A chance encounter with Dr Watson

We're delighted to have an extract from Rohase Piercy and Charlie Raven's A Case of Domestic Pilfering today, a light-hearted detective story set in the world of Sherlock Holmes. Enjoy a hot day, a walk in the park and a chance encounter with Dr Watson.

The park was cool in the shade.  The huge trees exhaled a faint green aroma, sweet and calm.  Max and Guy had stopped together, looking across the scorched grass to where white parasols and floating silhouettes passed like a mirage in the sunlight.

'Hot, isn't it?'  said Guy taking off his hat.  The hair was dark on his glistening forehead.  Max fanned him with his hat rim.

'It's just as well we're not going to your mother's,' he said.  'It's too hot to be out at all, really. I vote we gather ourselves for a quick sprint across the grass to an arbour of refreshment, and deal with a couple of ice-cold hock-and-seltzers.'

'I second that,' murmured Guy. He leaned ostentatiously against the tree, closed his eyes and muttered 'Water, water – I mean, hock, hock-and-seltzer!'

In his light suit and straw hat he should be on the river, thought Max.  In a punt.  Just he and I.  Cool, green, glassy waters.  He put out a hand and quietly touched his arm.

'Guy.'

Guy opened his eyes and smiled.  He has the face of a  Sun God, thought Max.

'Guy, you look just like Phoebus Apollo.'

Guy glanced quickly round.  'Oh Maxy, you are sweet.  If I'm Apollo then who can you be?  Daphne?'

They both shouted with laughter as they walked arm in arm into the sunlight.

Inside the bar the air was cool.  A breeze slid through the open windows, and the waiters looked clean in their starched white aprons.  Max was sitting back, trying not to scrutinise his own reflection in the enormous gilt mirror on the opposite wall.  He lit a cigarette from his new black-and-silver case a little self-consciously.  He watched the effect out of the corner of his eye.

Guy had ordered a bowl of ice cubes and was pretending to cool his face and hands at them, like a fire in reverse.  The waiter who brought their drinks looked bored.  It struck Max how foolish they must think their customers.  They had seen it all; they remained unimpressed.  What must it be like, to be a waiter?

'Your mother wasn't expecting us, was she?'

'No, no.  Not in the slightest.  Well, I do sometimes drop in on her at this time of day.  But it isn't expected.  Just once a week usually.  On a Tuesday.

'But it is Tuesday!'

'Is it?  Ah well.  She won't worry.  She'll look at the weather, and she'll think of me, and she'll say to Davies, 'No cucumber sandwiches today, Davies.  Master Guy is drinking hock-and- seltzer with his friend Maximilian, that nice boy from the country who is such a good influence,' and – I declare!  It's my turfy fellow!'

Max looked round, following Guy's stare.  A gentleman had entered and was glancing round for a table.  Guy sprang up impetuously and dashed over;  Max groaned inwardly as he watched him flash his most charming smile, and indicate the way to their table.  The man gave an answering smile in which Max detected some amusement, and approached their quiet corner.  Max rose.

'Look who's come to sit with us Maxy!'  Guy's face was alight with naughtiness, and a flush bloomed on his cheek. 'Max, Max, I must present you.  Oh, I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself  yet - and I don't know your name either - in fact, I can't do the honours at all!  This is most irregular. What on earth shall we do?'

The gentleman laughed pleasantly.  'I suggest we overleap convention.  My name is Dr John Watson, and I am charmed by your invitation to join you both.  My thanks to you – the thanks of a thirsty man on a thirsty day.'

Max smiled.  He liked the man immediately.  He liked his wavy hair and the crinkles at the side of his frank blue eyes and the gentle voice which held the hint of a laugh.  He is in his late thirties, decided Max as they shook hands.

'Max Fareham.  Pleased to meet you, sir.'

'And I am Guy Clements,' interjected Guy; 'And we have met before!'

They all sat down, and Dr Watson gave his order to the waiter.  'So you mentioned, Mr Clements,' he said, 'but I cannot recall the meeting, I'm sorry to say.'

'Ah, but I can.  It was at the races, and you gave me a lot of excellent advice, which I ignored assiduously.  I lost an enormous, princely sum.'

'Ah!'  Dr Watson's eyes lit up and the pleasant crinkles became more pronounced as he smiled.  'The young man with a taste for champagne!  Of course.  I hope you don't mind my mentioning that,' he added, glancing at Max.

'Ooh la la!  Of course not!' cried Guy delightedly.  

Dr Watson chuckled.  'As a medical man,' he said in his warm, friendly voice, 'I recommend champagne as a universal pick-me-up.'

'In that case,' commented Max drily, 'Guy here is in the very pink and bloom of health.'

'And so I am!' said Guy severely.

'And so I trust you both are, and will long remain,' said Dr Watson, raising his glass.

They look so young, thought Watson; and so happy.  His heart went out to them, sitting in their new summer suits in the high-ceilinged room, looking slender and fresh and rather awkward.  He wished Holmes had come with him.  Good-humoured, outgoing youth might help him.  He thought of his friend's rooms, and the darkling figure lying on the couch, fretting against enforced idleness or weaving his drug-induced dreams.  Sunlight; he wished he could take Holmes some sunlight.  He sighed, and put down his glass, suddenly aware that Max was talking about the delights of the seaside in summer.

'At least one always enjoys a breeze there ...'

'Oh indeed,' agreed Dr Watson.  'My wife is at the seaside now.  So pleasant for her.'

'I suppose your practice keeps you in town?' asked Max.  He could not disguise the flat note that crept into his voice at the mention of a wife.   

'Yes, my practice – well, it's not a very demanding practice at the best of times,' said the doctor with a conspiratorial wink.  'And I have a friend who sometimes needs me.'

Guy stopped playing with the melting ice cubes, and Max hastily offered the Doctor a cigarette. Was this wife at the seaside sophisticated and understanding, he wondered, or just ignorant and rather dense?

'Thank you Mr Fareham,' said Watson, accepting.  'Also, I have work to clear which must be completed shortly, as I'm bound by contract.'

'How tedious for you,' murmured Guy.

'Medical work by contract, sir?' asked Max politely; 'I didn't know that was the custom – is it so many patients per month, or something?'

Dr Watson laughed heartily.  'Dear me, no!  What an interesting proposition – a sort of piece work, you mean?  A bushel of measles equals a week's rent?  No, I'm afraid it's nothing so lucrative.  I write a little.'

'Really?' asked Max.

'For the Lancet!' said Guy, putting his forefingers to his temples and speaking in a mediumistic monotone.  'I see a medical magazine.  I see an article on - let's see now - on bunions ...'

'Shut up, Guy!' said Max, resting his chin on his hand and sighing.  'Is he right?' he asked their companion.

'Not exactly.  It's a little less highbrow than that.  For magazines, certainly – Lippincott's, The Strand, even Beeton's.'

'How interesting! Do you make up the stories out of your own head?'

'Not at all.'  Dr Watson looked rather rueful, as though he regretted mentioning the subject.  'I may fudge the issues, but the cases are true enough.'

'Dr Watson!' exclaimed Max suddenly.  'Oh, good Lord!  Of course!  The weather must have hard-boiled my brain.  Good grief, sir, I can't tell you how honoured I am to make your acquaintance!'  He leapt to his feet, and pumped the amused Doctor's hand for a second time.  

Guy looked from one to the other, agog.  'What am I missing here?' 

Max's face was flushed, and his eyes shone with excitement.  'Guy, this is the Dr Watson – the friend of – of Mr Holmes.  You know.'  He nodded quickly at his friend, half embarrassed.

'Oh, good Lord!' echoed Guy, his voice rising up the scale.  'You mean the one you're madly – the one you admire so much?  My dear sir,' he said turning to the Doctor, 'You're hardly likely to escape with your life in tact now.  There is but one thing in the world that Max Fareham lives for, and that is the chance to kiss the ground that Mr Sherlock Holmes walks on.'

Dr Watson laughed.  'Oh dear!' he said.

'Shall we have another drink?  Please, Doctor, you can't possibly go now!'  Max ordered more drinks, eagerness overcoming his natural shyness.  'Do you know,' he said, 'I've read everything you've ever written about Mr Holmes.  Tell me, is he – is he like you say he is?'

'How do you mean?' asked Dr Watson, his blue eyes twinkling.

'A – a genius.  I supposed that's what I mean.'

'Well, yes.  I can confirm that opinion.  I've never written less than my true evaluation of my friend's genius.  He is extraordinary.'

Max nodded encouragingly.

'But what's he like when he's not being a genius?' asked Guy rather insolently.  'Does he go out?  Mother could invite you both to dinner, and then Maxy could swoon at his feet.'

'Be quiet!' hissed Max.

Dr Watson chuckled.  'What a kind offer.  But I'm afraid he rarely dines out, and never goes into company if he can help it.'

'Ah, a recluse. How tedious he must find all this adulation,' said Guy, shaking his head sympathetically.  'But doesn't he get bored, in between cases?'

'H'mmm.  Yes.  I'm afraid he does.'

Dr Watson then deftly changed the subject.  Max tried his best to steer it back to Sherlock Holmes, but the Doctor firmly resisted all attempts to probe.

'I must be going,' he said after a while, pulling out his watch.

'Oh, we'll walk along together,' said Guy sweetly, smiling significantly at Max.

'Well … ' Dr Watson eyed them for a moment and then smiled.  'If you like,' he said. 

Dr Watson's Cough

Dr Watson’s cough seemed to occur with the regularity of the ticking of the clock. It was particularly annoying and left him exhausted with each fresh attack.

‘Watson, please take some medicine,’ said Holmes in a voice of iron calm. He was in the midst of packing a valise in his bedroom, dividing his attention between that and darting back and forth to scribble notes on a sheet of paper at his overburdened desk.

‘I won’t say,’ said Watson weakly, holding a handkerchief over his mouth, ‘that this bronchial condition may not partially be due to your experiments with gases the other day.’

‘You won’t say it but you will think it,’ said Holmes drily without turning round from his writing. 

‘And I also won’t say that it is very vexing to be unable to accompany you to St Petersburg.’

‘Yes, it is vexing for me too. And please put the whole matter of where I am to be found out of your mind. Forget to remember it, my dear fellow. This case will not be suitable for publication.’

‘How can you be so sure? I have very discreetly –’ he broke off to cough – ‘managed it in the past. The Second Stain, that was a diplomatic affair …’

‘I doubt that this will be so easy to transform into a story for your readers. Now, listen,’ said Holmes, coming and sitting down opposite his friend with the air of one who still has pressing errands and a deadline. ‘My train leaves in half an hour and you are not to accompany me to the station. No, I insist you stay at the fireside. There, you see, you try to object and you break out coughing again. Do not expect to hear from me, my dear fellow, for a few weeks. I shall probably be far from a post office.’ He laughed a little grimly.

‘I know,’ said Watson gloomily. ‘But I trust that from time to time you will remember to send me word – even a postcard from Eastbourne!’

‘I shan’t be in Eastbourne, Watson,’ said Mr Holmes patiently.

‘I know very well you shan’t be in Eastbourne, Holmes,’ Watson said. ‘And you know very well what I mean. Send me word, that’s all. My health suffers when I become unduly anxious. Particularly my chest.’

‘Tut. You sound like an elderly spinster.’

‘Well, you are prone to the darkest of depressions when forced into inactivity – ’

‘I know. But you won’t be inactive. Look, there’re all the files on my desk – you could beguile the time away by organising some of that monstrosity. And you could write your stories.’

‘I am definitely not well enough to touch your desk. I may consider some cases to write up, of course, but it is immensely vexing and I –’ The cough returned at that point and precluded any possibility of finishing his speech. 

Holmes regarded him for a minute. ‘I am so sorry, old boy, but there simply isn’t time. I must get on.’ He rose to finish his packing with a little sympathetic grimace; and in ten minutes, he was ready to depart. They said a reticent goodbye and Watson listened as his friend’s footsteps descended the stairs to the front door. Then he was gone. 

Left to himself, Dr Watson sat feebly coughing by the fire, feeling both restless and exhausted. He had got to the point where his chest hurt so much he feared he’d cracked a rib. The absence of Holmes and his current state of health made him feel so low that it brought to mind a desperate time some years before when he had been led to believe his friend was lost. Sitting there alone, he was ashamed to find that emotion threatened to swamp him. I must keep myself occupied. And as soon as I’m fit, he told himself sternly, I must be sure to get out and about, meet people, see off this loneliness. I’m damned if I’ll let myself sink into melancholy again. 

                                                        *                *                *

The scene in the Café Royal was as busy and opulent as usual. Dr Watson was not particularly fond of the décor, with its gilding and vast mirrors. The place was worth visiting mainly because he enjoyed watching the patrons. Over here were famous faces from the art world in deep discussion; in a corner to the right was a noisy group of exquisite young men, somewhat the worse for wear; to the left a decorous, well-dressed pair of ladies with their escorts; and nearby a couple of intense poetic-looking characters, sipping pale, wicked drinks and conversing almost in whispers. But Watson was alone. He had not intended to come into such an expensive place at all but, having taken himself out for a restorative walk, now that he was definitely on the mend, he found that he needed somewhere to rest. A small coffee with brandy seemed to have helped his general sense of well-being, but it was time to make a move. He made his way to the door and was bumped into by a portly chap who was just coming in. The next moment, he was being gripped by the elbow and steered to one side. It was Valentine Cabot. Watson sighed internally and began to make an excuse about needing to leave immediately. Cabot was impervious.

‘How gorgeous to see you, my dear Dr Watson! You look stunning! Such a long time since we coincided – but I must say this place is horribly expensive and full of gawpers and hangers-on. And are you still writing up accounts of criminal cases for the magazines?’

‘From time to time,’ said Watson, trying to edge towards the door. 

‘Does very well for you, I hear? Yes, very well indeed, so far as short stories can go; but, you know, your readership would increase vastly, my dear Doctor, if you were to take some part of your work to the stage. An adaptation of one of your detective stories would be most appealing.’ 

‘I’ll think about it, Mr Cabot,’ said Watson. ‘If ever I wanted to, I’d certainly take your advice on the matter. And now, I’m afraid I’m rather late for an appointment …’

‘Well, I would be delighted to help you adapt something. You would be amazed at how mere prose springs to life when presented by really good actors. I am lucky to have such a client now – a good actor, I mean. A promising young fellow, name of Arden. You might have heard of him? I count myself fortunate to be his manager, I can tell you!’

‘Oh? That is excellent. And now, I must …’

‘So you may even consider working with me, depending on my next production? I have a most intriguing idea for a play and, do listen because you’ll like this, a musical tragi-comedy, based upon Hamlet. Intriguing, is it not?’

‘Alas,’ said Watson carefully, ‘I am not in a position to consider such an opportunity just now. But I congratulate you on your actor. It must be fortunate to manage a great talent. Well, it’s been pleasant to chat, but now …’

Cabot sighed and glanced towards the group in the far corner. ‘I am, if you insist upon knowing, in the process of arranging a meeting. My friend’s over there – somewhere in the middle of that noisy huddle – and he’s definitely interested in the scheme I mentioned. Perfectly ecstatic about it. I’ve just come in to find him – casual arrangement, and all that, so need to wander over. Unfortunately, I seem to have left my wallet at the bank – I couldn’t ask you to …?’

‘Not really, Cabot,’ said Watson hastily. ‘Crime doesn’t pay, you know, not nearly as well as it should. Certainly not the writing about it anyway.’

‘Oh. Well, I hope we’ll bump into each other soon. Will you be going to Dame Fortune’s?’

Watson hesitated. ‘Ye-es,’ he said, ‘I expect I will, at some point.’

A burst of laughter from the group in the corner attracted Valentine’s attention. ‘Ah, mirth, divine wit, flowing champagne! There they are. I shall go to them. Mr Pollitt and his circle of admirers await.’

Watson escaped.

Extract from The Compact by Charlie Raven.

A rather strange sort of doctor

Continuing our popular Dr Watson theme, this week we have an extract from The Compact by Charlie Raven. Harriet Day has come to ask for help on behalf of her friend George - unaware that this Watson has a connection with a certain famous detective, or that a young Occultist by the name of Aleister Crowley also has a strong interest in the case.

Baker Street was broader and more busy than Harriet remembered and, however hard she looked, she could not find number 221B. The houses seemed to end at number 85 and she became quite flustered until she asked a postman who pointed her in the right direction. She approached the respectable-looking townhouse with some trepidation. She was not sure whom she was about to encounter – a medical man, for sure, but exactly what his connection with George was or what he would be able to do for him was not at all clear. 

The door was opened by a sparklingly neat lady who said, in a voice which implied that Harriet might want to come back another day, that Mr Holmes was not currently available. At which Harriet replied that she had come to consult a Dr Watson and added apologetically that she knew nothing of a Mr Holmes. The parlour she was shown into at the top of the stairs was a large, airy room lit by two broad windows. It was however filled with a quite indescribable amount of clutter. Apart from the stacks of documents and the scientific equipment over in the corner, it did not look very like the consulting office of a surgeon. Scanning the assorted weaponry on the wall, she thought that this must be a rather strange sort of doctor.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said as a light-haired gentleman of about forty or forty-five years appeared out of an adjoining room. Not sure how to go about things, she went on, ‘My name is Harriet Day. I hope you will excuse me for calling unannounced.’

The gentleman immediately shook hands and said, ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs Day. My name is John Watson.’

‘Dr Watson?’

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Please sit down.’ 

Feeling a bit at a loss, and slightly concerned that there was no sign of a nurse or medical orderly in these consulting rooms, Harriet perched on the edge of a hard chair and proceeded, ‘Let me say first of all that I have not come on a medical matter and I don’t want to take up your valuable time. I’m sure you are very busy. I know the medical profession are always busy – my husband used to be.’

Dr Watson chuckled. ‘I may as well confess that I haven’t practised formally as a doctor for some years now. You might know my work in the field of literature? I am the ‘Boswell’ for Mr Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective.’

‘Oh? How interesting. But as a matter of fact, I came not to see a detective, but to see you, doctor, although strangely enough a detective might be the very kind of person who ...’ she trailed off, realising that she was not explaining herself clearly. 

She tried to start again: ‘This is your name on this card, isn’t it?’ She held up the tattered calling card. ‘I was given this by a friend of mine, a young gentleman who is in the most terrible trouble. He spoke of you as someone who might be able to help. So that’s why I have come – on his behalf, although he doesn’t actually know I’m here. And I can’t say where he is either. I mean I don’t know where he is.’ Harriet, feeling that she had made a hash of this speech from beginning to end, gabbled, ‘And before I go further, I want to say that he is innocent of the crime of which he stands accused.’

Dr Watson permitted himself a discreet sigh (how often had he heard that last sentence before?). ‘Please go on,’ he said. ‘Perhaps with a little more information …?’

Harriet said anxiously, ‘I hope you can recollect my friend? I don’t know when you gave him this card or why, but his name is George Arden. He’s an actor. He is not tall, soft spoken, delicate in build, thin in the face - ?’

‘Ah,’ said Dr Watson, shifting in his seat. ‘Yes, I believe I recall the gentleman.’ He immediately decided not to disclose that he already had a pretty solid understanding of the particulars of the case. He decided to wait now and see what she herself revealed about the suspect; but to be fair to her, since she seemed a nice sort of woman, he felt he should give her a warning. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, steepling his fingers as he had seen Holmes do on countless occasions, ‘can we just establish one thing? If the trouble of which you speak involves the police, I am sure I need not remind you that anyone who harbours, aids or abets a wanted suspect is committing a crime.’ 

One look at Harriet’s face told him everything he needed to know. He added more kindly, ‘So, on the understanding that you and I know absolutely nothing of the gentleman’s whereabouts, we can discuss this case in a theoretical sense only, using your prior knowledge of his character.’

‘Thank you, Dr Watson,’ said Harriet. ‘Well, theoretically speaking, what I wanted to ask your – and I suppose Mr Holmes’s - opinion on was this: how might one proceed to clear his name?’ 

‘Tell me, if you can, what the facts of the case are, Mrs Day,’ he said.

Harriet then spoke at some length; but she did not add anything to what Dr Watson already knew. She confirmed George Arden’s difficulty in recalling events, but her assertion that he was incapable of the crime did not appear to be based on any tangible evidence. She stated that she believed that the one witness to the event was lying, but she had no facts to prove this. 

‘The trouble is,’ said Watson after he had heard her out, ‘all you can really do for him is get a good lawyer. The police should do all the investigating and gathering of evidence. And I have to say that it doesn’t help matters that the suspect ran away so precipitously. Is it in character that he should have done so?’

‘He was frightened, doctor. Frightened by the accident, frightened because this man Albert Burroughs immediately began shouting. Or that’s what I imagine must have happened, because of course I haven’t talked to him about it. But he isn’t – well, I won’t say he is a simpleton, not at all – but he is unlettered and poor and timid. My belief is that he fled in panic, like a child would. Yes, that’s the best way to describe him. Not a dunce but a child, an innocent.’ 

 Watson nodded gravely. ‘I recall his manner quite clearly, Mrs Day. But it still looks like an admission of guilt when a person runs away, I have to say. Judges don’t care for childish young men who don’t stand their ground and speak up for the truth. A good lawyer is what he needs.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I might be able to recommend a couple of names, should the time come when he needs a defence drawn up. Quite frankly, Mrs Day, I have very little other advice to give.’

Harriet sat up very straight as if having made a decision and looked Watson straight in the eye. ‘I refuse to sit by and see this happen to him, doctor. And, therefore, I’ve decided. I know your colleague is not here at present but it seems to me an extraordinary, beneficial coincidence that he is a consulting detective and that you work with him. I have a cheque book in my bag here, and I would like to engage his services.’

‘My dear lady,’ said Watson. ‘I am afraid that is quite impossible. He is away – far away, on a case which may engross his attention for weeks. I am very sorry.’

‘But you, doctor, you say you work with him. You write about his cases, you must be familiar with his methods. Oh, please, if you could help, even if only a little bit – help me to find a way of proving that George Arden is innocent?’

‘I am flattered that you ask me, Mrs Day,’ said Watson hastily, for she was looking very crestfallen. ‘But I am emphatically not a consulting detective myself and do not have the gifts of observation and logic possessed by Mr Holmes. I could bring very little to such an investigation.’

‘But you do know something? You have some experience, surely, doctor? And you have met Mr Arden, he trusted you immediately and you know the kind of helpless creature he is. Would you not agree to be retained to undertake an investigation – call it a preliminary investigation, if you like - until Mr Holmes can take over?’ 

Watson shifted in his seat, feeling uncomfortable. He had never dared to usurp his friend’s vocation before. He would certainly not have dared if it had been likely that Sherlock Holmes would walk through that door within the next few days. Moreover, he himself had been implicated in the case – for all he knew, there might be further last writings from the drunken hand of Valentine Cabot being deciphered at this moment. There were very good reasons to refuse to become involved. But here was Mrs Harriet Day, looking charming and flustered – and damn it. ‘Very well,’ he heard himself say. ‘But please do not you go writing cheques and so forth. I will undertake to assist you on the basis that the final say is up to Mr Holmes. If he chooses to take up the case on his return, then that will be upon a business footing. And I can’t predict, Mrs Day, whether he would take the case or indeed what he would charge.’

Harriet Day’s face lit up. ‘You are extremely kind, doctor. I hardly know how to thank you. If we could put this on a business footing, it might be better, but as you say, all that can be left until Mr Holmes returns.’ She added timidly, ‘Is he very expensive, doctor?’

‘He is – unpredictable, Mrs Day, since he enjoys the game for its intellectual stimulation.’

‘The game?’

‘Oh, um, Holmes looks upon it as a pursuit, a fascinating puzzle, you know.’

‘Oh.’ Harriet looked as though she had a comment on the tip of her tongue, but she said nothing more than, ‘Well, I hope this case is an amusing enough game for him – if he comes back. And that his charges are not too unpredictable for my limited means.’

‘Never fear, I find he is usually flexible. He will never overcharge, that’s for sure, unless you were very, very rich.’

Harriet told Dr Watson the details of her own address and everything she felt was relevant about George and Valentine. Then she left, feeling more hopeful and at peace than she had done for some time.

  Watson paced the room a few times, glancing at the note he had made of Albert Burroughs’s name and address. But: Harriet, Harriet Day. Something about her reminded him of the short years of his marriage, his dear lost wife. Perhaps it was her eyes: they were the very same blue. He found himself standing by the mantelpiece, picking up a calling card he had propped against the side of the clock late one night last week. He sighed again. Poor boy with the thin face. Three times he’d been approached about this case. Three times, as his old mother used to say, was the charm. Not without reluctance, he turned the card over to read Aleister Crowley’s address on the back.

The turn-about room

It's Mothers' Day or Mothering Sunday, as we sometimes call it here in the UK. We wish we could thank our own mothers, all long gone now; if you can thank yours today, please, on our behalf, make a massive fuss of her! 

We have an extract from Charlie Raven's The Compact to intrigue us this week. Harriet lost her only child years before, and has kept the boy's bedroom unchanged since he died. Unfortunately, she's begun to be inconvenienced by inexplicable noises and activity in the long-empty room. As a rational woman, she blames the cat. She doesn't believe in ghosts. George Arden does, though.

The next day, Harriet found herself with a sore throat and a headache but otherwise more than equal to undertaking her teaching duties. She was glad though that she had only two pupils that day. Young Isabelle Daniels came and went, followed in the early afternoon by the other; and Harriet completely forgot about Mr Arden’s curious foreknowledge. She had in any event dismissed his talk of people waving at the window almost as soon as she heard it; and now it seemed dream-like, just a still image of herself looking up at the moon reflected in the glass.

About four-thirty, as the early evening was creeping closer to the house, there was a ring at her door and Mr Arden was shown into the room holding his hat in one hand and Harriet’s umbrella in the other. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Day. I thought I recognised the way the last house has a kind of turret on the top, and I thought I might see if this was your street. And when I saw the steps and the upstairs window, I was sure.’

‘Well, you are welcome, Mr Arden,’ said Harriet. It was a strange way to explain his visit.

‘And I’ve forgotten to mention why I’m here,’ he continued with a little laugh. ‘I apologise. Your umbrella! And also I want to make sure that you are well. Are you well?’

‘Yes, thank you. Very well. And thank you for bringing the umbrella. It’s very kind of you to call and I am glad you recognised the street. It’s Cairncross Street.’

‘I remember it began with a C from when you told the cab driver last night. But there are several C.s between Mrs Roberts’s house and here.’

‘Have you been walking about in the cold, looking for my house, Mr Arden?’

Arden looked a little embarrassed.

Harriet, thinking it was endearing but also rather pathetic, said, ‘Perhaps you could have checked with Mrs Roberts about the address before you left the house. Or Mrs Jenkins, she knows.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t disturb them,’ said Arden as if that might be a little dangerous.

‘Well, now that you’ve been so kind as to return my umbrella, please do come and sit down by the fire. Though it’s not quite as cold as yesterday, I think. The frost on the windows had gone by mid-morning.’

‘Yes, it’s warmer but very damp,’ agreed Arden. 

Harriet cast about for something to say. ‘So. How is Mr Cabot’s venture coming along, Mr Arden?’  She picked up some crochet work, expecting a cosy flood of confidential information.

‘I didn’t come to talk about that, Mrs Day,’ said Arden politely. ‘It was the ghost business, that was why I came. He is malignant and I can discern a real intention.’

Harriet left the crochet in her lap. ‘Could you explain a little more, Mr Arden?’

‘It’s very straightforward. Oh, listen!’

There was a clang from the room above.

‘That’s the bootjack,’ said Harriet, frowning at George as if he were responsible.

‘He chooses that room because it already works like a door. It changes, it’s a turn-about room, sometimes good and sunny, sometimes sad and dark. You need to stabilise it. Because when he’s here, he’ll keep annoying you by throwing things about.’

Harriet waited for further explanation. When none came, she said again, ‘Could you explain a little more, Mr Arden?’

‘Oh,’ said Arden, as if surprised. ‘I’ll try if you like. You have a person, a personality really, who obviously isn’t in a body but thinks perhaps that he is, and he comes into the room above this one. He’s glaring down at me. I can tell you that he has thick whiskers.’

‘Good lord,’ said Harriet.

‘I can tell him to go, if you want,’ said Arden. ‘Or you can let him stay. But he moves things and wants your attention and enjoys scaring you. His name is … Ostrich? He’s showing me a big bird. Oh, it’s Ozzie.’

‘Good lord,’ said Harriet again.

‘If you let me go into the room, I can sort it all out for you,’ said Arden, as if he were talking about the plumbing.

‘Well, then, I suppose you’d better,’ said Harriet. She really did not know what to think. ‘Mrs Skipton has the key. I’ll ring for Daisy.’

While they waited for the key to be brought, Harriet sat mutely and George chatted merrily about the Revue Parnassus where he was due to appear this evening. He told Harriet that Valentine was very particular about punctuality so he would unfortunately have to leave shortly or he risked making him angry. 

The key arrived and Harriet showed him up to the room. The stairs and landing were dim and she carried an oil lamp, apologising about the shadows and for some reason gabbling about the electricity which was being laid on in the next street. They stopped outside the door of the empty room. Behind them at the top of the stairs, the carved Swiss clock on the landing wall ticked heavily.

‘Would you like me to light the gas in the room? Or would you prefer to take the lamp with you, Mr Arden?’ she asked, wondering if she was expected to watch or assist. Her skin prickled uncomfortably at the thought of entering the room and seeing the little soldiers inexplicably moving about on the mantelpiece. 

‘I don’t mind really,’ said Arden cheerfully. ‘It’s not a physical eye-thing, if you see what I mean. I don’t know how to describe it, quite honestly, and it’s not worth trying. People often get quite cross about it if I do. It’s just that I remembered how you helped me at the pond yesterday and I wanted to do something to help you. That’s fair, isn’t it?’

There was a creaking noise from just beyond the door, as if someone were standing there. She imagined a person with an ear pressed to the wood, listening to their conversation.

‘Can I just ask you, Mr Arden, are we talking about a ghost? Because I don’t believe in ghosts or any such nonsense,’ Harriet said, her voice coming out rather shriller than usual. ‘I can’t imagine what it is, and I know it can move things so it has a physical force at its disposal, and I also understand it isn’t the cat; but it isn’t a ghost either. Because there is no such thing.’

Arden nodded admiringly. ‘I am not in the least offended if you don’t call it a ghost. You can call it anything you like. It can be something to do with magnets or the underground railways they’ve been digging, or interference from all that electricity pouring into your neighbours in the next street. Would that do?’

Harriet looked at him doubtfully, not sure if he were mocking her. She decided that he was not. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I think it’s best if you do what you want to do, with the proviso that I don’t have to believe what you believe about what you want to do.’

‘There, perfect! Anyway, it’ll probably be quicker if I do it alone. Don’t worry. You just make yourself comfortable and I’ll come down when it’s finished.’ Before she could say another word, he opened the door and slipped through into the dark room beyond.

Harriet sat motionless by the parlour fire, wondering if Mr Arden were bonkers. There were undoubted sounds from above. A scraping across the floor. The sound of something immensely heavy shuffling forward, one creak at a time. She decided it was the wardrobe. Then there was a scatter of little heavy objects dropping – the soldiers, she supposed. George Arden was upstairs wrecking her spare bedroom and she was sitting downstairs allowing it to happen. 

A thought struck her and she went to the desk drawer. She pulled it open – it stuck a little on the right-hand side because she rarely looked within – and brought out a red cloth folder with a cord binding it shut. It was crammed with papers: handwritten letters, legal documents and in an envelope on top, a fat gold locket and chain. She poured the chain out and the locket plopped after it into her palm like a tiny egg. She opened its front. On one side it was inscribed with her Christian name and a date, 1868. On the other was a miniature portrait on ivory, in rather garish colours, of a gentleman with generous mutton-chop whiskers. She looked at it briefly and put it away in the folder, along with all the other papers, and pushed the drawer shut. At that moment, George reappeared, tapping on the door. She motioned to him to enter and he immediately came to pick up his hat from where he had left it on the piano stool. She faced him with a question on her lips.

‘Yes. All finished,’ he said in a rush, before she could speak. ‘But you need to keep the room open and moving. I suggest putting a goldfish in there or a little bird. I know it’s a sad room for you but you could put some growing things on the windowsill, not dead things. Some plants.’

‘What’s happened?’ asked Harriet. ‘Is the room a terrible mess?’

‘No, no, just the wardrobe needs pushing back a little bit and some toys need to be rearranged. I would do it for you but I have to dash. I’m sure I can remember the way back, if I just go to the end of the street and cross, take a left and then a right, or no, a left. But I’ll remember when I see it. Please excuse me, Mrs Day. Valentine will absolutely murder me if I’m late. We’re still only half-done on the The Grenadier’s Farewell and its first performance is tonight. But it was fun and I’m so glad you’re better.’

And with that, Mr Arden departed. Harriet saw him to the door and then stood wondering in the hall. She had to admit to herself that her expectations about him had been wrong. And his manner was far more relaxed, less ‘frozen’, than on their previous meeting. Perhaps the absence of Valentine was the explanation.

She decided she really ought to go up and look at the room, although she had a strong inclination to leave it till daylight. But then she pictured herself, lying in bed wondering about the dark objects standing in its emptiness and waiting to hear odd noises across the landing. No, the best thing to do was go in with a stout heart and have a thorough look and poke about in all the corners. She went warily upstairs, once again carrying the lamp. Opening the door, she walked straight across and lit the gas lights. There were the soldiers, scattered as she predicted all over the mat. She picked them up and placed them on the mantel in a little heap. As for the rest of the room, all looked as before, except for the wardrobe, which was pushed away from the wall by four or five inches. A good opportunity to dust behind it, she thought. 

She was about to re-order the soldiers in their usual ranks when a thought struck her. She went to the bookcase and took down a painted wooden box jammed above the volumes on the shelf. It contained a few dried, age-darkened conkers, dropped from a tree and gathered up one autumn day twenty years before. She put the toys away. The little soldiers fitted snugly among them, like troops hiding between boulders. Before she closed the lid, she thought, ‘These are seeds. There have been trees inside this box all these years.’ Then she replaced it on the shelf. Remembering to leave the door open as she left, she thought that the room felt warmer. But then, the weather was warmer and all the frost had thawed. 

She walked downstairs thinking that she could not account for what Mr Arden had done – it was irrational. But neither could she account for his familiarity with her husband’s appearance; and his inexplicable knowledge of the pet-name she had called him on their honeymoon, thirty years before.

My name is not Mary

 A Case of Domestic Pilfering is a Holmesian romp set in high summer. Come, warm yourself on memories of hot streets ...

Madeleine had been stooping, picking at the flattened granules of something ground into the carpet.  Now she straightened, red in the face, and sat back on her heels for a moment until a movement at the door made her jump.

'Only me!'

Madeleine turned away.  'So I see.  How come you always turn up when the work's half finished?'

'It was John.  He kept me to help with – to help him shift something.'  The older girl moved across the room slowly, humming.

'Well, you took your time.  I've already cleaned over there, by the way.'

'So you have.  Good little worker, ain't you Mary?  Shall I do over here then?'   

My name is not Mary, protested Madeleine silently. 'No need.  It's all done, Sarah.'

'Well, lemme carry that then.  Oh by the way –  ain't it your half day today?  Don't feel like swapping with me by any chance?  I got some things I want to do.'

'No, I don't.  I've got things to do as well.'

'Oh come on, Mary!  What things?'  Sarah sat down on the piano stool; the lid was up, and she ran a finger along the keys.

'Shush that!  They'll hear you!' 

'Not them.  They didn't get in till light.  I heard 'em.'

'Couldn't sleep, eh?'

Sarah ignored the dig.  'You're mean, you are, Mary,' she said in complaining tones. 'You get much more fun than me, living out like you do.  It's work, work, work here, all day long.'

'I work.  Or hadn't you noticed?'  And my name is not Mary.

'Well, I'd have thought you could do me just one tiny favour...'

'I'm always doing you favours.'  Madeleine made toward the door.  'I've got things to do,' she repeated over her shoulder.

'Must be love, then!' laughed Sarah as she slid from the piano stool.

Madeleine stood still for a moment.  'No,' she said firmly; 'No, it's not love.'

They crossed the hall in silence, and disappeared down the back stairs.

Later, she threaded her way through the crowd.  It was hot, and although she'd washed her face and hands before leaving Mr Clements' house she felt dirty and sticky.  The pavements burned through the soles of her shoes, and the smell of people, horses and hot tar invaded her nose.  At last she decided to blow some wages on an omnibus, rummaging in her purse to find the requisite coppers.

Home at last, tired and flushed, feeling the hair cling damply to her forehead, she ascended the three steps and opened the door.  Immediately the smell of cabbage puffed at her, accompanied by its auditory equivalent: Mr Morgan's voice lessons wafting down the stairwell.  She hurried into the back room she shared with her mother, pulling at the ribbons of her bonnet.

Her mother was in bed, a great heap under the covers, snoring.  The yellow blinds trapped the air; the room smelled of sweat and unwashed linen.  Madeleine wrinkled her nose, withdrawing quietly.  She went downstairs to the basement where her younger brother Michael was reading at the kitchen table.

'Is that tea?'  She sat down opposite him as he refilled the cup at his elbow and pushed it towards her.  

'What you reading, Mikey?'

He held up the book.  'The Terrible Fate of Lady Melrose,' she read aloud.  'That's the same one you were reading last week!'

'Yeah.  It's got some good bits in it.  This Lady gets kidnapped by a gang of roughs - here, look -'

Madeleine read curiously.  'That's rude'.  She pushed the book away, blushing involuntarily.

Michael was grinning.  'I don't mind.'

'Don't suppose you do.  Anyway, no-one talks like that in real life.'  She swept some biscuit crumbs aside.

'It's books, innit?  Anyway, I'll be getting a new one tomorrow because – look.'  He slid something into his palm and made a fist.  'Which one?'

'That one.'  He opened his hand.

'Well well,' she said softly.  'You have been earning your keep now, haven't you?'  She looked at him.  'Anything else?'

'No.  Straightforward, this one. Never seen him before –  new to it, by the looks of him.'

Madeleine nodded.  'It's the regulars who turn out more interesting from my point of view.'

'And mine.  Did your Frog go for those papers?'

'Difficult to tell, but he was interested all right. Enough to make your gent worth another squeeze.'

'I'll squeeze him all right.  They're pathetic, that sort – dead scared, but keep coming back for more.  Must be my charm.'  Michael smiled pleasantly.  'The price'll go up this time, though.  We could do some serious business – tell your Frog that.  By the by, what about your gent?  Any chance there?'

'Mr Clements?  Too risky.   Anyway, he's catered for.  Got a nice friend staying with him now.'

'One of us?'  Michael leaned forward, interested.

'Nah.  He sticks to his own.'

Michael sat in silence for a while; Madeleine watched him.  He met her eyes.

'Mads - d'you think I should buy something for Ma with this?'  Suddenly he looked very young.

'She never notices!  Don't know why you bother.'

'Don't be hard on her, Mads.  She can't help it.'

'I'm sick of hearing that.'  Madeleine spoke coldly.  'She has it easy compared to you.  And me.'

'She's had a deal of trouble …'

'We've all got trouble.  Don't get soft on me, Mikey.  You won't last if you're soft.'

'I think I know that better than you,' said Michael quietly.  'Don't be angry, Mads.'  

There was a pause.  'When you seeing him, then?  Your Frog?'

'Dunno. Tonight, maybe. Or maybe not. I'm tired.'  She rubbed her eyes and passed a hand through her dirty yellow hair.  'No, tonight. I could do with a run. It helps.'

'I know,' said Michael.   

Upstairs Mrs Peterson reached a crescendo of snores, and on the floor above, Mr Morgan's pupil trilled on top G, cracked, and gamely tried again.  'Bravo!' came his voice, drifting faintly down the stairs; 'Bravo!'