The Dreadful Business of the Abernetty Family

Chapter Four

Holmes took a separate cab from Watson, heading to the headquarters of The Times while Watson went to 221b Baker Street for the evening, having an engagement with a young lady that evening.

When Holmes returned to Baker Street it was very late, and Watson was still up, reading.

"I had expected you to be abed at this hour" said Holmes, glancing at Watson.  None of the clocks in the house told proper time, due to an experiment he'd been working on involving pendulum weights, so Sherlock was not exactly sure what the hour was.

"Ah well, something has been bothering me about this case." Watson shook his head.  "I know I'm no match for your intellect and Lord knows I'm slow enough at times but it seems to me there is something about this Colin Abernetty that does not add up."

Sherlock leaped over the back of the couch and sat in it, leaning forward, his piercing eyes dancing with delight and anticipation.  "Do go on," he prompted.

"I can't put my finger on it exactly, but I get the feeling that Colin is not telling us the truth.  I know, I know," Watson said, sheepishly grinning at Holmes.  "Base your ideas on fact and logical reasoning.  But, consider.  The man doesn't look older than thirty, yet he's supposed to be ten years younger than Hastings.  But according to Bertram Allen, Hastings is at least sixty, with white hair and rheumatism.

"Then there's the man's behavior.  Why was he wearing fine clothes he'd borrowed?  Granted it is an honor to visit the greatest living detective..." Sherlock nodded in false modesty, accepting the compliment, and Watson went on "But how often does a client dress up to meet us?  And why could a man in town for days and brother to a wealthy country squire not purchase clothing that fit him?   It was as if he needed to make an impression of being from such a family but could not quite pull it off properly.

"Further, the man seemed terribly impressed with the qualifications of Hastings and his grand history with archaeology, yet no one at the museum has any recollection of any such thing.  Bertram himself seemed curious to hear that Hastings' brother Colin was in town, as if he was unaware of such a man."

Watson stood and walked to the table where some jam and bread were still laid out from earlier, scraping a bit of butter on his toast.  "I can't give you some grand chain of logic that leads to an inevitable conclusion, but mark my words, something is off about that fellow."

"Bravo, Watson, you have hit upon it!" Sherlock shouted.

Watson looked around as if Mrs Hudson would burst through the door and chastise them for being too boisterous at nearly midnight. "Well, all right then." he said finally.

"Your methods are chaotic and without scheme or design, but there is somewhere in that head of yours that you've hit upon the problem."  Sherlock went on.  "When I met with the man, I wasn't sure I wanted to take the case, he was terribly vague on the street about what he wanted, merely something about his brother -- rambling, leaping from point to point without coherent order.  Yet I have no current compelling work and hoped perhaps it might lead to something.  Some of our most intriguing cases have come from the most modest beginnings, you recall."

Watson nodded, his mouth full of toast and jam.

"I was about to turn away the fellow and his odd story until I noticed how the parsley sunk into the butter."

Watson stopped chewing.  Swallowing, he stared at Holmes for a moment.

"Parsley doesn't sink into butter.  Its too light."  He paused a moment, then as Holmes said nothing he went on, feeling a bit less sure of himself.  "Even if the butter was melting as it was in the heat of this afternoon, the parsley would simply settle on top..."