Sherlock Holmes: Before Baker Street David Marcum (reading eggs books .TXT) 📖

may have found the wallet, Escott,” snarled Gunn, “but you can’t prove it was I who stole it.”

“I mentioned trouser-knees before, did I not? In my eagerness to confront Flint, I neglected to mention the equally important cuffs of shirtsleeves. There is much to be learned from them as well as from knees. It was Flint who initially pickpocketed the wallet and placed it beneath the trap door. But it was Gunn who, having watched all this transpire, removed the wallet from Flint’s hiding place and hid it in the dry samovar – though not carefully enough to prevent some errant tea from staining his right-sleeve cuff. I have no doubt that after removing his costume, he would have gone straight to the samovar to retrieve his booty.”

Watley now took command of his company, issuing orders to the stagehands regarding Gunn and Flint: “Throw them out! The both of them. Take them to the alley in the back.”

Grabbing the thieves by the shoulders, the big men shoved the two down the stage and off into the wings. Moments later, we could hear the rear door open and the rush of falling rain. A wet smell wafted onto the stage. Then there were thudding sounds of bodies being struck and the slam of a door.

“Well done, sir!” Watley crowed, slapping Escott on the back. “Well done, indeed! No need for the police when William Escott is present, eh?”

Amidst a final cascade of compliments, the members of the cast began to disperse. The moment offered me the opportunity to express my own appreciation.

“I’d like to thank you, Mr. Escott,” I said. “Perhaps you would honour me as a my guest for a late-night dinner. If you can recommend a place within my meagre means, I would be happy to host you.”

Escott clasped my hand. “I would be more than happy to spend the time with you, sir,” said he, “but there’s no need for you to go to any such expense. I shall pay my own way.”

I am afraid that a blush crossed my face, and I scratched at my hands. This clever fellow had already noted the economical status of my travel tickets – the second-class cabin arrangements aboard the Devonia and the seat aboard one of the infamous “emigrant trains”. Everyone knew that such a railway was devised to convey the newly arrived – and therefore the most frugal of people – westward in the least expensive manner imaginable. Yet if Escott recognized that my claim to literary recognition had so far produced no outward signs of monetary success, he kept silent on the matter.

“My father,” I explained. “He’s cut off my allowance. He doesn’t approve of this romantic journey – or, for that matter, of my decision to drop law in favour of writing.”

“We each must follow our own paths,” Escott observed.

The actor requested a few minutes to exchange his sea-cook’s costume for more traditional garb. He soon reappeared, and after yet again being congratulated by the remaining members of the troupe, he donned his mackintosh and deerstalker, such as I had seen growing up in Scotland, a unique affair with bills in front and back and earflaps that tied together at the top. Jones and I put on our own macs and flat caps and, thus prepared to face the drenched streets of New York City, set out to find a restaurant that fit my requirements.

In fact, Escott knew a French establishment not far from the theatre. Indeed, one glance at the bill of faire and I realised the restaurant would fulfil my culinary desires as well as my financial requirements. Once inside, I placed my skullcap, frayed as the gold braid clearly was, atop my head again and joined Escott and Jones in a most satisfactory repast. It was, in fact, during this meal that Escott reported to us the salient facts about his life that I presented to you earlier – the details of his acting career, his visit to Hatchards, his trip to New York City, and his interest in becoming a consulting detective.

I must say that in light of all the challenging events of the day, it was quite an enjoyable dinner – even if the wine and chicken did not pass for authentic coq au vin. To be honest, I was most appreciative of the coffee. The wretched brew on the ship tasted of snuff. Indeed, you really could not tell it apart from the tea.

Following dinner, we shared cigarettes – I rolled my favourite Three Castles – and after a few puffs I began to cough.

Both Escott and Jones showed signs of concern as my hacking went on. But I waved them off with a few flicks of my hand.

“Not to worry,” I told my companions and immediately changed the subject. “You know of my scribbling,” I said to Escott. “I’m hoping to produce a narrative of this trip worthy of publication.”

My new friends both raised their glasses.

“To your next work,” said Escott.

I smiled, having decided to share a thought I had been mulling over most of the evening, a thought that I had actually been contemplating well before witnessing the night’s performance. The affair with the wallet had temporarily put it out of mind. You must believe that months before the curtain went up on Robinson Crusoe I had begun nurturing a plot for a full-length work of fiction that would take place at sea.

“Whatever happens during my journey west, I have a new plan for an adventurous novel, and, Escott, I owe it to you.”

The actor cocked an eyebrow.

“No, really, Escott. You see, for some time now I’ve been considering a sea story. Your panto started me thinking about it again – in particular, your portrayal of the one-legged sea cook and that empty hidey-hole you discovered. They’ve helped me move the plot along. So have some of