shortcomings...?”
As Holmes confessed his bouts of moodiness and his sulks, I hardly heard him for I was tingling with the realisation that it really was going to happen. It had come to pass as Moriarty had planned and promised. I would be sharing rooms with this strange and brilliant young man with the piercing eyes and strange enthusiasms — and I would begin my life as a spy. The enormity of this reality almost took my breath away.
“What have you to confess, Watson?” Holmes was saying. “It’s just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together.”
I laughed at this cross-examination. It seemed to have a farcical aspect in relation to the truth of the situation. I noticed also that in Holmes’ catalogue of his supposed failings, he did not mention that he was a user of drugs, possibly an addict.
“I am fairly easygoing, I would say,” I responded, “but I do object to rows, because my nerves are still somewhat shaken. I get up at ungodly hours and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I’m well, but those are the principal ones at present.”
“Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?” he asked, with some concern.
“It depends on the player,” I answered. “A well-played violin is a treat for the gods — a badly played one...”
“Oh, that’s all right then,” he murmured smugly. “I think, my dear doctor, that we may consider the thing settled — that is, if the rooms are acceptable to you.”
I realised that I must not appear too eager. I knew that from now on all my actions must be guarded and calculated. “When can we see them?”
“Call for me here at noon tomorrow, and we’ll go together and settle things up.”
“All right — noon exactly,” said I, shaking his hand.
Stamford and I left him scribbling his findings in a large notebook. On leaving the hospital, we walked for some time in the direction of my hotel.
“By the way,” I said suddenly, stopping and turning to Stamford, “you didn’t tell him that I had just returned from Afghanistan, did you?”
“Of course not. How could I?”
“Then how the deuce did he know?”
My companion smiled an enigmatic smile. “That’s just his little peculiarity,” he said. “A good many people have wanted to know how he finds things out.”
“Oh, it’s a mystery, is it?”
“If you want to unravel it, Watson, you must study the man. You’ll find him a knotty problem. I’ll wager he learns more about you than you about him.”
“I sincerely hope not. I wish my skeletons to remain firmly in their cupboard.” I spoke jokingly, but I was deadly serious.
Stamford and I parted company at Piccadilly, and I strolled back to my hotel, replaying in my mind my first encounter with Sherlock Holmes in a desperate attempt to learn more about the man. It wasn’t a particularly fruitful exercise.
Sherlock Holmes and I met the following day as arranged and we inspected the rooms. It really was a perfunctory exercise on both our parts. He was very keen to seal the arrangement, and I had no choice in the matter anyway.
However, I found the lodgings at 221B Baker Street ideal. They consisted of a couple of comfortable bedrooms, a bathroom and a single large, airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished and illuminated by two broad windows.
Our landlady, Mrs Kitty Hudson, a widow, a small tidy woman with tightly curled blonde hair rapidly fading to grey, seemed pleasant and gracious, and was delighted at the prospect of “two young gentlemen of respectable character” coming to live under her roof. Her terms were moderate when divided between the two of us, and so the bargain was concluded upon the spot.
That very evening I moved what few things I had from the hotel, and on the following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with severalboxes and a portmanteau. For a day, he unpacked and we spent the time laying out our property to the best advantage. That
As Holmes confessed his bouts of moodiness and his sulks, I hardly heard him for I was tingling with the realisation that it really was going to happen. It had come to pass as Moriarty had planned and promised. I would be sharing rooms with this strange and brilliant young man with the piercing eyes and strange enthusiasms — and I would begin my life as a spy. The enormity of this reality almost took my breath away.
“What have you to confess, Watson?” Holmes was saying. “It’s just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together.”
I laughed at this cross-examination. It seemed to have a farcical aspect in relation to the truth of the situation. I noticed also that in Holmes’ catalogue of his supposed failings, he did not mention that he was a user of drugs, possibly an addict.
“I am fairly easygoing, I would say,” I responded, “but I do object to rows, because my nerves are still somewhat shaken. I get up at ungodly hours and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I’m well, but those are the principal ones at present.”
“Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?” he asked, with some concern.
“It depends on the player,” I answered. “A well-played violin is a treat for the gods — a badly played one...”
“Oh, that’s all right then,” he murmured smugly. “I think, my dear doctor, that we may consider the thing settled — that is, if the rooms are acceptable to you.”
I realised that I must not appear too eager. I knew that from now on all my actions must be guarded and calculated. “When can we see them?”
“Call for me here at noon tomorrow, and we’ll go together and settle things up.”
“All right — noon exactly,” said I, shaking his hand.
Stamford and I left him scribbling his findings in a large notebook. On leaving the hospital, we walked for some time in the direction of my hotel.
“By the way,” I said suddenly, stopping and turning to Stamford, “you didn’t tell him that I had just returned from Afghanistan, did you?”
“Of course not. How could I?”
“Then how the deuce did he know?”
My companion smiled an enigmatic smile. “That’s just his little peculiarity,” he said. “A good many people have wanted to know how he finds things out.”
“Oh, it’s a mystery, is it?”
“If you want to unravel it, Watson, you must study the man. You’ll find him a knotty problem. I’ll wager he learns more about you than you about him.”
“I sincerely hope not. I wish my skeletons to remain firmly in their cupboard.” I spoke jokingly, but I was deadly serious.
Stamford and I parted company at Piccadilly, and I strolled back to my hotel, replaying in my mind my first encounter with Sherlock Holmes in a desperate attempt to learn more about the man. It wasn’t a particularly fruitful exercise.
Sherlock Holmes and I met the following day as arranged and we inspected the rooms. It really was a perfunctory exercise on both our parts. He was very keen to seal the arrangement, and I had no choice in the matter anyway.
However, I found the lodgings at 221B Baker Street ideal. They consisted of a couple of comfortable bedrooms, a bathroom and a single large, airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished and illuminated by two broad windows.
Our landlady, Mrs Kitty Hudson, a widow, a small tidy woman with tightly curled blonde hair rapidly fading to grey, seemed pleasant and gracious, and was delighted at the prospect of “two young gentlemen of respectable character” coming to live under her roof. Her terms were moderate when divided between the two of us, and so the bargain was concluded upon the spot.
That very evening I moved what few things I had from the hotel, and on the following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with severalboxes and a portmanteau. For a day, he unpacked and we spent the time laying out our property to the best advantage. That
Similar Books
