The Baker Street Jurors (19 page)

“I wanted to do it. I had to do it.

“I knew there would be one problem, of course. What would happen when I showed up at the courthouse with a summons addressed to Sherlock Holmes? But then I read that the Crown would be trying to assemble multiple anonymous juries for some major trials. Anonymous, you see. That meant that I and my summons would need to pass scrutiny only once.

“It was cold, it was raining, and it was crowded, as you know, and the poor young lady tasked with admitting us at the alley door was overwhelmed and desperate to get us inside before we could all change our minds and run away. She had no time to worry about a surprising name. She assigned me a number and sent me in. And so there I was. Ready to be someone else. Or at least to be me in a different way.”

Siger stopped talking now and stared out toward the mainland.

A fresh gust of wind blew through, and for an instant they saw it—in the distance, a speck of yellow light that had to be the pub on the mainland, and the faintest reflection on something that had to be the tidal bay in front of it.

Siger pointed the flashlight in the direction of that speck of light and sent three short flashes, two long ones, and then three more short.

“That's not S.O.S.,” said Nigel.

“Right,” said Siger. “If we needed rescue, I would have sent three long dashes in the middle, not just two. But we're merely checking in; so that was just an alert that I'm about to send a longer message. I think the light we are looking at is the exterior entry light of the pub. If they flick that one, or flash another back at us, we'll know we've made contact.”

They both stared for a moment in the direction of the light in the distance. It did not change, and no other light appeared in response.

“Of course, it may take a few tries,” said Siger, and he repeated the process. And then, after a short wait, he repeated it again.

Now the light in the distance seemed to vanish—then became visible again—and then vanish once more.

“Was that a response?” said Nigel. “Or did a cloud bank just roll in?”

“I don't know,” said Siger. “But our battery is running low. So I'm sending the full message on the next clearing, whether they've seen us or not.”

“What are you going to tell them? I mean, assuming someone is watching.”

“Just that we're sheltering in place, and to please come get us at earliest convenience in the morning. Words to that effect.”

Now the mist parted again, and Siger proceeded to send another, longer, series of dots and dashes. Nigel watched carefully—but he couldn't tell just exactly what words Siger was actually sending. His own knowledge of Morse code was just S.O.S., and nothing more.

Now the flashlight grew so weak that it was barely visible even right in front of their faces. And another cloud bank moved in and obscured the pub light once more.

“I'm afraid that's all we can do,” said Siger. He flicked the switch on the flashlight a couple of times. It had gone out completely.

“Time to head back,” he said. “I do hope they kept a light on for us; I counted our steps carefully along the way, so I don't think we'll take a wrong turn—but it could be a challenge getting back in the dark even so.”

And it was. There was indeed a bit of residual light visible at the kitchen doorway, but they couldn't see their own feet as they walked back.

“Blast!” said Siger as they approached the woodpile outside the kitchen. He had tripped once again, just as he had on the way out.

As he got up and tried to brush the mud off his knees, the kitchen door opened. Mrs. Peabody greeted them.

“Ah. There you are. We were just about to send out a patrol to rescue you. I mean, if we had one.”

Nigel thought this was probably an exaggeration on Mrs. Peabody's part; Bankstone and Armstrong, both seated at the table, did not seem all that concerned. Lucy was by the fireplace, on her knees, peering in at the damp ash. Siger walked over to her immediately.

“All waterlogged, as you see,” he said, preparing to kneel next to her and look in as well.

“Yes,” said Lucy. She got to her feet, and came over to join the others at the table. “You're quite right.”

“We've been busy taking inventory while you were out,” said Mrs. Peabody, perhaps just a little more cheerfully than was warranted. “And what we have is four bedrooms upstairs, and a loo in the corridor. The beds are just wooden platforms—no mattresses. We did, amazingly, find a stack of old woolen blankets, but it's a close call whether to use them, given what might be living in them after all these years. And the loo has no paper. There's a wall lamp in each bedroom, and even a bulb or two, but the ones in the stairwell and corridor are out, and there are no replacements. There's a cast-iron stove, but no food to cook on it. We took a quick look in the lower kitchen cupboards and the only potential dinner item was a four-legged one with a tail, which skittered at first, but then got on its hind legs and made us understand that the food chain here is in dispute. So now we've all pooled our food resources, with what we happened to have with us and what we found in the car—and there it all is, right there on the table.”

Nigel went to the table and saw the following:

One package of wine gums.

One opened and half-consumed roll of Mentos.

One unopened sleeve of Hobnob's chocolate-covered oatmeal biscuits.

A tiny plastic container of spearmint Tic Tacs, which looked as though it had been in someone's purse or pocket for too long a time.

“That's it?” said Nigel. “That's our entire communal collection of food?”

“The Tic Tacs are mine,” said Bankstone. “I'm willing to trade one Tic Tac for one Mentos, but only from the inside of the package—I don't want the Mentos on the end, which has been exposed to god knows what.”

Armstrong glared at Bankstone. “I brought the Mentos,” he said. “But I'm not trading a Mentos for one bloody Tic Tac. I'll only trade for a Hobnob's, and I'm willing to trade two for one if need be.”

Siger shrugged and said, “I have some pipe tobacco, if that will help.”

“You see, we are just about to politely divvy things up in civilized fashion,” said Mrs. Peabody to Nigel and Siger. “It's good that you got here in time, or I would have eaten your share, whatever that turns out to be.”

Mrs. Peabody had excellent organizational skills from her years of marriage, and she continued. “With all of us here now, I think we get two Hobnob's biscuits each. I brought them, so that's how we're going to do it. If there's an odd one left over, it's mine. I had my fill of wine gums on the bus, so you may distribute those evenly among you. The remaining items you can fight over as you like. Now, as to the rooming arrangements—I suppose two of us will have to share, and select roommates in the proper way.”

“Yes,” said Nigel, after just a moment's thought. “Alphabetically by first name.”

Lucy smiled slightly.

“No,” said Mrs. Peabody, “by gender, of course.”

“Of course,” said Lucy. “I'm sure that's what he meant. You and I will share.”

There was another awkward pause. Bankstone stared at the wine gums.

“Well,” said Mrs. Peabody. “Now that's settled—I, for one, have had quite enough of this day. If all of you don't mind, I'm off to whatever sort of bed awaits me until the morning.”

She was clutching her purse tightly as she went. Nigel wondered if this meant she had an unacknowledged granola bar in it that she was eager to consume without sharing.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps she was as generous as she seemed.

“That makes sense to me, too,” said Armstrong. “Good night.” Armstrong went up the stairs.

Bankstone muttered something unintelligible, took his share of biscuits and a couple of extra wine gums as well, and he went upstairs, too.

Now Nigel waited, but said nothing. He did want a couple of biscuits, but that wasn't what he wanted most. He was looking for an opportunity to be generous with the right person.

If only Siger would take a silent hint and go away.

Lucy said nothing, and waited.

“So,” said Siger, “just the three of us then. Shall we have a seat? I think this day has given us much to consider.”

Lucy gave a little sigh, and said, “It feels quite late to me. I think I'll just go on up and dream of the wonderful complimentary breakfast all the other jurors will probably be getting in the hotel in the morning.”

She glanced at Nigel, smiled in a way he could not decipher with any certainty, and went up the stairs.

Siger seemed dumbfounded. “No one wants to talk anything over?” he said, as they both watched her exit.

“Amazing, isn't it?” said Nigel.

Siger shook his head, then took his pipe and tobacco out of his pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he said.

“Not at all,” said Nigel. “Especially as I'm turning in as well.” Nigel started toward the stairs.

“It's not smoking to be smoking, you know. It's the ritual. It helps me think.”

“Ah,” said Nigel. “Well. Good luck with that.”

 

20

Nigel couldn't sleep.

It was partly because the bed had no mattress, just wooden slats, and the room was chilly, and the wool blanket smelled dank and mildewy. And at first it was also because he kept replaying the moment when the cloth of the insurance agent's shirt had slipped from his grasp.

But there was nothing else Nigel could have done, and there was never any possibility that the two inches of cloth that he had grabbed would have supported the man's one-hundred-and-eighty-pound weight. He knew that.

Still, it was difficult to sleep. He needed to think of something else.

Lucy came to mind. Again.

He knew she was sleeping in one of the other rooms on the same floor. He wasn't sure which one; it might even be the one right next door. At this very moment, she might be sliding out of her rain-wet clothes and into—well, into whatever. Nigel contemplated that for a moment.

And now he really couldn't sleep. But it wouldn't do to lie awake thinking about her, either.

What else could he think about?

Something came to mind immediately.

Bangers and mash. Fish-and-chips, with vinegar and a pint of Harp. Blood pudding and baked beans.

Perhaps a granola bar.

Anything at all would do. He was desperately hungry, and now that it occurred to him, that thought crowded out all the others, at least for a moment.

And then it occurred to him that if he did find anything to eat, he could invite Lucy to share it with him. It would give him an excuse to knock on her door—if he could find the right room. Probably her roommate was already asleep, but surely Lucy was still awake. At least, she would be if she was having the same sorts of thoughts as Nigel.

And if she were, then of course, anything could happen.

Providing a meal to a woman in the hope of having sex. Looking at it in that light, Nigel supposed that Lois might be right after all. Perhaps jury duty was indeed like a dating agency.

In any case, his incentive was now twice, or maybe even three times, what it was just a moment ago. He got off his uncomfortable bed, opened the door into the corridor, and looked out.

No one. All was quiet—except for the rain on the roof.

And it was dark. But not so dark that he wouldn't be able to make his way downstairs to the kitchen and pantry. Their initial investigation of the cupboards had surely been done with the haste of people who were as damp and cold as they were hungry.

Perhaps they had overlooked something canned and sodium-nitrated, tucked away in an upper corner, lasting forever, and destined for just this moment.

Canned Spam, perhaps. Spinach. SpaghettiOs. Anything.

Nigel shut his door carefully and slowly—but with a prolonged squeak even so—and then proceeded down the corridor to the stairs.

The stairs squeaked, too, especially the last step—but by that point, the fantasy that there might be something to eat had become so strong that he didn't care if he woke anyone. He stumbled through the dark onto the main floor and found the light switch again. Then he went to the three rows of cupboards that served as the pantry.

It was unlikely that anyone had fully explored the two narrow and dusty cupboards in the back corner of the top row. To do that—to get to those back recesses—required a bit of climbing. Nigel put one foot on a lower shelf, got a knee up onto the wood countertop, and reached into the back of the top cupboard, blindly groping, and hoping that he did not find a rodent or a trap for one.

His fingertips found deep, ancient dust—and then something else.

It didn't bite him, it didn't snap shut on his fingers, and it was metallic. All good signs. He boldly seized on it and withdrew it from the cupboard. He wiped the dust off, and could hardly believe what he was seeing in the dim light.

It was Spam. Just as he had imagined there might be! Rarely had any fantasy been so specifically, precisely realized. The only thing that could make it more complete would be if—

“What are you doing?”

Nigel turned. It was Lucy.

“Did you find food?”

It was both a question and an accusation, and Nigel hesitated. Something deep in his id—or somewhere—wanted to respond with, “Shall we have sex?”—but of course, that approach wouldn't work, and in any case he was much too civilized to try it—at least in exactly that way.

“Maybe,” he said after a moment.

She stared. “Is that Spam?”

“Yes,” said Nigel, like a child into the cookie jar.

“And were you going to just take that back to your room and eat it all yourself?”

This remark might have been teasing, but Nigel wasn't sure. “Well, no,” he said. “My fantasy—I mean, my idea—was I'd find you. Maybe clear all the gunk out of the fireplace, strike some rocks together to get a spark, and build a little fire somehow. Sit in front of it. So we could cook. The Spam, I mean.”