The Happy Days of Being a Factory Owner in London – Chapter 14
by MonoKeeping a Cat
We have a cat!
At Arna’s promise, Watson sighed, his short mustache twitching. “…To be honest, it’s really quite hard to believe.”
But he climbed in anyway, sitting carefully on the carriage’s bench seat, bracing himself for the impending impact.
When the carriage pulled to a stop near Baker Street, Watson let out a breath of relief.
He had been on edge the entire ride. Fortunately, the morning’s disaster hadn’t repeated itself—except for the final few minutes, when Arna swerved to avoid a pedestrian and nearly crashed into a thicket, leaving both of them covered in leaves.
Watson silently plucked a leaf from the top of his head, then began picking the green foliage out of Arna’s hair as she gripped the reins and bumped the carriage back onto the road. “Next time, I think I’ll walk back. It’s safer.”
“Liar. You said that this morning, too,” Arna said, brimming with confidence. “You’ll miss my brilliant driving.”
Watson muttered something under his breath but didn’t argue.
He stepped down from the carriage and waited while Arna dropped it off at the boarding stable, before walking shoulder-to-shoulder with her toward 221B.
“What are your plans for tomorrow?” Watson asked. “If you need any help, just let me know. I happen to be free tomorrow. I could give the children a medical examination, write up their certificates, that sort of thing.”
Arna thought for a moment.
“I haven’t decided yet,” she said, extending a friendly invitation. “But if we’re going to the factory together, would you want to go fishing with me first?”
She was full of confidence. No one could resist the temptation of fishing! No one!
Watson fell silent. Wake up at six in the morning to go fishing, rain or shine, just like him? Was he serious?
“I’m afraid that’s a bit too early for me,” he said reluctantly. “But I would be glad to go see the children with you after breakfast.”
He had no doubt that if he agreed to the fishing trip, Arna would be banging on his door at six in the morning, refusing to stop until he got his way.
Arna’s expression fell.
Her left eye said How could you refuse me? Her right eye said You have no taste if you don’t like something as fun as fishing. But aloud, she only said, “Oh, all right.”
For some inexplicable reason, Watson’s conscience felt a twinge of guilt.
As they neared 221B, Watson hastily pointed at the doorway to change the dangerous subject.
“That looks like Holmes,” he noted in confusion. “Why is he crouching in the doorway?”
Arna followed his gaze and caught her breath.
Holmes was indeed crouching on the front steps, staring down an uninvited guest perched on the stair railing.
The uninvited guest’s ears twitched. Its tail was rigid, and its sharp eyes were glaring unceremoniously at Holmes, as if looking at a particularly stupid pigeon.
Its bright grey eyes narrowed into slits, its claws gripping tightly onto the spherical finial of the banister.
There was no doubt that if anyone tried to pet it right now, they would end up with a few fresh, bloody scratches on their arm courtesy of the bad-tempered little creature.
Watson’s eyes widened. He looked at Holmes, then at the highly similar cat, and his mouth twitched.
“Is this your new companion, Holmes?” he asked deliberately.
Before Holmes could answer, Arna asked enviously, “Really? Is it your cat, Holmes?”
She didn’t seem to doubt the doctor’s words at all; her attention had been entirely stolen by the feline.
Holmes withdrew a finger that had been hovering in mid-air, pretending he hadn’t just reached out a second prior only to be repelled by the cat’s displeased hiss.
“Not mine,” he corrected. “This is clearly a solitary creature. Observe: its muscles are firm and its lines are sleek, indicating a fierce demeanor and a rich diet. And, of course, the sharpened claws… it has likely encountered many meddlesome humans.”
Watson stifled a laugh. “In other words,” he said, trying very hard to hold it in, “while we were gone, Holmes has been trying to bribe this stray cat with food, but to no avail.”
Holmes glared at him.
“It is merely a scientific observation, Watson.” He turned to Arna. “How is your progress? You should know that when the master of a building stores food inside, rats drawn by the scent will run rampant through the factory.”
Arna, who had just been making soft coaxing noises at the kitty, broke into a cold sweat.
“Ah, about that…” she stammered.
Actually, when she checked her interface panel today, she found that for some reason, all the red dots in the factory had turned green.
The plan—her plan wouldn’t just be completely derailed because the enemy had all suddenly defected, would it?!
If she couldn’t complete this side quest, it wouldn’t affect her final ending achievements, would it?
For instance, like missing a certain year’s town quest, and ending up being forced to join the ranks of heartless capitalists or something…
Just as Arna froze, the cat leaped up lightly from the newel post.
But it didn’t jump toward Holmes. Instead, it sailed in an elegant arc right onto Arna’s shoulder.
Arna’s shoulder dipped under the weight. The black cat’s furry ears brushed against her cheek, its sharp claws piercing lightly through her coat to steady its balance.
Its tail swished back and forth, and it purred so loudly that the sound drowned out Holmes’s voice.
Unable to hold it in any longer, Watson burst into a fit of laughter.
“It seems our detective won’t have to worry about being bitten by a cat after all,” he teased.
Arna was overjoyed. “This is my cat now!” she announced, casually petting the kitten’s head under Holmes’s slightly envious gaze.
Holmes gave a harrumph. He stood up, straightened his posture, and forcefully brushed the dust from the hem of his coat with exaggerated motions.
“Irrelevant,” he muttered. “It clearly has questionable taste in its choice of companions.”
“Perhaps it simply scented a perfectly identical soul in you. Like poles repel, Holmes.” Watson hung his hat on the rack. “Aloof, unpredictable, and prone to sudden outbursts.”
Holmes shot him another glare, which only made Watson laugh louder.
Arna carried the cat inside, ignoring the two men’s childish banter.
After dinner, she sat in her usual chair with the cat on her lap. She absentmindedly scratched the top of its head and its chin, letting the little cat splay its paws and stretch out as it rolled around on her knees.
“Let me guess,” Holmes said, naturally taking a seat beside her. “Your plans are not going smoothly.”
Taking advantage of Watson returning to his room to put away his medical bag, Holmes raised a finger and whispered, “Money?”
Arna, who had just opened her interface panel to think of a name for the cat, immediately turned her head to look at him.
“Yeah,” she said. She opened her palms, asking expectantly, “Got some?”
She knew it! Whenever a player was short on cash, a kind-hearted NPC would jump out like a helpful angel investor to hand out money!
Holmes theatrically patted his pockets, all of which were noticeably flat.
“Alas, my last shilling has vanished to who knows where,” he drawled. “My dear Aisas, if I had even a single shilling to spare, I wouldn’t have pawned Watson’s spare stethoscope last Tuesday.”
Arna: “…”
What the hell. How was he even poorer than her?
She dug into her own pocket with disdain, pulled out a shilling, and placed it on top of his head. “Here.”
Holmes instinctively raised a hand to catch the coin before it could slide off.
“Aren’t you short on money?” he asked, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “And relax, I’ve already redeemed the doctor’s stethoscope.”
“I’m short on money, but not one shilling short,” Arna said, slumping in her chair. “I have a feeling the patent applications are going to require a lot more than that.”
At that thought, she looked back at Holmes. “Do you know how much it costs to apply for a patent? I mean, the absolute cheapest kind.”
Holmes’s fingers flicked the shilling.
“A patent application? The fees are far from cheap. You must understand, a patent application is a delightfully convoluted quagmire of bribery, petitions, and bureaucracy.” He stood the coin on its edge and gave it a light push, sending it spinning. “The Home Secretary’s signing fee1, the Attorney General’s investigation fee, the drafting fee for the Queen’s warrant, the licensing fee, the stamp duties…”
With a cling-clang, the coin toppled over on the flat armrest, and Holmes’s voice finally dropped into a languid drawl.
“In total, it might cost around one hundred pounds each,” he said. “Annually.”
Arna’s face went numb.
“And of these patent applications…” she said in a daze, sinking deeper into her chair as if plunging into a bottomless bog of poverty. “…I have three.”
Relying on her savings from the past while, she had only managed to scrape together about ninety pounds. Not to mention, the thugs in the East End seemed to have grown a brain lately—hardly anyone came to rob her anymore.
Ugh, money, money, money!
Watson emerged from his room, only to see Arna slumped on the sofa as if her soul had left her body, and the black cat—having jumped down from her lap—rubbing impatiently against her calves.
Holmes was enthusiastically teasing the cat with a piece of string—which looked suspiciously like one of the curtain tiebacks—but the cat ignored him and looked rather annoyed.
“It seems I’ve missed something,” Watson said. He poured himself a cup of tea and took a sip. “Where were we in the conversation?”
“We were at the part where Holmes pawned your spare stethoscope last Tuesday,” Arna said dazedly. “Dr. Watson, do you happen to have a hundred spare stethoscopes? I’d like to pawn them too.”
Watson nearly choked. He stared at Holmes. “What?”
Holmes: “…Don’t be nervous, Doctor. I have already redeemed it.”
He was forced to explain the entire situation from start to finish.
After hearing the full story from Holmes, Watson shook his head. “Come now, Holmes, stop joking. You certainly have a better solution by now.”
Arna’s eyes lit up. She looked at Holmes.
Holmes looked at the cat, which was still ignoring him, and tossed the string aside with considerable regret.
He turned to his cluttered table, shoving vials and papers into a corner, and dug around for a long time before finally retrieving a crumpled envelope from the very bottom.
“Lestrade’s latest request for a consultation. It involves some blackmail and missing jewels. The victim is a Viscountess, who is willing to pay a fee of two hundred and fifty pounds for it.” He waved the envelope like a trophy. “Assist me tonight, and your patent fees will emerge from the fog just like the suspect.”
Watson: “…Wait, your grand solution is to bribe him into accompanying you on a case?”
“Cooperation,” Holmes corrected. “Well, Aisas? Shall we depart? Care for a midnight excursion to a Viscount’s estate?”
Arna looked at Holmes, then at Watson.
“You two are definitely hiding something from me,” she asked suspiciously. “Isn’t Dr. Watson your investigative partner?”
Watson’s teacup clattered loudly against its saucer.
His mustache twitched; he clearly found it a bit amusing. “Perhaps it’s because I don’t wish to scale drainpipes after midnight.”
“Incorrect,” Holmes corrected. He had already put on his coat and was reaching for his hat on the rack. “It is likely because the Viscountess adores him. Last time, she fed him several slices of apple cake and asked our Doctor of Medicine from the University of London2 if he would consider taking on a personal, long-term medical consultation.”
Watson’s face instantly turned red, the color threatening to spread down his neck.
“That was—I never—Holmes, you told me I needed to distract her!” he sputtered in embarrassment and anger.
“Yes, yes, you did it for efficiency,” Holmes waved a hand dismissively. “Right then, we require a slightly different skill set for tonight.”
He turned his head to look for Arna. “For instance, Aisas is exceptionally good at coordinated strikes and brawling…”
A second later, he saw Arna walking out of her room, casually hoisting a massive, glittering Golden Sword over her shoulder. His voice trailed off. “…No, wait, perhaps that won’t be necessary either.”
The author has something to say:
Here we go again.
Holmes: .
- The patent application process references Charles Dickens’s short story A Poor Man’s Tale of a Patent. The protagonist spent a total of £96, 7 shillings, and 18 pence to secure a single patent. The story is set in the mid-eighteenth century; by the early nineteenth century, prices were only higher. It wasn’t until the Patents Act of 1883 reduced application fees by eighty percent that the process became accessible.
- In the original canon, Watson completed his undergraduate medical studies at the University of Edinburgh, followed by a four-year combined Master’s and PhD at the University of London specializing as an army surgeon… Watson, you’re amazing!
Footnotes
- A reference to Charles Dickens's 1850 short story 'A Poor Man's Tale of a Patent,' which critiques the absurdly complex and expensive bureaucracy required to obtain an English patent at the time. Historically, before the reforms of 1852 and 1883, securing a patent involved dozens of offices and cost upwards of £100 (a massive sum at the time).
- In Arthur Conan Doyle's original Sherlock Holmes canon, Dr. John Watson received his Doctor of Medicine degree from the University of London in 1878, after studying at St Bartholomew's Hospital. The author notes that this involved a rigorous academic path.
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