The hotel cafe was experiencing a brisk business, as all the tables were filled and there was a line of hungry Londoners waiting to seize any table left to its own devices. The time was half eight, and amidst the businessmen finishing their tea, and the gentlemen and ladies out to enjoy a glorious morning, were the waiters, twisting and spinning around the tables with their laden trays, like waltzers in a crowded ballroom. And all of this was tied together by the irregular, but melodic, sounds of china clinking, silverware ringing, and rise and fall of conversation and laughter.
There was one man who sat alone, quietly drinking coffee, seemingly oblivious to the noise and activity going on around him. But he was not oblivious, in fact, quite the contrary, as he was taking in everything: labeling the liars in their conversations, identifying the posers amongst the businessmen, and unmasking the secret romances. He found it amusing, and a lively little cafe like the one in which he was sitting was perfect to wake up his senses for what promised to be a busy day.
"Holmes, I apologize for being late," said John Watson as he pulled out a chair and joined the single, quiet, coffee-drinking man.
"Quite alright Doctor, I have been enjoying myself while I waited. A busy restaurant like this, or really any public place - particularly train stations - is an excellent location to practice the science of deduction."
The waiter swung by the table and asked Doctor Watson if he cared for coffee or tea, to which the Doctor replied coffee. The waiter nodded almost imperceptibly and continued on his way towards the kitchen, a large tray of dirty dishes in hand. Then, before Watson could ask Holmes if he would be obliged to assist him in a personal matter this morning, the smooth waiter had returned with a coffee setting.
"Enjoy your coffee Doctor, for we shall have to forgo our meal until luncheon, as we are engaged," stated Holmes in that staccato-like manner in which he spoke when excited or anxious.
Watson knew that voice, and as a result, realized that his morning was no longer his to plan and that his appointment book had just been surrendered to a higher authority.
"I have already sent word to your office that you will not be in for several hours and that your patients can either be patient or can they depart until the afternoon."
Watson quietly sipped his coffee and took this pronouncement in stride, as protesting was useless, and at any rate, his interest was already aroused.
"Why can't we get good coffee in England?" thought the Doctor. During his time serving in Afghanistan, he had grown accustomed to the rich, strong coffee served by the Asians and Arabs. He could only find its equivalent in some of the few foreign shops and restaurants in London.
The Doctor finished his unsatisfying coffee, Holmes placed some coin on the table, and the two were out of the cafe walking toward a cab-stand whence were subsequently bound for Soho. In the cab, Holmes passed a small note to Watson, explaining that he had received it just before his departure for the cafe.
Mr. Holmes, please come with all haste to 311 Berwick Street, Soho.
Inspector Gregson
"That's not much to go on - do you have any idea what he wants?" queried Watson.
"I believe that he requires our assistance in a double murder investigation."
"How can you tell, Gregson is exceedingly vague in his request" Watson replied with both skepticism and interest regarding Holmes' method in reading the note and its meaning.
"As you know, Gregson may be the smartest among those who occupy Scotland Yard, and he knows it, which means that he is always willing to take a crack at a case before admitting that he requires assistance. His professional rivalry with Lestrade helps to ensure his reluctance."
"Yes, I can certainly agree with your assessment of Gregson, but why do you believe there has been a murder, let alone two?" replied the Doctor.
"Gregson is not likely to get excited over a simple theft, blackmail, kidnapping, or arson. No, it must be murder, and a single murder is not likely to inspire the panic that motivated this note," replied Holmes as he glanced at his pocket watch.
Holmes paused a moment as Watson considered the proposition.
"Then, of course, there is the small spot of fresh blood on the note, and the unusually deep lines the pencil made as Gregson wrote."
Watson looked over the note and found the smallest drop of smeared blood on the back of the note.
"Yes, I see the blood, but what do deep pencil lines have to do with a murder?" asked Watson, skeptical of this particular deduction.
"Watson, Gregson is fastidious by nature, and if this note were written in his office, his pencil would have been sharp, but you can see that the pencil utilized was dull - very dull. He forgot to bring one of his own because he left the office in a hurry; thus, the request for him must have been extremely urgent in tone. Ill-equipped at the scene, Gregson tore a page from a constable's notebook, procured his pencil, and wrote this note using the constable's back as a writing desk. The dull pencil of this common bobby, coupled with the soft writing surface resulted in a deeper, duller line in the paper."
Holmes continued his narrative with the certain finality of a man confident of his conclusion. "Gregson sent this note from the scene of the crime after evaluating his chances of solving it. He wrote hastily and had a sense of urgency in sending this note to me, which means that it was clear to him shortly after his arrival that this crime was both serious and complex; and of course Watson, there is no more serious crime than murder."
Watson handed the note back to Holmes and looked out the cab window at the people and buildings of London's streets as the cab dashed past. It was a glorious day, and the irony of running towards a scene in which someone was robbed of their life spark, all the while passing city streets full of people who were talking, laughing, arguing and kissing, thrilled and despondent, selling flowers or drinking ale, made him feel reflective. The people they passed slowly became a blur as if life had become a watercolor in which the pigment was gradually diluting away the closer they drew near the scene of death.
YOU ARE READING
Not Strictly Sherlock
同人小說"She reached up and ran her fingertips down his jaw and across his lips. They were close, very close, and she found his warm breath exciting. He smelled of tobacco and danger." Excerpt from "Twice on the Divan" Do you love Sherlock Holmes? Well, th...
