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I had been living in Baker Street with my friend Sherlock Holmes for about a year when I first met the cat. Holmes had left our rooms early that morning to carry out some researches at the chemical laboratory at Bart’s, so I had chosen to spend the day at my club. On entering our sitting room, I found the cat curled up on the bearskin rug. It was largely black in colour, but its paws were white.
“Hello,” I said to it. “What are you doing here?”
It opened its eyes and regarded me. The eyes were hazel and seemed to be assessing me and my intentions. To show that I was a friend, I dropped to a crouch before it and allowed it to sniff my hand. Satisfied, it gave my hand a nudge of invitation. When I began to stroke the soft, sleek fur, the cat purred contentedly. It was thus engaged that Mrs Hudson found me.
“Good evening, doctor,” she greeted me with a bemused smile.
“Hello, Mrs Hudson,” I replied. “Is this your cat?”
“No, I’ve never seen it before. I suppose it must have come in through a window or door downstairs. Would you like me to take it out?”
“No, no, it’s fine. Could you bring up something for dinner soon? And perhaps something for the cat?”
She smiled again. “Of course, sir.”
She withdrew, and I was left with the cat. I sat down beside it to be more comfortable.
“Where have you come from then, hm?” I asked it. “Do you live on this street?”
The only answer I received was more purring. If I truly wanted to know, I would need to do some investigating.
It was not long before Mrs Hudson arrived bearing our dinners. I had noted that the cat felt rather skinny under my hand, and it wolfed down the offered meat with corresponding relish. I, too, enjoyed my meal. Afterwards, I repaired to my armchair by the fire. Once I had arranged myself comfortably, the cat leapt deftly up onto my lap. Whilst it pedalled on my legs, a scratch at the base of its tail allowed me to determine that it was a male.
He soon settled down into a neat loaf shape. I gave him a scratch between the ears.
“You’re not really my cat, you know,” I told him.
He only purred.
I smiled to myself. “What do you think of Socks as a name?”
His purring became louder.
“Very well, Socks it is.”
Socks remained on my lap for the rest of the evening while I read a novel. He was so calm and so affectionate that I found his presence incredibly relaxing.
It was ten o’clock when I decided to retire to bed. I lifted my new friend, then replaced him upon my warm, vacated seat. At the door, I looked back to see him watching me through one eye.
By morning, Socks had gone. I came down to breakfast to find Holmes waiting for me at the table.
“Good morning, Holmes,” I greeted him. “You were out rather late. Was your research successful?”
“My apologies for deserting you,” he replied. “It was most successful.”
“Will you tell me about it?”
He twitched a smile. While I ate, he told me in detail about the experiments he had conducted, his hands flying and eyes sparkling. He is never more beautiful than when he is enthused like that.
“And what of you, my dear?” he asked when he was done.
“I spent the day at my club,” I told him. “I got to see some of the fellows who I have not seen for a long time. And I encountered a small mystery when I arrived back at home.”
“Oh, yes?”
“There was a cat in here, a small male with a black coat and white paws. Mrs Hudson didn’t recognise him. I hope I might be able to find out where he came from.”
Not much to my surprise, Holmes showed little interest in my feline mystery. “There must be hundreds of stray cats in this great city. I think your chances of discovering the origins of a single individual are slim.”
“I suppose you are right,” I admitted. “But I would like to try, all the same.”
“Of course you would,” he said with a fond smile.
Our conversation then drifted away into other channels. He told me that he intended to return to the laboratory to conduct some further tests and commence the writing up of his results. When, shortly afterwards, he departed with a farewell kiss, I determined that I would place an advertisement for information about Socks. At my desk, I drafted my words.
Receiving visits from small male cat – black with white paws. Would like to know owners. Any information to Dr J Watson, 221B Baker Street.
This I placed in a number of papers. I did not receive any replies.
It was by no means every day that I would see Socks. He generally visited two or three times in a week. These occasions always coincided with times when Holmes was out. This may have been mere coincidence, but it led me to wonder whether there was something about my friend’s presence which the cat found disconcerting.
One thing that was clear to me was that Socks must have a safe home elsewhere. Although he was relatively slender, he was evidently well cared for. I still did not know where his home was, but I was happy to know it must be a good one.
Before long, this mystery was superseded by a case. The morning post brought a note for Holmes, requesting his assistance in solving a problem affecting a group of magicians. The note stated that a series of mysterious incidents had occurred at their shows, and they were much perplexed. They would call at ten o’clock and would appreciate Holmes’s advice.
The time appointed soon arrived, and the group were admirably prompt. We had four visitors in all. Their chief spokesman was a gentleman I put at around forty, almost as tall as Holmes, and with grey hairs beginning to come through. He introduced himself as Hugh Davenport.
Holmes settled back in his armchair, his eyes closed to aid his concentration. “Pray tell me precisely what has occurred to disturb you, Mr Davenport. I note that you are in residency at the Star and Moon Theatre. Is your concern, as I suspect, associated with the spirit which is reputed to haunt that establishment?”
A look passed across Davenport’s face, as though he was unsure whether he was being made fun of. “Mr Holmes, I trust that I am not being irrational when I say that my experience with magic has rendered me open to the possibility of the supernatural.”
Holmes gave no response to this.
“Do go on,” I encouraged our client.
Davenport looked rather dubious but proceeded with his statement. “As you say, we are in residence at the Star and Moon. Our show consists of a series of illusions which require pieces of apparatus. We always look after our tricks carefully, and accidents are very rare as a result. However, we have recently experienced several failures.”
“The precise series of events, if you please,” Holmes prompted, his eyes still closed.
“It began two weeks ago. We perform six nights per week, and we always spend the preceding afternoon checking over our equipment and making preparations. On the night in question we are all prepared to swear that nothing was different. There is an illusion which we do involving an escape from a cabinet. This requires a mechanism to be triggered to allow the restraining ropes to be loosened. On that night, the mechanism would not work during the performance, and we subsequently found that it had been disabled. Now, this was somewhat embarrassing, as I’m sure you can appreciate. However, no injury was caused, so we moved on. It was five days after this that a further incident occurred. That occasion involved a vanishing cabinet which spins around on caster wheels. Our female assistant, who was inside the cabinet, suffered a concussion because the safety straps had failed. It was just two nights ago that matters finally came to a head. A trick lock used in our most spectacular escape act failed. Mr Parisi, our escapologist, was forced to fight his way out of his restraints far more forcibly than he would usually. He sustained a broken arm for his trouble.”
Now that the statement was concluded, Holmes opened his eyes to regard our clients. He steepled his hands, his fingers resting on his chin.
“You all believe that nothing has been different over the last two weeks?” Holmes asked after a pause.
“Certainly nothing to do with our preparations,” Davenport confirmed.
“What about other factors?” Holmes persisted. “Has anyone new joined the staff at the theatre, for example?”
“Only old Mr Phillimore and his grandson,” Parisi put in.
“Ah,” Holmes exclaimed, sitting forward eagerly. “Tell me about them.”
“They started about a month ago,” Parisi supplied. “They do front of house things, selling and collecting tickets and suchlike. Phillimore used to be a magician himself, but he retired a number of years ago.”
“What sort of magic did he do?”
“A mixture of things, but he was a specialist in escapology.”
“Hum, that is interesting. Has he ever spoken to any of you about your illusions?”
“He has tried,” Davenport began again. “He’s past it, however. Magic has moved on since he retired; any advice from him would be out of date.”
“I see,” Holmes said shortly. “I think the best course of action would be for us to come down to the theatre this afternoon to observe your preparations and your performance.”
With this he dismissed our visitors, then settled back languidly in his chair once more.
“What do you make of it, Watson?” he asked.
“A ghost is certainly not at fault. I imagine it’s no coincidence that these magicians have been so dismissive to Phillimore, and then gone on to have accidents involving failures of restraints,” I replied.
He gave me a warm smile. “I quite agree. More than that we cannot say without further data. For now, I intend to smoke and to consult my archives for anything pertaining to escapology.”
After lunch, we accordingly made our way to the Star and Moon theatre. As we had been told, several hours were devoted to checking over the equipment used in the illusions. Straps, switches, wheels, concealed doors – all were tested. At no point during this process was anything left unattended. However, once the intense scrutiny was completed and the other theatre staff had begun to arrive, the magicians went to their dressing rooms to prepare individually. It was at this point that Holmes sought out the Phillimores.
The older gentleman was somewhat rotund and had a kindly face. The younger was clearly protective of his grandfather.
“Good evening, Mr Phillimore,” Holmes began in those warm tones he knew so well how to employ. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am investigating the accidents that have happened here. I understand that you used to be a magician yourself, so perhaps you can offer me some insight.”
“I’ll certainly try, Mr Holmes,” the old gentleman replied.
“I’m told that you and your grandson began working here about a month ago. Is that correct?”
“Yes, we did. Harry, that’s my grandson, wants to get into the business and I’ve been helping him.”
“I see. So, you hoped that, by working here, you might be able to cultivate a relationship with the group?”
“That was my hope. However, they haven’t been very helpful.”
“So I have ascertained,” Holmes said wryly. “But I assume that you have a good understanding of the equipment used here?”
“I do, indeed.”
“Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind explaining a few points for me about how these works of sabotage might have been affected.”
For half an hour I listened to Holmes and the old gentleman conversing on the intricacies of the trick mechanisms. I do not mind admitting that much of this want over my head, but it did provide me with ample opportunity for observing the younger Phillimore, Harry. Beside the fact that he clearly felt great affection for his grandfather and wanted to protect him, the young man seemed rather ill at ease.
“Would you like to have a cup of tea while they talk?” I offered, hoping that I might be able to get him to open up.
He gave himself a shake. “Alright.”
We went into an adjoining room, where a small paraffin stove sat on a counter near to a battered looking settee. I made the tea, then joined the young man on the settee.
“So, how do you enjoy working here?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It was good to begin with. Grandad and I would sit at the back of performances, and he would tell me how the tricks worked. He teaches me at home, you know. I’m learning how to get out of ropes, and I can do card tricks and things. But when he asked the troupe here whether we could have a proper look at their equipment and talk to them about it, they just dismissed him. They said he was past his prime and that we should just stick to selling tickets like we’re paid to.”
His eyes, which had been bright when talking about learning from his grandfather, had now turned dull and angry.
“Who said that?” I enquired, although I had a pretty good idea.
“It was Davenport. He’s the worst. The rest of them might have been willing to help, but they fell into line with him instead. I’d like to teach him a lesson.”
“Did you do anything, Harry?” I asked gently. “I shan’t be angry.”
He swallowed nervously. “I only wanted Davenport to feel embarrassed, like he had made my grandad feel. I never meant to hurt anyone.”
“And yet, you did.”
“I know.” He hung his head. “I’m sorry.”
I reached across and patted his knee. “I can see you are. I suggest you carry on as normal this evening and I will speak to Holmes.”
He gave me a relieved smile. “Thank you, sir.”
When we returned to the other room, Holmes had concluded his interview. It was, by then, time for the Phillimores to commence their duties, so my friend and I compared notes.
“From all that I have learned from Mr Phillimore, the sabotage was certainly carried out by someone who understands how the equipment works. I have my own theory as to the perpetrator, but I should like to hear about your conversation with young Harry first.”
“He told me that he committed the acts of sabotage. He said he didn’t intend to hurt anyone, rather that he wanted to make Davenport feel some measure of the embarrassment he had caused Harry’s grandfather. I told him to proceed as normal this evening and that we would discuss the situation.”
Holmes smiled. “Excellent work, Watson. Did that boy appear genuinely contrite?”
“I believe so. He seems to have a real interest in following in his grandfather’s footsteps.”
“I am glad to hear you say so. I think our best strategy would be to speak with Davenport and his colleagues to negotiate on Harry’s behalf.”
“Do you think they might be induced to pardon him?”
“For their reputation, I think it very probable. After that, I have an acquaintance who should be able to help.”
“How so?”
“He has his own magical act, and I think he would be willing to take on an enthusiastic apprentice."
It fell out as Holmes had predicted. When Holmes and I explained to Davenport the reasons for the accidents he was rightly ashamed of his own actions. After some negotiation, he agreed that if Harry would forego his wages for that final night, he would not press any charges. Harry agreed to this, and we went on our way.
The following morning, Holmes told me more of his magician friend.
“His name is Edwin Cherry, and I met him when I dabbled in amateur dramatics at university. He is also a specialist in escapology and similar illusions. The grand climax of his act involves his concealment in a cabinet and seeming transformation into a dove.”
“How on earth is that accomplished?” I wondered.
“Rumour has it that he is truly a shapeshifter.”
“You don’t believe that, surely?”
He smiled at me, a twinkle in his eye. “Why not? Many cultures throughout history have held the belief that some can change their shapes. I will leave you with that thought while I go to seek Mr Cherry.”
And leave me he did. I departed myself soon afterwards and spent a busy day at my practice. By the time I got back to Baker Street, I was ready for a quiet evening. I entered our sitting room to find Socks asleep in my armchair. He opened his eyes on hearing the door and chirped at me.
“Good evening, my friend,” I greeted him. “How have you been?”
He jumped down from the chair and came over to rub his head against my legs, purring loudly.
“Goodness, really?”
I reached down to scratch his head. “If you will excuse me for a moment, I will see Mrs Hudson about our supper.”
This was soon done, and we were shortly provided with baked fish, mine with potatoes and vegetables, his with a hard-boiled egg. After supper, I settled in my armchair and Socks curled up on my lap. I read to him from the evening paper, and he purred contentedly. When it came to bedtime, however, he seemed determined to follow me to the room Holmes and I often shared, to the extent of dashing past me when I opened the door and settling himself on Holmes’s pillow.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I said, removing him from the bed and depositing him on the floor. “Holmes will be cross if he finds you in his place.”
He promptly jumped back up again. I sighed. Resistance was clearly futile.
“Very well. But don’t blame me when you get ejected in the middle of the night.”
I swiftly changed into a nightshirt and got into bed. Socks curled himself into my chest, a warm ball of fluff. I soon drifted off to sleep.
When I woke in the morning, it was to see Holmes in his rightful place. His eyes were closed initially, but he was clearly aware that I had woken up, for he opened them and graced me with a smile.
“Good morning, dearest,” he murmured.
“Good morning,” I replied. “I hope you didn’t mind the cat.”
“No, no.” He paused, thoughtful. “In fact, I am he.”
“Pardon?”
“Watson, I am the cat. Look at my eyes.”
I did so. “My God. The hazel eyes – they’re yours.”
“Indeed.” He snuggled close to me, tucking his head under my chin and wrapping his arms around me. “You have questions, of course. I first discovered this ability at the age of five. My father took me aside on my birthday and explained that members of our family going back many generations have had the ability to shapeshift under certain conditions and emotional states. I decided to experiment to determine whether I also had this ability. By pure chance, I first made an attempt that evening, in my bed. I became a cat. It transpired that I am able to change my form when I feel happy, safe and relaxed. It is a great testament to you that I have now been able to shapeshift for the first time since moving to London.”
I was deeply touched. That he felt safe and happy enough with me to be able to access this ability, and to share this with me, was wonderful. I tightened my arms around him.
“Thank you for telling me,” I said.
He squeezed back. “I ought to have done so sooner. I have been using this ability of mine to have evenings without any need to speak, while still remaining with you.”
I thought about all his affectionate behaviour in his cat form and felt a warm glow of happiness. I pressed a kiss to the top of his head, burying my nose in his soft hair. “You can do so as often as you like, my love.”
He snuggled still closer to me. “Thank you, John.”
We remained quiet for a time. Then, I could not resist asking, “What do you think of Socks as a name?”
We fell into helpless laughter.