A
Study In Satin
by Tigger
Holmes examined his disguise in his mirror, and firmly resisted
to urge to give that surging mane of his one more brushing. It
would not do much good, in any case. Thankfully, when he'd gone
into Watson's rooms in search of the other items this stratagem
would require, he happened upon the personal grooming kit of
Watson's wife, Mary. Now Holmes finally had a hairbrush suitable
to his feminine needs. Certainly, the brush that had been
sufficient for the aged and thinning scalp of the old Sherlock
Holmes had proven completely inadequate to the task of taming the
young and lush tresses of Miss Joan Hanks.
So intent was he on pinning the unruly mop up into something at
least remotely resembling what Maisie and Jenny had taught him
the day before, that Holmes never noticed the pink tongue peaking
out between pert, pursed lips. An objective observer would have
thought it cute, and in keeping with the look of a young miss not
long out of the schoolroom, still learning the grooming tricks of
a young woman.
The hair arranging, however, required his full attention. It was
not until after several attempts, and multiple rebrushings to
groom away the loose wisps that marked Holmes' many failures as a
hair stylist, before dogged determination finally prevailed.
Holmes had elected to dispense with the cosmetics Jenny and
Maisie had pressed on their new friend, primarily because he
considered it highly unlikely he would look like anything better
than a circus clown. However, he also thought that a visiting
nurse would not have the time to worry with such things and that
he would be more in role, so to speak, clean faced.
He had been practicing in the broad-heeled, Cuban-styled shoes
since rising that morning. While he hadn't killed himself by
taking a header, it had been a very near thing on several
occasions. The shoes' tall heels increased Holmes stature by
almost an inch and a half, which was a good thing since that
morning's dose of Moriarty's potion had reduced his height still
further. As it was, Holmes' eye for detail told him that the new
shoes raised the hemline of his "business dress" just slightly
more than was considered "politely fashionable". *Well,* Holmes
thought wryly, *I may be showing a shade too much ankle right
now, but by tomorrow I won't have that problem with these shoes.
May need even higher heels tomorrow. Won't that be simply
wonderful?*
Carefully, he perched the small, round, box-like hat that Jenny
had given to him on top of the mass of pinned up hair. Holmes
thought the thing looked like a child's version of a top hat that
someone had sat upon. Worse yet, he was certain the perfectly
circular item had a front and a back with all the feathers and
other frou frou stuck haphazardly about its brim, but he couldn't
for the life of him figure out which was which. Given the way
his life was going at that moment, Holmes was certain that he
would manage to put it on precisely backwards. He was about to
simply give up and wear it whichever way, when he recalled his
somewhat inebriated ride home the previous night. Those damn
feathers kept tickling his nose, so he positioned the hat so that
the feathers were at their most annoying, and then pinned it in
place.
Holmes twirled in front of the mirror to check his gown and was
satisfied with how he looked. *Thank beneficent Providence that
it was Jenny who selected this ensemble. I never did manage to
put two pieces of clothing together so that Jenny felt they
suited.* The dress itself was a dark wine color that Jenny
insisted showed off Joan Hanks' dark hair and eyes to advantage.
Gold embroidery highlighted his corseted waist and of course, his
hemline.
His dressing complete, Holmes walked over to the chair upon which
he had laid his matching cloak and slipped it over his shoulders
and fastened it down the front. Finally, Holmes slipped on his
gloves, picked up his reticule and made one last check to ensure
that all the required items were inside.
Holmes moved toward the door, but stopped in front of his foyer
mirror. With a last delicate gesture at a still-errant lock of
hair, Sherlock Holmes cloaked himself in the persona of a young
woman.
With a last, somewhat tremulous smile to her mirror, Joan Hanks
swung about and out the door.
~------------~
The hansom cab stopped at the establishment of Carroll and
Nickelsby, Solicitors, at precisely one minute before ten. Joan
almost forgot herself and would have bounded from the carriage
had not the cabbie beat her to the door. With a blush at her
near gaff, Joan let the man take her black-kid-gloved hand in his
own and permitted herself to be assisted to the ground. It was
just as well she had waited, Joan realized moments later. The
heel of her left shoe caught on the threshold of the cab and
would have gone head first into the muddy London street without
the cabbie's quick rescue. Stuttering her gratitude, she paid
him and then blushed yet again when he tipped his hat before
ascending once again to his perch on the rear of the cab.
Joan quickly gathered her skirts to keep the finely embroidered
hems out of the mud and entered the office. A young male clerk
greeted her from an ominously large desk set precisely in the
center of the reception area. "May I assist you, Miss?" he asked
in what Joan thought was a rather condescending tone."
Her back went ramrod straight and her chin tilted up forcefully.
"Yes, my good man," she said stiffly as she pulled off her
gloves, "I am here on business on behalf of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
and I have a ten o'clock appointment with Mr. Carroll. You *may*
announce me *now*, please."
The voice of command, even when pitched in such light, feminine
tones, brought an immediate response from the pompous young fool.
"Immediately, ma'am," he said as he scurried off to one of the
heavy oak doors behind his desk.
Moments later, he returned with a tall, older man in tow.
"Hello, Miss Hanks, I am Jason Carroll," the older man said as he
strode forward, his hand extended.
Instinctively, Joan extended her own hand to shake hands in
greeting and so was greatly surprised when Carroll took her hand
in his, bowed over it and kissed her fingers. She nearly
snatched her hand back, and likely would have had she not been so
shocked by the gesture.
Carroll smiled at the girl's disoriented look and said, "Won't
you join me in my office, please, and we will see what Mr. Holmes
would like me to do."
Still bemused, Joan followed almost meekly in the man's wake, and
took the chair offered, but shook her head at the offer of tea.
Much to her dismay, she had to stand and reseat herself when her
gown billowed in front and bunched beneath her causing her
momentarily to show an unsuitable flash of slender ankle and bit
of calf.
The display was not lost on Joan's host. Realizing that she had
made an immodest display caused Joan to be reminded of the soft
and oh-so-feminine undergarments that continually caressed her
body. Suddenly, very private parts of her anatomy all began to
itch fiercely and she practically had to grip the chair arms to
stop herself from scratching herself. Still, she felt her face
flame under his obvious scrutiny. "How may I be of service, Miss
Hanks?" Carroll asked once he'd seated himself behind his chair.
That, at least, was something Joan could deal with. "Of course,"
she hedged, opening her reticule and removing a large envelope
and a card. She passed the card to Mr. Carroll. It was one of
professional calling cards of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting
Detective.
"Mr. Holmes directed me to give you that," she said, "and this
envelope, sir."
When Carroll accepted the envelope, his fingers inadvertently
collided with Joan, but her focus was now totally on the task at
hand and did not notice it.
Carroll frowned as he opened and read the letter it contained.
Since she'd written, Joan was already aware of what it directed
the solicitor to undertake on Joan's behalf and found herself
watching him as he scanned the letter. *Odd that a man of his
consequence cannot seem to sit still,* she thought as Carroll
shifted back and forth in his chair. *Hemorrhoids, perhaps?*
Dear Mr. Carroll,
A recent bout of illness has confined me to
my rooms, and restricts me from seeing to my
day-to-day business affairs as I would
prefer. Until such time as I have recovered
sufficiently to resume my normal schedule, my
visiting nurse, Miss Joan Hanks from whom you
received this letter, will be acting in my
stead.
You are therefore requested to see to the
following arrangements on my behalf. Please
prepare for my signature a power of attorney
granting Miss Hanks full access to my
accounts and investments until such time as I
revoke that document. Additionally, prepare
any other such documentation you deem
necessary for her to act as my agent while I
am incapacitated. Since you are now already
acquainted with Miss Hanks, I will leave it
to you to make whatever introductions are
necessary at the various banks and other
institutions she will need access to in this
office.
Finally, since I am, as I stated above,
restricted to my rooms, I would ask that you
call on me in my lodgings at 221B Baker
Street with the documents for my signature.
If possible, please make a cash withdrawal
for me in the sum of five hundred pounds as I
have not been able to replenish my household
accounts since being laid low by this
infernal sickness and must needs see to
settling said accounts.
Thank you for your assistance. I am,
Most Sincerely
Sherlock Holmes
"You must be a most remarkable young woman, Miss Hanks," Carroll
said as he raised his bespectacled eyes from the letter.
"I beg your pardon, sir?" Joan asked, somewhat startled by the
comment.
"I have known Mr. Sherlock Holmes for almost fifteen years, Miss
Hanks, and think I know him rather well. This is the first time
I have ever seen him involve a woman in his life, let alone his
business affairs. You must be rather . . ." he hesitated and
smiled winningly, "special to have won the approval of so
particular a fellow."
Joan flushed, and looked down at her hands folded about her
reticule in her lap. "I hope Mr. Holmes has learned that I am
trustworthy and honest, sir," she said quietly.
Still smiling, Carroll waved the paper toward her with one hand.
"So, you are aware of the contents of this note?"
"Not the details, sir. Mr. Holmes said he needed you to call on
him this afternoon so that he could deal with several issues that
have gone wanting since he was afflicted by this illness. Will
there be any problem with you accommodating Mr. Holmes' requests,
Sir?" *And there had better not be any given the exorbitant fees
you demand for your services, Carroll.*
"No, no, my dear. None at all. Will I have the pleasure of
seeing you when I come to call, Miss Hanks?"
Joan stood. "No, Mr. Carroll. Mr. Holmes gave me specific
instructions that I was not to be about when you called. He said
he needed to discuss issues with you in private and that I was to
see to my shopping and other necessities this afternoon after
helping him prepare for your visit."
Carroll rose and came around the desk. He put his arm about Joan
shoulder and gently directed her from his office. "Then I shall
look forward to seeing you again some other time, Miss Hanks. I
shall look forward to it," and his voice dropped into a very low
register, "Very much indeed."
Something seemed to crawl up Joan spine and a frisson of what
might have been panic curled her stomach. She quickly donned her
gloves before the solicitor could again capture her hand, made
her farewells, and all but fled the offices.
~------------~
Three thirty P.M. again found Holmes staring into his mirror
dealing with his hair. A rather hideous blend of wig powder and
gray woodash had dulled his hair to a limp, washed out gray.
With great care, Holmes stuffed the greater proportion of the
dusty mass up into a stocking nightcap, allowing a few, well-
grayed wisps to flutter about his face.
Ah, his face - Holmes was particularly proud of his face just
then. Two hours with his stage cosmetics had succeeded in
restoring a reasonable semblance of his former masculine and aged
visage - at least one that appeared debilitated by illness.
Using the thick, waxy substances, Holmes had succeeded is
sculpting the familiar aquiline nose and the prominent brow
ridges. He'd hollowed his cheeks and then added powder and
other, less pleasant pigments to give his face a grayish,
unhealthy cast.
Holmes donned a pair of thick house gloves and proceeded to the
sitting room. He smiled at what he saw there. *Fortunate that
remembering the cases where I had needed to impersonate a woman
recalled to mind the Count Sylvius affair in the Case of Marazin
Stone. Otherwise I would not have remembered this fine fellow,*
he thought with satisfaction.
The figure in the chair had once been a decoy dummy Holmes had
used to fool a jewel thief into confessing and revealing the
location of a fabulous stolen diamond. Watson, the arch-packrat
and collector that he was, had saved the thing in his little
museum of Holmes Memorabilia. *And a good thing he did, too.*
Still smiling, Holmes opened the "chest" of the dummy and then
slid his legs into those of his avatar. Holmes then seated
himself and slid his arms into place before closing the front of
his costume. Holmes had experimented earlier and had therefore
thought to bolster himself by placing several thick books down
where he sat so that the combination of Holmes and his dummy
looked to be of nearly normal stature.
The disguise was completed by an artful positioning of the
stocking cap over the back of the chair and then bundling a
large, thick comforter about him. Holmes had thought to position
this chair so that he could examine himself in the mirror once
he'd completed his preparations. What he saw there pleased him.
An old man, dressed in a nightshirt and evening robe seated in a
chair. Except for his face and the toes of two very disreputable
house slippers, he was swathed head to foot by a heavy quilt-like
comforter. Holmes would even have fooled himself.
At least for two, maybe three minutes, in any case.
The door bell chimed just as the clock struck four p.m.
"Come in," Holmes said in a querulous, old man's voice, "it's
open."
The door opened to admit Jason Carroll, a hand size portfolio
tucked under his arm. "Good day, Mr. Holmes. I hope you are
feeling better."
"I'm feeling old, Carroll, and there is very little that can be
done to make that better!" Holmes snapped in his best
curmudgeonly fashion, all the while thinking about the awful
irony of that statement. "Well, sit down, sit down. Let's get
this over with before that damned girl gets back here to badger
me back into bed."
Carroll opened his portfolio and removed a series of papers.
"You mean Miss Hanks? She seemed like a very pleasant young
woman. Rather . . . umm. . shall we say decorative, as well? A
young woman like that could do a great deal to keep a man young,
eh?"
The last comment was said with a "man to man" tone that brought
Holmes up short. *What does THAT mean? And why does it put my
back up?* "Hmmmph," Holmes snorted, "If you're in the petticoat
line, I suppose. Do you have my papers, Mr. Carroll?"
Carroll stood and brought the papers over to Holmes. Using his
portfolio as a writing board, he presented a pen to Holmes.
"This first one is the requested Power of Attorney, Mr. Holmes,"
Carroll told him before presenting two other forms for his
signature. "These authorize Miss Hanks to sign checks and
account forms for your accounts at the Bank of England, and this
form, is the withdrawal form for the five hundred pounds you
requested."
"What?" Holmes growled testily, "Does that mean you didn't bring
my money?"
"I couldn't take that much out of your accounts, sir, without
your signature, so I took the money out of accounts held by my
office which I will, in turn, replace with the money you just
authorized to be withdrawn."
"I see. Very thoughtful of you." Holmes took a few moments to
thoroughly examine the other man when something caught his
trained eye's attention. *Odd about his mouth,* Holmes thought,
*unusually full lips for a man of his coloration and background.
Unusually dark ones for his skin tones as well. Not at all what
my studies into anthropological body types would lead my to
expect.*
"Thank you, Sir," Carroll said, interrupting Holmes' line of
thought, "If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Holmes, does Miss
Hanks get any evenings off?"
Holmes frowned. "Eh? No, of course not. She is on duty every
night since that is when I have my hardest time."
"So she stays here, not at home?"
"She stays here, otherwise she lives with the other nurses at the
local hospital, but she doesn't have any time for any dalliances,
sir, as she will be accompanying me to my country estates as soon
as Dr. March says I am again fit to travel."
"I see. Well, hopefully you will soon be back in the first bloom
of health, sir," Carroll said with somewhat less bonhomie than
he'd previously evidenced.
*So you can pay your addresses on Miss Joan Hanks without
offending her employer who also happens to be your richest
client, eh? So sad, you old fool, that Miss Hanks and Mr. Holmes
are one and the same.* "Well, I am told that with a few weeks of
clean, fresh air in the country, I will be as good as new. We
may be back in the city in two or three months." *Which should
give you more than enough time to forget Miss Hanks, providing I
and therefore *she* can survive that long.*
"Yes, well, I am afraid I must be on my way, Mr. Holmes. Do have
Miss Hanks call on my office tomorrow to sign the papers herself.
I have also scheduled time in my day so that I may introduce her
to your account manager at the Bank of England's London Office."
Holmes nodded and then lifted a gloved hand to Carroll in
farewell. Carroll took the proffered hand with some reluctance,
shook it once and then with a final farewell, took his leave.
Holmes watched the door close and heard the downstairs door open
and close as well, then he began to laugh. "You were much more
enthusiastic about taking that hand in yours this morning, you
old goat."
With another, very unladylike bark of laughter, Holmes extricated
himself from the body of his dummy and set about moving it to his
bedroom. "Might be useful to have a conveniently sleeping Holmes
available to deflect the next uninvited visitor who comes
calling."
~------------~
Entry in the Journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
Date: February 9, 1911. Time: 7:41 P.M.
My Dear Watson,
Well, thanks to your tendency to save anything and everything
associated with any of my cases, I was able to replenish my ready
funds reserve today.
Physically, the changes in my body appear to be going apace. I
am again shorter and lighter, by another quarter inch and another
two and one half pounds respectively. My waist must be smaller
because the corset doesn't feel as tight. Interestingly, my hips
and chest are smaller now as well, but I am definitely becoming
ever rounder in those areas of my body. Whether it is a result
of the corset pushing softer flesh up or down or the result of
Moriarty's potion making me ever more feminine in all physical
respects, I am definitely developing a bosom and as Jenny pointed
out, cleavage.
One concern I have about the rate of these changes is that Jenny
and/or Maisie will notice. They are, after all, dressmakers. I
stopped at a shoemaker on the way home from the solicitor's today
and purchased a new pair of high heeled shoes. Unfortunately,
these are not the wide heeled "Cuban heels", but rather another,
much more slender heeled style known as "Spanish heels" and these
are almost four inches in height. Based on my current stature, I
will likely need them by day after tomorrow at the latest.
Unfortunately, I have concluded that I desperately need the
lessons that Jenny imparts to me so I am going to continue seeing
her.
Besides, it is nice having a friend again, Watson. I do wish you
were here, old fellow.
Tomorrow, I must face Mr. Carroll again, hopefully for the last
time. I have checked my society page file, and have discovered
that Mr. Carroll has a well earned reputation as a womanizer. I
must conclude that my attempt to dispense with cosmetics and to
appear businesslike did not turn aside his interest. Most
upsetting.
I am very tired, Watson. I think I must get some rest. DAMME!
Time is running out and all I seem to do is sleep, grow ever
younger and ever smaller, and accomplish NOTHING toward the real
task at hand - finding and stopping Moriarty.
And I still have not thought of anyone to take up the battle
against the Professor when this damnable potion finally runs out
and I die from the withdrawal symptoms.
But, as I said, I am very tired.
Good night, Watson. Perhaps I will be seeing you for real soon.
End Journal Entry
