Oh, but then… you know… I was tired. Probably these things don’t seem quite right when one’s mind is near the point of exhaustion. “Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy!” I told myself and gave him a smile.
“Of course, the whole directory,” I said. “I know it was an important undertaking and I wished to be of use to the firm. I’m very sorry about all the nose blood on the floor. And the desk and the chair and the walls. But I was most careful not to get any on the list or the directory and I’m certain the rest will wash.”
He stared at me. Blinked. “Did you even stop to eat?”
“I probably should have,” I admitted. “I walked out of here rather light in the head most nights. But in any case, my job is done. Now, we should discuss how else I might make myself useful, eh?”
To which he replied, “Um… um… um…” while he walked around the office for a number of minutes. At last he snapped his fingers and said, “Ah! Furniture dealers! They sell crockery, don’t they? We sell crockery!”
“Oh! The furniture dealers!” I yelled supportively. “I should have thought of that!”
“I’m afraid we’ll need another list,” he said.
“Of course we will,” I agreed, then flipped all three volumes over and sat down.
But Harry Pinner leapt to my side and put a hand on my shoulder, crying, “Wait! Please, just hold on a moment, won’t you, Mr. Pycroft.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Well, because… because we don’t want you overworking yourself, do we?”
“Overworking?”
“Yes! By God, man, do you realize what you’ve done? In only seven days? It is unaccountable! I thought in seven weeks you’d be halfway through.”
“Oh no, no! Seven weeks? The company needs this list, Mr. Pinner.”
“All right. Sure. We do,” he said, bobbing his head. “But do you know what we really need, Mr. Pycroft? A business manager who has not completely ruined his intellect or died of a nosebleed. Now, here is what I want you to do: go rest. Go back to your hotel and have a nice big meal and a lie-in. Maybe go to a show. Birmingham has some wonderful music halls, you know. And then sure, come to work. But not that much work.”
“But… the second list!”
“I am confident you will have it in a more than satisfactory timeframe,” said Mr. Pinner, rolling his eyes a bit. “Yet, here is the thing, Mr. Pycroft: I will now be checking more carefully on your progress. Today is Saturday. I will be absent from this office until Monday. Business stuff—you know. Monday afternoon I shall check in on you. If you have made no progress, I shall be disappointed.”
“Of course,” I agreed.
“But if you have made too much progress, I shall also be disappointed. I want you to be able to tell me about a musical you’ve seen, or a puzzle you’ve done, or something. Do you understand? Something! Go to a museum! Maybe see a doctor about that nose. In fact, definitely do that; it looks like someone murdered a cow in here.”
I felt so terrible, dear journal. I had this feeling of betrayal—like all my labors were of no true value to this man in whose interest I had strived so hard. But there was something else, too. A little voice from inside me, screaming, “His teeth, you idiot! His teeth!” It was not the first time this thought had occurred to me, but in my exhaustion, my natural defenses seemed weaker and the voice was louder than ever before.
“Yes, Mr. Pinner,” I said. “You are quite correct. I shall endeavor to do my best for you. But not too much best, eh?”
“Just so, Mr. Pycroft. Just so,” he said, and patted my shoulder.
And smiled.
Smiled rather broadly.
And there it was: the second tooth on the left. Badly stuffed with gold! My mind reeled. He saw me down the stairs and made sure my feet had me pointed roughly in the direction of my hotel. Yet as I staggered through the streets of Birmingham, the flood of unwanted thoughts nearly overwhelmed me.
It was too much of a coincidence. I could deny it no longer. Harry Pinner was Arthur Pinner.
But why? Where lay the limit of his contrivances? Was the list truly necessary? Was the company even real? Why had he sent me from London to Birmingham? Why had he got there before me? Why had he had me bear a letter from himself, to himself? I could not fathom it. More than anything, I wished not to try!
“Hip! Pip! Top!” I stammered. “Derpy-derpy! Oh, please! Oh, God! Hip! Pip! Top!”
I made it all the way back to the hotel, but not to my room. I collapsed on the sofa in the lobby, with my head in my hands and tears in my eyes, rocking back and forth and weeping, “Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy! Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy!”
Presently, this attracted the attention of the proprietor, who strolled up with one of those big, tooth-blackening cigars she liked and inquired, “Mr. Pycroft? You ’right?”
“Oh! Mrs. Whitesides! Yes… yes, of course.”
“Don’t you lie to me, you little twerp!”
“Okay! No! I’m sorry!” I sobbed, and the whole story burst forth from me.
Mrs. Whitesides listened from start to finish, sucking down four or five cigars. Finally, when my story was done, she raised her eyebrows and opined, “That’s weird, son. Right weird.”
“Isn’t it?” I asked, as a bit of hysterical laughter escaped my lips. “Can you make anything of it?”
“Nope,” she said, striking a match and touching it to the tip of her next smoke. “But I know who can. M’ brother—Carl, that’s his name—he had a spot of trouble with his cellar. Everyone who went down there disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yeh. And he never could find out why. So, he went and saw this London fellow, Warlock ’Olmes, and he put it right.”
“He found out what was wrong with the cellar?” I asked.
“Yeh. It were diamonds.”
“Diamonds?”
“Or… no… demonds. That were it. Demonds.”
“And… and you think he might help me?” I asked.
She shrugged. “You might inquire after him at 221B Baker Street. Also, get off m’ bleedin’ couch and go upstairs, will you? You’re scarin’ off business.”
And so I came upstairs to you, dear journal, to write of this peculiarity. Now, the hour grows late. Yet, it feels better to set this to paper somehow. And in my breast, hope has grown to resolution!
Tomorrow, I will go to Baker Street.
* * *
FROM THE JOURNALS OF HALL PYCROFT 13 JULY, 1884
Oh, what a strange day. The train to London was one of those brownish-gray ones, which made me indifferent. The cab to Baker Street was one of those grayish-brown ones, which made me morose. All the buildings we passed were those brownish-grayish ones, which made me think that—for all that people love it—sometimes it seems as if London just isn’t putting forth much effort.
221B was easy enough to find. At my ring, the door was answered by an elderly crone of diminutive height. Despite my size advantage, I felt quite unsettled by her. True, she smiled at me as she opened the door, but it was much like the smile of a seagull when it turned over a rock, found a few delicious pill-bugs beneath and said in the language of beasts, “Oh. Hello. I’m so pleased to meet you.”
“Er… greetings, madam,” I told her. “My name is Hall Pycroft.”
“Oh?” she asked with a sinister sort of glee. “Is it?”
“Why, yes. I am looking for Mr. Warlock Holmes. Are you his wife?”
Her smile instantly hardened into a furious scowl and she gave me a savage kick (I’ve no idea why). I cried out, grabbed the shin of my damaged leg and began hopping about on the good one. I was going to protest my treatment, of course, yet before I could find my voice, the old witch had made it halfway up the stairs and called back, “This way.”
Blinking away a stray tear, I followed her up to the first-floor landing. We stopped in front of a door that was utterly unremarkable, save for a few dents down at its base. I had only just enough time to wonder what the so
urce of these might be, before she gave the door four or five good kicks and hollered, “Oi! Warlock! I’ve got a special little present for you!”
From within came a squeak of fright, then the sound of somebody falling off a couch and scuttling around. Presently, the door opened just a crack and a man peeped through. His expression was cautious, bordering on terrified, as if he expected at any moment to be shot in the face. The instant he saw me, his jaw dropped open in shock. He lost his grip on the door, which began to swing slowly inwards.
“Heh. I’ll just leave you to it, shall I?” the old lady suggested, and wandered off down the stairs.
If the man who stood before me seemed surprised to see me, I will confess I felt the same. He was an exceedingly shabby fellow. His hair had been allowed to grow into an uncontrolled mane. His sharp features were overgrown with a shaggy beard that seemed to have permission to travel off in whatever direction it wished. His fingernails were frighteningly long. He wore a dirty bathrobe and had dark circles under his eyes. Behind him, I could see the room was full of an assortment of dirty soup pots and crusts of half-eaten bread, which sent up a terrible stink. The window shades were half-pulled and a greasy light shone through the dusty panes.
He stared agog for a moment, then, almost silently, gasped, “John?”
“No. My name is Hall Pycroft.”
“Oh! Yes, of course!” he said, as if shaking himself from a deep reverie. “I knew that.”
“Did you? How?”
“No, I mean I didn’t know that. Right? How could I? What I intended to say, Mr. Pycroft, was… um… how may I be of service?”
“The lady who runs the hotel I’m staying at says you are an unraveler of mysteries, Mr. Holmes, and a solver of problems. If you are, I think I need your help, for I seem to be in a spot of trouble.”
This provoked a sudden burst of anger. “Trouble?” he shouted. “No, no, no! Trouble? That’s the whole point of all this misery—that you’re not supposed to be in any trouble? What do you mean, trouble?”
“Oh… well… it’s a long story,” I told him.
He gave a deep sigh and muttered, “Damn. Then I’m supposed to invite you in and make tea and all, aren’t I?”
I just stood and blinked, for to confirm his suspicion would be tantamount to inviting oneself in for tea, wouldn’t it? And one does not like to be rude. After a moment, he sighed, “Dash it all… you’d better come in, eh? I never learned to make tea, though. And the fellow I usually get to do it is… um… do you know what? Let’s not get into that. Suffice to say he is unavailable. Oh! Or maybe not! Look, if I hand you all the tea-making things I can find, could you make the tea, Mr. Pycroft?”
“Oh! I suppose.”
“Capital! Do come in. Don’t mind the mess. I’m engaged in an experiment to… erm… ah! To determine whether and to what extent bruising can be caused, postmortem, in soup!”
He ushered me in, cleared some wrinkled trousers and soup pots off one of the overstuffed chairs, invited me to sit, then settled onto the couch to hear my tale. Though his appearance had been off-putting, I found myself surprised by the look of deep concern he wore as I told my tale. It was clear that he cared—earnestly cared—for my happiness and safety. I began to feel embarrassed that I had judged him so harshly. For indeed, what is personal hygiene in comparison to the ability to put oneself so totally in the service of another? I was chastened and humbled.
I quite enjoyed my tea, but my host had none. Instead, he sat puffing thoughtfully at his pipe while I told my tale. Great gouts of blackish-greenish smoke emanated from its bowl. Which was odd, as I did not see him put any tobacco in, or ever light the thing. When I finished, he sat back and shook his head.
After a few minutes, I realized he wasn’t going to say anything, so I asked, “What do you think, Mr. Holmes?”
“I think it would be nice to have Watson here,” he grunted. “I used to have this friend, you see, who was… well… do you know that worst kind of sommelier? Those fellows who know everything about the history and composition of a thousand types of wine? But the only reason they cultivate and maintain that knowledge is to have an excuse to gulp down every glass they can find? They’re very smart and very apt and just horrifically addicted. My friend was like that, only for mystery instead of wine. And let me tell you: if John Watson could get a sip of this case, I’m sure he’d find it a comet vintage.”
The statement was deeply upsetting to me. I could feel a sudden sweat break forth upon my brow. I rose from my seat and began to pace.
“John Watson, you say? No, no, no… something is not right, Mr. Holmes. Not right! I don’t know if you know it, but that’s the name that’s on all my personal cards!”
“What? Damn!” Warlock Holmes shouted.
“Yes, and the plaque outside my door!”
“Double damn!”
“And all his mail comes to my house, for some reason.”
“Treble damn!”
“And that’s what all the people call me when they come to me for medical aid. But I don’t know anything about medicine. I’m a stockbroker! But here’s the funniest thing: I don’t seem to know anything about broking stocks, either! Some days I think I just do not know who I am at all!”
“Quadruple damn! Quintuple damn! Sextuple damn!” my host cursed.
I began to shake all over. “Something is broken, Mr. Holmes! I feel… I feel all wrong!” And a terrible sensation began to rise up in me. Like another person—strong and indignant.
“Oh! Hey!” cried my host, jumping to his feet. “Isn’t there an expression your mother taught you?”
“Yes, but… what has that to do with anything?”
“It is of paramount importance,” Mr. Holmes insisted. “You must teach it to me, right now.”
“But…”
“This instant!”
“Oh, very well! It’s ‘Hip! Pip! Top! Derpy-derpy!’”
And suddenly, I felt much better.
And I sat back down again.
“Can you make anything of it, Mr. Holmes?”
“Well, it seems as if I’d better, eh?” he asked, wiping his brow and giving forth a great sigh of relief.
“How will you proceed?” I wondered.
“Hmm… well… what would Wat—” but he stopped himself and said, “What would my friend do? I’m sure he’d feel he had enough clues already, but I confess I wouldn’t mind a few more. What to do…? What to do…?”
“Do you want to come meet Mr. Pinner?” I asked.
“It might be most helpful,” he agreed. “But how would we manage it?”
“Very simply, I think. He told me to find some other way to spend my time. I could tell him I went and made a friend, then display you as proof.”
This statement seemed to make Mr. Holmes uncomfortable, so I quickly added, “Only to fool Mr. Pinner, of course. I do not wish to presume upon your emotions, especially since we have known each other for so short a time. No, no. I would not make the claim that I am truly your friend.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Holmes as a strange flash of guilt and pain crossed his features, “you probably could.”
I was deeply touched.
“Then it is settled, Mr. Holmes,” I told him. “I shall call upon you here, tomorrow, so we can catch the 10:35 to Birmingham. That should get us there in time. There is really no point arriving before that hour, as Mr. Pinner is quite punctual and only comes in to check on me.”
Mr. Holmes smiled and bid me good day. I then returned to my house to pass the time. Mary was excited to see me, she said, but had not expected my return. As such, she was very busy. This was true. She seemed to be holding a meeting with a number of tough-looking gentlemen. As this meeting was being held in my room and—Mary assured me—was likely to go on until quite late, I settled into one of the overstuffed chairs in the library. That brings me to this very moment, dear journal. I have taken the time to record these peculiar events on your pages and now shall tuck myself under
this blanket to slumber. Tomorrow, with the help of God and Mr. Holmes, I may at last come to the bottom of this whole strange affair.
* * *
FROM THE CRAYON-SCRAWLED JOURNALS OF WARLOCK HOLMES
Hello, dear reader! I have been asked to step in to finish the tale, as the remembrances of the previous narrator are now at an end.
So… where to begin…
I suppose I must admit I was rather shocked to see Watson on my doorstep, coming to me with an adventure. I had taken rather a bit of trouble to ensure that this sort of thing never happen again. Rhett Khan is a powerful fellow, whose spells are hardly less solid than the realities they replace. Even so, I had taken the precaution of weaving a failsafe into the new personality we built into my old friend. Watson’s mind was quite strong, you know, and it is no easy thing to cast a one-time spell that will endure against so many unseen challenges of logic. So, I’d included a little phrase he could use to comfort and re-hex himself, if ever his false realities were challenged.
I could not fathom how he’d managed to get himself in trouble despite my and Rhett Khan’s best efforts. Yet, who can account for the strange twistings of fate, especially for those individuals who dwell along the brimstone thread?
Though, that said, I probably should have stopped by in the dark of night at some point and pried that stupid plaque off his door. And stolen the cards out of his wallet. And stopped in at the post office and changed his address to some non-existent street in Greenland. But—ah, well—hindsight is 20/20, they say.
The most important thing, of course, was to unravel this little mystery before it could completely undermine my rather brilliant Watson solution. His life must be straightened out quickly and quietly, so that he might return to the job I’d assigned him: being Hall Pycroft. Granted, I didn’t know how to solve the case, but I knew I must do it. I wished nothing to threaten Watson’s new reality.
And… much as I hate to admit it, I wanted to be free of his company. I mean, I missed his company quite a bit. But his company. Not Hall Pycroft’s. Indeed, I felt such a swell of revulsion and guilt when I was with Hall Pycroft that it was even worse than the swell of revulsion and guilt I felt when I was alone.
The Finality Problem Page 24
