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acdholmesfestTitle: The Adventure of the Southwark Stables
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tripleransom
Author:capt_facepalm
Rating: PG
Wordy Words: 5700
Characters: Watson, Holmes
Warnings: N/A
Author's Notes: One half case fic, one half drama, one quarter horse
The early spring of 1882 saw my return to the medical profession. Although it was only part-time, I was grateful for the chance to get back in harness for it was the first step toward developing a practice of my own. Dr Jasper Meekes and Dr Albert French had a growing practice and retained me to handle their house-calls, for which I was meagrely compensated. So once or twice a week, I made the rounds to their house-bound patients.
One dreary Friday evening, I stood outside the last of my charges' Soho lodgings and debated whether to take a local pint, hail a cab, or to proceed home on foot. The flat I shared with Mr Sherlock Holmes on Baker Street was not too far to walk, and I would do well to save my cab fare for a rainy day. A quick glance at my watch told me that I had missed whatever hot supper Mrs Hudson had prepared that day and I was sorely tempted to try the local public house. I paused at the door of "The Kettle", my wallet fiercely arguing with my empty stomach. The raucous sounds which spilled out onto the pavement when the door opened forced my decision. Tonight I needed peace and quiet so I turned instead toward home.
"I say, doctor! You gotta minit?" came a voice from behind me. I turned to face a disreputable-looking groom. Something about him seemed familiar but I could not place him. Then he smiled. It was, of course, Sherlock Holmes. Fortunately, I caught myself before I could exclaim. There would surely be an interesting reason why he had adopted that disguise and I was just canny enough to play along. Peace and quiet would have to wait.
"I owes you a dinner an' a pint for what you done for the missus," he said, taking my arm and steering me inside The Kettle.
He led me to one of two empty seats at a table around which three other workmen sat with their beer celebrating the end of a long hard week. They acknowledged me with various nods and grunts and had returned to their conversation by the time Holmes returned and placed a pint of pale ale in front of me.
"I hope this is to yer liking," he said. Of course it was. He knew my preferences full well. A meat pie smothered with lumpy gravy appeared next and I tucked in. My friend grimaced. Despite his bizarre eating habits, Sherlock Holmes had never been hungry in his life and could afford to view the common fare with disdain. I ignored his attitude and devoted most of my attention to the meal at hand while Holmes, or Murphy, as he was known to the others at the table, joined their conversation. Some time later, I pushed back my plate with a contented sigh and tipped back the last of my ale.
The noise levels rose substantially as the establishment began to fill with more patrons. Murphy's friends left and others eagerly took up their empty chairs. Holmes leaned over and said, "We're not returning to Baker Street right now. I need you to wait for me at the corner of Beak Street and Great Pulteney. I'll be along in a few minutes."
Dusk had given way to night and the street lamps illuminated my way while many people still travelled the streets. I took my time, and walked indirectly to the required location. Holmes joined me soon thereafter, and producing a key, unlocked the door leading to the chambers above the tobacconist's shop. It was dark as pitch. From his furtive movements, I knew that Holmes required silence. He lit a taper and by its flickering light, we carefully ascended the steps to the second floor. There he unlocked the single door which opened into a small garret.
The room was sparse and featured a single window set into the slanting ceiling. There was a table with an old oil lamp, one chair, a dilapidated shelf and a fairly new steamer trunk. A chamber pot and a water ewer sat on a washstand in the corner. A narrow bed was situated against the opposite wall, and upon it sat my old carpet bag.
Holmes lit the lamp and gestured me toward the chair while he seated himself on the trunk. I waited for an explanation.
"We cannot return to Baker Street tonight. There have been some developments in the Kingston trial and we will be called upon to testify after all."
I swore. "You said-- you promised that we wouldn't have to–"
"I know. I'm so sorry. Inspector Talland was found dead this morning... murdered along with the two policemen assigned to safeguard him. Now you and I are the only remaining credible witnesses. So, it's either testify, or disappear. By now, the police have been to Baker Street and have been told by a very bewildered Mrs Hudson that we have gone to Liverpool on a case and will be gone for a few days. That should stall them for a short while. The court will have to examine the other witness in our absence. In the meantime, I plan to investigate Talland's murder. If I am successful, it will tie in with the Kingston business and the matter will be closed once and for all."
"How will we proceed?"
"Not we, Watson. Just me. After Talland, you and I are the next logical targets. Baker Street will surely be watched, and I intend to watch the watchers."
"What about Mrs Hudson?"
"She will be safe as long as she believes we are in Liverpool. Which just leaves you. This is why I have secured this little bolt-hole. I want you to remain here. Do not venture out, and do not open the door for anyone except me. I will return in two days--"
"Two days!"
"I will return by then to let you know how things are faring. There are blankets and bedding in the trunk and I have brought your travelling clothes and some provisions."
I opened the carpet bag. Two essential items were missing. I looked up sharply but Holmes anticipated my questions.
"I may have need of your pistol," he said, patting his jacket pocket.
"And what of my shaving kit?"
"Blast! I knew I was forgetting something. I'm afraid that you will have to forego your usual ablutions. Surely you have soap in your medical bag. Not to worry, just keep out of sight. The tobacconist knows that someone is here, but not who. Just stay quiet and keep to yourself; remain inside and wait for me to contact you. Here's this evening's Standard. The details of the trial are on the second page. Good night."
I looked around my new prison cell. "There's no heat." Holmes had the good grace to look apologetic as he left.
The Standard's information was sparse. Talland was dead, and two other policemen as well. All three found with their throats slit. It was disheartening in the extreme. I was not acquainted with either Sergeant Ayers or Constable Darnel, but I had come to know Bill Talland over the course of his investigation and I considered him a friend.
Inspector Talland had been assigned to investigate the death of Joseph Gettler, whose body had been found in the vicinity of The Lotus, one of London's most notorious opium dens. Gettler had hidden his addiction from his family and was a frequent customer, if the accounts by denizens of such establishments could be relied upon. News of Gettler's addiction had shocked his family because Joseph had always held strong views against such things, and what convinced Talland in the end was the lack of any physical or mental signs of long-term abuse before his death. If Gettler was the addict his business partner claimed, there would have been indications.
This was the biggest case of Talland's career and he wanted to get to the bottom of it. That is how he came to meet Sherlock Holmes. The Inspector consulted with my fellow lodger but failed to convince him that it was worthy of his time. Being sympathetic, Holmes suggested that since it was more of a medical question, the case might be something that I, as a medical man, might be better suited to investigate.
I attended Joseph Gettler's post-mortem examination only to conclude that Talland's instincts were correct. While Gettler had unequivocally died of an overdose, his eyes did not have the tell-tale signature of a long-term addict. That left Gettler's business partner, the industrialist, Thomas Paulet Kingston, caught in a lie.
Talland was thorough, and the false witnesses were exposed. Kingston"s story was proved a fabrication and he was left with no credible alibi. Talland's case notes and testimony would be devastating: Kingston would hang. My own part in the matter was minor, except for one crucial point. I had been the one to originally discount Gettler as an addict, and that had changed the course of the investigation.
Expecting to be called to give evidence in an expert's capacity, I worked closely with Inspector Talland and redoubled my efforts in order to prove worthy of Holmes' recommendation. I consulted with other doctors, spent hours researching the medical journals, and became personally familiar with the goings and doings of London"s worst opium dens. In short, over the course of a month's time, I had become an uncommon authority on the subject of opiates.
Despite all this, without Talland, my testimony would dismissed as irrelevant and Kingston would be acquitted. Holmes" methods, once he became involved later in the case, and just how he acquired certain documents would be called into question. Of course Holmes had seen no need for a warrant, but once he had the crucial evidence, he had to arrange for Inspector Talland to "find" it. I do not know what irritated Kingston more: the fact that someone had uncovered his crime, or the implication that he would be so stupid as to leave such incriminating evidence around for the police to discover. Therefore, without Talland, our testimonies would only hamper the case for the prosecution and might even see charges brought against us. If Holmes thought it best that I remain hidden while he searched for more damning evidence against Kingston, then I was resigned to follow his plan.
With little else to do, I took stock of my provisions: two bottles of beer, four boiled eggs, two jars of Mrs Hudson's baked beans, a loaf of dark bread, and some cheese. If I had to, I could live on this for five days, but they would be lean and hungry days, and I was not looking forward to it at all. I retrieved the blankets from the trunk, lay down on the bed, and extinguished the lamp. No light from the street penetrated the layers of grime on the outside of the window. The mattress was lumpy and reeked of mice. I was so tired I did not think it would matter. Unfortunately it did. A heavy rain started sometime in the dead of night and I found to my dismay that the window leaked. I awoke not knowing where I was, cold and wet, with nightmares of the Peshawar fever ward echoing in my head.
When Holmes found me two days later, shivering in my blankets in the middle of the floor, he realised that the bolt-hole was not going to work. A grin spread across his countenance as he regarded my deplorable state with a critical eye.
"I have another idea," he said. "How much do you know about horses?"
"As much as any serving officer; perhaps a little more than some."
"Excellent!"
"Erm, Holmes... you know that with my leg the way it is, riding is out of the question."
"Fear not. You won't be riding horses, but you will be handling them. I intend to insinuate you into a company of ostlers. Mr Matthew Oakley owes "Mr Murphy" a favour. I have no doubt he will take you on."
"I'm too old to be a stable boy."
"It"s either that or this bolt-hole."
"We could testify. I would support whatever you say."
"Watson! I may not be the most scrupulous of men, but I would never put you in the position where you have to perjure yourself. It is a great shame of this day and age that having an honest face is a disadvantage."
When Holmes returned later that night, he brought with him several garments to form my disguise as an out-of-work discharged soldier. I still believe to this day that Holmes, although he denies it, could not trust me to play any other rôle with competency. And perhaps he was correct when he said it would be best that I was in familiar territory.
The next morning, resplendent (although that is certainly not the correct word) in my used clothing, and with little more than my bedroll slung over my shoulder, I set off to meet Holmes at the bridge where we then descended into the maze that was lower Southwark and to a mews where an ostler named Oakley was surveying a damaged carriage wheel.
"Mr Murphy, it's been a long time! What brings you 'round my patch?"
"Hullo Mr Oakley, my mate here needs a warm, dry place to kip while I run about looking for his brother."
Oakley favoured me with long, bored glance and returned to listen to Holmes's narrative.
"His name is Johnny Boswell and he's back from India. Bloody Pathans give his regiment a hard time and left him with a gammy leg, but that don't make him useless. Put him to work. He's good with horses. You know me; I wouldn't saddle you with a dud. Make him earn his keep. I'll be back in a couple of days and if he's not working out, I'll take him off your hands."
"Arright, Murphy," Oakley nodded and turned his attention back to me. "I owe you a favour or two. If you say he's okay, then it's fine by me. We could use an extra hand and as long as it costs me nothing, I"m happy to help you out."
Other ostlers, curious at the sight of a newcomer, abandoned their tasks, and approached to see what was happening.
"Army, eh?"
I nodded.
"Cavalry?"
"No, infantry."
"Any experience with horses?"
"Aye, and camels."
"Camels! This here is London. There are no camels here, soldier-boy--"
"Nor elephants neither!" One quipped and the others laughed.
"Better watch the horses' oats. I catch the whiff of a Scot!" More laughter at my expense. Of course, I recognised this behavior for what it was. It was no different than at school, in sports, or in the army. They were testing my mettle: it is a form of initiation expected when someone first joins the company of other men and is designed to show him his place. There are many ways to pique my ire, but this was not one of them.
"Arright, you lot. Back to work," said Oakley, "Davey, show Boswell here where the shovels are at and get him started mucking out the stalls."
Holmes departed, and so began my new career as a stabler. The stable held twelve stalls and there were four horses resting while ten others were at work or being readied for it. Other than the carriage with the damaged wheel, only one heavy hauling cart remained idle in the mews. All the other cabs and carriages were out conveying goods and gentlefolk about in the great metropolis.
Mucking was tedious work but the time passed quickly. By noon I had almost finished. The others taunted me about how slow I was, but they had no complaints about my thoroughness. I was assigned other tasks as well. The drivers were responsible for cooling down their horses between customers throughout the day and some were more diligent than others in that respect. Between my own observations and the gossip of the other ostlers, I soon came to know which horses would require extra attention at the end of the day. Cabbies had to keep their conveyances clean or Mr Oakley would levy a fine against them. One cabbie, by the name of Hodges, offered me a tanner to clean out his brougham and so my pockets finally had some chink.
Although I worked for Mr Oakley, the company was operated by a Mr Eliot Grant who owned the horses and the carriages and let them for a daily fee to the drivers and haulers. It was a good arrangement because the drivers could keep whatever they earned above the company rate. Mr Grant benefited by only having to retain only one employee, Mr Oakley, who in turn, had the authority to hire any required stable hands, such as young Davey and myself.
Mr Grant had the reputation as being a hard and obdurate businessman.
"Don't let him catch you smoking inside," I was cautioned.
"He'll flay you himself if you ever mistreat the horses," warned another of the grooms who had apparently witnessed such a scene in the past.
Fortunately, I was settled into my duties for several days by the time of our first meeting.
"Put down the shovel, soldier-boy," said Mr Oakley. "The boss is here."
Mr Eliot Grant was well-dressed and clean-shaven except for his trim side-whiskers. He was a smaller man than I had been led to imagine, and yet he had a forceful manner which made it seem wise not to cross him. Mr Grant spoke to Mr Oakley about business matters all the while casting a glance at everyone assembled by the stables.
"Who is this ruffian, Oakley?" demanded Mr Grant indicating me with his walking stick.
I felt like a young recruit under a commander's harsh inspection as I was as unkempt a scoundrel as I had never been before (or since). Mr Oakley explained my situation and this seemed to appease Mr Grant somewhat.
Mr Grant asked about Goliath, the foul-tempered black dray in the last stall. I had heard the great monster snorting and blowing at me while I cleaned the other stalls, and I paid him little attention. The others told Mr Grant that Goliath was getting worse and was not eating. It took four of them to drag the reluctant horse out into the mews.
Standing at least nineteen hands, Goliath was a great beast of a horse: a throwback to mediaeval chargers of old and I could see that he had not eaten for some time. His ribs stood out and his dull coat showed that he had not been groomed lately either. Before I could see more of him, I was ordered to muck out his stall which was the largest, and due to the horse"s inhospitable nature, the filthiest. Davey, the young groom was sent to help me.
"That's a mean horse," I said, pausing and leaning on my shovel.
"Goliath is Mr Grant's favourite. He started his original hauling company around him years ago. He doesn't want to put him down, but he will if he has to. Tis a pity. The horse wasn't always so nasty. Gentle as a dog he was," replied the groom. We resumed our work, changed the water, and covered the floor with fresh straw. Once we were finished, we stood back as three of the more experienced men wrestled the behemoth back into his stall. Rather than settling down once the gate was secured, Goliath stamped and snorted in his rage.
"Have you tried him in a different stall?" I asked.
"Naw. That one is the biggest. It suits him best. Besides, he's all riled up now. Do you want to try to move him?"
Goliath glared evilly at me. No. I dared not move him.
How quickly the trappings of gentle society fall away. Over the next few days I made myself useful and fell into an easy camaraderie with the haulers, jarveys, and ostlers of Mr Grant's small company. These were busy days. Horses needed rubbing down, carriages required cleaning, and the stable work was endless. Each night, before falling asleep, I wondered how Holmes was faring and when I would see him again.
Five days later, Sherlock Holmes appeared in the guise of Murphy the groom. He greeted Mr Oakley genially and then took me aside to apprise me of his recent endeavours.
"I heard about the mistrial," I said before Holmes could start. "Someone left a newspaper in one of the hansoms. Did you know that the case would fall apart?"
"It was always a distinct possibility," he admitted. "It happened much sooner than I would have liked and I have been never more grateful that I had the prescience to stash you away when I did."
"Why? Had we testified, the mistrial would have been assured. Kingston would have been a free man."
"Ah, yes, but he didn't know that. Without the content of our testimonies, Kingston doesn't know what we know, and that is a huge liability for him. Since his release, rather than trying to determine how we came to uncover his crime, he has been working in secret to eliminate the threat at its source: namely you, my boy, and to a lesser extent, yours truly. Fortunately, I have insinuated myself into his confidence. He thinks I am a Flemish contract killer and--"
"--And you find this humorous? Holmes, Inspector Talland is dead! I would not trifle with such a man if I were you."
"Apologies, Watson. Quite right. Talland was a good man and deserved a better fate. That is why I have been concentrating my efforts to find the men hired to kill him. Mourning Talland's loss will do little for him, but avenging his death will relieve society of the malignancy that is Thomas Paulet Kingston!"
Neither of us spoke. Holmes favoured me with a wistful smile.
"You are going to ask me to stay here--" I said
"Just for a little while longer," he promised. "Until I know you're safe."
"Ha! And how will I know that you are safe?"
"You won't. You will have to trust in me and my abilities."
"You know I do. Just don't underestimate Kingston. He always seems to have a trick up his sleeve."
"My dear fellow, I promise to be very, very careful," said Holmes.
Davey emerged from the stables whistling a cheery tune and tipped his cap in our direction before continuing on his way.
"Watson, why is that fellow wearing your waistcoat?"
"He won it at cards."
"You lost?"
"They all cheat," I said in my defence.
"They cheat better than you? I'm disappointed."
"Don't be. Losing is less conspicuous; it helps me fit in better."
"Aha! You have a natural, yet surprising, talent for subterfuge! Are you not earning your keep?"
"I try. It's not the work. The nightmares have returned. I've taken to sleeping in the back of the cart, as to not disturb the others."
"It will only be for a couple more days. Then we can return to our familiar routines."
"Are you certain?"
"I am certainly hopeful."
I was not looking forward to the tasks of the following morning. Once again Goliath's stall required cleaning. After Davey and I had removed the filth, we took the time to examine every inch of the stall. We found nothing amiss but prepared to put him in a different one until the following day. Mr Grant said nothing even though he had to be very disappointed that my theory was proven wrong.
Goliath was as surly as ever to his handlers. Returning to his new stall, as if out of spite, Goliath reared and struck out at the nearest man, knocking Mr Hodges to the ground. We all rushed in; I to Hodges and the others to hold Goliath at bay.
Removed from the stable, Hodges uttered foul profanity as the blood continued to seep through his fingers from the gash on his scalp. The furious horse stamped and blew at us through the gate. We helped Hodges out into the light and I seated him on the bench. His laceration was superficial and there was little risk of concussion. Mr Hodges was fortunate: if Goliath had made solid contact, his head would have been squashed like a pea.
With my medical kit locked away in Holmes' bolt-hole I had to improvise. I called for clean water, cloth for a dressing, and a sewing kit. Davey climbed onto the shed roof and grabbed clean linen from a overhanging clothesline. A jug of water and a needle and thread appeared. Mr Grant offered his flask that smelled of strong rum.
"Drink," I ordered, and Hodges complied readily.
It was really not Hodges' fault that he yelped and whimpered. First I cleaned his wound then I stitched it closed while he swore many oaths and questioned the nature of Goliath's lineage (and mine as well). His wrist too was beginning to swell and bruise from his fall. It proved to be a bad sprain, fortunately not a fracture, so I splinted it and wrapped it lightly. While I did my best for him, I was secretly annoyed at his carryings-on because I had seen graver wounds borne with much more dignity.
Wanting to return Mr Grant's flask, I found him in the stable where he regarded Goliath with great regret. In return, from the farthest reaches of his stall, the horse eyed him with fear.
"He doesn't even trust me anymore. I thought maybe I could... I thought that perhaps he was acting out against one single person for some reason, but it's everyone, isn't it?"
"That horse needs a veterinary," I replied.
"You wouldn't happen to know anyone reliable? One blighter took my money and left me with a tonic that has had no effect. The other one I called in was nearly trampled and did not finish his examination."
"Sorry, no. The only ones I knew were in the army."
He turned to leave.
"Your flask, sir," I said offering him said item. "Rum. That's curious. Have you been at sea?"
"Aye. Twelve miserable years. Help yourself, if you haven't already. You've earned it."
"Thank you, but it's a bit early for something so strong."
"Go ahead. I won't hold it against you."
The rum was dark and as fiery as anything I had ever tasted.
"I think I better stick to beer," I gasped.
"Land-lubber," he grumbled, returning the flask to his jacket and leaving me alone with the horse.
I pulled up a stool, determined to spend the whole rest of the day watching Goliath for any clues to his behaviour. The new stall had no effect on his demeanor and its smaller size only limited his movements slightly. He drank a little but ignored the hay. Not even the oats tempted him. I offered him an apple from the winter stores. In return, he flattened his ears and offered to stomp me into paste. And that was when I smelt it. The great brute had not let anyone get close enough... Only the smaller stall made it possible... It was the distinct smell of a decaying tooth. If it could be removed, then it might not be too late to save the horse. I hurried to tell Mr Grant my newest theory.
If handled correctly, it takes a surprisingly small amount of anesthetic to sedate even the largest horse. Mr Grant had heard me out and sent someone to buy the chloroform I required. The other instruments were scavenged from the tool box. Sturdy tongs, a hammer, and a chisel would be used for the actual extraction, while my sharp little jack knife would serve in the place of a scalpel, with needle and thread for sutures.
I placed a chloroform-soaked rag in the bottom of a feedbag, adding more cloth to keep the chemical from burning the horse"s sensitive nose. It took several attempts to secure the contraption but we succeeded before the chloroform had to be replenished. A few deep breaths was all it took to settle Goliath to the point he could be led outside. Mr Grant took the rope and led his horse around in circles until Goliath had taken enough anesthetic and wanted to lay down. The ostlers help guide him to the patch of clean straw set out for just that purpose and encouraged the horse to lie down there.
Once Goliath was down, I had to work quickly. I put my ear to his chest and listened to his great heart. Next, I removed the chloroform and opened his mouth. The problem was immediately apparent. The second to last maxillary molar was rotting and a sizable abscess had formed. I examined the tooth closely and could smell the corruption quite clearly. His other teeth seemed unaffected. I lanced the abscess first and then set to work on the tooth. It had obviously been cracked some time ago and decay had set in. There was no hope of removing it all at once. Working the tongs back and forth, I managed to remove most of the tooth in one shot. The remaining fragment was smaller and trickier to handle. With the danger of the anesthetic wearing off for impetus, and with no small amount of profanity, I eventually succeeded. With all of the tooth had been removed the wound bled freely but not excessively so.
"That's it," I said, regaining my feet. "The wound may bleed for a day or so, but if nature takes its course, his mouth will heal on its own. When it does, his appetite will return. Be prepared to limit his feed to small amounts until we are certain his innards can take it."
Physical exertion and the proximity to the chloroform had left me with a headache, so I lay down in my cart to sleep it off.
Goliath's appetite returned two days later, much to the relief of all involved, especially to Mr Grant. The horse seemed to forgive everyone. Everyone, except myself. I suppose some part of him equated me with pain barely remembered. For my part, I was just gratified to see him starting to fill out again and letting himself be groomed and so I continued with those other duties that did not include him.
It was four days later and I was cooling down Hodges' favourite, when Holmes in the guise of Mr Murphy finally did return. He looked terrible. His face was swollen and bruised and his movements were stiff.
"Who did this to you?" I asked, unable to hide my concern.
"Now, now, Mr Boswell," he implored. "It looks worse than it is. Let me tell you all about it while you tend to this horse."
Holmes told of how he had led the Liverpool police to the murdering thugs who had killed Inspector Talland and the two other policeman. It was ugly business. The Liverpudlians had shot both suspects during their arrests. One died before he could be questioned and the other succumbed to his injuries soon after he signed the confession which implicated Kingston.
"What do you know about pressure valves?"
"Next to nothing," I replied. "What have they to do with this case?"
"Everything, my boy. They were the missing motive for Kingston's original murder of Joseph Gettler. Apparently, Mr Gettler developed a new pressure valve and his partner, Kingston, filed the patent for it in his own name. These pressure valves greatly improve the efficiency of steam engines, and where is the greatest demand for steam engines these days? Why, in America, of course. Mr Gettler was a bit of a schemer as well and he filed for patents in the United States not long before Kingston filed in London. Not only had Gettler cut Kingston out of the more lucrative market, his earlier filing date may have given him the ability to sue Kingston for all of the British and continental markets as well. There was only one solution. He had to die.
"If Gettler's family had not been able to convince Inspector Talland that Joseph was not a habitual opium user, and if you had not been able to prove it, Kingston would never have been linked to the murder and he would be a very rich man by now."
My anger rose as Holme related his account.
"Stop it, man, or you will wear a hole in that horse!" Holmes warned under his breath.
I lowered my brush and glared at Holmes. For his part, the gelding cast me a look as if to ask why I had stopped.
"I did heed your advice, Doctor," said Holmes. "When you said Kingston might have a trick up his sleeve, I thought I might be well served by stacking the deck in my favour. I arranged for the police to be at hand for my meeting with Kingston. The cunning schemer had discovered me after all and stuck me with a knife, wounding me just enough to gain the upper hand in our scuffle. The police arrived in time to prevent your humble servant from shuffling off this mortal coil and Kingston was taken down in a hail of bullets. It seems that the Liverpool constabulary have little sympathy for those who would hire killers to assassinate policemen, even if these policemen were from Scotland Yard.
"But Watson, enough of my exploits. You must tell me of your time here in Southwark while one of your compatriots drives us back to Soho, where we shall wash and change into our regular clothes and from there return to our welcoming landlady and the familiar charms of Baker Street."
And so I bid my farewells to my friends of the Southwark mews and upon receiving their good wishes, Holmes and I departed for our familiar patch north of the Thames.
Recipient:
tripleransomAuthor:
capt_facepalmRating: PG
Wordy Words: 5700
Characters: Watson, Holmes
Warnings: N/A
Author's Notes: One half case fic, one half drama, one quarter horse
The Adventure of the Southwark Stables
Chapter One: An Unexpected Journey
The early spring of 1882 saw my return to the medical profession. Although it was only part-time, I was grateful for the chance to get back in harness for it was the first step toward developing a practice of my own. Dr Jasper Meekes and Dr Albert French had a growing practice and retained me to handle their house-calls, for which I was meagrely compensated. So once or twice a week, I made the rounds to their house-bound patients.
One dreary Friday evening, I stood outside the last of my charges' Soho lodgings and debated whether to take a local pint, hail a cab, or to proceed home on foot. The flat I shared with Mr Sherlock Holmes on Baker Street was not too far to walk, and I would do well to save my cab fare for a rainy day. A quick glance at my watch told me that I had missed whatever hot supper Mrs Hudson had prepared that day and I was sorely tempted to try the local public house. I paused at the door of "The Kettle", my wallet fiercely arguing with my empty stomach. The raucous sounds which spilled out onto the pavement when the door opened forced my decision. Tonight I needed peace and quiet so I turned instead toward home.
"I say, doctor! You gotta minit?" came a voice from behind me. I turned to face a disreputable-looking groom. Something about him seemed familiar but I could not place him. Then he smiled. It was, of course, Sherlock Holmes. Fortunately, I caught myself before I could exclaim. There would surely be an interesting reason why he had adopted that disguise and I was just canny enough to play along. Peace and quiet would have to wait.
"I owes you a dinner an' a pint for what you done for the missus," he said, taking my arm and steering me inside The Kettle.
He led me to one of two empty seats at a table around which three other workmen sat with their beer celebrating the end of a long hard week. They acknowledged me with various nods and grunts and had returned to their conversation by the time Holmes returned and placed a pint of pale ale in front of me.
"I hope this is to yer liking," he said. Of course it was. He knew my preferences full well. A meat pie smothered with lumpy gravy appeared next and I tucked in. My friend grimaced. Despite his bizarre eating habits, Sherlock Holmes had never been hungry in his life and could afford to view the common fare with disdain. I ignored his attitude and devoted most of my attention to the meal at hand while Holmes, or Murphy, as he was known to the others at the table, joined their conversation. Some time later, I pushed back my plate with a contented sigh and tipped back the last of my ale.
The noise levels rose substantially as the establishment began to fill with more patrons. Murphy's friends left and others eagerly took up their empty chairs. Holmes leaned over and said, "We're not returning to Baker Street right now. I need you to wait for me at the corner of Beak Street and Great Pulteney. I'll be along in a few minutes."
Dusk had given way to night and the street lamps illuminated my way while many people still travelled the streets. I took my time, and walked indirectly to the required location. Holmes joined me soon thereafter, and producing a key, unlocked the door leading to the chambers above the tobacconist's shop. It was dark as pitch. From his furtive movements, I knew that Holmes required silence. He lit a taper and by its flickering light, we carefully ascended the steps to the second floor. There he unlocked the single door which opened into a small garret.
The room was sparse and featured a single window set into the slanting ceiling. There was a table with an old oil lamp, one chair, a dilapidated shelf and a fairly new steamer trunk. A chamber pot and a water ewer sat on a washstand in the corner. A narrow bed was situated against the opposite wall, and upon it sat my old carpet bag.
Holmes lit the lamp and gestured me toward the chair while he seated himself on the trunk. I waited for an explanation.
"We cannot return to Baker Street tonight. There have been some developments in the Kingston trial and we will be called upon to testify after all."
I swore. "You said-- you promised that we wouldn't have to–"
"I know. I'm so sorry. Inspector Talland was found dead this morning... murdered along with the two policemen assigned to safeguard him. Now you and I are the only remaining credible witnesses. So, it's either testify, or disappear. By now, the police have been to Baker Street and have been told by a very bewildered Mrs Hudson that we have gone to Liverpool on a case and will be gone for a few days. That should stall them for a short while. The court will have to examine the other witness in our absence. In the meantime, I plan to investigate Talland's murder. If I am successful, it will tie in with the Kingston business and the matter will be closed once and for all."
"How will we proceed?"
"Not we, Watson. Just me. After Talland, you and I are the next logical targets. Baker Street will surely be watched, and I intend to watch the watchers."
"What about Mrs Hudson?"
"She will be safe as long as she believes we are in Liverpool. Which just leaves you. This is why I have secured this little bolt-hole. I want you to remain here. Do not venture out, and do not open the door for anyone except me. I will return in two days--"
"Two days!"
"I will return by then to let you know how things are faring. There are blankets and bedding in the trunk and I have brought your travelling clothes and some provisions."
I opened the carpet bag. Two essential items were missing. I looked up sharply but Holmes anticipated my questions.
"I may have need of your pistol," he said, patting his jacket pocket.
"And what of my shaving kit?"
"Blast! I knew I was forgetting something. I'm afraid that you will have to forego your usual ablutions. Surely you have soap in your medical bag. Not to worry, just keep out of sight. The tobacconist knows that someone is here, but not who. Just stay quiet and keep to yourself; remain inside and wait for me to contact you. Here's this evening's Standard. The details of the trial are on the second page. Good night."
I looked around my new prison cell. "There's no heat." Holmes had the good grace to look apologetic as he left.
The Standard's information was sparse. Talland was dead, and two other policemen as well. All three found with their throats slit. It was disheartening in the extreme. I was not acquainted with either Sergeant Ayers or Constable Darnel, but I had come to know Bill Talland over the course of his investigation and I considered him a friend.
Inspector Talland had been assigned to investigate the death of Joseph Gettler, whose body had been found in the vicinity of The Lotus, one of London's most notorious opium dens. Gettler had hidden his addiction from his family and was a frequent customer, if the accounts by denizens of such establishments could be relied upon. News of Gettler's addiction had shocked his family because Joseph had always held strong views against such things, and what convinced Talland in the end was the lack of any physical or mental signs of long-term abuse before his death. If Gettler was the addict his business partner claimed, there would have been indications.
This was the biggest case of Talland's career and he wanted to get to the bottom of it. That is how he came to meet Sherlock Holmes. The Inspector consulted with my fellow lodger but failed to convince him that it was worthy of his time. Being sympathetic, Holmes suggested that since it was more of a medical question, the case might be something that I, as a medical man, might be better suited to investigate.
I attended Joseph Gettler's post-mortem examination only to conclude that Talland's instincts were correct. While Gettler had unequivocally died of an overdose, his eyes did not have the tell-tale signature of a long-term addict. That left Gettler's business partner, the industrialist, Thomas Paulet Kingston, caught in a lie.
Talland was thorough, and the false witnesses were exposed. Kingston"s story was proved a fabrication and he was left with no credible alibi. Talland's case notes and testimony would be devastating: Kingston would hang. My own part in the matter was minor, except for one crucial point. I had been the one to originally discount Gettler as an addict, and that had changed the course of the investigation.
Expecting to be called to give evidence in an expert's capacity, I worked closely with Inspector Talland and redoubled my efforts in order to prove worthy of Holmes' recommendation. I consulted with other doctors, spent hours researching the medical journals, and became personally familiar with the goings and doings of London"s worst opium dens. In short, over the course of a month's time, I had become an uncommon authority on the subject of opiates.
Despite all this, without Talland, my testimony would dismissed as irrelevant and Kingston would be acquitted. Holmes" methods, once he became involved later in the case, and just how he acquired certain documents would be called into question. Of course Holmes had seen no need for a warrant, but once he had the crucial evidence, he had to arrange for Inspector Talland to "find" it. I do not know what irritated Kingston more: the fact that someone had uncovered his crime, or the implication that he would be so stupid as to leave such incriminating evidence around for the police to discover. Therefore, without Talland, our testimonies would only hamper the case for the prosecution and might even see charges brought against us. If Holmes thought it best that I remain hidden while he searched for more damning evidence against Kingston, then I was resigned to follow his plan.
With little else to do, I took stock of my provisions: two bottles of beer, four boiled eggs, two jars of Mrs Hudson's baked beans, a loaf of dark bread, and some cheese. If I had to, I could live on this for five days, but they would be lean and hungry days, and I was not looking forward to it at all. I retrieved the blankets from the trunk, lay down on the bed, and extinguished the lamp. No light from the street penetrated the layers of grime on the outside of the window. The mattress was lumpy and reeked of mice. I was so tired I did not think it would matter. Unfortunately it did. A heavy rain started sometime in the dead of night and I found to my dismay that the window leaked. I awoke not knowing where I was, cold and wet, with nightmares of the Peshawar fever ward echoing in my head.
When Holmes found me two days later, shivering in my blankets in the middle of the floor, he realised that the bolt-hole was not going to work. A grin spread across his countenance as he regarded my deplorable state with a critical eye.
"I have another idea," he said. "How much do you know about horses?"
"As much as any serving officer; perhaps a little more than some."
"Excellent!"
"Erm, Holmes... you know that with my leg the way it is, riding is out of the question."
"Fear not. You won't be riding horses, but you will be handling them. I intend to insinuate you into a company of ostlers. Mr Matthew Oakley owes "Mr Murphy" a favour. I have no doubt he will take you on."
"I'm too old to be a stable boy."
"It"s either that or this bolt-hole."
"We could testify. I would support whatever you say."
"Watson! I may not be the most scrupulous of men, but I would never put you in the position where you have to perjure yourself. It is a great shame of this day and age that having an honest face is a disadvantage."
Chapter Two: A New Career
When Holmes returned later that night, he brought with him several garments to form my disguise as an out-of-work discharged soldier. I still believe to this day that Holmes, although he denies it, could not trust me to play any other rôle with competency. And perhaps he was correct when he said it would be best that I was in familiar territory.
The next morning, resplendent (although that is certainly not the correct word) in my used clothing, and with little more than my bedroll slung over my shoulder, I set off to meet Holmes at the bridge where we then descended into the maze that was lower Southwark and to a mews where an ostler named Oakley was surveying a damaged carriage wheel.
"Mr Murphy, it's been a long time! What brings you 'round my patch?"
"Hullo Mr Oakley, my mate here needs a warm, dry place to kip while I run about looking for his brother."
Oakley favoured me with long, bored glance and returned to listen to Holmes's narrative.
"His name is Johnny Boswell and he's back from India. Bloody Pathans give his regiment a hard time and left him with a gammy leg, but that don't make him useless. Put him to work. He's good with horses. You know me; I wouldn't saddle you with a dud. Make him earn his keep. I'll be back in a couple of days and if he's not working out, I'll take him off your hands."
"Arright, Murphy," Oakley nodded and turned his attention back to me. "I owe you a favour or two. If you say he's okay, then it's fine by me. We could use an extra hand and as long as it costs me nothing, I"m happy to help you out."
Other ostlers, curious at the sight of a newcomer, abandoned their tasks, and approached to see what was happening.
"Army, eh?"
I nodded.
"Cavalry?"
"No, infantry."
"Any experience with horses?"
"Aye, and camels."
"Camels! This here is London. There are no camels here, soldier-boy--"
"Nor elephants neither!" One quipped and the others laughed.
"Better watch the horses' oats. I catch the whiff of a Scot!" More laughter at my expense. Of course, I recognised this behavior for what it was. It was no different than at school, in sports, or in the army. They were testing my mettle: it is a form of initiation expected when someone first joins the company of other men and is designed to show him his place. There are many ways to pique my ire, but this was not one of them.
"Arright, you lot. Back to work," said Oakley, "Davey, show Boswell here where the shovels are at and get him started mucking out the stalls."
Holmes departed, and so began my new career as a stabler. The stable held twelve stalls and there were four horses resting while ten others were at work or being readied for it. Other than the carriage with the damaged wheel, only one heavy hauling cart remained idle in the mews. All the other cabs and carriages were out conveying goods and gentlefolk about in the great metropolis.
Mucking was tedious work but the time passed quickly. By noon I had almost finished. The others taunted me about how slow I was, but they had no complaints about my thoroughness. I was assigned other tasks as well. The drivers were responsible for cooling down their horses between customers throughout the day and some were more diligent than others in that respect. Between my own observations and the gossip of the other ostlers, I soon came to know which horses would require extra attention at the end of the day. Cabbies had to keep their conveyances clean or Mr Oakley would levy a fine against them. One cabbie, by the name of Hodges, offered me a tanner to clean out his brougham and so my pockets finally had some chink.
Although I worked for Mr Oakley, the company was operated by a Mr Eliot Grant who owned the horses and the carriages and let them for a daily fee to the drivers and haulers. It was a good arrangement because the drivers could keep whatever they earned above the company rate. Mr Grant benefited by only having to retain only one employee, Mr Oakley, who in turn, had the authority to hire any required stable hands, such as young Davey and myself.
Mr Grant had the reputation as being a hard and obdurate businessman.
"Don't let him catch you smoking inside," I was cautioned.
"He'll flay you himself if you ever mistreat the horses," warned another of the grooms who had apparently witnessed such a scene in the past.
Fortunately, I was settled into my duties for several days by the time of our first meeting.
"Put down the shovel, soldier-boy," said Mr Oakley. "The boss is here."
Mr Eliot Grant was well-dressed and clean-shaven except for his trim side-whiskers. He was a smaller man than I had been led to imagine, and yet he had a forceful manner which made it seem wise not to cross him. Mr Grant spoke to Mr Oakley about business matters all the while casting a glance at everyone assembled by the stables.
"Who is this ruffian, Oakley?" demanded Mr Grant indicating me with his walking stick.
I felt like a young recruit under a commander's harsh inspection as I was as unkempt a scoundrel as I had never been before (or since). Mr Oakley explained my situation and this seemed to appease Mr Grant somewhat.
Mr Grant asked about Goliath, the foul-tempered black dray in the last stall. I had heard the great monster snorting and blowing at me while I cleaned the other stalls, and I paid him little attention. The others told Mr Grant that Goliath was getting worse and was not eating. It took four of them to drag the reluctant horse out into the mews.
Standing at least nineteen hands, Goliath was a great beast of a horse: a throwback to mediaeval chargers of old and I could see that he had not eaten for some time. His ribs stood out and his dull coat showed that he had not been groomed lately either. Before I could see more of him, I was ordered to muck out his stall which was the largest, and due to the horse"s inhospitable nature, the filthiest. Davey, the young groom was sent to help me.
"That's a mean horse," I said, pausing and leaning on my shovel.
"Goliath is Mr Grant's favourite. He started his original hauling company around him years ago. He doesn't want to put him down, but he will if he has to. Tis a pity. The horse wasn't always so nasty. Gentle as a dog he was," replied the groom. We resumed our work, changed the water, and covered the floor with fresh straw. Once we were finished, we stood back as three of the more experienced men wrestled the behemoth back into his stall. Rather than settling down once the gate was secured, Goliath stamped and snorted in his rage.
"Have you tried him in a different stall?" I asked.
"Naw. That one is the biggest. It suits him best. Besides, he's all riled up now. Do you want to try to move him?"
Goliath glared evilly at me. No. I dared not move him.
Chapter Three: A Mistrial is Declared
How quickly the trappings of gentle society fall away. Over the next few days I made myself useful and fell into an easy camaraderie with the haulers, jarveys, and ostlers of Mr Grant's small company. These were busy days. Horses needed rubbing down, carriages required cleaning, and the stable work was endless. Each night, before falling asleep, I wondered how Holmes was faring and when I would see him again.
Five days later, Sherlock Holmes appeared in the guise of Murphy the groom. He greeted Mr Oakley genially and then took me aside to apprise me of his recent endeavours.
"I heard about the mistrial," I said before Holmes could start. "Someone left a newspaper in one of the hansoms. Did you know that the case would fall apart?"
"It was always a distinct possibility," he admitted. "It happened much sooner than I would have liked and I have been never more grateful that I had the prescience to stash you away when I did."
"Why? Had we testified, the mistrial would have been assured. Kingston would have been a free man."
"Ah, yes, but he didn't know that. Without the content of our testimonies, Kingston doesn't know what we know, and that is a huge liability for him. Since his release, rather than trying to determine how we came to uncover his crime, he has been working in secret to eliminate the threat at its source: namely you, my boy, and to a lesser extent, yours truly. Fortunately, I have insinuated myself into his confidence. He thinks I am a Flemish contract killer and--"
"--And you find this humorous? Holmes, Inspector Talland is dead! I would not trifle with such a man if I were you."
"Apologies, Watson. Quite right. Talland was a good man and deserved a better fate. That is why I have been concentrating my efforts to find the men hired to kill him. Mourning Talland's loss will do little for him, but avenging his death will relieve society of the malignancy that is Thomas Paulet Kingston!"
Neither of us spoke. Holmes favoured me with a wistful smile.
"You are going to ask me to stay here--" I said
"Just for a little while longer," he promised. "Until I know you're safe."
"Ha! And how will I know that you are safe?"
"You won't. You will have to trust in me and my abilities."
"You know I do. Just don't underestimate Kingston. He always seems to have a trick up his sleeve."
"My dear fellow, I promise to be very, very careful," said Holmes.
Davey emerged from the stables whistling a cheery tune and tipped his cap in our direction before continuing on his way.
"Watson, why is that fellow wearing your waistcoat?"
"He won it at cards."
"You lost?"
"They all cheat," I said in my defence.
"They cheat better than you? I'm disappointed."
"Don't be. Losing is less conspicuous; it helps me fit in better."
"Aha! You have a natural, yet surprising, talent for subterfuge! Are you not earning your keep?"
"I try. It's not the work. The nightmares have returned. I've taken to sleeping in the back of the cart, as to not disturb the others."
"It will only be for a couple more days. Then we can return to our familiar routines."
"Are you certain?"
"I am certainly hopeful."
Chapter Four: Whereupon I Earn My Keep
I was not looking forward to the tasks of the following morning. Once again Goliath's stall required cleaning. After Davey and I had removed the filth, we took the time to examine every inch of the stall. We found nothing amiss but prepared to put him in a different one until the following day. Mr Grant said nothing even though he had to be very disappointed that my theory was proven wrong.
Goliath was as surly as ever to his handlers. Returning to his new stall, as if out of spite, Goliath reared and struck out at the nearest man, knocking Mr Hodges to the ground. We all rushed in; I to Hodges and the others to hold Goliath at bay.
Removed from the stable, Hodges uttered foul profanity as the blood continued to seep through his fingers from the gash on his scalp. The furious horse stamped and blew at us through the gate. We helped Hodges out into the light and I seated him on the bench. His laceration was superficial and there was little risk of concussion. Mr Hodges was fortunate: if Goliath had made solid contact, his head would have been squashed like a pea.
With my medical kit locked away in Holmes' bolt-hole I had to improvise. I called for clean water, cloth for a dressing, and a sewing kit. Davey climbed onto the shed roof and grabbed clean linen from a overhanging clothesline. A jug of water and a needle and thread appeared. Mr Grant offered his flask that smelled of strong rum.
"Drink," I ordered, and Hodges complied readily.
It was really not Hodges' fault that he yelped and whimpered. First I cleaned his wound then I stitched it closed while he swore many oaths and questioned the nature of Goliath's lineage (and mine as well). His wrist too was beginning to swell and bruise from his fall. It proved to be a bad sprain, fortunately not a fracture, so I splinted it and wrapped it lightly. While I did my best for him, I was secretly annoyed at his carryings-on because I had seen graver wounds borne with much more dignity.
Wanting to return Mr Grant's flask, I found him in the stable where he regarded Goliath with great regret. In return, from the farthest reaches of his stall, the horse eyed him with fear.
"He doesn't even trust me anymore. I thought maybe I could... I thought that perhaps he was acting out against one single person for some reason, but it's everyone, isn't it?"
"That horse needs a veterinary," I replied.
"You wouldn't happen to know anyone reliable? One blighter took my money and left me with a tonic that has had no effect. The other one I called in was nearly trampled and did not finish his examination."
"Sorry, no. The only ones I knew were in the army."
He turned to leave.
"Your flask, sir," I said offering him said item. "Rum. That's curious. Have you been at sea?"
"Aye. Twelve miserable years. Help yourself, if you haven't already. You've earned it."
"Thank you, but it's a bit early for something so strong."
"Go ahead. I won't hold it against you."
The rum was dark and as fiery as anything I had ever tasted.
"I think I better stick to beer," I gasped.
"Land-lubber," he grumbled, returning the flask to his jacket and leaving me alone with the horse.
I pulled up a stool, determined to spend the whole rest of the day watching Goliath for any clues to his behaviour. The new stall had no effect on his demeanor and its smaller size only limited his movements slightly. He drank a little but ignored the hay. Not even the oats tempted him. I offered him an apple from the winter stores. In return, he flattened his ears and offered to stomp me into paste. And that was when I smelt it. The great brute had not let anyone get close enough... Only the smaller stall made it possible... It was the distinct smell of a decaying tooth. If it could be removed, then it might not be too late to save the horse. I hurried to tell Mr Grant my newest theory.
Chapter Five: Equine Exodontia
If handled correctly, it takes a surprisingly small amount of anesthetic to sedate even the largest horse. Mr Grant had heard me out and sent someone to buy the chloroform I required. The other instruments were scavenged from the tool box. Sturdy tongs, a hammer, and a chisel would be used for the actual extraction, while my sharp little jack knife would serve in the place of a scalpel, with needle and thread for sutures.
I placed a chloroform-soaked rag in the bottom of a feedbag, adding more cloth to keep the chemical from burning the horse"s sensitive nose. It took several attempts to secure the contraption but we succeeded before the chloroform had to be replenished. A few deep breaths was all it took to settle Goliath to the point he could be led outside. Mr Grant took the rope and led his horse around in circles until Goliath had taken enough anesthetic and wanted to lay down. The ostlers help guide him to the patch of clean straw set out for just that purpose and encouraged the horse to lie down there.
Once Goliath was down, I had to work quickly. I put my ear to his chest and listened to his great heart. Next, I removed the chloroform and opened his mouth. The problem was immediately apparent. The second to last maxillary molar was rotting and a sizable abscess had formed. I examined the tooth closely and could smell the corruption quite clearly. His other teeth seemed unaffected. I lanced the abscess first and then set to work on the tooth. It had obviously been cracked some time ago and decay had set in. There was no hope of removing it all at once. Working the tongs back and forth, I managed to remove most of the tooth in one shot. The remaining fragment was smaller and trickier to handle. With the danger of the anesthetic wearing off for impetus, and with no small amount of profanity, I eventually succeeded. With all of the tooth had been removed the wound bled freely but not excessively so.
"That's it," I said, regaining my feet. "The wound may bleed for a day or so, but if nature takes its course, his mouth will heal on its own. When it does, his appetite will return. Be prepared to limit his feed to small amounts until we are certain his innards can take it."
Physical exertion and the proximity to the chloroform had left me with a headache, so I lay down in my cart to sleep it off.
Chapter Six:The Best Laid Plans
Goliath's appetite returned two days later, much to the relief of all involved, especially to Mr Grant. The horse seemed to forgive everyone. Everyone, except myself. I suppose some part of him equated me with pain barely remembered. For my part, I was just gratified to see him starting to fill out again and letting himself be groomed and so I continued with those other duties that did not include him.
It was four days later and I was cooling down Hodges' favourite, when Holmes in the guise of Mr Murphy finally did return. He looked terrible. His face was swollen and bruised and his movements were stiff.
"Who did this to you?" I asked, unable to hide my concern.
"Now, now, Mr Boswell," he implored. "It looks worse than it is. Let me tell you all about it while you tend to this horse."
Holmes told of how he had led the Liverpool police to the murdering thugs who had killed Inspector Talland and the two other policeman. It was ugly business. The Liverpudlians had shot both suspects during their arrests. One died before he could be questioned and the other succumbed to his injuries soon after he signed the confession which implicated Kingston.
"What do you know about pressure valves?"
"Next to nothing," I replied. "What have they to do with this case?"
"Everything, my boy. They were the missing motive for Kingston's original murder of Joseph Gettler. Apparently, Mr Gettler developed a new pressure valve and his partner, Kingston, filed the patent for it in his own name. These pressure valves greatly improve the efficiency of steam engines, and where is the greatest demand for steam engines these days? Why, in America, of course. Mr Gettler was a bit of a schemer as well and he filed for patents in the United States not long before Kingston filed in London. Not only had Gettler cut Kingston out of the more lucrative market, his earlier filing date may have given him the ability to sue Kingston for all of the British and continental markets as well. There was only one solution. He had to die.
"If Gettler's family had not been able to convince Inspector Talland that Joseph was not a habitual opium user, and if you had not been able to prove it, Kingston would never have been linked to the murder and he would be a very rich man by now."
My anger rose as Holme related his account.
"Stop it, man, or you will wear a hole in that horse!" Holmes warned under his breath.
I lowered my brush and glared at Holmes. For his part, the gelding cast me a look as if to ask why I had stopped.
"I did heed your advice, Doctor," said Holmes. "When you said Kingston might have a trick up his sleeve, I thought I might be well served by stacking the deck in my favour. I arranged for the police to be at hand for my meeting with Kingston. The cunning schemer had discovered me after all and stuck me with a knife, wounding me just enough to gain the upper hand in our scuffle. The police arrived in time to prevent your humble servant from shuffling off this mortal coil and Kingston was taken down in a hail of bullets. It seems that the Liverpool constabulary have little sympathy for those who would hire killers to assassinate policemen, even if these policemen were from Scotland Yard.
"But Watson, enough of my exploits. You must tell me of your time here in Southwark while one of your compatriots drives us back to Soho, where we shall wash and change into our regular clothes and from there return to our welcoming landlady and the familiar charms of Baker Street."
And so I bid my farewells to my friends of the Southwark mews and upon receiving their good wishes, Holmes and I departed for our familiar patch north of the Thames.
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Date: 2014-11-17 08:53 pm (UTC)Otherwise, the fic was lovely! Hooray for Watson's adventure! I love how he became something of an expert of opiates halfway through the investigation, and how everything he did was perfectly in character: not only did he want to help Talland solve the case but he also wanted to live up to Holmes' recommendation. There's some very subtle fluff here but it's there all the same: Holmes protecting Watson, their general worry over the other, and how Watson's advice saves Holmes in the end. Again, subtle but lovely.
And Watson himself! Like I said above, he was perfectly in character; you made him impressive and competent without changing a single aspect of him, the way some other fics do. Like how he allowed himself to lose (that was funny about him losing his waistcoat XD) so as not to raise suspicion, how he helped Hodges (while not being very impressed), and finally how he helped Goliath. All in all, I absolutely adored this fic :) Thanks, Anon!
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Date: 2014-11-17 11:47 pm (UTC)Watson can't help himself, can he - he's just a healer through and through, whether it's horses or people, it doesn't matter.
Thank you for hitting all the right buttons for a fantastic WIN!
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Date: 2014-12-01 05:09 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked it and I hope that the horsey elements were not too far-fetched. I wanted to write you a horse story and wrap it into a canonesque casefic.
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Date: 2014-12-01 05:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-18 12:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-18 01:55 am (UTC)Well done!
Monday, November 17, 2014
Date: 2014-11-18 02:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-18 07:22 am (UTC)..."Mr. Grant wanted to pay me back for all my work, Holmes, and he was rather short of cash," Watson calls to his aggrieved flatmate over the loud thumping of Goliath tromping through the rooms of 221b.
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Date: 2014-11-18 08:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-18 08:32 am (UTC)Very well done, mystery scribe:-)
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Date: 2014-11-18 03:41 pm (UTC)It's so charming that Holmes gave Watson the pseudonym "Boswell" ^^ And I loved the affection between the two men: Holmes is concerned about keeping Watson safe, and Watson trusts Holmes enough to be patient and stay hidden. It was also delightful to see Watson fitting in so well to his new situation and solving his own mystery about poor Goliath.
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Date: 2014-11-18 04:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-19 11:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-19 06:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-22 03:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-23 10:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-30 02:08 pm (UTC)