Sherlock Holmes and The Shadows of St Petersburg

his furrowed brow indicating how bewildered he was at being identified so easily. The bowler rolled to the floor.
“But how - ?”
“Tosh, man,” said Holmes. “Your card lay in the brass platter downstairs just inside the outer door. It is where our landlady always places such items when she has allowed someone to wait for us.”
“Oh, yes,” said he, stooping to pick up his hat. She did escort me up here. In fact, she kept quite the eye on me. Afraid I might upset some of your precious belongings, I shouldn’t doubt.”
Presumptuous prig, I surprised myself by concluding on such short notice. Certainly not an appropriate suitor for a sensitive young lady like Miss Cheek. I had only just met the man, and yet I had taken an immediate dislike to him - even with the knowledge that such an attitude put me in the same singular camp as her brother and William Arbuthnot.
Holmes seemed equally put off. How else to interpret the impatience in his tone? “Now that you can see I am no clairvoyant, Mr Farragut, you will understand that I have no way of divining the purpose of your visit. Dr Watson and I are in the midst of helping the police investigate a pair of brutal murders, and I suggest you tell us the nature of your business so we may go about pursuing our work.”
Unruffled by Holmes’ directness, the man announced, “I am here to personally invite you gentlemen to join my fiancée, Miss Priscilla Cheek, and me for dinner tomorrow evening. I know she has been here to speak to you about her brother; and since my ‘business,’ as you so aptly put it, deals with the two of them, I thought a person like yourself, Mr Holmes, whom Miss Cheek obviously trusts, should be there to witness the terms I intend to put before her.”
“Terms?” I repeated, my sense of gallantry offended. “Terms for your intended? Certainly, Mr Farragut, this is no way to begin a lifelong relationship - especially not with so clearly fair-minded a young lady as Miss Cheek.”
Holmes allowed himself a quick smile at my remark before accepting the invitation. “Where and when, Mr Farragut? I believe I speak for Dr Watson when I say we both eagerly anticipate hearing what you have to say.”
“We shall meet at Simpson’s tomorrow evening at 8,” Farragut announced. “I have booked a private room upstairs. I suppose it only fair to tell you that Miss Cheek wanted her brother to be present as well. I quashed the suggestion, of course. I have no use for the vagabond, and I told her so. More of this we shall discuss tomorrow evening.”
With those final words, Farragut rose, leaned forward in a kind of farewell bow, and departed.
“One wonders,” Holmes observed after we heard the outer door close, “if this fellow would have extended us the invitation had he known we consider Miss Cheek’s brother a possible suspect in a murder case.”
Had the matter not been so grave, I might have categorised that look in the steel-grey eyes of Sherlock Holmes as a twinkle.
* * *
Though fall weather continued to chill the city that Friday, Holmes and I deemed the evening warm enough for an invigorating walk to the Strand. Simpson’s was always a desired destination. With its wood-panelled walls, marble floors, and rich-textured carpeting, the ambiance of its interior could almost make one believe that the restaurant was the centre of the Empire.
Holmes and I arrived minutes before the arranged meeting-time and found Farragut and Miss Cheek waiting for us in the entryway. We ascended the stairs to the intimate room Farragut had hired and in a matter of minutes were seated before the establishment’s whitest linen, finest china, and most sparkling flatware.
“A pre-prandial aperitif?” Farragut offered.
It took the stomp of rapid footfalls on the nearby staircase but a moment to destroy the tranquillity. Seconds later, none other than the lady’s twin, a winded Mr Roderick Cheek, arrived at our table. Dressed in a well-worn grey coat, he kept it wrapped about himself when he grabbed a chair from next to the wall and, squeezing it between Miss Cheek and Holmes, collapsed onto the seat.
The panting maître d’, who had come scurrying up the stairs behind young Cheek, hastened into our little room, obviously too astonished by the young man’s quick entrance to have kept him out.
“Is there a problem, Mr Farragut?” the maître d’ asked, still breathing heavily.
Before Farragut could utter a word, Miss Cheek spoke up. “Everything’s quite all right. I invited this man myself.”
The maître d’ rose to his full height, which in truth was not so grand, eyed Roderick’s threadbare coat with disdain, and then huffed his way out the door and back down the stairs.
Now it was the waiter’s turn to approach our table, but Farragut waved him away. Rather, he addressed himself to Miss Cheek. “I specifically ordered you not to invite your brother to this engagement.”
“Ordered”? Has this fellow no sense of boundaries?
“You also said you that wished to speak to me about him, Percy,” replied Miss Cheek calmly, “and I saw no reason why he should not be present to hear what you have to say. After all, to marry me is to marry into my family.”
Roderick’s eyes burned with fever as he listened to the exchange. Sick as he appeared to be, I wondered if the man might nonetheless be capable of inflicting bodily harm upon Farragut. A silver trolley off to the side was filled with joints of beef waiting to be carved. I knew it also maintained a fine selection of the finest blades. Not counting the occasional cough, however, all Cheek actually did was to continue sitting quietly.
“Well then, Priscilla,” said Farragut. “Let me say it to you clearly. In fact, I invited Mr Holmes and Dr Watson for dinner to serve as witnesses. I did not want your brother here tonight, and I forbid you from seeing him once we are married.