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The Case of the Clockwork Queen was certainly the crown jewel in Basil of Baker Street’s long and storied career, but it was only the beginning of what the mouse himself considered his most important achievement: developing the world’s first training programme for consulting detectives. Olivia was, naturally, his first—and most dedicated—pupil.
Lesson after lesson on what one could learn from the contents of a dockworker’s pockets and how to differentiate soot from various chimneys in London enabled her to track criminals nearly as well as Basil himself.
“Really, Dawson, Flabbertyjibbet is quite prepared to handle this trifle on her own,” Basil threw over his shoulder as he monitored the contents of a smoking test tube.
“A trifle?” Dawson protested, barely pulling Basil’s attention for a moment before he turned back to the sickeningly yellow liquid. “A strange man lurking in the palace’s walls is hardly a trifle, Basil. And Olivia is still quite young to be chasing some ruffian through London alone.”
“She’ll hardly be chasing him through the city, my dear fellow,” the detective said. “The chameleon never leaves Buckingham Palace. With a decade’s worth of my training, I should certainly hope she can find a lizard in Her Majesty’s sitting room.”
After ten years of working and living side by side, Dawson knew better than to press Basil. His methods were most assuredly unconventional, but one could hardly argue with his results. And though he insisted on maintaining a flippant attitude about their young pupil, Basil cared for the girl as deeply as her own father and would never expose her to danger.
On the other hand, Dawson reflected as the test tube exploded, releasing its noxious fumes in their study, Basil’s sense of danger was notoriously underdeveloped.
“Miss Olivia Flaversham, Your Majesty,” intoned the queen’s private secretary.
“Is that really necessary, Hubert?” Olivia asked as she passed the older mouse. “After three years, I do believe Her Majesty knows it’ll be me coming for afternoon tea.”
“That may be, my dear, but one must uphold our society’s great traditions,” the Queen reprimanded, though they all knew it was mostly for the sake of form. “We are most grateful, for example, that you have finally adopted civilized attire in our presence.”
Olivia settled carefully into the chair across from the queen, compensating for the skirt’s train. She had borrowed the lavender walking gown from her current paramour, London’s most celebrated prima ballerina. Lilianna assured her that the fluted skirt was á la mode, but it certainly seemed more trouble than it was worth.
Though in many ways she was very like the little girl Dawson found on the street—she was still fascinated with her father’s inventions and ballerinas, especially Lilianna—Olivia was very much a modern woman. She favored simpler skirts and occasionally even trousers over those pigeon-breasted contraptions currently in fashion and steadfastly refused to wear a corset. She bucked tradition and proved herself as capable a detective as any member of the Yard. And though she was a favorite of the queen, she often spent at least half of their weekly afternoon teas arguing about the government’s latest policy decision or the importance of women getting the vote.
Hubert subtly nudged Olivia’s leg, pulling her from her thoughts just as Her Majesty passed a cup of steaming tea to the young mouse.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Olivia said as she accepted the saucer. “But I’m here on official business for Basil, hence the disguise.”
“Hubert, what has become of our queendom if a young lady chooses to wear a proper skirt only as part of a detective’s disguise?” the queen queried.
“I am certain I don’t know, Your Majesty,” Hubert pronounced drily.
“Basil said that the Boy Jones has gone back to sleeping in your chimneys and creeping ‘round the palace at night. I’m here to flush him out,” Olivia continued, ignoring Her Majesty’s dig at the modern woman.
“After tea, Hubert can help you settle in. We trust that you will put a stop to this madman’s excursions through the palace,” the queen declared, putting an end to further conversation on the topic.
“Well, then, Your Majesty,” Olivia said, preparing for their weekly sparring match, “would you like to comment on the Irish protesting your visit?” Home Rule was a touchy subject for the queen. This would be one of their long teas.
Two hours and only one broken saucer later, Hubert led Olivia to the scene of the most recent run-in with Jones.
“A governess for one of Her Majesty’s granddaughters heard the nursery’s door open,” Hubert explained. “When she called out, it quickly slammed closed, and she heard feet running away.”
“And a search turned up nothing, I assume?” Olivia asked.
“We did find the window he must have used to get in,” Hubert huffed. “But no, Jones was not located.” The secretary straightening his perfectly starched uniform was the only sign of distress, though of course Olivia noticed the gesture and the worry behind it.
“Don’t worry, Hubert,” she gentled. “We will catch him. Let’s review what we know so far: he has been caught twice but somehow manages to return to the palace despite increased security, he has admitted to listening in to Her Majesty’s meetings with the Prime Minister, he often sneaks food from the kitchens at night, and he seems to be obsessed with the queen’s family.”
As Olivia listed the facts, she wrote them in her plain detective’s notebook. Basil seemed to have no end of space in his mind for every trivial fact and detail of a case, but Olivia liked putting pen to paper.
“Right,” she declared. “I’m going to take a look ‘round, determine where he might strike, and—since our criminal is nocturnal—get in a good nap.”
Now that the palace was asleep, Olivia was back in her comfortable trousers and a loose grey shirt. After nearly three hours in the queen’s sitting room (one of Jones’s favorite napping places was underneath one of its sofas) with neither hide nor hair of the lizard, Olivia decided to sweep the rooms between there and the kitchens below.
Basil spent many of their lessons focused on how to see in little light so as to avoid using lamps or candles and giving away their presence. Olivia silently thanked him for this when she spotted muddy shoes underneath a windowsill just a few rooms from where she had been stationed. There were thus no footprints to follow, but Olivia did notice that a pillow was out of place on a settee and went through the closest door into the Portrait Gallery.
And ran headlong into Jones. He was eating crumpets as he strolled along the wall of famous mice who had served the Empire. Thankfully his back was to Olivia, and she was able to come within arm’s reach of him before he realized that he had company.
Unfortunately, he was faster than he was observant. Before Olivia could catch hold of his arm, he was off at a run. The chase continued through large, formal rooms and into the royal family’s quarters, but Olivia was fast on Jones’s heels—until they reached the library.
Olivia had lost sight of him after the fourth parlor, but the library was the only place he could have gone. Yet when she opened the door, all she saw was books from floor to ceiling. She started to doubt herself, but as she turned towards the door, she caught a flicker of movement by the window and realized that the blighter had changed his skin to the rich burgundy of the curtains.
The young detective made a show of closing the door behind herself but stopped just on the other side. Ten minutes later, the sneak strolled out of the library and right into Olivia’s hands.
“He was slippery but thankfully not enough to escape from your modified handcuffs,” Olivia finished telling Dawson and Basil about her latest case. “Her Majesty was reluctant to give the Privy Council charge of him, given how many times they’ve already bungled his arrests.”
“So Australia, then?” Basil inquired from his place by the fire.
“Naturally,” Olivia said. “He’ll be far away from the queen and her family. I doubt that even he will be able to sneak halfway across the world now that we’ve alerted all captains not to let him on board any ship bound for Britain.”
“I must say, well done Olivia,” Watson praised as he refilled his sherry glass.
Always one to have the last word, Basil smirked as he whispered, “I told you Flaversham could handle the case. She’s a fine detective, Dawson.”
Olivia pretended not to hear, but she smiled behind one of Mrs. Judson’s cheese crumpets. She was satisfied with her first case, but she knew better than to sit on her laurels. After all, chameleons were notorious for blending in to their surroundings.