The Queens Gambit Ch. 01

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Chapter One. The Unfortunate Nikipoo.
1.7k words
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Part 1 of the 5 part series

Updated 06/07/2023
Created 11/16/2013
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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?"

"I believe the body is being held at Saint Thomas's morgue and an Inspector Fred Abberline is in charge."

"Leave the matter in my hands please Arthur. I know Abberline, he's a good man and will let me poke my nose around quite peaceably."

"Thank you H. don't know where else to turn. Braithwaite was a special friend you see, want him done right by."

"Understand old chap. Soon as John gets back from his rounds we will get moving. Need the fellows medical skills, my hands are a little shaky still from a five percent episode. You toddle off back to the Savoy. Am sure you have a lot of work to do before curtain call."

"Gilbert is beside himself. Just keeps on and on about the possible effect on box office receipts and there's poor Braithers lying on a marble slab."

"Don't let the old fellow get to you Arthur. You know he is as soft as soap under that starched collar."

"Quite right H. your so right. He's all bluster and little real malice in reality. Will you let me know as soon as anything becomes evident?"

"You have my word on it Arthur, anything and everything."

"No scandal though H. Keep the poor boy out of the tabloids. Don't want his dirty washing spoiling a great artist's memory."

"Enough said Arthur. We all have our skeletons to keep closeted."

-------------: -------------

John Hamish Watson still consistently took my breathe away. His skin had paled a little from our first meeting and perhaps the once lithe figure was showing some effect from Mrs. Hudson's extraordinary meat puddings but still so perfectly Greco-Roman to my adoring eyes. He was a decidedly dapper man with perfect Spartan carriage despite the gimpy leg and such a truly wonderful ass. The mustache was not particularly to my taste and a little distracting in the embrace but as the saying goes you don't look at the mantle shelf whilst poking the fire.

"Braithwaite got gutted in Whitechapel."

"Surely not, the poor boy was here last night."

"I remember!" John, Braithwaite and Foster had performed a very robust version of 'three little maids from school' for our entertainment.

"Bet the Savoy is in a dither!"

"Arthur came around whilst you where on rounds. He asked if I would take a quiet look see."

"Yes of course Arthur, I had forgotten that connection."

"Best still kept under the covers old man. Not the sort of thing needed airing at this time."

"Sorry to bring it up."

"No it needs consideration but we must be discrete. Never quite know whats afoot since Lonsdale started nosing around."

"That mans an absolute bounder. He needs a good punch between the eyes."

"Anyone ever tell you how handsome you are when you're angry."

Watson blushed profusely and I delighted in every red corpuscle.

"First stop Saint Thomas's to see the remains. Hopefully the autopsy is still awaited. Don't need that butcher messing with any evidence."

Watson began to protest then thought better. Even professional brotherhood couldn't excuse the ham handed approach of some of his colleagues.

"Then we need to collect Abberline from Limehouse before going to the murder scene."

"Why Limehouse? I thought Abberline was living in Finsbury Park now."

"Still chases the dragon there my dear John. Friday night and he will be nicely tucked into one of Lu Pi's cots with a half crown bowl. We need to get him out fast or he'll be no good to anyone till Monday at least."

John was as usual aghast. His tolerance for my occasional descent into morphine derivatives was wafer thin and the concept of an apparently well grounded crown employee seeking any solace in the infernal opium den was beyond comprehension.

"Poor Freddie has some issues. Please try and show your usual compassion for we slaves of addiction and our depraved succumbing to boredom's havoc."

John was of course mortified as was my very intent. Far from being the typical Blackheath rugger star he was plagued with a heart the size of the subcontinent that had framed much of his stayed character.

"Sorry H, was very unthoughtful of me. Will take your recriminations on board and attempt to rectify." Damn it the chap was close to tears.

"No matter John, am quite sure you had no intent to slight. Take heart in our crusade to support and save!"

The dear boy sniffled a bit and regained the vibrant masculinity I found so delightful. Far too many of our acquaintances slipped into the vernacular of femininity with abundant ease at times of emotional stress.

"Best feet forward old fellow, first to Limehouse and from thence to submerge once more into sublime and purgatorial reasoning."

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