Mann

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was standing on top of the dining room table, his left foot precariously close to upsetting my porridge.

It had been some time since the two of us had sat together for breakfast. Between my friend's nocturnal habits and my own matrimonial arrangements, we rarely saw each other early enough in the day for it. But one of the Irregulars had come to my door not long after I woke up and told me my presence was desired. I let Alice know I would be taking my breakfast at Baker Street and made my way out.

Holmes had greeted me warmly, at least by his standards, and Mrs. Hudson laid out our breakfast. She had a faint look of satisfaction, as she does any time my dear friend makes any concession to regular habits. She's a firm believer that sleeping in is poor for both physical and moral health, and has often despaired of my comrade's habits. However, I suspected that this early rising would be related to some sort of business which we would soon be on. Suspicions that were all but confirmed I noticed the breakfast was laid out for three, and cemented when he climbed atop the table and began looking around the room.

I carefully moved plates out of the way of his feet (though I daresay Mrs. Hudson's tablecloth had seen kinder days), and waited as long as I could stand. Finally, I said "What in heaven's name are you looking for?"

Instead of answering directly, he said "Mrs. Hudson is an excellent housekeeper. I'm sure you'll agree?"

"Yes," I said, trying not to be impatient. I had known Holmes long enough to know he was, in his own way, answering the question.

"And yet," he said, "From up here I can see several places she has missed. Tops of the bookshelves, the eave of the door. Dust, primarily, with a few ancient mouse droppings."

"That's to be expected, surely," I said. "After all, it's rather difficult to reach those places, and people will rarely see them."

"Yes. Yes! Precisely, Watson," he said. "Remember that." He climbed back down, narrowly avoiding an altercation with the jam. He sat down and began buttering his toast.

This kind of obtuseness was one of the more frustrating parts of dealing with Holmes. However, I've realized over the years the purpose. He gets a great thrill out of connecting disparate observations into insight, uncovering puzzles that others might not even suspect were there. When he drips little bits and bobs of information, he's simply trying to help others come to the same conclusions. At any rate, there was no point in asking further questions. I would have to trust that further illumination would be forthcoming.

Moments later, a tall gentleman arrived, guided in by Billy, Holmes's pageboy. He wore a fine dark suit and had a bushy, blond mustache. "Excuse me, Mr. Holmes," he began.

"You've come here about the body found on Ratcliffe highway," Holmes said, carefully cutting a piece of bacon on his plate. "Please do join us for breaksfast. There is a plate set aside for you."

"How the devil- Well, they say you are the detective." The man mopped his brow in amazement.

"I am, but in this case I was forewarned. Inspector Gregson told me last night that I should expect to be consulted. Though, he hadn't mentioned it would be by a man who's recently visited the United States, nor that you were a soldier." Seeing the man gape, he simply raised an eyebrow. "The distinctive dark grey of your suit matches a dying process unique to the Hutchins Textile plant in Boston. It could be imported, but the suit has clearly been tailored to you, and in a cut that is currently favored in New York. It's unlikely that you've summoned a tailor all that way, so you must have been there yourself. And your gait and the callouses on your hand from many years of handling rifles make your previous profession clear."

"Yes, well. That's… Well. Roderick Griley," the man said. "And you're already familiar with the murder?"

"Familiar overstates things. Let's simply say aware. By all means, please tell me all you know. I'd rather hear a few details twice than risk missing something vital." Holmes gestured for the man to sit at the table.

Griley sat down stiffly. "It's a damn peculiar thing, pardon my language. I had come recently from America. I have been a soldier, but I've been recently helping my brother with his shipping concern. An inventor in America has been doing quite a bit of business with him, fellow by the name of Siegel. I'd gone to negotiate some contracts, and it had gone quite well. Well enough that Siegel asked if I would mind playing native guide to one of his employees."

"The deceased?" asked Holmes.

"I'm afraid so," he said gravely. "Walter Pomroy, a clerk of some sort. He was looking for a supplier for some sort of exotic thingummies. I'm afraid I didn't entirely understand what he was at, but he had me taking him all over London talking to all manner of people."

"When did the two of you arrive?"

"Two weeks ago, on the third."

"Seventeen days. And you don't know what Mr. Pomroy was looking for?"

"Well… I don't know precisely. I suppose he was looking for… oddities. Strange things. I had an idea that he was looking for something particular, but didn't want to let on what it was, precisely. Certainly, he never confided in me."

"How many people did he meet with?"

"Some few dozen. Many of them around the docks, but other places in London as well."

"Did he meet with any more than once? And were there any that particularly stuck in your mind?"

"He met a few times with a Chinese fellow in Limehouse, though the last meeting he seemed disappointed. And… Hmm. There was an old fortune teller he saw. She seemed a clear fraud to me, but he said there was something about her eyes. He visited her again, without my company." He wrung his hands. "I don't suppose this means anything to you?" he asked hopefully.

"Not at the moment. I'll need more information before I can start to piece things together. So far, nothing seems to quite point in any particular direction. However, give me time to make inquiries and observations, and things will doubtless become clearer."

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