Chapter 7

As was his habit, Holmes was thinking, planning his next step. He slipped the letter Ollie had given him out of his breast pocket, unfolded it, and refamiliarised himself with the contents.

"Dear Alphonso,

I do apologise for not being in contact for some period of time, and I hope your excellent research progresses well. I recall you mentioning a need for sponsorship of a new project you were undertaking. The bearer of this letter Mr Ned Holmes is a personal friend of mine, and a valued contributor to the coffers of the Royal Society. His interest in electrical sciences is considerable, and as a man of independent means he is potentially very interested in adding your undertaking to his portfolio of supported investigations.

Please consider this note his formal introduction, and I trust your negotiations with him will be mutually beneficial.

Your trusted and humble friend,

Dr Oliver James Thomas, St Bartholomews Hospital, Medical School, Giltspur Street, Smithfield, London"

Ned smiled at the phrase 'a man of independent means'. He spoke softly to himself. "One day, one day!"

"What, who the devil..." Brighton spluttered.

"Ah excellent - you are awake Hove. We are close to Oxford station now, and it is but a short journey to our hotel from there."

"Hotel? Dash it all Holmes - this is a rescue mission! We should be straight after this bounder - surely?"

"Ever impetuous my friend. No, in this case our arrival in the late evening would only attract the Professor's suspicion. This is a delicate undertaking requiring some stealth."

"Stealth, yes, I can appreciate that." Brighton mused, as he cradled his right hand in his left.

"How is the hand now Hove? Better I trust?"

"Better then that blaggard's head. I will wager you that, Holmes."

Ned laughed lightly " I do not doubt it! I am not foolhardy enough to bet on a certainty." Holmes paused, interrupted by a loud metallic squeal, "Come Hove, we have arrived, and the Randolph Hotel awaits us."

Bernadette Machin busied herself, as she hated to be unproductive. The feather duster flicked efficiently across the reception desk. Distracted she paused.

"Gentlemen may I be of service?"

"Good evening Madam, I trust you have a reservation for myself and my colleague. I wired the information ahead, Holmes & Hove of London?"

"Indeed, welcome to the Randolph, Oxfords finest hotel. We do have rooms for you this evening, but your wire was a little unspecific about the length of your stay?"

"Alas I was, I anticipate at least tonight and tomorrow, after that I am a little unsure. I apologise for the inconvenience."

"We shall be happy to accommodate you, I understand the vagaries of business Mr Holmes." Mrs Machin smiled.

"You are most kind." Ned replied.

"Here we are; rooms 107 & 108, I trust you will find them comfortable. I could see if the chef is still available, it may be a little late for a meal - but some light refreshments?"

Brighton, who had been more attracted by the nuances of the room than the conversation, suddenly took an interest. His hopes were soon dashed.

"Thank you for the offer but Hove and I have an arduous day in the morrow. A fast will clear our minds, and ready our spirits."

"As you wish gentlemen, I bid you a good night." Smiling graciously, Mrs Machin handed the keys to Holmes.

Minutes later Holmes relaxed in an armchair and lit his pipe. He studied the street below through the window. It was interesting that even away from the hustle of London life was still very evident, even in the late evening. Ned considered this as he drew on his pipe. He filled his expanding chest with intoxicating fumes. Humanity took too little time to reflect. It seemed to want to rush headlong from the cradle to the grave. This was life's greatest mystery, and one he struggled with, what was the imperative? The reason for the rush escaped him.

Suddenly, he found his own imperative. For someone was outside his room! Even slightly drugged Ned's senses never failed him. There was an intruder, or rather there soon would be. Holmes moved swiftly from the chair, and in an instant dimmed the gas mantle, casting the room into semi-darkness. He grabbed a solid looking vase and positioned himself close to the hinge of the door. Silent and stealthy he waited.

Alphonso was neither stealthy, nor silent. Despite his wealth of qualifications and careful upbringing, he acted more like an impetuous schoolboy. As Daphne bounced on his lap, her once pure body swallowing his sore, but happy manhood, he plucked grapes from a bunch held aloft for him by a gloriously naked Jane. Burgabiter soon reached his crisis, and he spayed grape juice liberally from his mouth. Other juices he deposited elsewhere.