Interwoven with the story:

The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton

Inspired by the portrayals of Sherlock Homes and Dr. Watson by Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke.

Rated G
 
 

"Watson, you are not applying yourself!"
 
 

With some asperity I looked up from the pile of newspapers cluttering the floor round me to glance at Holmes. The detective was standing on a chair in his room, literally shoveling papers out of the top shelf of his wardrobe. Only Sherlock Holmes filed articles and commonplace book pages in the drawers of his wardrobe!
 
 

Conditioned to Holmes' unique form of search procedures, I reacted to the crisp tone of his unjust reprimand rather than his abominable housekeeping.
 
 

"Holmes, I have been through all the morning papers and two of the afternoon editions! I have read aloud all the agony columns which might have been intended for Professor Challenger."
 
 

"Then you must read through them again!" was his imperious command. "His research papers on the pterodactyl are irreplaceable!"
 
 

With a loud sigh, I continued scanning the paper. It was a tedious job, yet Holmes was convinced it was the only method which would advance his case. His latest client was the famous dinosaur scientist with a personality even more unique and outrageous than my companion's.
 
 

I glanced out the window. A cold winter rain pelted the city. No chance of an easy escape by pleading a walk or a visit to my club, I realized. The thought of exercise reminded me of my still aching ankle and I shifted my position to ease the soreness of my injured limb. I massaged my stockinged foot while I searched for respite from the task I had been assigned. Unable to think of another excuse, I continued to scan the paper.
 
 

A knock at the sitting room door was my rescue and I gratefully quit the papers, seized my walking stick, and came to my feet. Mrs. Hudson opened the door and poked her head in.
 
 

"There's a young lady to see Mr. Holmes," she announced in a peculiar, tartly superior tone. Having known Mrs. Hudson for so many years, I interpreted her manner to indicate this 'young lady' was low on the social scale and not, therefore, meeting Mrs. Hudson's standards for a proper client. Many of our visitors failed her exacting ideas of acceptability. Nonetheless, I was happy to welcome anyone who would spare me from another reading of the agony columns.
 
 

Mrs. Hudson opened the door to allow the young woman to enter, and cast a long, disapproving glance at the papers I had left on the floor. Uncowed by her glare, I thought, 'Wait until you see Holmes' room!' Unchivilrously, I looked forward to the reprimand our landlady would inflict upon my roommate.
 
 

"Bring up some refreshments, Mrs. Hudson," I requested. "Please come in," I offered the woman, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's tut of displeasure. "I am Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes' assistant."
 
 

"Is Mr. Holmes in?" she asked.
 
 

"Yes, he'll be with us directly."
 
 

The young lady I ushered to a place on the sofa was a bright-eyed, red-haired woman in her early twenties. Her clothing and speech put her in the station of some kind of domestic help. I was, however, impressed with her confident bearing and her direct and intelligent gaze which she leveled at me in a business-like manner.
 
 

I called to Holmes that we had a client and he absently ordered me to take charge of the situation. Holmes was in the mental throes of his own world and could not be bothered with anything else at the moment.
 
 

I sat in Holmes' chair by the fire and addressed the woman. "How may we help you?"
 
 

"My name is Aggie -- I mean, Agatha Hatcher. I've recently lost my position because of the death of my employer. Without references it's ever so difficult to get a respectable post in another household."
 
 

"Of course," I agreed sympathetically.
 
 

Mrs. Hudson arrived with tea and cakes, which she grudgingly served to us. "Will Mr. Holmes be joining you?"
 
 

"Eventually." She sniffed disapprovingly, and left.
 
 

"Now Miss Hatcher, how can we be of assistance to you?"
 
 

"I have this man -- we're engaged. Except, you see, I can't find him and he hasn't been round lately," Aggie explained rather clearly considering she was chewing a mouthful of biscuit.
 
 

To myself I kept the obvious thoughts which popped into my head. Countless were the poor, gullible housemaids who had been drawn in by promises of a better life by silver-tongued blackguards. The nefarious men would use the girls then abandon them -- usually leaving the woman 'with child.' I had no sympathy for such unscrupulous behavior. Immediately my heart went out to this brave, proud woman.
 
 

Her intent eyes bore into me with unusual directness. "I want your help to find my man, Dr. Watson. His name is Escott. He's a plumber."
 
 

With a clatter, my teacup and saucer dropped to the floor.
 
 

"Escott?" I choked. When I had regained my breath I called out, "HOLMES!"
 
 

"What is it, Wat --"
 
 

As Holmes came round the corner of the sofa and glanced at our client, he stopped dead in his tracks. A sharp intake of breath interrupted his sentence.
 
 

"It IS you!" Aggie accused as she came to her feet.
 
 

For one of the few times in our association, I was treated to the sight of a Holmes so thoroughly astounded he was speechless.
 
 

"When I saw you at Appledor, I thought I was balmy. But it was you all along, using me."
 
 

"Aggie --"
 
 

"Just to get at Mr. Milverton!"
 
 

Holmes was stiff, his manner chill. Tinging this condescending manner I had seen him adopt so often, was a surprisingly new element of defensiveness. "I don't expect you to understand, Aggie. I did what was necessary."
 
 

The tone was heartless, cruel and cold. The fact that Sherlock Holmes actually offered any explanation of his actions at all, was astonishing evidence to me of how ungallant he felt at his behavior toward this servant girl. To most gentlemen, chivilrous behavior toward a working class woman would not even be noticed. To Sherlock Holmes, it was something he occasionally felt compelled to do to accomplish a high goal. That did not mean he liked what he did, and indeed, was ashamed of his behavior in this case.
 
 

She moved to within a few inches of Holmes. Her back was stiff, her face rigid, her eyes a flashing display of fire. In her own way, Aggie was as proud a creature as Holmes. The disparaging size difference, the volatile remonstrations, would have been amusing in less serious circumstances. This was, however, the unfortunate maid to whom Holmes had promised marriage in his guise as Escott.
 
 

In a delusion-like sequence, my mind's eye scanned the horrific headlines to come: Famous detective sued for breach of promise. Sherlock Holmes - Fraud! Holmes and Watson convicted of Milverton murder!
 
 

This last possibility sent chills through my being. With Aggie placing Holmes there as the false plumber, and my shoe as physical evidence (along with my injured ankle), I could all but feel the weight of the darbies on my wrists. As Holmes had once joked, it seemed we would soon be sharing a gaol cell instead of a sitting room.
 
 

"Aggie," Holmes stuttered, "I never thought you took me seriously.
 
 

"You lied to me!"
 
 

"I did not intend to hurt you."
 
 

Her eyes remained dry, yet her voice trembled with raw emotion. "You thought I was no better than I should be -- like every other girl in my class! You used me!"
 
 

"I have explained --"
 
 

Aggie's hand impacted on Holmes' face with a resounding slap. "I don't think I need to explain that!" she said with amazing dignity. Then she spun round and left the room.
 
 

Still stunned by the attack, Holmes and I were frozen in place. The silence was so complete I heard the street door open then slam closed as Aggie left the house. With horror, I realized the only witness against our future was now on her way to the police. I raced after her, ignoring the pain it caused my injured foot, making the ground floor in record time. Once on the street I rushed/hobbled to her side as she was hailing a cab.
 
 

"Miss Hatcher, if you would just talk to me, please."
 
 

She turned and faced me with steely determination in her expression. If I was not very careful, I would probably receive the same treatment dealt out to Holmes.
 
 

The rain was cold, slashing down my face and slithering down my collar in icy drips. Taking the risk, I dipped under the umbrella she held and took hold of the handle, steering her from the walk.
 
 

"Please understand, Holmes didn't mean to hurt you. I know you're angry with him, but what he did was not undertaken with malice." She did not yet have her hand ready to strike, so I continued. "His motives were honorable, even if his actions were not. If he had not acted against Milverton, many others would have been hurt. And I assure you Holmes is not a murderer. He had nothing to do with the killing."
 
 

For the first time her expression softened to one of compassion and even sympathy. "You're a kind man, Dr. Watson. So I'll tell you true, I never thought for a minute you, nor Mr. -- Holmes, was the murderers. I know there was two. And I know Mr. Hebworth got somebody's shoe." She glanced meaningfully at my injured left ankle.
 
 

"Appearances are sometimes deceiving."
 
 

There was a crafty shrewdness in her eyes which I had not noticed before. With difficulty, I pressed my lips together so as not to smile at the cleverness of this very underestimated, vibrant woman.
 
 

She correctly read my thoughts as they must have been revealed in my expression. "I never did believe him anyway," said she -- a proud lie. "He just isn't in for marriage. I've seen the type before." The conviction was only slightly forced. More disappointment in the tone than certainty. "Maids sometimes have dreams even when they know better."
 
 

"You never wanted to hire Holmes," I stated. "You knew his true identity when you saw him at his visit to Appledor Towers."
 
 

She nodded an affirmation. "Cor, I couldn't believe my Escott -- coming as a gentleman -- as Sherlock Holmes!" A slight grin of appreciation escaped her lips. "I had to come and be sure . . . " her voice trailed off, leaving the rest of her reasoning unspoken, yet plainly understood. "What a right nerve he has!" Here she laughed.
 
 

"That he has," I agreed ruefully. "And he doesn't understand what a treasure he has lost in you, Aggie."
 
 

She blushed and started to walk away.
 
 

"Is it true there is a rival for your affections?" I boldly asked as I walked with her.
 
 

She briefly indicated the footman at Appledor Towers was the man 'Escott' had pushed aside, but he was not a serious contender for her interests. Words unspoken left me to believe that a large portion of her heart had been captured by the 'plumber with a rising business.' I wondered if it would have comforted her to know she had deeply touched the normally impenetrable heart of Sherlock Holmes.
 
 

For an ungallant moment I thought this would be an opportunity to discover more about my reticent roommate. I inquired of Aggie what she and Holmes discussed on their talks (". .Those talks, Watson!" he had once remarked). Aggie, however, was loyal to her memory of her plumber and gave away none of their intimate discussions. I limped along beside her until we came to the corner, where we stopped.
 
 

"Holmes once said you were full of juice, Aggie. You're also very remarkable." I took her hand and kissed it. "It has been a pleasure to meet you."
 
 

I hailed her a cab and paid the fare. She once more assured me she had no interest in talking with the police. Her one regret was that she, truthfully, did not have a new position. I assured her that would be taken care of before long.
 
 

As the hansom pulled away she gave me a slight wave and smile. I waved back, thinking that, for the second time in his career, Sherlock Holmes had been bested by a woman. I also realized that I had run out of the sitting room in my stockings and my feet were now soggy and cold.
 
 

When I returned sopping wet to the warm and comfortable sitting room, Holmes was slouched in his chair, staring into the fire. Wordlessly he handed me a hot whiskey which he had placed within easy reach on a table. I sipped the hot drink and warmed myself by the fire while I removed my wet stockings. I could not keep my eyes from the sore, red spot on Holmes' cheek. Uncharitably, I thought he had gotten off with less than he deserved. From the beginning I felt he had acted unscrupulously toward the housemaid, using her to gain access to Milverton. In this whole affair, Holmes' insistence on putting himself above the law (first his tryst with Aggie, then the burglary, topped by allowing the real murderer to go free) was embarrassing and dangerous. I was simply grateful it was all over.
 
 

"You are dripping on the rug, Watson," my companion said in a droll tone. "Do change into something dry."
 
 

Compassion finally coming to the fore I leaned down and looked at his face. "Are you all right?"
 
 

Holmes gingerly touched his cheek. "My pride has been delivered a more stinging wound than my physical being," said he morosely.
 
 

I finished my drink and hobbled my way to the door. "I hope this will teach you something for the future, Holmes."
 
 

"What's done is done," he intoned.
 
 

When he offered no comment I turned to gaze at the forlorn figure huddled at the hearth. I took pity on my poor friend who was, indeed, ashamed of his cavalier behavior.
 
 

"You know, Holmes, Aggie still needs a good position. And last I heard, the new Duchess of Dovercourt; nee Eva Blackwell, might need a new maid since she so recently lost hers."
 
 

Holmes raised his head and looked at me, a spark of challenge in his eyes. With that, I left the matter in his hands and went upstairs to change. We never spoke of the incident again, but I know that Aggie now holds a vaulted position far above her wildest dreams. And Sherlock Holmes has the memory of yet another example of why he should not underestimate the fairer sex.