Clandestine meetings (part 1)
Part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8
The rising sun brought the late 19th century London a serene morning. The dark faded away and London was about to see a rather sunny day which was a rare sight. The jolly city was slowly becoming less quieter. Yet the winter was rather brutal and the chilling air hit every early riser, as a reminder of the severe cold that year's winter guided with it. With all the early risers, there was another who, after his morning walk, was heading towards his friend Mr Sherlock Holmes. Dr Watson walked his way with smoke like vapour coming out of his mouth with everyone he greeted saying, “Good morning”. As for Sherlock Holmes, no one knew what he was doing, he might be at his flat, or perhaps out to find out the missing piece of a puzzle. He was a detective, but for everyone around him, including Dr Watson he was as much of a mystery as the other was to him. However, Dr Watson reached his friend's residence panting after a long morning walk and climbed up the stairs of 221b Baker Street, wasting no time.
As he entered the apartment, of which the door was already ajar, it baffled Dr Watson to the core. Was it a break in? Or a client early in the morning? With all curiosity he went inside and noticed that Holmes was reclining on his armchair beside the window, smoking a pipe. The room was filled with a slight smoke. He stole a glance at him yet didn't move or say anything.
Shaking his head, Watson closed the door of the flat behind him, walked across the room and stopped close to his companion.
Holmes pulled out his pipe with his long and thin fingers and seemed to come out of a trance. "Why does everything need to change, Watson? It took me a full week to adjust to the bitter winter. I do not approve of these constant changes." His eyes were fixed on the dimly lit fireplace as he spoke.
"Shall I open the windows, Holmes?" asked Watson, knowing that fresh air might lift Holmes' spirits.
Holmes said nothing. He sat the way he had been for no one knew how much time.
Without waiting for an answer, Watson went straight to the window and held it open, sliding the curtains. He turned around and noticed that Holmes' demeanour was becoming decidedly better than before.
As the sunlight hit the room, Holmes, alongside with the sitting room of 221b Baker Street, rejuvenated. The little dust particles were visible floating in the air through the sunlight like shiny glitter.
“You are the only constant in this changing age, Watson,” said he as he turned a little and looked around the room.
Watson smiled to himself knowing how much this cold detective appreciated him and walked to the chair across Holmes'. However, before he could sit, there was a knock on the door. Three knocks specifically.
“Three knocks. It is a client,” said Holmes. Yet he didn't get up to open the door. Like he barely did. Watson sighed, he'd always wondered how a person could sit at the same place for hours and still not have the urge to lift himself from there.
As he went to the door of the flat to answer, it revealed a lady.
She had a rather unusual appearance for a Londoner. The lady wore something different from the English women. She wore a saree - a traditional Indian attire.
She stood panting at the doorstep, staring at Watson with her big, dark eyes. Her dark hair hung so low behind her, it almost touched her hips. Her height was assumed to be a little more than five feet.
She looked breathless, presumably she came to them running, yet her exhaustion couldn't hide how beautiful she was. Watson also noticed a streak of vermilion in her mid-parted hair.
“Let me in. Oh, good sir, please. I need to speak to Mr Sherlock Holmes,” said she in her broken English which had no British touch to it. Her accent told that she was still learning, and that she was an Indian.
Watson knitted his brows and gave her a nod as he stepped aside to let her in. Her appearance seemed intriguing to Holmes. He got up to draw a chair for the lady - one that he and Watson had reserved for the clients.
The lady sat down and stared at the apartment floor in horror for a few seconds, trying to calm herself a bit.
“I suggest you start talking immediately. We do not have all day.” Holmes stated a bit of annoyance evident in his voice. Watson looked at Holmes pointedly at his rudeness to the lady as he went to the kitchen to get a glass of water for her.
He got back, handed the glass to the woman, she thanked him silently and began to drink. She stared at Holmes without blinking, her big, dark brown eyes with kohl around them, inspecting the detective from head to toe. Perhaps she was new to the country, so she seemed to be in awe of the locals.
“What's your name, Ms?” Watson asked politely.
Drinking the whole glass of water in a few seconds, the lady set it down on her lap. “Mrs Devi Dey,” she answered, looking at the two men.
“And what brings you here?” asked Holmes. He finally clasped his hands together, letting the fingertips touch each other.
Watson looked around himself and spotted a few newspapers thrown on the ground. He picked up one of them and gave it to Mrs Dey. She began to fan herself after glancing at Watson with gratitude. She cooled down a bit and finally started to speak about her issue. “My husband and I moved to London last year after his job promotion. He works at The Daily Telegraph. He comes home at seven in the evening daily when I make dinner for us.
“Last night, not only was he two hours late, but he also kept staring at the wall opposite to him in the sitting room blankly. I kept calling him for half an hour or so after I was done making dinner, but he wouldn't listen! I seldom have dinner alone, but last night I did. After dinner, I went to the sitting room to check on him once again. He was staring at the floor then, lost in his thoughts. Thinking he would join me later, I went to bed.
“But he never came to the bedchamber. He was already leaving for work when I got up - three hours before his usual time. I couldn't let him go today. I had to draw words out of his mouth, sir!”
“What happened to him?” asked Watson and furrowed his brow, growing almost as impatient as Holmes, but trying his best to keep it to himself. Whereas Holmes was sitting with his fingertips joint together and touching his chin with his eyes closed.
“His senior officer has accused him of corruption. That wretched fellow! He did this in front of the entire office, and now nobody in the company is assigning any tasks to my husband. He says he might either be arrested or fired from his job. What shall I do? Where should we go after this?
“I know my husband is innocent, Mr Holmes. I just know it. However, I do not know what to do.”
“For now, you can go back home,” said Holmes as he sat back in his chair with his eyes closed.
Mrs Dey looked at Holmes as if she had just been slapped. Her expression told how offended she'd been. She came to Sherlock Holmes’ place for refuge but all she got from him was his rudeness. She turned to look at Watson with pleading eyes.
Watson did not know why Holmes suddenly withdrew from the problem either. He looked at Holmes in confusion for a split second, but then he decided to put up an act.
“Mrs Dey, My friend Holmes needs to think about this whole problem in detail. He will take the case, I can assure that,” said Watson, Holmes flung his eyes open and stared with utter disbelief. He ignored Holmes’ pointed glare at him, “but till then, it would be best if you leave him alone.”
Mrs Dey's delicate features relaxed a little, as she got up from her chair, Yet she was rather unhappy with the detective. She'd heard he was the best one in the city, in the whole country. However, it seemed to her that he needed his attitude to be fixed somehow. Turning around, and walking out of 221 B, Baker Street, she could only think of her dilemma.
Gazing at the staircase leading outside the apartment building, Watson contemplated seeing her out, but as he made his way to the door of their residence, Holmes got hold of his wrist, making Watson stop in his tracks.
“Stay right where you are, Watson. We need to talk.”
