Читать книгу The Case of the Misplaced Models - Tessa Barding - Страница 8

It started out nice enough. The morning I moved into 221B Baker Street was a typical English spring day, grey and overcast, but dry, thankfully.

It didn’t take long to haul my belongings upstairs and put bed, sofa, and shelves back together, and when my helpers took their leave, I promised the next pub night would entirely be on me, which earned me cheers and warnings to start saving.

I knew they’d hold me to my promise, but that was all right. Not one of them had developed sudden back problems, nobody’s family had had to face an oncoming plague, nobody’s cousin thrice removed had died – they’d promised to help and had all shown up on time. Well, all but Karim who was travelling, as usual, but I didn’t hold that against him as his job often required him to travel at short notice.

Sherlock had mentioned he was going to move in the day before me and, when we arrived, there was indeed some stuff in the living room, but he wasn’t around and remained absent long after the lads had left.

I’d have liked to talk things through with him – what was to go where, who’d use which space in the fridge, in the freezer, in the bathroom cabinet; would we mix our cutlery and crockery or would this be a ‘my space – your space’ kind of arrangement?

Well, I’d start unpacking, and if there were things he felt needed further discussing, then discuss them we would.

About half of my wardrobe was taken up already and I raised my eyebrows as I inspected the extent of the invasion. ‘Borrow a third’, or so Sherlock had said. Well, well.

I glanced over the row of suits and jackets that lined the rail – classic colours, most of them, dark blues, greys, even a pinstripe. From what I’d seen of Sherlock so far, I would not have taken him for a suit person. But then, we’d only met on three occasions, and I had no idea what he did for a living. He could very well be a freelance consultant working for the banks and law firms – the business district crawled with them, and they came in all shapes and colours.

My clothes, shoes, books, CDs and DVDs were out of their bags and boxes and sorted into shelves and wardrobe in no time. I’d been in the military for too long and had moved too often to hoard a lot of things and hoped this would change. Not the hoarding part but the moving around bit. I was tired of packing and unpacking, and I was quite ready to settle down for a while, and this flat looked nice enough to make it my home for the next couple of years.

I really hoped Sherlock and I would get along because I wasn’t too keen on living by myself. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know what to do with myself, but I liked having company, I liked shared meals, I liked a chat over breakfast.

Loud squeaking brought me out of my musings and back into reality. The guinea pigs. I had forgotten all about them for a moment. They were still sitting in their transport box and were probably fed up and hungry so I quickly got their cage ready.

‘Welcome home, boys,’ I said, taking them out of their box. ‘You’ll bunk with me until I’ve decided on your spot.’

No reply. They vanished into in their little house, muttering to themselves, probably pouting and cursing me out.

The kitchen was next. The table was occupied by a microscope, something that looked like a Bunsen burner and – were these preparation slides and dishes? Was Sherlock a hobby chemist? If that was the case, we would definitely have to sit down and talk because experiments and food? Not a good combination if you ask me.

The cupboards on the wall were empty when I opened them for inspection, as was all other storage space. A few plastic boxes sat in the fridge, but the freezer was empty. Fine. I’d just spread out as I saw fit and start cleaning.

‘John, why on earth are you scrubbing the bathroom?’

I started. Sherlock was standing in the bathroom door with an expression on his face that was half puzzled, half accusing.

‘Because it’s too dirty for me to want to use it?’ I offered and wiped my wet hands on the towel. ‘Hello, Sherlock.’

‘You really don’t need to do that. I’ve arranged for a cleaning squad to swing by tomorrow.’

‘A cleaning squad?’

‘Well, yes.’ He gestured towards the bathtub. ‘No way I’m going to take a shower in there.’ He came a little closer and eyed my work. ‘Then again, it’s good for use now.’

‘Thank you. I take it you haven’t been staying here?’

‘Good grief, no. With the kitchen still empty and the bathroom that dirty? I had my things delivered the day before yesterday, hooked up the wifi, did some work, played the violin to check the acoustics – pointless, really, what with the furniture missing and all – and stayed over at Mycroft’s.’

‘Your what?’

‘What do you mean, my what?’

‘You said you were staying over at your–?’

‘At my – oh!’ He grinned. ‘Mycroft. My brother.’

‘That’s an unusual name.’

‘How many Sherlocks do you know?’

‘The Jew in that Shakespeare play?’

‘That’s Shylock.’

‘Oh. Right. So, you’re going to stay at your brother’s tonight, too?’

‘I don’t think so.’ He looked around the bathroom. ‘There’s nothing left to be done in here.’

‘You could have left a note. I had no idea you have a cleaning squad at your disposal.’

‘I do not. I borrowed Mycroft’s staff.’

‘His… staff?’ I echoed. ‘What is he, a lord or something?’

Sherlock snorted. ‘He’s not. Although, sometimes I’m not so sure he knows that. Anyway, let me ring them up and cancel. Now that we’re both here, we should be done in no time, right?’

‘Well, I’m almost done in here.’

‘I see that. When you’re finished, you can help me unpack, yes?’

And he was out of the bathroom. I looked after him, shaking my head. If his brother had misgivings about being a lord, then what did that make Sherlock? Little Lord Fauntleroy? When you’re finished help me unpack indeed.

But I did, in the end. Help him unpack. Watching him take his things out of the boxes one by one and look at them as he wandered around the living room got me all fidgety. Had he never moved house before?

‘Mainly into partly furnished apartments,’ he said when I asked him. ‘Mycroft takes care of organisational stuff, you know, has my things packed and unpacked.’

‘I see. And did he arrange for you to look at this flat, too?’

‘He didn’t. I’d been thinking about moving out of my last apartment for a while – they didn’t like me playing my violin, you see – and when I mentioned as much to Tony, he said a friend of his mother’s was renting out a flat on Baker Street, and here we are.’

He looked rather pleased with himself and for a brief moment I wondered whether I’d just moved in with somebody who’d lived under professional supervision until very recently. I shooed that thought aside because Tony would certainly have dropped a hint, but all he had said was “eccentric” and “a bit of a loner.” Besides, Sherlock had signed the lease himself, with only Mrs Hudson and me around and no supervisor in sight. Maybe that lordly brother of his had merely exaggerated the pampering.

‘Here we are,’ I said in reply to his last remark. ‘Let’s get the rest of your boxes unpacked, shall we?’

Turned out a nudge was all he needed to get going – not a princeling after all – and when we had moved the sideboard against one wall and the shelves against the other and all of Sherlock’s boxes were finally unpacked, our living room looked like a real living room and it wouldn’t be long before it looked homey, too.

‘Are you all set in your bedroom?’ I asked. ‘Or do you need help with anything up there?’

‘No, I’m done. I put my suits and some of my shirts into your wardrobe, like we said.’

‘I saw that.’

‘Do you mind?’

‘No, it’s okay. I just hadn’t taken you to be a suit kind of person.’

‘I’m not. But I find them useful in my line of work.’

‘And what is that?’

‘I’m a consultant,’ he replied, a little evasively.

So I hadn’t been all wrong. ‘Really? A consultant for what?’

‘For people in need of a consultant. Really, John, it’s a lot less intriguing than it may sound. Do you want to see my room?’

‘Sure.’

His room was bigger than I remembered, only a little smaller than mine but offered a lot less storage space because of the slanting roof. The queen-size bed was made but had obviously not been slept in. On it lay a couple of folders and what looked like martial arts equipment, and two boxes stood on the side of the bed facing the wall. One box was open and seemed to contain more folders.

The low wardrobe stood half open and showed the rest of Sherlock’s clothes – jeans, trousers, shirts, jumpers. And shoes. Lots of shoes. More shoes than I had owned in my entire life.

‘Wow,’ I said, impressed. ‘That’s a lot of clothes.’

‘You think so?’ He shrugged. ‘Clothes maketh man.’

‘I thought it was ‘manners maketh man’.’

‘That, too.’ He closed his wardrobe. ‘May I see your room?’

‘Of course.’

He followed me downstairs. ‘Now that’s what I call a very neatly made bed. If I flip a coin on it, will it spring up again?’

‘Probably.’

‘How long have you been in the military?’ He opened my wardrobe and inspected its contents. ‘Did you use a ruler to arrange your stuff like that?’

‘I don’t need one. Years of training, I guess. And I served for nine years.’

He gave a low whistle and closed the wardrobe. ‘Nine years. That’s a long time.’

I shrugged. ‘Didn’t seem like a long time. I liked it.’

‘Why did you leave?’

‘Got injured.’

‘That’s right, your knee. I remember.’

‘And lower leg. Not fit for active duty any longer.’

‘Do you miss it?’

‘Sometimes, yeah.’

‘Are those the guinea pigs?’ He walked over to the corner where the cage stood and crouched down. ‘Where are they?’

‘In hiding.’ I crouched down next to him and opened the cage. ‘Hey you two, meet your new flatmate.’ I lifted the wooden house. Two sets of eyes stared up at us.

‘They’re a bit like fat rats,’ Sherlock observed. ‘Do they do any tricks?’

‘Careful, you’re hurting their feelings,’ I said and put the house back. ‘No tricks.’

‘Boring.’

‘That’s what I thought, too. But they grow on you.’

‘They do? How?’

‘They’re fun little critters. Cute, too. They’re easy pets to have.

You don’t have to walk them and there’s no furballs.’

‘Mhm.’ He didn’t look convinced.

‘Don’t worry, they’re my responsibility. You won’t have to look after them.’

I rose and winced when my leg protested. Hauling furniture and boxes, running up and down the stairs and spending too much time in a crouching position were not among the recommended activities for artificial knees and semi-reconstructed shinbones.

Sherlock, on the other hand, rose from his crouch with an ease I envied.

‘Can I teach them tricks?’

‘You can try,’ I said, a little dubiously. ‘But give them time to get to know you, okay?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m hungry. How about you? Have you eaten?’

‘I haven’t, but I’m not hungry. I need to get some work done.’

‘All right. I think I saw a Thai takeaway around the corner. Want me to get you something for later?’

‘No, thank you. I’ll be upstairs.’

I looked after him as he vanished through the door and up to his bedroom, then reached for my wallet and my jacket with a sigh. Guess I was going to have my first dinner at 221B Baker Street all by myself.