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!'

The White Stone Well

This week, Charlie Raven's kindly given us an extract from her Holmesian murder-mystery The Compact. 

It's 1898. Recovering from traumatic events, the artist Alexandra has been persuaded to recuperate at the domineering Minerva Atwell's country hotel. An inexplicably eerie atmosphere seems to pervade the valley, perhaps associated with the ancient well in the woods - or with Minerva herself.

 

Adsullata Spa Hotel, Whitstanwell, Somerset

My dear Harriet,

Well, you will see from the notepaper where I am. I am sorry not to have communicated with you before. We arrived on Tuesday and I would have written sooner but it was all very rushed and time just seems to go so quickly. But before I say anything else, I want to apologise to you for my recent coldness. I don’t have to tell you why. I am sorry too about the unpleasant scene after the funeral. I fully understand why you felt you had to question Mr Burroughs like that and I cannot excuse his remarks to you. I think the shock affected him, as it did all of us. Think what he must have seen! Anyway, my harsh words at the time were uncalled for and I beg you to forgive me. Like the good old friends we are, let’s put it behind us. Now! Let me tell you about this place.

We took the train to Bath, of course, and then entrusted our luggage and ourselves to a rather alarming but very sturdy equipage that Mrs Atwell had arranged to meet us. It was drawn by two immense muddy dray horses and I soon understood why they were necessary. The carriage, as black and shiny as a beetle, at least looked in no danger of overturning, which was well - for it had to thread (rather dangerously, I thought) up and down steep foothills and through country lanes in the darkness. I cannot say that January is the time I would have chosen to explore the wilds! Mrs Atwell of course is a seasoned traveller and often comes here. She says the soft airs of the place, even in winter, are particularly conducive to health both of body and mind. There is a pretty village not too far away with a convenient post office too.

Anyway, we are settled now, dear Harriet. Mrs Atwell is a fascinating companion but she is often busy and you and I could chat very comfortably here. I have not had an opportunity to explore everywhere as yet, particularly as part of the hotel is shut up and undergoing repairs. It is being modernised, Mrs Atwell says, in preparation for the much busier seasons she expects in the future as the Spa builds up its reputation.

There are but three residents here at the moment, each of whom receives the very best care. Mrs Atwell tells me the waters of a marvellous local spring provide such benefits to the nervous system as are almost impossible to enumerate. She says the source is the same extraordinarily deep volcanic wells as supply the renowned hot springs at Bath. She herself discovered the forgotten well in the valley here and had it restored, diverting the waters to supply a pump room in this romantic old place. It has taken a great deal of work to get it right, she tells me, and she says the Bank has ‘sunk’ a lot of money into it, but the modern building is now almost perfect and will rival Bath itself in time. 

With her keen interest in history, Mrs Atwell assures me that she has found evidence that the use of the well dates back to pre-Roman times. Her workmen discovered various stones under the water in the course of their work. They are crudely shaped to suggest human heads. Apparently the poor superstitious fellows would have destroyed them but Mrs Atwell intervened and had them set up in the salon, much to local disapproval, as you may well imagine! She had them thoroughly scrubbed and they have come up as white as alabaster. She believes the very name of this valley is inspired by them – perhaps a fanciful idea, but who can say? You would be much interested to see them – I intend to append a sketch of one. You will agree, I think, that they retain a certain power.

I am sitting, my dear Harriet, in the comfortable salon having ‘taken the waters’ myself these three days running. I have drunk them – tastes like metal and blood, very odd - and also immersed myself in the beautiful pool which Mrs Atwell had built here. You would love to see it (and you would laugh to see me in it attired in a voluminous bathing gown!). It is tiled with blue and gold fishes – the pool, that is, not the gown. Don’t laugh – my head is a muddle. One hardly wishes to leave the pool once one is fully immersed. I can truly feel myself relaxing into a better state of health. 

I have made a great friend here too, a Mrs Halliwell, who as I write is sitting near me by the fire. She, poor thing, suffers much from gout and rheumatism. By lucky chance, she once also lived in Cairo for a while so I have enjoyed chatting whilst pushing her about in a handsome bath chair (or else she must hobble about on bandaged feet).

Dear Harriet, after the recent terrible tragedy – of which I can barely think or write - I hope that the healing qualities of this place are restoring me to my right mind. Quite soon I plan to resume work on the famous portrait of Minerva Atwell. She particularly wishes to work at it here because she says the atmosphere, light, etc. are very ‘artistic’. It made me laugh when she said that. 

I feel very blessed to have such a friend – for I think I may increasingly trust that I am her friend – and even more blessed to know that I remain your A.

Alexandra read the letter through, signed it and folded in a small sketch she had made the previous evening. She sealed it into an envelope and walked out to leave it at the reception desk with other letters waiting for the post. She was alone for now. Mrs Halliwell had dozed off in her chair. The other two residents were receiving various treatments from the staff. Minerva was somewhere about the place or busy in her office. 

Alexandra looked out of the windows of the solarium towards the head of the valley. At the top, a shoulderblade of brown-gold hillside caught the winter sunlight. Leafless trees marched down the slopes to flank the road leading to the hotel. Above it all, the thin and blue sky was like a pane of ice. It would be good to work again, to get the easel and some pastels, perhaps, and begin to sketch some of this. She had forgotten how compressed and exhausted she habitually felt in London; and although there was still a physical pain inside when she thought of Valentine, here it seemed easier to manage it, to breathe and to think alongside it. Stepping outside, she saw that waxy snowdrops were already nodding in the chilly wind by the wall in the sun.

Half an hour later, sitting on a tree stump with a board on her knee, Alexandra began a pencil sketch of the view back down the slope towards the house. She liked the irregularity of the building and the lie of the pale shadows on its complicated face. It had two distinct sides. One had a plastered façade in a Palladian style; the other was darker and far older. And from up here, she could see that there was more to it than she had originally thought. The more ancient half of it had a kind of prison of ash-pole scaffolding set up at one end but no workmen were in sight. 

The wind was cold and her hands quickly reddened. Too cold to stay exposed here for long, after twenty minutes she put the board on the ground, leaving it well-weighted with a lump of limestone. She decided to warm up with a walk and chose to aim for a thicketed little fold down near the bottom of the slope. As she stumbled over the tree roots, glad of her sturdy boots, she was thankful that the descent among the trees was taking her out of the wind. She hesitated, wondering whether to go back and collect up her things and recommence work from here. A few pretty sketches of the house and valley would be an appropriate thanks to Mrs Atwell for her kindness. 

She looked around to see if there was a worthwhile view, peering between the ranks of green-grey tree trunks. Nothing was moving. There was no sound at all. Further down, she saw a plume of steam rising from a hidden cleft. Fascinated, she realised she may by chance have found the source of Minerva’s original ‘White Stone Well’ and immediately set off to get closer to it.

This must be the well all right, she thought; but it was a weird place. A little further down the slope, she could see where the water had been diverted and hurried away underground into modern pipes, but here at the source, all was untouched. A few flat green stones led down in a shallow stair, natural or perhaps man-made, for she imagined she could detect the wear of feet. She followed them down to the spring itself and stood suddenly astounded to watch it gush out of the crevice. The strength of it was breathtaking. The copious brown stream rippled strongly up and out, steaming, powerful, pumping from a deep gash. The water-smoothed stones were red in the steam.

She sat down on a rock, staring, silent, and after a long time, dared to stretch down and touch the water. It was so hot. It was almost indelicate – fleeting associations of menstruating, giving birth, passed through her head. A most extraordinary sight, her modern rational self said again and again, as the water forced its way out, staining the rock surfaces, immodest, sinewy, from the deep into daylight. At long last, she turned away, feeling that she owed the wellspring something, a token, because it seemed alive and she had watched it.

Feeling foolish, she pulled one of the silver hat pins from her felt hat and threw it into the spring; and, as she moved to go, saw that she was not alone in this irrational urge. There was a shining edge of a hidden thing poked into a cleft in the rocks. The returning ferns and mosses would be covering it a few short weeks from now. Gingerly, she extracted it. It was crudely drawn, mere scratches on a tiny sheet of copper. She brought it closer to her eyes, eager to find out what it depicted. As far as she could make out, it showed a somewhat bizarre female figure. She rubbed the metal and slanted it to get a sight of the rough engraving. A standing naked woman was flanked by two birds. It’s the oddest thing, thought Alexandra, because someone’s drawn her with very unusual feet. The cloak drooping from her shoulders looks almost like wings. She replaced it carefully, deciding to discuss her discovery with Mrs Atwell after dinner. ‘Because it isn’t very old at all,’ she said aloud.

Dr Watson meets Aleister Crowley

Well, it's October, so we can quite reasonably start to feature a bit of spookiness on the blog. And also, it's 'Crowleymass', as some people call it. Aleister Crowley, the celebrated enfant terrible of Twentieth Century Occultism, was born on 12th October 1875. To coincide with this date, we have an extract from The Compact, Charlie Raven's complex and creepy mystery novel, in which a lonely Dr Watson gets involved with Crowley as he attempts to clear an innocent man of murder.

In 1898, the 23 year old Crowley (above) was right at the beginning of his career. Brilliant, wealthy and flamboyant, he was already mastering the teachings of the Esoteric Order of the Golden Dawn. Secretly he was also in the midst of a passionate, short-lived love affair with the extraordinary Jerome Pollitt. Pollitt - the inspiration for a novel by E.F.Benson - was a rich patron of Aubrey Beardsley, a president of the Footlights Club in Cambridge, and celebrated as a remarkable female impersonator.  In the section below, our Dr Watson visits Crowley's apartment for the first time. We have been assured that all the details of Crowley's decor and practices at this time are historically correct. H'mm. As Weird Sisters, we are not of nervous dispositions as a rule, but we're not sure that we would have felt entirely comfortable with the skeleton in the corner ...

We hope you enjoy this extract and, well, happy Crowleymass!🕷

_______________________________________________________________

The afternoon had brightened with a whisper of early spring as Dr Watson stood on the doorstep of 67 Chancery Lane. He was not entirely sure what he was going to say to Crowley or even if he wanted to make the strange fellow’s acquaintance again. 

In his published works, Watson often played up the fact that Holmes was wont to amuse himself at the expense of his friend’s slower intellect. It made for a lighter element in the stories, but the jibes were unjust - after all, very few minds could keep up with the intellect of Sherlock Holmes. But in truth, Dr Watson had the advantage not only of intelligence but also of sympathetic insight. 

Consequently, he had already assessed Aleister Crowley in the following way: 

(a) impulsive; (b) a show-off; (c) intent on épatant les bourgeois; (d) probably ingesting certain substances, affecting mood, energy, judgement; (e) unusual, brilliant, cocksure. 

Having lived for so long with his detective friend, who happened to share most of these characteristics (including an occasionally substantial cocaine habit), Watson was quite prepared to deal with all of them.

Crowley seemed to be expecting him - or at least was not at all surprised to see him. He was wearing a black silk dressing gown draped over his clothes and had clearly been engaged in writing: there was a thick sheaf of yellow foolscap on the desk in front of the window and a silver fountain pen lying on the blotter. A pile of books lay beside it, their spines turned towards the room as if on display. Watson managed to read a couple of names discreetly: The Cloud upon the Sanctuary and The Book of Black Magic and of Pacts. Someone had also been burning incense and possibly something else, as the air was thick with a heavy fragrance. Watson’s quick glance round the room registered an ornate sheesha-pipe or hookah on a low table in the corner. The rest of the room boasted as extraordinary a collection of bizarrerie as Holmes himself could have displayed. 

‘This is my London place,’ said Crowley, removing a newspaper and several periodicals from an armchair so that Watson could sit down. ‘I’m sorry Pollitt isn’t here to greet you. He thinks he needs a rest in the country and he took himself off this morning. Anyway, bit of peace and quiet, gives me a chance to get on with my work. I’m thinking of moving in here permanently, after I finish at Trinity. If I finish at Trinity.’

‘A medical student, are you?’ asked Watson, eyeing the human skeleton arranged in the corner.

‘Oh, no. Moral Science. But you refer to our friend over there? No, that is entirely part of an on-going experiment in ritual necromancy. My friend Bennett and I feed him songbirds and little cups of blood.’

Watson knew that Crowley was watching his reaction closely so he just smiled politely.

‘Do sit down!’ Crowley said. ‘Would you care for champagne, doctor? Absinthe? Cocaine?’

‘For a man who ingests so much poison, sir, you show no sign of muscle-wastage. I would hazard a guess that you enjoy a sport. Perhaps mountaineering?’

‘Clever guess,’ said Crowley cheerfully, settling onto a velvet couch. ‘No doubt you noticed the magazines I just stuffed into the rack?’

‘I will not deny it, Mr Crowley. Not to mention, if I may add, the equipment listed on the scrap of paper projecting from beneath your magic book. I notice the ink is smudged – perhaps it was not quite dry when you thrust it away? You need not be ashamed of good health and vigour,’ Watson smiled. ‘But let us work together honestly. Let you not try to shock and terrify me quite so much and I will not force middle-aged medical opinion upon you. Does that sound reasonable?’ 

Crowley looked at Watson with an amused air. ‘I predicted that you would come to me, Dr Watson. It is therefore reasonable to assume that you have information regarding George Arden.’

‘Indeed. A prediction – or a suggestion – which proves true. I know that Holmes would clear this matter up in a trice. But he is engaged in an investigation of the utmost secrecy, the ramifications of which may reach even to the Tsar in Russia. I cannot contact him now or divulge any clue as to his whereabouts.’

‘I imagine he’s in Russia, then? I was there last summer, learning the language. A beautiful city, St Petersburg. I’m thinking of becoming a spy, you know. Is he doing a little spying at the moment?’

‘No,’ said Watson. ‘I have no further information myself at present. Anyway, it’s beside the point. The desperate appeal of a friend of Mr Arden’s moved me to take a closer look at the case. Since you’ve made it clear that you have a keen interest in it yourself, it seemed logical to speak to you. But before we proceed, may I ask why the interest?’

 ‘Why should you ask why?’

‘Because it is important that both of us are as impartial and committed to uncovering the truth as a detective should be. What if, for example, we come across evidence that Arden is indeed guilty of this or worse crimes? We must then turn over our evidence to the police. Do you see?’

‘Of course I see. And I understand your line of reasoning. I agree we must be impartial, although we aren’t. We know George is innocent and that’s our starting point. I do see what you mean though.’ Crowley propped himself on an elbow and added thoughtfully, ‘But, doctor, what if you and I do not agree on what constitutes a crime? We may not agree on what constitutes evidence either.’

‘I think we need not argue about that,’ said Watson indulgently. ‘After all, there’s no need to get into the ethics of it all. The law of the land sorts out for us what is defined as a crime. We just observe the facts and the prosecution takes care of presenting the evidence in court.’ 

‘I understand that. Your methods are purely scientific – yes, I have researched you, doctor, and have been most amused by your stories. I liked them very much – but there are gaping holes in your methodology. It troubled me all the way through reading your accounts because they are so very materialist. My studies have confirmed to me again and again that only spiritual affairs count for anything, even in the grossest concerns of life. That’s why I have to point out, respectfully of course, that your methods are limited.’

Watson bridled at this but decided not to pursue it: it seemed to be a twist on Holmes’s own criticisms of the more old-fashioned police procedures. He said calmly, ‘Holmes’s methods are based not on presumptions or circumstance, nor on false inductive reasoning. They are tethered to the observable facts.’

Crowley leaned forward. ‘But just what are observable facts for you? And can you even begin to imagine that they might differ from observable facts for me – or for a George Arden? Don’t mistake me, doctor, I’m really not being rude, but it strikes me that we end up with limited results when we have limited information. We confirm our own bias, don’t we?

‘Well, that is precisely why Holmes’s methods are so useful. They are impartial,’ said Watson. ‘He observes and he deduces. He doesn’t go in with a presupposition already in place. He lets the facts lead to a conclusion.’

‘Yes, yes. But what if you can’t see the evidence in the first place? Let me give you an example. You walked into this room and perceived the observable facts of a skeleton in the corner, my notes under the book and so on and made your deductions from observations of my physique.’ He paused and waved towards the skeleton, ‘But, doctor, all the time you failed to sense the presence of various Qlippoth of the demonic order A’areb Tzereq over there in that same corner.’

Involuntarily, Watson looked towards the corner. Of course he could see nothing unusual.

Crowley continued, ‘They are particularly clustered over there, like blowflies, round our thin friend. Can you see them now? Or can you perhaps hear them speaking to each other? And to you now, because they will, you know: now that you’ve started to think about them? They have started to become aware of you. It seems to me like a creaking, buzzing sound just on the edge of hearing. Listen!’

Watson was sure he could not hear anything he wouldn’t expect to hear in a room of this size and situation; nevertheless something seemed to cast a shade across the afternoon light.

‘Now the reason for that,’ Crowley went on softly, as if he didn’t want the skeleton to hear, ‘is that there is a problem in the experiment being conducted. Don’t worry, the flaw is deliberate because it amuses me to observe the behaviour of these entities. Demons interest me and I have no desire to banish them for now.’ He laughed. ‘Did you ever have a chemistry set, doctor? I once nearly blew up my entire school. This is science, you see, like monitoring a petrie dish full of strange growths. An unguarded person who stayed for too long in this room would eventually become subject to destructive impulses, because of those demons. It even affects Pollitt and me.’

‘But the presence of the so-called demons could not be proved in a court of law, Crowley!’ exclaimed Watson. ‘This isn’t the Dark Ages when unfortunate old women were accused of hexing the milk. Thank heavens!’

 Crowley ignored him. ‘I may try it soon. What do you say? Should I leave some ordinary, innocent people locked in here to see what they did? I wouldn’t tell them why, or what to expect. Interesting, isn’t it? Would they kill each other, do you think? I am inclined to think that the most scientific and reliable way of experimenting on people’s unconscious mind would be to watch their reactions to a well-thought-out series of unforeseen circumstances. And whatever happened, the police, coming in later, would never, never know why.’ He chuckled as if amused at the thought. ‘A curse is the perfect weapon, you know. I killed my headmaster when I was a boy like that.’ 

‘These things are debatable, Mr Crowley, and quite unprovable,’ said Watson. He was beginning to regret his decision to further involve Crowley in the Arden case. Part of him was wondering what kind of a schoolboy Crowley had been and another part was outraged that Crowley would think it acceptable to lock up innocent people with a skeleton and demons, however imaginary.

‘Oh I think they’re very provable. Science hasn’t developed the instruments to measure them yet, that’s all. Do you know, when several people who have developed what I hate to call "the psychic senses" are attuned, they can verify each others’ findings? They can communicate without words. We do it all the time. These are the unseen muscles that I choose to develop. And that brings me in a very roundabout way to the answer to your question: why am I interested in George? Because his vision, his senses, are as superior to mine as your Mr Holmes’s powers are superior to yours. That, Dr Watson, is what it’s all about. I wish him to assist us in our experiments.’

‘Us?’

‘My society. They would be most interested in Arden’s abilities.’  

‘I see. And your associates are?’

Crowley shrugged. ‘I belong to several organisations, doctor. My associates study the works of Hermes Trismegistus and the three branches of subtle knowledge.’

Watson said shortly, ‘I believe that alchemy, magic and the conjuring of spirits will not be required in these investigations, Mr Crowley.’

‘Let’s see, shall we? Let’s keep an open mind. All I ask is that you let me at least tell you if I notice the kind of evidence I was talking about. The kind that wouldn’t be admissible in a court of law.’

Dr Watson saw that there would be no advantage in arguing with an opponent who claimed to be the sole possessor of unverifiable facts. ‘I feel sure that we can contribute in our own particular ways,’ he said diplomatically, ‘as long as we try for impartiality.’

A small, fat dog and a number of cherries

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.