Fic: The Case of the Ancient Cup (part one) (Clark, Bruce, Holmes fusion)
Finally got the first bit of Kira's birthday present out. HAPPY REALLY LATE BIRTHDAY BABY!
Characters and rating are for this part only.
Title: The Case of the Ancient Cup (part one)
Characters: Clark, Bruce, Alfred, Jimmy
Rating: G
Summary: Being a Reprint from the Reminiscences of Clark J. Kent, late of the British Diplomatic Mission to Afghanistan
Notes: Written for: kirax2 's birthday, and au_bingo (prompt: detectives). Kira likes Bruce and Clark. Kira likes Sherlock Holmes. This was the logical result.
Being a Reprint from the Reminiscences of Clark J. Kent, late of the British Diplomatic Mission to Afghanistan
IN the year 1878 I took my degrees in History and Language at the University of London, and thereafter accepted my commission, soon followed by an assignment to accompany Lord Lytton as an attache to his diplomatic mission in Kabul. On arrival in the country, however, our entrance to the Khyber Pass was blocked, and we were met with considerable local resistance. Despite my best efforts and advice, the situation quickly escalated into a full military conflict which continued for some long months.
I have written of my experiences in Afghanistan at some length, and so shall not repeat myself here, as this narrative has another purpose. In brief, I will say that war is a terrible thing for which I believe there is never any justification, no matter how ardently both sides seem to wish it. I was able to do some small good, and to save some few lives during my time there, but I found myself constrained by my position within Her Majesty's Army, and when it was suggested to me that I leave Her Service following certain events I shall not speak further of, here, I found myself most amenable to the change.
It was thus that I found myself returning to London so soon after the start of the affair, somewhat lighter of purse than I had intended to be at the end of the engagement. My parents should, certainly, have welcomed me home to the farm on which I was raised, but it had been a pressing desire to make something of myself which had driven me abroad, and though the path I had originally thought to take to this end was now closed to me, there were, perhaps, other ways available. London was home to several prominent newspapers, the Times and the Telegraph and Courier chief among them, and so it was to London that I went, it becoming my goal to secure employment at such an establishment. And so, taking my papers and the dispensation provided to me for travel, I secured my own transport back to the country of my birth.
London was every bit as crowded and filthy as I had remembered, and just as shocking to the senses as it had been on my very first arrival to the city. My sojourn in Afghanistan, brief though it had been, had, it seemed, been enough of a holiday from the raucous bustle of commerce and the stink of human misery to destroy what immunity I had built during my time at school, leaving me once again to be overwhelmed by the chaos I had, not long ago, been able to filter from my perception as a matter of course. On my arrival in London, I secured temporary lodgings at a hotel with some of the money provided to me for travel, as my own arrangements for such had been considerably less costly than Lord Lytton had likely anticipated. After a wash and a change of suits, I felt better prepared to face the city, and so set out to seek employment.
After some days of inquiry, I found myself still without a source of steady income, though I did manage to sell two short articles on my experiences in Afghanistan, obviously much abridged. One of these articles I sold to The Planet, a paper not so large as the Times but with a respectable readership and a good reputation for honesty in its reporting. It was there that I came upon young Mr. James Olsen, whose acquaintance I had first made at University. He had not been a student there at the time, being both too young and too impoverished for such a course of study, but had been employed on the grounds instead. Despite this, I had found him to be a delightful conversationalist, well-read , and with a similar career ambition, despite our differences in station.
Olsen, I discovered, had apprenticed himself to a printer in my absence, and now worked for The Planet as a typesetter and machinist. The work was more physical than mental, but typesetting requires a certain artistic eye and a steady hand. My young friend possessed both of these traits in spades, and so, despite his youth, he had quickly become a fixture of the company, working long hours on the huge 10-feeder presses. We chatted for a short while as he cleaned yesterday's ink from the sorts and returned them to their wooden trays, catching up on the events of each others' lives during the time I'd spent abroad. We exchanged addresses and, in the course of the conversation, I confessed my current status as something of a transient. Even with the day's new addition to my purse, my funds were growing quite meager, and I felt it likely I would have to seek other lodgings very soon.
The boarding house where Olsen lived was quite full up, and it lacked the sort of privacy I felt I should require. Though my friend promised to make inquiries on my behalf, I left The Planet with a heavy heart, fearing for my future. It seemed likely that I should be returning to the farm very soon, my fortunes no richer than on my departure. My parents would not judge me for the failure, but I could not help judging myself, feeling something like a dog sent slinking home with its tail between its legs. I made up my mind to save a few pennies by forgoing supper, and instead took a long walk, first through Hyde Park, and then, when my feet saw fit to carry me further, off into the city itself.
I paid little attention to where I wandered, and the sun went down while I was still on the streets. I watched the boys with their sticks, lighting the gas lanterns along the avenue, and then I passed, without thinking much of it, out of the lighted lanes and into the darker, narrower streets. There was no more for me here than there would have been back at the hotel, but I have long found movement soothing, and the sights and sounds I passed on my way served to keep my mind occupied, away from dark thoughts.
It was full dark when I heard some sort of struggle. Shaking myself from my reverie, I followed the shouts and sounds of blows to a particularly narrow and filthy alley, where an old woman in a kerchief was fighting for possession of a cloth-bound bundle. The men who had accosted her appeared to be of the roughest sort, and so I stepped in at once to render what aid I could. As I approached, the woman struck a lucky blow with her walking stick and sent one of the ruffians to the ground. I caught one of the two still standing by the collar and dashed him against the wall, hard enough to stun him. The last of the brigands pulled a knife and lunged at me, and, had I not moved quickly, there might have been some disaster. As it was, I made short work of him and soon left him lying beside his fellows.
"Are you hurt, madam?" I inquired. The woman appeared to be quite shaken, staring at me fixedly as I dusted my hands and approached her. She raised her stick to ward me off, and I fell back, not wishing to cause her any further alarm. "I assure you, madam, my intention is only to see to your health."
Age had left the woman somewhat stooped, and she seemed to curl around her package as she stepped away. "I'm un'urt," she said, her accent coarse, her aged voice made deep and thin by coal-smoke. "'ad a shock is all. Nothin' wrong with me a bit a' brandy won't cure." She adjusted her kerchief over her hair and turned to hobble away.
"Please," I called after her, reluctant to step over her assailants to follow her for fear of causing her distress. "Allow me to see you home."
"No, no," she said, dismissively. "I'm near enough, now, and yer wife'll be missin' you." She stopped then and turned back, and, in the lamplight from the cross street, I finally got a good look at her face. She wasn't quite so old as I'd imagined, her eyes sharp and glittering above a crooked nose and a sturdy jaw. "Yer a kind soul, to help an old woman. Best ye be getting back uptown, lad. These fellows is like to have friends."
*
On awakening in the morning, I felt somewhat refreshed. Perhaps I had not yet found employment or permanent lodgings, but I had been able to save a poor soul from some terrible fate. The sun was rising anew, and my father had certainly not raised me to give up easily under adversity. And so it was that I dressed again in my best suit and took up my writing case before striking out into the city again.
It had occurred to me that perhaps I was setting my aim a bit high for first employment, and so I set out for the offices of the Spectator, and, when they declined to have me, the Examiner, and then the Weekly Dispatch. My frustration grew with each office that turned me out, until I finally made up my mind that I might have to take some other position. Perhaps there would me more opportunities available for a bookkeeper or, I thought with some amusement, a clark . If I continued to submit articles and essays, someone might, eventually, offer me a more permanent position.
I resigned myself to this possibility, at least for the time being, and decided to return to the hotel, both to form a new plan of action and to take afternoon tea. I was quite famished by that point, having had nothing much substantial to eat since the previous afternoon. Lost in my thoughts and plans, I paid little attention to my surroundings until I had reached the hotel. It was with some surprise, therefore, that I realized I was being spoken to.
"I beg pardon?" I said to the boy crouched on the hotel's stoop. He was a small thing, slight of body and with a somewhat drawn appearance. His clothes were ill-fitting and ragged, but he had keen blue eyes that peered out at me from under his smudged cap.
"You are Mr. Kent, are you not?" he asked, and I found myself startled by the educated accent he presented. He cleared his throat and continued. "You meet his description, certainly."
Taken aback, there was little I could do but stammer. "My, ah. May I help you with something?
"You're wanted at The Planet, sir," he said, and with a tip of his hat, he was gone, disappearing into the crowded city street as if he'd never been there. My heart leapt into my throat. The Planet! Perhaps I shouldn't be copying out documents, after all!
*
And so it was that without delay I found my way to The Planet and to Mr. Perry White, who was shouting into the telegraph room when I arrived. He broke off when he caught sight of me and, with a clap to the shoulder of the poor soul he'd been haranguing, hurried over to me. "Kent," he barked, and caught me by the elbow in a most familiar way before dragging me into his office and slamming the door. "Still looking for a position?" he asked.
"Oh, yes sir!" I said with great fervor. "Your paper is one of the best in the city, if I may say, sir, and I should be most honored--"
He cut me off, waving his hand and speaking over me as if I weren't still trying to thank him. I felt somewhat offended at the time, but I have since learned this to be his wont; newspaper rooms are noisy places, and Mr. White is a man used to being listened to. "The paper's owner was in this morning, asking me for more coverage of foreign affairs. He was particularly interested in Afghanistan. I showed him your essay. He wants you hired."
At this my heart thrilled. The owner himself! My mother raised me better than to take liberties, but for perhaps the first time in my life I found myself sitting before invited, all but collapsing into one of White's wooden chairs. "I should be most honored to accept." I told him.
We established the terms of my contract; I was to provide short pieces to run each Sunday for the next several months concerning the conflicts and my travels in foreign lands. White was most pleased to learn that I had done rather a bit of wandering before University. Such tales, it seems, are popular, and thought it was not quite what I had intended for myself on coming to London, the position was more than enough to make me happy. In addition to these travel tales, I was of course given other duties, and also the knowledge that, within the world of the broadsheets, speed and exclusivity counted for twice as much as accuracy and insight.
The wages were somewhat modest, and were not enough to continue paying for my hotel for very long, so I was left with one more problem to solve. I stopped off in the print shop to share my good news with Olsen, and also to inquire if he'd heard anything of a room to let.
He was busy arranging type into a composing stick, but he spared a moment to congratulate me and share his own news. "As it happens, I may have found you a flat," he told me. "I was going to pay you a visit in the morning, after the papers had gone out. Met a chap in the pub at tea, said he had a room up on Baker Street."
I thanked him, and, not wishing to be a bother during a task requiring such delicate concentration, I took down the address and set off at once, hoping it might not be considered too late yet to call. The sun was still above the horizon, though only just, and so I hurried there as quickly as I could and, after straightening my tie and generally making myself presentable, I knocked on the door of 221b.
The door was answered by an older man in a fine but somewhat old-fashioned suit. "Good evening," I said in a rush. "I beg pardon for troubling you at such a late hour."
The man, whose name I would later learn was Pennyworth, was tall and rather thin, his gray hair thinning but his eyes still sharp. At my hurried apology, he gave a slight smile. "I assure you," he said, dryly, "this household has seen far stranger comings and goings, and at far less polite hours. Do come in, Master..."
"Kent," I told him as I stepped into the hall and handed him my hat. "My name is Clark Kent, sir, and I was told there was a room to let, here?"
A most peculiar expression crossed Pennyworth's face, then, surprise and, I thought, perhaps, annoyance. He soon schooled his face into polite friendliness, though, with what might have been a touch of amusement. "Were you, now?" He showed me into a large, airy sitting room. "Please, have a seat. I shall return shortly."
"Thank you," I said, and then settled into an armchair and glanced around with some apprehension. The house was rather nicer than I felt I would be able to afford on my salary, but I was determined to inquire, at the very least. There was a small fire in the grate, and the heat of it, in combination with my anxiety, made me wish to loosen my collar. I resisted for the sake of propriety and instead occupied myself with examining my surroundings. The ceiling was high, and free of soot and cobwebs, and there was no scent of tobacco in the air. My mother would certainly have approved. The drapes that framed the two long windows were of a rich, heavy velvet, entirely untouched by dust. Whoever did the housekeeping here was obviously more than up to the task.
A large, gilded mirror hung above the fireplace, and I rose to peer into it, trying vainly to do something with the curling cowlick on my forehead. The painting on the opposite wall caught my eye, and I turned to get a better view. The portrait was of a man and woman, presumably husband and wife, the lady seated in a chair in front of her husband - and lady she surely was, with a bearing so regal and countenance so beautiful and benign. Her husband was a tall man, and broad, with a fine mustache and a lordly set to his shoulders.
"My parents," a deep voice said from behind me, and I spun, startled. I was quite unused to being caught unaware, though I would become accustomed to surprise during my time on Baker Street. The man who had spoken was as tall and broad shouldered as the man in the portrait, clean-shaven but with his dark hair somewhat disheveled and his collar loose. He did not apologize for giving me a fright; instead, he watched me closely with intense blue eyes, his face entirely unsmiling. "Mr. Kent," he said, without introducing himself.
He neither approached nor offered his hand, so I nodded and then stood still under his regard as he circled me. "I was told there was a room to let," I offered.
"Yes," this mysterious stranger said. "Mr. Olsen passed on the message then?"
Despite his slight dishabille, I did not think this man likely to frequent the same pubs as Olsen, but I nodded again. "You are...?"
"Wayne," he said. "Bruce. If you are agreeable, we shall be housemates." He looked me up and down. "You were lodging on the Strand?" And then, with only slightly less surety in his voice, "at the Hotel Westland?"
"Yes, I-" I stopped and felt myself tense, my brow furrowing in puzzlement, as he was quite correct. "How the devil did you know that?"
Wayne's expression did not change, but his eyes shifted slightly, and I sensed that he was taking amusement at my expense. "Simple deduction," he said, "from simple clues. It doesn't matter." His manner changed abruptly, his posture, his eyes, all of it changed, but only slightly. His voice, when he spoke, was lighter, too. "I often keep strange hours, but I'm not terribly noisy when I do, and I will sometimes need the sitting room to entertain visitors. I do a sort of business out of these apartments. I shouldn't expect to inconvenience you overmuch, but as you are a newspaperman, I felt I should warn you in advance of potential disturbance, as you might desire silence to do your work."
Again, I started. He had somehow discerned yet another fact about my person without the need to question. As disconcerting as this was, the concern expressed was both thoughtful and polite, and so I smiled. "You're very considerate, but I am quite capable of working in all sorts of conditions."
Wayne's eyes narrowed. "Excellent. Shall I give you the tour, then?"
"Please do," I said, agreeably, and followed him, wondering all the while at this strange man. He was, I must confess, something of a pleasant enigma to me. I have always loved a good puzzle, and this fellow certainly provided them in spades. He showed me the rooms, stressing the finer points and, I was most pleased to note, some of the detractions as well. The rooms were furnished, and like the hall and the sitting room were impeccably clean. When I remarked on this, Wayne smiled.
"Alfred is the only housekeeper," he told me, his voice fond, "but you will find him to be worth ten servants, at least. He does the cooking as well, and he's quite as excellent at that as he is at everything else."
The very thought made my mouth water, suddenly. I hadn't eaten in a full day, now, and it was near to supper time. Wayne seemed to catch some hint of this in my manner, and he smiled. "You will stay for dinner, of course? To finalize the arrangements?"
The prospect was tempting beyond all reason, but I am an honest man, despite some small necessary deceptions, and I felt it would have been unfair to take advantage of his hospitality. "We have not yet discussed price," I said, reluctantly.
Wayne brushed my concerns aside with a wave of his hand. "I'm sure we can work something out," he said. "You really are an ideal tenant." The compliment made me flush, which seemed to cause Wayne some amusement. He did not smile, but his eyes - eyes I was fast learning as the most changeable part of him - sparkled. "In any case, I've already told Alfred to prepare dinner for two. Would you like a drink while we wait?"
"Thank you," I said with a slight bow, feeling most grateful, and followed him back to the sitting room, where a small tray sat waiting with an apértif.
end part one
Characters and rating are for this part only.
Title: The Case of the Ancient Cup (part one)
Characters: Clark, Bruce, Alfred, Jimmy
Rating: G
Summary: Being a Reprint from the Reminiscences of Clark J. Kent, late of the British Diplomatic Mission to Afghanistan
Notes: Written for: kirax2 's birthday, and au_bingo (prompt: detectives). Kira likes Bruce and Clark. Kira likes Sherlock Holmes. This was the logical result.
Being a Reprint from the Reminiscences of Clark J. Kent, late of the British Diplomatic Mission to Afghanistan
IN the year 1878 I took my degrees in History and Language at the University of London, and thereafter accepted my commission, soon followed by an assignment to accompany Lord Lytton as an attache to his diplomatic mission in Kabul. On arrival in the country, however, our entrance to the Khyber Pass was blocked, and we were met with considerable local resistance. Despite my best efforts and advice, the situation quickly escalated into a full military conflict which continued for some long months.
I have written of my experiences in Afghanistan at some length, and so shall not repeat myself here, as this narrative has another purpose. In brief, I will say that war is a terrible thing for which I believe there is never any justification, no matter how ardently both sides seem to wish it. I was able to do some small good, and to save some few lives during my time there, but I found myself constrained by my position within Her Majesty's Army, and when it was suggested to me that I leave Her Service following certain events I shall not speak further of, here, I found myself most amenable to the change.
It was thus that I found myself returning to London so soon after the start of the affair, somewhat lighter of purse than I had intended to be at the end of the engagement. My parents should, certainly, have welcomed me home to the farm on which I was raised, but it had been a pressing desire to make something of myself which had driven me abroad, and though the path I had originally thought to take to this end was now closed to me, there were, perhaps, other ways available. London was home to several prominent newspapers, the Times and the Telegraph and Courier chief among them, and so it was to London that I went, it becoming my goal to secure employment at such an establishment. And so, taking my papers and the dispensation provided to me for travel, I secured my own transport back to the country of my birth.
London was every bit as crowded and filthy as I had remembered, and just as shocking to the senses as it had been on my very first arrival to the city. My sojourn in Afghanistan, brief though it had been, had, it seemed, been enough of a holiday from the raucous bustle of commerce and the stink of human misery to destroy what immunity I had built during my time at school, leaving me once again to be overwhelmed by the chaos I had, not long ago, been able to filter from my perception as a matter of course. On my arrival in London, I secured temporary lodgings at a hotel with some of the money provided to me for travel, as my own arrangements for such had been considerably less costly than Lord Lytton had likely anticipated. After a wash and a change of suits, I felt better prepared to face the city, and so set out to seek employment.
After some days of inquiry, I found myself still without a source of steady income, though I did manage to sell two short articles on my experiences in Afghanistan, obviously much abridged. One of these articles I sold to The Planet, a paper not so large as the Times but with a respectable readership and a good reputation for honesty in its reporting. It was there that I came upon young Mr. James Olsen, whose acquaintance I had first made at University. He had not been a student there at the time, being both too young and too impoverished for such a course of study, but had been employed on the grounds instead. Despite this, I had found him to be a delightful conversationalist, well-read , and with a similar career ambition, despite our differences in station.
Olsen, I discovered, had apprenticed himself to a printer in my absence, and now worked for The Planet as a typesetter and machinist. The work was more physical than mental, but typesetting requires a certain artistic eye and a steady hand. My young friend possessed both of these traits in spades, and so, despite his youth, he had quickly become a fixture of the company, working long hours on the huge 10-feeder presses. We chatted for a short while as he cleaned yesterday's ink from the sorts and returned them to their wooden trays, catching up on the events of each others' lives during the time I'd spent abroad. We exchanged addresses and, in the course of the conversation, I confessed my current status as something of a transient. Even with the day's new addition to my purse, my funds were growing quite meager, and I felt it likely I would have to seek other lodgings very soon.
The boarding house where Olsen lived was quite full up, and it lacked the sort of privacy I felt I should require. Though my friend promised to make inquiries on my behalf, I left The Planet with a heavy heart, fearing for my future. It seemed likely that I should be returning to the farm very soon, my fortunes no richer than on my departure. My parents would not judge me for the failure, but I could not help judging myself, feeling something like a dog sent slinking home with its tail between its legs. I made up my mind to save a few pennies by forgoing supper, and instead took a long walk, first through Hyde Park, and then, when my feet saw fit to carry me further, off into the city itself.
I paid little attention to where I wandered, and the sun went down while I was still on the streets. I watched the boys with their sticks, lighting the gas lanterns along the avenue, and then I passed, without thinking much of it, out of the lighted lanes and into the darker, narrower streets. There was no more for me here than there would have been back at the hotel, but I have long found movement soothing, and the sights and sounds I passed on my way served to keep my mind occupied, away from dark thoughts.
It was full dark when I heard some sort of struggle. Shaking myself from my reverie, I followed the shouts and sounds of blows to a particularly narrow and filthy alley, where an old woman in a kerchief was fighting for possession of a cloth-bound bundle. The men who had accosted her appeared to be of the roughest sort, and so I stepped in at once to render what aid I could. As I approached, the woman struck a lucky blow with her walking stick and sent one of the ruffians to the ground. I caught one of the two still standing by the collar and dashed him against the wall, hard enough to stun him. The last of the brigands pulled a knife and lunged at me, and, had I not moved quickly, there might have been some disaster. As it was, I made short work of him and soon left him lying beside his fellows.
"Are you hurt, madam?" I inquired. The woman appeared to be quite shaken, staring at me fixedly as I dusted my hands and approached her. She raised her stick to ward me off, and I fell back, not wishing to cause her any further alarm. "I assure you, madam, my intention is only to see to your health."
Age had left the woman somewhat stooped, and she seemed to curl around her package as she stepped away. "I'm un'urt," she said, her accent coarse, her aged voice made deep and thin by coal-smoke. "'ad a shock is all. Nothin' wrong with me a bit a' brandy won't cure." She adjusted her kerchief over her hair and turned to hobble away.
"Please," I called after her, reluctant to step over her assailants to follow her for fear of causing her distress. "Allow me to see you home."
"No, no," she said, dismissively. "I'm near enough, now, and yer wife'll be missin' you." She stopped then and turned back, and, in the lamplight from the cross street, I finally got a good look at her face. She wasn't quite so old as I'd imagined, her eyes sharp and glittering above a crooked nose and a sturdy jaw. "Yer a kind soul, to help an old woman. Best ye be getting back uptown, lad. These fellows is like to have friends."
*
On awakening in the morning, I felt somewhat refreshed. Perhaps I had not yet found employment or permanent lodgings, but I had been able to save a poor soul from some terrible fate. The sun was rising anew, and my father had certainly not raised me to give up easily under adversity. And so it was that I dressed again in my best suit and took up my writing case before striking out into the city again.
It had occurred to me that perhaps I was setting my aim a bit high for first employment, and so I set out for the offices of the Spectator, and, when they declined to have me, the Examiner, and then the Weekly Dispatch. My frustration grew with each office that turned me out, until I finally made up my mind that I might have to take some other position. Perhaps there would me more opportunities available for a bookkeeper or, I thought with some amusement, a clark . If I continued to submit articles and essays, someone might, eventually, offer me a more permanent position.
I resigned myself to this possibility, at least for the time being, and decided to return to the hotel, both to form a new plan of action and to take afternoon tea. I was quite famished by that point, having had nothing much substantial to eat since the previous afternoon. Lost in my thoughts and plans, I paid little attention to my surroundings until I had reached the hotel. It was with some surprise, therefore, that I realized I was being spoken to.
"I beg pardon?" I said to the boy crouched on the hotel's stoop. He was a small thing, slight of body and with a somewhat drawn appearance. His clothes were ill-fitting and ragged, but he had keen blue eyes that peered out at me from under his smudged cap.
"You are Mr. Kent, are you not?" he asked, and I found myself startled by the educated accent he presented. He cleared his throat and continued. "You meet his description, certainly."
Taken aback, there was little I could do but stammer. "My, ah. May I help you with something?
"You're wanted at The Planet, sir," he said, and with a tip of his hat, he was gone, disappearing into the crowded city street as if he'd never been there. My heart leapt into my throat. The Planet! Perhaps I shouldn't be copying out documents, after all!
*
And so it was that without delay I found my way to The Planet and to Mr. Perry White, who was shouting into the telegraph room when I arrived. He broke off when he caught sight of me and, with a clap to the shoulder of the poor soul he'd been haranguing, hurried over to me. "Kent," he barked, and caught me by the elbow in a most familiar way before dragging me into his office and slamming the door. "Still looking for a position?" he asked.
"Oh, yes sir!" I said with great fervor. "Your paper is one of the best in the city, if I may say, sir, and I should be most honored--"
He cut me off, waving his hand and speaking over me as if I weren't still trying to thank him. I felt somewhat offended at the time, but I have since learned this to be his wont; newspaper rooms are noisy places, and Mr. White is a man used to being listened to. "The paper's owner was in this morning, asking me for more coverage of foreign affairs. He was particularly interested in Afghanistan. I showed him your essay. He wants you hired."
At this my heart thrilled. The owner himself! My mother raised me better than to take liberties, but for perhaps the first time in my life I found myself sitting before invited, all but collapsing into one of White's wooden chairs. "I should be most honored to accept." I told him.
We established the terms of my contract; I was to provide short pieces to run each Sunday for the next several months concerning the conflicts and my travels in foreign lands. White was most pleased to learn that I had done rather a bit of wandering before University. Such tales, it seems, are popular, and thought it was not quite what I had intended for myself on coming to London, the position was more than enough to make me happy. In addition to these travel tales, I was of course given other duties, and also the knowledge that, within the world of the broadsheets, speed and exclusivity counted for twice as much as accuracy and insight.
The wages were somewhat modest, and were not enough to continue paying for my hotel for very long, so I was left with one more problem to solve. I stopped off in the print shop to share my good news with Olsen, and also to inquire if he'd heard anything of a room to let.
He was busy arranging type into a composing stick, but he spared a moment to congratulate me and share his own news. "As it happens, I may have found you a flat," he told me. "I was going to pay you a visit in the morning, after the papers had gone out. Met a chap in the pub at tea, said he had a room up on Baker Street."
I thanked him, and, not wishing to be a bother during a task requiring such delicate concentration, I took down the address and set off at once, hoping it might not be considered too late yet to call. The sun was still above the horizon, though only just, and so I hurried there as quickly as I could and, after straightening my tie and generally making myself presentable, I knocked on the door of 221b.
The door was answered by an older man in a fine but somewhat old-fashioned suit. "Good evening," I said in a rush. "I beg pardon for troubling you at such a late hour."
The man, whose name I would later learn was Pennyworth, was tall and rather thin, his gray hair thinning but his eyes still sharp. At my hurried apology, he gave a slight smile. "I assure you," he said, dryly, "this household has seen far stranger comings and goings, and at far less polite hours. Do come in, Master..."
"Kent," I told him as I stepped into the hall and handed him my hat. "My name is Clark Kent, sir, and I was told there was a room to let, here?"
A most peculiar expression crossed Pennyworth's face, then, surprise and, I thought, perhaps, annoyance. He soon schooled his face into polite friendliness, though, with what might have been a touch of amusement. "Were you, now?" He showed me into a large, airy sitting room. "Please, have a seat. I shall return shortly."
"Thank you," I said, and then settled into an armchair and glanced around with some apprehension. The house was rather nicer than I felt I would be able to afford on my salary, but I was determined to inquire, at the very least. There was a small fire in the grate, and the heat of it, in combination with my anxiety, made me wish to loosen my collar. I resisted for the sake of propriety and instead occupied myself with examining my surroundings. The ceiling was high, and free of soot and cobwebs, and there was no scent of tobacco in the air. My mother would certainly have approved. The drapes that framed the two long windows were of a rich, heavy velvet, entirely untouched by dust. Whoever did the housekeeping here was obviously more than up to the task.
A large, gilded mirror hung above the fireplace, and I rose to peer into it, trying vainly to do something with the curling cowlick on my forehead. The painting on the opposite wall caught my eye, and I turned to get a better view. The portrait was of a man and woman, presumably husband and wife, the lady seated in a chair in front of her husband - and lady she surely was, with a bearing so regal and countenance so beautiful and benign. Her husband was a tall man, and broad, with a fine mustache and a lordly set to his shoulders.
"My parents," a deep voice said from behind me, and I spun, startled. I was quite unused to being caught unaware, though I would become accustomed to surprise during my time on Baker Street. The man who had spoken was as tall and broad shouldered as the man in the portrait, clean-shaven but with his dark hair somewhat disheveled and his collar loose. He did not apologize for giving me a fright; instead, he watched me closely with intense blue eyes, his face entirely unsmiling. "Mr. Kent," he said, without introducing himself.
He neither approached nor offered his hand, so I nodded and then stood still under his regard as he circled me. "I was told there was a room to let," I offered.
"Yes," this mysterious stranger said. "Mr. Olsen passed on the message then?"
Despite his slight dishabille, I did not think this man likely to frequent the same pubs as Olsen, but I nodded again. "You are...?"
"Wayne," he said. "Bruce. If you are agreeable, we shall be housemates." He looked me up and down. "You were lodging on the Strand?" And then, with only slightly less surety in his voice, "at the Hotel Westland?"
"Yes, I-" I stopped and felt myself tense, my brow furrowing in puzzlement, as he was quite correct. "How the devil did you know that?"
Wayne's expression did not change, but his eyes shifted slightly, and I sensed that he was taking amusement at my expense. "Simple deduction," he said, "from simple clues. It doesn't matter." His manner changed abruptly, his posture, his eyes, all of it changed, but only slightly. His voice, when he spoke, was lighter, too. "I often keep strange hours, but I'm not terribly noisy when I do, and I will sometimes need the sitting room to entertain visitors. I do a sort of business out of these apartments. I shouldn't expect to inconvenience you overmuch, but as you are a newspaperman, I felt I should warn you in advance of potential disturbance, as you might desire silence to do your work."
Again, I started. He had somehow discerned yet another fact about my person without the need to question. As disconcerting as this was, the concern expressed was both thoughtful and polite, and so I smiled. "You're very considerate, but I am quite capable of working in all sorts of conditions."
Wayne's eyes narrowed. "Excellent. Shall I give you the tour, then?"
"Please do," I said, agreeably, and followed him, wondering all the while at this strange man. He was, I must confess, something of a pleasant enigma to me. I have always loved a good puzzle, and this fellow certainly provided them in spades. He showed me the rooms, stressing the finer points and, I was most pleased to note, some of the detractions as well. The rooms were furnished, and like the hall and the sitting room were impeccably clean. When I remarked on this, Wayne smiled.
"Alfred is the only housekeeper," he told me, his voice fond, "but you will find him to be worth ten servants, at least. He does the cooking as well, and he's quite as excellent at that as he is at everything else."
The very thought made my mouth water, suddenly. I hadn't eaten in a full day, now, and it was near to supper time. Wayne seemed to catch some hint of this in my manner, and he smiled. "You will stay for dinner, of course? To finalize the arrangements?"
The prospect was tempting beyond all reason, but I am an honest man, despite some small necessary deceptions, and I felt it would have been unfair to take advantage of his hospitality. "We have not yet discussed price," I said, reluctantly.
Wayne brushed my concerns aside with a wave of his hand. "I'm sure we can work something out," he said. "You really are an ideal tenant." The compliment made me flush, which seemed to cause Wayne some amusement. He did not smile, but his eyes - eyes I was fast learning as the most changeable part of him - sparkled. "In any case, I've already told Alfred to prepare dinner for two. Would you like a drink while we wait?"
"Thank you," I said with a slight bow, feeling most grateful, and followed him back to the sitting room, where a small tray sat waiting with an apértif.
end part one