I heard the chimes quite clearly. Even in self-induced narcolepsy something nagged away annoyingly enough to risk a slight opening of my eyes. Gladly the room was familiar. Austere enough certainly, very little to appeal to any but the most disengaged esthetically, in every sense my perfect room. The air was cold. The little flesh on my bones tended to offer little protection against inclement weather and between now and March was going to be an eternity of chilblains and colds. The thick wool dressing gown was just in reach and moving far too fast for my befuddled brain I managed to pull it over the linen nightshirt I had apparently successfully managed to don before collapsing into coma.
John was still contentedly snoring, quite loud enough for my ear drums to complain bitterly that once again we had managed to finish tèt a tèt. Perhaps hindsight is a good thing sometimes but as always I preferred to skip over the vague memories of anything that might have transpired between us in private, with the clear understanding that my best, well in truth my only real friend would continue to disguise the reality of our relationship in a mask of acceptable fraternity. Suggestions of any impropriety were to be frowned upon, indeed pointedly prosecuted against and such were the double standards of our age that any hint of scandal would risk my reputation and most certainly cause Johns excommunication from his profession.
The heavy curtains in the study were still tightly closed, the air rancid with a mix of stale tobacco smoke and even less appealing perfume. The first half of the stench was easy to rectify. Two hard pulls on a cheroot and nicotine wrapped its protective numbing arms around my frizzled nasal passages. The second half, caused no doubt through the combined aroma of a dozen or so actor types that returned from the Savoy in our company would be harder to expunge. Risking all I pulled the drapes aside and threw open a bay window.
"Fog, thank be for a good London pea-souper!"
"I see you have deemed it appropriate to surface!"
The landlady's voice charming as it might otherwise be cut through my nerves like diamond on glass.
"Is it late?"
I always considered that the best of all defenses against criminal guilt was a total ignorance of any pertinent fact whatsoever.
"Past noon sir, but there again I wasn't up till the wee hours cavorting with Mister W. and his friends."
I had the distinct feeling of being squashed into the front pew of a Presbyterian Kirk somewhere north of Edinburgh.
"I suppose it is too late for breakfast?"
Much safer ground for a casual conversation there.
"Perhaps, perhaps not!"
"Conundrums, always......"
I was silenced by the large silver serving tray being magically recovered from just outside the chambers door.
"Sit!"
I obliged sheepishly, tucking a large fresh starched napkin into the still gathered neck of my nightshirt.
"Kidneys!"
The succulent morsels were uncovered with the theatric flare of the magician.
"Eggs!"
Again the flamboyant reveal accompanied by a slap to my hand as I attempted to filch a lonely urinary organ from the previously exposed dish.
"Toast!"
I was dumfounded, undone equally by both the cornucopian repast and by the exhilarating prestidigitation. I hung my head remorsefully, only to be reprieved by the softest peck of a sweet pair of lowland lips on my cheek.
"You're such a perfect cad sir and such a little boy. Eat, enjoy, bless you. Should I wake the Doctor?"
"Let him be Mrs. H, the world can bear him slumber a little longer yet."
---------:---------
Arthur Seymour Sullivan was by nature a man with little consideration for gossip or notoriety. His talent and success had granted him a guiding position in Victorian society but his popularity as a composer amongst both high and low borne alike allowed for leeway in strictly personal peccadilloes. Being far less addiction riddled than say a Byron or Rossetti meant even the great moral prognosticator Charles Dickens found criticism difficult. Finding the great man sitting quite distracted in the bowels of my study was quite mystifying.
"My dear Arthur, how the devil are you?"
He rose, took my hand reasonably firmly but resumed his seat at once.
"You seem a bit wobbly old chap. Something amiss in the world of light opera?"
"Terrible tragedy H. Poor Braithwaite got killed on the way to the theater tonight. Chap was doing so terribly well too. Kicked the infernal needle for once and all and was back to top form."
"Really am so terribly sad to hear Arthur. Was it a robbery? I know he lived in Stepney and had to travel through Whitechapel twice daily. Not a good spot at all."
"No one seems to know much at all H. Would really appreciate it if you could take a look."
"Calm your self old man and give me as much of the facts as you can. No panache please, just facts, clean, concise and undiluted."
There in lay the rub. The facts, or at the least the assumptions were as thin as a whores underpinnings. Braithwaite had taken a hansom from Stepney to Commercial Street at around four that afternoon for an undisclosed destination and had remained incommunicado till found slain some two hours later. No information either helpful or distracting just bare bones.
"Where did they take the body and who is looking after the case?"
