The Whole Speckled Band Cluserf*ck

Part II: SOME WOMAN TELLS US HER WHOLE STORY

Soon my own clothes were stuffed in a hamper, and I was dressed in a comically baggy, olden-times, middle-aged-man ensemble, sleeves and cuffs rolled up high. (And when I say "soon" I mean like thirty minutes later, because even though I kept my regular shoes, it took me a weird amount of time to figure out sock garters.) Also, I had promised myself I wasn't going to wear any stupid hats but was actually a little disappointed when there wasn't one in the closet. I did find a pipe, but it smelled like absolute ass, which quickly dispelled any notions I might have had of puffing on it thoughtfully as I pondered shit. Even so, I was feeling Sherlock Holmesy as all fuck.

I found Watson downstairs, sitting in a room with a woman dressed like she was attending a funeral. He was engaging in small talk and doing his level best to make her feel comfortable but was clearly losing that particular battle.

"Good morning, madam," I said. I decided to mimic Watson's polite 1800s speech patterns, partly because it seemed to fit my outfit and the decor and partly because it was just kind of fun. "My name is Sherlock Holmes—I see that you've already met my associate." Which was good because I realized that I couldn't remember what Watson's first name was supposed to be. James? John? That couldn't be right—I had just spent an entire book constantly forgetting that John was supposed to be my own name.

The woman was shivering. "Uh, do you want to maybe sit over by the fire?" I asked. My weak attempt at Victorian English was already falling to shit, but I wasn't too worried about it. "Might we get you, like, a cup of coffee or something?"

"It is not cold which makes me shiver," she said in a low voice. She did move closer to the fireplace, though. "It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror."

She lifted her veil as she spoke, and underneath it, she certainly did look timid and frail. She was hot forty (if hot forty was a thing in Victorian England) or possibly prematurely gray thirty. She looked like she could use a hearty breakfast and a hug and was holding a slip of paper in one glove that literally said "train ticket."

"So you came in by train, huh?" I was just trying to make small talk, but she gasped and stared at me like I was a wizard. Watson began scribbling furiously in a little notebook, no doubt noting my amazing powers of observation. The yokels, it seemed, weren't going to be terribly hard to impress in this book. Which was good news for me.

"You are perfectly correct—I came in by the first train to Waterloo," she said. "Sir, I can stand this strain no longer. I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to but have heard of you, Mr. Holmes, from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need."

"Sure, Mrs. Farintosh," I said. I turned to Watson. "You remember Mrs. Farintosh, don't you?"

"I do not," he said. "Perhaps that particular case was before my time." Crap. Well, so much for my clever attempt to get him to tell me whatever the fuck I was supposed to already know about Mrs. Farintosh.

"Oh, sir," the woman said, "do you not think you could help me too and at least shed a little light through the dense darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month, I shall be married with the control of my own income. And then at least, you shall not find me ungrateful."

Okay, that last part might have been a come-on—I shot a glance at Watson, who raised one eyebrow. Also, I didn't even know what the dense darkness surrounding her was, but I was pretty sure that whoever was currently in control of her income did it.

BOOM. SOLVED. NEXT CLIENT, PLEASE.

"Let me assure you that I'll devote every bit as much care to your case as I did to your friend's," I said. "And don't even worry about the money." Sherlock Holmes didn't seem to be hurting for cash from what I could tell, and the last thing I wanted was for the whole thing to drag on while she went and figured out her finances. I gave her my best reassuring gaze (who knows what it looked like to her—reassuring wasn't exactly one of my go-to expressions). "Now, tell me everything."