need to bruise no one?”
“No, no bruising. Ah! Here is
your porter. Drink up. The Countess will set up an account here at
the tavern for you to take your meals. She will also put money into
a bank account quarterly in your name and you can access the money
when you see fit. You will not need to pay for lodgings because you
will be living for free in the establishment you will be
caretaking. Do you follow?”
Mr Dixie stared into the
unpatched eye; he nodded and swallowed at the same time. “How much
is we talking, Masser Holmes?”
“Enough to keep you on the
straight and narrow, Mr Dixie. Enough to keep you out of The
Scrubs. Of course, if you should get light-fingered or lapse into
the old ways or start inviting all your old friends around for
parlour games you will find me very unforgiving. I will be forced
to have a long chat to Inspector Lestrade. Wormwood will seem like
a picnic. I may even have to mention the name Perkins. A hangman’s
rope is a possibility. Finish up your porter and we will take a
stroll around the corner to visit your new home. It is not grand
but you will have your own room and the run of the place until such
time, as I mentioned earlier, the Countess arrives to stay for a
few days.”
Mr Dixie liked The Buttery and
he moved in that same night. It had a smell like a posh knocking
shop - camphor and beeswax and wood polish and perfumed candles.
But it was like no brothel he had ever seen. There was only one
bedroom right at the top of the stairs. And though it was decked
out beautiful, it weren’t done in red velvet with lots of mirrors
and paintings of ladies with no clothes on. His bedroom was off the
kitchen which had a new coal range that would banish the cold. The
bedroom had a proper big bed for a man his size, with crisp clean
sheets and two pillows without any stains, and some sturdy
furniture that was not likely to fall to pieces the moment he
touched it. Best of all was the tavern on the Strand. For the first
time since being granted freedom he would not have to worry about
where his next meal was coming from. It seemed too good to be
true.
7
Mayfair Mews
“What do you mean: it isn’t the
first time?” demanded Sherlock, eye-balling his big brother with
one daunting unpatched eye.
“Don’t be so melodramatic,
Sherlock,” rebuked Mycroft, frowning at his golden-smudged
reflection in the verre églomisé walls which in the hands of
a lesser master could have been a decorating disaster. Gold-leafed
glass could be garish if not handled correctly, but here the artist
had demonstrated restraint. Burnished clouds of gold reflected the
candlelight in a way that was quite magical. The Countess had been
sensible not to electrify the chandelier.
“What happened?” pursued Dr
Watson, recalling his own lucky escape on the stairs of the
pavilion the night before. He was glad there was just the four of
them for dinner at number 6 Mayfair Mews; he had been expecting
Major Nash and Colonel Moriarty.
“I was nearly killed by a
barrel,” said Mycroft blandly, refreshing his glass and passing on
the decanter of port. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time
but last night when my head hit the pillow I recalled that it was a
near miss.”
“When was this?” asked
Sherlock.
“Just prior to Christmas. I had
been to the barber in Jermyn Street and was taking a short cut back
to Pall Mall. I was walking along Bury Street where a horse and
cart was parked at the corner of Ryder Street. It appeared to be
securing its load of barrels. I had just gone past the cart when
one of the barrels must have broken loose. It rolled off the cart
and came hurtling down the street. It would have bowled me over and
killed me instantly had not a stranger grabbed my arm and jerked me
into a recessed doorway.”
“Was it usual for you to walk
to and fro the barber?” probed Sherlock.
“Yes, the distance is quite
short and to circumvent further pointless conjecture, yes, I always
take the
“No, no bruising. Ah! Here is
your porter. Drink up. The Countess will set up an account here at
the tavern for you to take your meals. She will also put money into
a bank account quarterly in your name and you can access the money
when you see fit. You will not need to pay for lodgings because you
will be living for free in the establishment you will be
caretaking. Do you follow?”
Mr Dixie stared into the
unpatched eye; he nodded and swallowed at the same time. “How much
is we talking, Masser Holmes?”
“Enough to keep you on the
straight and narrow, Mr Dixie. Enough to keep you out of The
Scrubs. Of course, if you should get light-fingered or lapse into
the old ways or start inviting all your old friends around for
parlour games you will find me very unforgiving. I will be forced
to have a long chat to Inspector Lestrade. Wormwood will seem like
a picnic. I may even have to mention the name Perkins. A hangman’s
rope is a possibility. Finish up your porter and we will take a
stroll around the corner to visit your new home. It is not grand
but you will have your own room and the run of the place until such
time, as I mentioned earlier, the Countess arrives to stay for a
few days.”
Mr Dixie liked The Buttery and
he moved in that same night. It had a smell like a posh knocking
shop - camphor and beeswax and wood polish and perfumed candles.
But it was like no brothel he had ever seen. There was only one
bedroom right at the top of the stairs. And though it was decked
out beautiful, it weren’t done in red velvet with lots of mirrors
and paintings of ladies with no clothes on. His bedroom was off the
kitchen which had a new coal range that would banish the cold. The
bedroom had a proper big bed for a man his size, with crisp clean
sheets and two pillows without any stains, and some sturdy
furniture that was not likely to fall to pieces the moment he
touched it. Best of all was the tavern on the Strand. For the first
time since being granted freedom he would not have to worry about
where his next meal was coming from. It seemed too good to be
true.
7
Mayfair Mews
“What do you mean: it isn’t the
first time?” demanded Sherlock, eye-balling his big brother with
one daunting unpatched eye.
“Don’t be so melodramatic,
Sherlock,” rebuked Mycroft, frowning at his golden-smudged
reflection in the verre églomisé walls which in the hands of
a lesser master could have been a decorating disaster. Gold-leafed
glass could be garish if not handled correctly, but here the artist
had demonstrated restraint. Burnished clouds of gold reflected the
candlelight in a way that was quite magical. The Countess had been
sensible not to electrify the chandelier.
“What happened?” pursued Dr
Watson, recalling his own lucky escape on the stairs of the
pavilion the night before. He was glad there was just the four of
them for dinner at number 6 Mayfair Mews; he had been expecting
Major Nash and Colonel Moriarty.
“I was nearly killed by a
barrel,” said Mycroft blandly, refreshing his glass and passing on
the decanter of port. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time
but last night when my head hit the pillow I recalled that it was a
near miss.”
“When was this?” asked
Sherlock.
“Just prior to Christmas. I had
been to the barber in Jermyn Street and was taking a short cut back
to Pall Mall. I was walking along Bury Street where a horse and
cart was parked at the corner of Ryder Street. It appeared to be
securing its load of barrels. I had just gone past the cart when
one of the barrels must have broken loose. It rolled off the cart
and came hurtling down the street. It would have bowled me over and
killed me instantly had not a stranger grabbed my arm and jerked me
into a recessed doorway.”
“Was it usual for you to walk
to and fro the barber?” probed Sherlock.
“Yes, the distance is quite
short and to circumvent further pointless conjecture, yes, I always
take the
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