey eyes innocently. He was delighted to see a
return there of the usual sparkle.
‘I was not planning anything of the kind today; I may stroll over tomorrow and return their call,’ he said lightly.
Holmes rose from the table and wandered towards the mantelpiece. The cord of his silk dressing gown was knotted carelessly at the waist, but his appearance was otherwise as fastidious as ever. Watson marvelled anew that one so untidy, indeed so wilfully destructive, in his personal habits should be so neat, so correct in his dress.
‘You’re invited too, by the way,’ he added.
‘Oh?’ Holmes was inspecting his violin, plucking gently at the strings and listening minutely to their resonance. After a moment, he murmured, ‘I never call on anyone. You know that, Watson.’
‘Only if it’s after midnight,’ said Watson sotto voce. ‘You should, you know,’ he added in a louder voice. ‘It would do you good.’
‘If I call on you after midnight, Watson, it is because I am in need of your help. And I do not require good to be done to me. Thank you.’
He drew the bow across the instrument, paused to make an adjustment, and began to play; an eerie, wandering improvisation, ill-adapted to the sunny day outside.
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