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The bank vault was dark and silent. A match flared suddenly, startling the creeping thief. A handsome young detective threw his arm out to prevent the criminal from leaving. His friend and companion stepped out from hiding behind the criminal, fingered the revolver in his pocket, loaded and ready to go off at the slightest touch of the trigger. Seeing that he was caught between two such fine, upstanding members of society, the thief yielded without further fight.
“Jolly well done!” said Dr James Wilmott. “It will be a long time before the name of Mr Simon Havers is forgotten by London’s criminal gangs!”
”Thank you, my dear doctor,” said Mr Havers. “Inspector Lascelle will be here any moment to cart this thief off to the pent, then we will have the evening to ourselves.” He smiled knowingly. “Did you have plans for the evening, Wilmott?”
Dr Wilmott returned the knowing smile. “You’re so clever, Havers. What do you deduce?”
Mr Havers narrowed his eyes and his nostrils flared. He smiled like a predator. ”I observe that your increased breathing rate and heightened pulse have not returned to normal after our exciting capture of this thief. I deduce that as soon as Inspector Lascelle has gone, you want me to bend you over one of those crates of French gold and take you roughly up the arse ”
Inspector Lestrade paused at the door of 221B Baker Street, walked on, then turned back with a little tsk! and a rueful shake of his head. He stood on the top step, gripped a cardboard folder tightly under his arm and reached for the bell chain. He paused, sighed and gave the bell a gentle tug. For a few seconds hope grew that nobody would be home. But then after a few light, hurried footsteps, the door opened.
“Good morning inspector. Do come in. Is Mr Holmes expecting you?”
Lestrade half turned as if to leave. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Mr Holmes is not expecting me. If it is too early or if he is engaged, I can return at another time.”
“Not at all!” The often-stern landlady smiled. “He’ll be pleased to see you. Dr Watson is home too. I’ll bring up some tea. Nice and strong, the way you like it.”
“You are very kind, Mrs Hudson.”
Lestrade took the stairs at a measured pace, dreading the moment when he had to reveal the contents of the folder. As he reached the landing, the door to the snug little sitting room was thrown open and a voice boomed out.
“Lestrade! Have you brought me a case?”
“Possibly,” Lestrade replied. Watson waved him in and invited him to sit. He perched on the settee.
Holmes sat cross-legged in his armchair. “I hope it’s interesting. Tell me all about it.”
Lestrade looked at the folder in his lap. “It’s nothing really.” He glanced from Holmes to Watson and back again. “Probably nothing. Well. Some… literature has come into my possession recently. And it is of a rather particular nature.”
Mrs Hudson arrived with the tea tray, set it on the breakfast table and set about serving.
“Go on,” Holmes said impatiently. “This literature of a rather particular nature. Are you at liberty to reveal to us what it is?”
“Well, yes.” Lestrade pursed his lips. “I suppose that is why I am here. Here.”
He handed the folder to Holmes. As Holmes opened it, Mrs Hudson brought two cups of tea over: one for Lestrade and one for Watson. She returned momentarily with one for Holmes too. When her eyes glanced over the pamphlet in Holmes’s hands, the teacup and saucer clattered and fell to the floor.
“Oh!” She picked up the saucer and the pieces of the cup, ignoring the tea soaking into the rug. “Sorry. I’ll fetch you another.”
With one last horrified look at Holmes’s reading material, Mrs Hudson left the room.
“Good Lord, Holmes,” Watson said with raised eyebrows. “What on Earth have you got that shocked our dear Mrs Hudson enough for her to break her precious bone china!”
Holmes stared at the text in front of him. Letsrade gently slid the pamphlet from Holmes’s unresisting fingers and passed it to Watson while Holmes stared at the empty folder in his lap.
“I think you had better see for yourself, doctor.”
Watson gingerly took the pamphlet. He read the title: The Adventures of Havers and Wilmott, by Anonymous, and glanced at Holmes - still staring into space - and frowned at Lestrade. “Is it really all that bad? It’s only a pamphlet.”
“I suggest you read it, doctor.”
Watson opened it and read. His first reaction was bewilderment, then a nervous laugh, then a solemn quiet descended on him.
He frowned at the page. “Lestrade, this is pure filth! Why have you brought it to us?”
Holmes shook himself out of his trance. “Oh, for goodness sake, Watson, can’t you see? Mr SH and Dr JW, with Inspector L.”
“That could be sheer coincidence, Holmes.”
“I don’t believe it is,” Lestrade cut in. “In particular, if you turn to the part where they return home… may I?” He took the pamphlet from Watson and opened it at a later page. “Read this part. Try to focus on the description of the room they are in rather than what the fictional characters are doing.”
Watson read.
Dr Wilmott sat in his armchair by the fire, opposite Mr Havers. Mr Havers reached for his favourite pipe and filled it with tobacco from the toe of the pointe shoe nailed to the mantelpiece where he kept it.
”I say, Havers, my dear,” Wilmott said with a winning smile. “I don’t suppose you’d like something more satisfying to suck on?”
Mr Havers grinned, got up and put his pipe back on the rack he kept on the mantelpiece. He knelt on the tigerskin rug between Wilmott’s feet.
”I fancy I know what you’re after, my dear doctor. Now be a good fellow and get it out for me.”
“I have described this room in my stories and surely plenty of people keep a pipe rack on the mantelpiece?” Watson looked at the Persian slipper and the bearskin rug. “And most people have some kind of rug by the hearth. And…”
“Watson,” Holmes said gently. “You must see that this is a thinly veiled and rather salacious parody. Of us.”
Watson’s face, always expressive, was turning a particular shade of crimson that Lestrade had never seen before.
“And me,” Lestrade added quietly. “Inspector Lascelle features more prominently in one of the other publications.”
“You mean there are more of these disgusting rags?” Watson flapped the pamphlet at Lestrade. “It’s abominable! Surely something can be done. This is libellous!”
Holmes shook his head slowly. “Calm yourself, my dear doctor. Would you be prepared to engage in a protracted and expensive court battle, to have your reputation subjected to intense scrutiny and speculation, only to find that nothing can be done and you are smeared with the false suspicion of gross indecency?” Holmes sighed. “And would you be prepared for the same indignity to be forced upon Lestrade and me? Lestrade would have to resign. We would have to move out of these rooms to save Mrs Hudson’s reputation.”
Watson deflated. “Of course not! But—”
“Lestrade,” said Holmes, cutting off Watson’s protestation. “How many copies do you estimate are in circulation?”
“Not many. I have only seen a few copies of each of three pamphlets plus one of a fourth. None of the usual purveyors of such material would admit to those titles passing through their grubby hands. Not even Monsieur Hirsch of Coventry Street, with whom we have a delicate understanding. This is no Sins of the Cities of the Plain.”
“No indeed,” Holmes said, taking the pamphlet from Watson and opening it at a random page. “Whoever wrote this has quite an eye for detail and a rather romantic turn of phrase. Listen to this: Doctor Wilmott watched Havers with wide, green eyes. Havers regarded him in return, eyes half-closed and fingers clasped under his chin. ‘I think I would like you to kiss me now,’ Havers said quietly, as if afraid Wilmott might hear and refuse. My dear Watson, are you unwell?”
Watson covered his burning face with both hands and shook his head. Holmes closed the pamphlet but held on to it. “Lestrade, it is better if this is not an official police matter.”
Lestrade’s face flooded with relief. “I’m glad we agree on that, Holmes. I don’t want any of my colleagues at the Yard gossiping about this.”
“Then you must leave the investigation to me.” Holmes tucked the pamphlet into the folder and placed it on the table by his elbow. “I will need every copy you have managed to lay your hands on. Can you bring them round directly?”
Lestrade stood. “I’ll bring them tonight.”
“Please do. I will need a list of known publishers and purveyors of pornography. I have a contact in publishing who may be able to furnish me with the names and addresses of private individuals who are in possession of small printing presses.”
“I’ll bring it.” Lestrade walked to the door. He paused and looked back at Holmes, who was watching Watson with a look of concern, and Watson, who still had his face in his hands. “It’s obscene, this filth that’s been printed. If there’s anything I can do to help put a stop to it discreetly, you must let me know.”
“Oh, I will. Goodbye, Lestrade.”
Lestrade let himself out. It was only as he left the building that he huffed a laugh because Holmes never got his replacement cup of tea.
As soon as the door closed behind Lestrade, Holmes looked kindly at Watson. “Come now, doctor, you must have seen and heard worse.”
Watson uncovered his face. “I have never been so embarrassed in my life. Holmes, I am mortified.”
Holmes giggled then threw back his head and gave vent to his mirth. After a moment, Watson joined in. As they recovered their composure, Mrs Hudson quietly brought in more tea then left again without a word.
Holmes cocked an eyebrow at Watson. “I will need your help in this investigation. You are, after all, my contact in publishing. And once friend Lestrade returns with the rest of the, ah, literature, we must read it closely for any hints as to the identity of the author or authors.”
Watson’s deep blush reappeared. He slowly and silently shook his head. “Holmes, I can’t.”
Holmes put on a stern expression. “Now, we must be entirely objective about this. You are a doctor. Treat each page as if it were a patient with an embarrassing ailment. Detach yourself and analyse the word choice and grammar, the descriptions, the typeface. Those are the symptoms and we need to use them to diagnose the source of the material.”
Watson took a deep breath. “You’re right, of course. I have seen far worse than words on a page. But this is so personal compared with walking in on a couple of comrades comforting each other physically, and pretending not to see them.”
“You are a gentle man, my dear,” Holmes said with a warm smile. “We will begin our analyses once we have all the evidence. In the meantime, would you come for a walk with me? A little fresh air would be most welcome.”
“By all means.” Watson rose from his seat to put on his coat and hat.
Holmes followed him down their seventeen stairs. “Perhaps we might call in at your publisher’s office. You could say that I have taken a sudden interest in the specifics of how your words end up in the hands of our hard-working commuters.”
Watson smiled as Holmes took his arm outside their front door. “Surely you don’t suspect someone at The Strand?”
“I have formed no conclusion as yet.”
Watson led Holmes in the direction of Regents Park. Holmes questioned Watson on his knowledge of publishing and failed to hide his disappointment that Watson knew so very little about the process.
“It will be educational for us both, then,” Watson said with a little irritation at Holmes’s obvious scorn. “I have never before needed to know. Expecting me to know the entire business is like expecting someone who owns a house to know how bricks are made.”
Holmes conceded the point with a gentle squeeze of Watson’s arm, and Watson conveyed his forgiveness with a light pat of his hand on Holmes’s. At the other side of the park, they took a hansom to the offices of Watson’s publisher. Holmes watched in awe as Watson charmed one of the secretaries into getting them an appointment with one of the partners that very afternoon.
“It’s a perpetual wonder to me that you have not charmed yourself a wife,” Holmes said over lunch at a nearby cafe. “One of these days I fear that you will return to Baker Street and say, ‘My dear Holmes I am leaving you for a woman,’ then vanish into a life of matrimonial delight.”
Watson laughed. “I do enjoy the company of women, and perhaps I might marry one day if it is expected of me, but I am in no great hurry to do so.” He caught Holmes looking at him. “I know you will not appreciate my sentimental nature, but I am quite content with my domestic life as it is. Perhaps there are one or two things I might like to alter, but on the whole it is a comfortable existence.”
“Change?” Holmes injected outrage into the word. He grinned and winked. “What would you change in the cosy perfection that is our rooms?”
Watson grinned back. “I’d have them tidied more frequently.”
They left the cafe in good humour, kept their appointment with Watson’s publisher (who was only too happy to have Sherlock Holmes himself interested in publishing and directed his assistant to supply all the information the star of their most popular stories desired) then returned to Baker Street in time for Lestrade’s brief evening visit.
Once supper was over and the risk of Mrs Hudson walking in to announce a visitor or to bring tea had receded, Holmes opened the fat folder Lestrade had delivered. Inside were a handful of copies of four different titles, including the one they had already seen.
Watson picked up one of the pamphlets by a corner. “How should we divide the task?”
Holmes thought for a moment. “We will both read the same title and make separate notes, then compare. That way there is less risk of one of us missing something important.”
“Good idea.” Watson took the pamphlet Holmes offered him. He read the first few lines then retired to his writing desk so that he would not find himself making embarrassed eye-contact with Holmes.
The story was not a long one. In it, Dr Wilmott and Mr Havers foiled a kidnap plot, Wilmott was captured instead and Havers rescued him using his skill in pugilism to fight off the criminals, who ran straight into Inspector Lascelle’s waiting hands. In gratitude, Dr Wilmott professed undying deep affection for his friend. After that the two characters took a cab back home to their rooms in Marylebone and saw to each other’s pleasure.
“The author has either been in these rooms or knows someone who has.” Holmes sat forward, the folder on his lap.
Watson remained at his desk, the bulge of his arousal hidden by the drape of his smoking jacket. “I came to the same conclusion. There are details here that are not described in any of my published stories.”
“Indeed. The exact position of my chemistry bench when I am not using it, the existence and location of my filing cabinet, and your collection of antique medical curios.”
Watson turned slightly to look at Holmes. “You read my stories? I thought you disliked them.”
“My dear Watson, of course I read your stories. I may occasionally express annoyance that they are not the instructive accounts of my cases that I would wish to publish, but once I reconciled myself with the fact that you write to entertain rather than to inform, I decided that you do so rather well.”
“Why, thank you, Holmes!” Watson beamed.
Holmes held up one index finger. “However…”
“Holmes…”
“I jest.” Holmes smiled. “What else did you deduce?”
“Well.” Watson got up and moved to his armchair. “The writer is educated but there are a few spelling and grammatical errors. So the stories are produced and printed quickly with little proofreading.”
“If any.”
“The writer is familiar with the basic idea of a number of… salacious acts but has perhaps… is not…”
“Has not carried out all of those acts himself?”
Watson felt his face warm up and bit his lip. “No.”
“And you know this because…”
“Holmes, I was in the army. In battle and picking up the pieces afterwards. Would you be shocked to learn that I, too, sought comfort from my comrades in arms?”
“Not in the least. Although the writer seems to have a good grasp of masturbation, so to speak, his descriptions of buggery lack authenticity.”
“And lubrication,” Watson added, then clamped his hand over his mouth.
Holmes laughed. “And of course you know that because you are a doctor.” He caught Watson’s eye. “Don’t concern yourself. I will never ask for details of where you obtained your knowledge and experience.”
“Then I will never ask about yours.”
“Considerate of you.” Holmes flicked through the pamphlet again. “The typeface is ordinary, Baskerville, but there is a distinct pattern of wear on a few letters. It looks like each set of four pages was printed however many times were desired, then the same letters repositioned in the block and the reverse of the pages were printed.” Holmes moved across to kneel by Watson"s chair. “Look at this lowercase g with the tail worn, and this capital H with a slight gap where the letter was scratched. They recur, but never on pages that would have been on the same platen. A small printing press, manually operated, well used but well maintained, probably at least fifty and maybe even a hundred years old.”
Watson nodded, distracted by the contents of the text rather than its typography. That, plus Holmes’s nearness and the delightful timbre of his voice, afflicted him with a recurrence of the arousal that had caused him such embarrassment already.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “So we are looking for a small, well-worn printing press.”
“And we will be able to identify it from the pattern of wear on some of the letters.” Holmes gripped Watson’s knee and squeezed. “Tomorrow we will visit as many known printers as we can. I’ll tell Lestrade what to look for and he can help.”
Holmes remained on his knees at Watson’s side. Watson tried to adjust his clothing surreptitiously to hide the prominent bulge in his lap.
“We should perform the same analysis of the other titles.” Holmes reached for the folder he had left on the settee and brought out another pamphlet. “There is only a single copy of this one. We could read it together if we sat side by side on the settee.”
Watson’s face flamed. “Holmes, I can’t.”
“Oh? Whyever not?”
“I find the subject matter - in some parts - rather…” He sighed and shrugged.
“Oh! I see. Well, I suppose that is the point after all.” Holmes examined the title page of the next publication. “If it helps ease your embarrassment, I will confess that I’m as hard as a rock after reading about Mr Havers buggering Dr Wilmott on their tiger skin rug.”
“Oh, by God.” Watson leaned forwards, face in his hands again.
“You needn’t be concerned about reading the characters as versions of us. If I was to suggest we engage in such an activity, I would prefer to be on the receiving end.”
“Holmes…”
“And not on the rug. I’d want to be wooed, taken to my bed and treated nicely.”
The next sound that came from Watson was a muffled wail.
“Holmes! Stop this. Stop teasing me. It’s beneath you to speak like this to me.”
“I see.” Holmes got to his feet. “I thought you were interested in a deeper physical connection with me. I have read too much into your friendly nature and made a mistake in propositioning you.” He marched to his bedroom and opened the door. “I won’t do it again. I will remain in my room until we have both recovered our senses. Please forget everything that transpired during the past ten minutes.”
Watson flinched as Holmes slammed his door, then stared after him. He lurched out of his seat and over to the door. He tapped gently on the wood.
“Holmes, did you mean it when you said you were propositioning me?”
Silence.
“Holmes, I thought you were poking fun at my discomfort.”
Silence.
“Holmes.” Watson sighed and leaned his forehead against the door. “You sprung this on me too suddenly. I would not say no to you.”
A muffled voice came from inside. “I do not wish to discuss this tonight. I am going to bed.”
Watson sighed, resting his hand on the wooden panel for a moment, then he tidied away the pamphlets into their folder, banked the fire, turned down the gas lamps and went up to bed. Halfway up the stairs, he turned and came back down, intending to collect one pamphlet to read in bed.
He almost collided with Holmes, clad in his nightshirt, with the folder under his arm. Watson rested his hand on Holmes’s arm for the briefest moment, afraid the light touch would be shaken off. “I wanted to make sure they were all put away. Goodnight, Holmes.”
Holmes paused at the entrance to his bedroom. “I was rather abrupt earlier this evening. I treated you unfairly.”
Watson blinked back tears of relief. “I don’t want to end the day with a disagreement. I won’t get a wink of sleep. Can we at least shake hands?”
Watson held out his right hand. Holmes clasped it with his left since the folder was under his right arm. Watson raised Holmes’s hand to his lips and kissed the backs of his fingers.
“I have forgotten everything you said earlier as you asked me to.” Watson kissed Holmes’s hand again. “Except that you wanted to be wooed. Goodnight, my dear.”
With a final squeeze of Holmes’s fingers, Watson let his hand go and went up to bed.
In the morning, Watson rose and dressed quietly at a time of day he rarely saw. He tiptoed down two flights of stairs, sent Billy the page on an errand, and let himself out the front door into the chill of the early morning. He found what he wanted at a stall by the entrance to the park.
“A dozen red roses, please, your best ones.”
The flower seller smiled. “You can choose the best ones for your lady yourself if you like. I seen you looking at ‘em sometimes when you go by with your gentleman friend.”
“Well, I do enjoy the sight and scent of roses.” He chose the plumpest, reddest buds on long stems. “These ones, please.”
“If I might observe, sir, twelve roses only say half as much as twenty-four.”
Watson laughed. “Then I will have to find some pretty words to make up for it. Just these ones, please.”
He hurried home with the wrapped bouquet, let himself in and scurried upstairs, almost running into Janey the maidservant who had lit their fire. He hid the bouquet in the sideboard and sat at his writing desk with a sheet of his best writing paper and his favourite cartridge pen.
My dear,
We have much to learn from the flowers.
Yours always,
J
He blotted the paper then blew on it to dry the ink completely before folding the note and slipping it into an envelope addressed simply SH. He retrieved the wrapped bouquet, laid it on Holmes’s chair and left the note on top. Then he retreated back to his bedroom, leaving the door half open, and sat on his bed to listen.
He listened quietly for half an hour, then he woke with a start two hours later to find Holmes watching him, fully dressed and smiling.
Holmes held up the note. “My dear boy, you surprised me. What a lovely thing a rose is!”
Watson smiled sleepily and sat up, finger-combing his hair into place. “You like them?”
“Very much, to my surprise. You just have time for breakfast before Lestrade gets here. We have a busy day ahead of us.”
Holmes went back to the sitting room. Watson followed and hurriedly ate his boiled eggs and toast while Holmes explained how he had divided up the printhouses by location. Lestrade arrived in time to have a cup of tea before it cooled, then all three set off with their lists, and a reminder to ask for a newly printed page to examine and reassure the owner that they are not personally implicated in any crime.
“Holmes,” Watson said, catching his dear friend by the arm once Lestrade had left in a cab, “Meet me at a quarter to one outside Charing Cross Station.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows. “We are in the middle of an investigation. I might not have time.”
Watson squeezed Holmes’s arm and caught his gaze. “Please be there, even if it is inconvenient. I very much want to see you. We could compare notes on the printworks we have visited?”
With a frown and a nod, Holmes agreed and they parted for the morning.
Holmes was a few minutes late, but Watson saw him arrive in a hansom, waved at him to stay where he was and got in, telling the driver to carry on along The Strand as far as Simpson’s.
“Simpson’s!” Holmes smiled. “Are you taking me out for lunch?”
“I am,” Watson said, smiling back.
They were greeted at the entrance, relieved of their coats, hats and canes, and shown to a table upstairs in a discreet corner of the restaurant. They sat at right angles, each with a view of the bustling restaurant. A waiter brought menus.
“I’ll have the turbot and the saddle of mutton with potatoes,” Holmes said. Watson ordered the same, with a small glass for each of them of chenin blanc with the fish and Beaune with the mutton.
When the waiter had left, Holmes leaned closer to Watson. “This is an uncommon treat!”
“A welcome one, I hope?” He smiled at Holmes’s pleased expression. “You don’t mind the surprise?”
“My dear Watson, not in the slightest. A pleasant surprise like this occasionally is a delight. Did you have any success this morning?”
Watson shook his head. “None of the printers I visited had that wear pattern on their Baskerville letters.”
“It appears that we have both ruled out a good number of London printing presses. I suppose that is a success. Negative results are still results, after all.”
They sat in comfortable quiet, observing the other patrons, until the fish arrived with its pairing of white wine. As they savoured the delicate flavours of the fish in lobster sauce washed down with dry, flinty wine, Watson eased his leg across and hooked his foot around Holmes’s ankle. Holmes coughed once and his pale cheeks reddened, but he did not move away.
They ate their saddle of mutton and declared it delicious, then lingered over the glass of Baune and contemplated ordering cheese and a glass of port, but decided to save that treat for later in the privacy of their sitting room. Watson discreetly asked for the bill and paid it, then they collected their outerwear and left.
“Thank you, Watson.” Holmes linked his arm with Watson’s as they headed slowly back to Charing Cross. “I feel less inclined to traipse around looking for a tailless g and a cracked H this afternoon. A nap seems in order.”
Watson rested his hand on top of Holmes’s for a moment. “If I distract you from your investigation, you will be cross later. Besides, how would Lestrade react if we told him we played truant and went to bed instead?”
Holmes laughed. “It’s almost worth it to see his face.”
“I prescribe a gentle stroll as far as Buckingham palace, then we can resume our investigations and meet at home in time for supper.”
“Where we will rendezvous with ‘Lascelle’ of the Yard and see what we have found out.”
Watson stifled an embarrassed giggle. They discussed the problem of identifying the printer and through them the publisher or the writer until they reached St James’s Park. As they ambled along one of the paths, Watson chose a quiet moment to murmur, “I very much enjoy walking with you, my dear. I hold you in very great affection.”
Holmes did not reply, and Watson did not expect him to. A little later, before they would have to part, Watson paused. Holmes looked at him quizzically. Watson merely smiled and said, “You know, you really are a most striking looking fellow. Quite the best looking gentleman in town. What luck that my dear friend possesses both brains and beauty!”
Holmes raised his eyebrows, then laughed. “Flatterer,” he said, looking away. He looked back and held Watson’s steady gaze. “I don"t believe you for an instant. Brains, yes. Beauty, irrelevant.”
Watson merely smiled. And despite his conviction that Watson did not mean a word of it, Holmes discovered that the flattery warmed him anyway.
“If we were at home now,” Watson said softly, “I would ask permission to kiss you.”
Holmes let his jaw drop for just a second. “If we were home now, I might very well allow it. We could—”
“We have an investigation,” Watson said with a smile. “And we ought to see it through. I’ll be back before you, I’ll wager.”
Holmes returned just after six to find Watson in his usual armchair and Lestrade relaxed on the settee.
“Good news, Holmes,” Watson announced as Holmes peeled off his coat and eased his feet out of his shoes. “Lestrade found the printer, deduced the identity of the author, and assures us that the matter is ended.”
“Congratulations, Lestrade!” Holmes threw himself into his armchair and lit a cigarette. “God knows my feet hurt and I am exhausted. And bored. Come on, inspector, enlighten us.”
“Ah, well.” Lestrade accepted another cigarette and shook his head slowly. “I am not at liberty to reveal the identity of the writer. Since no criminal case can be brought, the immediate cessation of publications involving certain characters comes with a condition: Anonymous remains anonymous.”
Holmes heaved a great sigh. “Still, out of curiosity…”
Mrs Hudson arrived to set the table for supper. Lestrade caught her eye and looked away. “I won’t say a name or give any hints, Mr Holmes. I gave my word. Of course, if any more publications cross my desk I will certainly reveal their source.”
“Well, whoever he is, I hope he has seen the error of his ways.” Holmes closed his eyes and stretched his feet out to the fire.
Lestrade smiled. “I’m sure of it. Well, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to enjoy your evening with lighter minds. Thank you for the kind invitation to stay for Mrs Hudson’s delightful beef roast, but I had better get back to the Yard before Gregson declares me missing.”
“Poor Lestrade,” Watson said after the inspector had left. “The one time he cracks a case before you do, he can’t crow about it anywhere but here.”
Holmes scoffed. “He was just as smug about it anyway.”
Watson smiled warmly at Holmes. “Let him have this one, my dear. Let him win just this once.”
“I suppose it won’t hurt my ego too much. Well it appears that we have no case to discuss this evening.” Holmes caught Watson’s gaze and smiled slowly. “What do you plan to do to occupy yourself instead?”
“Let’s have a little supper,” Watson said quietly. “But before that, may I kiss you?”
Holmes smiled nervously. “You may.”
They both rose from their seats and met halfway across the bearskin rug. Watson stroked Holmes’s cheek, cupped his jaw, and guided their lips together. It was gentle, the merest brush of lips at first, until Holmes relaxed, parted his lips slightly and whimpered as Watson’s tongue slipped over his.
Watson pulled away first. “Later,” he said with a soft smile, “I would like to take you to bed and treat you nicely.”
Earlier that afternoon, around four o’clock.
“Good afternoon, Inspector. I’m afraid Mr Holmes and Dr Watson are not at home and I don’t know when they might return.”
Lestrade smiled warily. “That’s all right, Mrs Hudson. It’s actually you I came to see.”
Mrs Hudson’s eyes opened wide and her eyebrows rose. “Me? Whatever for. Well, come on in.”
Mrs Hudson led Lestrade to the kitchen, warm and fragrant from the beef slowly roasting to a melting tenderness in the oven. She set the kettle to boil and invited him to sit at the kitchen table. Lestrade indicated the maidservant with a few flicks of his eyes and Mrs Hudson sent her upstairs to tidy the gentlemen’s rooms as best you can, Janey my dear. It’ll be our teatime when you’re done.
“Tea. Strong, the way you like it.” Mrs Hudson put the stoneware teapot between them and brought two large, plain cups, sugar and milk, then slid into the seat opposite. “Now, why are you here, inspector? It can’t be just for tea. I have committed no crimes.”
“Indeed you have not,” Lestrade replied with a reassuring nod. “Do you happen to know anything about the case we have been working on this week?”
Mrs Hudson sighed. “Mr Holmes tells me nothing, inspector.” She poured the tea. “Help yourself to sugar and milk.”
“Mr Holmes may have told you nothing, but you do know, I believe.”
Mrs Hudson shifted in her seat. Her hand trembled enough that she spilled a few grains of sugar then tutted and got up to fetch a cloth.
“Mrs Hudson, no crime has been committed, but you must know that these publications have to cease. Mr Holmes is… well. Mr Holmes is Mr Holmes, if you get my drift. But Dr Watson is humiliated. As to the inclusion of Inspector Lascelle… well, I suppose I am a little flattered but were any of my fellow officers to read the stories and make that connection, my position would be most precarious.”
Mrs Hudson clasped her hands so tightly her fingers ached. “I meant no harm by it.”
“And no harm has come of it.” Lestrade sipped his tea and let out a little hum of appreciation. “I won’t ever tell them.” He jerked his head upwards. “This is between you and me, as long as the stories about them stop.”
After a moment, Mrs Hudson unclasped her hands and warmed them on her tea mug. She nodded once. Lestrade smiled. “Thank you. Perhaps you’ll find inspiration for some different stories.”
Lestrade drained his tea and took his leave. Mrs Hudson returned to her kitchen table, tidied away the tea things, then went to her little parlour to fetch her writing set. The few pages she had already written went into the kitchen fireplace and she used the poker to break up the ashes so that the ghosts of her words could not be read. Then she took out a fresh sheet of paper and her favourite pencil and wrote at the top of the page: The Adventures of a Gentleman’s Gentleman, or, What the Valet Saw. By Anonymous.
My name is Walter Johnson and I am valet to my employer, Sir Henry Sutherland. The household comprises Leonard Glover, the butler, and several footmen as well as cook, housekeeper and maidservants. My employer is a rather handsome man and I confess I enjoy dressing him and undressing him, caring for his wardrobe and assisting his personal routines.
One morning, I entered Sir Henry’s bedchamber to rouse him for the day only to discover that he was already somewhat aroused. I apologised for disturbing him and would have left him to complete his activity in solitude. But he looked at me with such desire that I paused and said, “Sir Henry, would you like a hand?”
A scrape of the door warned Mrs Hudson that Janey had completed her task and was about to come into the warm kitchen. She quickly hid her new story inside the writing case and closed it.
“All done, Mrs Hudson,” Janey said with a tired smile. “There were roses and a pretty letter in Dr Watson’s handwriting. Do you think they’ve got together at last?”