The Case of Constable Evans' Fancy
A Sherlock Holmes Story
By John Pirillo
To say that Constable Evans was smitten by the mysterious thief, who got away, would be an understatement of the most momentous proportions. To say that he was madly in love with a phantom that could slip through spaces no more than a centimeter thick some might also say was not just an understatement, but an indictment of his imagination as well. But then, they hadn't been there that night that Sherlock, his father Inspector Bloodstone and Doctor Watson had cornered the gossamer lady only to have her flee without being captured.
"It's really nor right that a thief should look so..."
"Handsome?" His father ventured, winking at Doctor Watson, who was seated to his left inside 221B's sitting room at a table with a silver platter of scones, a teapot and a steaming coffee pot as well.
Sherlock, in his typical fashion, stayed out of the conversation, preferring to thumb through the latest story of Conan's he had written since his transition from the alternate earth universe. "Come now, Inspector, surely the lad desires a bit more credit than that?" Sherlock ventured without losing his place or his eyes on the story he was reading. He had already finished ninety percent of it. He was quite a remarkably fast reader, able to remember almost a hundred percent of whatever he read, which was what led him to reading the fiction of Conan's, it gave him a different route for his memory to travel...one less tried and true.
The Inspector coughed into a hand, took a sip of his tea, then eyed his son sternly, who gave the look back defiantly. "Well, perhaps, but he is after all just a child."
"I am not, father!" Constable Evans denied, jumping to his feet. "A man of his twenties is hardly a child!"
Doctor Watson who had been watching the tirade with amusement jumped in. "But then all men seem like children when we become older, is that not so, Inspector?"
The Inspector laughed. "Tied my hand behind my back, Watson. How can I ever deny such a word of truth as that?"
"Oh, I image rather easily." Sherlock said, once more interrupting his reading to comment. "You do it all the time."
The Inspector gave Sherlock an evil eye for a moment, then sighed and looked at his son, who was still fuming from the insult. "Sit down; you're making me tired just watching you stand there."
"I will not, Inspector!"
The Inspector sighed again. "All right. You're not a child. So stop acting like one. What the bloody hell's gotten into the kids these days?" He muttered to Mrs. Hudson as she walked in with a fresh tray of sandwiches and placed them on the table.
She looked over at Constable Evans. "Oh, I'm so forgetful." She pulled a letter from her apron that had beautiful flowers drawn on it in purple." She handed it towards Constable Evans. "They said it was for you."
He perked up. "I don't know anyone who might..."
Suddenly his face lit up. He ran down the stairs for the front door.
Sherlock laughed then. "You received the letter mid morning, did you not, Mrs. Hudson?"
"Yes, but how..." She giggled.
He smiled at her and resumed reading.
Constable Evans flew back up the stairs into the sitting room. "What did they look like? The one who delivered it?"
"Oh, a quite charming young lady. Wore this very peculiar dress that seemed more like silk than cotton. Though I've never seen that material before..."
He ran back down the stairs again. The front door was heard banging open, and then shutting.
"Oh dear me." Mrs. Hudson declared, giving Watson a pleading look. "What have I just done to that poor boy's imagination?"
"Oh, it's not imagination, dear Mrs. Hudson that has struck him in the heart. But rather something more soft and delicate."
Everyone laughed.
Then Watson and the Inspector realized what had happened and who they were talking about. They grabbed their coats and ran down the stairs as well. The front door opened with a bang and slammed shut again.
"Are you not going with them, Mister Holmes?" She asked, gathering the used dishes to bring to the kitchen.
"I'm not through reading dear Conan's time travel story and I do so much hate dead ends."
"Oh?"
He looked up with a smile. "The lady in question I'm sure has been a faithful distance between her and our flat by now."
With that he returned to his reading, the smile never leaving his face.
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Constable Evans ran all the way to Regent's Park, stopping pedestrians and Constables to inquire if they had seen anyone looking like Gossamer, as he called her, the girl he had been smitten by. They all gave him a look of humor, seeing as how his desperation colored his words and the fact that it was a girl he was chasing. None of his inquiries led to any likely prospect.
So finally, he sat down on a bench beneath an ancient elm that spread protective arms beneath the cloudy skies of London. The sky was clear, but starting to blur somewhat with light clouds that moved swiftly from North to South. A slight drizzle had wet the pavement earlier and so the park bench was still moist, but Constable Evans didn't feel it. He only felt the beat of his lonely heart. This incident just reminded him once more how devoid his bachelor life had become of true happiness. Sharing with a partner.
"Now what?" He demanded of himself.
He suddenly remembered the letter he had been handed. He had smashed it into his coat pocket, forgetting about it in his rush to find the missing girl. He plucked it out hurriedly and began to read it.
=======================================================
Dear Constable.
I hope this letter finds you well and happy.
I know it does me.
Please do not think unkindly of me for being so forward as to communicate with you.
I realize you may think less of me because of what you witnessed this last evening. But I assure you no harm was meant to you or anyone else.
I don't have much time to write this, as I am continually moved to keep searching for my redemption. But when I searched you eyes I saw something in them I had been looking for and did not realize. Hope.
I pray that we shall meet again soon. For my heart feels as if it will surely break if we do not.
Please do not look for me. I do not want to bring you grief by such a useless gesture.
Patience will be its own reward.
Yours sincerely,
Gossamer!
=======================================================
Sherlock's smile returned as he sipped his tea and the pounding of Constable Evans feet ascended the staircase to the sitting room. Sherlock was alone.
"Where is my father?"
Sherlock patted the chair opposite him.
Constable Evans sat down, and then eyed the stack of sandwiches which lay before him and Sherlock.
"Please, help yourself, Constable Evans. I imagine your dash to Regent Street Park and your futile search for the thief of last night has left you not only weak of the knee, but the stomach as well."
Constable Evans dug into the food, while Sherlock looked on, occasionally sipping teas. Finally, Constable Evans was as full as a young man's stomach could bear. He shoved back from the table and started to get up.
Sherlock shook his head.
Constable Evans sat back down again.
"The letter she sent you, did it not request you be patient in your endeavor to capture her attention once more?"
"Yes, but how could you know..."
"And did she not say that there was a special bond between you?"
"Yes, but Sherlock..."
Sherlock was relentless. "And you feel that by exerting yourself to the maximum this will prove your worth to this nightingale. Is this not so?"
"Bloody hell it is." Constable Evans swore.
Sherlock nodded, then set his tea down, went back to his favorite chair, sat down and picked up a new book. He looked to Constable Evans. "Mister Wells and Mister Verne have come up with a very fine time travel story I feel to be of the utmost interest. Perhaps you could join me at the other chair and partake of my extra copy?"
Constable Evans got up, started that direction, and then looked longingly at the staircase.
"Constable Evans." Sherlock reminded him of still being there.
Constable Evans came over, picked up the extra copy and restlessly at first, then calmer and calmer, continued to read.
"I think the page where Jules realizes that he will never see his dearly beloved again if he continues to run forward through time for her, seeking the version he remembered, when she was no longer there, but in the past. I think that might be of interest to you."
Constable Evans glanced at the page that Sherlock showed him, flipped through his own copy and found the page.
"Please, Constable, read it out loud. I rather fancy the tone of your voice. It would help me to calm my agitated nerves just now."
Constable Evans glanced at Sherlock, not seeing a nervous man at all, but complied.
"And when I, the inventor extraordinary, flew through time in the Master of the World with Mon Frere, Wells, we came upon a very unusual spot in time. It was London. But a very different one. One where the people all wore these glistening types of clothing. Like gossamer they were."
Constable Evans looked up at Sherlock, who didn't return the glance. He began reading again. "And one of them seemed to know us intimately and called us by name, and said to give a message to a young man. That he wouldn't know it was for him yet, but in the years ahead he would."
Constable Evans began to choke up.
"Please, Constable, don't stop now. I feel so soothed by your voice."
Constable Evans read on. "His name is Constable Evans. You must tell him to be patient, as it is not truly his nature when his heart is full. How I know this is because mine own is so much the same. Tell him we shall meet again. And sooner rather than later. But he must be patient as time works more safely for the patient, than the impatient."
He finished reading and looked at Sherlock, who closed his book. "I feel so calm now and relaxed. When the good Doctor returns with your father, please tell them I am taking a nap. So kind of you." He said to Constable and exited into his bedroom.
Constable Evans looked at the book in his hands and clasped it to his chest. "I will, Gossamer. I will be patient."
And then very impatiently, he rose to look out the window. For even as patient as he was trying to be, the hope of a fresh and more loving tomorrow was almost too much for his patience to bear. Such is the nature of love.
