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charleygirlTitle: The Puzzle Box 1/2
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2633
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft Holmes
Genre: Humour, fluff
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A strange bequest from a relative gives Holmes just what he wants for Christmas - a puzzle to solve...
Author's Note: I'm not exactly sure where this came from, but once I had the idea it woulnd't leave me alone. The depiction of the extended Holmes clan makes me think I've been watching too much Jeeves and Wooster lately! :)
THE PUZZLE BOX
PART ONE
“It certainly is a beautiful specimen, Mrs Hudson,” I said sincerely as we stood regarding our landlady’s latest addition to the sitting room I shared with Sherlock Holmes.
Mrs Hudson’s homely face wore a delighted smile. “It is indeed, Doctor. And the man told me that if we keep the soil moist it should last until twelfth night. Once it’s decorated it will look a treat in here, I’m sure.”
I agreed. The festive season was and is one of my favourite times of the year, and I felt that it had not really started until our home was dressed appropriately. In this I met with annual opposition from my fellow tenant, to whom Christmas was more of an irritant than a celebration, a yearly aberration which got in the way of his work and launched an onslaught of sentimentalism. Without my determination to observe the season, ably assisted by Mrs Hudson, the house would have remained drab and cheerless from the beginning of Advent to the end of New Year, and Holmes would not take the least notice. Over the years I had gradually managed to persuade him to exchange small gifts on Christmas morning, but it had been an uphill struggle and a somewhat hollow victory.
My heart sank now as I heard his familiar step upon the stair. I knew already just what his reaction would be – Mrs Hudson and I had been hoping to install our new acquisition in the corner before he got home, thus presenting it as a fait accompli, but he had anticipated our intentions and returned while the offending article still stood in its cheerful red-glazed pot upon the table.
“The streets are utter chaos!” Holmes declared as he reached the landing and threw his hat and coat in the general direction of the hall-stand. The hat sailed straight past and on into the sitting room, landing neatly on the sofa, while the coat fell in an untidy heap on the floor. “A group of drunks overturned a chestnut seller’s barrow in Oxford Street, which caused a cabbie’s horse to shy and throw his unfortunate fare into the road. The police were called, three people arrested…it took half an hour to – what is that?”
Holmes’s narrative had taken him into the sitting room itself and round the sofa to warm his hands in front of the fire before he was brought verbally up short by the sight of the alien in our home.
I cleared my throat. “It is a Christmas tree, Holmes. A spruce, to be exact.”
“I am aware of the species, thank you, Watson,” he snapped. “What in heaven’s name is it doing in here?”
“Oh, come now, Mr Holmes, this must be the last house in London not to have a Christmas tree,” said Mrs Hudson before I could respond. “It would look lovely over there by the window. Once we get the lights and decorate the branches - ”
“We will surely set fire to the curtains,” finished Holmes, eyeing the baubles and candles which lay in a gleaming new wooden box on the sideboard.
“Mr Holmes - ”
He held up a hand, his usual sign that he wished to put an end to the discussion. “Mrs Hudson, we had this conversation last year, did we not? If I must bear the trial of having the house turned into the Botanical Gardens then I will do so, under protest, but I do draw the line at a tree. There are quite enough of them outside in the park – we do not need another in here. Kindly remove it to a more appropriate location.”
Our landlady sighed, and glanced at me. I shrugged, knowing that Holmes would be implacable upon the subject. We had done our best, but the master had spoken – perhaps if we tried every year he would eventually capitulate from sheer exasperation. “Very well, sir,” Mrs Hudson said, and hefted the little tree into her arms. I offered to help, but she would not hear of it, carrying the tree off with her and shutting the door with more force than was strictly necessary.
“You are a veritable Scrooge,” I told Holmes when she had gone.
He finished packing his pipe with tobacco from the Persian slipper and reached for the matches. “Nonsense. I merely like to have my home free from hazards. This fad for decorating the inside of buildings with dangerous winter foliage has reached epidemic proportions.”
“People have been doing it for centuries!” I pointed out, but as usual he would have none of it.
“Only yesterday I received personal injury when that sprig of holly over the mantelpiece fell unnoticed onto my chair. And then I suffered a most mortifying incident at the post office this morning, when Miss Rainsby took liberties with my person without so much as a by-your-leave.”
I tried to keep my lips from twitching into a smile and failed miserably. “The lady with the fair curls and the spectacles? Whatever did she do to you?”
“She kissed me, Watson! Before all the other customers and much to the amusement of her colleagues. I had no inkling the abominable woman had hung mistletoe over the counter until she launched her attack.” Holmes looked both scandalised and embarrassed, and I could not help it: I laughed. Hilarity bubbled up within me until I could contain it no more, and Holmes’s outrage only increased to see me doubled over and clinging to a chair for support. “This is no laughing matter, Watson!” he cried, turning pink to the tips of his ears.
“Did you…did you report this assault upon your person?” I asked unsteadily, wiping at my streaming eyes.
He pouted. “I tried, but the constable had much the same reaction to my story as that which you are displaying now. What is it about Christmas which turns respectable ladies into…into harpies?”
“Oh, Holmes, I hardly think she was after your virtue. No doubt it was just a joke.”
“Whatever it was, I shall be using the Oxford Street post office to send my telegrams in future,” he said with a sniff. He really could be completely clueless as to the behaviour of women sometimes. I wondered which had affronted him more – the kiss or the damage it had done to his dignity. “At least until this festive madness is over.”
“Speaking of telegrams,” I interjected, scooping up a yellow envelope from his desk and handing it to him, “This came for you after lunch.”
He tore it open and read the contents before throwing the whole into the fire. “A summons from Olympus,” he replied when I shot him a questioning look, and dropped his still-smouldering pipe onto the table, crossing the room to retrieve his discarded overcoat from the floor.
“Your brother? What does he want?”
“Well, I very much doubt he intends to wish me a Merry Christmas, as he has not moved himself to do so since 1886. You had better come too, Watson – a visit to brother Mycroft is always educational if nothing else.”
“A very good idea,” I agreed. “You will need someone to protect you from any marauding females we may meet on the way.”
***
Half an hour later we were waiting in the Strangers’ Room of the Diogenes Club, the only chamber of that peculiar establishment within which conversation was permitted. The complete lack of festive cheer did not surprise me, knowing the hermit-like tendencies of the men who made up its members - there was no sign of any observation of the season, not even a solitary sprig of holly. The room was chilly, the fire having been lit for us just a few moments before, which circumstance spoke of a lack of recent communication with the outside world.
At length the door opened and the massive frame of Mycroft Holmes ambled into the room. As corpulent as his brother was thin, Mycroft gave the impression of lethargy and indolence, but I knew that behind the façade lurked a mind like a razor, and that despite appearances he was not averse to a little action should the situation demand it. His watery grey eyes surveyed us both for a few moments before he said,
“You are not eating again, Sherlock. It is a mistake to deny oneself food, especially at this time of year when there are so many culinary delights on offer. Abstinence is an affectation for the idle and the fanatical, of which you are neither.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “I observe that you are not practising it at any rate, brother mine. A good dinner, was it?”
“First class. The wines were superb,” Mycroft replied, unruffled by his sibling’s waspish tone. “Well, sit down, both of you. I am glad to see you, Doctor Watson – I can see that you quite clearly have the patience of a saint, since you have not left my brother to his own devices over the festive period. He always was an absolute horror at Christmas, from the moment he learned to talk.”
“I am sure you did not summon me to discuss my shortcomings, Mycroft,” Holmes said pointedly before I could even open my mouth. “What do you want?”
The elder Holmes blinked. “Eh? Oh, of course. I had a letter yesterday from Cressida – Great Aunt Sophronia has passed on.” He rummaged in the pocket of his jacket and withdrew an envelope which he handed to his brother.
Holmes took it and quickly scanned the letter within. “When?”
“A week last Sunday, I believe.”
“It cannot have been unexpected. She must have been at least a hundred and ten – I remember her as a wizened old crone, and I last saw her when I was twenty-one.”
“She was in fact two months, twenty-seven days and six and a half hours past her ninety-eighth birthday,” Mycroft replied without hesitation.
“I had entirely forgotten that she was still alive,” said Holmes, with a detachment which gave the impression of one discussing the demise of a pet or a houseplant rather than that of a family member. I personally found this first mention of the wider Holmes clan fascinating, as I had shared rooms with Sherlock for nearly ten years before he even mentioned that he had a brother. Even after another six, I still knew next to nothing about the rest of his family.
“We all did our best to. She buried herself down in Sussex for the last couple of decades – I doubt if even Cressida had seen her in that long, and she was always the old lady’s favourite. If you have read that letter in its entirety you will be aware that the first she knew of Aunt Sophronia’s end was the appearance of a solicitor on her doorstep. She had been made an executor without the matter having even been discussed with her.”
“That does not surprise me in the least.” Holmes folded the sheet of notepaper and handed it back to his brother. “Thank you for informing me, Mycroft, but surely it could have been done via a telegram rather than dragging me across town?”
“Impatient as always,” Mycroft muttered, casting me a despairing glance. “However do you put up with him, Doctor?”
“Mycroft, if there is something else pray get to the point,” Holmes snapped. “You may have all day, but some of us have business to attend to.”
“On Christmas Eve? Surely, Sherlock, even the criminals must take some holiday at this time of year.”
“It may surprise you to learn, dear brother, that crime does not take the festive season into account. Now, is there something else you wish to impart?”
Mycroft dug his pudgy hand into his pocket once more and this time removed a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with string. This he passed to me to hand to his brother, much to Holmes’s surprise.
“Surely not a Christmas gift, Mycroft? You must be getting sentimental in your declining years,” he said receiving a roll of the eyes in response.
“Cressida sent it,” Mycroft replied, sitting back in his chair. It was a huge wing-backed creation, whose matching pair across the hearth almost swallowed his younger and leaner sibling. “Aunt Sophronia apparently bequeathed it to you, goodness knows why. I never thought she had any more affection for you than for the rest of us. The only warm feelings I ever recall her displaying were for those wretched pugs of hers.”
“What is it?” I asked, as Holmes unwrapped the parcel, a confused frown creasing his brow. Within the paper nestled a little wooden box, no more than two inches square, its shiny surface lacquered black and red in a chequered pattern. Curiously, there appeared to be no lid, or means of opening it.
“A Chinese puzzle box,” Holmes replied. “Aunt Sophronia collected them. At one point I believe she had in excess of six hundred. I often played with them as a child, before she turned into a recluse on the death of Uncle Hethersett.”
“You opened them all, too, if I recall correctly,” said Mycroft.
“All but this one. It bested me every time.” There was a slip of paper within the parcel – Holmes quickly read it and handed it to me. In a spidery scrawl were written these words:
Sherlock,
If age has brought wisdom through experience, may the box at last give up its secrets to you.
Aunt S.
I frowned now myself. “Whatever does she mean?”
Mycroft heaved himself to his feet. “Our aunt was an exceptionally intelligent – if somewhat peculiar – woman, and she delighted in riddles. No doubt this is her idea of a joke.”
Holmes glanced sharply at his brother. “You have already deduced the answer?”
“She sent it to you, dear boy. I know how much you enjoy mysteries – I would not dream of spoiling it for you. Now, I have to see the Home Secretary before six, so I am afraid I have to leave you. Do let me know how long it takes you to solve the puzzle, Sherlock.”
“Of course.” Holmes leapt up from his chair. “I think I can promise to send you a telegram with news of my success by the time you rise tomorrow morning.”
“By eight o’clock?” Mycroft laughed; a great rumbling chuckle which echoed in his barrel of a chest. “That is no small undertaking – I have heard of some of the cleverest men in the land being stumped by those little conundrums.”
“Nevertheless, I shall do it. Would you care to make things a little more…official?”
“I am not a gambling man, Sherlock, you know that.”
“Nor am I. However, this wager may tempt you: if I lose, I will send round Mrs Hudson’s justly-famous plum pudding for you to enjoy alone…” Holmes said, leaving the offer hanging temptingly in the air.
Mycroft’s pale eyes lit up. “Plum pudding?”
“Holmes!” I objected, having been looking forward to that annual treat. Mrs Hudson’s cooking had been filling the house with delicious smells for the past few days, and plum pudding was the most tantalising of them all.
Holmes ignored me. “Well, Mycroft? Do we have a deal?”
“What happens if you win?” Mycroft asked suspiciously.
“Then I shall expect to see you in time for dinner at Baker Street tomorrow, in the company of that twenty-year-old Scotch you have been hiding since Great-Uncle Harrington’s funeral.”
The elder Holmes wavered for a moment, before his stomach evidently made the decision for him. “Oh, very well – done!”
“Ha! Excellent!” Holmes exclaimed, energised. He clapped me on the shoulder, the puzzle box disappearing into the pocket of his coat. “Come, Watson, we have no time for chatting – the game is afoot!”
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2633
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft Holmes
Genre: Humour, fluff
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A strange bequest from a relative gives Holmes just what he wants for Christmas - a puzzle to solve...
Author's Note: I'm not exactly sure where this came from, but once I had the idea it woulnd't leave me alone. The depiction of the extended Holmes clan makes me think I've been watching too much Jeeves and Wooster lately! :)
PART ONE
“It certainly is a beautiful specimen, Mrs Hudson,” I said sincerely as we stood regarding our landlady’s latest addition to the sitting room I shared with Sherlock Holmes.
Mrs Hudson’s homely face wore a delighted smile. “It is indeed, Doctor. And the man told me that if we keep the soil moist it should last until twelfth night. Once it’s decorated it will look a treat in here, I’m sure.”
I agreed. The festive season was and is one of my favourite times of the year, and I felt that it had not really started until our home was dressed appropriately. In this I met with annual opposition from my fellow tenant, to whom Christmas was more of an irritant than a celebration, a yearly aberration which got in the way of his work and launched an onslaught of sentimentalism. Without my determination to observe the season, ably assisted by Mrs Hudson, the house would have remained drab and cheerless from the beginning of Advent to the end of New Year, and Holmes would not take the least notice. Over the years I had gradually managed to persuade him to exchange small gifts on Christmas morning, but it had been an uphill struggle and a somewhat hollow victory.
My heart sank now as I heard his familiar step upon the stair. I knew already just what his reaction would be – Mrs Hudson and I had been hoping to install our new acquisition in the corner before he got home, thus presenting it as a fait accompli, but he had anticipated our intentions and returned while the offending article still stood in its cheerful red-glazed pot upon the table.
“The streets are utter chaos!” Holmes declared as he reached the landing and threw his hat and coat in the general direction of the hall-stand. The hat sailed straight past and on into the sitting room, landing neatly on the sofa, while the coat fell in an untidy heap on the floor. “A group of drunks overturned a chestnut seller’s barrow in Oxford Street, which caused a cabbie’s horse to shy and throw his unfortunate fare into the road. The police were called, three people arrested…it took half an hour to – what is that?”
Holmes’s narrative had taken him into the sitting room itself and round the sofa to warm his hands in front of the fire before he was brought verbally up short by the sight of the alien in our home.
I cleared my throat. “It is a Christmas tree, Holmes. A spruce, to be exact.”
“I am aware of the species, thank you, Watson,” he snapped. “What in heaven’s name is it doing in here?”
“Oh, come now, Mr Holmes, this must be the last house in London not to have a Christmas tree,” said Mrs Hudson before I could respond. “It would look lovely over there by the window. Once we get the lights and decorate the branches - ”
“We will surely set fire to the curtains,” finished Holmes, eyeing the baubles and candles which lay in a gleaming new wooden box on the sideboard.
“Mr Holmes - ”
He held up a hand, his usual sign that he wished to put an end to the discussion. “Mrs Hudson, we had this conversation last year, did we not? If I must bear the trial of having the house turned into the Botanical Gardens then I will do so, under protest, but I do draw the line at a tree. There are quite enough of them outside in the park – we do not need another in here. Kindly remove it to a more appropriate location.”
Our landlady sighed, and glanced at me. I shrugged, knowing that Holmes would be implacable upon the subject. We had done our best, but the master had spoken – perhaps if we tried every year he would eventually capitulate from sheer exasperation. “Very well, sir,” Mrs Hudson said, and hefted the little tree into her arms. I offered to help, but she would not hear of it, carrying the tree off with her and shutting the door with more force than was strictly necessary.
“You are a veritable Scrooge,” I told Holmes when she had gone.
He finished packing his pipe with tobacco from the Persian slipper and reached for the matches. “Nonsense. I merely like to have my home free from hazards. This fad for decorating the inside of buildings with dangerous winter foliage has reached epidemic proportions.”
“People have been doing it for centuries!” I pointed out, but as usual he would have none of it.
“Only yesterday I received personal injury when that sprig of holly over the mantelpiece fell unnoticed onto my chair. And then I suffered a most mortifying incident at the post office this morning, when Miss Rainsby took liberties with my person without so much as a by-your-leave.”
I tried to keep my lips from twitching into a smile and failed miserably. “The lady with the fair curls and the spectacles? Whatever did she do to you?”
“She kissed me, Watson! Before all the other customers and much to the amusement of her colleagues. I had no inkling the abominable woman had hung mistletoe over the counter until she launched her attack.” Holmes looked both scandalised and embarrassed, and I could not help it: I laughed. Hilarity bubbled up within me until I could contain it no more, and Holmes’s outrage only increased to see me doubled over and clinging to a chair for support. “This is no laughing matter, Watson!” he cried, turning pink to the tips of his ears.
“Did you…did you report this assault upon your person?” I asked unsteadily, wiping at my streaming eyes.
He pouted. “I tried, but the constable had much the same reaction to my story as that which you are displaying now. What is it about Christmas which turns respectable ladies into…into harpies?”
“Oh, Holmes, I hardly think she was after your virtue. No doubt it was just a joke.”
“Whatever it was, I shall be using the Oxford Street post office to send my telegrams in future,” he said with a sniff. He really could be completely clueless as to the behaviour of women sometimes. I wondered which had affronted him more – the kiss or the damage it had done to his dignity. “At least until this festive madness is over.”
“Speaking of telegrams,” I interjected, scooping up a yellow envelope from his desk and handing it to him, “This came for you after lunch.”
He tore it open and read the contents before throwing the whole into the fire. “A summons from Olympus,” he replied when I shot him a questioning look, and dropped his still-smouldering pipe onto the table, crossing the room to retrieve his discarded overcoat from the floor.
“Your brother? What does he want?”
“Well, I very much doubt he intends to wish me a Merry Christmas, as he has not moved himself to do so since 1886. You had better come too, Watson – a visit to brother Mycroft is always educational if nothing else.”
“A very good idea,” I agreed. “You will need someone to protect you from any marauding females we may meet on the way.”
***
Half an hour later we were waiting in the Strangers’ Room of the Diogenes Club, the only chamber of that peculiar establishment within which conversation was permitted. The complete lack of festive cheer did not surprise me, knowing the hermit-like tendencies of the men who made up its members - there was no sign of any observation of the season, not even a solitary sprig of holly. The room was chilly, the fire having been lit for us just a few moments before, which circumstance spoke of a lack of recent communication with the outside world.
At length the door opened and the massive frame of Mycroft Holmes ambled into the room. As corpulent as his brother was thin, Mycroft gave the impression of lethargy and indolence, but I knew that behind the façade lurked a mind like a razor, and that despite appearances he was not averse to a little action should the situation demand it. His watery grey eyes surveyed us both for a few moments before he said,
“You are not eating again, Sherlock. It is a mistake to deny oneself food, especially at this time of year when there are so many culinary delights on offer. Abstinence is an affectation for the idle and the fanatical, of which you are neither.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “I observe that you are not practising it at any rate, brother mine. A good dinner, was it?”
“First class. The wines were superb,” Mycroft replied, unruffled by his sibling’s waspish tone. “Well, sit down, both of you. I am glad to see you, Doctor Watson – I can see that you quite clearly have the patience of a saint, since you have not left my brother to his own devices over the festive period. He always was an absolute horror at Christmas, from the moment he learned to talk.”
“I am sure you did not summon me to discuss my shortcomings, Mycroft,” Holmes said pointedly before I could even open my mouth. “What do you want?”
The elder Holmes blinked. “Eh? Oh, of course. I had a letter yesterday from Cressida – Great Aunt Sophronia has passed on.” He rummaged in the pocket of his jacket and withdrew an envelope which he handed to his brother.
Holmes took it and quickly scanned the letter within. “When?”
“A week last Sunday, I believe.”
“It cannot have been unexpected. She must have been at least a hundred and ten – I remember her as a wizened old crone, and I last saw her when I was twenty-one.”
“She was in fact two months, twenty-seven days and six and a half hours past her ninety-eighth birthday,” Mycroft replied without hesitation.
“I had entirely forgotten that she was still alive,” said Holmes, with a detachment which gave the impression of one discussing the demise of a pet or a houseplant rather than that of a family member. I personally found this first mention of the wider Holmes clan fascinating, as I had shared rooms with Sherlock for nearly ten years before he even mentioned that he had a brother. Even after another six, I still knew next to nothing about the rest of his family.
“We all did our best to. She buried herself down in Sussex for the last couple of decades – I doubt if even Cressida had seen her in that long, and she was always the old lady’s favourite. If you have read that letter in its entirety you will be aware that the first she knew of Aunt Sophronia’s end was the appearance of a solicitor on her doorstep. She had been made an executor without the matter having even been discussed with her.”
“That does not surprise me in the least.” Holmes folded the sheet of notepaper and handed it back to his brother. “Thank you for informing me, Mycroft, but surely it could have been done via a telegram rather than dragging me across town?”
“Impatient as always,” Mycroft muttered, casting me a despairing glance. “However do you put up with him, Doctor?”
“Mycroft, if there is something else pray get to the point,” Holmes snapped. “You may have all day, but some of us have business to attend to.”
“On Christmas Eve? Surely, Sherlock, even the criminals must take some holiday at this time of year.”
“It may surprise you to learn, dear brother, that crime does not take the festive season into account. Now, is there something else you wish to impart?”
Mycroft dug his pudgy hand into his pocket once more and this time removed a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with string. This he passed to me to hand to his brother, much to Holmes’s surprise.
“Surely not a Christmas gift, Mycroft? You must be getting sentimental in your declining years,” he said receiving a roll of the eyes in response.
“Cressida sent it,” Mycroft replied, sitting back in his chair. It was a huge wing-backed creation, whose matching pair across the hearth almost swallowed his younger and leaner sibling. “Aunt Sophronia apparently bequeathed it to you, goodness knows why. I never thought she had any more affection for you than for the rest of us. The only warm feelings I ever recall her displaying were for those wretched pugs of hers.”
“What is it?” I asked, as Holmes unwrapped the parcel, a confused frown creasing his brow. Within the paper nestled a little wooden box, no more than two inches square, its shiny surface lacquered black and red in a chequered pattern. Curiously, there appeared to be no lid, or means of opening it.
“A Chinese puzzle box,” Holmes replied. “Aunt Sophronia collected them. At one point I believe she had in excess of six hundred. I often played with them as a child, before she turned into a recluse on the death of Uncle Hethersett.”
“You opened them all, too, if I recall correctly,” said Mycroft.
“All but this one. It bested me every time.” There was a slip of paper within the parcel – Holmes quickly read it and handed it to me. In a spidery scrawl were written these words:
If age has brought wisdom through experience, may the box at last give up its secrets to you.
Aunt S.
I frowned now myself. “Whatever does she mean?”
Mycroft heaved himself to his feet. “Our aunt was an exceptionally intelligent – if somewhat peculiar – woman, and she delighted in riddles. No doubt this is her idea of a joke.”
Holmes glanced sharply at his brother. “You have already deduced the answer?”
“She sent it to you, dear boy. I know how much you enjoy mysteries – I would not dream of spoiling it for you. Now, I have to see the Home Secretary before six, so I am afraid I have to leave you. Do let me know how long it takes you to solve the puzzle, Sherlock.”
“Of course.” Holmes leapt up from his chair. “I think I can promise to send you a telegram with news of my success by the time you rise tomorrow morning.”
“By eight o’clock?” Mycroft laughed; a great rumbling chuckle which echoed in his barrel of a chest. “That is no small undertaking – I have heard of some of the cleverest men in the land being stumped by those little conundrums.”
“Nevertheless, I shall do it. Would you care to make things a little more…official?”
“I am not a gambling man, Sherlock, you know that.”
“Nor am I. However, this wager may tempt you: if I lose, I will send round Mrs Hudson’s justly-famous plum pudding for you to enjoy alone…” Holmes said, leaving the offer hanging temptingly in the air.
Mycroft’s pale eyes lit up. “Plum pudding?”
“Holmes!” I objected, having been looking forward to that annual treat. Mrs Hudson’s cooking had been filling the house with delicious smells for the past few days, and plum pudding was the most tantalising of them all.
Holmes ignored me. “Well, Mycroft? Do we have a deal?”
“What happens if you win?” Mycroft asked suspiciously.
“Then I shall expect to see you in time for dinner at Baker Street tomorrow, in the company of that twenty-year-old Scotch you have been hiding since Great-Uncle Harrington’s funeral.”
The elder Holmes wavered for a moment, before his stomach evidently made the decision for him. “Oh, very well – done!”
“Ha! Excellent!” Holmes exclaimed, energised. He clapped me on the shoulder, the puzzle box disappearing into the pocket of his coat. “Come, Watson, we have no time for chatting – the game is afoot!”
TBC
