6. THE CASE OF THE LADIES LEGS

Sherlock Holmes clearly had a gap in his otherwise sound education...

“There we have it then, Watson,” said Holmes, putting his violin down with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “That’s the most difficult piece of music a solo violinist can play, and I just did it perfectly.”

“The words Holmes and ego fit together like fingers and gloves,” I told him, “and even if half the notes you played were wrong I doubt I would have noticed!”

“But I would have,” he murmured smugly. “Now tell me, what’s afoot today?”

“There’s nothing in the diary, but you were going to write a monogram about something or other,” I told him.

“I was? Remind me,” he said quietly.

“Remind you? I thought the one thing about you, except for the perfection of your violin adagios,, was the foolproof nature of your memory,” I told him, not without a hint of sarcasm in my voice.

“I can’t be expected to remember for both of us,” he snapped.

“But it’s your monogram, Holmes,” I told him, not without a touch of irritation. Sometimes, I told myself, Sometimes Holmes can be impossible.

He paused and gazed out of the window. Then he turned to me sharply. “Did you see that?” he asked.

I might have told him that he was the one looking out of the window whilst I was the one polishing my briar, but thought better of it.

“Of course not,” I said limply.

“There was a woman climbing from a rather expensive landau out there, finely dressed...”

“The carriage was finely dressed?” I asked.

“No, man, pay attention! The woman is finely dressed with an outer skirt that is layered like that foreign tower, the one in Italy that leans over...”

“Pisa,” I reminded him, wondering whether he’d been overdoing the opium and finally dissolved his memory into mush.

“That’s the one! Like the leaning tower of whatever you called it,” he said irritably, “and as she dismounted from the landau she raised her skirt almost as far as her knees...”

“In case there’s road filth after rain or horse droppings in the way,” I nodded, “a lady needs to keep her finery clean or she’s forever getting the maid to wash it.”

“My point, Watson, is she’s coming this way!” Holmes told me. “I wonder what so fine a lady can need the services of a detective? I hope it’s nothing to do with the infidelity of either herself or her husband, for I detest such cases and am extremely reluctant to take them on.”

“Yet there is much infidelity about,” I told him, “a lady will be enchanted by a gentleman until they’re wed, only to find out that he has little time for her personally on account of his keeping a mistress in town and has merely married her for show, and she might therefore find herself easily wooed by another scoundrel with too much agitation in his trews!”

“You astound me, Watson!” declared Holmes, “I declare that I never knew you were such a man of the world!”

I was about to reply, suggesting that Holmes might consider getting out more, when Mrs Hudson knocked on the door and walked in.

“There’s a Miss Stringfellow to see you, on appointment,” she said to Holmes, and I could tell by the tone of her voice that wasn’t entirely happy with our visitor. “She’s not the sort of lady we normally expect on Baker Street,” she added, almost glaring.

Miss Stringfellow, when she came into the room, was as pretty as a picture and dressed in the most glorious of modern fashions. It wasn’t until she opened her mouth to speak that it became obvious that she might look as if she came from one side of the river, but sounded as if she was very much from the other side, her accent being very much of the Bow Bells variety.

“Well there we are then, Mr ‘Olmes,” she said with a flourish, “what is it ya want o’ me, then?”

I was astounded. It would seem, from her attitude and the question in her voice that she had been called for by Holmes rather than being a client after his detective skills, and I had never heard him suggest that he needed advice from a common London girl even though she looked far from common.

“Ah,” he said, smiled and proffering a hand towards her, “you must be the Miss Stringfellow of the Music Hall circuit?”

“Why, Mr ‘Olmes, you must know that or ya wouldn’t’ve called for me!” she replied, and giggled, “though I did wonder why such a fine gennelman from such fine lodgings would want to have dealings with one such as I, even though I do know ‘is name, famous as it is on the streets and feared by scoundrels of an evil disposition, like.”

“I requested you call for information,” said Holmes quite seriously. “I need to know about legs. Female legs, to be specific.”

“You mean, pins to walk on?” she asked, frowning slightly, “we’ve all got ‘em, Mr ‘Olmes, me a’ you an’ your fine gennelman accomplice here,” and she indicated me with a chirpy smile.

“Yes, my dear, that’s what I mean,” he said, smiling somewhat nervously.

“Well, what is you want to know?” she asked, and added, “though I do know as legs are a girl’s best friend if she’s in the company of a gennelman who likes ‘er legs!”

“That’s precisely it!” he exclaimed, “you see, my dear, I’m writing a monogram on the involvement of legs in certain crimes.”

“Hey! I ain’t no criminal!” she interrupted, “an’ if you think I am you’ve got another think coming!”

“No, my dear, I mean nothing like that!” said Holmes, clearly embarrassed. “it’s just that there have been occasions when I have been put to shame by ladies who complain that certain genn … er, gentlemen … pay undue attention to their legs and I have no idea why that should be.”

“Has he lived a sheltered life?” asked Miss Stringfellow of me.

I nodded, unwilling to commit my thoughts to words.

“Then let me say it plain,” she said, “for I make a living teasing men wi’ my legs, singin’ an’ dancin’ on the stage at the Music Hall, an’ I’m well known for it and make more wages than many a man who toils all day long, the lord ‘elp ‘em! An’ I’ve a fine range o’ saucy songs too, again for teasin’ the menfolk, though there’s many a laugh from ladies who get my point! But it’s a flash o’ my legs that wins the day any time, an’ maybe a little peep o’ my bloomers!”

Holmes turned to me and shook his head.

“I don’t understand, Watson,” he said, clearly confused, “why is this? What is it about a woman’s legs that makes a client complain that a perfectly decent man is taking undue notice of them, and that makes an audience clamour and roar at the sight of an ankle?”

“You mean, you don’t know, Holmes?” I asked.

“That’s why I’m writing my monogram, Watson,” he said, almost severely, “so that students of detection can know what it is that so attracts some types of man.”

“And I’m one of them,” I told him, “and just as I can admire Miss Stringfellow and her spectacularly lovely legs I’m at a loss to tell you why they’re so spectacularly lovely, just that they are. Maybe it’s the shape, maybe the person they support, maybe the other mysteries that might be associated with legs, I don’t know, but what I am certain of is the fact that Miss Stringfellow is wonderfully blessed with the kind of legs a man would die for!”

“I don’t understand...” murmured Holmes, and he handed the pretty young girl a few coins. “Thank you for calling, my dear,” he said, almost shame-faced, “but I rather suspect that ladies and their legs are something I’ll never get my head around.”

“Why thank you, sir,” she trilled and giggled, “maybe you should come to one of my shows and study, not me or the other lady dancers but the men who do the watchin’ and the hollerin’ when I lift my skirts the tiniest bit! Mebbe you should ask them your questions!”

Then she lifted her pretty skirt several inches and flicked one well turned ankle in the direction of the great detective.

“Yes, yes. I’ll bear that in mind Miss … er … Stringfellow,” he mumbled, and I’m not so sure, but I really do believe I caught the faintest suggestion of a blush on his face as he turned away.

© Peter Rogerson 21.07.17