The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

There is precious little record of Holmes's early life. It is unusual that someone so famous could keep the details of his life so secret that it becomes necessary to think that it was deliberate. Holmes had little interest in the trivia of personal biography, so it is unlikely that he would have bothered to have disguised the trail. But others may certainly have done so in order to protect him, and thoughts turn immediately to his elder brother Mycroft Holmes who had considerable influence in government circles and could have easily pressed the right buttons in order to close whatever shutters were necessary.

We must therefore rely on what Watson himself tells us. In "His Last Bow", which takes place in August 1914, Watson refers to Holmes as "a tall, gaunt man of sixty". It is the only occasion where he mentions his age. We must be careful as he was describing Holmes in disguise as the Irish-American spy Altamont. Had Holmes aged himself or made himself look younger? We don't know. And did Watson mean precisely sixty, or was he in his sixtieth year- in other words fifty-nine? If we accept it at face value, and since no other clue is given as to Holmes's birthday, then we must conclude that Holmes was born in either 1853 or 1854, or at the latest in 1855. I prefer the earlier date because in "The Boscombe Valley Mystery" Holmes refers to himself as middle-aged which suggests forty-something. That story took place in 1889 or 1890 which would make Holmes's year of birth earlier than 1850, but middle-aged is an indeterminate phrase and we can assume that a birth year somewhere in the early 1850s is as close as we'll get. We may take some clue from the year in which Holmes retired, which was at the end of 1903. Did he do this on his fiftieth birthday? It would be an appropriate landmark.

Holmes came from a line of country squires but somewhere in his veins was the blood of the French artist Claude Vernet, from whose family Holmes also claimed descent. We do not know where Holmes was born, but his general dislike of the countryside suggests that he was raised somewhere remote, and as we shall see he certainly spent some of his youth in Ireland. This coupled with his reticence to discuss his childhood suggests that it might not have been happy, and we can imagine an almost reclusive child already intent upon his studies in logical deduction. Holmes was almost certainly educated at a private school before progressing to university.

It is at university that his abilities as a solver of puzzles came to the fore. Two of the recorded cases throw some light on Holmes's University days. "The Gloria Scott", Holmes tells us, was the first case in which he was engaged. He refers to the case again in "The Musgrave Ritual" saying that the Gloria Scott case "first turned my attention in the direction of the profession which has become my life's work." It is thus of some importance to date this investigation, but it is here that we first encounter Watson's masking of facts. We could put a rough dating on it on the assumption that Holmes went to university when he was about eighteen or nineteen, which would place it in the period 1868 to 1872, and he talks about it occurring after two years at university, or between 1870 and 1874. In "The Veiled Lodger" Watson tells us Holmes was in active practice for twenty-three years. Since he retired in 1903, counting back would bring us to 1880, but we must also deduct the years of the Great Hiatus between "The Final Problem" in April 1891 and Holmes's return in "The Empty House" in early 1894, a gap of three years. So he established himself as a consulting detective in 1877. We know from "The Musgrave Ritual" that Holmes set up his practice soon after university, so we can imagine he finished his university years around 1876.A span of university education from 1872 to 1876 therefore sounds realistic in the chronology and would place the Gloria Scott case in about 1874.

However, in the course of "The Gloria Scott" Holmes refers to events aboard the ship having taken place thirty years earlier in 1855, which would place the story in 1885. This has to be wrong, because Holmes and Watson met in 1881 by which time Holmes had been in practice for four years. Clearly there is some deliberate shifting of dates in this story, perhaps through Holmes's faulty record keeping (always possible, as he was not a great record-keeper of things he regarded as unimportant), or Watson's erroneous transcription of the

case or, we should not forget, through Watson trying to hide the time of Holmes's university years.

In fact my own research has revealed two episodes that happened to Holmes while at university that have previously gone unrecorded. They reveal that Holmes's years at university were not without incident and it is not surprising that it has been difficult to tie him down, since he spent time at two universities. I am grateful to Peter Tremayne and Derek Wilson for their help in bringing the record of the episodes into their final form from scraps of evidence left by Watson. I have deliberately set the stories in reverse order of internal events because of the relative discovery of the episodes by Watson. The first happened during the period of Holmes's apparent death, whilst Watson learned of the second after Holmes's return. Here then, for the first time ever, are the earliest records of Sherlock Holmes.

The Bothersome Business of the Dutch Nativity – Derek Wilson

The death of my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, affected me more than a little and had I not had the demands of a growing medical practice and the care of a loving wife the loss which I, and indeed the nation, had suffered must have seriously undermined my constitution. For a long time I could scarcely bear it when my affairs took me to places where some of Holmes's greatest triumphs had been enacted or where together we had faced dangerous villains or petty scoundrels. As for Baker Street, I avoided it completely; always ordering cab drivers to proceed by some roundabout route when conveying me through that part of London.

Yet time, as has often been observed, is a healer. I shared that experience common to all bereaved people: the transformation of memories from dreams almost too painful to be endured into visitations of consolation. Increasingly I found myself turning over the leaves of my journals and the printed accounts of Sherlock Holmes's cases which I had been privileged to record. Much of the material I had garnered about my friend consisted of tantalizing scraps – hints about his earlier life and oblique references to cases of which I knew nothing. As the months passed more and more of my leisure time was spent in trying to arrange my memorabilia in some logical order so that I might obtain a grasp of the sweep of Holmes's life. I lost no opportunity of asking others who had known my friend for any details that might have eluded me and it was in this way that what I call the Bothersome Business of the Dutch Nativity came to my attention.

In the spring of 1893, my wife and I were invited to Oxford to spend a few days with the Hungerfords. Adrian Hungerford was a fellow of Grenville college and he and Augusta were distant relatives of Mary's. Despite Mary's insistence that I should enjoy meeting her cousins it was with no very great enthusiasm that I accompanied her from Paddington station on the short journey to England's most ancient centre of learning. As usual my beloved helpmeet was right. The Hungerfords were an intelligent and relaxed couple of middle years who gave us a welcome as warm as it was genuine.

It was on the second evening of our stay that Adrian Hungerford invited me to dine with him at his college. I enjoyed an excellent meal on the high table in Grenville's ancient hall over which I was able, with some effort, to hold up my end of an erudite conversation with the master and the dean. After dinner I retired with the dozen or so fellows to the senior combination room where, over the ritual of claret, port and cigars, discussion, somewhat to my relief, ran into less scholarly channels.

"Am I not right in thinking, Dr Watson, that you were at some time associated with that detective fellow… what was his name… Hutchings?" The speaker was a shrivelled little man enveloped in a rather gangrenous master's gown who had been earlier introduced to me as Blessingham.

"Holmes, Sherlock Holmes," Hungerford corrected before I had a chance to reply. "Watson helped him with several of his cases, isn't that so, John?" He turned to me with an apologetic smile. "You must forgive our isolationism, old man. We spend most of our time here behind a raised drawbridge protected from the more sensational doings of the outside world."

"Helped with several cases, did you say?" Blessingham, who was obviously hard of hearing, cupped a hand to his ear and leaned closer. "Well, you weren't here for his first case, were you?" He reached for the claret decanter, drained it into his glass and brandished it in the direction of a steward who hurried forward with a replacement.

"You refer, Sir, to the Gloria Scott, I assume," I said.

"Gloria who? Never heard of the woman."The old man gulped his wine. "No I mean the nonsense about that painting."

I was suddenly aware that other conversations had stopped and that all eyes had turned towards Blessingham. Several of them registered alarm.

Rather hastily the dean said, "Our guest doesn't want to hear about that lamentable incident."

By this time my curiosity was, of course, thoroughly aroused. "On the countrary," I said. "I am always eager to hear anything about my late friend."

The master made a flapping gesture with his hand. "It was nothing and best forgotten. Holmes was only with us for a short time."

"Holmes was here?" I asked with genuine surprise. "At Grenville? I had no idea…"

"Yes, 1872, I think… or was it '73? I know it was around the same time that Sternforth was up. He's making quite a

name for himself in Parliament now. Have you heard from him recently, Grenson?" Skilfully, the master turned the talk to other matters.

It can be imagined that this unlocking and hasty refastening of a hitherto unknown part of Holmes's early life stirred

considerable excitement within me. It was with difficulty that

I contained all the questions I was longing to ask about it. Not until the following afternoon did I have the opportunity to

interrogate Hungerford on the matter. Mary and I were taking a stroll through Christchurch Meadows with our host and hostess and I contrived to urge Hungerford to a slightly faster pace so that we might walk on ahead.

"What was that talk last night about Sherlock Holmes and a painting?" I enquired. "It seemed to embarrass some of your colleagues."

"A number of the older fellows are certainly still troubled by the episode even after all these years," Hungerford mused, directing his gaze along the river. "I must say that surprises me rather."

"But what was it about?" I almost shouted in my exasperation. "Old Blessingham called it Holmes's first case yet I have never heard of it."

Hungerford smiled at my impatience. "Well, Holmes was obviously an honourable man. The people over at New College enjoined him to secrecy on the matter and he faithfully kept silence."

"But surely there's no need to maintain the mystery any longer," I urged.

"I suppose not. It was really nothing more than a storm in an academic teacup; and yet in a closed little world like ours such incidents do tend to assume greater importance than they merit."

"Look, Hungerford," I said, "you can tell me the story. We doctors are able to keep confidences, you know."

Thus prompted my distant cousin related the story which, with a few emendations and name changes (made to honour my side of the bargain) and with additional details furnished later by Holmes himself, I can now set before the public.

It all began, as far as Holmes was concerned, at Paddington station. It was the autumn of 1873 and he had just enrolled at Grenville College after a year or two at Trinity in Dublin. On this particular late afternoon he was returning to Oxford after a day spent in the British Museum Reading Room. He had selected an empty, first-class smoking compartment and was looking forward to a quiet journey in the company of a recent dissertation on alkali poisons derived from plants in the Americas. The train made its first clanking convulsion preparatory to departure when a distraught figure appeared on the platform and grabbed the door handle. With a sigh of resignation Holmes leaped to his feet and helped a young man with a flapping topcoat into the compartment.

As Holmes slammed the door and the train gathered speed the stranger collapsed onto the seat opposite, spreading a pile of books and papers and other belongings out beside him. "Thank you, sir, thank you," he panted.

"Not at all. I perceive that you have had a particularly harassing afternoon." Holmes surveyed a young man in his late twenties of startlingly pale appearance. Even though flushed with exertion, his cheeks were as though drawn in pastels. His hair was the colour of white sand and the eyes that peered through thick-lensed spectacles were of the lightest blue. "It is always aggravating to mistake the time of one's train and then to have one's cab stuck in traffic – quite wretched."

The other man leaned forward, mouth open in astonishment. "You cannot possibly… Are you some kind of spirit who consorts with mediums?"

Now it was Holmes who was momentarily nonplussed. "Do you mean am I a medium who consorts with spirits?"

"That is what I asked, sir. If you are I must tell you straight out that I don't disapprove of such dabbling in forbidden waters… no, not at all."

Holmes laughed. "Then let me set your mind at rest. I am a student of very terrestrial sciences. There was nothing otherworldly about my observations. As to your mistake about train times, I simply perceived that your Bradshaw was out of date." He pointed to the bulky Bradshaw's Railway Guide which lay among the stranger's papers. "This particular train has been departing ten minutes earlier since the end of September."

"To be sure; to be sure," the other muttered, "but your reference to the traffic?"

"Even simpler, sir. It has been raining lightly for the past ten minutes yet only the upper part of your clothing is wet. Clearly you were obliged to leave the protection of your cab before reaching the station. That you did so in some haste is evidenced by the fact that, having paid the driver, you are still clutching your purse in your hand."

"Remarkable," said the stranger, sitting back in the seat. "You are obviously a very observant young man. May I know your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes, undergraduate of Grenville College, at your service, sir."

"Grenville, eh? Then we are close neighbours. I am…"

"William Spooner, fellow of New College. Please, do not register surprise, sir. You are one of the celebrities of Oxford." "The Spoo", as the young lecturer in Ancient History and Philosophy was known to undergraduates, had already acquired that reputation for eccentricity which was later to spread well beyond the confines of the university.

Spooner nodded mournfully. "Ah, yes, it's those things I say, isn't it? I can't help myself you know; they just pop out like habbits from a role."

After exchanging a few more courtesies each passenger settled to his own occupation for the journey. Holmes returned to his paper. Spooner spent a considerable time organizing his possessions into some semblance of order and arranging them on the overhead rack, then extracted a slim volume of Ovidian

poetry from the pocket of his surtout, curled himself into the opposite corner and began to read with the page held close to his face. Yet neither was able to concentrate. Holmes was intrigued by the albino and was conscious that Spooner was taking no less interest in him. Several times the younger man glanced surreptitiously across the intervening space only to find that New College's most remarkable resident was staring fixedly at him. Once or twice Spooner opened his mouth as though he would speak but either the words would not come or he thought better of them. At last, however, he did break the silence.

"Mr Holmes, I apologize for disturbing you. I wonder, would you mind if I asked you to discuss a certain matter… delicate, bewildering?"

"If I can be of service, sir."

"It is not the sort of thing I would normally broach with someone upon such short acquaintance but you appear to be a singularly astute young man and it may be that Providence has brought us together."

Holmes waited with carefully suppressed amusement to hear what perplexing problem the eccentric don was about to share.

"I am convinced that the whole thing is an undergraduate prank. It may be that you have heard about it from the perpetrators."

"Heard about what, sir?"

Spooner squinted impatiently through his glasses. "Why the painting, of course – the Dutch Nativity. We've lost it permanently for three weeks."

"Perhaps, sir, if you were to start from the beginning?"

"Ah, yes, well Giddings, you see, our senior fellow, brilliant mind, Renaissance scholar, very gracious, not at all put out over the election."

The story which would have taken any normal narrator ten minutes or so to recite occupied Spooner for the remainder of the journey, involving, as it did, acrobatic leaps from thought to thought and perilous balancing on the high wire of tenuous connections. Holmes was amused as much by the effort of following the disjointed account as by the events to which it referred. Briefly, these were as follows:

Some eleven years previously there had been an election for the wardenship of New College. The contest had been

between the then dean and the senior fellow, Dr Giddings. The fellowship had decided on the dean, for Giddings, though highly respected, was already well smitten in years and did not enjoy robust health. The old don had shown his regard for the college by warmly congratulating the warden elect and donating to the chapel a magnificent Nativity by Rembrandt. It was this painting which, in October 1873, had been stolen.

Holmes asked why the crime had not been reported to the police and received the reply that the fellows were disposed to regard it as an internal university matter. Over the past few months there had been a series of similar incidents in various colleges. Oriel's standard had been removed from its flagpole. A hanging candelabrum had been absconded from the hall at Merton. An ancient sundial had been prised from a quadrangle wall at Magdalen and, more recently someone had walked out of Radcliffe library with a rare incunabulum, deceiving the staff by leaving a superficial fake in its place. The New College authorities attributed these escapades to undergraduate high spirits and were persuing their own enquiries but to Holmes it was evident that Spooner and, probably, his colleagues were more exercised by their loss than they were prepared to admit.

Having heard his fellow passenger's tale, my friend could only express his condolences over New College's loss and regret that he knew nothing which could be of any help in the recovery of the painting. As a new arrival in Oxford he had yet to acquaint himself with the student grapevine, he explained, and, in any case, he was, himself, of a rather solitary and studious disposition.

Having arrived at Oxford the two travellers shared a cab into the city centre, where they parted company. Holmes resolved to put the New College painting from his mind but the curious elements of Spooner's narrative no less than the disjointed mode of its delivery declined to be easily banished. Thus he found himself next morning in the chapel of the nearby college gazing at a large area of empty stone wall. A small card pinned to a stall beneath the space read: "the nativity of our lord by rembrandt van ryn, 1661. This painting has been temporarily removed for restoration."

Holmes climbed onto the wooden seat to inspect the wall more closely. Faint dust marks could be seen where the frame had

touched the stonework and, using the span of his outstretched right hand, which he knew to be nine and a quarter inches in width, he measured the dimensions of the missing painting. It was as he was stretching upwards as far as he could reach to gauge the height of the absent masterpiece that he heard an outraged voice behind him.

"Ere! What d'you think you're a-doing of?"

Calmly Sherlock Holmes stepped down and turned to confront an aged college servant whose faded black gown proclaimed him to be some sort of sexton or verger. "Are you in charge here?" he enquired.

"That I am and right tired of the antics of you young gentlemen. This is a house of God and not a place for your pranks. Now be off with you, before I call the dean."

"Oh, there's no need to disturb him," said Holmes casually. "I'm sure you can tell me all I need to know." He produced a half sovereign from his pocket. "I'm interested in your excellent painting and was very sorry not to be able to see it. Do you know where it has gone to be restored?"

The old man's tone changed at the sight of the gleaming coin. "Yes, sir," he said, holding out his hand for the unexpected gratuity. "I've got a note of the address in my vestry. If you'd care to step this way. I take it you're a student of art, sir."

"That's right," Holmes agreed.

"Well, I don't know as you'll learn much from that painting. Right dark and gloomy it is. You can't scarcely make out any of the figures in it. They say it's very valuable, but I wouldn't give it house room. If you wouldn't mind waiting there a moment, sir." He unlocked a small door and shuffled into a chamber scarcely larger than a broom cupboard. Seconds later he re-emerged bearing a card.

"Ah yes, Simkins and Streeter," Holmes said, nodding approvingly. "I know them well. They'll do a first class job. When did they take it?"

"It was three weeks ago."

"Was it Mr Simkins or Mr Streeter who called to supervise the removal?"

"That I couldn't say, sir. I wasn't here."

"You mean these people came from London and removed this valuable college treasure without your personal supervision?"

Holmes asked with an air of concerned astonishment. "That was not very courteous of them."

The verger visibly warmed to his visitor. "Well, that same thought did strike me, sir. Apparently it was all a rushed job. They was due to come in the afternoon but they never showed up. On the Thursday morning when I came in there was the picture gone. I was a bit worried, I don't mind telling you and I rushed straight to the dean. He set my mind at rest straight away. 'Not to worry, Tavistock,' he said. 'The restorers came for the painting quite late. It seems they'd had some trouble on the road with a lame horse and, by the time they'd changed it over they were running well behind time.' "

"So you never saw the men who collected it?"

"No, sir."

"It must have taken several people to remove the painting. It is large and heavy."

"That it is," the old man laughed. "Why, when old Dr Giddings presented the picture to the college it took six of us to put it up – an' all the time the dean – that's the former dean who's now warden – hopping and dancing around and shouting at us to be careful."

As they walked the length of the long nave Holmes asked, "You were saying you'd had some trouble with boisterous undergraduates."

"Gentlemen they call themselves!" the aged verger sniffed. "Sacrilegious and heathen hooligans I calls them. First week of term it was. I caught four of 'em in here, scrambling about over the stalls. One of them had a lamp and he was holding it up to that Dutch painting. I was afeared he'd set light to the thing. You can imagine, sir, when I saw you on the same spot it brought it all back. So you'll forgive me if I was a bit sharp with you."

"I quite understand," Holmes replied sympathetically. "Yours is a heavy responsibility. What happened to these rowdies?"

"I fetched Junkin, the senior porter, and a couple of his men. They were more than a match for a bunch of drunken undergraduates. We turfed them out and took their names and I reported them directly to the warden. What happened to them after that, I don't know. They've certainly not been back here."

"Do you remember any of their names?"

"Indeed I-do, sir. They was all Magdalen men and their ringleader was the Hon. Hugh Mountcey, Lord Henley's son. You'd think the aristocracy would know better, wouldn't you, sir?"

They had arrived at the west door and the guardian of the chapel held it open. Holmes thanked his informant and passed into the narrow lane outside.

Back in his rooms Sherlock Holmes abandoned all pretence of pursuing his own studies. The mystery of the missing painting had quite taken hold of his reasoning faculties. He threw himself down on a sofa, lit a pipe and pondered the additional information gleaned from the verger. The Nativity, it appeared, had been scheduled for restoration, a fact which now enabled the fellows, temporarily, to conceal its abduction. It had also seemingly provided excellent cover for the thieves. As to the Magdalen men who had made a nuisance of themselves, that certainly suggested a connection with the earlier outrages perpetrated during the summer and autumn terms.

Clearly this motley assortment of stolen Oxfordiana had common features. Each item was treasured by the establishment which owned it. Abduction of each required audacity and daring. Its removal was designed to create embarrassment for its owners, who, for that reason, were unlikely to call in the police, thus risking scandal and popular ridicule.

Yet, Holmes mused, there were also disharmonies. The stolen objects differed greatly in quality, importance, and size. There seemed to be no pattern to the thefts. The removal of Oriel's flag had demanded mountaineering ability; Magdalen's sundial had been neatly prized from its surrounding stonework by someone well versed in the skills of the mason. Only a scholar with a knowledge of rare printed books could have created the forgery which had, briefly, deceived the Radcliffe library staff.Then there were the elements of difficulty and risk. With each escapade these had become greater. There was a considerable gulf between the nocturnal raid on Oriel to remove its standard and the carrying off of the New College painting. The former certainly had the air of a traditional student rag. The latter was a major crime and had called for elaborate and meticulous planning.

That brought one on to the issue of motive. What did the perpetrators want with this bizarre collection of objects? Three of the items had little monetary value.The incunabulum and the painting were, by contrast, highly prized artefacts which could only be disposed of through specialist underworld channels. Holmes dismissed the idea of student escapades.They were never malicious; they were simply tiresome displays of exhibitionism and high spirits. This series of thefts was different. It had caused distress and embarrassment to the colleges concerned. Had that been the intention?

Holmes knocked out his pipe in the hearth and consulted his pocket watch. There wanted a few minutes to two o'clock. It was time for another call. Donning a light top coat and extracting a cane from a wicker basket beside the sitting room door, he let himself out and ran lightly down the stone staircase.

Twenty minutes brisk walking through the city centre and out along the Banbury Road brought him to the edge of the city's suburbs. Here the substantial houses were well spaced out and overlooked fields and meadows running down to the Cherwell. Holmes found the one he was seeking almost at the end of the row. It was a large double-fronted villa approached by a short gravel drive. A pull upon the bell brought a manservant to the front door.

Holmes handed in his card. "I am an art enthusiast and an amateur collector, currently residing at Grenville College," he explained. "I must apologize for calling without an appointment, but I should deem it a great honour to be permitted to view Dr Gidding's collection."

The major domo admitted my friend to a spacious hall and asked him to wait. Within moments he returned, ushered the visitor into a well furnished library and announced him. Holmes looked around a room which, at first acquaintance seemed empty. Then he espied a bath chair, its back to him, facing a french window giving onto the garden.

"Over here, young man," a voice commanded from the conveyance.

Crossing a parquet floor scattered with Persian rugs, Holmes found himself confronted by a shrivelled figure almost completely bundled-up in a plaid rug. Gidding's greyish skin was drawn tight over his skull and a fringe of white hair protruded from beneath a velvet skull cap. However, if there was an air of quiet decay about the aged scholar this certainly did not extend to his bright, peering eyes or the mind behind them.

"Sherlock Holmes? Never heard of you, sir!" Giddings announced in a high-pitched voice.

"But I have heard of you, Dr Giddings, as has anyone with more than a passing interest in the history of art. Your studies on the northern Renaissance have greatly widened our understanding of the great masters of this side of the Alps."

"Huh!" the old man snorted. "I thought I'd been forgotten long ago."

Holmes affected a shocked tone. "By no means, sir. Quite the reverse. Some of the radical ideas which you advanced in the twenties and thirties are now taken for self-evident truth. As to your private collection…"

"I suppose that's what you're here to see; not me. Well come on then.You can work for the privilege. Push me. We go through that door over there."

Holmes grasped the handles of the invalid carriage and propelled it in the direction indicated. They passed through into a suite of three ground floor rooms interconnected by tall doors. The contents made Holmes gasp in amazement. Every surface from floor to ceiling was covered with paintings on canvas or panel. Scarcely a square inch of papered wall could be seen.

"This is truly remarkable," my friend exclaimed. "I had not prepared myself for such a treat."

"The work of a lifetime, young man. If you start now you might just be able to match it by the time you're eighty."

They made a leisurely tour of the private gallery and Giddings spoke with mounting enthusiasm and excitement about several items. Sherlock Holmes relaxed the aged don with flattery interspersed with pertinent comments and awaited the moment to broach the subject that had taken him thither.

At last he said, "I was devastated not to be able to see the Rembrandt you presented to your college. When I visited the chapel there was a notice saying that it had been sent for restoration but I heard a rumour…"

"Vandals!" The old man became suddenly animated.

"Then it's true, sir, that the painting has been stolen?" Holmes asked in shocked tones.

"They should have looked after it better. It's a priceless painting – magnificent example of the artist's best period. Now they've let some hooligans make off with it. It's probably mouldering in a fenland shed somewhere. It will be ruined! Lost!" Giddings subsided into a fit of coughing and pressed a large spotted handkerchief to his mouth.

"It must be very distressing to you, sir. I imagine the Rembrandt was the crowning item of your collection."

The old man nodded vigorously. "Yes, I bought it privately in The Hague a quarter of a century ago. It had impeccable provenance. It was quite a sacrifice to part with it but I thought it would make a suitable parting gift, to mark a lifetime of service to New College. They might not have appreciated me but at least they had something to remember me by. Now, however…" Giddings shrugged and seemed to shrink even further into his wrappings.

"You don't think the crime might be the work of professional thieves? The art world, as I understand is not without its share of unscrupulous men."

"Out of the question," the old man wheezed. "Too well known. Too difficult to sell."

Holmes propelled the chair towards the next door but stopped when Gidding's frame was convulsed by a fresh bout of violent coughing.

"Should I fetch your man?" Holmes enquired anxiously.

The invalid nodded by way of reply and my friend retraced his steps to the library where a tug on the bell pull quickly brought the servant. He conveyed his master back into the library. The old man had recovered from his fit but announced that he was rather tired and begged Holmes to excuse him. He invited the young student to return another day to conclude the tour. Holmes thanked his host volubly and withdrew.

His next call was upon Mr Spooner in his New College rooms. He informed the don that he had become intrigued by the theft and that, with Spooner's permission, he would like to follow up certain ideas which had occurred to him. He pressed the fellow for some details on certain points and asked him for a letter of introduction to Messrs Simkins and Streeter. Thus armed, Holmes travelled next day to London. A cab dropped him at the entrance of a narrow alley leading off Jermyn Street by way of which Holmes discovered a painted signboard and a flight of stairs which led to the restorers' second-floor premises. These consisted of a single, long room illumined by sunshine

entering through large skylights. Easels and wide tables were scattered throughout the workshop and at these men in their shirtsleeves were working singly or in pairs upon an assortment of old paintings. On enquiring for the proprietors, Holmes managed to distract one of these craftsmen just long enough to elicit a nod in the direction of a partitioned-off cubicle at the far end of the room.

The man who stood behind a desk untidy with scattered papers to greet him as he stepped in through the open door was stocky and of middle.years. He was, Holmes judged, a touch overdressed; his suit a shade flamboyant of cut; his diamond-fastened necktie slightly too bright of hue. "Henry Simkins at your service, sir," the man announced. "Whom have I the honour of addressing?"

Holmes handed over his card with Spooner's letter and carefully observed Simkin's reaction. The man displayed momentary alarm but quickly covered it up. "Well, Mr Holmes sit down, sit down do. I'll help you all I can, though I fear you've had a wasted journey, for Mr Spooner knows all there is to be known about this sad business."

Holmes dusted the proffered chair and sank down upon it. "I'm grateful to you for your time, Mr Simkins. There were just one or two details that Mr Spooner wanted me to check."

"Why then, fire away, Mr Holmes."

"When was it that you were invited by the warden and fellows of New College to carry out restoration work on their painting?"

"Well, now, that would be about the end of August. I can give you the exact date if you'll bear with me a moment." He swivelled his chair until he was facing an open roll-top desk against the back wall. From one drawer he lifted a bundle of papers tied with string, undid the knot and began to leaf through the sheets. To the precise-minded Holmes it seemed that the exploration would occupy more than "a moment" but within seconds Simkins uttered a little cry of triumph and flourished a sheet of embossed notepaper. "There we are, Mr Holmes," said he, laying it on the table before my friend.

Holmes quickly scanned the formal letter dated 25 August inviting Messrs Simkins and Streeter to examine Rembrandt's Nativity of Our Lord with a view to discussing possible

restoration work. "You responded immediately, I presume," Holmes suggested.

"Yes, indeed, Mr Holmes." Simkins consulted a pocket diary. "We arranged for me to view the painting on Wednesday 10 September."

"Had you done work for New College, before?"

"No, sir, we had not previously enjoyed that privilege."

"Do you know who recommended you on this occasion?"

Simkins sat back in his chair, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his waistcoat. "Ah well, as to that, Mr Holmes, it might have been any one of a number of our satisfied clients. I'm proud to say that we are known to many connoisseurs, museum curators and inheritors of family collections. We have been of service to several of the nobility and gentry."

"Including Lord Henley?" Holmes ventured.

"Why yes, sir. Only last year we executed an important commission for his lordship."

"And Dr Giddings?"

"Him, too, sir. A wonderful connoisseur is Dr Giddings. He's been good enough to instruct us on several occasions."

"Were you acquainted with the Rembrandt before your visit to New College last month?"

"Only by reputation, sir."

"You had never seen it before?" Holmes asked in some surprise.

"Never."

"And you have been familiar with Dr Giddings's collection for… how long?"

"More than twenty years, I would say."

Holmes pondered that intelligence in silence for a few moments. "And what was your impression of the painting when you did see it?"

For the first time the ebullient Simkins gave evidence of some discomfiture. "Why, to be truthful, Sir, I suppose I was a little disappointed."

"You thought it not a particularly good painting?"

The businessman's bushy eyebrows met in a frown. "Oh, no, Mr Holmes, nothing of that sort. I would not want you to think that I meant to cast any doubt upon the quality of the masterpiece. It was just that… Well, I recall discussing that item

many years ago with another client who had seen it in Holland and who waxed eloquent about it's warm, glowing colours. What I saw in Oxford was a painting that had been sorely mishandled at some stage of its life. It had upon it a thick, old discoloured varnish. What with that and its gloomy situation in the chapel it was very hard to make out details of the brushwork."

"So you concluded that it required a thorough cleaning and that you would only be able to comment upon the necessity of further restoration after that operation had been carried out."

"That's it precisely, Mr Holmes. We submitted an estimate for initial work. Naturally the warden and fellows needed time to consider our proposal. They responded," here he referred once more to the bundle taken from the roll-top desk, "on 1 October and we arranged to collect the painting a week later, on the eighth."

"But you did not do so?"

"No, on the morning of the eighth we received a telegram intimating that it was not, after all, convenient for us to call on that day and inviting us to make a new appointment."

"You had no reason to doubt the authenticity of this telegram?"

"None whatsoever."

"Tell me, Mr Simkins," Holmes ventured, "as someone who knows the world of pictures, dealers and collectors better than most, how hard do you think it would be to dispose of such a celebrated painting?"

"Very hard, indeed, I would say."

"But not impossible?"

Simkins pondered the question, head on one side. "There are collectors so obsessive that they are prepared to obtain by other means what they cannot fairly buy."

"And are there not international gangs operating to satisfy the cravings of such collectors?"

"Sadly, that is the case, Mr Holmes."

"And would you know how to make contact with just such a gang?" Holmes asked the question in a casual, disarming tone and watched its effect on the other man.

Simkins's ample frame seemed to swell still further with indignation. "Mr Holmes, whatever are you suggesting?"

"Simply that someone in your position might well be approached, from time to time, by unscrupulous men – men requiring, perhaps, a convincing forgery or confirmation of a false attribution. I am sure that Simkins and Streeter would never knowingly be associated with such rogues but I would be surprised if you were not able to identify some of them."

"We know who to steer clear of, if that's what you're suggesting, young sir," Simkins admitted, only partially mollified.

"That and nothing else," Holmes said with a smile. "I wonder if I might trouble you for the names of some of these reprobates." As the other man firmly shook his head, he continued. "You see, someone deliberately deceived you and then passed off himself and his associates as representatives of Simkins and Streeter. That someone was highly professional. Ergo, I deduce that he is no stranger to the business of stealing and disposing of works of art."

"Well, sir, since you put it that way, there are a handful of men who might bear investigation. The police could do worse than question them – not, mind you, that I make any accusations." He found a scrap of paper among the confetti scattering before him and, taking up a pen from the holder, jotted down three names. "Well, Mr Holmes, I hope they may lead to the recovery of New College's Nativity, though I fear it has disappeared for many a long year."

Sherlock Holmes spent the return journey to Oxford recalling with total accuracy, every piece of information with a bearing on this case. It all pointed to one bizarre, though inescapable conclusion. Could it be proved, though? He resolved that prove it he would if it were humanly possible.

With that fixed intention he set out from Grenville after dark clad in tennis shoes, old trousers and shirt and carrying a hand lantern and a copy of The Times. He was gone for two hours and he returned in triumph. He had one more call to make and that would have to wait until the following evening.

The clock high on Grenville chapel's tower was chiming six as Holmes set out to walk the short distance to Magdalen College. When he reached Hugh Mountcey's apartments the outer door was open and there were sounds of conversation within. He tapped smartly and the portal was opened by a raffish, ginger-haired young man in evening dress and clutching a glass of champagne. "Yes?" he enquired languidly. Holmes proffered

his card. The other held it up fastidiously. "I say, Huffy," he called out to someone inside, "do we know anyone by the name of Sherlock Holmes?" He uttered the name with an air of faint amusement. "No. Send him on his way," came the reply from within. "Be off with you, fellow," the sandy-haired man said, returning Holmes's card.

Before the door closed completely, Holmes handed over an envelope. "Please see that Mr Mountcey receives this."

Holmes stood on the landing and began counting. He had reached thirty-two when the door was re-opened by the same guardian. "Mr Mountcey says you'd better come in," he said.

"I rather thought he might," Holmes rejoined.

The chamber he now entered was opulently furnished. A table at one end was laid for four with sparkling silver and crystal and crisp knappery. Armchairs were drawn around the fire and in one the resident of this suite was sprawled. The Honourable Hugh Mountcey was a gangling, dark-haired young man, with a florid complexion. He held Holmes's letter by one corner between thumb and forefinger. "What's the meaning of this nonsense?" he demanded.

Holmes stood staring down at the aristocrat and recalled the verger of New College's disparaging comments on certain degenerate members of the upper class. "If it were nonsense you would scarcely have invited me in," he observed.

"Who the devil are you," Mountcey sneered.

"All that matters is that I know the truth about the New College Rembrandt. Apart from anything else I have identified your role in the business."

Mountcey's companion stepped across the room and grabbed Holmes by the sleeve. "Shall I teach this fellow some manners, Huffy?" he enquired. The next instant he was lying flat on his back holding a hand to his nose from which a trickle of blood was oozing.

Holmes rubbed the knuckles of his right hand. "I assure you that I have no interest in making life difficult for you. My only concern is to clear up this tiresome business of the missing painting so that I can resume my own studies. If you will be good enough to answer a few questions I will take my leave."

"And what do you intend doing with your information?"

"I shall place such items as are relevant before the authorities at New College."

"That might not suit my book at all. I certainly have no intention of informing on my friends."

"By friends I take it that you mean those responsible for the escapades at Oriel, Merton and here in Magdalen."

Mountcey nodded.

"I don't think it will be necessary for me to reveal their identity."

The dark-haired young man stared at Holmes for several seconds.Then a smile slowly suffused his features. He crumpled the letter he was still holding and tossed it into the fire. "No, Mr Holmes, you are a nobody and I am inclined to tell you to go to hell. Report whatever you like to the New College people. You have no proof. If it comes to a contest between you and those of us who count for rather more in this life it's pretty obvious who will end up being sent down, isn't it?" He waved his visitor towards the door and his friend held it open.

Holmes stood his ground. "But it isn't just you and your friends who are involved is it? It's your father and his associates."

Mountcey was caught off guard. "You can't possibly know…" he blurted out, leaping to his feet.

Holmes took a pencil and paper from his pocket, wrote a few words and passed the paper across to the Honourable Hugh. "Damn!" Mountcey sank back onto the chair.

"So, sir, about those questions," said Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes called upon Mr Spooner shortly after eleven the following morning as the latter was returning from lecturing.

The don came up close and peered through his thick lenses. "Ah, Mr Grenville of Holmes, is it not? Come in, sir. Come in. Do sit down. I suggest you will find the seat in the window more than comfortable."

Holmes deposited himself upon the cushions in the window embrasure. "I have come to report the successful conclusion of my investigation," he announced. "About the theft of the painting from the chapel," he added as Spooner gazed vacantly into space.

"Ah, yes, excellent." The fellow's pallid features broke into a smile. "So you have discovered who was responsible. Was it Rembrandt?"

"No, sir." By now Holmes had discovered that the way to prevent Spooner's train of thought running into frequent sidings was to keep him concentrating hard on the matter in hand. "Perhaps it would be best if I explained, from the beginning, the sequence of events which led to the disappearance of the painting."

"Excellent idea, young man. Play the part of Chorus and leak your spines clearly."

Holmes began his explanation, hurrying on when his audience showed signs of wishing to question or interrupt. "First, I must suggest to you that your reading of Dr Giddings's character owes more to charity than objective observation. I fear that the senior fellow was furious at being passed over for the wardenship and that that is why he gave his painting to New College."

"But, surely…"

Holmes scarcely paused for breath. "It was to be his revenge. You see, the painting was a fake, or more probably the work of an inferior artist touched up by the hand of an improver. I realized this when I spoke with Mr Simkins. He was puzzled because the painting which another of his clients had seen about the time Giddings bought it was "vibrant" with "warm, glowing colours" as he described it. Yet when Simkins, himself, viewed it in the chapel it was apparently obscured with ancient varnish. Now Giddings was the only one who could so have misused the picture and for only one reason: he realized, after adding it to his collection that it was not a work from the hand of the master. To avoid the humiliation of having to admit that he had been duped he had the picture varnished over, and waited for an opportunity to get rid of it. His exclusion from the wardenship provided the excellent chance to kill two birds with one stone. He disembarrassed himself of the fake Rembrandt and put one over on the fellows of New College. Giddings knew that, eventually, the painting would be cleaned and that, from beyond the grave, he would have his revenge.

"Then, long after the whole matter had been pushed to the back of his mind, he was alarmed to hear that the fellows had decided upon the immediate restoration of their Rembrandt. He knew Simkins and Streeter could not fail to discover the truth and that both his folly and his vendetta would be exposed.

What could he possibly do to prevent the closing days of his life being lived under this double shame? Only the disappearance of the picture could save him but he could not encompass that. He would need accomplices. It was then that he bethought himself of his friend and fellow collector, Lord Henley."

"Lord Henley? Why on earth should that highly respected nobleman be a party to such a notorious escapade?"

"I confess that I, too, was puzzled on that score. Eventually I had to prize the truth from his son, Mr Mountcey."

"That young man is a scoundrel."

"Quite so, sir." Holmes rushed on. "It seems that not only did the two collectors share common interests, but Lord Henley owed a considerable debt of gratitude to Dr Giddings. A few years ago a crooked dealer attempted to implicate his lordship in a colossal art fraud. Had he been successful the scandal would have been terrible. Giddings was largely responsible for exposing the syndicate behind the imposture. Lord Henley now felt duty bound to assist his saviour. The two old friends planned the robbery together. Giddings found out through his college contacts the precise day on which Simkins and Streeter were to collect the painting. Then Lord Henley arranged for the fake telegram postponing the appointment and had one of his underworld contacts pose as the restorers' agent. Just in case anyone from the college who watched the removal became suspicious he arranged for the work to be done under cover of darkness when the chapel was almost certain to be empty."

"But what about the other thefts?"

"A fortuitous sequence of events that enabled the conspirators to muddy the water. Lord Henley's son was involved in a rather stupid society the object of which was to plan and execute ever more audacious "japes", as they call them. The Oriel and Merton escapades were carried out by other members of the club and it was Mountcey and his friends who defaced the walls of Magdalen by removing the sundial. It seems that Lord Henley knew of these ridiculous revels and, being an over-indulgent parent, was not disposed to regard them seriously. It was he who put his son up to the fracas that took place early in the term. When Mountcey and his friends were caught examining the chapel painting the authorities connected this with the earlier misdemeanours, a suspicion that was reinforced when

the picture went missing. Of course, Mountcey could not be proved to be implicated in the theft, so he was quite safe."

Spooner was frowning with concentration. "But, then, whose incunabulum stole the Radcliffe?"

"I am persuaded that it was Giddings himself who removed the book from the library. Mountcey gave me his word that he knew nothing of it. Such a reputed and infirm scholar as Dr Giddings was, of course, above suspicion, so it was the easiest thing in the world for him to leave with the precious artefact under the rug in his bath chair, having left the duplicate."

"Then the book and the painting are safe in Dr Giddings's house?"

"The book – yes. I am sure Dr Giddings would not harm it, nor intend to deprive the library of it for long. The painting, I suspect, is another matter." Holmes opened a portmanteau he had brought with him. He extracted a parcel roughly wrapped in newspaper and proceeded to unravel it.

Spooner leant forward to examine a blackened fragment of what had once been gilded wood and gesso and to which a fragment of charred canvas still adhered.

"The night before last," Holmes explained, "I paid a clandestine visit to Dr Giddings's garden. I found this on a bonfire in a corner of the grounds. The embers were still warm. Unless I am mistaken, that is all that remains of the fake Rembrandt – and just as well, perhaps."

"Whatever made you think of looking there?"

"When I called on Dr Giddings the previous day, he was obviously concerned about my interest in the Rembrandt. He tried to convince me that its theft was a student prank and he brought my visit to a sudden halt with what seemed to me rather a theatrical fit of coughing. I believe that was to prevent me looking inside the room where the painting was currently housed. I reasoned that he would want to be rid of the evidence very quickly after such a fright and there seemed to be only one easy way to do that."

Spooner removed his spectacles and polished them thoughtfully. "Mr Holmes," he said, "you are a remarkable young man. I predict that you will go far. May I ask you to put what you have just told me in writing? My colleagues will, I know, want to study it most carefully."

"I had anticipated that request," replied my friend, handing over a sealed envelope.

"How wise, Mr Solomon, how wise. The college is indebted to you. You will undoubtedly be hearing more from us. For the moment all I can do is personally grace my platitude on record." He shook Holmes warmly by the hand and escorted him to the door.

Sherlock Holmes reflected during the next few days on the immense pleasure and satisfaction this little enquiry

had occasioned him. He had, at that time, no inkling that his vocation lay in the field of criminal detection but, as he later confessed to me, the bothersome business of the Dutch Nativity, was undoubtedly the case that opened up new possibilities to him.

All that lay in the future. One more immediate result manifested itself a few days later. Holmes received an unexpected

invitation to dine with the Master of Grenville. He arrived at the

lodge at the appointed time expecting to find himself one of a large party. To his surprise the only other guest was the Warden

of New College. As soon as the three men had embarked on

their meal the master introduced the subject of Holmes's recent investigations. The fellows of New College were very grateful

to him for clearing the matter up but were anxious that none of the information he had gathered should go any further. Under the circumstances he felt sure that Holmes would appreciate that absolute secrecy must be a condition of his remaining in Oxford.

Holmes assured the dons that he would not contemplate breaking any confidences. What, he enquired would be

happening to those involved in the series of outrages culminating in the theft of the painting? The warden replied, "Any action we might take could only embarrass several important people. Under the circumstances we think it best to draw a veil over all that has happened."

Holmes was stunned. "Forgive me, sir, if I mistake your meaning, but it seems to me that you are saying that truth weighs very lightly in the balance against personal reputation."

"That is a rather stark way of expressing it," the master suggested.

"But apparently accurate. Theft, forgery and deceit must go unpunished, even unremarked, because we must not make life awkward for members of the establishment.That is a philosophy I am surprised to hear advocated by men of learning and honest enquiry. I fear, gentlemen, that it is one to which I could never subscribe."

The subject was quickly changed but at the conclusion of the meal Sherlock Holmes returned to his chambers and immediately wrote a letter announcing his resignation from the college.

The Affray at the Kildare Street Club – Peter Tremayne

My narratives of the adventures of Mr Sherlock Holmes, the well-known consulting detective, have always attempted a modicum of discreetness. There is so much of both a personal and professional nature that Holmes confided in me which I have not passed on to posterity – much, I confess, at Holmes's personal request. Indeed, among Holmes's personal papers I had noticed several aide memoirs which would have expanded my sketches of his cases several times over. It is not often appreciated that while I indulged in my literary diversions, Holmes himself was possessed of a writing talent as demonstrated by over a score of works ranging from his Practical Handbook of Bee Culture to The Book of Life: the science of observation and deduction. But Holmes, to my knowledge, had made it a rule never to write about any of his specific cases.

It was therefore with some surprise that, one day during the spring of 1894, after the adventure I narrated as "The Empty House", I received from Holmes a small sheaf of handwritten papers with the exhortation that I read them in order that I might understand more fully Holmes's involvement with the man responsible for the death of the son of Lord Maynooth. Holmes, of course, did not want these details to be revealed to the public. I did acquire permission from him at a later date to the effect that they could be published after his death. In the meantime I have appended this brief foreword to be placed with the papers and handed both to my bankers and executors with the instruction that they may only be released one hundred years from this date.

It may, then, also be revealed a matter that I have always been sensitive about, in view of the prejudices of our age.

Sherlock Holmes was one of the Holmes family of Galway, Ireland, and, like his brother Mycroft, was a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, where his closest companion had been the poet Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde, who even now, as I write, languishes in Reading Gaol. This is the principal reason why I have been reticent about acknowledging Holmes's background for it would serve no useful purpose if one fell foul of the bigotry and intolerance that arises out of such a revelation. Many good men and true, but with such backgrounds, have found themselves being shunned by their professions or found their businesses have been destroyed overnight.

This revelation will probably come as no surprise to those discerning readers who have followed Holmes's adventures. There have been clues enough of Holmes's origins. Holmes's greatest adversary, James Moriarty, was of a similar background. Most people will know that the Moriarty family are from Kerry, the very name being an Anglicization of the Irish name O Muircheartaigh meaning, interestingly enough, "expert navigator". Moriarty once held a chair of mathematics in Queen's University in Belfast. It was in Ireland that the enmity between Holmes and Moriarty first started. But that is a story which does not concern us.

If there were not clues enough, there was also Holmes's fascination with the Celtic languages, of which he was something of an expert. In my narrative "The Devil's Foot" I mentioned Holmes's study on Chaldean Roots in the Ancient Cornish Language. I did not mention that this work won high praise from such experts as the British Museum's Henry Jenner, the greatest living expert on the Cornish language. Holmes was able to demonstrate the close connection between the Cornish verb and the Irish verb systems.

The Holmes family were well known in Galway. Indeed, it was Holmes's uncle, Robert Holmes the famous Galway barrister and Queen's Counsel, whom the Irish have to thank for the. organization of the Irish National School system for the poorer classes, for he was a member of the Duke of Leinster's seven-man education commission in the 1830s and 1840s responsible for many innovative ideas.

These few brief words will demonstrate, therefore, the significance of this aide-memoire, which Holmes's passed to me in the spring of 1894.

My initial encounter with my second most dangerous adversary happened when I was lunching with my brother, Mycroft, in the Kildare Street Club, in Dublin, during the September of 1873.1 was barely twenty years old at the time and thoughts of a possible career as a consulting detective had not yet formulated in my mind. In fact, my mind was fully occupied by the fact that I would momentarily be embarking for England where I had won a demyship at one of the Oxford Colleges with the grand sum of £95 per annum.

I had won the scholarship having spent my time at Trinity College, Dublin, in the study of chemistry and botany. My knowledge of chemistry owed much to a great Trinity scholar, Maxwell Simpson, whose lectures at the Park Street Medical School, advanced my knowledge of organic chemistry considerably. Simpson was the first man to synthesize succinic acid, a dibasic acid obtained by the dry distillation of amber. It was thanks to this great countryman of mine that I had produced a dissertation thought laudable enough to win me the scholarship to Oxford.

Indeed, I was not the only Trinity man to be awarded a demyship to Oxford that year. My friend, Wilde, a brilliant Classicist, a field for which I had no aptitude at all, was also to pursue his education there. Wilde continually berated me for my fascination with sensational literature and one day promised that he would write a horror story about a portrait that would chill even me.

My brother, Mycroft, who, like most of the Holmes family of Galway, was also a product ofTrinity, had invited me to lunch at the Kildare Street Club. Mycroft, being seven years older than I, had already established his career in the Civil Service and was working in the fiscal department of the Chief Secretary for Ireland in Dublin Castle. He could, therefore, afford the £10 per annum which gave him access to the opulence of the red brick Gothic style headquarters of the Kildare Street Club.

The Club was the centre of masculine Ascendancy life in Ireland. Perhaps I should explain that these were the Anglo-Irish elite, descendants of those families which England had

despatched to Ireland to rule the unruly natives. The Club was exclusive to members of the most important families in Ireland. No "Home Rulers", Catholics nor Dissenters were allowed in membership. The rule against Catholics was, however, "bent" in the case of The O'Conor Don, a direct descendant of the last High King of Ireland, and a few religious recalcitrants, such as the earls of Westmeath, Granard and Kenmare, whose loyalty to England had been proved to be impeccable. No army officer below the rank of major, nor below a Naval lieutenant-commander was allowed within its portals. And the only people allowed free use of its facilities were visiting members of the Royal Family, their equerries and the Viceroy himself.

My brother, Mycroft, basked and prospered in this colonial splendour but, I confess, it was not to my taste. I had only been accepted within this élite sanctuary as guest of Mycroft, who was known as a confident of the Chief Secretary and therefore regarded as having the ear of the Viceroy himself. I had only been persuaded to go because Mycroft wished to celebrate my demyship and see me off to Oxford in fraternal fashion. I did not want to disappoint him.

The dining room of the club was truly luxuriant. The club had the reputation of providing the best table in Dublin.

A solemn-faced waiter, more like an undertaker, led us through the splendidly furnished dining room to a table in a bay window overlooking St Stephen's Green for the club stood on the corner of Kildare Street and the green itself.

"An apéritif, gentlemen?" intoned the waiter in a sepulchral voice.

Mycroft took the opportunity to inform me that the cellar was of excellent quality, particularly the stock of champagne. I replied that I believed that I would commence with a glass of sherry and chose a Palo Cortaldo while Mycroft, extravagantly, insisted on a half bottle of Diamant Bleu.

He also insisted on a dozen oysters, which I observed cost an entire shilling a dozen, and were apparently sent daily from the club's own oyster bed near Galway. I settled for pâté de foie gras and we both agreed to indulge in a steak with a bottle of Bordeaux, a rich red St Estèphe from the Château MacCarthy.

In truth, Mycroft was more of a gourmand than a gourmet. He was physically lazy and already there was a corpulent aspect to his large frame. But he also had the Holmes's brow, the alert, steel-grey, deep set eyes and firmness of lips. He had an astute mind and was a formidable chess player.

After we had made our choice, we settled down and I was able to observe our fellow diners.

Among those who caught my immediate eye was a dark haired man who, doubtless, had been handsome in his youth. He was

now in his mid thirties and his features were fleshy and gave

him an air of dissoluteness and degeneracy. He carried himself with the air of a military man, even as he slouched at his table

imbibing his wine, a little too freely I fear. His discerning brow

was offset by the sensual jaw. I was aware of cruel blue eyes, drooping, cynical lids and an aggressive manner even while

seated in repose. He was immaculately dressed in a smart dark coat and cravat with a diamond pin that announced expensive tastes.

His companion appeared less governed by the grape than he, preferring coffee to round off his luncheon. This second man

was tall and thin, his forehead domed out in a white curve and his two eyes deeply sunken in his head. I would have placed him about the same age as his associate. He was clean-shaven, pale and ascetic looking. A greater contrast between two men, I could not imagine.

The scholarly man was talking earnestly and his military companion nodded from time to time, as if displeased at being

disturbed in his contemplation of his wine glass. The other man, I saw, had rounded shoulders and his face protruded forward. I observed that his head oscillated from side to side in a curious reptilian fashion.

"Mycroft," I asked, after a while, "who is that curious pair?" Mycroft glanced in the direction I had indicated.

"Oh, I would have thought you knew one of them – you being interested in science and such like."

I hid my impatience from my brother.

"I do not know, otherwise I would not have put forward the question."

"The elder is Professor Moriarty."

At once I was interested.

"Moriarty of Queen's University, in Belfast?" I demanded. "The same Professor Moriarty," confirmed Mycroft smugly.

I had at least heard of Moriarty for he had the chair of mathematics at Queen's and written The Dynamics of an Asteroid which ascended to such rarefied heights of pure mathematics that no man in the scientific press was capable of criticizing it.

"And the man who loves his alcohol so much?" I pressed. "Who is he?"

Mycroft was disapproving of my observation.

"Dash it, Sherlock, where else may a man make free with his vices but in the shelter of his club?"

"There is one vice that he cannot well hide," I replied slyly. "That is his colossal male vanity. That black hair of his is no natural colour. The man dyes his hair. But, Mycroft, you have not answered my question. His name?"

"Colonel Sebastian Moran."

"I've never heard of him."

"He is one of the Morans of Connacht."

"A Catholic family?" For Ó Mórain, to give the name its correct Irish form, which meant "great", were a well-known Jacobite clan in Connacht.

"Hardly so," rebuked Mycroft. "His branch converted to the Anglican faith after the Williamite conquest. Sebastian Moran's father was Sir Augustus Moran cb, once British Minister to Persia.Young Moran went through Eton and Oxford.The family estate was near Derrynacleigh but I believe, after the colonel inherited, he lost it in a card game. He was a rather impecunious young man. Still, he was able to buy a commission in the Indian Army and served in the 1st Bengalore Pioneers. He has spent most of his career in India. I understand that he has quite a reputation as a big game hunter. The Bengal tiger mounted in the hall, as we came in, was one of his kills. The story is that he crawled down a drain after it when he had wounded it. That takes an iron nerve."

I frowned.

"Nerve, vanity and a fondness for drink and cards is sometimes an unenviable combination. They make a curious pair."

"I don't follow you?"

"I mean, a professor of mathematics and a dissolute army officer lunching together. What can they have in common?"

I allowed my attention to occupy the problem but a moment more. Even at this young age I had come to the conclusion that until one has facts it is worthless wasting time trying to hazard guesses.

My eye turned to the others in the dining room. Some I knew by sight and, one or two I had previously been introduced to in Mycroft's company. Among these diners was Lord Rosse, who had erected the largest reflecting telescope in the world at his home in Birr Castle. There was also the hard-drinking Viscount Massereene and Ferrard and the equally indulgent Lord Clonmell. There was great hilarity from another table where four young men were seated, voices raised in good-natured argument. I had little difficulty recognizing the Beresford brothers of Curraghmore, the elder of them being the Marquess of Waterford.

My eye eventually came to rest on a corner table where an elderly man with silver hair and round chubby red features was seated. He was well dressed and the waiters constantly hovered at his elbow to attend to his bidding like moths to a fly. He was obviously someone of importance.

I asked Mycroft to identify him.

"The Duke of Cloncury and Straffan," he said, naming one of the premier peers of Ireland.

I turned back to examine His Grace, whose ancestors had once controlled Ireland, with some curiosity. It was said that a word from Cloncury's grandfather could sway the vote in any debate in the old Irish Parliament, that was before the Union with England. As I was unashamedly scrutinizing him, His Grace was helped from his chair. He was, I judged, about seventy-something years of age, a short, stocky man but one who was fastidious in his toilet for his moustache was well cut and his hair neatly brushed so that not a silver strand of it was out of place.

He retrieved a small polished leather case, the size of a despatch-box, not more than twelve inches by six by four. It bore a crest in silver on it, and I presumed it to be Cloncury's own crest.

His Grace, clutching his case, made towards the door. At the same time, I saw Professor Moriarty push back his chair. Some sharp words were being exchanged between the professor and his lunching companion, Colonel Moran. The professor swung

round and marched swiftly to the door almost colliding with the elderly duke at their portals. At the last moment, when collision seemed inevitable, the professor halted and allowed his Grace to move thorough the doors before him.

"Some argument has taken place between the professor and his companion," I observed aloud. "I wonder what the meaning of it is?"

Mycroft looked at me in disgust.

"Really, Sherlock, you always seem to be prying into other people's affairs. I would have thought you had enough on your plate preparing for your studies at Oxford."

Even at this time, I had become a close observer of people's behaviour and it is without any sense of shame that I record my surveillance into the lives of my fellow luncheon room occupants.

I returned my attention to the colonel who was sitting looking disgruntled at his wine glass. A waiter hovered near and made some suggestion but Moran swung with an angry retort, indicating the empty wine bottle on the table, and the waiter backed away. The colonel stood up, went through the motions of brushing the sleeves of his coat, and strode out of the dining room. I noticed that he would be returning for he had left his glass of wine unfinished. Sure enough, the waiter returned to the table with a half bottle of wine uncorked and placed it ready. The colonel, presumably having gone to make some ablutions, returned after some fifteen minutes and reseated himself. He seemed in a better mood for he was smiling to himself.

I was distracted to find that my brother was continuing to lecture me.

"I know you, Sherlock. You are an extremely lazy and undisciplined fellow. If a subject doesn't interest you, you just ignore it. It is a wonder that you have achieved this demyship, for I did not expect you to gain a degree at all."

I turned to my elder brother with a chuckle.

"Because we are brothers, Mycroft, we do not have to share the same concerns.Your problem is your love of good food and wine. You are an indulger, Mycroft, and physical inertia will cause the body to rebel one of these days."

I spoke with some conceit for during my time at Trinity I had taken several cups for swordsmanship, for boxing and was acknowledged a tolerable singlestick player.

"But you must consider what you will do with your career, Sherlock. Our family have always been in government service, law or academic spheres. I fear you will fail your qualifications because of being so easily distracted by minutia…"

"But minutia is important in life…" I began.

At that moment we were interrupted by a disturbance at the door of the dining room.

The pale-faced waiter hurried into the room and made his way to where the elderly Duke of Cloncury and Straffan had been sitting. I watched in bemusement as the man first scrutinized the table carefully, then the top of the seats around the table and then, I have never witnessed such a thing before, the waiter actually went on his knees and examined under the table before, finally, his cadaverous features slightly reddened by his exertions, he hurried back to the door where the head waiter had now entered and stood with a troubled face.

There was a lot of shaking of heads and shrugs that passed between the two. The head waiter left the room.

As the waiter, who had conducted the search, was passing our table, I hailed the fellow much to Mycroft's astonished disapproval.

"Has His Grace mislaid something?" I queried.

The waiter, the same individual who had conducted us to our table when we entered, turned mournful eyes upon me. There was a glint of suspicion in them.

"Indeed, he has, sir. How did you know?"

"I observed that you were searching on and around the table where he had recently been seated. From that one deduces that he had lost something that he thought he had with him at that table."

The man's gaze fell in disappointment at the logic of my reply.

"What has he lost?" I pressed.

"His toilet case, sir."

Mycroft gave an ill-concealed guffaw.

"A toilet case? What is a man doing bringing a toilet case into a dining room?"

The waiter turned to Mycroft.

"His Grace is a very fastidious and eccentric person, Mister Holmes."The man evidently knew Mycroft by sight. "He carries the case with him always."

"A valuable item?" I hazarded.

"Not really, sir. At least, not financially so."

"Ah, you mean it has great sentimental value for the Duke?" I suggested.

"It was a gift which King William gave to one of His Grace's ancestors as a personal memento when the man saved his life during the battle at the Boyne. And now, gentlemen, if you have not seen the item…"

He went on his way.

Mycroft was passing his napkin over his mouth,

"Now how about a port or brandy in the hall?"

The lofty hall of the club, with its big game trophies and blazing fire and staircase of elaborately carved stonework, was where members gathered for their after luncheon drinks and cigars.

We rose and made our way out of the dining room. Our path led us by the table of Colonel Moran and as we passed by I noticed that the colonel's dark suit was ill-chosen for it showed up his dandruff. I grant you it is such small observations that sometimes irritate my fellows. But if one is prone to dandruff at least one should have the good sense to wear a light colour in which the tell-tale white powder and silver hairs would be less noticeable.

As we made our way into the hall we saw the elderly Duke of Cloncury and Straffan standing with the head waiter and a gentleman whom Mycroft informed me was the chairman of the directors of the club. His Grace was clearly distressed.

"It is priceless! A value beyond measure!" He was almost wailing.

"I cannot understand it, Your Grace. Are you sure that you had it with you in the dining room?"

"Young man," snapped the elderly duke, "do you accuse me of senility?"

The "young man", who was about fifty years of age, blanched, and took a step backward before the old man's baleful gaze.

"Not at all,Your Grace, not at all. Just tell me the facts again."

"After finishing my luncheon, I went into the wash room. I washed my hands and then brushed my hair. It is my custom to do so after luncheon. I took my silver hairbrush from my leather case, which I always carry with me. I remember clearly that I returned it to the case. I left the case on the wash stand and went into the toilet. I came out, washed my hands and then realized that the case was no longer there."

The head waiter was looking glum.

"I have already suggested to His Grace that the case might have been left in the dining room and sent one of the waiters to check. It was not there."

The old man bristled.

"Knew it would be a damned waste of time. Said so. I know where it went missing. I'd start interrogating your employees, sir. At once!"

The club chairman looked unhappy.

"Your Grace, please allow us time to search the premises before we start anything so drastic. Perhaps it has simply been mislaid…?"

"Mislaid!" The word was an explosion. "Dammit! Mislaid!

Do you take me for a fool, sir? I demand that an interrogation

of your employees begin at once. I suggest that you now send

for the DMP!"

The mention of the Dublin Metropolitan Police had made

the chairman slightly pale.

"Your Grace, the reflection on our reputation…"

"Damn your reputation, sir! What about my hair brush!"

quivered the old man.

It was then I felt I should intervene.

"Excuse me,Your Grace," I began.

Rheumy blue eyes turned on me and assessed my youthful

years.

"And who the devil are you, Sir?"

"My name is Holmes. I might be able to help you."

"You, you young jackanapes? What do you mean?"

I heard my brother "tut-tutting" anxiously in the background

at my effrontery.

"With your permission, I think I might be in a position to

recover the lost item."

Cloncury's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Do you have it, you impudent whippersnapper?" he

demanded. "By God, if you are responsible…"

Mycroft came to my help.

"Excuse me,Your Grace, this is my younger brother, Sherlock Holmes."

Cloncury glanced up and recognized Mycroft, knowing him to have the ear of the Viceroy. He looked slightly mollified.

"Why didn't he introduce himself properly then, hey? Very well, young Holmes, what do you mean by it?"

"With your permission, sir," I went on, unperturbed, "I would like to put a few questions to the chairman of the club." The chairman began to flush in annoyance.

"Go ahead, then, Mister Holmes," instructed Cloncury. "I am sure that the chairman will be in favour of anything that stops the incursion of the police into this establishment."

It seemed that the chairman, albeit reluctantly, was in favour. "Well, sir, if I remember correctly, the wash room is next to the cloak room, is it not?"

"Yes."

"Is the wash room attended?"

"It is not."

"And the cloak room? Is it attended at all times?"

"Of course it is."

"Your Grace, will you be so good as to show me where it was that you left your toilet box?"

We turned in a body, headed by the duke, and passed into the wash room. He pointed to one of the ornate marble wash basins at the far end of the room. It was one of a dozen such wash basins lining the entire left handside wall of the chamber which was fronted by a series of mirrors for the use of the members. The right handside wall was fitted with toilet cubicles in dark mahogany and brass fittings, except for a small area behind the main door. The marble tiled wall here was unimpeded by anything except for a small opening. It was about two feet square, framed in mahogany and with a hatch door.

I pointed to it.

"I presume that this hatch connects the wash room with the cloak room?"

"Naturally," barked the chairman. "Now what is all this about?"

I turned and led them out of the wash room into the cloakroom, where a uniformed attendant leapt from his chair, dropping a half-smoked cigarette into an ash tray and looking penitently from one to another of us.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" he stuttered.

"Yes, you can," I assured him. "You can bring me the garment that you are holding for Colonel Sebastian Moran. I think you will find that it is a heavy riding cloak or one of those new style long, loose coats which, I believe, is called an Ulster."

The attendant returned my gaze in bewildered fashion. The chairman pushed forward.

"Good God, sir, what do you mean by it? Colonel Moran is a respected member of this club. Why are you presuming to ask for his coat?"

The Duke of Cloncury was looking at me with a frown of disapproval.

"You'd better have a good explanation, young Holmes," he muttered.

"I believe that you want the return of your toilet case?" I asked blandly.

"Gad, you know I do."

I turned to the attendant.

"Have you been on duty for the last half an hour?"

"That I have, sir."

"A short while ago Colonel Moran knocked on the hatch from the wash room side and asked if you could pass him his coat for a moment. Is that correct?"

The man's jaw dropped in astonishment.

"It is, sir. He said he wanted to comb his hair and had left the toilet items hi his coat. And the coat was, indeed, one of those new style Ulsters, sir."

"I believe the colonel then came around from the wash room, into the cloak room, in order to hand you back the coat?" "That is exactly what he did, sir."

I turned and smiled at the astonished company, perhaps a little too superior in my attitude.

"How the hell did you know that?" growled the chairman. "Now, my man," I said, ignoring him, but speaking again to

the attendant. "Would you fetch Colonel Moran's Ulster?" The attendant turned, picked down the garment and handed

it to me in silence.

I took it and weighed it carefully with one hand before reaching into the inside lining. There were several large pockets there as was the fashion with such garments. The leather box was tucked neatly into one of them.

"How did you know?" gasped Cloncury seizing his precious box eagerly.

"Know? I merely deduce from facts, sir. If you will open the box and check the brush? I think you may find that in the brush are some strands of dark black hair. The colour of Colonel Moran's hair, which is easy to spot as it is dyed."

It took the duke but a moment to confirm that I was right.

"I think the colonel is someone given to seizing opportunity. A chance taker," I told them. "He followed His Grace into the wash room when His Grace had already entered the toilet. He saw the leather case there. He knew it had great sentimental value for His Grace. Perhaps he thought he might be able to blackmail Cloncury for its return, probably through an intermediary of course. He seized the opportunity, asking for his Ulster to be passed through the hatch in order to conceal the box in order to get it out of the club. He chanced that members would not be searched…"

"It would be unthinkable that a member of this club would be searched," muttered the chairman. "We are all gentlemen here!" I chose not to comment.

"He could not carry the box out of the wash room into the cloak room without observation. When I saw the hatch I knew that he had only to ask for his coat to be passed through, place the box in his pocket unobserved, and the theft was complete."

"How did you know it was an Ulster or a riding cloak?" demanded his grace.

"He would have to be possessed of a heavy coat such as an Ulster or riding cloak with large enough interior pockets to conceal the box in."

"Why not pass the coat back through the hatch once he had hidden the box in the coat?" demanded Mycroft. "Why do you think that he came out of the wash room door, into the hall and then into the cloak room to return the cloak to the attendant?"

"Moran was cautious. Passing it back through the hatch might cause the attendant to feel the box and become suspicious, especially after Cloncury raised the alarm. So he carried it round and handed it to the attendant holding it upright by the collar. The extra weight would not be noticed. Is that correct?" The attendant nodded confirmation.

"What made you think there would be hairs on the brush and that they would be his?" queried His Grace, staring dubiously at the black dyed hairs which were entangled on his silver-backed brush.

"Because Moran is a vain man and could not resist cocking a snoot at you, Your Grace, by brushing his own hair while you were within feet of him. It fits in with Moran's character, a demonstration of his nerve for any moment you might have opened the door and discovered him. Chance is his adrenaline."

"Holmes, this is amazing!" gasped Cloncury.

"It was anotherTrinity man who alerted me to the importance of careful observation," I informed him. "Jonathan Swift. He wrote that a stander-by may sometimes see more of the game than he who plays it." I could not resist turning to Mycroft and adding, sotto voce, "And Trinity almost refused to give Swift a degree because they thought he was too lazy and undisciplined!"

The chairman of the club signalled the uniformed club doorman and his assistant. They looked ex-military men.

"You will find Colonel Moran in the dining room," he instructed. "Ask him to join us immediately. If he will not comply, you have my permission to escort him here with as much force as you have cause to use."

The two men went off briskly about their task.

A moment later the colonel, whose appearance suggested that he had polished off the rest of the wine, was firmly propelled into our presence.

His red-rimmed eyes fell on his Ulster and on Cloncury holding his precious leather case. The man's face went white in spite of the alcoholic infused cheeks.

"By Gad, sir, you should be horsewhipped!" growled the Duke of Cloncury and Straffan menacingly.

"This is a fabrication!" bluffed Moran feebly. "Someone put the box in my inside coat pocket."

I could not forbear a grin of triumph.

"How did you know that it was the box which had been stolen? And how did you know it was found in your inside coat pocket, colonel?"

Moran knew the game was up.

"Moran," the chairman said heavily, "I shall try to persuade His Grace not to bring charges against you for the sake of the reputation of this club. If he agrees, it will be on the condition that you leave Ireland within the next twelve hours and never return. I will circulate your name in society so that no house will open its doors to you again. I will have you black-balled in every club in the land."

The Duke of Cloncury and Straffan gave the matter a moment's thought and then agreed to the conditions.

"I'd horsewhip the beggar, if it were me. Anyway. I think we all owe young Mister Sherlock Holmes our thanks in resolving this matter."

Moran glowered at me.

"So you tipped them off, you young interfering…" He made a sudden aggressive lunge at me.

Mycroft inserted his large frame between me and Moran. His fist impacted on the colonel's nose and Moran went sprawling back only to be neatly caught by the doorman and his assistant.

"Kindly escort Colonel Moran off the premises, gentlemen," ordered the chairman, "and you do not have to be gentle."

Moran twisted in their gasp to look back at me with little option but to control his foul temper.

"I have your measure, Sherlock Holmes," he glowered, seething with an inner rage, as they began to propel him towards the door. "You have not heard the last of me."

It was as Mycroft was sharing a cab in the direction of my rooms in Lower Baggott Street that he frowned and posed the question:

"But I cannot see how you could have identified Moran as the culprit in the first place?"

"It was elementary, Mycroft," I smiled. "When we left the luncheon room and passed behind Moran's chair, I saw that the colonel had dandruff on his shoulders. Now he had jet-black hair. But with the dandruff lay a number of silver strands. It meant nothing to me at the time for I was not aware of the facts. When I discovered that the missing case contained a hairbrush and comb, everything fell into place. The duke not only had silver hair but, I noticed, he also had dandruff to boot. By brushing his hair in such a foolhardy gesture, Moran had transferred the dandruff and silver hair to his own shoulders. It was easy to witness that Moran was a vain man. He would not have allowed dandruff and hair, if it had been his, to lay on his shoulders when he entered a public dining room. Indeed, I saw him rise from his table and go out, brushing himself as he did so. The sign of a fastidious man. He had, therefore, unknowingly picked it up during his short absence. Everything else was a matter of simple deduction."

As Moran had been thrown out of the Kildare Street Club, he had called out to me that I had not heard the last of him. Indeed, I had not. But I could not have conceived of how our paths would meet at that time nor of the sinister role Moran's friend, Professor Moriarty, would play in my life. While Moriarty became my most implacable foe, Colonel Sebastian Moran was certainly the second most dangerous man that I ever had to deal with.