Posted by BC on 3/6/2008, 4:13 pm, in reply to "Chapter three part one"
24.207.121.197
They spent the rest of the day dusting and nailing shingles back on. Theodore and Watson had a good laugh when, after locking himself in his room for a few minutes, Holmes emerged wearing overalls, and a blue cotton shirt. A bushy black mustache not unlike that of Watson’s in the Sidney Paget Illustrations graced his upper lip, matching perfectly the color of his black greasy haired wig.
A bucket full of nails and another of roof tack were held in the fingers of his right hand.
The ‘roof repair man’ then stated with a particular jaunty swagger and a harsh British accent that he would need someone to pass up boards and shingles when he returned from the lumber supplier’s
Then much to the entertainment of the two onlookers, who were having rather a hard time of controlling their amused facial expressions, Holmes clomped out of the room.
Theodore waited until the sound of his thick nail bottomed boots had completely disappeared and then turned to Watson.
“Can he really fix the roof?” He asked curiously.
“I have never seen him attempt it; I have however, complete confidence in his abilities.”
“Why did he dress up? Why not just go as himself?”
“Well, two reasons really, it is due partly to his creative spirit, he never could resist a chance to alter his identity. But also I think that it is perhaps a bit dangerous for him to be recognized at present.”
Theodore nearly tripped over his own foot, “you mean I’m putting him in danger, because of the roof!”
“You needn’t worry my boy” Watson assured him soothingly “whatever it is that he is working on has occupied his attention for some weeks now at which times he has left the house every day in one disguise or another and has returned safe and sound at the end of each.”
“If you say so sir,” he allowed reluctantly
He and Watson continued to clean the entire time Holmes was away on his particular errand, it was about six thirty by the time he returned with a huge load of shingles and newly cut lumber slung over his shoulder. The room was just beginning to look vaguely recognizable.
Most of the dust was gone, and Theodore could now make out many of the details: The two famous armchairs, the mantelpiece with the jack knife - which miraculously was still sticking out, undisturbed from the centre - along with its impaled telegrams, the various paintings and pictures on the walls, the bullet holes proclaiming the identity of the present queen.
So on and so fourth, but Theodore’s favorite thing was the shelf of record books, newly dusted with extreme care by him, the leather gleaming in the now fading evening light.
Theodore was decidedly relieved to see the detective and was glad to have made some progress at clearing away the mess. He still felt rather guilty about it and the danger he was putting Holmes in. he had been imagining the newspaper headlines all day, ‘Famous Detective Murdered’ ‘Mystery Surrounding Sleuths Death’ ‘Roof Repairman Dead, Reason Unknown.’
But here he was safe and sound, and just about to climb back out onto the roof.
They continued to work on their assigned tasks until about 10:30pm Theodore passing up wood and shingles with his good arm to Holmes who was still, as made perfect sense, in his repairman’s garb, minus wig and mustache.
Watson occupied himself taking bundles of ceiling plaster and accumulated dust, putting them in bags and taking them out into the street to be disposed of at a later date. All and all by the said time everything was back to its original state, every detail cleaned, polished and dusted.
And so it was that even Mrs. Hudson - a sweet elderly lady with tidy white hair set in a bun at the back of her head and round thick lens spectacles sitting over jolly blue eyes - upon coming up to inspect the progress made on repairing her roof, had to admit that the repairs had gone a great deal better then she had expected.
Holmes winked at Theodore, smiling an amused smile, it was late, and so they all retired.
But just as Theodore was getting into bed there was a knock at the door to his room, identical to the one that morning.
“Come in Mr. Holmes” he said, suppressing a self-satisfied grin as the aforementioned detective stepped into the room.
“I see you have been studying my methods Mr. Trent, indeed you were telling the truth about your extensive reading into Watson’s little tales.”
Theodore couldn’t tell if Holmes was kidding or not, he didn’t think so…because hearing that had had the effect of making him feel warm and fuzzy all over.
“I was wondering if you would mind remaining awake an extra moment or so, I have a question I wish to put to you”
Theodore was confused, surely Holmes had already interrogated him enough when they had first met…and again later when Theodore had asked about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
To his credit, the detective had spent a good hour explaining to Theodore how Watson sent off all his stories to a literary agent, Dr. Arthur Doyle, who the good Doctor had sworn to secrecy concerning the works. He was given the credit for the penmanship of the stories, as Watson preferred to gain nothing by them save only the financial income. Instead, handing the wheel over to a good friend, one who would see to it that the stories were published where the public would be sure to take note of them.
It explained a lot of things really: How Holmes and Watson had slowly turned into fictional characters over the years. Fading away little by little into the public imagination like some half forgotten dream, why Doyle had been given a knighthood for some other accomplishment them writing ‘The Adventure’s Of Sherlock Holmes’. A fact that had always interested Theodore…and to think, this whole chain of events had begun in a tree, in a different time, in a different place with a book which now, ratty and dejected, had no doubt graced the interior of Holmes’ safe…
The latter was only conjecture though, as In fact, it was with this book in his hand that Holmes now stood in the room dwarfing its other occupant with his height.
“What would you like to ask me Mr. Holmes?” Theodore enquired as politely as he possibly could.
Holmes handed him ‘The Sign Of The Four’ and indicated the spine and back cover which, now that he looked at it, seemed to be covered in a purplish discoloration.
“When you explained what had happened to you, you neglected to mention the kind of weapon it was that your attackers used, now,” he said cutting Theodore off as he opened his mouth to reply.
“I have examined every inch of this volume thoroughly with both a microscope and a magnifying lens and can find no explanation for the very particular burn marks which dominate the better part of the back cover as well as the spine. Therefore I must conclude that you have, on purpose, or as is more likely, accidentally, for one purpose or another, withheld that knowledge from me, I might also add that the same type of burns cover the front of your Jumper and the majority of the fingers of your right hand.”
‘Wow, he’s been busy’ “Well sir…” Theodore began hesitantly “I didn’t mean to hide it from you. It’s just that I didn’t understand it either, it was…Mr. Holmes, it was a beam of light.”
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