The Pumamouse Website: Stories And Sagas: My Sherlockian Saga Volume One Chapter Three

The atmosphere at the Diogenes Club was one which encouraged quiet contemplation. Mycroft Holmes was well-accustomed to the eerie silence which resounded within its walls. He had come to depend on this air of tranquility after a long day's work. His respite was suddenly ended when his brother entered the room.

"Mycroft, I must ask you, what in Heaven's name have I ever done to you that would cause you to afflict me such grief?," Holmes demanded. "Surely, I do not deserve this!" He threw the crumpled note down onto the table which stood between them. Mycroft did not need to open the paper to recognize it for what it was.

"Sherlock, I thought you would be pleased," he chuckled softly. "You have always held to the belief that women, on the whole, are quite an inferior species. This news of our writer's gender should, at least, spark some interest on your behalf. After all, it really was the best story we had received, and..."

"We?," Holmes interrupted with visible aggravation. "Please, Mycroft. If we must continue with this comedy, may we, at least, be honest while we are alone?"

"Very well, Sherlock. I shall be very honest," Mycroft returned. His smile quickly faded, and was replaced by an intent stare. "It is one thing for you to withdraw from the everyday workings of society. It is quite another for you to isolate yourself to the point of oblivion," Mycroft advised. "Add to this your recent indulgence into your most abhorrent habit, an addiction which I have always thought quite beneath you, and I believe I was totally justified in taking whatever steps I deemed necessary to save whatever was left of my brother's life!"

Mycroft Holmes seldom showed emotion. It was apparently a trait which ran in the family. In this instance, however, the stakes were much too high. Both men stood stiffly holding their ground, each waiting for some sign of weakness in the other. It was Sherlock Holmes who finally gave way.

"But, why, Mycroft? Why go to such lengths?," Holmes asked with a heavy sigh. "It must have cost a small fortune to run all of those fictitious advertisements. Why not just..."

"Hold on there, Sherlock," Mycroft cautioned. "I fear you may have the wrong impression. I will admit, there was never any dignitary who wished to debase your abilities. That was a ruse, designed to entice you...but the contest, itself, was quite genuine." Mycroft began to smile as he saw the expression of surprise on his brother's face, then he continued in a somewhat taunting tone, "Honestly, Sherlock, it was completely above board. I, myself, could not solve the winning mystery without peeking at the answer."

"You wouldn't be plotting another ambush, would you Mycroft?," Holmes asked as he scrutinized Mycroft's face.

"You have my word, Sherlock," Mycroft returned.

"And, the writer's identity? You did not know of it until the choice had been made?," Holmes asked cautiously.

"I would never have believed it, myself, had I not received confirmation," Mycroft assured. "The story, itself, held no clue that the author was female."

"And, her age?," Holmes encouraged.

"I know only what I have told you," Mycroft replied. "Although, I suppose I should have realized she would be older, by the obvious knowledge of human nature which was displayed in her writing." He paused to consider his thoughts, then, musing them aloud, he offered, "I do hope the trip will not be too much for her."

"I suppose you have made arrangements for her to stay at the Langham Hotel, near my flat," Holmes noted, no longer angry, but then quite resolved.

"I fear you will not like it, Sherlock," Mycroft offered, "but, the arrangements were made weeks ago, before I had even picked a winner." Mycroft hesitated, knowing full-well what he was to expect once he finished.

"Well? Go on. What arrangements have been made?," Holmes urged indignantly, unable to fathom the cause of Mycroft's reluctance.

Mycroft took a deep breath, then advised, "You must remember, only you and Dr. Watson were falsely informed about the existence of your anonymous challenger. It was necessary to mislead you, and it seemed only prudent to extend the ruse to your dearest and most loyal friend. You both were allowed to believe that my declaration in the press was designed to afford your challenger anonymity. Ironically, the general populous is under the correct assumption that I am the sole initiator of this contest."

Mycroft paused briefly to observe Holmes' impatient stare, then he reluctantly informed, "Your landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was most kind, and offered to be host to our winner. I told her I would be happy to defer any expenses which she might incur, but she would not hear of it. She said it was the least she could do for you."

"For me?," Holmes asked, a bit perplexed.

"Yes," Mycroft explained. "Apparently, she thought, by having the author so near, you would, no doubt, gain insight into their nature, thereby aiding you in your attempts to solve the mystery. At the time, I quite agreed with her reasoning. However, given the new information, perhaps it would be best if..."

"Not at all, Mycroft," Holmes interrupted with a heavy sigh and complete resolution. "To change things now might offend our guest, and we must not do that. No, we shall leave it as it stands. From what little we know of this woman, she may, at least, prove to be a welcome companion to our Mrs. Hudson. If nothing else, perhaps she may be able to teach her some of the finer points in the art of Italian cuisine. I have always enjoyed a good dish of pasta."

Noting Holmes' sarcastic tone, Mycroft chuckled softly and warned, "Careful, Sherlock. Do not underestimate this woman because of her advanced years. Let me assure you once again, her story was, by far, the best that I received. It might very well prove to be a challenge to solve, even for you."

Still not convinced, but resigned to his fate, Holmes moved to the door as he offered, "Very well. I will try to keep an open mind and hope for the best. But, I warn you, Mycroft, were it not that you acted out of concern for me, and that you were encouraged to do so by Watson, I would not be so understanding. There are limits to what I will tolerate, even from my brother." Holmes was about to leave, then he turned briefly before going to quietly offer, "Thank you, Mycroft."

"You are welcome, Sherlock," Mycroft replied. The door closed, and the stoic silence, once again, returned to the room. Yet, somehow, the cold atmosphere had thawed.

When Holmes returned to our flat, he relayed to me the conversation which he had had with his brother. I felt quite responsible for his present dilemma, having been the one to set Mycroft on his heels. I was, however, gratified to learn that the story of the anonymous dignitary had been only for Holmes' and my benefit. It somehow made the whole matter seem less of an insult to my friend's abilities.

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The Personal Journal Of John H. Watson, M.D.
Volume One
A Record Of The Events Which Occurred
March-May 1897

Copyright 1998

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CHAPTER THREE

In the weeks that followed, Holmes spent a good deal of his time at the library, researching plots of the most current mysteries. A contract had been drawn up to which Holmes had agreed, specifying the guidelines of the contest. One such guideline was that the winning story could not be one which had recently appeared in print, neither factual nor fictitious. Indeed, the whole matter had escalated from a contest between two men into quite an event. Dozens of stories came pouring in, each of which had to be judged, not only by Mycroft Holmes, but also, by the man who had initiated the challenge. His identity remained unknown, save to Mycroft. In truth, by his own demands, even his involvement was not made known to the general public. The contest was supposedly being sponsored by Mycroft Holmes.

Even Sherlock Holmes did not know the identity of his adversary, and he would never know, unless he solved the case, for such were the terms of the agreement. However, if he was able to solve the mystery in three days’ time, the nameless party agreed to make a full apology, in person. This, then, was to be my friend's only reward, but it seemed to be quite enough for him.

In my opinion, the true beneficiary of the event was to be the author of the chosen case. It had been decided, after careful consideration, that the true essence of a murder mystery could not be perceived through merely a written account. Rather, a "murder" would have to be acted out, thereby affording Sherlock Holmes with a scene of a crime, and witnesses to question. Thus, the author of the winning story was to be present, and involved in the playing out of the case. He and Mycroft Holmes, alone, would know the solution, and would be the final judges as to the accuracy of Holmes' conclusions. All expenses were to be paid for by Mycroft Holmes, according to the newspapers, but, in truth, by Holmes' anonymous opponent. The allure of a paid holiday, coupled with the added incentive of meeting, working with, and possibly even defeating the renown Mr. Sherlock Holmes, caused the contest to be most popular with his admirers and enemies, alike.

Finally, one afternoon in mid-April, we received word from Mycroft that a winner had been chosen, the author being one "M. Trioni" of America. The contents of the case were, of course, known only to Mycroft Holmes and Holmes' challenger. However, the author was apparently just as big a mystery. Save a name and return address, no other information had accompanied the winning manuscript.

As I recall, Holmes was not at all pleased with this added annoyance. "Am I to solve one mystery or a dozen?!," he barked as I read Mycroft's message to him. "I am not permitted to know the identity of my challenger, or now, even that of the author! Perhaps the whole case is to remain unknown to me also, and I am to pull an answer out of the air! How can I be expected to work without any information at all?! I must have data!"

It was quite apparent to me that, despite his initial reluctance and even disappointment in accepting this would-be case, he had begun to care for it...much like an animal who is not hungry, but, upon getting a slight taste of blood, proceeds to devour its prey.

Two more days passed as we waited for any bit of information which we could find on the author. At last, a note came from Mycroft, saying he had made contact with the winner. Holmes was out when the note arrived, and, after reading its contents, I was not at all sure if I wanted to be present when he returned. I was contemplating a timely departure when I heard him in the hallway below.

"Any word, Mrs. Hudson?," he called out.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, the Doctor did receive a note," she replied.

"Excellent!," he declared, then he bounded up the stairs. He entered the drawing room and sat facing me in his chair, his eyes intent with anticipation. The note was still in my hand, and I felt obligated to read it to him, whatever his reaction.

I mustered my courage and began my task, reading with as little emotion as possible, "My dear Sherlock and Dr. Watson. I have made contact with the winning author, and have concluded making the necessary arrangements for her arrival. Given good weather..."

"Watson, forgive me," Holmes interrupted, "but, did you say...her arrival?"

"Yes, Holmes, I did," I answered without meeting his gaze.

"Am I to believe our mystery writer is a woman?," he asked in total disbelief.

"Shall I continue, Holmes?," I pondered. I looked to him, and his face seemed to pale slightly as he nodded his agreement. I swallowed my concerns, then continued, "Given good weather conditions, her ship should arrive on the first of May. I have made several inquiries. Unfortunately, the only information which I can relay to you concerning Mrs. Trioni is that she is a woman of Italian decent, in her mid-eighties, a widow, mother, and grandmother. She admires your work, Sherlock, and has been a loyal reader of Dr. Watson's chronicles of your adventures. She also enjoys needlework. I will be in touch with any further developments. Signed, Mycroft."

I lowered the paper to find Holmes' gaze fixed upon me, and I must admit, I felt quite uneasy. "Needlework?," he growled. "Good Lord, Watson...he is sending us a companion for Mrs. Hudson." The colour began to return to his face then. In fact, he was looking quite flush. "It is absurdity, pure and simple!," he spat. "I should not be at all surprised to find myself waking in a moment, and this whole episode a bad dream! Needlework! Ha!" Holmes was furious.

He rose quickly from his chair and began fumbling with his coat. "Where are you going, Holmes," I asked.

"To see Mycroft!," he snarled. "I would ask you to join me. However, there are some things I should like to say to my dear brother that would be better said in privacy!" Then, taking the note from my hand, he stormed out of the room.

I had come to admire Mycroft Holmes for his formidable abilities. However, at that moment, I found myself feeling some pity for the man. Sherlock Holmes was surely going to reprimand him severely. It would not be a pretty sight.