Once Watson is gone, I light my morning pipe, sip at my tea, and turn our conversation over in my mind. It was not my intention to upset him, merely to point out the flaw in his method. He simply does not seem to comprehend that his very life depends on the actions he takes, and that the rules of deduction and analysis do not cease to exist because one becomes the actual focus of the investigation. Watson most certainly behaves less emotionally when he is merely writing up the cases.

 

Watson is a noble man. To have been accused of such a crime is, I am certain, a wretched blow to his ego. He is a ladies' man, indeed, but he treats the fair sex with the utmost respect, and as though they were treasures which have rained down from heaven. He does not deserve to have such a thing happen to him.

 

It is my duty to solve this mystery swiftly. It seems that the very nature of our relationship is at stake here, though I cannot fathom why I should even entertain such notions. It isn't as if I think Watson guilty. And surely Watson himself does not harbor such notions. It would be abhorrent to his nature to have committed such atrocities, and I am convinced he knows of my feelings regarding the accusations. His place at my side is quite secure, and I dare say I would not relinquish his companionship so easily. Whither he goeth, so shall I, but that is a matter that is best left for another time.

 

I sigh, and set my cup aside. There is much to be done, and little time in which to do it. As is my custom when Lestrade chooses not to include me in his investigations, I must stay at least five steps ahead of any move he might make. Though at times a dull weapon, Lestrade does at times prove himself to be an apt pupil of my methods, and through his bumbling efforts may, by way of circumstance, strike upon the heart of the matter while I sit about taking tea.

 

That will simply not do at all. I shed my dressing gown, call for hot water, and prepare myself for a day of intense investigation.

 

As I take my leave, I inform Mrs. Hudson of my itinerary should she need me, and instruct her to take special care of Watson, on the chance that he return home before I. She shakes her head at me in consternation, insulted by the very notion that she would fail to take care of her beloved tenant. Satisfied that Watson will be left in good hands, I head out, determined to shed light on this horrid affair.  

 

I call for a cab, and instruct the driver to take me to the Oaktree Inn, for I reason that it is the best place to start my investigation.

 

***

"May I help you, sir?" A giant of a man wipes the counter in front of me, and sets down a somewhat dusty glass. "A pint of our local ale, perhaps?"

 

I smile at the landlord briefly, and shake my head. "I have heard that your local ale is apt to put a man flat on his back!"

 

He places both of his large hands flat on the surface of the counter and looks me over with disdain. "And who's been telling you such lies, Mr. Fancy Trousers?"

 

"Most rumors begin in truth, good sir."

 

He leans toward me rather menacingly. "And you've been hearing these 'truths' where?"

 

I do not flinch, nor fail to meet his steely gaze. "So you admit that there is truth in what I say?"

 

"I will admit that I'm of a mind to give you a good thrashing, I am. I run a respectable inn. You won't find any forward women or other unsavory sorts about," he says, continuing to glare at me.

 

I most assuredly do not wish to start a physical match with him. Though I do believe I could best him by sheer cunning and a well-placed left, he is double my size, and has fists the size of hams. "I was not casting aspersions, Mr...?"

 

"Tarleton." He is reluctant to say more, but as is the nature of man, cannot resist. "Who sent you here to accuse me?"

 

"As I was saying, Mr. Tarleton, it is not my place to cast aspersions. I am merely seeking information."

 

"Is that so?" He eyes me with suspicion once again. "Seeking information about my ale?"

 

"About the fact that a man was offered a pint of your ale, and ended up in jail as a result."

 

He relaxes minutely. "Ah, you mean the gentleman from last night."

 

Perfect. The steps of deduction are nearly foolproof. "Indeed."

 

"How do you know so much about it?"

 

"It is my business to know things. How came his ale to be tainted?"

 

"Tainted? That is a lie! How dare you come in here, accusing me of tainting my ale! Why, it's my father's own concoction!"

 

A murmur of discontent ripples through the other customers here, and a few of the more unsavory types at nearby tables turn to look at me. "If you could quiet yourself, Mr. Tarleton... it is not my intention to start a ruckus in your fine establishment."

 

"That may be just what a busybody like you needs." He cocks his head to the side, and I dearly hope he is reconsidering the idea of an attack on my person. After a moment or two, he holds up a hand toward the tables, and they settle down. "I've nothing else to say to you, sir."

 

I place a small stack of crowns on the counter. "Nothing?"

 

He looks at the coinage, then back at me. "Well..."

 

"Allow me to... guide our conversation, Mr. Tarleton. A man came here, late in the evening. He informed you he was waiting for another carriage to take him home. You gave him ale, he became ill, and you offered him your cot in the back room. Hours later, he was awakened by a rather rude pair of constables. You may fill in the blanks." I put a hand over the coins and give him my hardest look.

 

"It is true, the man came in here, fancy as can be, if not a bit droopy, saying he was waiting for a carriage to pick him up.  He told me that the one he was traveling in, from some fancy folks who live out near Derry Lane, had lost a wheel, and the coachman was to return for him. I felt sorry for the poor chap, having walked a good mile down the road in such a horrible fog, so I gave him a pint. He sat by the fire to warm himself, and drank it, and seemed in good spirits. But after about ten minutes or so, he didn't look so well."

 

"In what way?"

 

"He seemed to be drunk, but I knew it couldn't have been from the ale..." He leans in close, shifting his beady eyes from one end of the counter to the other. "I water it down in the evenings to keep the ruffians from getting too riled up. Used to bust up the place something terrible before I came up with that little trick."

"I see." This would mean that dear Watson was drugged somewhere between the hors d'oeuvres at the impromptu soiree and this inn. Interesting. "Pray, continue..."

 

"Anyway, the chap got more and more unsteady on his feet, so I offered him the cot that I keep in the back. For resting purposes, mind you, not for any improprieties or such."

 

"Yes, of course. And who called the constables? Was it you?"

 

"Not at all. They just appeared about an hour or so later. Wouldn't tell me a thing. Just asked if a gentleman with a mustache had been seen around. Said they'd had a complaint that he'd caused a disturbance. I told them I wasn't sure if he was the man they were looking for, but that there was a gentleman of that description in the back room, but I did let them know that he hadn't caused any trouble here. They went back there, and yanked him out of bed without a bit of politeness. One of 'em slapped the cuffs on him, and the other cuffed him on the back of the neck when he fought back. It was something to see."

 

"And you have absolutely no idea how he became ill?"

 

"None at all," he insists. "You have my word, good sir."

 

"You did not recognize the gentleman?"

 

"No, sir. Just a regular chap, though most assuredly a gentleman, with kindly eyes. Well-kempt, tall, and fit. Easy on the eyes, I suppose. Not gone to pot like most gentlemen of his ilk, if you know what I mean. Should I have known him?"

 

"Perhaps not," I sigh, and uncover the coins. "Thank you for your assistance."

 

He reaches for the pile, but another thought occurs to me, and I replace my hand.

 

"Now see here," he cries. "I swear I've told you all!"

 

"There is the matter of the pearl tie pin, Mr. Tarleton."

 

He opens his mouth to issue forth a denial, but thinks better of it. He reaches into his pocket and draws it out. "I didn't think he'd miss it. A gent like that would probably have lots of 'em."

 

"He did not miss it." My tone is sharp as I pluck Watson's tie pin – my gift to him last Christmas - from his hand. "I noticed it was not among his effects when I rescued him from Scotland Yard this morning. Thank you, Mr. Tarleton. You have been most helpful." I push the pile of coins toward him, and hand him my card. "If you remember any other details, please do not hesitate to contact me."

 

He scoops the coins into his apron pocket, then takes the card with a smile. "I most certainly... good heavens, you're Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

 

"Indeed I am." I give a slight bow and take my leave.