The Case of the Pilfered Hat
by M

            Holmes was sitting in his well-worn chair, smoking his pipe, when I arrived in the sitting room one morning.  There had not been a case in just over a month and his visible state of restlessness was all too familiar.  How many times have I witnessed him like this in the two years we’ve shared rooms? 

            “Holmes,” I said, in a neutral tone so as to gauge his temper.

            “Hmm…” he replied sulkily, thankfully without anger or impatience.  He may be civil today; though it was still early.

            “Holmes, you’ve not touched your breakfast.  Will you not join me?”  I said as I sat down to eat. 

            “Watson, what need have I for food; no fuel is required for an idle mind,” he responded in typical irritated fashion.  I have heard those exact words many times since lodging at Baker Street.  I gave my customary reply.

            “Then you shall simply starve to death, my dear friend.”

            “It would be a blessing from the torment of my insipid existence,” he said dramatically.  When he is in these moods it is often best to ignore such utter nonsense. 

            I sat for a time, having eaten my breakfast, reading the morning paper and enjoying a cigarette.  I had no obligations, it being the week-end, and I was looking forward to a relaxing day.  I mused for a time about the potential of taking dinner out this evening; having had a rather successful last few months at my private practice, I was bending my mind to a fine French establishment not far from our apartments. 

            “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Watson,” Holmes called, startling me out of my reverie.  “Where are the matches?  I put them here!  Watson!  Will you be of any help at all!” he exclaimed in disgust, his voice growing louder with agitation as he tore about the room.  While my patience for my dear friend is considerable, he was now trying it greatly.

            “Holmes! That is enough!” I shouted, my tone nearly matching his.  He whirled around to face me, surprised at my sudden outburst, and I thought I saw a fleeting glimmer of satisfaction play on his features.  He had succeeded in flushing me out of my good mood.  Calmly I stated, “Will you not at least try to settle yourself?  You’ll only drive us both mad if you continue in such a state.”  He held my gaze, expectant.  So I reached into my waistcoat pocket and extracted my matches.  “Here you are,” I said, “will you now cease your assault upon our sitting room?”

            He smiled briefly, took the matches, and resumed his perch on his chair, “I shall,” was all he said. 

            As the blue pipe smoke drifted around the room, I ruminated on what I might do to ease my friend’s ennui.  Short of a case, very little soothed his dark moods.  Unlike most gentlemen, he didn’t seem to respond to the simple preoccupations that could assuage one’s agitation: a sociable meal at the club, a show at the theatre, a brisk walk in the country air.  Perhaps that was it; a change of scenery might do some good.  Many of his recent cases had been very taxing, with little time for rest.  It was time for a holiday.

            “Holmes, my dear fellow, I’ve just had the most splendid thought,” I declared.

            He looked over at me, his eyes sullen.  “Pray tell, Watson,” he replied with a severe absence of enthusiasm.

            “We shall go to the country for a few days.  You are in much need of a holiday,” I informed him.  It was several minutes before he responded.

            “Perhaps I am.  A bit of the slow country life for my slow mind,” he said morosely.

            “For Heaven’s sake, Holmes, your mind is anything but slow, as you are often apt to point out yourself,” I spat back.  The corners of his mouth flickered into a fleeting smile; his face returning just as rapidly to a gloomy countenance. 

            “My dear Watson, you know precisely when I am in need of a healthy dose of reality.  And you are, I might point out, not terribly reluctant to inject it yourself,” he stated, a playful smile graced his lips momentarily.  I returned the smile, with a slight nod of apology for my jab at his sometimes portentous manner.

            “Shall we travel to Derbyshire; touring the heart of our great nation?  What do you say, my good man?”  I entreated.

            “I admit that my mental desperation is so profound that I am utterly at your command,” he said in a despairing voice.  Because there was nothing I could do at the moment to ease my friend’s suffering, I retrieved the Bradshaw and checked the trains.

            “There’s a train to Aston-on-Trent at 12:15,” I said as I walked over to my friend, took hold of his hand, and prompted him to his feet.  He stood weakly, deflated.  I sighed, all too accustomed to his sullen humor.  I guided him to his bed-chamber, and told him to pack as I closed the door.  This might prove to be quite a challenging holiday indeed.

~

            Once in our first-class cabin on the train, Holmes removed his hat and overcoat, raised his right knee up to his chest, and rested gracefully with his right elbow on his up-raised knee.  His mood was moderately improved; he gazed out the window intently, seemingly lost in thought.  I sat across from him reading the Times, my legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles.

            We sat in silence for the first hour, though several times I noticed him looking over at me; however, when he noticed I saw him, he quickly averted his eyes.  This was not unusual, especially during his dark moods, so I simply continued my perusal of the paper, commenting to Holmes about one thing or another as the train rumbled on. 

            Suddenly, Holmes revealed, “Watson, I find you singularly intriguing.”  I lowered my newspaper and smiled slightly, pleased at the unexpected comment, though unsure of what had warranted it.  I gave him a questioning look, hoping he might elaborate.  But he simply flashed me a fleeting smile and returned to his study of the English countryside.  Just like Holmes, I thought to myself, and went back to my paper. 

~

            It was the beginning of summer, when much of London takes to the countryside, so we were given a rather small room at an inn on the outskirts of the town.  Holmes sighed and lay dejected upon the bed; his sullen humor was once again fully upon him.  I ignored him, as I frequently do on such occasions, and unpacked both our luggage.  As I bustled about the bathroom, Holmes periodically sighed in the way he does when he desires an accomplice in his gloom; I continued to pay him no heed.  When I had finished, I announced that I would take a walk and arrange for our dinner.  Holmes grunted in acknowledgement but did not stir.

            I left him alone, sure that he would not move until I returned in an hour or so.  I arranged with the inn-keep to have our dinner brought up to our room, and then I went into town to arrange some stimulating activities for my good friend, Sherlock Holmes.

~

            Smiling contentedly—all my holiday plans in place—I returned to our room just after the arrival of dinner.  Holmes had been forced from his position on the bed by the kitchen maid bearing our dinner.  He now sat at the small table, waiting for me.  I smiled at him and said, “My dear Holmes, you look positively dreadful.”  His clothes were mussed and his hair fell unkempt around his face.  My statement was more to provoke a reaction than an accurate account of my opinion; I actually found him rather more fetching when his appearance was slightly disheveled. 

            He looked up at me, his face expressionless, and stated dryly, “Dinner is here, Watson.”  I sat down and we began to eat.  I chatted casually throughout the meal as my companion sat unmoved by my conversation.  After we had finished, Holmes announced morosely, “I’ll be in the bath.” 

            “Very well,” I replied.   He slipped into the bathroom, where the chamber maid had presumably brought in the hot water when I had been out.  I heard him splash into the tub.  I called for the kitchen maid to pick up the dinner dishes, opened the door so she could enter, then I sat in the chair by the window and began reading a book.  When the maid knocked and came in, I nodded to her and she took what she came for and left. 

~

            “Watson!” Holmes cried.  “Watson!  Wake up, man!  Watson!” 

            “What is it, Holmes?”  I responded sleepily.  Light was coming in the room, but it was still very early in the day.

            “My hat, Watson, it is gone!” he snarled.  I smiled faintly, bemused by his intense outrage at so trivial a thing.

            “My dear Holmes, surely it is on the rack.  Or maybe it fell behind.”  I said, trying to calm him enough so that I might get some additional sleep.

            “Do you think I have failed to try such obvious solutions, Watson.  No, it is not here.  I have searched the room thoroughly.”  He was becoming increasingly more agitated as he strode the room, peering around methodically.  Then he began pacing, with a singular intent written on his features.  “It is clear, Watson, that someone has made off with my hat,” he stated matter of fact, “though the motivation of such a crime eludes me at present.” 

            “Surely you have simply misplaced it.  Why would anyone want to steal your hat, Holmes?”  I said in a jesting tone of voice.  He whirled around to face me.

            “Watson, I assure you that I have not misplaced my hat!” he barked.  More calmly, he continued, “it has been stolen, but I shall soon find it and the fiendish perpetrator of this most outrageous crime.”  Despite his words, the purposeful look upon his face was like the hound upon the scent, and I was pleased to see his gloom fade. 

            “Holmes, do remember that you’re suppose to be on holiday,” I said.

            “How can I possibly rest when there’s a madman on the loose pilfering people’s hats?” he stated rationally.  He then busied himself around the coat rack, examining the hat hooks, the base of the rack, around the door, and so on.  I watched him on his hands and knees as he leaned intently over something on the floor.  Having accompanied my dear friend on many of his cases, it is clear that when he takes to the floor with critical intent, he is truly in his element.  While remaining serious, his eyes are bright and his demeanor is lively and full of spirit.  I often enjoy watching my friend closely at these moments, smiling outwardly as he moves, catlike, inspecting every detail. 

            “Aha!” he exclaimed suddenly.  “A faint toe mark in the dust behind the coat rack; it is freshly made.  The fiend, it would seem Watson, is a women; and by the shape of the very top of the mark, a woman of low social standing—most probably a maid.”  He rose to his feet and stood in place, reflecting on this new evidence; a remarkable figure in this early morning light.

            After some moments in silence, he turned abruptly and walked over to the bed, sitting down beside me.  He stated: “The facts are few, Watson, but they clearly point toward a maid who desires a small bit of profit.  I admit that the hat is well made, but the market value is too small for any great benefit—and although that is a troubling detail, it is not necessarily damning to my theory.”  He looked down at me, as I was still lying in bed, with a reserved look on his face; it seemed that he was not fully satisfied with his inferences.  He said nothing, just looked at me intently.  I smiled at him warmly, not knowing what else to do under his scrutinizing gaze.  He startled slightly and a gentle pink hue appeared upon his cheeks.  He altered his position on the bed. 

            I placed my hand on his, which was resting on his knee.  “Holmes, are you feeling well?” I asked sympathetically, for all of a sudden he shifted slightly and the healthy color drained from his face. 

            “I am simply perplexed by this case,” he managed after several moments.  He looked down at my hand on his, then stood up and strode over to the door.  “I’m going out,” he called as he closed the door behind him.

            How very odd, even for Holmes, I thought to myself.  It is true that my dear friend Sherlock Holmes is unique among mortal men, but at times I fear that his singular behavior borders less on genius and more on madness—though it is often the case that his behavior is perfectly reasonable when the motivation behind it is fully revealed.

~

            I spent the day strolling through the town, breathing in the country air and stopping by several shops.  I was determined to have a pleasant holiday, and by the time I reached our room at the inn—which was well after the luncheon hour—I was in a very good humor.  I expected to see Holmes brooding over his missing hat, but there was no sign that he had returned.  Well, I mused, he must be off tracking down the illusive hat thief.  I smiled to myself, delighted at his change of mood.  I placed my recently acquired parcels down on the table, grabbed a sea novel, and settled down to a pleasant early evening.

            I had gotten only several pages into my book when Holmes burst into the room.  “Watson!  I have solved it!” he exclaimed.

            Utterly surprised, I gasped, “You found your hat?”  I had not expected it so soon, given that it had only gone missing this morning.

            “No, Watson, the hat remains at large,” he replied.  “But the motive is apparent.”

            “And what motive is driving this mad thief,” I asked, expecting the worse.

            “That is it, Watson, you have it: insanity, pure and simple.”

            Sighing slightly, I asked, “How did you find that out?”

            “All other options have been fully explored, and no other motivation exists, save simple madness,” he stated coolly. 

            “How do you proceed then, with such an unpredictable foe?”  I asked.

            “I have tracked the hat to a small general store at the end of the main road; however, there the trail runs cold,” he said.  He sat thinking for a moment, his face giving away nothing.  “I shall have to continue my investigations on the morrow,” he announced suddenly.  “For now, my dear Watson, we have a holiday to enjoy.  Come, a walk along the river will do us a world of good.”  He took up his cane, gave me a quick smile, and waited by the door as I slipped on my coat and retrieved my hat.  I smiled at him as I passed.

~

            “Watson, I have something I wish to ask you,” Holmes stated as we sat on an old stone bench beside the river. 

            “What is it?” I replied after I realized that he was waiting for my leave to proceed. 

            “To what lengths would you go for our friendship?” he asked in a strange tone.  I regarded him a moment, but his manner and expression gave not a hint as to his motives. 

            “I value our friendship to the utmost; I would go to any lengths necessary, of course.”  I would do anything for Holmes.  I have even broken the laws of our good country on several occasions while aiding him in his cases.  The statement was genuine, and I trusted that my tone conveyed my seriousness.  However, the instant after the words left my mouth he leapt from the bench and turned to face me; he had the most peculiar smile on his face as he looked at me.  I must have been staring at him aghast because his countenance quickly regained its usual severity.

            “Come, my dear Doctor, let us continue our walk,” he said and took my arm, leading me down the path.  My perplexity at my friend’s behavior filled my mind as we walked.  And his attempts at idle conversation, which he generally abhorred as being a waste of time and brain power, were fueling that perplexity.  Had the great Sherlock Holmes finally succumbed to the maddening side of his genius?

~

            The next day Holmes mysteriously disappeared, presumably in search of his hat and its abductor.  I was sitting by the window reading by the lamplight when Holmes burst into the room.  He gave me such a start that I jumped from my chair, ready for action.  When I saw that it was Holmes, and not one of his malevolent foes, I gave a great sigh of relief and an awkward chuckle. 

            “Terribly sorry to have frightened you, Doctor,” Holmes’s languid voice said in a tone so smooth I was instantly put at ease.  He closed the door, placed his parcels and cane by the rack, and hung up his overcoat.  “It is late.  I trust you have dined?” he asked.

            “Yes, I was just settling in to an evening of reading, and you?” I replied.

            “Yes.  And I discovered a reputable purveyor of fine whiskey as I walked this afternoon.  I picked up an excellent bottle that I do hope you’ll share with me this evening.”  His voice was once again dripping with silk, a tone I had heard him use before but couldn’t quite place at that moment. 

            “I would be delighted, of course,” I said with a smile as feelings of comradeship welled up inside me.  As I walked over to the settee, he pulled up a comfortable chair and set it opposite and just diagonally from me.  He hurriedly took two glasses from the hutch and came to sit down on the chair, glasses and bottle in his hands and his feet crossed upon the settee.  “What a lovely treat this is, Holmes.  I didn’t know you had a fancy for whiskey?”  I said in a light, conversational tone.  He smiled, a hint of teeth showing briefly.

            “Only when it is of the utmost quality, and I have assurances from the shop-keep that this should be very fine indeed,” he stated.

            “Then I shall be all the more pleased to share it with you,” I said as I settled easily into a night of pleasant drink and pleasant company.  Although, I can admit now that Holmes’s rather sudden display of fraternal warmth should have aroused my suspicions. 

            He poured our glasses and we talked jovially for a couple of hours, until I confess I had passed unawares into a state of mild drunkenness.  My companion was matching my intake, with only somewhat better resistance to the whiskey’s effects. 

            “So tell me, old boy, how much did you have to pay the tailor?” Holmes asked, smiling.  He had insinuated the question into the flow of conversation so elegantly that I had not noticed its true nature.

            “A fiver, and a shilling to his boy to keep quiet,” I answered naively, thinking about the rather large sums I’d had to pay to pull off my caper.  “But the maid cost me a tenner,” I concluded with indignation.  The most incredible smile played over Holmes’s lips as the last words were spoken.  His eyes fixed on mine with such a look of pure victory that I blinked several times before understanding my folly. 

            “I have you now, my dear Watson,” he said.  “You have all but signed one of Lestrade’s statements of confession.” 

            “…but I thought…you weren’t…how did you …” I could not help but to stammer out my words. 

            “Come, come, Watson,” he tutted.  “While you have your vices, a penchant for intricate criminal plotting is not one of them.  You simply do not have the practice.”  He continued to smile, though it had changed from victory to pure delight.  I smiled as well, having fully realized that he had soundly caught me out. 

            After a moment of reflection, I said with faint indignation, “I simply cannot believe that you purposefully induced me to drunkenness in order to elicit a confession.  And the way you lulled me into your confidence, like a common criminal you aim to interrogate in a public house.”

            “It was the easiest way to prove that it was you; it lacks finesse, I must admit, but it is often quite effective.  As for the common criminal, Watson, I would have refrained from getting into such a state of inebriation as I find myself at present,” he said with a bit of a scarlet on his cheeks.  And now that the game was won, his fully relinquished his hard-fought control over the whiskey.  His muscles visibly relaxed and his diction was now slightly less than perfect.  

            Forgetting my wounded pride, I looked at Holmes; the way he propped his feet on the settee and the composed set of his shoulders made me smile.  I could not recall ever seeing the great Sherlock Holmes appear so utterly contented.  He looked uniquely beautiful reclining there across from me, grinning with triumph and satisfaction. 

            Whether it was the whiskey or his captivating demeanor at that moment, I will never know, but I spoke my thoughts before I realized their consequences.  “You are simply the most beautiful creature I have ever known, Holmes.”  I smiled as I spoke; then my face froze in horror as I replayed the words in my head.  My eyes instantly looked to the floor as I waited for the reaction to such ungentlemanly expressions.  How could I even have such thoughts, let alone speak them aloud?  The whiskey only forced my heart to pound faster, blood throbbing in my head.  I could not see my companion’s face, but he shifted not a muscle for what seemed like an eternity.  I tried to speak, to apologize, to explain away my words, but my throat was parched from fear and sudden panic. 

            “You need not apologize for your words, nor regret that you said them,” Holmes said plainly, startling me.  He seemed, not for the first time, to have been reading my thoughts as they occurred.  “I confess I had not dared hope to hear such praise from you,” he paused for what seemed an eternity.  At last, his voice small, he said, “I am quite pleased.” 

            My gaze still fixed on the floor, the full implication of his words slowly penetrating the alcohol- and fear-induced haze that clouded my mind.  After a time, I managed to speak, slowly and with as much control as I could manage.  “You are not repulsed?”  I asked feebly, still not venturing to look at my friend’s face.

            “My dear Watson,” he said smoothly, with a slight chuckle; his composure somewhat recovered.  “Once again you have proven that you are not the most observant of men.  I have long looked upon you with a rather inappropriate fondness; you had even taken notice on one occasion and questioned me about it.  I naturally did not satisfy your curiosity, for I would not risk our friendship.”

            “What…?” I said weakly, comprehension dawning slowly.  “I simply had not realized…” 

            Holmes moved his feet to the floor and leaned so that I was forced to look at him, then said, “No, a gentleman such as yourself would not have realized.  And a gentleman such as myself would allow this evening to slip from the annals of existence, should that be your desire.”  He paused, his face a mask of resignation hiding keen emotion.  I could not tear my eyes from him; this thinly-veiled display of feeling in him was unusual and unsettling. 

            After a few sobering moments, I gathered my courage and said simply, “No, I do not wish to forget it.”  Guided by what some hitherto unknown force, I leaned forward gently taking his hand in mine, and kissed him briefly on the cheek.  He closed his eyes as I did so, and his muscles tensed noticeably.  I noticed as I leaned back on the settee that his hands were trembling nervously. 

            “You are full of surprises this evening, Watson,” he said after several moments of near-tangible tension, his eyes still closed.  He swallowed uneasily, opened his eyes, and said with a wry smile, “So that you don’t think me base, my plot to ply you with fine whiskey was meant only to induce you to confess to master-minding the lifting of my hat.” 

            I returned his smile, the atmosphere decidedly lighter though still palpable with nervous energy.  “Shall we retire?” I said and pulled him to his feet.

~

            Holmes was listless at the breakfast table.  This was not unusual, but it was indicative of his darker moods.  I feared that our recent conversation had weighed heavily upon him; indeed, he tossed in his sleep most of the night.  Normally, I am an exceedingly sound sleeper, but the unexpected events of the evening (coupled with the intake of whiskey) kept my mind aroused.  Sobered, I had thought of my words and what feelings had spawned them into life.  He was beautiful, though his hawk-like nose and too-lean physique disqualified him from being classically handsome.  And our friendship was intensely intimate, if often he took my loyalty for granted.  I had, as a point of fact, staged this stolen-hat lark (at some considerable financial cost) in order to lighten his mood and see his vigor and enthusiasm return.  My emotions for my good friend, I finally concluded, ran deeper than I was aware. 

            And what of Holmes?  He had professed similar feelings, which he said were long-held.  I have always considered myself (with much self-satisfaction) more astute than my friend in terms of the softer emotions, but I was not conscious of his feelings anymore than I was of my own. 

            Might we both regret what had transpired last evening? I thought as I cracked my egg with a spoon.  Before I could take off the shell’s top, Holmes spoke.

            “I noticed that you did not sleep well last night, Watson.  I too had much on my mind.”  He smiled slightly.  “As I said last evening, I do not regret your words, and I hope dearly that you do not regret mine.”

            I looked at him intently for several short moments, and any doubts I might have had were rapidly fading.  “I do not,” I said truthfully.

~

            We soon returned home to our apartments in Baker Street; the familiar surroundings bringing me comfort after the extraordinary proceedings of our week-end in the countryside.  A telegram heralding a new case was brought during the evening of our return.  “Someone has made off with a highly valuable heirloom of the Chesterton family in Paddington,” Holmes stated.  He looked at me and smiled wryly, “You wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would you, Watson?”  I laughed, pleased to discover that while our lives would pick up much as we had left them, the case of the pilfered hat had left an indelible mark.

 
The Case of the Murdered Novitiate