Authors: Carole Bugge
“People live on in their children,” I said.
“Ah, yes, progeny,” he replied gloomily. “Well, I suppose there must be some reward for having children, otherwise people wouldn’t do it at all.”
I smiled; the remark was so typical of Holmes. Though we never spoke of it, I had often wondered if Holmes regretted not having children. My own regrets on the subject sometimes hit me with a sharpness which surprised me.
“I mean, family is all well and fine, if that’s what you want,” Holmes continued. “But for the majority of mankind, greatness alone results in true immortality. Therefore you have your Caesars, your Napoleons, your Alexanders... do you know they say that Alexander wept when he realized that there were no more worlds to conquer?”
“Yes, I think I heard that,” I said drily, not sure I wanted to encourage this train of thought. Holmes closed his eyes, but the muscles on his face were taut as ever, and I imagined him as a young conqueror, astride his horse, weeping because there were no more worlds left to conquer.
The cab arrived at the Royal Albert Hall; we alighted and paid the driver. The rain was falling more heavily now, and a sea of black umbrellas greeted us as we made our way up the front steps. (Holmes hated umbrellas, and in spite of the inclement London weather, rarely carried one.) We ducked and wound our way through the crowd of people, arriving at our seats just as the first strains of Bach drifted up to the balcony.
Holmes sat throughout the entire concert with his eyes closed, fingertips pressed together, in an attitude of complete concentration. I tried to listen to the music, each phrase twisting and turning around
itself like the spinning of a web, but I was somewhat distracted. The attractive young woman in front of us was wearing a musky perfume which, for some reason, made my throat constrict, and I spent much of the first half of the concert stifling coughs. Holmes didn’t seem to notice, and sat serenely until intermission. Fortunately for me, the young woman did not return to her seat after intermission, and I was able to enjoy the second half of the concert.
On the ride home, Holmes was silent for a long time, and then he said, “It was a true test of friendship, your suffering through that concert, Watson.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you were evidently having an allergic reaction—to the perfume, I should think; it was rather overwhelming. I myself found it somewhat difficult to breathe until I began practicing a breathing technique which I learned from the Dalai Lama during my sojourn with him.”
I laughed. I should have known better than to suppose that anything went unnoticed by Holmes.
“And our little jaunt has had the effect you intended, though not for the reason you might suppose.”
“What do you mean?” I said, confused.
“Oh, Watson, do you suppose that I didn’t notice your concern over my state of mind? Your suggestion that we take in this concert was such a transparent attempt to divert me! I agreed to go because I was so touched at your concern.”
“Well, I’m glad you found it so flattering,” I said, feeling a little put out by his superior tone. “But what did you mean when you said that it had the effect I wanted, but not—”
“Ah,” he replied. “Well, let me ask you this: did you notice that the young lady with the perfume was not in her seat during the second half of the concert?”
“Of course,” I said sulkily. “I was able to breathe during the second half.”
“Yes, yes, so you were,” he said. “But do you know
why
she was not present?”
“I suppose because she was bored by the music,” I said. “Does it matter?”
“Oh, it matters a great deal,” said Holmes. “She did not return during the second half because she was unable to do what she had come there to do.”
“Oh?” I said, still feeling annoyed at Holmes. “And what was that?”
“To deliver a message.”
“A message? What kind of message?”
“One that evidently had some urgency, but that had to be delivered secretly.”
I was silent; I tried to remember what I had seen at intermission, and had a vague memory of noticing the young lady in question among the crowd in the lobby at one point, but nothing stuck in my mind. I stared moodily out the window of our cab at the wet, huddled throngs of fellow Londoners slogging through the cobblestone streets. Finally, Holmes broke the silence.
“Didn’t it strike you as odd that such an attractive young lady would attend a concert alone?”
“Well, perhaps—”
“And furthermore, that, even though the concert featured a very popular performer, the seat next to her was unoccupied?”
The woman had indeed sat alone, and the aisle seat next to her had remained empty for the duration of the concert.
“Yes, perhaps, but...”
“You see, Watson; you look, but you do not observe. If the first observable facts about our young lady had not raised my interest, the perfume certainly would have.”
“The perfume?”
“Yes, the perfume that you yourself noticed because it caused an allergic reaction in your respiratory system.”
“What about it?” I said, but instead of answering, Holmes rapped on the roof of the cab to signal to the driver. The man’s ruddy face appeared upside down in the window, rain dripping from his cap.
“Yes, sir?”
“Take a right here, please, driver.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, and the face disappeared.
We were in the outskirts of Covent Garden, that part of London where costermongers mingled with street hawkers of all sorts: piemen, eel vendors, Irish apple women, and flower girls with bunches of violets.
“Do you think you can put off your dinner just a while longer, Watson?” said Holmes suddenly.
“Certainly. Why?”
“I’m curious about that exotic perfume.”
I, too, was curious, and was about to ask Holmes what he had in mind, when he rapped on the roof of the cab again. Once more the driver’s sodden face appeared in the window.
“Here, sir?”
“Yes, thank you, this will do.”
We disembarked and paid the driver, and Holmes led me through the crowded streets, past baked-potato sellers and greengrocers in blue aprons. The cries of vendors filled the air:
“Fine firm apples! Care to try one, sir?”
“Eels—hot pickled eels!”
“Violets, penny a bunch!”
I wanted to ask Holmes where we were going, but he walked briskly in front of me, his head bent over like a bird dog on a scent. I had no choice but to follow, stepping over cobblestones littered with walnut shells,
cabbage leaves, and squashed oranges. We turned onto a little street in the shadow of St. Paul’s Church, and then down a narrow alley, leaving the noise and clatter of the market behind us. Holmes stopped in front of a shop which had all the appearance of being boarded up. He rapped sharply on the door with his walking stick, and the sound reverberated through the narrow twisted street. We stood there, rain dripping from our top hats—in my excitement I had left my umbrella in the cab—until a voice called out from deep within the shop.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s Sherlock Holmes.”
There was the sound of something being dragged across a wooden floor, and then the door opened. I had seen many a strange character on my numerous adventures with Holmes, but I was unprepared for the sight which greeted us at the door.
The man’s age was impossible to tell; he could have been thirty or eighty. His nose didn’t resemble a nose so much as it did a swollen gourd: purple, bumpy, and distended, it dominated a face which, even without it, would have been grotesque. His one good eye was blue—strikingly blue, the color of turquoise—and his other eye was covered by a lump of flesh which protruded from his forehead. His entire face was so misshapen that his mouth was pulled upward in a sort of lopsided grin. His skull was comprised of uneven layers of bumps and lumps; his head was altogether massive and sat upon his spindly body like a pumpkin teetering upon a post. His limbs were underdeveloped, and his spine was so twisted that it was impossible for him to stand up straight. He held the doorjamb with his right hand in order to keep his balance.
I tried my best not to stare at him, but, in spite of my medical training and my experiences with wounded men in the war, I am afraid I did not succeed. Holmes, however, greeted the man with a friendly familiarity.
“Good evening, Mr. Wiggins,” he said. “You will forgive me, I hope, for calling at this hour?”
To my surprise the man’s voice was as beautiful as his body was hideous.
“Not at all, Mr. Holmes,” he said in a smooth, cultivated baritone with just a trace of a foreign accent. “Come right in.”
He opened the door wider to admit us into the room. I had another surprise when I saw the interior of his shop, for it bore no resemblance to its crumbling exterior. The place was immaculate: the carefully sanded and swept wooden floors were covered by richly hued handwoven Persian carpets. More amazing to me was the fact that the entire room was taken up by floor-to-ceiling shelves, which were stocked with the most amazing assortment of bottles I had ever seen—all sizes, shapes, and colors imaginable. The heady mixture of scents in the room at once advertised the fact that the bottles contained perfumes. The combination of so many aromas was intoxicating, and I felt absolutely lightheaded as I walked about the room, taking in his collection with open-mouthed admiration.
“May I present my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson,” said Holmes. “Watson, this is Jeremiah Wiggins, perfumer extraordinaire.”
“Is there any kind of perfume you
don’t
carry?” I finally said to our host, swept away by such a dazzling array of bottles.
“What are you looking for?” said a voice behind me, but it wasn’t Wiggins—in fact, it wasn’t a human voice at all. I turned around: behind the counter which held the cash register, an enormous blue and yellow parrot sat on a perch. The parrot regarded me through one bright orange eye, his head cocked sideways.
“What are you looking for?” he repeated, bobbing up and down on his perch.
“He likes you, Watson,” said Holmes, laughing the peculiar dry laugh of his.
“How can you tell?” I said, not sure whether it was a compliment or not.
“See the way he’s bobbing up and down?” said Mr. Wiggins. “That means he’s excited. Sometimes he bobs like that when he just wants attention or is agitated about something.”
“What is he?” I said, “I mean, what kind?”
“He’s originally from South America,” said Mr. Wiggins, “though I got him from an Indian gentleman of my acquaintance, one of my clients. His name is Bandu, which is Bengali for ‘friend.’”
This revelation caused me to wonder even more about our friend’s refined manners. He was evidently well educated; was it also possible that he had traveled widely?
Wiggins hobbled over to the parrot and held out a skinny arm to the bird. The parrot hopped from his perch onto Wiggins’ hand.
“Peck on the cheek, Bandu,” said Wiggins, and the parrot repeated the words after him.
“Peck on the cheek, peck on the cheek,” said the bird, and then rubbed the blunt top of his beak against Wiggins’ poor deformed cheek.
“He’s a great talker,” said Wiggins, “and a very fast learner. Bandu gets bored with his old phrases and is always adding new ones. He’ll probably be imitating you after you’ve gone.” He stroked the bird’s bright feathers. “He’s very affectionate, as you can see. He even cries when I leave—which, fortunately for both of us, is not often.”
I thought of Wiggins alone in his little shop, surrounded by his perfume bottles and his bird, safe from the curious stares of his fellow creatures; to the bird, he was no different from anyone else.
“I don’t know how old he was when I got him, but he may very well outlive me,” Wiggins said as he placed the bird back on its perch.
“Yes, they live a long time, don’t they?” said Holmes.
I looked at Holmes; he was standing in front of the shelves, studying
the bottles. It occurred to me that he was being unusually patient. Exchanging small talk was never his forte, and yet he stood there in Wiggins’ shop as though he had all the time in the world. I came to the conclusion that he either felt sorry for the man or simply liked him. As though reading my mind, Wiggins turned to Holmes.
“So, Mr. Holmes, what can I do for you today?” he said, sitting on an intricately carved little stool which sat in front of his counter.
“Well, I’ve come across a scent that I can’t quite identify, and I need your help.”
Wiggins smiled, or at least his mouth twisted into its own version of a smile. To my surprise, I found the expression rather charming instead of horrifying. Somehow the man’s gentle, refined nature shone through the hideous exterior that a cruel trick of Nature had given him.
“What, Mr. Holmes,” he said, crossing his thin arms. “Do you mean to tell me that there exists a scent in London that you can’t identify?”
Holmes smiled in response. Now I was certain that rather than feeling sorry for Wiggins, he liked and admired the man.
“I’m afraid so, although I would appreciate it if you didn’t broadcast the fact. After all, I do have my reputation to think about.”
Wiggins laughed, a deep, gurgling chortle, and rose from the stool. With the help of an elegant ebony cane, he moved to the shelf closest to him.
“Tell me as much as you can,” he said.
“Definitely foreign, probably Eastern; musky, with a hint of jasmine—and very expensive.”
“Expensive, eh?” said Wiggins. “Well, that narrows it down considerably. Let’s see...” he said, and his eyes—or rather, his eye—scanned the shelves in front of him. “I think I can narrow it down to three,” he said, reaching for a small, opaque green bottle in front of him. “This is one,” he said, placing it on the counter behind him. He returned
to the shelves and selected a second bottle, this one larger, with a pale blue color. He placed that one on the counter and then turned to Holmes.
“The third is rather high up,” he said with no hint of embarrassment or self-pity, “and I believe you’re somewhat taller than I—”
“Certainly,” said Holmes, and reached for the bottle indicated. This one was even more striking than the others: It was long and thin, and of a deep ruby-red tint that I had never seen in glass before. Our host uncorked each bottle one by one, with the solemn air of a priest conducting an initiation rite. Holmes sniffed each one in turn with equal seriousness, shaking his head at the first two, but when he came to the elegant ruby-red vial, he cried, “That’s it—that’s the one!”