There was even a gentleman convinced that Holmes must be of the Uranian persuasion.
Great men, in my observation, are more likely than not to harbor a deep love for other great men. I therefore urge you to join our society and together strive to overturn the prejudices that would condemn us and the barriers that would have us always be outsiders, fearful of discovery and banishment.
“I would join his society in a heartbeat,” said Charlotte to Mrs. Watson, “but I fear I shall disappoint him bitterly.”
A portion of the remaining inquiries were rejected right away as spurious.
“This man asserts that he has an income of four thousand pounds a year and wants to know whether his fiancée is sincere in her affection for him or only for his money.” Mrs. Watson scoffed. “Look at this paper. I should be surprised if he has an income of four hundred pounds a year.”
Another letter, from a young woman who worked in a florist shop and was puzzled by the conduct of a customer who always bought a single rose but suddenly bought a bouquet of yellow zinnias, seemed legitimate enough to Mrs. Watson. But Charlotte, after looking at it, declared it fabricated. “Lord Ingram is an accomplished calligrapher. And he has taught me that while it is possible for a person to master more than one style of handwriting, it takes a great deal of practice to achieve fluidity in the flow of the letters. And even when one does, there might still be noticeable hesitation at the beginnings and the ends of words. In fact, looking at the script, I would guess the writer to be working for a newspaper.”
Mrs. Watson’s eyes widened—there had been a number of inquiries from the papers, wishing for a word with Mr. Holmes, which they’d promptly discarded. Charlotte grinned. “No, his handwriting didn’t tell me that, but the letter is postmarked very close to the premises of The Times. Our would-be trickster didn’t realize that he had better be more committed to his fraud if he wanted a face-to-face meeting with the mysterious Sherlock Holmes.”
Their first actual client at 18 Upper Baker Street was a young man with a pink, eager face. He had been courting a lovely young lady. Her birthday was in three weeks and he had asked what he ought to give her. In response she had given him a riddle to test the depth of his devotion.
What I’d like to receive is to be found at the beginning of the year, in the middle of the longest word in the dictionary, at the bottom of the stairs, and the end of eternity. Does this turn you upside down? Then you must flip yourself the right way around.
Charlotte disappeared into “Sherlock’s” bedroom for three minutes, then returned with a big smile on her face. “My brother has solved the riddle for you. If you take the letter at the beginning of the word ‘year’—”
“I did try that route earlier,” said the young man. “The beginning of the word ‘year’ yields the letter y. Bottom of the stairs would give me s, and end of eternity another y. But what’s the longest word in the dictionary?”
“That would depend on the dictionary, wouldn’t it? But the longest word in the word ‘dictionary’ is itself.”
The young man gasped with delight. “And the letter in the middle of the word is . . . ah . . .”
Charlotte waited patiently until he exclaimed, “O! It’s o.”
“I do believe you are correct, sir.”
“But what do y, o, s, and y give me?”
“Your young lady did warn you that everything might be upside down, did she not? So let’s reverse her directions, the ones that are reversible in any case. If we take the end of the year, the top of the stairs, and the beginning of eternity—middle of the dictionary is still middle of the dictionary—then what do we have?”
The young man thought for a minute. “R, o, s, e. Roses, she wants roses! I can get her roses!”
He left beaming. Mrs. Watson, who had volunteered to look after the administrative aspects of their enterprise, accompanied him out.
Since neither Charlotte nor Mrs. Watson had any firsthand knowledge of what would be a fair price for Sherlock Holmes’s services, the latter had decided to make it seven shillings for a meeting that solved the problem. It’s a bit more than what a doctor would charge for a call, but not much more. And there’s only one Sherlock Holmes.
Mrs. Watson returned, beaming from ear to ear. Charlotte rose from her chair. “I can’t believe it. He paid!”
Mrs. Watson had reassured her that of course her clients would pay. But to Charlotte the entire enterprise still felt like a mirage, an elaborate fata morgana castle in the sky. That she might turn nothing more than a few minutes of time and a bit of thinking into actual money—enough money for a week of room and board in a halfway-respectable place!
“Oh, yes, he paid. Most willingly, too.”
The mischief and satisfaction on Mrs. Watson’s face . . . Charlotte’s jaw dropped. “What did you tell him my fee was?”