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castironTitle: A Study in Squawking
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Length: 27K words
Also on AO3. Now caught up with what's posted on AO3; rest of story will be posted later this week.
Chapters 1 and 2 on DW
Chapters 3 and 4 on DW
Chapters 5 and 6 on DW
Session 7
No, I will not tell you the significance of that date. When Mycroft says that he will arrange for a nuclear missile strike at this location rather than allow me to publicise it, I am reasonably sure he is exaggerating, but I prefer not to test that hypothesis, even though his house is also in the blast radius. Besides, that date is my ultimate weapon, and one I do not care to cast aside.
Yes, I am willing to keep talking to you. This is now a waiting game. Moriarty will respond, or will strike again; Mycroft's people or the Yard will, I hope, soon find the socks the pigeons reported. I must keep myself calm so I can process data, and so I can present the persona of Richard Adler when it is next called for.
The firm of Richard S. Adler, consulting detective, was actually John's idea.
John's finances, in spite of his careful spending, were in poor shape. His pension was insufficient to cover all his expenses, even though our flatshare reduced his housing costs. He took locum work at a clinic, but our work on cases with the Yard began to interfere with his hours. A few times I had to work without him, which was unbearably tedious.
One day, I said to him, *Why don't you just take the salary Mycroft offered? Nothing would change except your account balances.*
"Because it's bad enough that he owns you; I don't want him to own me too."
*Little fear of that. Slavery has been illegal in Britain effectively since 1772.*
John snorted and went to the kitchen to make tea. I pondered the problem further and came up with another idea. *What if I hired you as my caretaker? Then Mycroft wouldn't be paying you.*
He actually gave that thought some consideration but finally shook his head. "I'm happier with income that doesn't depend on Mr. Holmes's goodwill."
*You could apply to the Yard. Then you'd have a job and I'd still be able to work with you.*
"Medical discharge, remember? I'd never pass the physical. Now, if you really were a consultant...." He became lost in thought until the kettle summoned him. "Sherlock, did you have to build this contraption right here?"
*I'm building a pump, and I need that space.*
He sighed. "I'm better off not knowing why you're building a pump, aren't I?"
*Better off, no. Happier, probably. You might want to find out whether Mrs. Hudson has a drain auger and basin wrench.*
"This week in 221B Theatre: Das Boot. God save me from bored parrots." A few minutes later, when he was settled with his tea, he said, "What if we set you up in business as a consulting detective?"
*I already am a consulting detective.*
"As an independent one, not just with the Yard."
*John, I doubt that anyone will be willing to hire a macaw to solve an interesting case. And Mycroft will cage me if I keep talking to strangers.*
"That's where I'd come in. I'd be your face to the world. You'd be Nero Wolfe; I'd be Archie Goodwin. You'd be the brains; I'd be the brawn—well, relatively speaking."
*Who are Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Goodwin?*
"Never mind. You'd be the one actually solving the cases; I'd just be your go-between. And then you'd have your own income to pay me as your assistant."
I do not know why I had never thought of the idea myself. Perhaps it is a limitation of my imagination. But the more I considered it, the more it appealed. I agreed to a trial of the idea, and we set up the website and gradually began to receive cases. We still worked with the Yard, of course, but now we had our own work to fill the other days.
Some cases were boring and simple. Like the case where a man was desperately searching for a lost contract that his fiancée's brother had concealed under the man's mattress before he came down with the flu and was bedridden for three weeks. Or the case where a valuable French coin turned out to have been hidden in one of six cream slices. Once I had solved one of those cases, I would spend the rest of the evening complaining to John that at least Lestrade only called me in for interesting cases. John always listened until I had had my say, and then calmly asked whether we should disband the firm and have him go back to locum work. I responded by dropping the television remote in his lap and telling him to complete the damage he'd already done to his brain with flickering images, then went to my box, slept for twelve hours, and made certain to fill and start the kettle when I heard him in the morning. He always understood that it was an apology and accepted it as such.
How is that a remotely relevant question? Of course a kettle is challenging for me to lift when it is empty and impossible when it is full. That is why I attach a length of tubing to the sink tap. Why does a tool-using species find it so difficult to comprehend that one might use tools to accomplish a task?
But some cases were fascinating. The missing man who was revealed to have made begging a full-time career; the music teacher who was being stalked while she trained for a triathlon—those cases were worth my effort for the pleasure they gave me. And I must admit that there is satisfaction in a material reward for one's work as well, even though in a strict legal sense I do not actually own that reward.
Let me tell you about my favourite case. Someone contacted us asking if we would be willing to help him regarding a firm that had mysteriously dissolved. John was annoyed at me for strewing nutshells on the bathroom floor, so in spite of the apparent ordinariness of the case, he invited the man to visit.
There is not much to say about Mr. Wilson himself—yes, yet another Wilson; it is an extremely common name. A pawnbroker, living above his shop, whose business was unsuccessful despite the economic recession—that says everything about his competence. An unusual first name, suggesting parents who were members of a fundamentalist Christian sect or who had poor judgment in choosing deceased relatives to honour; more likely the former, making the pawnshop an act of rebellion. Poorly dressed; poorly groomed. Evidence of past travel to East Asia; evidence of membership in the Masons; evidence of a sedentary lifestyle; evidence of mild repetitive stress injury. His only striking feature was hair of a reddish-orange colour, brighter than the fur of a red fox. Distinctive for a human, but still dull when compared to a scarlet macaw.
Of course I did not speak with him myself. When we have clients at the flat, I will either sit on my perch or wait in John's room and observe via camera, depending on how concerned about confidentiality the client seems. If I am on the perch, I never speak; I only squawk or imitate the doorbell and the microwave timer, and I leave the room before sending messages to John's laptop. The client departs thinking I am an ordinary bird, and I do not receive annoyed emails from Mycroft later.
For Mr. Wilson's visit, I remained in the room; he ignored me, other than asking if I was nailed to the perch.
Yes, I am aware of the source. I have never watched it, but given the number of times it has been quoted to me, I can make a reasonable reconstruction of the speech. I have no idea why it is considered funny; it is simply an exaggerated and repetitive statement that a parrot is dead.
On bare summary, the case seemed devoid of interest. Mr. Wilson had answered a dubious advertisement; he had worked for a firm for some weeks; the firm had abruptly closed. I considered taking a nap and leaving him completely to John; clearly Mr. Wilson was the type of person who would answer a Nigerian email plea and later wonder how his bank accounts had been emptied.
Then Mr. Wilson showed John the original advertisement, and John set it down where I could read it.
It was indeed a curious advertisement: an opening in an organisation limited to red-headed men, paying 250 pounds a week for unspecified nominal work. The limitation made it quite different from the usual scams posted on that site; my interest was piqued.
"That's very unusual," John said. "How did you run across it?"
"My assistant Vinnie. She brought it in one day, said that I should apply."
Wilson had actually had the sense at first to consider it an unlikely job, but finally he decided there could be no harm in answering the advertisement. He sent a photograph, was invited to interview, and was hired immediately.
To earn the money, he was required to be present doing the work from 9:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m., and to never leave the room, even for lunch. A supervisor stayed in the room with him for the first several days, and a camera served as backup confirmation. Mr. Wilson was, however, very pleased to point out that he never even considered leaving his post.
The work itself was to print out as much of Wikipedia as possible; a printer was supplied, but Mr. WIlson was expected to bring his own paper. I have never seen John try so hard to refrain from laughter, especially when Mr. Wilson spoke proudly of finding the settings for double-sided printing and 4-up page layout to conserve paper, but John did master himself sufficiently to complete the interview.
Mr. Wilson worked at the job for several weeks and was paid his salary in cash every week. His story was, I noticed, inconsistent regarding exactly how many weeks he had worked, which led me to suspect that it had been a larger number than he admitted to and that Inland Revenue had not been informed about his new income source. But as they were not my client, I ignored this.
Then, on the previous day, he had gone to the office and found a sign on the door stating that the firm had been dissolved. He had inquired but could find no information on what had happened to the firm. Distraught, he had returned to his pawnshop; his assistant had said that surely his employer would email or send a letter, but Mr. Wilson had been uncomforted.
"I can see why you're sorry to lose the position," John said, once again in his role of kind listener. "Let me make sure I've taken down all the details correctly."
That was my cue to leave the room and send any further questions to John. It was an obvious hypothesis that the assistant was somehow involved, and Mr. Wilson's answers only strengthened my suspicions, especially when he mentioned that she worked for a much lower salary than one might expect. When he told John that he might be hard to contact over the weekend as he would be taking a short holiday, I formed the further hypothesis—
Oh! I remember him now.
We met at Barts. There was a corpse I needed to see, so John and I went to the morgue. And he came in, supposedly to see Hooper. She introduced him as her boyfriend, Jim, who worked in the IT department. I knew from observation that the IT portion was correct—had just finished upgrading someone's operating system and installing a new printer; Mac user at home even though most of the Barts computers ran Windows —but found it unlikely that he was her boyfriend; her interest was genuine, but he seemed more attracted to John and indeed slipped him a card with a phone number. I borrowed his phone to check whether it matched the number on the card and was intrigued that it didn't, but I assumed that the card was a personal number, a different cell phone or perhaps a landline. John and I went to lunch with Dr. Stamford afterwards, and John threw the card away.
Why do you say it is a pity? I still remember the number.
It is not amazing; it is simply how my brain works. Am I cleared to text as well as to post?
Good. Give me a minute; John tells people that Richard Adler is unable to type quickly, so I must slow my response. Also, let Mycroft know to investigate a James or Jim in IT at Barts.
Session 8
After all this waiting, it is a pleasure to finally take action, even such a small action as communicating directly with Mr. Moriarty. I assume that Mycroft's people will try to track him, though I suspect Mr. Moriarty's people have taken the same precautions with his phone that Mycroft's people have taken with mine. It is a pity that we cannot yet find where he and John are. Though now that I can communicate with him, it may not matter so much where he is now, if I can convince him to—well, we shall see.
Have the socks been retrieved yet?
How long does it take? I could have flown there and back by now.
Very well; we are still waiting, so I will continue my story.
After John saw Mr. Wilson off, he said to me, "At least I don't need to apologize for boring you."
*You have yet to bore me. Now, Mr. Wilson bores me, but his case is interesting indeed.*
"Do you have any ideas?"
*Why is obvious, and who is at least partially so. But I am mystified as to what. It's quite the three-pencil problem.*
John sighed. "No pencils, Sherlock."
*Do you take Anderson's advice about bird care, or mine?*
"Actually, Anderson agrees with you that they're safe enough, but I like being able to write without getting splinters. What's wrong with your chew sticks?"
*They're boring. Pencils snap in a more interesting way, and I like the taste of graphite.*
We compromised on one pencil, one hazelnut, and two chew sticks. After a few hours on my perch, I told John, *We need to go visit his pawn shop. I want to see the area.*
By that time, we had started to use public transit and cabs in addition to or instead of Mycroft's car. I have a collapsible nylon carrier that I can easily escape from, so I appear sufficiently contained to comfort passengers and transit officials. I still prefer the car, but while John is willing for us to use it when we work for the Yard, he is not comfortable using it for our firm's cases. I humour him, and the people-watching is certainly not without interest.
I may not give you the exact location of Mr. Wilson's pawn shop, though I have no doubt you could find it out easily. The nature of the case has made it necessary for me to be more reticent with this portion of the story.
When we arrived at the pawnshop, it had already closed for the night, and a woman who I suspected was Mr. Wilson's assistant was locking the shop door. John pretended disappointment to have missed business hours and talked to her for a few minutes while I examined her. Traces of soil on her shoes and knees and under her nails; signs of heavy tool use on her hands; an accent that gave away hints of higher-class origins than she affected; near-shaved head, tattoos on her shoulders, both within the last four months; one pair of ear piercings that was several years old, two others that were far more recent; makeup on her forehead, but not her cheeks or lips; a face I recognized from police records and old news articles.
We walked away down the street; when I was sure she was out of sight, I sent John to investigate around the pawnshop while I made an aerial survey. The flight confirmed what I had not been able to determine from online maps. I returned to find John looking in a skip behind the shop. He waved me over, and because we were in public, texted me. *is someone trying to turn this into an allotment??*
The earth in the skip was consistent with what one might expect—I have not made a *thorough* study of the soils of London, but I can at least identify the general regions, and this earth could easily have come from that location. There was also a great deal of it.
I replied, *It's awaiting disposal, obviously. Take pictures, get a sample, and let's go home. We're done here for today.*
That evening, when we were settled with a curry for John and a bowl of mixed nuts for me, John said, "Let me guess. You've solved the case but are waiting for the best moment to do a dramatic reveal."
*Hardly. If I were certain of the solution, I would tell you. But in case my conclusions are wrong, I prefer that at least one of us have a clear head to accept new facts.*
"That's the nicest way anyone's ever called me empty-headed. Teasing, Sherlock. So what are we doing tomorrow?"
*Staking out the pawnshop. There's a coffee shop on the corner where you can watch for the supposed Ms. Spaulding and her accomplices.*
"The number of things you didn't say in that sentence is incredibly disturbing."
*What? I was perfectly clear.*
"To another genius, maybe. Let's see if an ordinary bloke like me can unpack it. You believe that Vinnie Spaulding is involved. That makes sense; she's the one who brought the ad to Wilson's attention. You said accomplices, so you suspect criminal activity."
*Of course. It's—*
"Obvious, yes."
I turned my laptop away from him. *Stop reading my messages before I send them.*
He ignored me. "You also said 'the supposed Ms. Spaulding', which implies that it's an alias."
*Joanna Clay. She served time for theft and possession of explosives. She was also tried for murder but acquitted; Lestrade is certain she was guilty, but there was insufficient evidence.*
"Christ. So, what's their game? What was paying Mr. Wilson to print Wikipedia supposed to accomplish?"
*Exactly what it did accomplish: his absence from the building for several hours at a time.*
"Okay, but why?"
*Where did the soil in the skip come from?*
"No idea. With that much, you'd think someone was digging a....no. That's ridiculous. They were digging a tunnel?"
*That is my hypothesis, though I will need to confirm this.*
"So they paid him a couple thousand pounds at least, just to get him out of the building so he wouldn't hear the excavation? That's beyond mad."
*But much less expensive than the rent on the neighboring buildings.*
"Still, what's in this tunnel that's worth so much to them?"
*We'll find out tomorrow.*
"And now we arrive at the most disturbing omission. What are you doing while I'm sitting in the coffee shop?"
*Finding a way into the pawnshop and locating the tunnel.*
"Why did I even bother to ask? Of course you are." He shook his head. "Remind me, why couldn't I have called Mr. Wilson and said 'tonight before you leave on holiday, can I take a look in your cellar?'"
*While I think it unlikely that he is involved, I cannot be certain. Also, it might alert Ms. Clay or her accomplices.*
"Assuming nosing around their skip didn't. Why am I even bothering to complain? Of course I'm going to sit in that coffee shop and wait while you go spelunking."
And for once, the investigation went smoothly. I was able to find an unlocked window that I could open, and I ultimately made my way to the cellar. The hole was concealed by a sheet of plywood leaning against the wall, leaving enough space that I could enter without disturbing the board. The tunnel itself was quite impressive—the diameter was narrow enough that I was forced to walk, which was tedious, but the space was well reinforced. I suspected that one of the accomplices had a background in mining or perhaps civil engineering. When I reached the end of the tunnel, where suspicious boxes sat in niches dug out of the walls and floor, I checked the distance I had covered and the changes in direction.
No, that is a common misconception about birds. I have a degree of innate navigational ability, but I only experience it flying outside during daylight, and then only to the extent that I can tell my general direction. For most of my navigation, I use the same techniques you would use—familiar routes, landmarks, the position of the sun when it is visible, intensive study of maps. None of this is useful in a tunnel. I am, however, good at estimating distances and angles, and my estimates confirmed my suspicions about their target.
The problem with a tunnel is that cell reception is, to put it mildly, dubious. When I had made my notes, taken photographs, stolen a sample out of one of the boxes that was not too tightly sealed, and walked back to the cellar, I discovered several messages waiting for me.
*spaulding and two men just rode up*
*lot of boxes strapped on their bikes; don't seem that heavy*
*they're unlocking the door*
*where the hell are you?*
*they're still unloading boxes. hurry.*
*i hope wilson isn't involved because i'm calling him*
*he says they shouldn't be there—giving you five more minutes before i call lestrade*
It had been three minutes; I responded. *Call Lestrade now.*
*thank god. get out of there.*
*I may be delayed; they are in the cellar. Tell Lestrade this might be Peter Jones's bailiwick and they should check the northeast wall of the cellar.*
*jones as in counter-terrorism command???*
*Yes. I suspect the target is ----*
I apologize, but I really mustn't tell you. Several people, Mycroft among them, have been adamant that the threat not be publicized.
John soon replied. *called lestrade. if you're caught, i'm giving notice.*
*I am being very quiet and am concealed behind a filing cabinet.*
*it's been nearly ten minutes. where the fuck are you?*
*Vulgarities are unnecessary. I am still concealed. Clay and the red-headed accomplice are in the tunnel; the other accomplice is in the cellar.*
*lestrade and jones both here. any bright ideas on how i should explain it when they find you?*
*I am out of the building. Where are you?*
*in front. do i want to know how you got out?*
*Since I knew he was here, I imitated Lestrade's voice and scared accomplice 2 into the tunnel.*
*that's surprisingly typical parrot behaviour.*
*I eschew nothing that helps in my work. Since DI Jones is here, when I land, pretend to be annoyed that I flew off.*
*not remotely difficult.*
The following two hours were tedious, though at least I was able to sit on John's shoulder, my flight vest leashed to his jacket, rather than returning to the carrier. Lestrade commented on Mr. Adler's skills, with only a hint of sarcasm in his tone. Ms. Clay and her accomplices were captured; the boxes in the tunnel proved to contain explosives and—no, I can't tell you that part either. I will only say that if successful, it would have been an enormous disaster, killing thousands and damaging an important portion of London's infrastructure.
And while we are on the topic of damage, what is the news?
Why didn't you have them brought in earlier? Mr. Moriarty's clues are far more important than my life story.
That indeed is a match for the sock containing John's phone; I cannot tell whether its emptiness is intentional or something was removed, but perhaps the next sock will give us a hint.
And this other sock—this is John's wallet; I recognize these scratches. I suspect it was emptied before being placed in the sock; certainly someone finding it would not have bothered to replace it in the sock after removing the identification and money.
I will ask the pigeons to keep looking for socks, though this means I will be hearing about random socks for the next year at least. One must make certain sacrifices.
What did I do with what sample? Oh, the sample I took from the box in the tunnel; I did not explain that earlier, did I? Simply a piece of explosive. It has since been disposed of. It might not have been valid as evidence in court, as the circumstances of its collection did not follow accepted procedure, but it would have been sufficient if I had needed to convince Mycroft of the danger. Fortunately it proved unnecessary. I apologize; I am sufficiently stressed that I am providing irrelevant details.
Odd. Have there been any further events?
No? I am perturbed by this. Please check with Mycroft or the Yard again.
Chapters 9 and 10 on DW
Chapters 11 and 12 on DW
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Length: 27K words
Also on AO3. Now caught up with what's posted on AO3; rest of story will be posted later this week.
Chapters 1 and 2 on DW
Chapters 3 and 4 on DW
Chapters 5 and 6 on DW
Session 7
No, I will not tell you the significance of that date. When Mycroft says that he will arrange for a nuclear missile strike at this location rather than allow me to publicise it, I am reasonably sure he is exaggerating, but I prefer not to test that hypothesis, even though his house is also in the blast radius. Besides, that date is my ultimate weapon, and one I do not care to cast aside.
Yes, I am willing to keep talking to you. This is now a waiting game. Moriarty will respond, or will strike again; Mycroft's people or the Yard will, I hope, soon find the socks the pigeons reported. I must keep myself calm so I can process data, and so I can present the persona of Richard Adler when it is next called for.
The firm of Richard S. Adler, consulting detective, was actually John's idea.
John's finances, in spite of his careful spending, were in poor shape. His pension was insufficient to cover all his expenses, even though our flatshare reduced his housing costs. He took locum work at a clinic, but our work on cases with the Yard began to interfere with his hours. A few times I had to work without him, which was unbearably tedious.
One day, I said to him, *Why don't you just take the salary Mycroft offered? Nothing would change except your account balances.*
"Because it's bad enough that he owns you; I don't want him to own me too."
*Little fear of that. Slavery has been illegal in Britain effectively since 1772.*
John snorted and went to the kitchen to make tea. I pondered the problem further and came up with another idea. *What if I hired you as my caretaker? Then Mycroft wouldn't be paying you.*
He actually gave that thought some consideration but finally shook his head. "I'm happier with income that doesn't depend on Mr. Holmes's goodwill."
*You could apply to the Yard. Then you'd have a job and I'd still be able to work with you.*
"Medical discharge, remember? I'd never pass the physical. Now, if you really were a consultant...." He became lost in thought until the kettle summoned him. "Sherlock, did you have to build this contraption right here?"
*I'm building a pump, and I need that space.*
He sighed. "I'm better off not knowing why you're building a pump, aren't I?"
*Better off, no. Happier, probably. You might want to find out whether Mrs. Hudson has a drain auger and basin wrench.*
"This week in 221B Theatre: Das Boot. God save me from bored parrots." A few minutes later, when he was settled with his tea, he said, "What if we set you up in business as a consulting detective?"
*I already am a consulting detective.*
"As an independent one, not just with the Yard."
*John, I doubt that anyone will be willing to hire a macaw to solve an interesting case. And Mycroft will cage me if I keep talking to strangers.*
"That's where I'd come in. I'd be your face to the world. You'd be Nero Wolfe; I'd be Archie Goodwin. You'd be the brains; I'd be the brawn—well, relatively speaking."
*Who are Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Goodwin?*
"Never mind. You'd be the one actually solving the cases; I'd just be your go-between. And then you'd have your own income to pay me as your assistant."
I do not know why I had never thought of the idea myself. Perhaps it is a limitation of my imagination. But the more I considered it, the more it appealed. I agreed to a trial of the idea, and we set up the website and gradually began to receive cases. We still worked with the Yard, of course, but now we had our own work to fill the other days.
Some cases were boring and simple. Like the case where a man was desperately searching for a lost contract that his fiancée's brother had concealed under the man's mattress before he came down with the flu and was bedridden for three weeks. Or the case where a valuable French coin turned out to have been hidden in one of six cream slices. Once I had solved one of those cases, I would spend the rest of the evening complaining to John that at least Lestrade only called me in for interesting cases. John always listened until I had had my say, and then calmly asked whether we should disband the firm and have him go back to locum work. I responded by dropping the television remote in his lap and telling him to complete the damage he'd already done to his brain with flickering images, then went to my box, slept for twelve hours, and made certain to fill and start the kettle when I heard him in the morning. He always understood that it was an apology and accepted it as such.
How is that a remotely relevant question? Of course a kettle is challenging for me to lift when it is empty and impossible when it is full. That is why I attach a length of tubing to the sink tap. Why does a tool-using species find it so difficult to comprehend that one might use tools to accomplish a task?
But some cases were fascinating. The missing man who was revealed to have made begging a full-time career; the music teacher who was being stalked while she trained for a triathlon—those cases were worth my effort for the pleasure they gave me. And I must admit that there is satisfaction in a material reward for one's work as well, even though in a strict legal sense I do not actually own that reward.
Let me tell you about my favourite case. Someone contacted us asking if we would be willing to help him regarding a firm that had mysteriously dissolved. John was annoyed at me for strewing nutshells on the bathroom floor, so in spite of the apparent ordinariness of the case, he invited the man to visit.
There is not much to say about Mr. Wilson himself—yes, yet another Wilson; it is an extremely common name. A pawnbroker, living above his shop, whose business was unsuccessful despite the economic recession—that says everything about his competence. An unusual first name, suggesting parents who were members of a fundamentalist Christian sect or who had poor judgment in choosing deceased relatives to honour; more likely the former, making the pawnshop an act of rebellion. Poorly dressed; poorly groomed. Evidence of past travel to East Asia; evidence of membership in the Masons; evidence of a sedentary lifestyle; evidence of mild repetitive stress injury. His only striking feature was hair of a reddish-orange colour, brighter than the fur of a red fox. Distinctive for a human, but still dull when compared to a scarlet macaw.
Of course I did not speak with him myself. When we have clients at the flat, I will either sit on my perch or wait in John's room and observe via camera, depending on how concerned about confidentiality the client seems. If I am on the perch, I never speak; I only squawk or imitate the doorbell and the microwave timer, and I leave the room before sending messages to John's laptop. The client departs thinking I am an ordinary bird, and I do not receive annoyed emails from Mycroft later.
For Mr. Wilson's visit, I remained in the room; he ignored me, other than asking if I was nailed to the perch.
Yes, I am aware of the source. I have never watched it, but given the number of times it has been quoted to me, I can make a reasonable reconstruction of the speech. I have no idea why it is considered funny; it is simply an exaggerated and repetitive statement that a parrot is dead.
On bare summary, the case seemed devoid of interest. Mr. Wilson had answered a dubious advertisement; he had worked for a firm for some weeks; the firm had abruptly closed. I considered taking a nap and leaving him completely to John; clearly Mr. Wilson was the type of person who would answer a Nigerian email plea and later wonder how his bank accounts had been emptied.
Then Mr. Wilson showed John the original advertisement, and John set it down where I could read it.
It was indeed a curious advertisement: an opening in an organisation limited to red-headed men, paying 250 pounds a week for unspecified nominal work. The limitation made it quite different from the usual scams posted on that site; my interest was piqued.
"That's very unusual," John said. "How did you run across it?"
"My assistant Vinnie. She brought it in one day, said that I should apply."
Wilson had actually had the sense at first to consider it an unlikely job, but finally he decided there could be no harm in answering the advertisement. He sent a photograph, was invited to interview, and was hired immediately.
To earn the money, he was required to be present doing the work from 9:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m., and to never leave the room, even for lunch. A supervisor stayed in the room with him for the first several days, and a camera served as backup confirmation. Mr. Wilson was, however, very pleased to point out that he never even considered leaving his post.
The work itself was to print out as much of Wikipedia as possible; a printer was supplied, but Mr. WIlson was expected to bring his own paper. I have never seen John try so hard to refrain from laughter, especially when Mr. Wilson spoke proudly of finding the settings for double-sided printing and 4-up page layout to conserve paper, but John did master himself sufficiently to complete the interview.
Mr. Wilson worked at the job for several weeks and was paid his salary in cash every week. His story was, I noticed, inconsistent regarding exactly how many weeks he had worked, which led me to suspect that it had been a larger number than he admitted to and that Inland Revenue had not been informed about his new income source. But as they were not my client, I ignored this.
Then, on the previous day, he had gone to the office and found a sign on the door stating that the firm had been dissolved. He had inquired but could find no information on what had happened to the firm. Distraught, he had returned to his pawnshop; his assistant had said that surely his employer would email or send a letter, but Mr. Wilson had been uncomforted.
"I can see why you're sorry to lose the position," John said, once again in his role of kind listener. "Let me make sure I've taken down all the details correctly."
That was my cue to leave the room and send any further questions to John. It was an obvious hypothesis that the assistant was somehow involved, and Mr. Wilson's answers only strengthened my suspicions, especially when he mentioned that she worked for a much lower salary than one might expect. When he told John that he might be hard to contact over the weekend as he would be taking a short holiday, I formed the further hypothesis—
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
now now, dickie-bird, no need to be shirty. i gave johnny my number, but he obvsly didn't pass it on. incompetent.
johnny doesn't look too happy right now. wonder why? could it be bcs he failed another puzzle?
maybe you can solve my puzzles instead! you missed 1, but still time for 2. ill be in touch! does yr bird ever play carrier pigeon? xoxoxo
Oh! I remember him now.
We met at Barts. There was a corpse I needed to see, so John and I went to the morgue. And he came in, supposedly to see Hooper. She introduced him as her boyfriend, Jim, who worked in the IT department. I knew from observation that the IT portion was correct—had just finished upgrading someone's operating system and installing a new printer; Mac user at home even though most of the Barts computers ran Windows —but found it unlikely that he was her boyfriend; her interest was genuine, but he seemed more attracted to John and indeed slipped him a card with a phone number. I borrowed his phone to check whether it matched the number on the card and was intrigued that it didn't, but I assumed that the card was a personal number, a different cell phone or perhaps a landline. John and I went to lunch with Dr. Stamford afterwards, and John threw the card away.
Why do you say it is a pity? I still remember the number.
It is not amazing; it is simply how my brain works. Am I cleared to text as well as to post?
Good. Give me a minute; John tells people that Richard Adler is unable to type quickly, so I must slow my response. Also, let Mycroft know to investigate a James or Jim in IT at Barts.
To: [REDACTED]
Is your first name actually James, Mr. Moriarty? --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
richard! you found my number! im so happy!
time to play! its christmas in june! i didn't have crackers, so i left you stockings.
but its not a party without the bangs. xoxoxo jm
To: [REDACTED]
One sock has been found, Mr. Moriarty. How many more should I expect? --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
spoilers! xoxo jm
To: [REDACTED]
An extra layer of challenge, I see. It would be much easier for me to search for them if my assistant were released. --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
but that would be no fun, richard. don't you have friends at scotland yard? make your norwegian blue earn his treats.
and call me jim. i insist. ill be in touch soon! xoxoxo jm
Session 8
After all this waiting, it is a pleasure to finally take action, even such a small action as communicating directly with Mr. Moriarty. I assume that Mycroft's people will try to track him, though I suspect Mr. Moriarty's people have taken the same precautions with his phone that Mycroft's people have taken with mine. It is a pity that we cannot yet find where he and John are. Though now that I can communicate with him, it may not matter so much where he is now, if I can convince him to—well, we shall see.
Have the socks been retrieved yet?
How long does it take? I could have flown there and back by now.
Very well; we are still waiting, so I will continue my story.
After John saw Mr. Wilson off, he said to me, "At least I don't need to apologize for boring you."
*You have yet to bore me. Now, Mr. Wilson bores me, but his case is interesting indeed.*
"Do you have any ideas?"
*Why is obvious, and who is at least partially so. But I am mystified as to what. It's quite the three-pencil problem.*
John sighed. "No pencils, Sherlock."
*Do you take Anderson's advice about bird care, or mine?*
"Actually, Anderson agrees with you that they're safe enough, but I like being able to write without getting splinters. What's wrong with your chew sticks?"
*They're boring. Pencils snap in a more interesting way, and I like the taste of graphite.*
We compromised on one pencil, one hazelnut, and two chew sticks. After a few hours on my perch, I told John, *We need to go visit his pawn shop. I want to see the area.*
By that time, we had started to use public transit and cabs in addition to or instead of Mycroft's car. I have a collapsible nylon carrier that I can easily escape from, so I appear sufficiently contained to comfort passengers and transit officials. I still prefer the car, but while John is willing for us to use it when we work for the Yard, he is not comfortable using it for our firm's cases. I humour him, and the people-watching is certainly not without interest.
I may not give you the exact location of Mr. Wilson's pawn shop, though I have no doubt you could find it out easily. The nature of the case has made it necessary for me to be more reticent with this portion of the story.
When we arrived at the pawnshop, it had already closed for the night, and a woman who I suspected was Mr. Wilson's assistant was locking the shop door. John pretended disappointment to have missed business hours and talked to her for a few minutes while I examined her. Traces of soil on her shoes and knees and under her nails; signs of heavy tool use on her hands; an accent that gave away hints of higher-class origins than she affected; near-shaved head, tattoos on her shoulders, both within the last four months; one pair of ear piercings that was several years old, two others that were far more recent; makeup on her forehead, but not her cheeks or lips; a face I recognized from police records and old news articles.
We walked away down the street; when I was sure she was out of sight, I sent John to investigate around the pawnshop while I made an aerial survey. The flight confirmed what I had not been able to determine from online maps. I returned to find John looking in a skip behind the shop. He waved me over, and because we were in public, texted me. *is someone trying to turn this into an allotment??*
The earth in the skip was consistent with what one might expect—I have not made a *thorough* study of the soils of London, but I can at least identify the general regions, and this earth could easily have come from that location. There was also a great deal of it.
I replied, *It's awaiting disposal, obviously. Take pictures, get a sample, and let's go home. We're done here for today.*
That evening, when we were settled with a curry for John and a bowl of mixed nuts for me, John said, "Let me guess. You've solved the case but are waiting for the best moment to do a dramatic reveal."
*Hardly. If I were certain of the solution, I would tell you. But in case my conclusions are wrong, I prefer that at least one of us have a clear head to accept new facts.*
"That's the nicest way anyone's ever called me empty-headed. Teasing, Sherlock. So what are we doing tomorrow?"
*Staking out the pawnshop. There's a coffee shop on the corner where you can watch for the supposed Ms. Spaulding and her accomplices.*
"The number of things you didn't say in that sentence is incredibly disturbing."
*What? I was perfectly clear.*
"To another genius, maybe. Let's see if an ordinary bloke like me can unpack it. You believe that Vinnie Spaulding is involved. That makes sense; she's the one who brought the ad to Wilson's attention. You said accomplices, so you suspect criminal activity."
*Of course. It's—*
"Obvious, yes."
I turned my laptop away from him. *Stop reading my messages before I send them.*
He ignored me. "You also said 'the supposed Ms. Spaulding', which implies that it's an alias."
*Joanna Clay. She served time for theft and possession of explosives. She was also tried for murder but acquitted; Lestrade is certain she was guilty, but there was insufficient evidence.*
"Christ. So, what's their game? What was paying Mr. Wilson to print Wikipedia supposed to accomplish?"
*Exactly what it did accomplish: his absence from the building for several hours at a time.*
"Okay, but why?"
*Where did the soil in the skip come from?*
"No idea. With that much, you'd think someone was digging a....no. That's ridiculous. They were digging a tunnel?"
*That is my hypothesis, though I will need to confirm this.*
"So they paid him a couple thousand pounds at least, just to get him out of the building so he wouldn't hear the excavation? That's beyond mad."
*But much less expensive than the rent on the neighboring buildings.*
"Still, what's in this tunnel that's worth so much to them?"
*We'll find out tomorrow.*
"And now we arrive at the most disturbing omission. What are you doing while I'm sitting in the coffee shop?"
*Finding a way into the pawnshop and locating the tunnel.*
"Why did I even bother to ask? Of course you are." He shook his head. "Remind me, why couldn't I have called Mr. Wilson and said 'tonight before you leave on holiday, can I take a look in your cellar?'"
*While I think it unlikely that he is involved, I cannot be certain. Also, it might alert Ms. Clay or her accomplices.*
"Assuming nosing around their skip didn't. Why am I even bothering to complain? Of course I'm going to sit in that coffee shop and wait while you go spelunking."
And for once, the investigation went smoothly. I was able to find an unlocked window that I could open, and I ultimately made my way to the cellar. The hole was concealed by a sheet of plywood leaning against the wall, leaving enough space that I could enter without disturbing the board. The tunnel itself was quite impressive—the diameter was narrow enough that I was forced to walk, which was tedious, but the space was well reinforced. I suspected that one of the accomplices had a background in mining or perhaps civil engineering. When I reached the end of the tunnel, where suspicious boxes sat in niches dug out of the walls and floor, I checked the distance I had covered and the changes in direction.
No, that is a common misconception about birds. I have a degree of innate navigational ability, but I only experience it flying outside during daylight, and then only to the extent that I can tell my general direction. For most of my navigation, I use the same techniques you would use—familiar routes, landmarks, the position of the sun when it is visible, intensive study of maps. None of this is useful in a tunnel. I am, however, good at estimating distances and angles, and my estimates confirmed my suspicions about their target.
The problem with a tunnel is that cell reception is, to put it mildly, dubious. When I had made my notes, taken photographs, stolen a sample out of one of the boxes that was not too tightly sealed, and walked back to the cellar, I discovered several messages waiting for me.
*spaulding and two men just rode up*
*lot of boxes strapped on their bikes; don't seem that heavy*
*they're unlocking the door*
*where the hell are you?*
*they're still unloading boxes. hurry.*
*i hope wilson isn't involved because i'm calling him*
*he says they shouldn't be there—giving you five more minutes before i call lestrade*
It had been three minutes; I responded. *Call Lestrade now.*
*thank god. get out of there.*
*I may be delayed; they are in the cellar. Tell Lestrade this might be Peter Jones's bailiwick and they should check the northeast wall of the cellar.*
*jones as in counter-terrorism command???*
*Yes. I suspect the target is ----*
I apologize, but I really mustn't tell you. Several people, Mycroft among them, have been adamant that the threat not be publicized.
John soon replied. *called lestrade. if you're caught, i'm giving notice.*
*I am being very quiet and am concealed behind a filing cabinet.*
*it's been nearly ten minutes. where the fuck are you?*
*Vulgarities are unnecessary. I am still concealed. Clay and the red-headed accomplice are in the tunnel; the other accomplice is in the cellar.*
*lestrade and jones both here. any bright ideas on how i should explain it when they find you?*
*I am out of the building. Where are you?*
*in front. do i want to know how you got out?*
*Since I knew he was here, I imitated Lestrade's voice and scared accomplice 2 into the tunnel.*
*that's surprisingly typical parrot behaviour.*
*I eschew nothing that helps in my work. Since DI Jones is here, when I land, pretend to be annoyed that I flew off.*
*not remotely difficult.*
The following two hours were tedious, though at least I was able to sit on John's shoulder, my flight vest leashed to his jacket, rather than returning to the carrier. Lestrade commented on Mr. Adler's skills, with only a hint of sarcasm in his tone. Ms. Clay and her accomplices were captured; the boxes in the tunnel proved to contain explosives and—no, I can't tell you that part either. I will only say that if successful, it would have been an enormous disaster, killing thousands and damaging an important portion of London's infrastructure.
And while we are on the topic of damage, what is the news?
Why didn't you have them brought in earlier? Mr. Moriarty's clues are far more important than my life story.
That indeed is a match for the sock containing John's phone; I cannot tell whether its emptiness is intentional or something was removed, but perhaps the next sock will give us a hint.
And this other sock—this is John's wallet; I recognize these scratches. I suspect it was emptied before being placed in the sock; certainly someone finding it would not have bothered to replace it in the sock after removing the identification and money.
I will ask the pigeons to keep looking for socks, though this means I will be hearing about random socks for the next year at least. One must make certain sacrifices.
What did I do with what sample? Oh, the sample I took from the box in the tunnel; I did not explain that earlier, did I? Simply a piece of explosive. It has since been disposed of. It might not have been valid as evidence in court, as the circumstances of its collection did not follow accepted procedure, but it would have been sufficient if I had needed to convince Mycroft of the danger. Fortunately it proved unnecessary. I apologize; I am sufficiently stressed that I am providing irrelevant details.
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
im disappointed, dickie-bird. you didn't solve my puzzle. no xo jm
Odd. Have there been any further events?
No? I am perturbed by this. Please check with Mycroft or the Yard again.
To: [REDACTED]
Might I point out that you have at least five people working for you, while I have only an assistant and a parrot, one of whom I am deprived of?
If I succeed in solving your puzzles, it will be proof of my intellectual superiority. If I fail, it does not prove your intellectual superiority, merely your numerical. Though I grant that your book, assuming you are the same James Moriarty, reaches such rarefied heights that it could only have been written by a mathematical and computing genius. --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
youve heard of on the numerical analysis of asteroid dynamics???? richard! im astounded! xoxoxo jm
To: [REDACTED]
Heard of it? My dear sir, I have read it. Is it indeed yours? --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
yes its mine!! yr the first person i ever met whos read it! xoxoxo jm
To: [REDACTED]
It was fascinating. Are the bugs in program 27 your error or the publisher's?
I have just received a report of a gas explosion at another block of flats. Yours, or coincidence? --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
printer didnt correct that on the proofs. i fixed their process. ha!
you really are smart! so why arent you solving my puzzles? if you solved you'd know the answer to q2. johnny doesnt look too good right now! try again, richard! xoxoxo jm
Chapters 9 and 10 on DW
Chapters 11 and 12 on DW