The Adventure of the Travertine Nose - Part Three

The Sleeping Bee

You’re still feeling strangely weepy when you arrive at the door of the Sleeping Bee. Narrow brick steps lead up to a honey-colored front door wreathed with a ring of eucalyptus. The golden bumblebee knocker feels warm in your hand and you realize the sun is gallanting fighting a battle against the pea souper.
“Well, you must be Darby?” a warm Scottish voice twitters before the door was quite open. “Do come inside, you poor darling. What a long trip.”
You can’t bear to recap the morning’s adventures, and prefer to adopt the personage of a person who’s merely traveled far and is aching to be horizontal as soon as is politely possible.
“A very long trip,” you confirm. Mrs. Pringle shows you up four flights of winding steps to a tiny, crooked door that only swings open when muscled violently. Assuming you care nothing for your funny bone, you can see yourself happily coming home to the cottagey cute room with shadowboxes of pinned butterflies and deep windowsills erupting with ferns.
As soon as Mrs. Pringle leaves you alone, you collapse onto the four-poster bed that’s taking up ninety-percent of the tiny room. Through a crack in the curtains you can see the shape of the famous castle, lording over the town from the crown of the hill. You can see yourself walking up the steep lanes to get a closer view, as the city itself, full of steeples and the music of church bells, kneels down below you. Perhaps you will find a shop selling old paperbacks, or a little tearoom where you can sit for hours composing postcards and feasting on sandwiches with the crusts cut off.
The sounds of traffic buzz from below, and the sound of Mrs. Pringle’s vacuum vibrates through the wall, lolling you into a delicious sleep. Smiling, you begin to doze.
Something wakes you up suddenly. What was it? After a moment of utter confusion, you glance toward the nightstand and notice a folded note. Levering yourself onto your elbows, you reach for it. It’s written in a hurried scrawl, freckled with ink splotches and crumbs pressed into the paper like dried rose petals.

Hope you had a safe trip. Many apologies for rush. I need you desperately tonight. Meet me at the Devil’s Punchbowl at 8:00 and we’ll go over to the museum together and start work.
P.S. I’m looking forward to meeting you.
Basil

The frantic tone of the note panics you. You’re sitting upright in bed, practically trembling as you reread it. You must have been sleeping for hours-- the fog seems to have been replaced by darkness, and the street is humming with the sounds of pub-goers and the smells of Indian takeaway. You race downstairs to the cellar kitchen and find Mrs. Pringle plopping muffin mix into a cupcake pan, singing as she plops.
“Do you know who sent this?” you quiz.
“Not a clue, love. The gentleman said to leave it for the American girl who’s checking in today. And that it’s urgent. Since you’re the only one, I figured he must mean you.”

This is absurd! Who does this clown, Basil, think he is? He's obviously got the wrong American. An Indian curry sounds far more intriguing that a nocturnal trip to a moldy museum! Chose 'A' to ignore Basil.

Still, there is something very cloak-and-dagger about a mysterious meeting, followed by a trip to the museum. Which museum? And what sort of work? You've got to admit you're intrigued... the least you can do is go to the Devil's Punchbowl and tell Basil he's got the wrong person. Chose 'B'.