The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

After Holmes left university he settled in rooms in Montague Street in London spending much of his time researching into those branches of science that were relevant to his new vocation, and gradually building a practice as the world's first consulting detective. It seems that not all of these early cases were successful or particularly interesting and although he referred Watson to several, including the Tarleton murders, the case of Vamberry the wine merchant, the adventure of the old Russian wife plus two particularly tempting ones – the singular affair of the aluminium crutch and the story of Ricoletti of the club foot and his abominable wife – nothing sufficient on these cases has come to light to allow me to retell them. Records of them that I have seen, and which I mention in the appendix, I believe to be apocryphal. Holmes did tell Watson the story of "The Musgrave Ritual", which was his third case (and which we shall return to later), but he did not relate any others in detail. Without Watson as his amanuensis, and with Watson's papers stolen it has proven difficult to piece these years together. I have found some leads on the cases Holmes refers to as "Merridew of Abominable Memory" and "Mrs Farintosh and the Opal Tiara", but details of these must wait for another time.

It was when Holmes was searching for new rooms, in January 1881, that he and Watson met and came to share an apartment. At the outset, as related in "A Study in Scarlet", Watson was at a loss to know what Holmes did for a living, and was rather bemused at all the visitors who came to see him, including officers from Scotland Yard. It is clear that in these four years Holmes had established a strong reputation though he had not, at that stage, made much financial gain. That would come later.

After his own involvement in "A Study in Scarlet", Watson became increasingly drawn into Holmes's cases and recorded several that happened in the next couple of years: "The Resident Patient", "The Beryl Coronet" and the famous "The Speckled Band". At this stage, though, Watson was not fully into the habit of keeping methodical notes of the cases, because he had not yet pursued the idea of publishing them. At the start of "The Resident Patient" he talks about his "incoherent series of memoirs". However, by the time he came to write-up the case of "The Speckled Band" in 1888, five years after the events, he was clearly getting his notes in order, as he states so at the outset.

It means that for the first few years of their acquaintanceship, Watson's record of Holmes's cases is hit-and-miss, and he seems to have preserved only those that made a special mark on his memory because of their bizarre or unusual nature. It may not be that sinister, therefore, that so few of these early cases survive and that, by 1884, we enter a relatively dark period when Holmes's activities are not well recorded. It may simply be that none of Holmes's cases were worth recording. Of course, the contrary could also be true. Since Holmes carefully vetted everything he let Watson publish we could deduce that he was involved in some very secret cases at this time. Some of the cases referred to in passing in later stories may date from this period, particularly those where Holmes began to move in higher circles in society, such as the help he gave to the King of Scandinavia and another time to Lord Backwater. These cases not only brought him prestige but were financially rewarding so that by the start of 1885 we find Holmes's practice on a firmer footing, and Watson keeping a better account of his cases.

Thanks to the help of Claire Griffen, who came across some fragments of Watson's notes and related memorabilia that surfaced in an old book shop in South Australia, we have been able to piece together one of these cases that Holmes alluded to many years later. In "The Six Napoleons" he reminded Watson how the business of the Abernetty family came to his attention because of the depth that the parsley had sunk into the butter, an example of how not to overlook what may appear trifling detail.That case has puzzled Sherlockians for decades but at last we can report it in full.

The Case of the Incumbent Invalid – Claire Griffen

Of all the adventures I shared with my friend Sherlock Holmes I cannot recall one other in which he was quite so ambivalent about its outcome than the dreadful affair of the Abernettys, nor one which he felt so reluctant to pursue, yet was driven to its tragic and macabre denouement.

Because of his peculiar sensitivity regarding the role he played therein I have never chronicled the affair, but a chance remark recently while discussing with Inspector Lestrade the bizarre case of the Six Napoleons, and the fact that the main participants have long since been freed to seek new lives in South Australia, encourage me to believe he will tolerate my jotting down a few remembrances of the case.

The trivial remark of how far a sprig of parsley had sunk into melting butter on a hot day first seized his attention, but it was on a raw day in early January, 1885 when we first became embroiled in the question of Lady Abernetty's possible murder.

I was standing at our bow window gloomily surveying the prospect. Fog had shrouded the city in the earlier hours of the day and would probably return in the late afternoon, but at that hour a pale straggle of sunlight lit a street almost deserted but for the occasional cab and passerby ulstered and mufflered against the chill damp. Despite the warmth of the fire I could not resist a shiver.

"I'm sorry you feel you cannot afford to take the cure at Baden-Baden next spring," drawled my friend from his easy chair beside the hearth.

I confess he gave me rather a start. I had said nothing about my somewhat wistful ambition to pamper my indifferent health at the famous resort in the Black Forest.

Shortly before I met and took up residence with Holmes at Baker Street, I had returned from service in Afghanistan with the legacy of a jezail bullet and there were times, especially when I felt the London fog on my bones, that it throbbed remorselessly. I could more easily or cheaply take the cure at Bath, but I had a fancy for Baden-Baden, not for its casino and race-course, but to stroll along the banks of the Oos where Brahms composed his Lichtenthal Symphony and Dostoevksy strolled under the ancient trees.

"My dear Watson," Holmes replied to my start of surprise, "you've been haunting travel agencies on your days off, your desk is littered with brochures and time-tables. I observed you studying the balance in your pass-book with a morose expression and you've been poor company ever since."

"I beg your pardon if I appear so. It's this dismal weather. Don't you find the fog depressing, Holmes?"

"Not I!" My companion's grey eyes sparkled. "I find it stimulating. I conjure up all manner of fiendish doings under its cover. By the way," he added, casually, "you will let me know when the carriage pulls up at our front door."

"Are we expecting someone?" My spirits lifted. Since I had resided with Holmes many interesting people had crossed the threshold of 221b Baker Street, some of whom had invited us into the most intriguing and dangerous adventures it had ever been my privilege to share and chronicle.

"A prospective client." Holmes took a note from inside his pocket and spread it open on his knee. "The hour mentioned is three. Ah, there strikes the clock."

"Anything of interest?" I enquired, eagerly.

"I fear not," sighed Holmes. "A domestic dispute, I fancy. Cases worthy of engaging my complete attention have been sparse in recent weeks."

I echoed his sigh. I had learned to dread these periods of inactivity when my friend lapsed into boredom and melancholy. I had discovered only recently his injudicious use of cocaine in such lapses, a regrettable weakness from which I seemed powerless to dissuade him.

"A carriage has just stopped at the kerb." I observed a rather large lady in furs and a rather small man in greatcoat and Homburg alight. "Could these be our visitors?"

"Ah, since you speak in the plural the lady must be accompanied. A Mrs Mabel Bertram, Watson, a widow she writes, so the gentleman is not her husband." He rose, gave his shoulders a twitch and stood with his back to the fire.

The knock on our door could almost be described as deferential. At my friend's nod, I admitted our visitors.

"Have I the honour to address Mr Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective?" enquired the gentleman, in a pleasant yet suave manner.

"I am Dr John Watson. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes. Won't you come in?"

The woman who advanced into the room was indeed Junoesque and stylishly dressed in a fur-trimmed coat of the colour that, I believe, was called cobalt blue, and a feathered hat perched somewhat coquettishly on Titian hair that owed more to the cosmetician than to nature. I perceived her to be a woman of fifty, whose features bore the remnants of a once-proud beauty.

Her companion was slim and dapper with dark lively eyes and a waxed moustache. He removed his Homburg to reveal a sleek, dark head.

"Mr Holmes, how kind of you to see me," greeted the lady, warmly. "I am Mabel Bertram. May I present Mr Aston Plush?"

Bows were exchanged and, standing well back, Holmes invited his visitors to take seats before the fire. Mr Plush preferred to stand with his back to the window so that he was almost in silhouette.

"Draw your chair closer to the fire, Mrs Bertram," coaxed my friend. "I observe you are shivering from the inclement weather."

"It is not the chill that makes me shiver, but the anxiety caused by my dilemma." She fixed her gaze imploringly on his face. "You are my last hope, Mr Holmes."

"Dear me!" After one swift scanning glance over her entire person, he leaned back in his armchair steepling his fingers against the shabby velvet front of his smoking-jacket and examining her face from eyes that were mere slits under his drowsy lids.

"You mentioned in your note you were concerned about the welfare of a relative. Pray go on."

"To be precise, my stepmother. I am the eldest daughter of Sir William Abernetty by his first marriage. Upon the death of my mother he married Miss Alice Pemberton, a lady some ten years older than myself. There was a daughter from this second marriage, Sabina, and a son born posthumously, Charles. You may be amazed at my concern for my stepmother when she has two children of her own, but being so close in age we have always been on the best of terms. Until recently."

"And what has happened to cause this rift?"

"Nothing!" burst out the lady. Restraining herself quickly, she went on. "Nothing that I can account for. There's been no quarrel, no exchange of harsh words, yet Charles and Sabina have informed me in the plainest of terms that she refuses to see me. I should add here that Lady Abernetty is an invalid. Neither my half-brother nor sister are married and both reside with their mother in Grosvenor Square."

Holmes raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. He had begun to look rather bored, but at the mention of the èlite address he perked up a little. Nevertheless, he murmured, "I fail to see what assistance I can be. As you say, you are not the lady's daughter and can lay no claim to her affections. She may see you or not as she pleases. Her children are no doubt following her instructions."

"Hear me out, I implore you." Mabel Bertram laid aside her muff and clasped agitated hands. "I am not alone in being excluded from her door. My stepmother has suffered from an affliction of the lungs for many years and a doctor has been in constant attendance. Imagine my horror when I was informed by Dr Royce Miles that he no longer calls upon Lady Abernetty – at the request of her son Charles, and this after a professional attendance of many years." Her lower lip trembled. "Mr Holmes, I fear for my stepmother's life."

My friend frowned. "Have you reason to believe your brother and sister have anything but the most loving regard for their mother?"

Mabel Bertram coughed discreetly behind a lace-trimmed handkerchief. "My stepmother has many admirable qualities, Mr Holmes, but I think it fair to say that with her children she was something of a Tartar. There was never any question of either Charles or Sabina marrying. Her formidable manner drove away any suitors or lady friends. Alice much preferred to have them at her own beck and call. Son and daughter have always been expected to stay close to home and Alice has always kept a tight grip on the purse-strings. Now I hear Sabina's been seen gadding about in new gowns and Charles has joined the Footlights Amateur Dramatic Society."

"Dear me!" Holmes smiled in amusement.

"Mr Holmes, I fear my stepmother no longer has the power to influence her children."

"Would that be such a bad thing?" asked my friend, quietly. "Their indulgences seem innocent enough." He suddenly lifted a piercing gaze to her companion. "In what capacity do you accompany Mrs Bertram, Mr Aston Plush?"

The gentleman hesitated. "As Mrs Bertram's legal adviser and friend."

"You are a solicitor then?"

"Mr Plush handled my late husband's estate and before that his business affairs," intervened Mrs Bertram. "He has been kind enough to act for me in this matter."

"I have written several letters expressing Mrs Bertram's concern and requesting access to her stepmother. Beyond

that my hands are tied. There is no legal way we can obtain admittance to the house on Grosvenor Square. Were we to force entry the Abernettys would be quite within their rights to summon the police."

"I did enter the house through the servants' entrance on the first day I was refused admittance," confessed Mrs Bertram, with a slight blush.

"You did not tell me this…" began the lawyer in a vexed tone.

"My dear, it was a humiliating experience. I was actually ejected by the butler. Charles and Sabina reacted with quite uncharacteristic hostility. Perhaps because I had seen evidence of their neglect of their mother."

"Indeed, and what was that?" Holmes glanced at her keenly.

"It was Lady Abernetty's custom to have a roll with parsley butter for her breakfast every morning. The cook had obviously

prepared the tray, but there was the butter still standing on the table at noon with the parsley quite sunk into the butter. Alice always demanded a well-run, fastidious kitchen…"

"And when did this visit take place?" interrupted Holmes. "On the first day of August."

"And you have not seen Lady Abernetty since." He returned his attention to Aston Plush. "Did you receive any response to your correspondence?"

"Two letters, one from each of the children and each couched in similar terms, reiterating that their mother wished no further communication with Mrs Bertram. There was no cause for alarm concerning Lady Abernetty's health. Would Mrs Bertram please leave the matter as it stands?"

My friend returned his gaze to Mabel Bertram's face. "But you feel you cannot do so…"

The lady leaned forward. "I see I must confide in you my darkest fears. You may think me a fanciful, even hysterical woman, but I fear my stepmother has met with foul play. Only tell me this isn't so, Mr Holmes, and I will never intrude upon them again."

"Of course there is also the matter of the Power of Attorney," interjected Plush.

"Which has been given to the son?"

"Presumably."

My friend was silent for several minutes, his eyes closed, while the lady continued to gaze at him beseechingly. Behind Mrs Bertram's chair, Mr Aston Plush stirred uneasily.

When Sherlock Holmes reached a decision about taking a case he often moved quite abruptly. He did so now, springing briskly from his chair. "I will look into the matter for you."

"Oh, Mr Holmes, you will find me so grateful."

"And generous." Mr Plush had come forward to assist his client from her chair.

She flashed him a glance before she lowered her veil.

"Hopefully you will hear from me within the week. Watson, the door."

"How will you…?" she enquired timidly.

"My methods are my own. Good-day to you," he returned, brusquely.

I ushered out the pair and returned to find Holmes filling his pipe from a tobacco pouch he kept in an old Turkish slipper on the mantelpiece.

"Well, what did you make of that,Watson?" he asked, smiling.

"It seemed to me a tawdry affair. But, of course, the lady's anxiety was genuine."

My friend laughed softly. "One of your most endearing qualities, Watson, is your naivete about the good in people."

I must confess to feeling slightly nettled by my friend's cynicism. "How did she strike you?"

"Here we have a rather theatrical, still-handsome woman who knows how to deploy her charms. Did you notice which chair she took? With her back to the window, away from the daylight and where the firelight would soften and enhance her looks."

"She may not have wished to sully her dress with the rather obvious pipe-ash scattered on your chair," I retorted.

"Well done!" approved my friend. "And what did you make of the silent partner?"

"Mr Ashton Plush? I was surprised a lawyer should take such an interest in a domestic squabble."

"Indeed. I feel he has what is generally termed a vested interest. Did you mark where he stood,Watson?"

"Behind her chair, in a most protective manner."

"No, where his own face was in shadow and he could observe me observing her. He wanted to gauge my reaction to her story. There's more to this than meets the eye, Watson. A lady dressed in the height of fashion in the company of a man some ten years younger than herself. She evinces little sympathy for the plight of her siblings, yet a great deal of concern for her stepmother. What is her real concern? We might look into the father's background." He took down a red-covered reference book from the mantelpiece. "Ah, yes, Abernetty, Sir William, knighted for services to the crown. A son of impoverished country gentry. Made a fortune in the East by mysterious and possibly devious means. Returned to England in 1830 whereupon he married Clarissa, daughter of Sir Arthur Humphrey, and entered politics. Money opens many doors Watson, even one on Grosvenor Square. Wife died in 1848, one daughter Mabel. Married Miss Alice Fernberton 1850, died 1852. Aha, Watson! Made some bad investments in the East Indies, died with his fortune considerably reduced."

"What does that tell us, Holmes?"

"I'm not sure, but it should tell us something. What did you think of the story of the parsley sunk into the butter?"

"Almost ludicrous."

Holmes looked at me musingly. "Did you indeed? I hope to teach you the importance of trivialities. Do you have the time to join me on this adventure, Watson, if it is indeed to be an adventure? I doubt if I can promise you a baboon or a cheetah on this occasion."

"My dear Holmes, if you think I could possibly be of use." I still felt a thrill of pride at having my assistance requested as I had not yet shared as many exploits with my friend as I have to this date and it was all quite new and uncharted to my prosaic way of life.

Holmes smiled in one of his rare flashes of warmth. "Thank you. I shall as always value your company. And your medical expertise may be of value should we chance to meet the invalid. But at the moment I would greatly appreciate your going to your club. You may even choose to spend the night there to avoid the evening fog. I have to give this matter a great deal of thought and I can't predict how many pipes will bring me to a solution."

Being aware of his practice of using tobacco for a stimulus to his thought processes until the room was filled with an acrid pall of smoke, I was happy to oblige.

When I returned next day at noon I was met by an astonishing sight. My friend stood in our little sitting-room transformed into a Bohemian with flowing locks, a flourishing moustache, a hat with a curled brim, a dashing cape and yellow spotted silk bandana knotted at his throat.

"Come, Watson, we can't have you looking so dull. Break out your fancy duds." His eyes were dancing merrily in his long lean face.

Accustomed as I was becoming to my friend's disguises, I perceived some plan was afoot.

"I have nothing half so showy and shall be obliged to go as I am. Where are we going by the way?"

"I've work for you, Watson, if you're willing to undertake it." "You know I'm always happy to oblige."

"Thank you. I want you to call upon your colleague, Dr Royce Miles. I understand he has rooms in Knightsbridge. I want you to enquire in your professional capacity about the health of Lady Abernetty. Say you have had an enquiry about her and seek a word of discreet advice. Take careful note of the interview, how the good doctor looks, what he has to say, any minor detail, you know my methods."

"And you, Holmes?"

"I'm off to join the Footlights Amateur Dramatic Society with the expectation of making the acquaintance of Charles Abernetty. You see before you Sebastian Food, aspiring actor. These ladies and gentlemen of leisure and thesbian pursuits are meeting for rehearsal of their forthcoming production. We'll meet back here for supper and compare our findings."

I had removed my damp outer wear and was sitting before the fire in my dressing-gown reading The Times when Sherlock Holmes returned from his expedition. One glance at his face showed even under the disguise that he was in a brooding, taciturn mood.

"Not now," he said, in answer to my unspoken question. "I need to rid myself of these trappings and get a hot meal inside me before I can discuss the day's events. Will you ring for Mrs Hudson and advise her of our readiness for supper?"

After Mrs Hudson's excellent roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, he poured us both a whisky and soda and lit a cigar. For half an hour perhaps he sat in the darkened room, gazing meditatively into the fire. I knew him too well to break into his reverie.

The striking of the clock aroused him at last. "Let us have the lamp, Watson. I thought we might indulge in a game of whist before we go to bed."

"You astound me, Holmes."

"Do I? I won't when I inform you we've been invited for a hand tomorrow afternoon at Grosvenor Square. I need to freshen up my knowledge of the rules."

"I gather you've succeeded in making the acquaintance of Charles Abernetty."

"Indeed I have. He's quite the shining light of the Footlights Amateur Dramatic Society. A dapper little man, Watson, but somewhat nondescript in feature and colour which would I think give him the opportunity to play many roles. Quite theatrical in his approach to acting, but he has a few subtle nuances which are quite interesting."

"In personality or stage presentation?"

Holmes chuckled. "You always come straight to the point with

these little pragmatisms of yours. Yes, where does one leave off and the other begin? After I had watched the rehearsal I begged to be introduced to him by the President of the Society, whose acquaintance I had previously made. I praised Mr Abernetty's performance extravagantly and he became quite enchanted with me with what seemed mingled vanity and a need for self-reassurance. Such was the rapport we established he invited me to accompany him to Drury Lane one evening where an artist he greatly admires is presently performing.

"The subject of whist somehow crept into the conversation. When I said I played he immediately invited me for tomorrow afternoon. Did I have a friend? he asked. Indeed I did, said I. Then his sister Miss Sabina Abernetty would make a fourth."

"Well, you've got us over the doorstep. Well done, Holmes."

My companion shrugged his narrow shoulders. "I wonder if I have done well." He turned the conversation abruptly. "How did you fare with Dr Royce Miles?"

"I had feared he might be rather reticent about a former patient, but he was quite loquacious on the subject of Lady Abernetty. Glad to have her off his hands and wished me all the luck in the world. She is apparently one of those irascible patients all doctors dread to treat."

"And her ailment?"

"Congestion of the lungs which is placing quite a strain on the heart. Embarrassed left ventricle. Can't survive much longer, which will be a blessing for the children. She is, according to Miles, a cold woman who treats and has always treated her son and daughter like servants rather than loved children. Miles was full of praise for the care and attention they lavish on her."

"When neglect might carry her off sooner?"

"That's a harsh observation, Holmes."

"It's what Mrs Bertram says she fears."

"Miles was surprised at her apparent concern. She has made only one enquiry about her stepmother's health which was when she discovered the doctor had been dismissed. In his many visits to Grosvenor Square he never once saw her at the house."

"It's possible her visits didn't coincide with his. And what is the appearance of this Dr Royce Miles?"

"A bluff, somewhat florid man. Though I shouldn't venture such a remark about a fellow medico I fancy he likes his port."

"Which could be the reason for his dismissal."

"I'm sure he's competent enough." I hastened to the defence of my colleague.

My friend's only reply was a grunt.

"I must confess I'm baffled, Holmes. Do you believe Mrs Bertram's anxiety is genuine?"

"I believe Lady Abernetty's health is a subject of immense concern to quite a few people. The question is why."

"You surely give no credence to Mrs Bertram's suspicion that she's met with foul play. Having met Charles Abernetty…"

"Did I envisage him as capable of matricide, that vilest of crimes? Did Alice Abernetty, like Clytemnaestra, dream she had given birth to a serpent who suckled blood from her breast?" He threw away his mood with his cigar.

"Come, Watson, deal the cards."

The house in Mayfair, that most discreetly elegant of London districts was Georgian with a protective railing of iron spikes, double doors with flanking Doric pillars, large bay windows, a set of steps on the left leading down to the servants' entrance and mews leading to stable and coach-house.

"How much do you think this would fetch in realty?" murmured Sherlock Holmes. He had resumed his disguise of the previous day with luxuriant locks and moustache. "Sebastian Flood and John Watson," he announced to the elderly butler who answered the door. "I believe Mr Charles Abernetty is expecting us."

The small salon to which we were conducted had the furnishings of an earlier era with its marble Adam fireplace, its Chinese wallpaper and carpet and Chippendale furniture. Charles Abernetty greeted us enthusiastically. His sister, dressed in a dark cashmere gown, rose from a wing chair and glided across the floor to meet us. Her manner was more restrained, but no less welcoming. They were a singularly colourless pair, when one recalled the vivacity of their half-sister, both slight of build and with scarcely a year between them in age. They were so alike that the only differences between them were those determined by gender and a certain variance of personality. What soon became apparent was their deep affection for each other.

"You must forgive our old-fashioned furnishings," said Charles when introductions were exchanged. "This was how the rooms were originally when the house came into the family's possession, and Mother has always preferred it this way."

"Ah, you have a parent in residence," observed Holmes. "Will we have the pleasure of meeting Mrs Abernetty?"

"Our mother is an invalid and does not receive visitors," interposed Sabina. "The cold weather disagrees with her."

"Perhaps you would care to have my friend take a look at her." At their startled look he hurried on. "Watson here is a fully qualified medical practitioner. I'm sure that at any time he'd be happy to give you his professional opinion."

As I murmured acquiescence I saw Charles dart a look at his sister. She maintained an impeccable composure.

"Thank you, you're very kind, but we have our own family doctor who takes care of Mother's needs."

"Perhaps you might know him, Watson. What is his name?"

"Dr Halliwell," she replied, after a brief hesitation. She was beginning to look a trifle annoyed, as well she might, by Holmes's persistence.

"I'm sure he's a very good man," I said soothingly. "And pray don't apologize for your furnishings. This is a charming room."

"You are most fortunate," added my friend, in the irrepressible role he had adopted, "in owning this delightful residence in such an elite location. Its worth must be prodigious."

Charles flushed up to the eyes. "Mother would never consider selling up. It's quite impossible."

"I've offended you," said Holmes. "My candour runs away with my discretion at times. Ah, I see the cards are on the table. I enjoy nothing so well as a good game of whist with friends."

"Shall we play?" said Charles, eagerly, drawing out a chair.

As the game progressed companionably, I felt a sense of awe at the expertise in which Holmes sustained the bogus personality of Sebastian Flood. It was evident that Charles Abernetty admired him immensely and hung on his every word. It was equally apparent that Sabina Abernetty was reserving her judgement on their new acquaintance. She was pleasant, but decidedly cool.

At four o'clock she rose from the table and pulled on a bell-rope hanging beside the fire-place.

"Are you calling for tea, Sabie?" asked Charles. "That would be welcome."

Miss Abernetty's change of position had allowed her to see the fire had fallen low. "We must ask Minter to throw on more coal," she remarked.

"No need to bother Minter. He has enough work to do. I'll attend to the fire myself," responded her brother.

Another bell rang somewhere in the house. A look of vexation crossed Charles Abernetty's face. "There's Mother," he said, tersely.

"I'll go," said his sister, serenely. "It's time for her medicine."

"I suppose," remarked Holmes, idly, as he watched our host at his fireside task, "it requires quite a few servants to maintain a household of this magnitude." Charles did not appear to hear, but Holmes persisted. "It is admirable of Miss Abernetty to take the place of a nurse."

"It's how she wishes it," replied Charles. "While my sister is away, gentlemen, I think we have time for a glass of this very excellent port." He crossed to a decanter on the sideboard.

"Not an excellent port," observed Holmes, as he sipped appreciatively, "but a superb one."

Charles flushed with pleasure. "From my own cellar. I shall fetch you each a bottle."

"Nonsense. I'll go at once."

"For shame, to leave you alone," said Miss Abernetty a moment or two later. "Where is Charles? Minter is just about to bring in the tea."

"I believe your brother has gone down to the cellar."

A coal exploded from the fire onto the rug. Sabina started violently, seized the tongs and threw it back on the grate. She spent some little time examining the rug for signs of damage while my friend sat observing her.

Charles returned presently with a bottle under each arm. His demeanour had markedly changed. His face had a pale clammy look and his hands shook as he placed the bottles on the table.

"Why, Abernetty, you are ill!" exclaimed Holmes.

"Charles, come and sit down." His sister led him to the wing chair, turning a grave face to us over her shoulder. "My brother suffers from a morbid fear of confined spaces.You should have sent Minter, Charles."

"You're right, of course," Charles mopped his brow with his handkerchief, "but he does so hate to go there himself."

"Stuffy places, cellars," agreed Holmes. "I'm distressed that your kindness has caused you such discomfort."

"My dear fellow, think nothing of it. It's a foolish whimsy of mine and will soon pass."

After tea we took our departure with the promise to return the following Sunday afternoon for another hand. Once outside, the air of bonhomie Holmes had exhibited before the Abernettys fell away and his mood became thoughtful.

"Well, Holmes," said I, "we're no closer to solving the mystery, if there is one. It all seemed perfectly straightforward to me. Devoted children, really rather a sad pair. At least we know the mother exists."

"How do we know that, Watson?"

"Why, you heard it yourself. She rang for attention."

"A bell was rung from somewhere in the house, nothing more. But you are right, they are a sad pair. But there are undercurrents, Watson, that could be sinister. There were several incidents that pointed to this which you completely overlooked."

"I wish you'd explain them to me."

"By this time next week I will have uncovered their secret and I think it will be more evil than you can comprehend."

"If you say so. But I wish you weren't so jealous with your deductions."

I feel that Holmes's overweening vanity caused him to be mysterious in case he was proven wrong, or, in the instance of proving himself right, so that he could produce his solution with a flourish like a magician producing a rabbit out of a hat.

"There's far more to be unearthed before I can confide in you. But I do value your assistance."

"I don't seem to have contributed much," I replied somewhat ruefully.

"More than you know. Are you acquainted with Dr Halliwell?" "No, but I can look him up in the Medical Register."

"Good man. There's a cab. Hail it, Watson. An early night for us, I think. There's work to be done tomorrow."

Holmes was up and about before I had stirred from my bed. When he returned at noon he made an even more astonishing figure in the rough clothes and hobnail boots of the British workman. His hat was worn on the back of his head, he wore a rakish scarf and had not shaved that morning.

"I've been out looking for work, Watson," he chuckled.

"Were you successful?"

"Not in Grosvenor Square."

"You tried the Abernettys' address?"

"I thought they might be in need of a coachman or groom. I went in through the mews. Quite deserted,Watson. No carriage, no horses, the coachman's house stood empty. Minter must have glimpsed me from the servants' quarters and came out. Sent me off with a flea in my ear. Curious, isn't it, that the only servant we've seen is the old butler? No maid, no footman, for all we know no boots."

"Mrs Bertram did mention the servants had been dismissed." "Yes, I find that useful information."

"It simply means the Abernettys could no longer afford to keep them."

Holmes chuckled. "A great deal escapes your attention, Watson."

"One thing hasn't." I was standing at the window as I spoke. "The urchin who stands across the street watching our premises. He answers the description of the lad who came to our rooms earlier enquiring about me. He wasn't in need of my services so Mrs Hudson sent him off, but he's still hanging about. He must have seen you come in, Holmes."

My friend came to stand beside me.The youth leaning against a lamp-post wore a greatcoat two sizes too large for him and a cloth cap pulled down over his ears. Between his muffler and his cap nothing much could be seen of his face, but he occasionally darted glances up at our window.

"Things are moving fast and we must move with them," murmured Holmes. "Did you check the Register?"

"I'll do so straightway after lunch."

"I'm off to the Doctors' Commons after which we'll sacrifice that bottle of cognac on the sideboard as a gift for Mr Charles Abernetty to repay him for his kindness of yesterday."

When next we met Holmes's sallow cheeks bore the flush of a grim excitement.

"Well, what did you learn about Dr Halliwell? Are we able to contact him?"

"Only if we hold a seance. Been dead a year."

Holmes gave an odd little laugh. "I too have just spent an informative hour. Let me don my disguise, Watson, and we'll be away."

Miss Sabina Abernetty was not at home at Grosvenor Square, but Mr Charles Abernetty greeted us cordially although with some surprise.

"We were passing your door and hoped you would not mind us calling in with this little token of gratitude for your hospitality." He produced the bottle with a flourish.

Charles was suitably gratified and bade us sit in the small salon while he rang for tea.

"May we enquire about Mrs Abernetty's health?" Holmes was all solicitude.

Charles studied him in silence for several minutes before he spoke. "You know, I do believe Mother would like you as much as we do. Would you like to meet her?"

"Very much," declared Holmes.

"I'll go and see that all is in readiness. She's very vain despite her advancing years."

He left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. I glanced quizzically at my friend, but he was frowning into the fire.

"Let's just give Mother half an hour, shall we?" Charles said on his return. "I warn you, you'll find her in a darkened room. She dislikes the light, even on a wintry day such as this. Invalids do have their little fancies, as the good doctor here will know."

Charles Abernetty's manner seemed both excited and nervous. He kept rubbing his hands together and smiling, not at his new acquaintances but inwardly as if silently congratulating himself.

"I can't think what's keeping Minter with the tea," he complained. "Shall we have cognac instead?"

"Please don't trouble yourself," said Holmes, hastily. "Tell me, have you quite recovered from your indisposition of yesterday."

Abernetty's smile faded. In fact, he looked annoyed at the reminder. "Quite. A trifling matter. Shall we go up to Mother? I'll just ring the bell to let her know we are coming."

He led the way up a balustraded staircase to the next floor and along an unlit carpeted passage. Away from the snug salon the air was chill, the passage gloomy and the carpet thin and worn under our feet.

"This is Mother's room," he said with his hand on the knob. "Do speak softly. She dislikes loud noises."

He flung open the door. "Mother, I've brought two gentlemen to see you."

The room was indeed dark, unlit by fire or lamp and with the curtains drawn. In a large old-fashioned fourposter bed lay the shadowy form of an elderly woman whose features could just be made out within the frill of a large nightcap. Her eyes were closed and we could hear her stertorous breathing.

"Oh, bother," said Charles, in vexation. "She's dropped off."

"Charles, what are you doing?" There was a piercing whisper from the passage behind us.

Sabina Abernetty had arrived home. The violence of the weather was evident in her pink cheeks and disordered hair. She had apparently just come in and discarded her coat and hat downstairs.

"Ah, Miss Abernetty, again a pleasure," drawled Holmes.

She ignored him and continued to address her brother indignantly. "You know how perverse Mother can be. She might have had one of her tirades."

"As it turns out, she's asleep," said Charles, sulkily.

"Which is as well. Do forgive my brother," she turned to us, summoning a smile. "He means well."

"No harm done. I'm sorry we missed the pleasure of meeting your mother," replied Holmes, cheerfully. "We must take our leave, but look forward with pleasure to our game on Sunday afternoon. Come, Watson."

Outside in the square we had to hold our hats against the blustering wind. We trudged in silence for several minutes.

"What did you make of that melodrama?" enquired Holmes, presently.

"Decidedly odd. But at least we know Lady Abernetty is alive and can set Mrs Bertram's fears at rest."

My companion snorted. "Did anything strike you about the sickroom?"

"I thought it uncommonly cold."

"It was as chill as a morgue. No fire, no steam kettle, both of

which I'm sure would be recommended for a patient suffering from congestion of the lungs."

"Indeed. Are you suggesting neglect?"

"What else struck you? Come, man, you must have been in dozens of sickrooms. That slight odour common to all…"

"… was missing. You're right, Holmes. Not even a whiff of carbolic. What does that imply?"

"I think we may receive a note from the Abernettys offering apologies for Sunday afternoon," was his only reply.

Holmes was not often confounded, but the next event produced that effect.

We were sitting beside the fire after supper that evening when we heard a light quick step on the stairs followed by a sharp rap on the outer door.

"Who could that be?" I asked, surprised.

"I suggest you open the door, Watson," replied Holmes in that slightly caustic tone he could adopt at times.

A woman stood in the doorway, shrouded in a long woollen cloak with a hood. Pushing past me, she advanced into the room, throwing back her hood to reveal the face of Sabina Abernetty.

Holmes rose from his chair and faced her. For the space of a minute they examined each other.

"So I've tracked you down, Mr Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective," she said, bitterly.

"I congratulate you." Holmes's voice was slightly uneven.

"Why have you donned disguise to make my brother's acquaintance? Why have you flattered and deceived him, and come to our home? I know the answer?You have been employed by that hateful woman, Mabel Bertram to pry into our affairs. What has she been telling you?"

"She's concerned for your mother's health, nothing more." "Oh, there is a great deal more, Mr Holmes."

She checked her passionate outburst and fell silent. I took the opportunity to express a concern of my own.

"I trust you did not come alone through the night, Miss Abernetty."

"Minter is waiting in a hansom downstairs," she replied, curtly. "Where is your brother?"

"At a meeting of his dramatic society." She turned fiercely on Holmes. "What will satisfy you? What will end this persecution?"

I was shocked at the violence of her words, but Holmes answered her promptly.

"Seeing Lady Abernetty is alive and in reasonable health."

"Very well. You shall meet her on Sunday afternoon." She crossed to the door, but turned on the threshold, her lip curling. "I despise you."

She drew up her hood and hurried down the stairs.

"There is a lady who does not bestow her contempt lightly." Holmes tried to laugh, but the tremor was still in his voice.

"A remarkable adversary," I observed.

"She is not my adversary," said Holmes, softly. "She is my enemy. Or rather I am hers." He crossed to the window. "Ah, there they go. Be a good fellow, Watson, and whistle me up a cab while I throw on my cap and Ulster. I have to go out for a short time."

"Would you like me to accompany you?"

"No, it's better that I go alone." Holmes looked shaken by the incident, but at the same time some grim determination had seized him and I knew better than to persist.

The following day he was restless and moody and spent hours scraping on his old violin until I felt compelled to protest.

"How does an evening at the theatre appeal to you?" Holmes became suddenly brisk. "Dan Leno's playing at Drury Lane. We'll dine out first."

I was surprised at his choice of entertainment since he usually preferred a violin recital at the Albert Hall.

As usual he read my thoughts. "Come, Watson, the most celebrated clog-dancer and dame of our time. The man's an' artist, probably in his own field a genius."

Dan Leno was certainly in fine form that evening, performing acts of incredible physical ingenuity, and changing from persona to persona with an inimitable blend of Cockney humour and sentiment and a variety of wigs and gowns.

While the patrons about us rocked in their seats with laughter, Holmes sat silent, his fingers steepled across the front of his evening clothes, watching the performance under slumbrous lids. I had the impression, however, he was watching the little man's antics intently.

The following day, to my surprise, he dressed for his appointment with the Abernettys without his usual disguise.

"The game's up,Watson," he answered my look. "I think both parties are now aware of my identity and interest."

"Do you think we'll be introduced to the mother?"

"I have no doubt of it."

A pall of fog lay over London. The church bells sounded muffled and melancholy. It showed no signs of dissipating by early afternoon and I was amazed when Holmes suggested we stroll to Grosvenor Square.

"In this pea-souper? You must be mad, Holmes! Why on earth…?"

"I want to arrive at Grosvenor Square in a certain frame of mind and that only the fog can achieve. If you don't wish to accompany me by all means stay by your cosy fireside, but if you want to experience one of the strangest adventures you've ever put to paper, and I know how you like to jot down these little cases of ours, then put on your hat and greatcoat, your warmest muffler, take your stoutest stick and oh, yes, your service pistol."

"My pistol, Holmes? Surely you don't expect to encounter any danger from that pair?"

"It would be wise to prepare for any eventuality."

I found the next half-hour or so distinctly unpleasant. I flatter myself that I am not a nervous man or highly imaginative, but I seemed to feel the fog crawling on me like ghostly fingers. Lampposts stood out like beacons eagerly attained and reluctantly abandoned. The snickerings of leaves along the pavements seemed like the pattering of feet running up behind us. I was obliged to restrain myself from constantly glancing over my shoulder. A hansom looming at us suddenly like a phantom coach as we crossed Oxford Street gave me quite a start.

"Nearly there, Watson," chuckled Holmes.

"Mayfair seems almost deserted. Every sensible person in indoors."

Charles Abernetty evinced not the slightest surprise or curiosity at his new acquaintance's shorn hair and moustache. He greeted us with the same cordiality and drew us to the fire in the small salon.

"How damp your clothes are!" he exclaimed.

"We walked."

Charles blinked rapidly several times. "Through the fog? How extraordinary!"

"May we please see Lady Abernetty?" requested Holmes, rather tersely.

"Ah, here's Sabina. Sabie, the gentlemen would like to see Mother now."

"I'm afraid she's taking a nap, gentlemen. But rest assured, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, you will meet her this afternoon."

Miss Abernetty's face was pale above a gown of maroon merino trimmed with velvet and lace, elegantly draped to a slight bustle. Her manner towards my friend, although distant, was not overtly hostile.

"Shall we play a hand or two while we're waiting?" suggested Charles.

An expression of annoyance flitted over the detective's face, but he shrugged and sat down at the table. It was an uncomfortable game in a charged atmosphere. Only Charles seemed determined to make it companionable. I noticed that my friend observed Charles closely. Under the prevailing circumstances, the fellow seemed in unnaturally high spirits.

A knock at the door was followed by the appearance of the tall, gaunt butler.

"What is it, Minter?" asked Charles, peevishly. "I didn't ring for you."

"This just came for you by messenger, Sir." The butler presented a letter on a silver salver.

Charles excused himself and slit open the envelope. "It's from Randell Burke."

"One of my brother's thespian friends," explained Sabina. "He's mislaid his script and wishes to borrow mine.

Gentlemen, I'm afraid I shall have to step out for a minute." "Oh, Charles, in this weather?" demurred his sister.

"It's only in Brook Street. A brisk walk will do me good. If our friends can walk from Baker Street I can manage a swift jaunt around the corner. It's a pity to spoil our game, but there is is."

Holmes crossed to the bay window and held aside the curtain. Presently we saw Abernetty hurrying past the spiked fence in greatcoat and muffler.

"May we see your mother now?" He turned to Miss Abernetty. "I'll see if she's awake." She pulled the bell-rope. "Meanwhile, will you take tea?"

"Miss Abernetty, we both know this is not a social occasion, but strictly a business matter. Please allow me to see your mother at once."

"Mr Holmes," she came close to him and looked earnestly into his face, "please allow me to apologize for my words of Friday evening. My sister and I have not been on good terms for many years, but it still shocks me that she would hire a detective to spy on us. Are you aware of her motives?"

"I am not at liberty to discuss Mrs Bertram's motives," Holmes replied, coldly.

Minter re-appeared, pushing a tea-trolley. Holmes refused to partake and returned to the window. Feeling rather embarrassed, I joined Miss Abernetty in a cup of tea, but refused the seedcake.

"Are you watching for Charles?" enquired Sabina, almost tranquilly. "He shouldn't be long."

She lingered over her tea, making desultory small talk with me. Instead of becoming impatient, Holmes in his expression grew grimmer. When at last a bell sounded somewhere in the house there was a gleam of irony in his eyes.

"I think your mother is ready to receive us. Shall we go up?"

With the strain on my nerves occasioned by our eerie walk through the fog, I fancied the dim passage had a clammy feel as if the fog had seeped into the walls. Sabina moved softly, almost stealthily before us until she came to the door of the sickroom.

"Mother, I've brought some gentlemen to see you." She pushed open the door.

The shadowy figure in the four-poster bed hunched itself up on the pillows. Wisps of grey hair from under the frilled nightcap straggled over the forehead, eyes glared peevishly from a face grey with age and ill-health. Her hand came up from beside the bed, holding a walking-stick.

"What's this, you know my orders. I won't see anyone," she shrilled at us, querulously. "Go away, all of you. Get out of my sight."

"Mother, don't upset yourself," the daughter glided towards her, but was driven back by the flailing stick.

I will never forget the scene that followed; though I do not remember the words, the tone of the dreadful imprecations, the humiliating insults and cruelties that stripped the soul of our companion bare have never left me. I felt a deep shame at being, however obliquely, the cause of Miss Abernetty's discomfiture.

Throughout she was calm, but at last she turned to us and said in a low, tremulous voice. "Will that be all? Are you satisfied?"

Holmes turned abruptly and walked out of the room and I was fast on his heels. The strident voice followed us down the stairs. In the hall, Miss Abernetty faced us gravely. Her eyes looked large and dark in a face that had been drained of all its colour.

"Miss Abernetty, I owe you the profoundest of apologies and bid you good afternoon," said Holmes. "Minter, my Ulster." The elderly butler was hovering by the front door.

"You are leaving," she said, quickly. "Won't you wait until my brother returns? Don't you also owe him an apology?"

"Pray convey to him my regrets. Come,Watson, we must go." "At least allow me to send Minter down to the corner for a cab."

"Thank you, no, we will return as we came – on foot."

I smothered a groan as I struggled into my damp greatcoat and picked up my stick.

"That was an embarrassing exposure for Miss Abernetty," I observed, when we had regained the square. "I hope you're satisfied." I could not suppress the note of censure that crept into my tone.

Holmes gripped my arm. "Not another word."

We had reached the corner when he suddenly swung back. "Come, Watson, I want a word with Lady Abemetty."

"What! Have you gone mad, Holmes?"

"Not I. Not as mad as that poor raving invalid we've just left. Come on, Watson, the chase is on, this way through the mews and around to the coach-house. Ah, just as I thought!"

A candle was burning within, visible through a dingy window. My companion flung open the door. A figure in nightdress and frilled cap gave a startled cry.

"The game's up," Holmes said, grimly, "Mr Charles Abernetty."

Abernetty shrank back against the wall, his features contorted with fury under the grotesque make-up. "Damn you! I was brilliant. How could you possibly have found me out?"

"Indeed, you were comparable with the great Dan Leno. Let's say there were other factors that led to your unmasking."

Abernetty's eyes skimmed past Holmes to the doorway. "No, Sabie, don't!"

Sabina, equally as grim as Holmes, had materialized through the fog. She aimed a pistol at the detective's head.

"Do you feel quite so clever now, Mr Sherlock Holmes? Don't move, Dr Watson. Put your hand near your pocket and I'll put a bullet through your friend's head."

"Don't be foolish, Miss Abernetty," said Holmes, quietly. "You haven't yet committed murder."

Her face was a mask of cold, calculating fury. "There's no proof that you've been at Grosvenor Square. You didn't even hire a cab."

Holmes's hand moved swiftly to his lips. He blew three sharp blasts on his police whistle. "Inspector Lanner and his men will be here soon. Put away the pistol, Miss Abernetty. You'll only make things worse for yourself."

In her rage she fired at him. The expression on her face changed quickly to one of chagrin as the pistol misfired. I quickly brought up my stick, taking advantage of her confusion, and knocked the weapon from her grasp. Holmes kicked it out of sight as Inspector Lanner and two constables burst into the room.

"Good afternoon, Mr Holmes," the inspector nodded cheerfully at my friend. "How may I assist you?"

"I think if your men pry up the flagstones of the cellar floor and dig about a little you'll discover, as I suggested in our earlier conversation, the body of Alice Abernetty."

"Murdered?"

"No. I'm sure Lady Abernetty died of natural causes. Concealment of death and wrongful disposal of a body is the only crime here."

"I fear I shall not be the hero of this chronicle should you set it down on paper." Holmes stretched his slippers towards the fire and leaned his cheek pensively on his hand. "I have disinherited brother and sister for the sake of a greedy, already wealthy woman, who seeks to impress and snare a younger man with a fashionable address. The terms of Sir William Abernetty's will, now a matter of public record, gave me the answer. The house in Grosvenor Square only belonged to Lady Abernetty during her lifetime. On her death it passed to his eldest child Mabel from the first marriage. Charles and Sabina Abernetty were to be dispossessed. There was very little real money. They were, shall we say, in an unenviable position. There were many times, Watson, when I nearly abandoned the case, but I was drawn on to its fascinating and macabre conclusion."

"The law must be upheld, Holmes."

"Oh, yes, the law," he retorted, bitterly. "There are other laws, natural laws, that have been broken here."

Since our return he had fallen into a mood of black depression and I was worried that he might disappear into his room and seek solace in his unfortunate addiction to cocaine. I therefore attempted to distract him by laying before him the points of the case I did not yet fully understand.

"Who was the woman we saw in the sick-bed on our second visit?"

"That I suspect was Mrs Minter, the cook. However unwilling they may have been, the Minters were accomplices to all that occurred. They probably agreed to the conspiracy knowing they could find no other place at their time of life.

"Charles thought he was very clever with that little ruse, but it only served to convince me further that Lady Abernetty was dead. Of course, he wasn't aware of my identity then. But Miss Abernetty had already confirmed her suspicion of me. She was the youth watching our premises, Watson. When she burst into the sickroom later that day she was wearing a dress I had seen hanging up in the coach-house on my earlier visit as the groom in search of work. In their loveless, friendless childhood and youth they turned to a world of acting and make-believe. I'm quite sure Charles had his mother's character down accurately in that little display today. Can you imagine, Watson, their bleak, deprived existence, reviled by the one person who might be expected to give them affection. It makes my blood run cold to think of it." He leaned forward, his elbows hunched on his knees.

"What will become of them?"

"I can only hope the law will be kinder to them than I have been."

"Come, Holmes, you deal with yourself too harshly. Things would have gone much harder for Miss Abernetty if you had

told the inspector she attempted your life. It was only pure luck that the pistol misfired."

"It was probably an old weapon that had belonged to her father and had been lying about in a drawer for years. She had every reason to hate me. By my interference I had brought their brief and pathetic idyll to an end. But they could not have carried on their deception indefinitely, not with that woman of remarkable perspicacity Mabel Bertram waiting in the wings."

"What was the significance of the parsley in the butter?"

"Ah, yes! Did you not hear Mrs Bertram remark that her stepmother invariably had a roll with parsley butter for her breakfast. I believe that the cook had been preparing her tray and the butter had been taken from the icebox. Meanwhile, Miss Abernetty had gone to the sickroom to tend her mother's needs and discovered she had died during the night.

"She acted quickly, Watson, and with great presence of mind. The servants were summarily dismissed and the plan put into action of burying the body under the flagstones in the cellar.

"In such a household, Watson, where the discipline is so rigid, so unyielding and the presence of the mistress, even one confined to a sick-room, so omnipotent, the butter in the natural course of events would have been returned to the icebox. The fact that the parsley had sunk so deep into the butter meant it had been left out for hours and other events, unnatural events, were taking place."

He reached inside his pocket and drew out a slip of paper. "This is the fee I require from Mrs Bertram."

"Holmes!"

"As she herself observed she intended to be grateful and Mr Aston Plush added the rider of generous. I have acquired for her a fashionable address and possibly a new husband. You shall have your little jaunt to Baden-Baden, Watson."

"That's exceedingly generous of you, Holmes," I stammered.

A smile warmed his austere features. "You deserve it, my dear fellow, after all I've put you through today. Even a solitary misanthropic chap like myself knows the value of true friendship."

The Adventure of Vittoria, the Circus Belle – Edward D. Hoch

After "The Incumbent Invalid" there was a brief period when little came Holme's way and he soon began to complain that his practice was "degenerating into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils and giving advice to young ladies from boarding-schools," an attitude which coloured his initial feelings about the case that became "The Adventure of the Copper Beeches". Despite the success of that case matters again went quiet and it is probably during his period that Holmes became more open in his use of cocaine for stimulation. Watson refers to it in. "The Yellow Face", a case which arose in the spring of 1886 and which was one of Holmes's few recorded failures. Holmes was clearly in the doldrums during this period.

But matters soon began to improve. We find from the summer of 1886 cases begin to tumble one on top of another and Watson again found trouble keeping a record of them all. The American writer and scholar of crime, Edward D. Hoch, is renowned for his mystery stories, and he has occasionally turned a hand to writing stories featuring Sherlock Holmes. These are mostly of his own invention, but his interest in the circus caused him to stumble upon some records which helped us piece together the case later referred to by Watson about Vittoria, the Circus Belle.

My friend Mr Sherlock Holmes, upon looking through his fabled index of past cases, took occasion to remind me that I have never recorded the remarkable affair ofVittoria, the Circus Belle. My only excuse for this dereliction is that the summer

of '86 had furnished us with a long series of interesting cases and somehow my notes for this one became buried among them. There was also an aspect of the case which was slightly embarrassing.

Certainly by that year Vittoria was known even to those who never attended a circus. In America during the year 1880 a rival of Barnum and the Ringling Brothers named Adam Forepaugh came up with a unique idea for promoting his tent show. Forepaugh was one of the circus world's most picturesque characters, forever coming up with new schemes. Inspired by America's first beauty contest held at a beach in Delaware, he sponsored a competition with a $10,000 prize for the country's most beautiful woman, resulting in the selection of Louise Montague as the winner. Forepaugh promptly hired her to ride in his circus parade and proclaimed her as "the $10,000 beauty".

It did not take long for a similar promotion campaign to take root in England. In 1882 the Rover Brothers, who imagined themselves to be our British version of the Ringlings, launched their own contest for the loveliest young woman in the country. The winner was Vittoria Costello, a young shopgirl who was immediately transformed into "Vittoria, the Circus Belle". When her likeness began to appear regularly on circus handbills and posters there was some grumbling about the similarity of her given name to that of Her Majesty, but it was the young woman's true name and she could not be prevented from using it.

This was all either Holmes or I knew about her when Mrs Hudson announced an unscheduled visitor – a veiled young woman – on a sunny morning in early August. "Show her up by all means!" Holmes instructed, putting down his pipe and rising to greet our visitor. "Clients who attempt to conceal their identity always intrigue me!"

After a few moments we were joined by the woman herself. She was tall and willowy, dressed in a black riding costume with hat and veil. I could barely distinguish her features through the double layer of netting. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr Holmes," she said. "Be assured it is a matter of utmost urgency that brings me here."

"Pray be seated, madam. This is my friend and associate, Dr Watson. We are at your service."

She took the chair opposite the door, as if fearful of someone who might be following her. "Mr Holmes, I believe my life to be in great danger."

"And why do you think that, Miss Costello?"

Her body jerked in surprise at his words. I admit I was surprised myself. "You know me?" she asked. "We have never met."

"Your veiling implies that your face would be known, and I note the unmistakable odor of tanbark about you, suggestive of a circus ring. No, no – it is not an unpleasant odor. It brings back memories of childhood. I believe there is even a bit of the bark itself clinging to your riding boot." My eyes were drawn to her boot, almost as large as my own, and to the trim calf that showed beneath her skirt. "Since the Rover Brothers Circus is the only one in the London area at the present time, and since Vittoria the Circus Belle rides in their parades, it seemed obvious to me that you were Vittoria Costello. Please continue with your story."

She lifted the veil, revealing a face of striking beauty. Her eyes, though troubled, still sparkled with youth and her hair had the shimmer of ravens' wings. The sketches on the circus posters hardly did her justice. "I had heard of your remarkable powers, Mr Holmes, but you astonish me. As you may know from the newspaper accounts, I was employed by Hatchard's bookshop on Piccadilly when friends persuaded me to enter the Rover Brothers' contest. I never thought I would win, and when I did I'll admit I was a bit reluctant to give up my old life and become Vittoria, the Circus Belle."

Holmes retrieved his pipe and studied her with piercing eyes. "I admit to knowing very little about circuses. Exactly what duties do you perform with the show?"

"When the Rovers hired me directly after the contest, they said I only had to ride a horse in the circus parade, and perhaps once around the ring at the beginning and end of the shows. Of course until recently circuses were mainly equestrian events, with a clown providing some acrobatic comedy and joking with the ringmaster between riding demonstrations. Now things are changing. P. T. Barnum in America has a tent that will hold twenty thousand spectators and has three rings, after the American custom. Astley's here in London has a permanent

building with a large scenic stage for horses and other animals. The trapeze acts introduced by the French gymnast Leotard are becoming increasingly popular with many circuses. And they say the Hagenbecks will soon introduce a big cage for wild animal acts."

"You know a great deal about your profession," Holmes murmured.

"It may not be my profession much longer, Mr Holmes. You see, the Rover Brothers suggested last year that I develop some sort of talent to enhance my image, something besides my horsemanship. They even suggested I might try tightrope walking or snake handling. I was horrified by both suggestions. This spring they put me into a knife-throwing act with a Spaniard named Diaz." She showed us a slight scar on her left forearm. "This is what I received from it, and just during the rehearsal!"

"Is that what has brought you here?"

"Hardly! There is another young woman with the circus, an acrobat, who feels she should have the title of Circus Belle. Her name is Edith Everage. She has suggested several times that I leave my position and now I believe she is trying to kill me."

"Has there been an actual attempt on your life?"

"Two, in fact. A week ago yesterday, when the circus played at Stratford, a horse I was riding tried to throw me."

Holmes waved his hand. "A common enough occurrence."

"Someone had placed a burr beneath my saddle. When my weight pressed it into the animal's flesh he started to buck. Luckily there were people nearby to rescue me."

"And the other attempt?"

"Much more serious. Two days ago, shortly before the Monday afternoon performance in Oxford, the knife-thrower Diaz was poisoned. You may have seen it in the papers. The poison was in a water bottle I used between rides. I'm convinced it was meant for me."

"The knife-thrower died?"

"Yes. It was horrible!"

"Where is the circus playing now?"

"They're setting up in Reading for a performance tomorrow afternoon. A new tiger is arriving with its keeper tonight. I fear they might want me to perform with it and I'm afraid for my life, Mr Holmes."

"The two earlier incidents may have no relation to each other. Still, I have not attended a circus since my youth. What say, Watson? Shall we journey to Reading tomorrow for the big show?"

We caught a mid-morning train at Paddington station. The weather was warm for his usual traveling-cloak and he wore simple tweeds. As was his custom, Holmes read through several papers during the journey, expressing pleasure when he came upon an account of Diaz's death in Oxford. He had died from poisoning but no further details had been given by the Oxford police.

"Perhaps it was an accident," I ventured. "She may be worried about nothing."

"We shall see, Watson." He put down the last of the papers as the train was pulling into Reading Station. Off to the right we could see King's Meadow where a circus tent had been erected. Already carriages and strollers were heading in the direction, and there were children gathering at the animal enclosures.

The first thing we saw on alighting from the train was a large wall poster for the Rover Brothers Circus featuring Vittoria, the Circus Belle. A banner had been pasted across the bottom corner of the poster announcing a new wild animal act with a man-eating tiger, to be introduced that very afternoon. Having now seen Vittoria in person I was reminded again of how little the drawing revealed of her true charm and beauty. Holmes studied it for a moment before we continued to the street, where he hailed a carriage to take us the short distance to the circus grounds.

Vittoria had arranged that two admission tickets would be left for us at the box office. As we passed through the main gate I caught the odor of tanbark, so slight on our client but now bringing with it my own memories of childhood. "You're right, Holmes," I said. "There is a pleasant, nostalgic smell about a circus."

A small tent near the entrance bore a sign indicating it was the office of the Rover Brothers Circus, and Holmes made for it without hesitation. A slender dark-haired young man with a

bushy mustache was at work inside, scanning the pages of a ledger. "Mr Rover, I presume?" Holmes addressed him.

The man looked up with a scowl. "Mr Charles Rover. Do you want me or Philip?"

"Either one will do. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr Watson. One of your star performers, Vittoria, has invited us here to investigate the suspicious death of the Spanish knife-thrower known as Diaz."

Charles Rover grunted with something like distaste. "Nothing suspicious about it! An accident!"

"Vittoria believes he was poisoned and that the poison was meant for her."

"Who would want to kill that sweet child? She is the star of our show!"

"Then we have come here for nothing?" Holmes asked.

"It would seem so."

"Since we have made the journey from London, perhaps we could speak with some others – your brother Philip, if he's available, and one of the acrobats, Edith Everage."

Charles Rover consulted his pocket watch. "It's noon already. By one o'clock we will be preparing for the afternoon performance. See who you wish before one, then be gone."

"Where might we find Miss Everage?"

"In the main tent, rehearsing her act. We are introducing an Indian tiger into the show today, and the timing must be adjusted accordingly."

I followed Holmes as we left Rover and headed for the main tent. Along the way food venders were beginning to set up their wares and a pair of brightly painted clowns were inspecting each other's greasepaint. With the gates open, the trickle of arrivals was building to a steady flow, exploring the sideshows but not yet allowed into the main tent. Holmes and I ignored the signs and slipped through the closed tent flap.

In the big circus ring a half-dozen acrobats, clad in the tight-fitting garments developed by Leotard, were tumbling, somersaulting and cartwheeling. One was even swinging from a trapeze. When they came to rest for a moment, Holmes asked the nearest of the women, "Are you Miss Edith Everage."

"Edith!" she called out to one of the others, a brown-haired girl who appeared to be of school age. Her fine figure in the skin-tight garment made me blush as she walked up to us, though her face seemed too hardened for one so young.

"You want me?" she asked with a trace of London cockney in her voice.

Holmes introduced himself and came directly to the point. "We are investigating the recent attempts upon the life of Vittoria Costello, the so-called Circus Belle. Do you know anything about a riding accident?"

"The horse threw her. That wasn't an attempt on her life." "She thought it was. And what about the poisoning of Diaz?" Edith Everage shook her head. "They say that was an

accident."

"Didn't he cut her once during his knife-throwing act?" "Naw. They were thick as thieves."

"But you would like to replace her as the Circus Belle."

"I deserve it! I worked for the Rovers since I was fifteen. I'm even learning to do a trapeze act. They hired her with no experience at all, just because she won that bleedin' contest. And Mr Philip, he makes sure she treats him nice, if you get what I mean."

While they talked a cage had been wheeled into the ring. Though its bars were covered with canvas the growls emanating from inside left no doubt that the tiger had arrived. The trainer, armed with a whip, and a man in a frock coat accompanied the cage. Even at a distance I could recognize an older version of Charles Rover. Holmes must have had the same impression, for he asked her, "Is that Philip Rover?"

"It is," Edith acknowledged. "It's a wonder we ever see him, between Vittoria and that blonde doxy he brings on the road with him."

"Who would that be?"

"Milly Hogan. She was in a show at the Lyceum Theatre once and she considers herself above mere circus performers. She usually stays in his tent during the performance, but I saw them out playing with the new tiger this morning."

"All right," Philip Rover called to the acrobats. "Everyone out of the ring. We're going to start letting the crowd in soon. I want them to see nothing but that cage as they take their seats."

Edith hurried off with the others and Rover turned his attention to us. "You must be Sherlock Holmes. My brother told

me you were in here, but for the life of me I can't imagine why. That Spaniard's death was an accident. The poison bottle had been prepared to dispose of an aging python. Diaz drank it by mistake."

"Your star, Vittoria, tells a different story. She fears for her life. Does she have any enemies here?"

"None," Philip Rover assured us.

"What about Edith Everage?"

"Everage? She's one of the acrobats, isn't she?"

"So I understand," Holmes told him. "Was she ever considered for billing as the Circus Belle?"

"Edith Everage? Certainly not! We ran a nationwide contest to choose a beautiful woman for the part. Vittoria was the winner. Edith was never considered."

"Yet there have been two attempts on Vittoria's life, possibly by Edith."

"Did you get these ideas from my brother?" Philip asked, anger beginning to show on his face. "I must tell you our Circus Belle is a popular woman with the younger men here."

"Including Charles?" Holmes studied the man with his piercing gray eyes, but before he could say anything else there came a shout from the direction of the tiger's cage.

Philip Rover turned and started toward one of the clowns who'd yelled. "What is it?" he barked.

The clown came running over, trying to keep his voice low. "Mr Rover, something's wrong! I just looked under the canvas and Vittoria's in there with the tiger. I think she's dead."

The minutes that followed were a nightmare. Pushing the great beast back with long poles, the handlers finally were able to unlock the cage and pull the body out of its grasp. As a physician it fell upon me to examine Vittoria's body when it was removed from the cage. I had no trouble-pronouncing her dead, but the sight of that clawed, bloody face, with the dress virtually torn from her body, moved me to a great sadness. From her tiny feet to a gaping wound in her neck, there were claw marks everywhere.

Holmes watched it all in silence, and did not speak until I had finished my examination. "What do you think, Watson? Did the tiger kill her or not?"

It was not the first time I had found Holmes's reasoning a step ahead of my own. My eyes focused on the gaping neck wound. "His claws couldn't have made a wound like that and there seems to be no blood on his jaws or teeth."

"Exactly my thought! The woman was already dead when she was placed in the cage. It was covered with canvas and the killer expected it would not be found until show time." He turned to a pale Philip Rover. "Who had a key to this cage?"

"Only the animal's trainer. And I keep a spare one in my tent." "Does your brother have one?"

"I don't think so."

Charles Rover joined us then, summoned by the ringmaster. "What happened here?" he asked.

"Someone killed Vittoria and put her body in the tiger's cage," his brother told him.

"My God! Should we cancel the afternoon performance?"

Philip Rover scoffed at the idea. "We have five hundred people out there already, with more arriving every minute. The show will go on, but get this tiger cage out of here. The police will want to examine it."

I could see something was troubling Holmes, beyond the traumatic fact of the crime itself. "Did you gentlemen carry any insurance on the life of Vittoria Costello?" he inquired.

Philip brushed aside the question. "We have enough other expenses. I know of no circus that insures its performers. Why would you ask that?"

"In a death where there has been facial injury, one has to be certain of identification. Fraud of some sort is always a possibility."

"Go and look at the body," Philip told his younger brother. "Assure Mr Holmes of its identity."

Charles returned after a moment, the blood drained from his face. "It's Vittoria," he assured us. "There's no doubt. The ringmaster identified her too."

Sherlock Holmes nodded. "Then we must go about finding her killer."

"The circus isn't hiring you," Philip stated quite clearly. "This is a job for the local police."

"Ah! But they did not do well in Oxford, did they? The death of the Spaniard is still unsolved."

"I told you about that," Philip insisted. "It was an accident. We have no money for you, Mr Holmes."

"I was hired by Vittoria Costello to protect her," he informed them. "Now I must find her killer."

"Hired?" the younger brother repeated. "How is this possible?"

"She came to my lodgings in Baker Street yesterday, and told me of the incident with the horse and the poisoning of Diaz in Oxford. She feared the killer would succeed on his third attempt." He repeated some of what she had told us.

"But this is untrue!" Philip insisted. "She fell off that horse, as she had done before. And I have already told you the Spaniard's poisoning was a simple accident on his part. The poison was meant for a sick python."

"Why would she lie?" Holmes asked. "It would seem her death is all the evidence we need that she told the truth."

But the Rovers were already hurrying away to meet the police. A short time later, while the body was being removed through the big top's rear entrance, the spectators were finally allowed

inside. There was a buzz of speculation among them. They had

seen the police wagon draw up, and they knew something was amiss. Holmes and I took seats near the front of the grandstand,

waiting for some sort of announcement. When it came it was

vague and brief. The ringmaster held up his megaphone, a voice amplifier from America, and announced, "Welcome to the Rover

Brothers Circus! Due to an unfortunate accident, Vittoria the Circus Belle will not appear at this performance. Settle back and enjoy the show!"There were some groans from the spectators.

First came the clowns, followed by the team of acrobats with some tumbling and trapeze acts. The middle portion of

the show was devoted to the traditional equestrian performers.

If Edith Everage had been responsible for Vittoria's death she showed no evidence of nervousness as she went through her acrobatics with split-second timing. Finally the tiger cage was wheeled back out to the center of the ring and an animal trainer brought out the magnificent tiger for all to see. There was no hint that the beast had been clawing at a woman's body only an hour or so earlier.

The performance ended with a fine equestrian display, the riders carrying flags representing Britain and its colonies. As

the crowd headed for the exits I asked Holmes what we should do next. "There seems to be nothing more we can learn here," I said.

"You are correct that we have learned everything we need to, Watson. I direct your attention especially to the curious incident of the tiger in the morning."

"What curious incident? The tiger did nothing in the morning."

"That was the curious incident," said Holmes.

There was no way that the death of Vittoria could be hushed up or passed off as an accident. She had been killed and placed in that tiger cage. Both suicide and accident were out of the question. By the following morning the press had linked her murder with that of Diaz and the word was out that the famous consulting detective Mr Sherlock Holmes was on the case. The Rover Brothers Circus had been detained in Reading pending further investigation.

Holmes and I had taken a room for the night at the railroad hotel by the station. We had barely finished breakfast the following morning when Charles, the younger of the Rover Brothers, arrived to see us.

"I must speak with you about this terrible business," he said,

pulling up a chair to join our table. "Philip and I want to hire

you. He's had a complete change of heart on the matter." Holmes smiled. "I already have a client. Vittoria Costello." "I've found the dead aren't too prompt in paying their bills, Mr

Holmes. We want this business wound up as quickly as possible." "Very well," he replied. "Will this afternoon be soon enough?" Charles Rover was taken aback. "Do you mean that you have

solved the mystery already?"

"I believe so. Are you performing this afternoon?"

"Since the police are delaying our departure we have added a performance at two o'clock."

"Very good. Please hold tickets for Watson and myself." When he had gone I turned to my friend in amazement. "You intend to reveal the killer this very day?"

"I need only one further piece of evidence and the case will be complete." He finished his tea and rose from the table. "Come, Watson! The game is afoot."

We arrived at King's Meadow shortly after one. The publicity had attracted a crowd but they were mainly adults. The expected audience of children had been kept away by fear of further violence. We could see why the Rover Brothers needed help. Once inside the gate Holmes surprised me by not heading toward the main tent. Instead he detoured to the smaller tents where the Rover Brothers stayed. Philip Rover was just emerging from his tent with a blonde young woman who seemed vaguely familiar. She wore a long green dress and gloves, more suited to a night at the theatre than an afternoon at the circus.

"Holmes!" Philip said, perhaps a bit startled by the encounter. "I want you to meet my friend Milly Hogan."

I remembered the Everage girl's description of her as Philip's blonde doxy who traveled with him but rarely attended the performances. Sherlock Holmes reached out as if to shake her hand, but at the last moment suddenly grabbed her left wrist instead.

"What is this?" she asked with a gasp of fright. Already he was pulling up the sleeve on her forearm, revealing a small scar, faint but visible. We had seen it before.

"I believe we meet again, Miss Hogan.You came to my rooms in Baker Street on Tuesday posing as Vittoria Costello, as part of your plot to murder that young lady."

Both the Reading police and the Rover Brothers themselves demanded explanations, and Holmes was only too glad to supply them. We had adjourned to Philip's tent while Milly Hogan was being questioned elsewhere, and he began by describing her visit to us.

"The black wig was nothing to an actress, of course, nor was the assuming of Vittoria's character. If her plan went well we would never meet the real Vittoria so no comparisons would be made. Perhaps she had even intended to keep her face veiled until I guessed, wrongly, at her identity. As it was, both Watson and I noted how little she resembled the drawing on the posters, but we thought little of it. I believe the death of Diaz was indeed an accident, but it must have suggested the entire plan to her. She came to me two days later with her story of the previous attempts on Vittoria's life. Her whole point was to have me present the following day when the real Vittoria was killed, supposedly by the tiger the circus had just acquired."

I remembered his words of the previous evening. "You said the tiger did nothing in the morning, Holmes."

"And he did not. We established quickly enough that Vittoria was killed before being placed in the cage, but that still meant the murderer had to open the cage to do it. Opening the cage of a strange tiger, only just arrived with its trainer would be a highly dangerous undertaking. The fact that the tiger did nothing to attract attention meant that the person who opened the cage was no stranger to him. The trainer could be ruled out. He only just arrived the night before and would hardly have had a motive for killing Vittoria. But Edith Everage saw you, Philip, along with Milly, playing with the new tiger yesterday morning. That was probably no more than an hour or two before the murder. The tiger knew and remembered Milly."

"This whole thing is ridiculous!" Philip insisted. "The tiger cage was outside of our tents, in full view. How could Milly or anyone else have killed Vittoria and placed her body in there without being seen?"

"The cage may have been in full view, but it was covered with canvas. I would guess that Milly lured Vittoria out there to see the new tiger. Once under the canvas for a better look, Milly stabbed her in the throat before she could scream, then opened the cage and pushed her in. You told us, Philip, that you had an extra key to the cage in your tent."

"Why would she do it? What was her motive?"

"The Everage woman told me you were fond of both of them. Jealousy has led to more than one murder. Of course Milly planned to pin the crime on Everage, which is why she came to us impersonating Vittoria."

I asked a question now. "How did you know, Holmes? After all, you deduced our client was Vittoria and then canceled out your own deduction."

"I was deceived, Watson, until we pulled Vittoria's body from the tiger cage and I noticed her tiny feet. The woman who called on us in London had feet as big as yours, as you must have noticed. Foot sizes don't change overnight, so I knew it was a different woman. When Philip and Charles and others assured us the body was Vittoria's, that meant it was an impostor who'd

visited us. I asked myself who it could have been, and the answer was obvious. The impostor had to be Vittoria's killer, or a close accomplice. We learned that the extra key to the tiger cage was kept in Philip's tent, where Milly Hogan also stayed. And we learned that Philip and Milly were playing with the new tiger yesterday morning. Milly had been an actress, performing at the Lyceum Theatre in London. And Milly had reason to be jealous of Vittoria. Such a motive made it unlikely that you were involved, Philip. If the two of you were close enough to plot a murder, she would have had no reason for jealousy in the first place. I also felt certain that if you had wanted to kill Vittoria you would have done it away from the circus grounds so as not to harm business. And surely you would not have insisted Diaz's death was accidental if you were party to a plot to link the two deaths as a double murder."

It was later, on the train back to London, after Milly Hogan had confessed, that I remarked to Holmes, "We never did meet Vittoria, the Circus Belle."

"No," he agreed. "But we met Milly Hogan twice, and in my profession I find a murderess more fascinating than a Circus Belle."

The Darlington Substitution Scandal – David Stuart Davies

By late 1886 Holmes's caseload was increasing substantially, allowing him to be more selective in the work he took on, and this occasionally made him rather cavalier to those clients whom he felt were wasting his time. Some of these cases Watson did not write up, either because they seemed trivial or because Holmes wished to keep his clients' details confidential. Occasionally certain incidents were later remembered and one such case was "The Darlington Substitution Scandal"which Holmes refers to in "A Scandal in Bohemia". This case has been highly problematic to restore and even now the story may not be complete. Holmes was reminded of the case by his use of a fire alarm to unearth items of value, but it transpires it wasn't fire but a similar cause for alarm that helped Holmes resolve the matter.

Sherlock Holmes and I returned late one evening to our Baker Street rooms after spending some time in the realms of Wagner. My friend was still singing Siegfried's horn call even as we let ourselves in through the door of 22 lb. His recital was interrupted somewhat abruptly by the appearance of Mrs Hudson at the foot of the stairs. She was wearing a long grey dressing gown and appeared to be quite perturbed.

"You have a visitor, Mr Holmes," she whispered with a kind of desperate urgency. "He refuses to leave until he sees you. He is most insistent."

"Is he?" said Holmes, "Then we had better oblige the gentleman. Off to bed with you. Friend Watson and I will deal with the matter."

She gave an understanding nod, threw a brief smile in my direction and disappeared behind her door.

The visitor was a short, burly figure of some sixty years. He possessed a high, bald forehead, a shiny face and fierce blue eyes. He almost ran towards us as we entered our sitting room. "At last," he cried.

Holmes gave a gentle bow of the head in greeting as he flung off his coat and scarf. "Had his Lordship taken the courtesy to arrange an appointment he would not have had to wait over two hours to see me – the cigar butts in my ashtray indicate the length of time."

"You know me?"

"It is my business to know people. Even in this dim light it is not difficult to recognize the Queen's minister for foreign affairs, Lord Hector Darlington. Now, pray take a seat and tell me about the theft."

Lord Darlington dropped open-mouthed into the wicker chair. "Who has told you?"

Holmes gave a brief chuckle. "A brandy night cap for us all, eh,Watson?" he said, before replying to his Lordship's question. "You would not be here alone at this time of night if your errand concerned government business. Therefore, it is a private affair which brings you to my door. A very private affair if the official police are not to be involved. It is well known that you are an avid collector of priceless paintings and possess a very rich collection. It does not need Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the matter on which you wish to consult me concerns your paintings or more likely one of your paintings. The matter is urgent and so therefore it relates to loss rather than damage. Ah, thank you Watson." He retrieved a brandy from the tray and took a sip.

Lord Darlington shook his large head in disbelief. "By Jove, you are right, sir. If only you can unravel the mystery as easily as you have guessed at its nature, I will be in your eternal debt."

Holmes raised an admonishing finger. "I never guess. It is an impractical pastime. Now, if you would be so kind as to familiarize me with the facts of the matter, I may be able to shed some light on your particular darkness." So saying he sat back in his chair, both hands cradling the brandy glass, and closed his eyes.

Lord Darlington cleared his throat and began his narrative. "As you rightly stated, my passion in life is art and over the years I have built up what I believe is an enviable collection, one of the finest private galleries in Europe. It is not for their financial value that I treasure my canvases, you understand: it is for their beauty and power, their vivid interpretation of life."

"Quite," remarked Holmes dryly.

"Recently I took possession of a seventeenth-century painting by Louis de Granville, his 'Adoration of the Magi.' It is the most magnificent painting."

"Louis de Granville – didn't he die very young?" I said.

His Lordship gave me a brief smile. "Indeed. He died of consumption at the age of twenty-seven. There are only thirty known canvases of his in existence and 'The Adoration' is regarded as his best. I was so fortunate to acquire this wonderful painting."

"Where did you obtain it?" asked Holmes

"For years it was deemed a lost masterpiece and then it turned up in a Paris auction house last spring. The bidding was fierce but I was determined to have it. One American bidder chased me all the way, but I managed to shake him off in the end."

"And now it has disappeared."

Lord Darlington's face crumpled at this reminder of his loss. "I use my gallery as some men use tobacco or alcohol. Sitting alone with my pictures I am able to relax and allow the stresses and strains of the day flow out of me. Today I was due to make a visit to see my counterpart in the French government but at the last moment the trip was called off, so instead of catching the night train to Paris, I went home. Both my wife and my son were out on various social engagements, so I took myself to my gallery for a few hours peace and relaxation. Imagine my horror when I pulled back the cord on my beloved de Granville to find that it was missing."

"The frame also?"

"Yes. There was no signs of forced entry and nothing else was disturbed. All my other pictures were there."

"How big is the painting?"

"It is about two foot by sixteen inches."

"Who has a key to the gallery besides yourself?"

"No one."

"No one?" I found myself repeating our visitor in surprise. "My wife and son have no interest in my paintings and I welcome that. The gallery is my private domain."

"Who cleans and tidies the room?" asked Holmes languidly. It was clear that Lord Darlington's dilemma did not excite a great deal of interest within his breast.

"I do. It is a simple task. I perform it once a week."

"When did you last see the painting?"

"The previous evening. The charm of it is still so fresh for me that I rarely let a day go by when I don't spend some time with

it. I know you may find it strange, gentlemen, but I was actually dreading my trip to France, knowing I would be deprived of my paintings for some days."

Sherlock Holmes drained his brandy glass and rose to his feet. "It is my experience that when the situation is so mysterious with

no apparent clues, the solution must be quite simple. Do not lose sleep over it. I feel sure that we can recover your painting." Our visitor beamed. "I do hope so."

"Watson and I will call around tomorrow morning to examine the scene of the crime and see if we can glean some suggestive facts."

"Won't you come now, gentlemen?"

Holmes yawned and stretched. "It is late, Lord Darlington. There is no danger in waiting for a new day before commencing our investigation. Shall we say at ten o'clock tomorrow morning? Watson will show you out."

When I returned, my friend was standing by the fireplace lighting up his pipe with a cinder from the grate clamped in the coal tongs. "You treated your new client in a rather cavalier fashion, Holmes," I said.

His head was momentarily enveloped in a cloud of grey smoke. When it cleared, I could see that he was smiling. "I object to being

treated like a pet dog who will fetch and carry at the owner's

whim. The privileged classes all too often forget the niceties of please and thank you. On this occasion it satisfied me to exercise

my perogative to act when I saw fit." He threw himself down in his chair. "Besides, it is a straightforward matter and I'm sure that we shall clear it up within the next twenty-four hours."

In this instance, Sherlock Holmes was wrong. The disappearance of Lord Darlington's painting turned out to be far from a straightforward matter.

The following morning we arrived as arranged at Lord Darlington's Mayfair town house a few minutes after ten. We were shown into the drawing room where his lordship greeted us in a most jovial manner. His demeanour was quite different from that of the night before. He introduced us to his wife, Sarah, a small, blonde-haired woman of about the same age as her husband. She seemed nervous in our company and soon made an excuse to leave us to our "business".

"I am sorry to have troubled you last night, Mr Holmes," said his Lordship, "and it was remiss of me not to wire you this morning to save you a wasted journey. Nevertheless I am happy to pay whatever fees you deem appropriate for the services rendered."

"Indeed. Then the painting has reappeared."

"Yes. It is wonderful. I went into the gallery this morning and almost out of habit I pulled back the curtain and the de Granville was back in place as though it had never been missing."

"But it was missing yesterday," said my friend sternly, not sharing his client's glee.

"Yes, yes, it must have been, but that hardly matters now."

"I would beg to differ," snapped Holmes.

"You are sure that it is the genuine article?" I asked.

Lord Darlington looked puzzled for a moment. "Why, yes," he said slowly, with faltering conviction.

"What my friend is suggesting," said Holmes, "is that it is possible that the thief who stole the painting may well have replaced it with a very good copy, unaware that you knew of its disappearance. You were due to be in France when you discovered its loss, were you not?"

"Why, yes, but…"

"Come, come, Lord Darlington. There has been a theft. There must have been a reason for it. You cannot disregard the felony just because your painting has been returned to you."

Some of the sparkle left our client's eyes and he sat down on the sofa. "I suppose you are right. However, I am convinced that the picture resting in my gallery at this moment is the genuine article, but I will contact my friend Hillary Stallybrass, the art expert at the Royal Academy who verified the painting originally, to confirm my belief."

"You would be wise to…"

Holmes was cut short by the sudden entrance into the room of a tall young man with wavy blond hair and young,

eager eyes. "Father, I must…" he cried and then on seeing us he faltered.

"Not now, Rupert. I am sure whatever it is you wish to see me about can wait."

The young man hesitated, uncertain whether to heed his father's injunction or proceed. His mouth tightened into a petulant grimace and he turned on his heel, leaving the room as swiftly as he had entered it.

"The impatience of youth," observed Lord Darlington mirthlessly.

"I should like to see your gallery," said Holmes as though the brusque interruption had not occurred.

With some reluctance Lord Darlington took us into his inner sanctum. It was a long chamber whose ceiling was studded with skylights, none of which, we were informed, could be opened. Down the two long walls were a number of red velvet curtains covering a series of paintings. In the centre of the room was a comfortable swivel chair and a table containing a tantalus and an ornate cigar box.

"May we see the de Granville?" asked Holmes.

Without replying, his Lordship pulled back the cord on one of the curtains to reveal the masterpiece. I have only a layman's appreciation of art, but even I could see that this was a work of great beauty and skill.

"It is magnificent," said Lord Darlington, almost caressing the frame.

"Indeed," said Holmes, examining the canvas closely with his lens. "Tell me, Lord Darlington, do you keep a dog?"

"A dog?" our client's mouth dropped open. "No. Why do you ask?"

Holmes shrugged. "It is no matter at the moment."

Lord Darlington seemed irritated at Holmes's vague response. He consulted his watch. "Gentlemen, I have an important appointment in the House at eleven-thirty…"

"Perhaps you could leave us in the capable hands of your wife. I should like to ascertain some details concerning the domestic arrangements."

"Very well, if you think it is important."

We were left in the hallway while our client arranged for his departure and informed his wife of our request. Holmes casually examined the calling cards in the tray. His face grew taut with excitement as he caught sight of one. He grinned. "Muddy waters grow clearer, my dear fellow," he said cheerily.

Once more we found ourselves in the drawing room. Lady Darlington had arranged coffee for us. She seemed to have lost her nervous edge and appeared composed and fully at ease, sitting on the edge of the sofa, hardly touching her drink.

"You do not share your husband's love of painting, Lady Darlington?"

"It is his passion. I could never match his devotion to art. He leads a difficult public life and his paintings afford him relief and a respite."

"You never visit the gallery?"

"Never."

"What about your son?"

"Rupert?" Her face softened at the mention of her son and a loving smile touched her lips. "He has a young man's interests, and old paintings form no part of those. Rupert and I are alike in that respect."

"He is a member of the Pandora Club."

Lady Darlington looked askance at Holmes. "He… he may be. I am not aware of all my son's leisure haunts."

"Or his acquaintances – like Lord Arthur Beacham, for example?"

"Lord Arthur, what of him?"

"He does not possess a very high reputation."

"Perhaps not in the circles in which you mix, Mr Holmes. You must not listen to the gossip of maids and gardeners. Lord Arthur is a pleasant gentleman, but only one of many among Rupert's associates. Now if you have no further questions…"

"Just one more, Lady Darlington. Who has a key to the gallery?"

"There is only one and it never leaves my husband's possession. He carries it on his watch chain."

"Thank you. Thank you very much."

As we were being shown out of the house by a dour and decrepit butler we encountered a florid-faced, rotund man on the doorstep. He gave Holmes a polite smile of recognition and shook his hand. Holmes leaned forward and whispered some words in his ear before we set off down the street.

"Let us walk back to Baker Street," said my friend vigorously, "I am in need of fresh air and exercise."

"By all means," I agreed, falling in step with him. "I gather that rather red-faced gentleman was Hillary Stallybrass come to verify the de Granville."

"Indeed, it was, and I passed on a little advice that may be beneficial to him and certainly to us. Time will tell on that account."

"What is all this business of Lord Arthur Beacham and the Pandora Club? Your remarks were rather pointed in that direction."

Holmes beamed. "They were, weren't they? Someone was rather careless in leaving his calling card on show in the hall. Contrary to Lady Darlington's opinion, Lord Arthur has rather a doubtful reputation: he is a dissolute fellow whose activities sometimes stray into the realms of criminality. And Scotland Yard have had their eye on the Pandora Club, Beacham's office of operations, for some time. It is the centre for a number of somewhat nefarious dealings."

"How naïve of Lady Darlington to consider him a suitable companion for her son."

"How naïve of you, Watson, to think so."

I ignored my friend's riddle. "Do you think Beacham is mixed up with the missing picture?"

"I do. I am not sure yet what he is up to and quite who else is involved, but I have my theory which I will put to the test later today."

After a simple lunch provided by Mrs Hudson, Holmes busied himself with some malodorous chemical experiments, while I caught up with correspondence and prepared some case notes ready for publication. As dusk was falling, he retired to his room, emerging some forty-five minutes later in disguise. He was attired in evening dress, but he had padded out his lithe shape so that he appeared quite plump. His face was flushed and a large moustache adorned his upper lip, while a monocle twinkled in his left eye.The touches of disguise were light, but at the same time they transformed the familiar figure who was my friend and fellow lodger into a totally different character.

"I am ready for a night at the Pandora Club," he announced, his own voice seeming unnatural emanating from this stranger standing in our rooms. "After all my admonishments to you about the cavalier manner in which you throw your wound pension away on the guesses of the turf, I shall be very careful not to lose too much."

"You do not require my services, then?"

"Later, m'boy, but tonight I need to act, or rather observe, alone."

At this moment, Billy arrived with a telegram. Holmes ripped it open with gusto. "Aha," he cried, reading the contents and then throwing the missive over to me. It was from Hillary Stallybrass. It read: "de Granville is genuine. Some of the other works are not."

It was at breakfast the following morning when I next saw Holmes. He emerged, without disguise, clad in a purple dressing gown and beaming brightly.

"I gather from that grin," said I, tapping the shell of my boiled egg, "that your excursion to the Pandora Club was fruitful."

"The process of deduction is catching," he grinned, joining me at the table and pouring himself a cup of coffee. "One day I must pen a monograph on the importance in the art of detection of developing a knowledge of international crime and criminals."

"Riddles at breakfast? Come now Holmes, speak your mind." "Does the name Alfredo Fellini mean anything to you?"

I shook my head.

"You prove my point," my friend replied smugly. "Now I happen to know that he is the right hand man of Antonio Carreras, one of the biggest gangland chiefs in the New York area. Blackmail and extortion are his methods and he has grown fat on them. So much so that he has been able to build up quite an impressive art collection. So my friend Barnes at Pinkerton's informs me in his regular reports."

"Art collection?" I dabbed my chin with the napkin and, pushing my half-eaten egg away, gave Holmes my full attention.

"Yes. Now I observed Fellini last night at the Pandora Club where he spent a great deal of his time deep in conversation with a certain member of the Darlington household."

"His Lordship's son, Rupert."

"Precisely. And the conversation was animated, not to say acrimonious at times. And all the while that sly cove Lord

Arthur Beacham hovered in the background like a concerned mother hen."

"What does it all mean, Holmes?"

"To use a painting metaphor, which in this case is somewhat appropriate, I have sketched the outlines of the composition but I still need more time to fill in the detail and work on the light and shade. However, it is clear that Rupert Darlington is involved in some underhand deal which involves the unscrupulous Beacham and one of the most dangerous criminals in America – a deal that involves the theft of the de Granville canvas."

"But the painting was returned unharmed."

"It had to be. That is Rupert Darlington's problem."

Holmes loved to throw enigmatic statements at me to catch my reaction. I had long since learned that no matter how I responded he would not impart any information he held until he thought it the appropriate moment to do so. I had no conception of what Rupert Darlington's problem might be but I knew that should I press my friend to explain this conceit he would in some manner refuse. Therefore I tried to take our conversation in another, more positive direction, only to find it blocked by further enigma.

"What is our next move?" I asked.

"We visit 'the dog man'," he replied with a grin.

Within the hour we were rattling in a hansom cab eastwards across the city. I had heard Holmes give the cabbie an address in Commercial Street near the Houndsditch Road, a rundown and unsavoury part of London. He sat back in the cab, his pale, gaunt features wrapped in thought.

"Who or what is 'the dog man' and what is the purpose of our visit? Since you requested my company on this journey it would seem sensible to let me know its purpose," I said tartly.

"Of course, my dear fellow," grinned my companion, patting my arm in an avuncular fashion, "what am I thinking of, keeping you in ignorance? Well now, 'the dog man' is my own soubriquet for Joshua Jones whose house is over-run with the beasts. His fondness for canines has driven both his wife and children from his door. He lavishes love and attention on the various mutts he takes in, far more than he does upon his own kith and kin. However he has a great artistic talent." Holmes leaned nearer to me, dropping his voice to a dramatic whisper. "He is one of the greatest copy artists of all time. Only the keenest of experts could tell the real 'Mona Lisa' from a Jones copy. I have used the fellow on a couple of occasions myself when fake works of art were required to help clear up a case.You see where he might fit into our mystery?"

"Not precisely."

"I suspected Jones was involved in the matter yesterday morning.You may recall that when I examined the de Granville, I asked if Darlington kept a dog?"

"Yes. I do."

"That was because through my lens I observed several dog hairs adhering to the frame – hairs of at least three different breeds. It seemed quite clear to me that the painting had at some time recently been lodged in premises where several dogs had been able to brush past the canvas. Where else could this occur but in the home of Joshua Jones?"

"Because he was copying the canvas…"

Holmes nodded.

"I see that, but why then was the real painting returned and not the copy?"

"Ah, that is the crux of the matter and I wish to test my theory out on my friend Mr Joshua Jones."

Commercial Street was indeed an unpleasant location. The houses were shabby and down-at-heel with many having boarded windows.The cab pulled up at the end of the street and Holmes ordered the cabbie to wait for us. With some reluctance he agreed. We then made our way down this depressing thoroughfare. A group of ragged, ill-nourished children were playing a ball game in the street and ran around us with shrill cries, taking no notice of our presence, their scrawny bodies brushing against us.

"If this Jones fellow is such a succesful artist," I said, "why does he not live in a more salubrious neighbourhood?"

"I believe he has another house in town where his wife and two children reside but she has forbidden him to bring a single dog over the threshold, so he seems quite content to stay here for most of the time with his horde of hounds. Ah, this is the one."

We had reached number 23: a house as decrepit as the rest with a dark blue door and a rusty knocker. The curtains at the window were closed, shunning the daylight and the outside world. Holmes knocked loudly. As the sound echoed through the house it was greeted by a cacophony of wailing, yapping and barking cries as though a pack of hounds had been let loose.

"I trust these dogs are not dangerous" I said with some unease.

"I trust so too," replied Holmes, knocking loudly again and setting off a further fusillade of canine cries. Mingled with these came the sound of a human voice. Within moments the lock turned and the door creaked open a few inches; a beady eye and a beaky nose appeared at the crack.

"What do you want?" demanded the man.

"A little information, Joshua, if you please."

"Why it's Mr Holmes," came the voice again, this time softer and warmer in tone. "Give me a moment to settle my little 'uns down. I don't want any of them to get out. Dog meat's at a premium around here." So saying he shut the door and he could be heard shepherding his pack of dogs back into the recesses of the house.

After a while the door opened again, this time wide enough to reveal the occupant, who was a scrawny individual of around seventy years of age, or so his wild white hair, rheumy eyes and fine dry skin led me to believe. He was dressed in a pair of baggy trousers, a blue collarless shirt and a shapeless green paint-spattered cardigan.

"Come in gentlemen, come in."

Only two dogs appeared at their master's heels as he led us down a dingy corridor and into an equally dingy sitting room. The air was oppressive with the smell of hound. In a nearby room one could hear barking and yelping accompanied by the occasionally frantic scratching as some fretting dog attempted to burrow out.

Jones gave a throaty chuckle at the sound of the muted row "The little 'uns don't like being separated from their daddy," he grinned, revealing a row of uneven brown teeth. With a casual wave of the hand he indicated we should take a seat on a dilapidated old sofa. "Well, Mr Holmes, what can I do for you?"

"I need information."

A thin veil of unease covered Jones's face. "Ah, well," he said slowly, "I am reticent in that department, as you well know. I cannot be giving away the secrets of my clients or, soon enough, I'd have no clients."

"I have no wish to compromise you, Jones," said Sherlock Holmes evenly. "Indeed, it is not fresh information I require, merely confirmation of my deductions, confirmation which will allow me to proceed further in my case."

Jones frowned. "What you're asking is something I cannot give you. I treat all who cross over my threshold, be it man or dog, with the same regard and assurance of discretion."

Holmes appeared unperturbed by Jones's intransigence. "I am glad to hear it," he said. "I have no intention of asking you to betray anyone's trust, even that of such a lowly character as Lord Arthur Beacham."

Jones blanched somewhat at the mention of this name and his eyes flickered erratically. "Then what do you want from me?" he asked, his voice lacking the earlier assertiveness.

"I wish to present a series of suppositions to you regarding my current investigation which concerns the theft of Lord Darlington's painting the 'Adoration of the Magi' by de Granville – a work I understand you know intimately. All I require from you is a slight inclination of the head if you believe that I am in the possession of the correct interpretation of events and a shake of the head if you perceive my suppositions to be incorrect. There is no need for verbal confirmation. This would help me tremendously in the same way I believe I have helped you in the past."

Jones, who was by now sitting opposite us on a wicker chair with one of the dogs perched on his lap, bent over and kissed the creature on the nose and ruffled its fur. "As you know, I never ask questions of my clients. However I cannot prevent you from expressing your views in my company, Mr Holmes," he said, as though he were addressing the dog.

"Indeed," agreed Holmes.

"And I may nod and shake my head as I feel fit. That is not to say that this will indicate definitely that I either agree or disagree with your statements."

"I understand perfectly. Now, sir, I happen to know that you have recently been asked to copy Louis de Granville's 'Adoration of the Magi' for a certain client."

Jones head remained in close proximity to the dog but it moved downwards in a virtually imperceptible nod.

"I believe your client to be Lord Arthur Beacham…" Holmes paused but Jones did not move.

"And I believe you have copied many paintings for him over the last six months or so."

Another gentle nod.

"The work was carried out over a day and a night and both paintings, the original and the copy, were returned to your client. He then returned the fake to the premises of the owner and sold the original to one of several unscrupulous collectors."

"I have no notion of what happens to the paintings when they leave these premises, Mr Holmes. I have no interest in the matter and would regard it as somewhat indiscreet to make enquiries."

"I can understand that. Such enquiries could lead you to learn information you would not wish to know."

For a moment a smile played on the old man's thin lips. He sat up, and looked Holmes in the eye and nodded.

Holmes continued: "I take it that you are able carry out preparatory work on most copies as their images are easily accessible in lithographic form."

"That is correct. I prepare what I call my skeleton work in advance. It speeds up the process and lessens the time the original work needs to be with me in my gallery."

"But in the case of the de Granville this was not possible, was it? Being a 'lost painting' there were no lithographs available, so you required a longer time with the original."

Another imperceptible nod.

"You are an excellent listener," cried Holmes enthusiastically, rising to his feet and pulling me with him. "Your silences have been most eloquent. My case is all but complete. I thank you."

"In expressing your gratitude please remember that I conveyed no information to you, nor confirmed any of your statements."

"Of course. The players in this sordid drama will condemn themselves without involvement from outside sources. Come, Watson, let us see if the cabbie has waited for us."

And so in this hurried manner we took our leave of "the dog man".

I was surprised at the speed by which this case came to its conclusion; and a very dark conclusion it was too. I would never have guessed that what began as as a fairly inconsequential affair concerning a missing painting would end in murder and a family's disgrace.

The cabbie had been as good as his word and was still waiting for us at the corner of the street. However an expression of relief crossed his ruddy features as he saw us returning. "Back to Baker Street is it?" he asked as we climbed aboard.

"No," responded Holmes, "Mayfair."

"This is a sad affair,Watson," said my friend, lighting a cigarette as he lounged back in the recesses of the cab. "The person who will be hurt most by its outcome is the only innocent player in the drama."

"Lady Darlington?"

He shook his head. "Her husband. His career is likely to crumble to dust if the facts become public. Lady Darlington is far from innocent."

"You cannot mean she was involved in the theft?"

"Think, Watson, think. There was only one key to the gallery. It was on Lord Darlington's watch chain.The only time he would not be wearing it would be at night when he was asleep.Then his wife, and only she, sleeping in the same room would have easy access to it. She is the only person who could have provided entry to the gallery. However improbable the circumstances, logic always provides certainties."

Lady Darlington was dismayed to see us and it was with a certain amount of ill grace that she bade us take a seat in the morning room. "I hope this will not take long, gentlemen. I have a series of pressing engagements today."

We had only just taken our seats when Holmes gave a sharp sigh of irritation and leapt to his feet. "I beg your pardon, Lady Darlington, my brain is addled today. I have just bethought me of a pressing matter that had slipped my mind. There is urgent need to send a telegram concerning another case of mine which is coming to fruition. If you will pardon me one moment, I will arrange for our cab-driver to deliver the message."

Before Lady Darlington had the opportunity to reply, Holmes had rushed from the room.

"What extraordinary behaviour," she observed, sitting stiffly upright, clutching her reticule.

"I am sure my friend will return shortly," I said, surprised as she was at at Holmes's sudden departure.

"I presume that you are not in a position to enlighten me as to the purpose of Mr Holmes's visit."

"Not precisely," I replied lamely. "But I am sure he will not be many minutes."

Her ladyship sighed heavily and I sat in embarrassed silence, awaiting Holmes's return. Thankfully, he was as good as his word and in less than five minutes he was sitting opposite our client's wife once more.

"Now, Mr Holmes, as you have already wasted some of my time, I beg you to be brief."

"My business here will take but a short time, but I thought it would be best if I consulted you first before I told your husband the truth behind the disappearing and reappearing painting and the roles that you and your son played in the mystery."

Lady Darlington gave a startled gasp. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh yes you do," asserted my friend coldly. "The time for pretence and dissembling is over. You cannot go on protecting your son any longer."

"Mr Holmes, I will not tolerate any more of your nonsense. Would you please be kind enough to leave."

"I will leave, certainly, taking the key with me."

"The key?"

"I am afraid that I played a little trick on you just now. On leaving the room I did not go to instruct our waiting cabman as I intimated. Instead, I slipped upstairs to your son's room where it did not take me very long to discover the hiding place where he secreted the key." Holmes reached into his waistcoat pocket as though to retieve some small object. "The duplicate key that gains him access to your husband's gallery."

Lady Darlington's face turned white. "That is impossible," she cried in some agitation, snapping open her reticule.

"I agree," said Holmes, stepping forward and extracting a small golden key from her ladyship's bag. "I told you a tissue of lies in order for you to reveal the real hiding place of the duplicate key. It was a simple subterfuge engineered to reveal the truth."

At this, Lady Darlington broke down and sobbed uncontrollably. I was moved by her obvious distress and watched helplessly as her body shook with sorrow but Holmes remained stony-faced and waited until the lady had controlled herself enough to speak to him. "How much do you know," she asked at last, dabbing her watery eyes with her handkerchief.

"I know all. I know your son has built up a series of very large gambling debts at the Pandora Club. In an endeavour to keep these from your husband you helped pay for them at first, but when the amounts became too great for you to contend with, you aided and abetted your son in his scheme of replacing the paintings in Lord Darlington's gallery with fakes while your son's crony Lord Arthur Beacham sold the originals."

"The situation as you portray it is more damning than the real circumstances," said Lady Darlington, regaining some of her composure. "Rupert is the son of my first marriage and has never been accepted by Hector. He even denied him the common courtesies. Certainly Rupert was never shown any love by his step-father. I suppose in a reaction to this I lavished love upon him. I gave him liberties and freedoms that were perhaps inappropriate for such a headstrong youth. He lacked a father's controlling guidance. When he formed a friendship with Lord Arthur Beacham I was pleased at first. I believed that the influence of this older man would be good for him. Alas, I did not know what a scoundrel the fellow was. The truth only emerged when it was too late and Rupert was completely under his evil spell. Beacham led my son into reckless habits.Yes, there were the gambling debts which, despite my pleas to Rupert to abandon the game, grew and grew. I knew that if Hector found out he would disinherit him and cast him out of the house. What would become of the boy then? How could I let that happen?"

Lady Darlington paused for a moment as though she was waiting for an answer to her questions, although she avoided our glances. Holmes remained silent.

"When the amounts became too great to deal with out of my allowance, Rupert presented me with the plan regarding the paintings. It had been suggested by Beacham of course. He

knew of a skilled painter who could copy the pictures so that only an expert could tell the difference and he also had contacts who could provide eager customers for the original canvases. Beacham, of course, demanded a large fee for his 'services'. To my eternal shame, I agreed, believing it would be only the one painting. One night when my husband was asleep, I took the gallery key from his chain and made a wax impression of it so that a copy could be made.

"The substitution of the first painting could not have been smoother. The exchange was carried out while my husband was away for two days on government business. Rupert took the picture early in the evening and returned the following morning with the forgery. My husband never suspected a thing. The apparent ease with which the plan had been carried out made Beacham bolder and greedier. He led my son into greater debt so that the substitution of another painting was needed. And so it became a regular process, every two months or so."

"Until the de Granville fiasco when your husband's trip to France was postponed and he returned earlier than expected."

"It was Beacham's idea to take the de Granville. He said it would bring the greatest fee yet, but the copier required more time since it was an unknown painting. As you know, my husband discovered the masterpiece missing…" Lady Darlington's eyes watered afresh and she dabbed them with her handkerchief.

"Both your son and Beacham knew it would be foolish to place the forgery where the original had hung now that its absence had been discovered. They were aware that your husband would, as a matter of course, call in an expert to verify that it was the original."

Lady Darlington nodded mutely.

"You have been a foolish woman, Lady Darlington. Although you may have acted with the best of intentions towards your son, you have allowed a situation to develop that cannot fail but to bring pain and disgrace to those two men whom you hold dear."

"I beg you not to tell my husband."

"Your husband is my client. He must be told. Besides, we are not dealing with a family squabble here. This matter concerns the theft of a series of master paintings. Two of the culprits are the son and wife of the owner, who is a minister of the crown. A scandal now is inevitable."

"I appreciate that the truth has now to come out. But I want to be the one to tell Hector. It is the least I can do to atone for my sins. Give me a day – twenty-four hours – to do this and also to try and persuade my son to give himself up to the authorities."

Holmes hesitated. He was somewhat moved by the woman's plight.

"Please be merciful," she begged.

My companion consulted his watch. "It is now approaching four o'clock. I will send a telegram to reach Lord Darlington in the morning, indicating that I shall call on him at four in the afternoon to convey information of the greatest moment."

"Bless you, Mr Holmes."

As events turned out, Holmes was never to make that visit. The following morning I was late down to breakfast and I found my friend slumped in his armchair perusing the paper. His face bore a grim expression.

"Violent delights have violent ends," he said, more to himself than me.

"Bad news?"

He shrugged. "Fate has entered the lists and we have effectively been relegated, old fellow." He waved the paper in my direction. "I refer to a report in here. Two bodies were washed up on the shingle below Tower Bridge late last night. They were bound and gagged and their brains had been blown out. They have been identified as Lord Arthur Beacham and Rupert Darlington, the son of the Minister for Foreign Affairs, Lord Hector Darlington."

"Great heavens what a tragedy. What happened?"

"It was no doubt the work of Alfredo Fellini and his cronies. Obviously Beacham, in his frustration regarding the de Granville painting, tried, foolishly, to pass the fake off as the original to the American. His treachery received the usual rough justice of the gangland courts. Rupert Darlington was seen as part of the conspiracy – which he may well have been. Ah, Watson, Scott had it aright: 'Oh what a tangled web we weave when we practise to deceive.' "

The Adventure of the Suspect Servant – Barbara Roden

The next case we stumbled over by sheer chance. Devotees of Sherlock Holmes will remember that Dr Watson met his future wife, Mary Morstan, when she sought Holmes's help in the case of "The Sign of Four". In introducing herself she reminded Holmes that he had once helped her employer, Mrs Cecil Forrester, to unravel "a little domestic compilation!" Holmes had to think for a while to remember and then recalled that the case "was a very simple one". It was so simple that Watson probably kept no record of it.

A few years ago that excellent scholar of ghost and mystery fiction, Barbara Roden, was undertaking research in a firm of insurers on another matter entirely, when she chanced upon some information about a certain Mr Forrester, and piece by piece she was able to rebuild "The Adventure of the Suspect Servant".

It is seldom that my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, has turned down an investigation which fell his way. There were times in our long association when his formidable brain was preoccupied with a case of supreme importance, and such circumstances occasionally precluded the taking up of another, less pressing, matter. As a rule, however, it was his habit never to neglect an opportunity to exercise those powers of observation and deduction which it has been my privilege to observe and chronicle. No case was too small to engage his attention; and I have had cause to bless the advent of more than one client, whose misfortune, however trivial, lifted Holmes from out

of the depression into which he was prone to sink when not occupied. If, in my chronicles, I have dwelt upon the macabre and the outré, it is because such cases, however unsatisfactory the outcome, have features which commend themselves to the reading public. I therefore set the following case before my readers as an example of an affair which was not as complex as some of my friend's other adventures, but which was no less pressing to those immediately concerned with it.

It was a morning in late October 1886, and London was enjoying a period of exceptionally fine weather known as St Luke's little summer. So warm was the day that I had flung open the windows of our sitting room, and was looking out over Baker Street and the bustling crowd contained therein. Holmes was perusing The Times, surrounded by the remnants of the Chronicle, Standard, Telegraph and Post, which lay in drifts around him.

I had been standing at the window for some minutes, watching the flow of the crowd, before I remarked casually, "We have a client, Holmes, so you might just tidy those papers."

My friend looked up, an expression of surprise upon his face. He cocked his head towards the door, rather in the manner of a hound listening for the view-halloa, then said, "I hear nothing, save Mrs Hudson downstairs.Yet you say we have a client?"

I chuckled, for I must confess that I enjoyed seeing my friend puzzled. He rose and joined me at the window, scanning the street for whoever had caught my eye. There was still no sound of footsteps upon the stair, and he looked at me quizzically.

"There," I said, gesturing to a woman who stood gazing into the window of a shop across from our door. "She is our client." "And what leads you to that conclusion? Pray elucidate."

"When I see a lady," I began, emulating my friend's manner on such occasions, "alight from and dismiss a cab, I infer that she has some business to conduct which she anticipates will take more than a few minutes, or she would have kept the cab waiting. The fact that the cab stopped immediately outside our door shows that her business lies in our vicinity. When the lady then proceeds to pace the pavement opposite us, not once but four times, I deduce that she is deeply disturbed about something, and is endeavouring to reach a difficult decision. Although she has been gazing into the window of the bookbinder's shop

opposite for the past few minutes, it is unlikely that anything there is causing her such consternation. What else, then, but a client for Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

"Your reasoning is certainly sound, Watson – ah, but here comes the lady herself, to silence all doubt."

She had indeed turned and, with an abruptness which signalled an end to indecision, crossed the road. We heard a ring of the bell and then a voice at the door, enquiring if Mr Holmes was at home, a signal which caused my friend to gather up the untidy papers and thrust them into his bedroom. He had exchanged his dressing-gown for a jacket when Mrs Hudson knocked at the door and announced, "Mrs Cecil Forrester."

The lady was middle-aged, yet her slim figure and graceful air gave her an air of youth that many a younger woman might have envied. She was well and fashionably dressed in a navy-blue costume which combined elegance with restraint. Her features were attractive, yet drawn with worry and fatigue, and there were still traces of indecision marked upon her countenance. She looked from one of us to the other, and my friend stepped forward.

"Mrs Forrester, I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Dr John Watson. Pray take a seat, and tell us what difficulty brings you here."

Our client took her seat in an armchair and Holmes sat opposite her. For a moment she remained silent, her eyes fixed on the rug and her hands twisting nervously in her lap. Then she took a deep breath, as one who steels herself for the worst, and looked up.

"Mr Holmes, I have come to you because I do not know what else to do, and there is no one else to whom I can turn. Over the past few weeks several items of value have disappeared from our home, and I need you to find the culprit."

"Surely the police would be…," began Holmes, but our client interrupted.

"The police have not the first idea as to the truth," she said with some anger. "My husband called them in at my urging, and all they have been able to do thus far is upset the staff and accuse my maid, Sarah, who I am sure knows nothing of the matter."

"Perhaps," said Holmes soothingly, "you might explain to us exactly what has occurred, so that we may form an opinion."

"Certainly, Mr Holmes." She paused for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts, and then launched into her tale.

"My husband is the assistant manager of Williams and Ca, a firm of insurers in the City. He commands an excellent salary, and as I am not without some income of my own we live, quite comfortably, in a house in Camberwell. We were married twelve years ago, and all has gone smoothly with us until recently.

"My husband's business has increased a good deal in the past few months, and as they are short of staff at the moment Cecil has had to spend more time than usual in the City, so I have not seen him as much as I formerly did. It was two months ago that I first noticed something amiss. I was looking for a receipt in my husband's desk at home, and found that one of the drawers would not open properly. I managed to work it loose, and found that a box which had been placed at the back of it had jammed. I recognized the box as one which had contained a pair of gold and diamond cufflinks which I had given Cecil on his last birthday. The box was empty, and I thought that odd, as I knew Cecil wore the cufflinks on formal occasions only, and was hardly likely to wear them to work. I meant to ask him about them, but he was again late in arriving home. I had arranged to attend the theatre with friends and, as I was myself late in returning, the matter slipped my mind before I could mention it.

"Three weeks ago I noticed that a gold repeater watch he had inherited from his grandfather was missing from its case. I remembered, however, that it had not been striking properly, and Cecil said that he would have to have it cleaned and repaired. I naturally assumed that it was at the watchmaker's, and thought no more about it.

"It was last Wednesday when matters came to a head. I had planned to do some shopping in the afternoon, and then take tea with a friend, as it was the servants' half-day. I took a brooch out of my jewellery case before I left, and placed the case back in the drawer of my dressing-table. When I returned home and went to replace the brooch in the case, I noticed that the contents had been somewhat disturbed, and was horrified to find that a valuable emerald ring which had been in there had vanished. I

searched the case and drawer thoroughly, thinking that perhaps it had fallen out, but could not find it anywhere. The ring has great sentimental value to me, as it belonged to my mother, and I was terribly distraught when Cecil arrived home.

"He saw at once that something was wrong, and went dreadfully pale when I told him about the ring. However, he did his best to console me, saying that he was sure I had merely misplaced it, and that it would come to light soon. It was then that a terrible thought struck me. I remembered the empty box where the cufflinks should have been, and the missing watch. Could there be some connection with my missing ring?

"I asked Cecil if he had taken the watch to be repaired, and he seemed very surprised that I should ask. His surprise gave me all the answer I needed, and I told him what I had found. It seemed obvious to me that a thief had been at work, and I urged Cecil to call in the police. A policeman came out to the house the next day, and we soon discovered that other items were missing, such as a tie-pin and a gold snuff-box."

Our client paused for breath. Holmes, who had been listening carefully to her tale, said, "Your husband has been working long hours for some time, you said. For how long, exactly?"

Mrs Forrester looked somewhat surprised at the question. "Really, Mr Holmes, I cannot see what that has to do with the matter."

"Nevertheless, Mrs Forrester, I repeat the question. The smallest matter may have a bearing upon the case."

"Well, it began in June, as far as I can remember."

"And has continued until the present time?"

"Yes."

"Have the hours remained unchanged?"

"No-no, he began working even later towards the end of August." Mrs Forrester had appeared puzzled by the line of questioning, but now understanding broke over her face. "I believe I see the reasoning behind your questions, Mr Holmes. You think that someone has been watching the house from outside, someone who has noted the long hours my husband works and knows when the house will be empty."

"Possibly," said my friend in a noncommittal voice. "I cannot theorize before I have all my data. The items that have gone missing thus far – cufflinks, a watch, a tie-pin, a snuff-box – all have belonged to your husband?"

"All except my ring, Mr Holmes." "Quite so. Has anything else been missed?"

"No."

"Yet you must have many more items of value. Has none of your other jewellery vanished?"

"No, Mr Holmes. I am sure I would have noticed."

Holmes stretched in his chair. "Surely the official force found no difficulty in seeing to the bottom of this affair, for if you will pardon my saying so it hardly seems complex."

"Well, complex or no, Mr Holmes, the man accomplished little beyond turning our house upside-down before telling us that my maid, Sarah, was the most likely culprit, and that if he could search her belongings he was sure the missing items would be found."

"Upon what did he base this conclusion?"

"He had been told that Wednesday was the servants' half-day, and he checked on their actions during the afternoon. We employ four servants – a cook, a housekeeper, a governess, and Sarah. The cook had been visiting her family, and they all confirmed that she had been with them for the entire afternoon. Mrs Lodge, our housekeeper, had spent her afternoon with a friend, and again it was proved that she had been away from the house for the entire time. Mary, our governess, had been out with the twins, who were attending the birthday party of one of their young friends, and her whereabouts are above question. Poor Sarah, however, had been feeling rather poorly, and had spent the afternoon in her room, resting. Of course, she had no proof of this, and the policeman fixed on this point, as he could see no signs of anyone from outside forcing an entry into the house."

"That seems eminently reasonable, if a trifle mundane," said Holmes. "What makes you so positive that your maid is innocent?"

"Mr Holmes, Sarah has been with me for several years, and I know she would never do such a thing. The policeman thinks me foolish, I am sure, but I know that she is innocent, and I will not see her subjected to any indignities. The poor girl is very upset, and is terrified that she will lose her position, or worse."

"What, pray, is your husband's reaction?"

"Cecil does not want to see her prosecuted as a thief, and seems to feel that it will be difficult to prove the case against her

conclusively. However, he seems convinced of Sarah's guilt, and is urging me to dismiss her. This I shall not do until I have proof one way or the other. That is why I have come to you for help."

I could not help but admire the woman for her compassion, and her staunch defence of her maid. My friend, however, merely shrugged and said, "The police case seems fairly clear. What exactly is it that you would have me do?"

"I would like you to come to the house and see what you can find. It is well known that you can see things which remain hidden to others. I am sure that you will find evidence which the police have overlooked or misconstrued. Please say you will help!"

Holmes thought for a moment, then said quietly, "Yes. I will help."

Our client gave a sigh of relief, and a smile erased some of the strain from her features. "Thank you, Mr Holmes. Will you come back to Camberwell with me now?"

"No," said Holmes. Noting her look of surprise and disappointment, he added, "I have a pressing engagement in an hour's time, but I shall be at your disposal after that. If you will leave your address with us, we shall be out to see you no later than three o'clock."

After our client had left, Holmes sat musing for some minutes, while I sat quietly, waiting. Much as I wished to know his thoughts, I refrained from interrupting his reverie, knowing his dislike of being disturbed. Finally he sprang from his chair and picked up his hat and stick.

"Off to your appointment?" I asked.

"Yes, Watson, and it is one to which you might be interested in accompanying me. I am off to see Mr Cecil Forrester, of the firm of Williams and Co."

"I was not aware that you had an appointment with him."

"Nor was I, until a few minutes ago, when I excused myself from accompanying Mrs Forrester. The truth is, Watson, that I wish to see Mr Forrester before examining the house."

We hailed a cab, and eventually found ourselves deposited in a small square off Threadneedle Street, in the shadow of the Royal Exchange. The office of Williams and Co. appeared to be prosperous, judging by the hum of activity which greeted us as we entered. Holmes explained to a clerk that we were there to see Mr Forrester on urgent business, and the emphasis placed on the word "urgent" caused the man to hurry off. He returned with the news that Mr Forrester would see us in a moment. Holmes, whose keen eye had been noting down details of the office, commented on the activity.

"We're no busier than usual," replied the clerk. "We did have another chap employed for a few months, to help us with some extra business, but we let him go three months ago. Ah, Mr Forrester will see you now."

We were ushered into his office, and the clerk left, closing the door behind him. Our client's husband was a man of about five-and forty, although his pale and somewhat haggard face made him seem older. He gazed at us in puzzlement.

"My clerk said you had urgent business with me, gentlemen, but I am afraid I cannot place your faces."

"Perhaps you can place our names," said my friend smoothly. "I am Sherlock Holmes, and this gentleman is my colleague, Dr Watson. We have been asked by Mrs Forrester to look into the matter of some missing jewellery."

Forrester's face went even more pale, and he sat down abruptly. "My wife came to you?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

"Yes," said Holmes, "and I informed her that I would call upon her at three o'clock this afternoon. Unless, that is, you would care to explain to me why you have secretly been taking your own possessions."

Forrester sprang from his chair and stood trembling behind his desk. He began to say something, but no words issued from his mouth. Then he sank back down and buried his face in his hands.

"It is all up," he said finally. "How much do you know?"

"I know most of what you did. You have been taking your own valuables one by one and either selling them or pawning them. When you had exhausted your own articles you took a ring from your wife's jewellery case, which brought everything to light. I should imagine that you would have preferred not to involve the police, but there really was no other way, and you must have counted on suspicion falling on a member of staff rather than the respectable head of the household. In this you were not disappointed, and you were prepared to see your wife's innocent maid accused and dismissed rather than admit your own culpability."

The man looked up, amazement struggling with the fear on his face. "How do you know this?" he whispered.

"Your wife said that all the missing items save the ring were yours, which was suggestive, as thieves are not usually selective in their choice. Then, too, there was the fact that the thefts occurred over a period of some weeks. If a servant was responsible, is it likely that she would take only one piece at a time, knowing that she could be discovered at any moment? No. Any thief would strike once, take all they could, and vanish.Your wife also mentioned that you had been working very long hours of late, and this change of habit was concurrent with the start of the thefts. It seemed likely that the cause of your late hours was not connected with work, but with something that required money. Am I correct?"

Forrester nodded. Now that the initial shock had passed, he seemed almost relieved, as if glad that his secret had been discovered. When at last he spoke he did so in a stronger voice than he had previously used.

"Yes.You are correct, Mr Holmes. I did take the items, which were pawned as soon as I had them. I took my own items first, as my wife was not as likely to miss them, and I could always invent a plausible story should she enquire. It was desperation which caused me to take the ring. But you are wrong about Sarah. I did not want to see the poor girl turned out with a thief's name, even though I suggested it. I hoped that the police would find no evidence and would drop the case."

"What caused this desperation?" I asked when he stopped. Forrester rose and gazed out the window behind him for a moment before replying, "Gambling."

He turned back to face us, and I was reminded of a prisoner in the dock making a confession. "I have been gambling at the track for some time now. At first it was done casually, but soon it became a mania, and I was caught tight in its grasp. Try as I might I could not break free, and I began to spend more and more time there. Soon I had heavy debts, and my salary was not enough. I continued betting, however, using the money from the pawned items in the gambler's forlorn hope that one stroke of good fortune would enable me to make good my losses. Soon the money was gone, however, and I needed more. I thought that with the money to be obtained from pawning my wife's ring I could win enough to pay my debts and redeem the pawned items. I was so desperate that I did not even think of what would happen should she discover its loss, for I could not see beyond my debts. I knew the house would be empty on Wednesday afternoon, so I returned and took the ring. I had no idea that Sarah was not feeling well, and had therefore not gone out. When the policeman indicated that he suspected her I was at first relieved, then appalled at what I had done and what I had become. And now – now I do not know what to do."

He sat before us, a broken man. I felt a keen sympathy for him, having experienced some of his fascination for the turf. Well I knew what it could do to a man, for I had seen many ensnared by its coils and dragged down. I had escaped, but I knew many who had not. Still, it could be done, and I said so to Forrester.

"Escape?" he said, in a tired voice. "But how? What shall I do?"

"Tell your wife," said Holmes, who had been sitting quietly. "My wife? But I cannot. The shame…"

"Is better than the ruin which will certainly come to you if you continue down this path. Come, Sir," he continued in a softer tone, "your wife is a compassionate woman. She came to us out of concern for her maid, and I am sure that if you are honest with her you shall have nothing to regret. Go to her now and explain everything, then tell Sarah that she has nothing to fear."

Holmes rose to go, but paused at the door. "I shall send a telegram, but please extend my regrets to your wife for not keeping our appointment. I am sure she will understand. Come, Watson."

The Adventure of the Amateur Mendicant Society – John Gregory Betancourt

1887 was one of Holmes's busiest years. We know for certain of at least thirteen cases that year, and indications of several others. Watson refers to some of these at the start of "The Five Orange Pips" although, in his usual devious way, the case of "The Five Orange Pips" itself did not happen in that year but in 1889.

The year began with Holmes facing one of his most formidable opponents, the King of Blackmailers, Charles Augustus Milverton. It was followed by the case of "The Paradol Chamber", which I am still piecing together and hope to bring to you at a future date. After that Holmes was plunged into the major problems of the Netherland-Sumatra Company, which also resulted in the case enticingly referred to as "The Giant Rat of Sumatra", for which the world is not yet ready, and the daring schemes of Baron Maupertuis. It is of some significance, I believe, that all record of these cases has been extinguished and my researches and those of my colleagues have revealed nothing. I have no doubt that Watson was, in any case, concealing identities here, but I also have no doubt that these were amongst some of Holmes's most daring and important cases. His exertions upon them damaged his health to the extent that Watson ordered Holmes to join him on a few days vacation in Surrey to recuperate, whereupon Holmes promptly threw himself into the local case of "The Reigate Squires". The case acted like therapy and within days Holmes was reinvigorated and back in London.

One of the next cases that Holmes took on was "The Adventure of the Amateur Mendicant Society" which Watson delayed from writing down for several years. That delay meant that some of his earlier jottings about the case did not end up in his final papers stored in the despatch box and instead surfaced amongst some other papers found by bookdealer Robert Weinberg, whose own researches I shall return to later. Weinberg sold these papers to John Betancourt who has helped piece the case together.

As I have written previously, my first years sharing lodgings with Mr Sherlock Holmes were among the most interesting of my life. Of all his cases – both public and private – which took place during this period, there remains one in particular of which I have hesitated to write until this time. Despite an ingenious resolution – and to my mind a wholeheartedly satisfactory one contrived by my friend, the bizarre nature of this affair has made me reluctant to place it before a general readership. However, I feel the time has come to lay forth the facts concerning Mr Oliver Pendleton-Smythe and the most unusual organization to which he belonged.

My notebook places our first meeting with Mr Pendleton-Smythe, if meeting it can be called, at Tuesday 24 April, 1887. We had just concluded a rather sensitive investigation (of which I am still not at liberty to write), and Holmes's great mind had begun to turn inexorably inward. I feared he might once more take up experimentation with opiates to satiate his need for constant mental stimulation.

So it was that I felt great relief when Mrs Hudson announced that a man – a very insistent man who refused to give his name – was at the door to see Mr Holmes.

"Dark overcoat, hat pulled low across his forehead, and carrying a black walking stick?" Holmes asked without looking up from his chair.

"Why, yes!" exclaimed Mrs Hudson. "How ever did you know?"

Holmes made a deprecating gesture. "He has been standing across the street staring up at our windows for more than an hour. Of course I noticed when I went to light my pipe, and I marked him again when I stood to get a book just a moment ago."

"What else do you know about him?" I asked, lowering my copy of the Morning Post.

"Merely that he is an army colonel recently retired from service in Africa. He is a man of no small means, although without formal title or estates."

"His stance," I mused, "would surely tell you that he a military man, and the wood of his walking stick might well indicate that he has seen service in Africa, as well might his clothes. But how could you deduce his rank when he's not in uniform?"

"The same way I know his name is Colonel Oliver Pendleton-Smythe," Holmes said.

I threw down the Morning Post with a snort of disgust. "Dash it all, you know the fellow!"

"Not true." Holmes nodded toward the newspaper. "You should pay more attention to the matters before you."

I glanced down at the Morning Post, which had fallen open to reveal a line drawing of a man in uniform. missing: colonel oliver pendleton-smythe, said the headline. I stared at the picture, then up at Holmes's face.

"Will you see him, sir?" asked Mrs Hudson.

"Not tonight," said Holmes. "Tell Colonel Pendleton-Smythe – and do use his full name, although he will doubtlessly bluster and deny it – that I will see him at nine o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. Not one second sooner and not one second later. If he asks, tell him I am concluding another important case and cannot be disturbed." He returned his gaze to his book.

"Very good, sir," she said, and shaking her head she closed the door.

The second the latch clicked, Holmes leaped to his feet. Gathering up his coat and hat, he motioned for me to do likewise. "Make haste, Watson," he said. "We must follow the colonel back to his den!"

"Den?" I demanded. I threw on my own coat and accompanied him down the back stairs at breakneck pace. "What do you mean by 'den'?"

"Please!" Holmes put up one hand for silence and eased open the door. Pendleton-Smythe was striding briskly up Baker Street, swinging his walking stick angrily, as though it were a machete. We both slipped out and Holmes closed the door behind us. Then together we crossed the street and proceeded surreptitiously after the colonel. He seemed to be heading toward the river.

"What is this affair about?" I asked as I hurried after Holmes.

"Mr Pendleton-Smythe, had you bothered to read that article in the Morning Post, disappeared two days ago. Foul play was suspected. In the fireplace of his London home police inspectors found several scraps of paper, but little could be made out except one phrase: 'Amateur Mendicant Society.' What do you make of it?"

"A mendicant is a beggar, I believe."

"True!"

"But a whole society of amateur beggars? And for a retired army colonel to be involved in them! It boggles the mind."

"I suspect," said Holmes, "that modern views of beggary have colored your thoughts on this matter. Mendicants have been, at various times and in various cultures, both revered and despised. I suspect this is another name for the Secret Mendicant Society, a network of spies which is – or was, at any rate – quite real and much older than you realize. Its roots stretch back to the Roman Empire and as far abroad as Russia, India, and Egypt."

"You think it still exists, then?" I asked.

"I thought it had died out a generation ago in Europe, but it seems to have surfaced once more. I have heard hints in the last few years, Watson, that lead me to suspect it has become an instrument of evil."

"And Pendleton-Smythe…"

"Another Professor Moriarty, pulling the strings of this society for his own personal gain? Fortunately, no. He is, I believe, a pawn in a much larger game, although only a few squares on the board are yet visible to me. More than that I cannot say until I have questioned Pendleton-Smythe."

"What do these 'amateur mendicants' do? Are they beggars or not?"

"Quickly!" Holmes said, pulling me behind a stopped Hansom cab. "He's turning!"

Pendleton-Smythe had stopped before a small rooming house. As we peered out at him, he paused on the steps to look left then right, but did not see us. He entered the building and shut the door behind himself.

"Interesting," Holmes said. "But it confirms my theory." "That he's a beggar?" I asked, feeling a little annoyed for all the rushing about. "If so, he is surely a well-lodged one."

"Pendleton-Smythe has gone into hiding out of fear for his life. Why else would a man who owns a house choose to rent a room in such shabby surroundings as these?"

"Are we to question him here, then?" I asked.

He paused, lips pursed, deep in thought. After a minute I cleared my throat.

"No, Watson," he said, turning back toward Baker Street. "I think that can wait until tomorrow. I have much to do first."

The next morning Holmes knocked loudly on my door until, bleary eyed, I called, "What is it, Holmes?"

"It's half past six," he said. "Mrs Hudson has the kettle on and breakfast will be ready at seven sharp."

"For heaven's sake," I said, sitting up. "Tell me, why have you awakened me so early?"

"We have an appointment!"

"Appointment?" I asked, still cloudy. I rose and opened the door. "Ah. Pendleton-Smythe and his amateur beggars, I assume. But that's not until nine o'clock sharp – you said so yourself!"

"Exactly!" He had a fevered look to his eye and I knew he'd been up most of the night working on the mysterious colonel's case – although what the actual nature of the case was, I still hadn't a clue. Yet Holmes seemed to place singular importance on it.

When I had shaved and dressed, I emerged to find an excellent repast set out for us by Mrs Hudson. Holmes had barely touched his plate. He was rummaging through stacks of old newspapers strewn across the floor and every flat surface of the room.

"Here it is!" he cried.

"What?" I asked, helping myself to tea, toast, and orange marmalade.

"A pattern is emerging," he said softly. "I believe I have all the pieces now. But how do they fit?"

"Explain it to me," I said.

He held up one hand. "Precisely what I intend to do,Watson. Your clarity of thought may be what I need right now." He cleared his throat. "In 1852, Oliver Pendleton-Smythe and six of his schoolmates were expelled from Eton. They were involved in some scandal, the nature of which I have yet to ascertain official reports tend to be vague on that sort of matter."

"Rightfully so," I murmured.

"Young Pendleton-Smythe found himself shipped off to South Africa after six months of knocking about London, and there his career proved unexceptional. When at last he retired and returned to London, taking charge of his family's house, things seemed to go well for him. He announced his betrothal to Dame Edith Stuart, which you may also remember from the society pages."

"A step up for an army colonel," I commented.

"I suspect she may have been involved in the Eton scandal, but that is mere conjecture at this point," Holmes said. "Yes, to all appearances it is a step up for him. However, two weeks later he broke off the engagement, and the next day – three days ago, in fact – he disappeared."

"Until he showed up on our doorstep."

"Just so."

"Where does this Amateur Beggar Society fit in?" I asked.

"The Secret Mendicant Society, as it is more properly called, was part of a network of spies set up by the Emperor Constantine. The Roman Empire had more than its share of beggars, and Constantine realized they heard and saw more than anyone gave them credit for. Originally, noble-born members of the Society would dress as beggars and go forth to collect news and information, which then made its way back through the network to Constantine himself.

"The next few emperors made little use of Constantine's beggars, but oddly enough the Society seems to have established itself more strongly rather than collapsing, as one might have expected. It developed its own set of rites and rituals. One faction in India splintered off and became affiliated with the Thuggee, of whom you may be familiar."

"Indeed," I said, "I have heard of those devils."

Holmes nodded. "Sometime in the Middle Ages they seemed to disappear. However, in 1821 a condemned man mentioned them in his last statement. Since then I've found two other mentions of the Secret Mendicant Society, the first being a satirical cartoon from Punch dated 1832, which refers to them as a rival to the Free Masons as if everyone had heard of them,

and the second being the scrap of paper found in Colonel Pendleton-Smythe's house."

"So where does the colonel fit in?"

"I was just getting to that," Holmes said. "Of the six chums expelled from Eton, I have been able to trace the movements of three. All three died in recent weeks under mysterious circumstances. What does this tell you?"

"That the colonel is next on the list to be killed?" "Precisely,Watson. Or so it would seem."

"You have reason to believe otherwise?"

"Ha! You see right through me, Watson. It seems distinctly odd to me that this rash of murders should coincide with Pendleton-Smythe's return from Africa."

"Indeed, it does seem odd," I agreed. "But perhaps there are other circumstances at work here.You won't know that until you speak with the colonel himself." I looked at my watch. "It's only half an hour until our appointment."

"Time," said Holmes, "for us to be on our way."

I stared at him in bewildered consternation. "You'll have Pendleton-Smythe convinced you don't want to see him if you keep to this course!"

"Rather," he said, "I am endeavoring to make sure the meeting does take place. Your coat, Watson! We'll either meet him on the street on his way here – or if, as I suspect, he intends to skip our meeting since he was recognized yesterday, we will meet him at his rooming house!"

I grabbed my coat and hat and followed him once more out to the street.

We did not, of course, meet Pendleton-Smythe in the street; Holmes always did have a knack for second-guessing other people's actions. When we arrived at the rooming house, we found a stout gray-haired woman whom I took to be the landlady sweeping the steps.

"Excuse me," Holmes said briskly, "I wish to ask after one of your tenants – a military man with a slight limp, dark coat, dark hat. I have a letter he dropped last night and I wish to return it to him."

"You'd mean Mr Smith," she said. "Give it here, I'll hand it to him when he's up." She held out her hand.

"Is he in, then?" Holmes asked.

"Here now, who are you?" she said, regarding us both suspiciously and hefting her broom to bar our way.

I hastened to add, "This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, and we must speak to your Mr Smith. It's very urgent."

"Mr Holmes? Why didn't you say so, gents? 'Course I've heard of you, Mr Holmes. Who hasn't, round these parts? Come in, come in, I'm forgetting my manners." She lowered the broom and moved toward the front door. "I'm Mrs Nellie Coram, Sir, and I own this establishment. Mr Smith's room is on the second floor. I'll just pop up and see if he'll come down."

"If you don't mind," Holmes said, "I think we'd better come upstairs with you."

"Oh, is he a slippery one, then?" she said. "I thought he might be, but he paid me a fortnight's rent in advance, and I can't afford to be too nosy, business being what it is these days."

"He is not a criminal," Holmes said. "He is a client. But it is urgent that I speak with him immediately."

She laid a finger alongside her nose and gave him a broad wink, but said no more. She led us in at once, up a broad flight of steps to a well-scrubbed second floor hallway. She turned right, went down a narrow passage to a closed door, and there she knocked twice. A gruff whisper came in answer almost immediately: "Who is it?"

"Nellie Coram," the landlady said. "I have two visitors for you, Mr Smith."

The door opened a crack, and I saw a single piercing blue eye regard Holmes and me for a second. "Come in," said the voice, stronger now, and its owner moved back and opened the door for us.

Holmes and I went in. I looked around and saw a small but tidy room: bed, wash-stand, armoire, and a single straight-backed chair by the window. A copy of The Times lay open on the bed.

Pendleton-Smythe closed the door before Mrs Coram could join us, and I heard a muffled "Humph" from the other side and the sound of her footsteps as she returned to her tasks downstairs. The colonel himself was a man of medium height and strong build, with iron gray hair, blue eyes, and a small moustache. He wore dark blue trousers, a white pinstripe shirt,

and a blue jacket. But it was the service revolver in his hand that most drew my attention. Pendleton-Smythe held it pointed straight at Holmes and me.

"What do you want?" he barked. "Who are you?"

Holmes, who had already taken in the room with a single glance, crossed to the window and parted the drapes. "Rather," he said, "I should ask what you want, Colonel. I am here to keep our appointment. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr John Watson."

Holmes turned and stared at Pendleton-Smythe, and after a second the colonel lowered his revolver. His hands were shaking, I saw, and I steadied his arm for a second.

"I am glad to have you here, Mr Holmes," he said. Nervously he crossed to the bed and sat down, tossing the revolver beside him. He cradled his head in his hands, ran his fingers through his hair, and took a deep breath. "Truly, I am at my wit's end. I don't know if you can help me, but if any man in England can, it's you.Your presence here is proof enough of your remarkable abilities."

Holmes sat in the straight chair, steepled his fingers, crossed his legs, and said, "Begin at Eton, with your involvement in the Amateur Mendicant Society."

He started violently. "You know about that, too? How is it possible?"

"Then he's right," I said, "and the Amateur Mendicant Society is involved?"

"Yes-yes, damn them!"

"My methods are my own," Holmes said. "Please start at the beginning. Leave out no detail, no matter how small. I can assure you of our utmost discretion in this and all matters."

I sat on the bed beside the colonel. Suddenly he looked like a very tired, very old man. "You'll feel better," I told him. "They say confession is good for the soul."

He took a deep breath, then began.

"Everything started with one of my professors, Dr Jason Attenborough. He taught second-year Latin as well as classical history, and one day after class six of us stayed late to ask about the Secret Mendicant Society, which he had mentioned in passing in that afternoon's lecture. It was thrilling in its own way, the idea of spies among the ancient Romans, but we found it hard to believe any noble-born person could possibly pass as a beggar. Dr Attenborough said it was not only possible, it had happened for several centuries.

"Later, at a public house, almost as a dare, the six of us agreed to try it ourselves. It seemed like a rum lot of fun, and after a few rounds at the Slaughtered Lamb, we set out to give it a go.

"We went first to a rag merchant – he was closed, but we pounded on his door until he opened for us – and from him we purchased suitable disreputable clothing. Dressing ourselves as we imagined beggars might, we smeared soot on our faces and set out to see what news and pennies we could gather. It was a foolish sort of game, rather stupid really, and the prime foolishness came when we decided to visit Piccadilly Circus to see what sort of reception we got. We were pretty well potted by this time, you see, so anything sounded like fun.

"Suffice it to say, we terrorized several old women into giving us pennies and were promptly arrested for our trouble. The next day, after being ransomed home by disbelieving parents, we were summonsed to the Dean's office and informed that our activities had disgraced the school. In short, our presence was no longer desired. The news was devastating to us and our families.

"That's where things should have ended. We should have quietly bought our way into other schools, or vanished into military life, or simply retired to family businesses – there were many choices available. However, that night, as we gathered one last time in the Slaughtered Lamb, Dr Attenborough joined us. He was not consoling or apologetic. Rather, he was ebullient.

"He asked what we had learned as beggars – and we hadn't learned a thing, really – but as he led us through the lesson (for that's what it was to him), we could see that we had gone to the wrong section of the city, spoken to the wrong people, done all the wrong things. Beggars have their place in our society, as you know, and we had stepped outside their domain. That's where we had gone wrong.

"As he had done in his lecture hall, he inspired us that night with his speech. He persuaded us that we should go out again and this time he went with us.

"Dressed once more as beggars, we ventured into the sordid, dark places near the docks, where such as we had never dared go at night. Using the Roman system as a model, he showed us what we had done wrong – and how we could do it right.

"We listened at the right windows. We lurked outside sailors' taverns and heard their coarse, drunken gossip. And suddenly we began to understand how the Secret Mendicant Society had worked so admirably well. Wine loosens men's tongues, and much could be gleaned from attentive listening. For who pays attention to shabby beggars, even among the dregs of our society?

"There were a dozen ship's captains who we could have turned in for smuggling, a handful of murders we could have solved, stolen cargoes that could have been recovered with just a word in the right ear at Scotland Yard.

"We did none of that. It was petty. But we were young and foolish, and Dr Attenborough did nothing but encourage us in our foolishness. Oh, he was a masterful speaker. He could convince you night was day and white was black, if he wanted to. And suddenly he wanted very much to have us working for him. We would be a new Secret Mendicant Society – or, as we chaps liked to call it, an Amateur Mendicant Society. Dabbling, yes, that was a gentleman's way. It was a game to us. As long as we pretended it was a schoolyard lark, it wasn't really a dirty deal.

"I regret to say I took full part in the Amateur Mendicant Society's spying over the following six months. I learned the truth from dishonest men, turned the information over to Dr Attenborough, and he pursued matters from there. What, exactly, he did with the information I can only guess – extortion, blackmail, possibly even worse. However, I do know that suddenly he had a lot of money, and he paid us handsomely for our work. He bought an abandoned warehouse and had a posh gentleman's club outfitted in the basement – though, of course, there were no servants, nobody who could break our secret circle. Later he leased the warehouse out for furniture storage.

"I was not the first to break the circle. Dickie Clarke was. He told me one evening that he had enlisted in the army. His father had used his influence to get him a commission, and he was off to India. 'I'm through with soiling my hands with this nonsense,' he told me. 'I've had enough. Come with me, Oliver. It's not too late' I was shocked, and I refused – to my lasting shame.

"When Attenborough found out, he had an absolute fit he threw things, screamed obscenities, smashed a whole set of dishes against the wall. Then and there I realized I had made a mistake. I had made a pact with a madman. I had to escape.

"The next day I too enlisted. I've been away for nineteen years – I never came back, not even on leave, for fear of what Dr Attenborough might do if he found out. He was that violent.

"I had stayed in touch with Dickie Clarke all through his campaigns and my own, and when he wrote from London to tell me Attenborough was dead, I thought it would be safe to return home. I planned to write my memoirs, you see.

"Only two weeks ago Dickie died. Murdered – I'm sure of it! And then I noticed people, strangers dressed as beggars, loitering near my house, watching me, noting my movements as I had once noted the movements of others. To escape, I simply walked out of my home one day, took a series of cabs until I was certain I hadn't been followed, and haven't been back since."

Sherlock Holmes nodded slowly when Pendleton-Smythe finished. "A most interesting story," he said. "But why would the Amateur Mendicant Society want you dead? Are you certain there isn't something more?"

He raised his head, back stiff. "Sir, I assure you, I have told you everything. As for why – isn't that obvious? Because I know too much. They killed old Dickie, and now they're going to kill me!"

"What of the four others from Eton? What happened to them?"

"The others?" He blinked. "I – I really don't know. I haven't heard from or spoken to any of them in years. I hope they had the good sense to get out and not come back. Heavens above, I certainly wish I hadn't!"

"Quite so," said Holmes. He rose. "Stay here, Colonel. I think you will be safe in Mrs Coram's care for the time being. I must look into a few matters, and then we will talk again."

"So you will take my case?" he asked eagerly.

"Most decidedly." Holmes inclined his head. "I'm certain I'll

be able to help. One last thing. What was the address of the warehouse Attenborough owned?" "Forty-two Kerin Street," he said.

As we headed back toward Baker Street, Holmes seemed in a particularly good mood, smiling and whistling bits of a violin concerto I'd heard him playing earlier that week.

"Well, what is it?" I finally demanded.

"Don't you see, Watson?" he said. "There can only be one answer. We have run into a classic case of two identical organizations colliding. It's nothing short of a trade war between rival groups of beggar-spies."

"You mean there's a real Secret Mendicant Society still at large?"

"The very thing!"

"How is it possible? How could they have survived all these years with nobody knowing about them?"

"Some people can keep secrets," he said.

"It's fantastic!"

"Grant me this conjecture. Imagine, if you will, that the real Secret Mendicant Society has just become aware of its rival, the Amateur Mendicant Society. They have thrived in the shadows for centuries. They have a network of informants in place. It's not hard to see how the two would come face to face eventually, as the Amateur Society expanded into the Secret Society's established territory. Of course, the Secret Mendicant Society could not possibly allow a rival to poach on their grounds. What could they possibly do but strike out in retaliation?"

"Attenborough and Clarke and the others…"

"Exactly! They have systematically eliminated the amateurs. I would imagine they are now in occupation of the secret club under the old furniture warehouse, where Attenborough's records would have been stored. And those records would have led them, inexorably, to the two Amateurs who got away – Dickie, who they killed at once, and our client, who they have not yet managed to assassinate."

"Ingenious," I said.

"But now Colonel Pendleton-Smythe is in more danger than he believes. He is the last link to the old Amateur Mendicant Society, so it should be a simple matter to – "

Holmes drew up short. Across the street from 22 1 b Baker Street, on the front steps of another house, a raggedly dressed old man with a three-day growth of beard sat as if resting from a long walk.

"He's one of them," I said softly.

Holmes regarded me as though shocked by my revelation. "Watson, must you be so suspicious? Surely that poor unfortunate is catching his second wind. His presence is merest coincidence." I caught the amused gleam in his eye, though.

"I thought you didn't believe in coincidences," I said.

"Ye-es." He drew out the word, then turned and continued on toward our front door at a more leisurely pace. "Let us assume," he said, "that you are right. What shall we do with the devil? Run him off? Have him locked up by Lestrade?"

"That would surely tip our hand," I said. "Rather, let us try to misdirect him."

"You're learning, Watson, you're learning." We reached our house; he opened the door. "I trust you have a plan?"

"I was rather hoping you did," I admitted.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he said. "But I'm going to need your help…"

Two hours later, I stood in the drawing room shaking my head. The man before me – thick lips, stubbled chin, rat's nest of chestnut colored hair – bore not the slightest resemblance to my friend. His flare for the dramatic as well as a masterly skill for disguises would have borne him well in the theatre, I thought. I found the transformation remarkable.

"Are you sure this is wise?" I asked.

"Wise?" he said. "Decidedly not. But will it work? I profoundly hope so. Check the window, will you?"

I lifted the drape. "The beggar has gone."

"Oh, there are surely other watchers," he said. "They have turned to me as the logical one to whom Colonel Pendleton-Smythe would go for help." He studied his new features in a looking glass, adjusted one bushy eyebrow, then glanced over at me for approval.

"Your own brother wouldn't recognize you," I told him. "Excellent." He folded up his makeup kit, then I followed him to the back door. He slipped out quietly while I began to count.

When I reached a hundred, I went out the front door, turned purposefully, and headed for the bank. I had no real business there; however, it was as good a destination as any for my purpose – which was to serve as a decoy while Holmes observed those who observed me.

I saw nothing to arouse my suspicions as I checked on my accounts, and in due course I returned to our lodgings in exactly the same professional manner. When Holmes did not at once show himself, I knew his plan had been successful; he was now trailing a member of the Secret Mendicant Society.

I had a leisurely tea, then set off to find Inspector Lestrade. He was, as usual, hard at work at his desk. I handed him a note from Sherlock Holmes, which said:

Lestrade,

Come at once to 42 Kerin Street with a dozen of your men. There is a murderer to be had as well as evidence of blackmail and other nefarious deeds.

Sherlock Holmes

Lestrade's eyes widened as he read the note, and a second later he was on his way out the door shouting for assistance.

I accompanied him, and by the time we reached 42 Kerin Street – a crumbling old brick warehouse – he had fifteen men as an entourage. They would have kicked the door in, but a raggedly dressed man with bushy eyebrows reached out and opened it for them: it wasn't so much as latched. Without a glance at the disguised Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade and his men rushed in.

Holmes and I strolled at a more leisurely pace back toward a busier street where we might catch a cab home. He began removing his makeup and slowly the man I knew emerged.

"How did it go?" I asked.

"There were a few tense moments," he said, "but I handled things sufficiently well, I believe."

"Tell me everything," I said.

"For your journals, perhaps?"

"Exactly so."

"Very well. As you headed down the street looking quite purposeful, an elderly gentleman out for a mid-day stroll suddenly altered his course after you. He was well dressed, not a beggar by appearance or demeanor, so I took this to mean he was now watching us. I overtook him, grasped him firmly by the arm, and identified myself to him.

"At once he cried out for assistance. Two elderly men – these dressed for business, not begging – rushed toward me from the sides. I had seen them, but not suspected them of being involved because of their advanced age.

"We tussled for a moment, and then I knocked the beggar down, threw off one of my opponents, and seized the other by his collar. I might have done him some injury had he not shouted that I was under arrest."

Holmes smiled faintly at my surprise.

"Arrest!" I cried, unable to contain myself. "How was this possible?"

"It made me pause, too," Holmes went on. "He might have been bluffing, but I knew I lacked a few key pieces of the puzzle, and this one seemed to fit. I told him, 'Very well, Sir, if you will call off your men and explain yourselves to my satisfaction, I shall gladly accompany you to police headquarters."

"When he nodded, I released him. He straightened his coat as his two fellows collected themselves. Frowning at me, he seemed to be thinking ahead. He had to be sixty-five or seventy years old, I decided.

" 'I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Holmes,' he finally said. 'I believe we may have business to discuss. But not at the police station.'

" 'Exactly so,' I told him. 'Are you at liberty to speak for the whole Society, or must we report to your superiors?'

" 'Come with me.' He dismissed the other two with a nod, turned, and led me to a quiet building on Harley Street. I had been there once before on business with the Foreign Office, but I showed no sign of surprise; indeed, this piece of the puzzle seemed to fit admirably well.

"He took me upstairs to see a rear admiral whose name I agreed not to divulge, and there the whole truth of the Secret Mendicant Society became apparent to me."

I said, "They no longer work for Rome. They work for us." "Quite right, Watson," Holmes said. "This rear admiral took me into their confidence, since they have a file on me and know

I can be trusted. The organization of the Secret Mendicant Society was once quite remarkable, though it seems near its end. Their membership is small and, as far as I can tell, consists largely of septuagenarians or older. The times have changed so much that beggary is dying out; modern spies have much more efficient means of political espionage… for that is the current goal of the Secret Mendicant Society."

"But what about the murders!" I exclaimed. "Surely not even the Foreign Office would – "

"Not only would they, they did. Politics is becoming less and less a gentleman's game, my dear Watson. For the security of our great country, nothing is above the law for them – laws that must govern the common man, such as you or I – or even poor Pendleton-Smythe."

"So there is nothing you can do to help the colonel," I said bitterly.

"The admiral and I rapidly reached an arrangement," Holmes said, "when I explained what I had done with you and Lestrade. With Scotland Yard about to close in on the headquarters of the Amateur Mendicant Society, there was nothing he could do but agree with me that the Amateurs must be exposed. The publicity surrounding them will camouflage the activities of the real Secret Mendicant Society and allow Pendleton-Smythe the luxury of living out the rest of his days in peace. He, for one, never for an instant suspected the Secret Mendicant Society actually existed. That is his salvation."

"But what of the new Amateur Mendicant Society? Surely they did not agree to surrender so blithely!"

"Indeed, they offered no objection, since with the exception of our client, they are all dead." Holmes paused a second. "After I left Harley Street, I proceeded at once to the warehouse.There I found the proper building, knocked twice sharply, and pushed my way inside when the door opened a crack by a man dressed as a beggar.

" 'Here now – ' he began. He pulled out a knife and pointed it at me. In earlier days he might have hurt or even killed me, but his reflexes had dulled with age. I caught his wrist, bent it back until he gave a moan of pain, and the knife fell to the floor with a clatter.

" 'We have no time for that,' I told him. 'The police have been summoned. You have ten minutes to gather your organization's papers and vacate the building, or you will be captured and implicated in murder.'

" 'Who are you?' he demanded, rubbing his arm.

" 'A friend. Now hurry!'

"He hesitated, looking to the two other men in the room: both were elderly, and both were dressed as gentlemen. They had been going over papers spread out on a table halfway across the room.

" 'This must be Mr Sherlock Holmes,' one of them said.

" 'True,' I said. 'You now have nine minutes.'

"Without another word, he began to gather up papers and stuff them into a case. His assistant did likewise.

" 'Where are Attenborough's files?' I demanded.

" 'In the back room,' he said. 'They were useless to us. Most deal with murder and blackmail.'

" 'Do you object to the police obtaining them?'

" `No. You may do with them as you see fit.

" 'Thank you for the warning. It might have been embarrassing to be found here.'

"When they had gone, I checked the back room and found Attenborough's files. They seemed a complete record of his blackmail schemes. I also found Attenborough's body, tucked away behind a filing cabinet. He had clearly been dead for some months.

" 'I arranged the body to look as though an accident had occurred – a bookcase had fallen on him – then came out just as you and Lestrade arrived. To the untrained eyes of Lestrade and his men, it will look as though Attenborough suffered an unfortunate accident.' "

" 'What of Attenborough's files?' I asked. 'Surely they will ruin what remains of Colonel Pendleton-Smythe's reputation.'

" 'That will be handled by the foreign office. Lestrade will uncover the records of the Amateur Mendicant Society, which reveal their wrongdoings in excruciating detail. Their specialty was blackmail and extortion, as we had surmised. The records will be doctored to include, I dare say, the full catalog of murders by Dr Attenborough, as he desperately tried to maintain control of a crumbling criminal empire. The newspapers will, I am certain, find much scandalous material in it – and the colonel will have little choice but to deny his participation and suppress

that part of his memoirs, should he still choose to write them. All the Foreign Service wants, at this point, is to maintain the Secret Mendicant Society's anonymity while contributing whatever small gains it can to the war effort."

"It would seem, then," I said, "that everything has sorted itself out remarkably well. You're fortunate they didn't try to kill you," I commented.

"I believe the admiral considered it. However, I do make my own small contributions to the Foreign Office, as you well know. You might say we have friends in common."

"Your brother for one," I said.

"Just so," he said.

"Then we have reached a successful resolution to the case after a fashion."

"After a fashion," Holmes agreed with a half smile. "After a fashion."

The Adventure of the Silver Buckle – Denis 0. Smith

Holmes continued to throw himself into his cases as 1887 progressed and they did not become any easier. There was the loss of the British barque the Sophy Anderson. I have the details of this case but they are not in a sufficient state yet to present to the reader, though they again indicate the intensity of Holmes's involvement. Soon after this he was involved in the case of the Davenoke family of Shoreswood Hall, a long-unknown case which was identified by the renowned Holmesian scholar Denis Smith, who also rescued the following story. After the Shoreswood Hall case, Holmes investigated the death of Mrs Stewart of Lauder. Although he resolved the murder to his own satisfaction he was not able to find the conclusive evidence needed to convict Sebastian Moran, whom Holmes was convinced was behind the plot. This frustration caused both Holmes's spirit and energy to flag and Watson again became concerned for his health. It was at this stage that the case of the Grice Petersons on the island of Uffa, referred to in "The Five Orange Pips" occurred. Its facts have been unearthed by Denis Smith, who has produced other stories based on his research which I list at the end of this book.

It was in the late summer of '87 that the health of my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, gave further cause for concern. The unremitting hard work to which he invariably subjected himself allowed little time for recuperation from the everyday infirmities which are the lot of mankind, and from which even Holmes's iron constitution was not immune. So long as he remained fit, all was well, but earlier in the year he had reached a point of complete exhaustion from which he had not properly recovered.

Eventually it became clear to all who knew him that unless he were removed from Baker Street, and from the constant calls upon his time which were inescapable while he remained there, he might never again fully recover his health and strength.

By chance, I had at the time been reading Boswell's account of his journey with Dr Johnson through the Highlands of Scotland to the Herbrides, and had been fascinated by the remoteness of the places they had visited. Thus inspired, I ventured to suggest to my friend that we emulate the illustrious eighteenth-century men of letters. Holmes's only response was a laconic remark that our travels should be confined to dry land. Taking this to be the nearest to enthusiasm or agreement that I was likely to get, I went ahead at once with the necessary preparations, and, four days later, the sleeping car express from Euston deposited us early in the morning upon the wind-swept platform of Inverness station. From there, after some delay, a local train took us yet further northward and westward, until we reached a small halt, standing in lonely isolation in a silent and treeless glen, where a carriage waited to take us on the last stage of our journey.

It was a strange country we passed through that afternoon, a land of reed-girt lochs, and hard, bare rocks, which thrust through the thin soil like clenched fists. For many weary hours, our road twisted this way and that between these obstacles, until at length it dropped abruptly down a steep-sided valley, beside a sparkling waterfall, and brought us at last to the west coast, and the village of Kilbuie, nestling beneath towering hills on the northern shore of Loch Echil. There was a cheery, welcoming air about the little whitewashed cottages which clustered about the harbour, and the solid, granite-built Loch Echil Hotel, but I saw as we stepped down from our carriage that Holmes's face was pale and drawn, and it was clear that the journey had shaken him badly. It troubled me greatly to see so vital a man reduced to this state, and dearly I hoped that the fine invigorating country air would act quickly to restore his shattered health.

The Loch Echil Hotel was a pleasant, well-appointed establishment, sturdily built to withstand all that a Highland winter might hurl at it, and our rooms were cosy and comfortable. I had soon unpacked, and then, leaving Holmes resting in his room, I took a stroll to familiarize myself with our new surroundings. The weather was fine, and Loch Echil lay like a looking-glass between the hills. It was nearly a mile across at this point, but narrowed considerably to the east, where it extended for perhaps a further half-mile inland.To the west, just beyond the last building of the town, it widened out into a broad bay, where the water was broken by a great many little islands and rocks. I had brought my old field-glasses with me, and spent a pleasant hour on a bench by the water's edge, watching the fishing smacks out in the bay, where the shags and cormorants clustered upon the rocks, and the gulls circled high overhead.

The islands were largely featureless, low and bare, like an oddly stationary school of hump-backed whales, but on one, which was somewhat larger than the others, there appeared to be a dark, gaunt tower, rising high above the waves and rocks about it. Intrigued by this, I mentioned it to Murdoch MacLeod, the manager of the hotel, who was in the entrance-hall when I returned.

"That is the Island of Uffa," said he, "the home of Mr MacGlevin, or the MacGlevin, as he prefers to be known."

"You don't mean to tell me that anyone lives out there?" I said in surprise.

He nodded his head. "He's restored the old ruined castle on the island, and has part of it for a museum of antiquities, which is open to the public, and well worth a visit. Most of your fellow-guests in the hotel went over there yesterday. He has some very interesting and valuable pieces, including the famous MacGlevin Buckle, a very fine piece of Celtic workmanship, in solid silver. His one concern in life has been to establish a permanent home for his clan, but he's certainly picked a remote spot for it! He has a fine house in Edinburgh, but it's let for most of the year, as he prefers to hide up here. Apart from an old couple, kinsfolk of his, who help him to keep the place in order, he lives in splendid isolation, laird of all he surveys – such as it is!"

"He sounds something of an eccentric!"

"Aye, you could say that," MacLeod returned in a dry tone. "You may see him about, for he comes over occasionally in his little steam-launch, Alba, to pick up supplies. He's a great huge fellow with a ginger beard. If you meet him, you'll not mistake him!"

I could not have imagined then just how dramatic that meeting would be.

On the first floor of the hotel, immediately over the entrance, was a broad, airy drawing-room, illuminated by a row of tall windows, which commanded a magnificent view over the harbour, the loch, and the wilder sea out to the west. When the weather was poor, and Holmes did not feel up to venturing out of doors, we would often sit by these windows as the cloud-bank rolled down the steep hills across the loch, watching the little sailing-boats, their sails puffed out by the westerly wind, making their way up the huge expanse of water towards the harbour. Often, also, I watched anglers out on the loch in the hotel's distinctive little rowing-boats, and thought how pleasant it would be to be out there myself; but although I alluded to the idea once or twice, Holmes showed little inclination for such an excursion.

Our fellow-guests in the hotel were a singularly assorted group. There was, for instance, Doctor Oliphant, a balding, white-whiskered, elderly man, of a stooping, learned appearance. His voice was thin and reedy, which made him difficult to understand, but I gathered that he was something of an antiquary and archaeologist, from St Andrews, in Fife. Two sandy-haired young men I had judged to be brothers, so similar was their appearance, and this surmise proved correct when they introduced themselves as Angus and Fergus Johnstone, up from Paisley for the fishing. A soberly dressed and very reserved middle-aged couple, Mr and Mrs Hamish Morton, were from Glasgow, as was a very old woman, Mrs Baird Duthie, who wore widow's weeds, walked with a stick, and was almost stone deaf. It seemed unlikely that there would be much of common interest in such a group, but when the conversation of the talkative Johnstone brothers turned to angling, the quiet and withdrawn Mr Morton displayed an interest, and a discussion ensued between them on the merits of various kinds of fishing-tackle. Mrs Morton, not surprisingly, did not share in full measure her husband's interest in this subject, and I had the impression that she tolerated rather than approved of it. She herself, she informed me, had hoped to do some painting and sketching during their stay in Kilbuie, although the weather so far had limited her opportunities. This observation prompted Doctor Oliphant to some remark about mankind's perennial urge to artistic creation, whereupon he, she and I engaged in a lively debate on the subject. Holmes took little part in this or any other discussion, but sat back in his chair, his eye-lids languorously half-closed. I had ceased to follow the conversation at the other side of the room, between the rival fishermen, when Mrs Morton had begun to speak of her own interests, but I watched with some amusement as each of them in turn brought in his fishing equipment, unpacked it all upon the carpet, and argued its merits in the most serious tones.

I had, I confess, no great knowledge of the subject, but it seemed to me that they each spoke with the authority of an expert. Odd it was, then, that the very next day, all met with calamity whilst engaged in their sport. The Johnstone brothers returned shamefacedly to the hotel about tea-time. Angus Johnstone's rod had broken, and their fishing-lines had become entangled, and in the resulting confusion, Fergus had fallen overboard, and Angus had lost his reel in the water. Mr Morton's accident had been potentially the more serious, although, in the event, he too returned to the hotel chastened but unharmed. He had been out alone, fishing among the islands in the bay, his wife having remained behind to do some drawing by the harbour, when his boat had sprung a leak. Unable to stem the inrushing water, and with nothing with which to bale out, he had rowed with all speed for the shore, but his boat had disappeared beneath him before he had reached it, and he had had to swim the remaining distance. Murdoch MacLeod was most distressed at this account, and rung his hands in his misery.

"You must have feared for your life!" he declared in a tone of great sympathy; but the other shook his head.

"I was nae worried," said he dismissively. "It was a matter of only five-and-twenty feet before my feet touched solid ground. I was more concerned about the walk home, I can tell ye! I came ashore on the south side of the bay, ye see, so I've had to walk the whole way round the loch to get back! My feet'll never be the same again!"

"And you have lost all your equipment?" inquired MacLeod. "Aye. All sunk wi'out trace."

"We will of course compensate you for your loss – "

"We can discuss it later," said Morton, turning on his heel. "For now, all I'm interested in is a hot bath!"

"This season has been an unfortunate one for us," said MacLeod, after Morton had left the room. "At this rate, we shall

soon have no-one wishing to stay here. Why, only two weeks ago, a young lady from Peebles slipped and fell down the main staircase in odd circumstances, and, just before your arrival, a Mrs Formartine from Arbroath lost a valuable pearl brooch. Now this! I felt sure that all the rowing-boats were sound.Thank goodness it was not more serious!" He shook his head as he left the room.

"What an odd and unfortunate thing!" said I.

"Indeed," said Holmes, and I seemed to read in his face that there was little point my raising again the idea of a fishing-trip.

It rained heavily that night, but the following morning dawned bright and clear, and there was much discussion at breakfast-time of plans for the day ahead. Several of the hotel-guests were to leave on the Friday, and were thus keen to make the most of their last day in Kilbuie. The Johnstone brothers, clearly undaunted by the previous day's experience, intended, once they had replaced their lost and damaged equipment, to spend their time fishing once more.

"We'll try among the islands today," remarked Angus Johnstone as they were leaving. "Whatever happens, it canna be worse than yesterday!"

To my surprise, the meek and frail-looking Doctor Oliphant also announced that he would be taking a boat, his intention being to visit Stalva Island, where, he said, there were the remains of a Viking burial chamber. The Mortons hired a pony and trap and set off with a picnic hamper and Mrs Morton's sketching equipment, to visit the Falls of Druimar, a well-known beauty spot, some dozen miles inland.The weather was fine and the wind light, and Holmes and I passed a pleasant day in ambling about the town and the harbour, and along the margin of the loch.

Despite MacLeod's worries for the welfare of his guests, there were no more accidents, and they all returned in good spirits, if a little late. I observed as Holmes and I went into dinner that evening that an extra table had been laid, but no-one arrived to claim it, and I saw MacLeod glance at the clock over the mantelpiece several times, and shake his head. It was clear that he was expecting someone, but how they might arrive, unless it were by private carriage all the way from Inverness, I could not imagine, for the coach which connected with the train had long since been and gone.

This little mystery was soon solved, however. As we were taking coffee in the drawing-room after our meal, the door was opened to admit two men, introduced to us as Alexander and Donald Grice Paterson, father and son respectively, who had, they informed us, arrived in their own little yacht which they had just moored in the harbour. Alexander Grice Paterson was a small, wiry man of about fifty, dark-haired and clean-shaven, with a shrewd, crafty, almost fox-like appearance. His son, Donald, was perhaps two-and-twenty, a little taller than his father, and sported a black moustache, but with the same dark, fox-like look to him. Plates of sandwiches and cheese were brought in for them, which they devoured hungrily, and, thus restored, they began to speak in excited tones. It was clear that they had recently had a very singular experience, which they were keen to share with their fellow-guests.

The older man was a senior partner in an Edinburgh legal firm, he informed us, into which his son had recently been admitted as a junior. Their speciality was commercial law, which could sometimes be a little dry, he admitted, even for those whose vocation it was.

"It's to remedy the dryness," he remarked with a crafty twinkle in his eye, in what was clearly a much-rehearsed witticism, "that each year we spend as long as possible on the water! In short, we have a little boat, a twenty-five-footer, the Puffin, which we sail about hither and thither for a week or two each year.

"In the past we've been blown all over the Firth of Clyde, back and forth from the Ayrshire coast to Kintyre. This year we thought we'd venture further afield, and plotted a course up the West Coast of Argyll and beyond. We've not had the best of wind, but we've done pretty well, all things considered, and two nights ago we slipped through the Sound of Sleat and moored for the night in Loch Alsh. Since then, we've not hurried, running in and out of bays and inlets, and exploring any nook of the coast which promised interest. We expected to arrive in Kilbuie this afternoon, but the wind has been unfavourable, and we've been beating this way and that for the last few miles. At last, earlier this evening, we turned into Echil Bay – and now we come to the most singular experience of my life! We knew when we first set off that we were sailing into unknown waters, to the land of myth and magic, but we

never expected that we'd be the victims of Highland magic ourselves!"

He paused and took a large mouthful of the whisky and water which stood at his elbow, glancing round as he did so, as if to judge the effect of his words, for all the world like an advocate addressing a packed court-room. His opening remarks concluded, he now came to the crux of the matter.

"We steered a course between the islands, but the wind was not so much against us now, as almost non-existent, and our progress was slow. It was just as the sun was setting behind us, and the shadows were long ahead, that we noticed what appeared to be a ruined tower, on one of the larger islands. Donald consulted the charts, and was able to inform me that the island was Uffa, and that upon it were the ruins of an ancient religious establishment. This seemed too good an opportunity to pass up, and we determined to go ashore and explore.

"We moored the Puffin some thirty yards from the shore, and rowed the dinghy into a little natural harbour among the great jumbled rocks at the extreme western end of the island. By the time we had our feet on dry land, the light was fading fast, but there was a well-worn path through the heather, so we were confident of soon reaching the ruins. The path meandered steeply up and down, however, and after a few minutes, we had quite lost sight of the ruins, and it became apparent that to get from the west end of Uffa to the east, where the ruins were situated, was going to take us longer than we had expected. Still, as we had by this time gone some considerable distance, we thought, like Macbeth, that it were as well to go on as go back. A mistake, perhaps, but we were not to know." He paused. "Perhaps you could tell them what happened next, Donald," he said, turning to his son.

"It was fairly dark by then," the younger man continued after a moment. "We couldn't really see very much. There seemed to be paths everywhere, and we were just wondering if we'd taken the wrong one, when we came over the brow of a small hill and saw the ruins dead ahead of us. We'd thought the sky was dark, but the ruins were darker still, and showed up as a black silhouette. To the left stood the ruined tower, tall and stark, with a huddle of lower buildings surrounding it, to the right, some more disordered ruins; and then – " He broke off and swallowed before continuing.

"As we drew closer, picking our way carefully along the rocky path, there came all at once the sound of movement somewhere just ahead of us, and then a dark, crouching shape scuttled across the path not more than twenty feet away."

"The Black Pig!" cried Murdoch MacLeod.

"What?" cried the elder Grice Paterson in return.

"You are in superstitious country," said Doctor Oliphant. "There is a belief in these parts that the appearance of the Black Pig is an omen of evil."

"There are some," said MacLeod in a low tone, "who say that the Black Pig is the Evil One himself "

Alexander Grice Paterson snorted. "Perhaps it is fortunate for us, then," he said, "that what we saw did not remotely resemble a pig. It was more like a man, crouching down."

"Aye," said his son. "Furtive and creeping, with his robes all draggling out behind him."

"I need hardly say that we were somewhat unnerved by this apparition," the elder Grice Paterson continued. "Then, as we

stood there, rooted to the spot, a faint, wavering light sprang up in a window high in the tower. I think Donald must have cried out – " "With all respect, Pa," his son interrupted, "I believe that you were the one doing the crying out."

"Well, well. Be that as it may, next moment an oblong of bright light appeared suddenly before us, as a door was flung open at the base of the tower, and a giant of a man with a great ginger beard stepped out, carrying a lantern.

"MacGlevin," said MacLeod softly, as Grice Paterson continued:

" 'Who's there?' the giant's voice boomed out."

"Why, man," cried Angus Johnstone, laughing, "it sounds more like a Grimm's fairy tale every minute!"

"No doubt," returned Alexander Grice Paterson, appearing a little annoyed at this interruption, "but it did not strike us that way at the time. We stepped forward and introduced ourselves.

" 'A strange time to come paying a visit,' the giant boomed back at us. I explained our situation, that we had had no idea that the island was inhabited.

" 'On our map,' said I, `this building is marked only as a ruin.' " 'Oh, is it?' replied he. 'Then your map, sir, is sadly in error reprehensibly so – and I recommend that you buy yourself a new

one! But, come! A MacGlevin does not turn even the meanest wretch from his door – no offence intended, Gentlemen! Pray step this way!'

"We followed him into his castle. He was most hospitable, I must say, and showed us into the clan museum that he has established there. 'I'll not light the lamps in here,' said he, 'for I ken you're in a hurry to be off, but take this lantern and have a look about, while I prepare something to warm you!' Shortly afterwards, we joined him before a blazing fire and drank his health, and five minutes later set off back to our boat, carrying the lantern he had lent us."

"Had you mentioned to him the creature you had seen earlier?" queried Holmes.

Grice Paterson shook his head. "I'd thought it best not to." "Does he keep a dog?"

"No, and there are no sheep or other animals on the island, either."

"It's the Black Pig!" said Murdoch MacLeod again, in a tone of awe.

"One moment, if you please," said Grice Paterson. "Our story is not yet finished."

"Dear me!" cried Doctor Oliphant. "Yet more adventures?"

"Indeed! You have not yet heard the strangest episode. We eventually reached the western extremity of Uffa, although it was not easy finding our way in the pitch blackness, and the lantern was little help. There, where we had secured the dinghy, was – " He paused and looked about the room.

"Well?" queried Doctor Oliphant impatiently.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Not a thing. No sign whatever of our boat. Just the dark sea splashing over the black rocks. We could see the Puffin riding at anchor a little distance off, for we'd lit a lamp on her before we'd left, but we'd no way of reaching her. And I was as certain that the dinghy had been secured properly as I'd ever been certain of anything in my life."

"What did you do?" queried Fergus Johnstone.

"We had no choice but to trudge all the way back to MacGlevin's domain and throw ourselves on his mercy. He seemed none too pleased to see us again, but said he would row us round to the Puffin in his own skiff, which was moored in an inlet just below the castle.You continue, Donald."

"Just as we were rounding the western head of the island, approaching the Puffin, my father cried out. I looked where he pointed, and there was our little dinghy, neatly tucked in the inlet, just as we had left it. Of course, Mr MacGlevin was a wee bit upset at this, and expressed himself somewhat warmly. Even a whelk would realize, he said, that we had simply taken the wrong path and looked for our boat in the wrong place. His parting words to us as he rowed off, after setting us aboard our own dinghy, were that we should henceforth confine our inept navigational activities to the streets of Edinburgh."

"There it might have ended," continued the elder Grice Paterson: "as an embarrassing experience, but no more although I was still convinced that the boat had not been there when we had looked for it before – but, as we were climbing from dinghy to yacht, Donald found something by his feet. Show them, my boy."

Donald Grice Paterson put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a large, wooden-handled clasp-knife. He unfolded the blade, which was broad and strong-looking, with a curiously square end.

"It's not ours," said his father, "so how came it in the bottom of our boat?"

"May I see it?" said Holmes. He took the knife and examined it closely. "Made in Sheffield," he remarked; "which is hardly surprising information. The tip has been snapped off, which must have taken some considerable force."

The knife was passed around the room, amid much murmuring of interest, but no-one could make any useful suggestion regarding it.

"Someone has been playing tricks upon you," declared Doctor Oliphant.

"Someone – or something," said Murdoch MacLeod.

"A mischievous sprite," suggested Mrs Morton.

Sherlock Holmes offered no observation of his own, and later, when I queried his silence on the matter, he shook his head and smiled.

"My dear fellow," said he, "you must have observed in the past that an unresolved mystery possesses a charm and romance

which its solution can rarely aspire to. It is for this reason that unless it is likely to involve them in a personal loss – men often prefer mystery to enlightenment. I could have suggested at least seven possible explanations, but all of them were fairly prosaic, I'm afraid, and not really what the company was seeking!"

With that he retired for the night, and there the singular adventures of the Grice Patersons might have remained, but for the surprising sequel.

We were seated at breakfast the following morning when there came the sound of raised voices from the hallway outside. Moments later, the door was flung open, and, ignoring the protests of the manager, in strode a gigantic figure, whose tangled ginger hair and beard identified him instantly as MacGlevin, closely followed by a police constable. The Laird of Uffa's eyes passed quickly over the assembled diners, until they alighted upon the luckless Grice Patersons.

"There they are!" he roared. "There are the villains! Arrest those men at once, MacPherson!"

Like everyone else, Grice Paterson had been frozen into immobility by this sudden, amazing irruption, his egg-spoon poised half-way to his lips, but now he sprang to his feet.

"How dare you!" he cried angrily. "What is the meaning of this?"

"The meaning," returned MacGlevin in an equally heated voice, "is that you have abused my hospitality. I took you in out of the dark night, and you have returned this favour by treacherously stealing that which is most dear to my clan, the MacGlevin Buckle!"

"This is nonsense," snorted Grice Paterson. "I have stolen nothing. I have never in my life taken that which was not mine. Why, I have never even seen your wretched buckle!"

MacGlevin's face assumed a dark, angry hue, and the veins on his temples stood out like whipcord.

"How dare you refer to the heirloom of my family in those insulting terms!" he roared. "You despicable villain!"

How long this aggressive exchange might have continued, it is difficult to say. Certainly, MacGlevin appeared on the verge of imposing his huge physical presence on the little Edinburgh lawyer. But Constable MacPherson placed his considerable bulk between them, and managed to calm the atmosphere a little.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," he said, "let us discuss the matter like the civilized men we are!"

The facts of the matter were soon told. The Laird of Uffa had last seen his family's heirloom during the previous afternoon, when he had been re-arranging some of the exhibits in his museum. He had not entered the museum with Mr Grice Paterson and his son, but had given them a lantern and told them to look round by themselves if they wished. They had done so for two or three minutes before rejoining him for a hot toddy. Later he had entered the museum to fetch a book, and had found the buckle gone. It had not been protected from theft in any way, but had lain, uncovered, upon a velvet cushion, atop a small stand. No-one but the Grice Patersons had entered the house all day, and nor were there any signs of a forced entry. The case against the Edinburgh men seemed, then, on circumstantial evidence at least, to be conclusive, although, having conversed with them at length the previous evening, I could not really believe either of them to be guilty of so mean a crime. For their part, they declared that they had not observed the buckle the previous evening, having taken only a cursory glance around the museum.

The impasse was broken in a surprising manner. Sherlock Holmes abruptly pushed back his chair from the breakfast-table and rose to his feet. In a very few words, he introduced himself, and although he had not then achieved the celebrity he was later to enjoy, the name was recognized instantly by several of those there.

"I followed the Maupertuis case in the papers," said the policeman with respect, but Holmes waved his hand dismissively.

"I think it would be as well to examine the scene of this crime before any arrests are contemplated," said he, in a voice of quiet authority. "It may well be that the circumstances there will decide the question of guilt or innocence once and for all, and may also suggest some other line of inquiry."

"Suggest fiddlesticks!" cried MacGlevin in contempt, but Constable MacPherson nodded his head.

"I canna arrest anybody merely on your say-so, Mr MacGlevin," said he. "This gentleman is correct. We must examine the scene. You will favour us with your assistance, Mr Holmes?"

My friend assented, and MacPherson quickly made his arrangements. Holmes and he had a brief discussion, during which my friend made several specific suggestions, the upshot being that two of the local fishermen who were special constables were to take charge of matters in Kilbuie in our absence, and the Puffin was to be temporarily impounded. Then MacGlevin, MacPherson, the elder Grice Paterson, Holmes and myself set off for the islands in the steam launch, Alba.

The black tower of MacGlevin's abode loomed above us as we approached Uffa, gaunt and solitary. Beyond it stretched the length of the bleak and featureless island, its surface a mottled dun colour. It was a strange and inhospitable place to make one's home, and perhaps the most unlikely spot in which my friend had ever investigated a crime. A hundred yards or so to the north were further, smaller islands, the sea breaking in white foam over their jagged rocks, and, perhaps two hundred yards to the south, the nearest point on the mainland, an area of tumbled rocks and tangled shrubs.

MacGlevin brought his little vessel alongside a small and rickety wooden jetty, where his servant, a short, spry elderly man with faded ginger hair, was waiting to take the rope, and we climbed ashore. A steep little pathway brought us to the front door of the building. The single tower, perhaps twenty feet square, rose high above us, its little windows set in deep embrasures. At the back of the tower was a long, low, single-storeyed wing, with a shallow-pitched roof. To the left of the tower was a wide, flat grassy area, with piles here and there of driftwood and sawn logs, and at the other side of this open space stood the jumble of lichen-blotched stones which was all that remained of the early Christian settlement.

We followed MacGlevin inside, and through to the museum, which occupied half of the single-storey wing, and which appeared as impregnable as a fortress. The walls were of stone, immensely thick, and hung all about with swords and shields, maps, paintings and tartans. High up along the left-hand wall was a row of windows, and in the sloping roof above was a series of small sky-lights, all of which had black iron bars across. The windows had all been fastened on the inside for the previous two days, the laird informed us, the sky-lights did not open at all, and there was no other door than the one through which we had entered, from the living-quarters of the house. Scattered about the room were several tables and cases containing exhibits, and in the middle stood a white-painted wooden pedestal, about a foot square and four feet high. Atop this was a red velvet cushion, depressed slightly in the middle. This was the usual resting-place of the MacGlevin Buckle, from which it had mysteriously disappeared.

Directing us to stand back, Holmes examined the cushion, the pedestal and the area round about with minute care, occasionally murmuring to himself. As he did so, there was a glint in his eye and an energy in his manner which it thrilled me to see. Like a weary hound who gets the scent of the chase in his nostrils, Holmes's keen, incisive nature had been kindled afresh by the task before him, and had quite thrown off the lassitude of former days. Grice Paterson caught my eye, raised his eyebrow questioningly, and seemed about to speak, but I shook my head and put my finger to my lips.

"The buckle was not fastened to the cushion in any way?" queried Holmes of MacGlevin. "No? But it appears that something was, for there is a little tear in the surface, as if something has been forcibly ripped from it." MacGlevin stepped forward to see, and declared that he had not noticed such a tear before.

Holmes was down on his hands and knees when he uttered a little cry of satisfaction as he picked something up from the floor, a couple of feet to the side of the pedestal. He continued his search for a while, without finding anything else, and presently he stood up and held out his hand. Upon the palm lay a tiny grey sphere of metal, little more than an eighth of an inch in diameter.

MacGlevin shook his head dismissively, and shrugged his shoulders. "It must have fallen from someone's pocket," he suggested. "I cannot see that it is of any significance. Why, any of my visitors might have dropped it!"

Holmes gave a little chuckle. "Really, Mr MacGlevin," said he; "if you wish your buckle to be returned to you, you would do well not to dismiss the evidence so quickly. This interesting little sphere – "

"Is a piece of lead shot of some kind," said Constable MacPherson in a thoughtful voice "and there's little opportunity for shooting rabbits in here, Mr MacGlevin!"

Holmes laughed. "There is no more to be seen here," said he. "Let us now examine the exterior of the building."

We followed him outside, and round to the back. Where the single-storey wing joined the rear wall of the tower at a right angle, there was a soft patch of muddy ground, to which Holmes devoted his attention.

"I reap the benefits of investigating a crime in such an unfrequented spot," said he, in good spirits. "There are some wonderfully clear prints here. Your shoe size, Mr Grice Paterson?"

"Seven."

"I thought as much. And your son's will be something similar. These prints are too large to be yours, and too small to be Mr MacGlevin's.Your servant, Mr MacGlevin?"

"Wattie? A tiny fellow, as you saw, with feet to match."

"Which eliminates him also, then. It rained heavily on Wednesday night, so these prints must have been made yesterday.You did not have any visitors?"

"I never open my house to visitors on a Thursday."

"Then these are the prints of the thief."

We all pressed forward to see. A clear impression of a right foot, the toe pointing into the angle of the building, was crossed by another, slightly deeper print of the same shoe, the toe pointing away from the wall.

"He has climbed the building here," said Holmes. "The deeper print was made when he jumped back down. Might this be where you saw your ghostly figure last night, Mr Grice Paterson?"

"It could very well have been," replied the lawyer. "It crossed the path from somewhere near here towards the ruins over there."

"What figure is this?" demanded MacGlevin.

"We thought we saw something," Grice Paterson returned, "but did not mention it lest you thought us foolish."

MacGlevin snorted, but made no comment.

While they were speaking, Holmes had been examining the wall closely. Presently his hand found a projecting stone some way above his head, and he managed to haul himself up. He quickly clambered over the gutter and onto the shallow-pitched roof of the museum wing, where he moved carefully along the slates, examining each skylight in turn.

"Oh, this is pointless!" said MacGlevin, who was becoming impatient once more. "Even if someone did climb up there, the sky-lights don't open, the panes of glass are too small for anyone to pass through, and they're all barred on the inside, anyway."

"Nevertheless," Holmes called back in an agreeable tone, "someone has recently been tampering with this one. The lead strip round the edge has been bent back, the putty chipped away, and the nails… Ah!" He had been looking behind him, down the roof to the guttering. Now he carefully reached down and plucked from the gutter a small sliver of something metallic, which he held up between his finger and thumb and examined closely. "If you would be so good as to join me," he called to MacPherson, "I should be most obliged."

The sky had been growing darker for some time, and MacGlevin, Grice Paterson and I hurried for shelter as there came a sudden downpour of rain, leaving Holmes and MacPherson in conversation upon the roof. The shower soon blew over, and twenty minutes later, after a cup of tea, we went back out to find that the clouds had parted and the sun was shining. Holmes and MacPherson were nowhere to be seen, and we were wondering what had become of them, when there came a shout from below, and we turned to see a small rowing-boat approaching the little harbour below the castle, with Holmes and Macpherson in it. The policeman was pulling sturdily on the oars, while Homes sat in the stern, placidly smoking his pipe.

"We have just had a little run-round in the boat," he explained, as they stepped ashore.

"And?" said MacGlevin.

"The case is now complete."

We returned to Kilbuie to find the hotel in tumult. Luggage of all kinds was heaped up in confusion in the entrance-hall, so that we had to shuffle sideways to get past.

Doctor Oliphant ran up to us as we entered, his face a picture of agitation.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded of MacPherson in a shrill voice. "It is absolutely vital that I reach home this evening. I have an important lecture to deliver in Edinburgh tomorrow night, and I must have a day to prepare my notes. The coach is not here, and when I inquire why not, I am

informed that it is held by order of the police!" His voice rose to a breathless cry. "This is an outrage! You have no right to detain a public coach! If it does not leave soon, we shall miss the connecting train!"

Murdoch MacLeod stepped forward, wringing his hands with anxiety.

"What is going on?" he queried in a hopeless voice. "Can you explain, Constable?"

"This is highly irregular," said Hamish Morton. "They tell us the coach cannot leave, but my wife and I must be back in Glasgow tonight, and Mrs Baird Duthie, too, is anxious to be away. Should we make our own arrangements?"

MacPherson pulled an enormous watch out of his pocket, and consulted it for a moment.

"You'll all get where you're going," he said shortly. "If you would just step through into the dining-room for a moment – "

The hotel servants were setting the tables for lunch, and looked up in surprise as we all filed in and arranged ourselves as best we could, here and there about the room. Old Mrs Baird Duthie was the last to shuffle in, Angus Johnstone supporting her elbow. His brother brought a chair forward for her and relieved her of her stick, and she sat down heavily. All eyes were on Sherlock Holmes, who stood patiently until everyone was settled, his hands behind his back.

"Now," said he at length. "A serious and ingenious crime has been committed. The famous MacGlevin Buckle has been stolen from the museum on the Island of Uffa. It must be returned to its rightful owner." He glanced at MacGlevin, who was standing with his arms folded by the doorway, a brooding expression on his face.

"It is, of course, most unfortunate," said Doctor Oliphant; "but what is it to us?"

"The buckle is in this hotel," returned Holmes. "Constable MacPherson and his deputed officers therefore propose to search the building until they find it."

There were loud groans about the room.

"Why, man, that could take days!" said Angus Johnstone.

"Let us make a start, then," said Homes. "beginning with that." His long thin finger indicated the small leather and canvas satchel which hung from Mrs Morton's shoulder.

"But this contains only my painting and sketching things," said she, rising to her feet, the expression on her face a mixture of surprise and indignation.

"Will you open it, Madam, or shall I?" inquired MacPherson.

Reluctantly, she lowered the little bag to the floor, and began to unfasten the straps. "This is an absurd waste of time," said she, as she tipped the contents of the bag onto the carpet. I craned forward to see. There were numerous tubes of paint, several brushes and pencils tied up in a ribbon, a palette, a pad of paper, and a very dirty rag, stained with every colour of the rainbow.

"Kindly unfold that cloth," said Holmes.

"It is dirty," said she. "It is only the rag I wipe my paintbrushes on. I shall soil my gloves – "

Even as she was speaking, Holmes leaned quickly down and unfolded the screwed-up cloth. There in the middle of the multicoloured wrapping, lay a large and ornate silver buckle. There were gasps all round the room, and, in that split second of quiet, Hamish Morton suddenly shot from his seat and bolted for the door. He had his hand on the door-knob, but MacGlevin, too, was quick, and grabbed him in a smothering embrace.

"You fool!" cried Mrs Morton to her husband, in a harsh voice. " 'Let's leave Glasgow,' you said. 'Let's get away and lie low for a while'! But you just couldn't resist this, could you! And now see what you have done!"

It was startling to hear the violent tones of the woman's voice, and almost made my hair stand on end. Her husband, held tightly in the bear-like grip of the Laird of Uffa, made no response. Next instant, my blood ran cold, for with a quick, darting movement, her hand had dipped into her reticule and re-emerged gripping an evil-looking little revolver.

"Stand aside, all of you!" she said in a cold, clear voice, as she pointed the gun menacingly, from one person to another. "This pistol is loaded, and I am quite prepared to use it."

I saw Holmes catch the eye of Fergus Johnstone, then he spoke. "Mrs Morton," said he. For a fraction of a second, she turned her head, and in that instant, in a blur of movement, the gun was dashed from her hand. Fergus Johnstone, who had been standing a little to the side of her, had brought down the old lady's walking-stick on her wrist with a loud crack. Mrs

Morton cried wildly with pain, and clutched her wrist, and Holmes stepped forward quickly and picked up the gun. In a minute MacPherson had whistled up his special constables and the prisoners had been taken away. Then MacGlevin stepped forward to where his precious heirloom still lay on the paint-smeared rag. With an air of reverence, he picked it up. As he did so, there came a further surprise, for there lying beneath it was an exquisite little silver clasp, set with creamy pearls.

"Mrs Formartine's brooch!" cried MacLeod, almost beside himself with joy.

Some two hours later, after lunch, we were all seated in the drawing-room of the hotel. The Mortons were safely under guard at the local police station, awaiting an escort to take them to Inverness. Doctor Oliphant and Mrs Baird Duthie had long since departed, and the Loch Echil Hotel had returned to an atmosphere of normality.

"I cannot thank you enough," said Alexander Grice Paterson to Holmes. "Without your intervention, I dread to think what might have become of us."

"I regret I was a little heated," said MacGlevin in a sheepish tone, holding out his hand to the man he had accused. "I just couldna' think how anyone could've taken it but you."

"That is all right," said the other, accepting MacGlevin's hand. "Let's forgive and forget. What I'd like to know is how you got to the bottom of the matter so quickly, Mr Holmes."

"It was not difficult. I will give you a full explanation when Constable… Ah! MacPherson! We were just speaking of you."

"Please excuse the delay, Gentlemen," said the policeman briskly. "I have had a busy time of it. I wired details of the Mortons down to Glasgow, and I have their reply here. We've landed bigger fish than we realized, Mr Holmes! They're fairly certain that the man calling himself Hamish Morton is in fact Charlie Henderson, wanted in connection with the Blythswood Square burglary, earlier this year – "

"- in which the thieves got away with works of art worth thousands," interjected Holmes, "and left the owner of the house seriously injured. I recall it very well."

"And the woman, who has used so many names in her career that it's hard to keep track of her, is wanted under the name of Mary Monteith, for a long series of frauds and forgeries. Apparently she has real artistic gifts, but she's used them only in the cause of crime. She's suspected of being behind some of the most brilliant art forgeries of the last dozen years."

"Well, I never!" ejaculated Grice Paterson. "But come, Mr Holmes, tell us how you got on to them."

"My interest was first aroused," said Holmes after a moment, "by Morton's report of his boating accident. He declared that all his fishing equipment had sunk without trace, yet when I had seen it the previous evening in this very room, I had observed, without giving it any special attention, that his rod was of the sort which is fitted with a large cork handle. It seemed unlikely that such a rod should have sunk. It might, of course, have become entangled with some other equipment, and been dragged down by it, but Morton merely said it had sunk. It seemed to me that he was lying, but I could not think why, unless he merely wished to swindle the hotel out of a few pounds by way of compensation. It was a petty matter, and I gave it little more thought.

"When we went out to Uffa, to investigate the theft, I had no pre-conceived ideas as to what had taken place there. For all I knew, the result of my examination might have been to confirm Mr Grice Paterson's guilt. You did not look a very likely pair of thieves," he remarked, turning to the Grice Patersons with a chuckle; "but I have known many criminals in my time, and a good half of them did not appear capable of the crimes they had committed; so I preserved a professional detachment on the matter, and reserved my judgement.

"My examination of the museum revealed, as you saw, a small tear in the cushion upon which Mr MacGlevin's Buckle had been lying when last he saw it, which at once suggested to me that some hook, or other sharp device, had been used to lift the buckle. This in turn suggested, of course, that the thief had not been in a position to reach it with his hand. The obvious conclusion was that a line with a hook attached had been lowered from above, through one of the sky-lights. When I found on the floor a small piece of lead shot, such as fishermen use to weight their lines, this presumption became a certainty. The weight would help the line to drop straight, and give the thief more control over it. No doubt the piece of shot we found

had become detached when the hook snagged the cushion and had to be forcibly yanked free.

"The next thing then, was to examine the exterior of the building. Here I was fortunate enough to find very clear indications of where the thief had climbed the wall. The fact that I could only just reach the only usable hand-hold – and I am a good six foot in height – indicated that the thief was not a small man, as also did the size of the footprints. These indications eliminated the Grice Patersons, as far as I was concerned.

"I then examined the sky-light which lay immediately above the stand on which the buckle had been displayed, and it was obvious at once that one of the panes of glass had been removed and later replaced. The lead around the glass had clearly been bent back, and then flattened again. That would have presented no problem, and nor would it have been difficult to chip away the putty with a knife. But there were also galvanized nails bent over beneath the lead to hold the pane firmly, which would have required a greater application of force. Was this, I wondered, how the knife-blade came to be broken? This conjecture was at once confirmed, for there in the gutter below me was a little shiny triangle – the missing tip of the blade.

"It seemed clear enough, then, what had happened. The thief had been at work when you chanced upon the scene, Mr Grice Paterson, and was evidently the figure you saw cross the path in the darkness. He would then have returned to his boat, but must have taken the wrong path in the darkness, and mistakenly set off in your boat, rather than his own.You came along shortly afterwards, found your boat missing, and returned to seek Mr MacGlevin's aid. The thief, meanwhile, must have realized his mistake, and so returned your boat, in which he had dropped his knife, found his own boat, and left the island for the second time.

"So much seemed clear. But who, then, was the thief? There seemed no way of knowing. It was then that I recalled Morton's reported accident, and his claim to have lost all his fishing tackle, about which I had had some doubt at the time. Now it struck me as possible that his boat had not sunk at all, but had been hidden in the bushes by the shore on the south side of the bay, together with his fishing equipment. If that were so, he would be able to use it when he wished to commit this crime, without the slightest suspicion attaching to him, even if the crime were discovered before he and his accomplice had left Kilbuie. MacPherson and I therefore rowed over to the mainland, which is no great distance at that point, and soon found what we were looking for – one of this hotel's distinctive little skiffs dragged up behind some rocks, with a disordered heap of fishing tackle within it.

"The case was therefore complete, and it remained only to locate the buckle. I was quite certain that the Mortons had it, but finding it might have taken some time. However, as you may recall, they had claimed on the day the crime was committed to have gone inland so that Mrs Morton might sketch – probably they did so, earlier in the day – and had therefore had the satchel containing the art materials with them. It seemed likely, then, that the stolen buckle had been secreted in there in the first place, and, if so, it seemed to me possible that it was still there, especially as Mrs Morton was demonstrating an unusual attachment to the bag.This surmise proved correct, and the rest you know. Mr MacGlevin has his heirloom restored to him, Mrs Formartine will soon have her brooch back – that was something of an unexpected bonus, I must confess – clearly Morton had been keeping his hand in – and two dangerous criminals are safely under lock and key."

"You make it sound so obvious and straightforward, Mr Holmes!" exclaimed MacGlevin in amazement. "I'm sure that if we had spent all day examining the museum, we should not have observed the little traces which you found, nor made anything of them if we had done!"

"Aye, it's a grand job of work all right," said MacPherson with feeling. "I may get my sergeant's stripes over this arrest. I don't know how I can ever thank you, Mr Holmes," he continued, extending his hand. "Without your help, I don't know that we should ever have caught those villains!"

"It is always a pleasure to assist the forces of law and order," returned my friend with a smile. "Now, Watson," he continued, turning to me: "the fresh air on Uffa has quite invigorated me! What say you to another expedition, this time to catch something a little smaller and tastier, for our supper?"

The Case of the Sporting Squire – Guy N. Smith

It was during 1887 that Watson obtained permission from Holmes to seek formal publication for his account of their meeting and the case known as "A Study in Scarlet". It's quite likely he finalized this novel while on holiday in Scotland and submitted it to the publisher Ward Lock via his agent Arthur Conan Doyle. Ward Lock published it in their Beeton's Christmas Annual that December and that was the first time that the general public came to learn of Sherlock Holmes. It inevitably led to an upsurge in the number of requests Holmes received and also, Holmes jokingly acknowledged, caused him to start going about his business in disguise. More importantly, it meant that Watson began to keep a better record of the cases. Flushed by the success of this saleWatson now wrote up most of the cases that happened over the following year from the end of 1887 and through 1888. These include some of Holmes's best: "Silver Blaze", with the curious incident of the dog in the night; "The Valley of Fear"; "The Greek Interpreter" – which is remarkable in that not until now did Watson apparently discover that Holmes had a brother, Mycroft, though we know he was aware of him earlier; and "The Cardboard Box", in which Holmes reveals his ability to deduce Watson's thoughts.Another of the cases falling in this period was that of "The Sporting Squire", one that Watson did not refer to but which came to light following the investigations of that redoubtable author Guy N Smith early in his own career when undertaking research into the theory and practice of gamekeeping nothing could exceed his energy; at other times he would lie on the sofa, scarcely moving from morning to night, his eyes closed but I knew that he did not sleep. He either contemplated some intricate problem or else he was melancholic, but I knew better than to intrude upon his thoughts for it would only evoke some brusque reply, for my friend could be exceedingly rude when his private musings were disturbed.

It was in February 1888 that Holmes had reposed in such a fashion for three whole days, following upon a period when he had busied himself with his various files, scribbling on a notepad and occasionally muttering to himself. He had not eaten throughout this time, his only form of sustenance lying in that strong-smelling shag tobacco, a cloud of pipesmoke enshrouding him with the opaqueness of a November fog.

"Poison, Watson," his sudden emergence from that apparent somnial state caused me to start involuntarily, "is the device of more murderers who have escaped the gallows than any other weapon used. Poison is, in many cases, undetectable, only the symptoms of some being a guide to their identification. Often death occurs after the villain has returned to his normal routine and the victim is diagnosed as having died from natural causes. Doubtless you, yourself, have, on more than one occasion, been deceived by the guile of some insidious murderer who has later reaped the rewards of his vile deed."

"I would hate to think so, Holmes." I confess his words brought with them a pang of guilt, a momentary feeling that I had, in some instances, neglected my duty as a doctor.

"It is not a comforting thought but, undoubtedly, it has occurred." He regarded me with an unwavering stare. "Likewise, I, on rare occasions, have overlooked some vital clue that would have led to a conviction. None of us are infallible although, I hope, that over the past few days I have achieved something which will make those errors, where poison is concerned, something of a rarity."

"That is good news, indeed." I knew full well that he was about to confide in me the purpose of his recent writings and contemplations. I leaned forward expectantly.

"You will doubtless recall my original thesis on poisons," he became a silhouette behind a cloud of exhaled tobacco smoke, "in which I examined the varieties in some detail."

"Yes, yes," I had read it at his invitation some time ago. Some aspects of the paper did, indeed, throw new light on the subject.

"Well, I have revised and updated it,Watson. I would hope that from now on the prospective poisoner will think twice before administering some lethal dose to an unsuspecting victim."

"That is good news, Holmes." I have never doubted my friend's variable knowledge of botany, surpassed only by a profound understanding of chemistry.

"Cyanide, for example, works slowly if administered in small doses, produces symptoms of failing health which often deceives a well-meaning doctor right up to, and beyond, the point of death. Unless, of course, he perceives a faint smell of almonds on the doomed person's breath. Now, in total contrast…"

He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, followed by a knocking on the door which bespoke an urgency that transcended the routine delivery of a letter or telegram. My colleague was instantly alert for it was for such moments that he lived: the unexpected visitor, in a state of distress, ushered in by the long-suffering Mrs Hudson.

"A lady to see you, Mr Holmes," the landlady withdrew, closed the door behind her for she was accustomed to strange callers, day or night, and resolutely showed no surprise.

"Mr Holmes, please forgive this intrusion." Our visitor was an exceedingly attractive lady in her early twenties, long auburn hair falling about her shoulders, her expression one of acute anxiety.

"Pray, be seated, Miss…" Holmes, like myself, had already noticed that our caller wore no wedding ring.

"I am Gloria Morgan." She seated herself on the edge of the vacant chair, wrung her hands together in obvious anguish. "Mr Holmes… my father has murdered my mother, a vile deed which will go both undetected and unpunished unless…"

"Have you not informed the police, Miss Morgan?" Holmes stretched out his long legs. "Surely, that is the obvious course if you are so convinced that such a dastardly act has taken place?"

"It would be useless, Mr Holmes, for Doctor Lambeth is insistent that my mother died of lockjaw. But he is ageing, he retires shortly, and I do not think that he wishes to put himself in the embarrassing position of accusing a prominent member of the community of such a crime on slender evidence."

"Please start at the very beginning, Miss Morgan." Holmes reached the old slipper off the floor by his side and proceeded to stuff the blackened bowl of his pipe with fine cut dark tobacco. "I trust you have no objection to the smell of strong tobacco, Miss Morgan?"

"Not at all." She coughed slightly for the room was already thick with pipesmoke. "My father is Squire Royston Morgan of Winchcombe Hall in Hampshire."

"Ah, I recall the locality." Holmes leaned back, his fingertips pressed together, seemingly drowsy to anybody who was not familiar with his posture, but I knew that he listened intently. "Is that not in the proximity of Longparish, home of the legendary late Colonel Peter Hawker, undoubtedly one of the finest marksman which this country has ever produced, a veteran of the Crimean War who, upon being invalided out of the army, devoted the remainder of his life to the pursuit of fur and feather?"

"Indeed, it is," Gloria Morgan smiled wryly. "I curse him, too, even though he has been dead for half a century, for it is upon him that my father has modelled himself, although I would hope that Colonel Hawker's only shortcoming was his devotion to fishing and shooting."

"Hawker was surely the finest game shot of all time," Sherlock Holmes answered dreamily. "Not content with killing twenty-four snipe consecutively on one day, without missing a shot, he used to practise on bats around Longparish Hall at dusk, and, according to his books, with equal success."

"As my father does, especially when we have guests staying." There was no mistaking the contempt in her voice.

"I digress," Holmes said. "Please continue."

"As I have already said, my father has endeavoured to build his own reputation upon that of Colonel Hawker's. A fine shot, an excellent fly fisherman and a dashing horseman, understandably he has attracted the attention of other women. I would add, at this stage, that my parent's marriage has not been a happy one. One woman in particular, is a wealthy widow by the name of Eva Dann, who currently owns Longparish, the property most coveted by my father. There have, for some years, been whispered rumours of their relationship, and my mother has had to suffer the ignominy of it. For my sake, she

clung to her marital status and rights, doubtless much to my father's chagrin.

"So, faced with the prospect of her remaining indefinitely at Winchcombe, and thereby depriving him of the opportunity to marry his mistress and acquire Longparish, he murdered her."

"Can you prove it?"

"Alas, no, but I have not a single doubt in my mind that he killed her."

"Then tell me everything you know, setting out your story as it happened, trying not to overlook the smallest detail, however irrelevant it may seem to you."

"My mother had resigned herself to living beneath the same room as my father, no matter how unpleasant that may have been. One of her interests was horticulture, and on fine days she would spend her time in the gardens. Her other love was literature. There is a small library in the Hall and, after dinner each evening, she would go there to read until she retired about ten o'clock. Lately, she took to locking herself in the library because, on those occasions when my father had been drinking heavily, he would go and vent his vile temper on her. Thus, by locking the door, she ensured herself of the tranquillity she required to immerse herself in her reading."

"And it was in the library where she met her untimely death?" There was a gentleness in Sherlock Holmes's voice as he asked the question.

"Yes", Gloria Morgan stifled a sob. "The night before last. Dinner was an uneasy meal for my father was in an uncertain temper on account of having shot badly that day. Afterwards, my mother retired to the library as was her usual routine. I am not sure of my father's movements, possibly he went down to the gamekeeper's cottage to discuss with Randall the task of destroying a colony of moles which are currently rendering the lawns and borders an unsightly mess."

"And the gamekeeper?"

"Randall is a hateful man. He reminds me of the stoats and weasels which hang rotting and stinking on his vermin gibbet. He is the most hated man for miles around. Several cats and dogs, belonging to the villagers, have died in his traps and snares, or eaten the poison which he lays for foxes in the game preserves. The safety of his pheasants is paramount, the greater

the slaughter on shooting days, the more prestigious his role becomes amongst the guests who shoot at Winchcombe."

"A decidedly unpleasant character, by all accounts," Holmes mused.

"Second only to my father. On the night in question I was somewhat later retiring than usual. As I passed the library about eleven o'clock, I noticed that a light still burned beneath the door. Fearing lest my mother might have fallen asleep in her chair, or perhaps become ill, I knocked on the door. After several knockings, and receiving no response, I hastened to summon Jenkins, the butler. Jenkins forced the door open and there… oh, Mr Holmes!"

I reached across and patted her hand. Bravely, Gloria Morgan pulled herself together, and continued her narrative. "It was clear at first glance that my mother was dead. That, in itself, was awful enough but nothing by comparison with the expression on her features and the way in which her body was twisted into an unnatural posture. Mr Holmes, there is no doubt that my mother died in indescribable agony, unable even to call for help."

"You then sent for the doctor?"

"Yes. Jenkins rode at once to the village to fetch Doctor Lambeth who arrived soon after."

"And your father?"

"My father did not return until after the doctor's arrival. His show of distress was so shallow that the most amateurish of stage actors could have improved considerably upon his pathetic performance. Doctor Lambeth examined my mother and diagnosed that she had died of lockjaw which seemed to satisfy my father."

"There would most certainly have been signs of the malady before death took place," I interposed. "A tetanus sufferer would have experienced pain long before the final convulsions."

"Precisely!" Holmes added. "Miss Morgan, did your mother appear unwell in any way during dinner?"

"No," Gloria Morgan dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, "but of late she has suffered a loss of appetite due, I presume, to her unhappy state of mind. She ate very little on the night in question, just picked at her food."

"And the remains of her meal?"There was a sharpness about

my friend now which had been absent of late. It appeared that Miss Morgan's story had aroused his interest above the level of a routine investigation.

"Oh, I know what you're thinking, Mister Holmes," our visitor gave a hollow laugh. "The same thought crossed my mind, that some form of poison had been introduced into my mother's food. In my grief and anger I suggested that to both Doctor Lambeth and my father."

"And?"

"My father laughed cruelly. 'Very well', he said, leading us through to the dining room, 'just to prove to you how unfounded your stupid fears are, we will feed the remnants of your mother's meal to the dogs.' We followed him outside to the kennels where the dogs voraciously devoured those leftovers. The animals were still in excellent health when I left to catch the train to London this morning."

"I see." It was impossible even to guess what Sherlock Holmes was thinking as he lapsed into silence. I knew better than to enquire of him for he would reveal them when he was ready and not until.

Miss Morgan and I glanced at each other and there was no mistaking the anguish in her eyes. She had come here with a desperate plea for help and Sherlock Holmes was her only hope.

"Watson and I will travel down to Hampshire by the first available train in the morning." Holmes had made his decision and he knew, without asking, that I would accompany him. "It is important that I examine the scene of this untimely death without your father's knowledge, Miss Morgan. Can that be arranged?"

"Most certainly," There was sheer relief in her reply. "In spite of my mother's sudden death, my father has not seen fit to cancel a day's pheasant shooting tomorrow. He will be out in the fields and coverts with his guests from around ten in the morning until mid-afternoon."

"Admirable!" Holmes snapped his long thin fingers. "I would prefer you to return to Winchcombe this afternoon, Miss Morgan. I presume that your father has no idea that you have visited me."

"None, whatsoever. In fact, should he find out." I glimpsed a flicker of fear in her pale blue eyes. "I dread to think what he

might do. As well as being one of the best shots in England, my father has a violent streak in him. This was evident only last winter when he and Randall caught a poacher in the Home Covert, an otherwise harmless villager who only sought a pheasant for his dinner. The man was in hospital for some weeks afterwards with broken bones. Had it not been for my father's position, as well as squire he is chief magistrate, then I fear that the local constabulary would have brought a charge of assault against him."

"Then we shall hope to conduct our investigations undetected." Sherlock Holmes smiled as he rose to his feet. "One final question, Miss Morgan, hurtful as it may be, your mother's body…"

"It lies in an ante room. The funeral has been arranged for the day after tomorrow."

"Excellent, Watson!" Holmes said when Gloria Morgan's receding footsteps had faded. "I shall be obliged for your professional opinion on the deceased in due course. Also, it might be advisable if you slipped your service revolver into your pocket. The man we are up against, as well as being of a violent temperament, is one of the best shots in England. We cannot afford to take any chances."

A shimmering of snow sparkled across the countryside as Holmes and I travelled down to Andover on the early morning train. My companion spoke little throughout the long journey and I knew that he was turning over in his mind everything that Miss Morgan had told us yesterday. Her story had a ring of truth to it, incredible though it seemed on reflection. Had her mother really been murdered or was it fanciful thinking by a distraught young lady? If it was murder, then how had Violet Morgan been killed within a locked room, and the act so disguised that her death had been diagnosed as from natural causes by an experienced GP? Was Doctor Lambeth in league with Royston Morgan? Was Randall, the gamekeeper, with his store of poisons with which to kill vermin and roaming domestic pets, involved? I had enough confidence in my companion to know that if there was foul play then he would unravel the truth. The weight of my service revolver in my overcoat pocket brought mixed feelings of comfort and unease. All too often

when Holmes had instructed me to bring a pistol along we had had need of it. The man's intuition was astounding.

On our arrival at Andover, we hired a carriage, Holmes instructing the driver to take us to Winchcombe Hall but to remain at a safe distance and to await our return. It was early afternoon as we walked up the winding poplar-lined drive.

In the distance, where a long narrow wood snaked over the horizon, we heard the sound of gunfire. Occasionally, we glimpsed a whirring speck that was undoubtedly a pheasant bursting from cover, a bird that had survived the line of guns, gliding on downhill to land in a field of snow-covered turnips.

"At least our friend, the squire, will be kept busy for a while," Holmes remarked as we passed through a clump of rhododendrons and had our first view of the big house. I noticed that the extensive snow-covered lawns were severely disfigured by the workings of moles, something to which Miss Morgan had alluded on her visit to our rooms in Baker Street.

Winchcombe Hall was set in a large clearing amidst tall pines and mature shrubberies. It was clearly of Georgian origin, three-storeyed and with high chimneys. Undoubtedly, once it had been a magnificent country residence but now there was-evidence of loose mortar and the west wall was badly damp-stained. Which was all the more reason for Royston Morgan wanting to acquire the wealth of an eligible widow, I decided, but kept my thoughts to myself for Holmes would not have thanked me for them. A number of carriages were parked at the rear; undoubtedly, Squire Morgan had a full compliment of sportsmen for today.

Even as we mounted the wide flight of steps, the front door opened and there stood Gloria Morgan, a long black dress accentuating her pallor. Yet in spite of her grief, her delight at seeing us was all too evident.

"Oh, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson," she cried, "I can't tell you how grateful I am that you have come."

"Have there been any further developments?" My companion asked as we stepped into the marble-floored hallway.

"No." She shook her head. "Everything is still as it was when I left yesterday. My father is too preoccupied with his pheasant shooting to concern himself with a matter which he considers to be concluded. The library is through there." She indicated

a door that was partly open. "My mother…" Her trembling finger pointed to a closed door at the rear of the hall.

"Perhaps, Watson," Holmes glanced meaningfully at myself, "you would be so kind as to take a swift professional look at the departed whilst Miss Morgan accompanies me into the library. I am curious to view a locked room where death can strike so swiftly. I will join you shortly."

I lifted the lid of the polished oaken coffin and looked down upon Violet Morgan. Death, and the obvious agony that had accompanied it, had done its utmost to destroy her striking beauty. The soft lips were swollen and marked where she had bitten them, and even the passing of rigor mortis had not removed the grimace from her face. She screamed mutely up at me, for her final suffering had been terrible beyond belief.

I bent over and sniffed at her mouth but the only odour was that familiar smell of death. The palms of her hands were gouged where her fingernails had dug deep and the mortician had been unable to straighten out her fingers fully, it was as though they were afflicted with some deformity. I checked for any signs of an open wound, a cut or scratch, that might have allowed tetanus to enter her bloodstream, but there were none apart from those inflicted by herself.

Certainly the corpse bore some resemblance to the final sufferings of a victim of lockjaw but tetanus would not have struck so suddenly and without warning. Either Doctor Lambeth had never witnessed a case of lockjaw or he was taking advantage of an easy alternative. Or else he was determined to shield Squire Morgan at all costs. I was far from satisfied at what I had seen.

I heard the door open and Holmes joined me. He stood there looking down upon the corpse and I knew that his keen eyes missed nothing.

"Her suffering was terrible, indeed, Watson," he spoke in a low voice for fear that Gloria Morgan might overhear him.

"Yes, but it was not lockjaw," I asserted, "but surely some kind of poison that is undetectable."

"Many poisons leave little or no trace." He bent over the corpse. "You really must read my treatise on poisons, Watson. Ah!" His fingers lifted up one of Violet Morgan's clawed hands,

moved it so that the fingertips were exposed to view. "You noticed that faint stain on the tip of the forefinger, Watson?"

"I did not regard it as being of any significance," I replied somewhat abruptly for I sensed that my companion was criticizing my professionalism.

"Let us return to the library." He straightened up. I followed him out into the hallway, feeling a little offended by his abruptness. Whatever the relevance of that discolouring of the deceased's fingertip, it clearly needed to be corroborated by an inspection of the scene of the crime. However, I knew better than to interrupt my colleague's train of thought.

In the library Holmes commenced a minute examination of the windows and the door.

"A beetle could have entered via the gap beneath the locked door," he spoke without looking round, "but nothing larger than an insect. Miss Morgan informs me that her mother always kept the windows tightly shut, even in summer, as she had a phobia about night moths. But, on the night in question, the temperature would have been below freezing so no window would have been open, anyway." He moved across to a section of bookshelving, tilted his head slightly to one side to enable him to read the lettering on the spines of the volumes. "Hawker's Diaries, I perceive, and also that worthy man's Instructions to Young Sportsmen." He reached down the latter leather bound tome and flipped the pages. "Well read, I see."

"As I have already told you, my father virtually worships Hawker and everything that the man stood for," there was a note of mingled repugnance and annoyance in her tone at this seeming digression from Holmes's investigations. "My father's lifelong ambition was to acquire Longparish. The place would have been a virtual shrine for him, but I am afraid family finances have been dwindling for some time."

"And your father needed to acquire the necessary funds from other sources," Holmes remarked. "I see that there is a sizeable collection of medieval works. Also well read." He was examining another volume.

"My father was no lover of literature, Mr Holmes, he only read sporting books and those medieval works. Mostly reprints, as you will see, and some books appertaining to that period."

"Hmmm." Holmes's expression had changed, he was staring fixedly at the open pages of the volume in his hands. From where I stood I was just able to read the title on the spine, "Herbs and Plants of the Thirteenth Century; Their Cultivation and Uses" Holmes read intently, he seemed oblivious of our presence in the room.

"Mr Holmes," there was a new nervousness in Gloria Morgan's voice, "the day's shooting usually concludes towards mid-afternoon in order that the unscathed pheasants may go to roost in peace. The party will be returning shortly. I had not anticipated that your investigations would take so long."

"Tell me, Miss Morgan", Holmes appeared not to have heard her warning or else he chose to ignore it, "what was your mother's taste in reading?"

"English literature. She read and re-read her favourite authors."

Sherlock Holmes turned his attention back to the bookshelves, his gaze searching out that section which contained works of literature.

"Ah!" His exclamation was one of triumph as he reached down a book which protruded from one of the neat rows. "This is the one which your mother was reading at the moment of her untimely death, I perceive. It was returned to its rightful place, presumably by your butler when he tidied up the room, but, in his haste, he failed to replace it fully. Charles Dickens, I see, although I have not read his works myself."

"Little Dorrit," Miss Morgan answered. "I know because she mentioned it at dinner that night. Also, the volume was lying beside her when we… we found her. As you point out, Jenkins must have returned it to the shelves when he tidied up the room after Doctor Lambeth and the mortician had finished."

Sherlock Holmes carried the volume across to the mahogany reading table where he pored over it with an intensity which I had witnessed many times in the past.

"Your mother showed little respect for books." He was turning the pages delicately, almost as though it was a sacrilege to touch them. From where I stood I could see that each leaf was creased in the top right hand corner as if it had been turned down to mark the reader's place.

"It was a habit which she developed in childhood, Mr Holmes,

and never relinquished, that of turning each page with a wetted forefinger."

Holmes examined the pages with his lens, blew gently upon one. A faint puff of something white, it might have been dandruff from a previous reader's hair, was dislodged, fell to the floor and became indiscernible. A cloud of what I took to be some kind of ash floated down in its wake.

My colleague snapped the tome shut and, in a couple of strides, was at the window, staring out with an intensity which told me that he had spotted something which was relevant to our investigations.

"The moles," he snapped, "they have made a devil of a mess of the lawns and borders. What method is being used to halt their depredations?"

"My father has been attending to the matter himself" Gloria Morgan was visibly surprised by yet another digression. "I believe that he obtained some substance from Randall with which to kill the creatures. I recall him mentioning it to my mother a few days ago when she expressed concern at the damage done by the moles. Something which was put down the holes, I believe, although I did not take much interest at the time."

"Capital!" Holmes cried. "Everything fits at last, the final piece in the jigsaw has slotted into place."

"Mr Holmes!" Gloria Morgan's cry of alarm interrupted my companion's moment of exultation, and in the brief moment of silence which followed we heard the slamming of the front door, followed by heavy footfalls in the hallway. "Mr Holmes, it is too late, my father has returned!"

At that very moment the library door crashed back on its hinges and I was afforded my first view of Royston Morgan, the sporting squire of Winchcombe Hall. He stood there framed in the doorway, a giant of a fellow, well over six feet tall and surely all of sixteen stone in weight, seemingly even more immense clad in baggy plus-fours and a tweed shooting jacket which strained at the shoulder seams. Silver hair spilled from beneath a wide-brimmed floppy hat. His expression was one of escalating fury, wide cheeks darkly flushed, lips bared to reveal tusk-like teeth as he removed a long black cheroot from his cruel mouth.

But it was not just his size, the demoniac expression in his sunken eyes, nor his raging fury, which caused him to tremble in every limb, that had Miss Morgan cowering against the table. Rather it was the double-barrelled shotgun which he pointed in our direction as he demanded of his daughter in slurred stentorian tones, "Gloria, what is the meaning of this? Who are these gentlemen who have left their carriage down on the road and slunk up here like thieves intent on burgling us?"

"Father." I admired her for the way in which she regained her composure and spoke with a voice that had only the slightest tremor in it. "This is Mr Sherlock Holmes and his colleague, Doctor Watson."

"Sherlock Holmes!" The name was uttered in a whisper which embodied both shock and anger, accompanied by an intake of breath. His gaze fastened on my companion and those cheeks became darker still. "I have heard of you, Mr Holmes. Holmes, the meddler, Scotland Yard's errand boy! What brings you here? How dare you set foot in my house uninvited!"

"I invited Mr Holmes, Father", Gloria Morgan spoke coolly and looked even more radiant in her moment of defiance.

"Leave my house at once!" The gun barrels swung round and came to a halt, trained upon Holmes, "or I shall summon the local constabulary and have you arrested. Nobody sets foot in Winchcombe Hall except at my invitation!"

"I rather think that it will snow again before nightfall," Sherlock Holmes remarked as though he was totally unaware of the gun which threatened him.

"Get out!"

"Perhaps," Holmes continued, undeterred, "you would be good enough to summon your local constabulary, after all, Squire Morgan, so that I may present my recent findings to them. I am now able to reveal the manner in which you murdered your wife two nights ago."

Morgan might have been a statue, frozen into immobility, the gun extended, one-handed, forefinger curled around the front trigger. My own hand crept into the pocket of my overcoat, gripped the butt of my revolver, my thumb easing back the hammer slowly so that the cocking action would not click and reveal that I was armed. Indeed, I would have shot Royston Morgan through my pocket except that I feared that the impact of the striking bullet might cause the shotgun to detonate and

blast Holmes at point blank range. That was the only reason why I did not shoot this fiend down in cold blood.

"This is preposterous!" Morgan's lips moved at last, his denial an unconvincing whine. "My dear wife died of lockjaw, caused, doubtless, by some wound whilst going about her horticultural interests."

"No." Holmes's gaze never wavered, not so much as a hint of fear did he show in the face of that scattergun. "There is no such wound upon your wife's body, my medical colleague has already checked and informs me, with authority, that she did not die from tetanus. Rather, she died from strychnine poisoning, which is both sudden and terrible, a tiny amount of the substance, which is odourless, proving fatal. You procured the poison from Randall, your gamekeeper, for the supposed purpose of poisoning moles but instead you used it to murder your unsuspecting wife."

"I… I used the strychine to poison the moles in the grounds." I was heartily relieved to see those gun barrels lowered and pointing to the floor.

"Some of it, perhaps." Sherlock Holmes gave a short laugh. "But it only required a minute quantity to bring about a terrible end for your wife and free you to marry into considerable wealth, thereby fulfilling your lifelong ambition of owning the Longparish estate. It was a foul and cunning plan, aided by the fact that an ageing medical practitioner would not even consider the possibility that the local squire might have committed murder."

"It's a lie, Mister Holmes, spawned by my daughter who has hated me since childhood, and who sees a means whereby to inherit Winchcombe Hall before her time."

"It is no lie, Squire Morgan, although certainly your own daughter had good reason to hate you. What better, you thought, than to have your wife die in a locked room, and the accusation of death by poisoning dispelled by feeding the remnants of her last meal to the dogs which showed not the slightest ill-effect."

"You can prove nothing, Mr Sherlock Holmes!"

"Indeed, I can." These were the moments which Sherlock Holmes enjoyed most, revealing his observations and deductions only when they were finalized beyond all possible doubt. "Your fascination for medieval herbs and potions led you to discover a means by which unsuspecting victims were poisoned five centuries or more ago. In the days of parchment and inflexible leaves, often readers wetted a finger to turn the pages.Your own wife had developed that same habit, and the idea occurred to you that if you adhered strychnine to the top right-hand corner of the pages of whatever book she happened to be reading at the time, then it was almost certain that the poison would be conveyed to her mouth. And so it was."

"Prove it!" Morgan growled but his tone now had an uncertainty in it. "You're guessing, bluffing."

"No." Sherlock Holmes shook his head, the smile still lingering on his lips. "Indeed, I can prove, beyond all doubt, that it was yourself who adhered strychnine to the pages of the book with moistened flour, rendering it virtually invisible against the whiteness of the paper. Having discovered which book your wife was reading, you carried out your filthy plan. Remnants of the strychnine would not, in itself, be enough to convict you. However, a small quantity of Burma cheroot ash was dislodged and showered on to the page in question whilst you were applying the poison. Some traces remain and I note, Squire Morgan, that you have a liking for that particular variety of strong cheroot. I am somewhat of an expert on the subject of tobacco ash, and I am able, at a glance, to differentiate between the various types."

Royston Morgan's previously florid features were now deathly pale. He was shaking, not from rage this time, but from fear because his dastardly deed had been exposed and he would undoubtedly go to the gallows. Cowardice prevailed, but my own concern was that his shaking finger might pull upon the trigger of his shotgun, or that he might blast us all in a desperate attempt to conceal his crime.

Fortunately, that was not to be. In one swift but ungainly movement, he turned, stumbled from the library, and the three of us stood listening to his shambling footsteps going back through the hall. We heard the outer door slam behind him.

I drew my revolver, and would have hastened after him, but Sherlock Holmes stayed me with an upraised hand.

"Let him go, Watson," said he.

For some moments I was bewildered for it was not in my companion's nature to allow a cold-blooded murderer to

escape. I felt Gloria Morgan's hand upon my arm and I let her lean against me for surely the poor girl had suffered more than enough.

It was as we stood there, not knowing what Holmes intended, that we heard the simultaneous double blast of a shotgun from outside. We looked at one another, finally understanding, as the echoes rolled across the wintry landscape, slowly dying away.

"It is best that way," Sherlock Holmes demonstrated a rare tenderness in his nature as he squeezed Gloria Morgan's hand. "Nothing is to be gained by bringing the matter to the attention of the authorities.Your mother is now at peace, and her murderer has fittingly paid for his crime with his life. Far better, Miss Morgan, that you make a new life for yourself, unsoiled by a scandal that would follow you for the rest of your days."

Only now, with the passing of time, has Sherlock Holmes agreed to my request to record the facts concerning the case of Morgan the Poisoner, as he refers to it in his own files. I read in the Daily Telegraph, some months ago, that Miss Gloria Morgan, formerly ofWinchcombe Hall in Hampshire, had married a wealthy mine owner from South Africa, and had subsequently emigrated to that country. Perhaps there she will find happiness at last, and be able to cast off those dark events of that cruel winter of '88.

The Vanishing of the Atkinsons – Eric Brown

It is more than likely that 1888 was also the year of "The Hound of the Baskervilles", perhaps Holmes's most famous case, and not a decade later as popularly recorded. Holmes was initially unable to venture to Dartmoor, and sent Watson in his stead. Holmes claimed he was involved in a blackmail case, which may be true, but it is also likely that he was being consulted over the Jack the Ripper murders. There have been many attempts to account for Holmes's involvement in that investigation, all of them, I believe, apocryphal. It is my belief that Holmes rapidly solved those murders to his own satisfaction and left Scotland Yard to bring the investigation to a conclusion, so that he could throw himself fully into the Baskerville problem.

Also at the time was the case of "The Sign of Four" in which Watson met and fell in love with Mary Morstan. They were married soon after, at the close of 1888. Watson moved out of the Baker Street apartments and also set himself up in a practice in Paddington. For a while Holmes continued his investigations on his own and it was not until March 1889 that the two were reunited in "A Scandal in Bohemia".

Watson only later came to learn of some of the cases that Holmes investigated on his own. Amongst them was the tragedy of the Atkinson brothers. Although Watson later wrote this up he never sought its publication. Some years ago a copy of this came to my attention and my colleague, Eric Brown, has made it suitable for publication.

I had not seen my friend Sherlock Holmes for some months, pressure of work on both our parts curtailing the niceties of social intercourse, and it was quite by chance that he happened to be in his chambers when I called upon him that evening.

"Watson!" Holmes declared as Mrs Hudson showed me into the room. "Take a seat, my friend. I trust the winter is not too inclement for you?"

I warmed my hands before the fire, and then accommodated myself in the proffered armchair. I made some comment or other to the effect that the winters were becoming even colder of late, which set my friend on the course of a lengthy speculation upon the subject of world meteorology, climatology, and allied topics.

I helped myself to a brandy and settled in for the evening.

By and by my friend recounted examples of severe weather he had encountered upon his many and diverse travels. My interest quickened; it is the one regret of our friendship that Holmes rarely sees fit to avail me of the incidents that befell him during his sojourn to points east during the period I have termed, in my accounts of my friend's illustrious career, the Great Hiatus.

That night he was vague in the details of his travels, but at one point he did say: "Of course I had experience of the monsoon when I travelled from Tibet, south to Ceylon to revisit an old friend – "

I leaned forward, pouncing upon his use of the word "revisit". "Why, Holmes, do you mean to say that you visited the island before '94?"

My friend realized his mistake at once, and gestured with feigned unconcern. "A trifling affair at Trincomalee in '88 – "

"You actually worked on a case out there?" I expostulated. "But why haven't you mentioned this before?"

"An affair of little account and even less interest,Watson. And anyway, I was sworn to utmost secrecy by the Royal Ceylonese Tea Company. As I was saying, concerning the nature of the monsoon rains…"

Whereupon the affair at Trincomalee was dismissed by my friend in his desire to expound upon the subject of the Asiatic rains.

Towards midnight I took my leave and, during the course of the next few weeks, went about my business with hardly a thought for that evening's exchange.

I had quite forgotten about the affair when, one month later, I called upon my friend and found him at home. He showed me to the fire and urged to help myself to a snifter of brandy.

At length he gestured with a long, languid hand to a letter lying open on the table beside his chair.

"Do you recall that upon your last visit I mentioned a small affair at Trincomalee, Ceylon, and the injunction placed upon my mentioning the case by the Royal Ceylonese Tea Company?"

I sat up, quite excited. "Of course," said I. "But what of it?"

"It appears that the injunction no longer pertains, Watson," Holmes said casually. "Three weeks ago I received a letter from my friend out there, informing me that the Company has fallen upon bad times and gone bankrupt – and so the last obstacle to my telling of the tale is no more."

He proceeded to fill his pipe with tobacco from the battered slipper he kept wedged down the side of his armchair. Soon we were enveloped in a pungent blue fug; I took a sip of brandy and made myself an audience, as I had on many an occasion before, to my friend's oratorical skills.

"You recall the extraordinary case of the Gloria Scott, wherein I was called to the aid of my university friend, Victor Trevor?"

"I most certainly do," I said. It had been one of the cases I had written up during Holmes's long absence from these shores.

"For many years," he said, "I lost contact with Trevor. At length I heard through a mutual friend that he had set sail for Ceylon, with the idea of managing a tea plantation or some such. Whatever, I heard no more… No more, that is, until the year of '88, when I received a letter from my old friend, couched in such terms that made it obvious he was in need of my assistance. Indeed, he almost begged my presence on that far away island, and even went so far as to include a return ticket on a cutter of the East India Line and promise of payment for my troubles upon my arrival. He went on to outline the details of a case that had baffled himself and his employers, the Royal Ceylonese Tea Company, for a good three months."

"Those details I found curious enough, and the pleas of my friend sufficient to warrant a trip to those tropical latitudes.You probably never missed me, my dear Watson, being too occupied with other things at the time: it was shortly after your marriage that I put my affairs in order, packed my bags and set sail aboard the Eastern Empress. For the duration of the voyage I absorbed myself in the analysis of the details of the case presented to me in Trevor's somewhat hasty missive."

"The brothers Atkinson, Bruce and William, were neighbours of Victor Trevor in Ceylon. They had left England some ten years before, and set sail for the Far East with the intention of making their fortunes. For a decade they worked for the Royal Ceylonese Tea Company at various locations around the island, for the last two years managing an estate of some one hundred native workers near Trincomalee. They were by all accounts gentlemen of upstanding and personable character, well liked by both the Ceylonese and the expatriate community of fellow planters and other businessmen. My friend Victor Trevor was a regular social visitor to the plantation; in his own words the brothers were the salt of the earth". They never married – a situation not uncommon among those of their chosen vocation – and lived for their work. They had no enemies."

"Their disappearance was as sudden as it was mysterious. It occurred presumably in the early hours of 1 February: suffice to say, they were seen by their house-boy prior to turning in the night before, but in the morning they were gone. They did not appear for breakfast at six, nor show up to do their rounds of the plantation at seven. Their absence was reported to the Colonial Police at Trincomalee at nine o'clock that morning, and it was not until noon that my friend Trevor heard of their disappearance. He headed over to the plantation and arrived minutes before a Sergeant from the police. Together they searched the house, and found nothing to suggest anything amiss other than a broken gas lamp and an overturned table in the lounge room. The investigating officer suggested that these were suspicious, indicative of a struggle and foul play, but Trevor noted that the table had been positioned near an open window through which the wind disturbed a heavy curtain. It was conceivable that the wind had caused the damage."

"They searched the plantation, and even the neighbouring country, but found nothing and no one. They questioned the under-managers and local workers, who reported nothing suspicious or noteworthy. From that day, 1 February 1887, to the day Trevor penned the letter, the brothers Atkinson had neither been seen nor heard. It was as if they left the house that morning and vanished from the face of the earth."

"Of course, Trevor's account was selective and inconclusive – there was much that I wished to know of the affairs of the

brothers before I might begin to give an opinion on the case. By the time the Eastern Empress docked at the port of Jaffna I was eager to set about my investigations."

"Victor Trevor met me on the quay, and we drove south in his trap to Trincomalee. The passage of time had done little to take the shine off the youth of my university friend, and for the duration of the journey we exchanged information concerning our exploits during the intervening years. I was to stay at the Atkinson's plantation itself, which Trevor was overseeing in the absence of the brothers. It was late by the time we arrived, and I had little time to question my friend as to the details of the case before he suggested that we turn in and discuss the reason for my presence in the morning."

"The miracle of dawn in those climes, Watson! I was up early the following morning to witness the rapid transformation from night to day from my verandah. One minute the land was clothed in darkness, the next a golden sunlight exposed the deep shadows of the valleys and the bright green expanse of the tea bushes. My friend was already risen, and we partook breakfast excellent kippers and poached eggs – around the vast oak table of the dining room."

"I see the brothers Atkinson were fond of a game of cards," I observed, gesturing to the table-top. "Bridge, if I am not mistaken."

"Your powers of deduction are as sharp as ever," Trevor remarked. "Recall how you amazed my father upon that first meeting? Now, an explanation, if you please."

"Simplicity itself: observe the marks of wear upon the polish of the table-top. Note the scuff mark where a hand would be picked up, and the two smaller indentations at either side of where the pack resides at the centre of the table, made when the pack would be lifted at the end of a hand."

"Remarkable."

"Further, three of the four players are right-handed, the fourth not so. This much is obvious from the slight groves in the patina of the polish, worn either to the right or left of the player. You are left-handed, Victor, and I deduce therefore that you were a frequent guest on bridge nights."

"Twice a week for the past two years, Holmes," said he shaking his head.

"I can tell, also, that penny bets were placed upon the outcome of the games. The scratches here and here attest to that."

"At this my friend coloured. 'Why,' he blustered, 'you're right, Holmes. A little wager added interest to the contests.' "

"I am not a gambling man myself," I said. "I find that the scientific analysis of the pursuit results in the fact that one can never win, only break even, except when luck intervenes. And I have never been one to trust in the happy felicity of luck."

"We finished our breakfast, and I asked then to be shown around the house, and expressed the desire to questions the Atkinsons' head house-boy and house-keeper."

"Victor showed me into the lounge, a spacious room affording a magnificent panorama across the sun-soaked terraces of the estate. Hanging above the fireplace was an oil painting of the brothers, tall, flaxen-haired men in the middle-thirties, posing with their rifles on either side of a prostrate tiger."

"I have left everything in place, as found on the morning of the brothers' disappearance. Observe the table and gas-lamp."

"As Trevor had mentioned in the letter, there were no suspicious circumstances to be drawn from the toppled table and lamp. A wind stirring the curtains through the open window might easily have occasioned the damage."

"Were the doors locked upon the night of the disappearance?" I asked.

"It is uncommon in these parts to take the precaution of locking doors. If we trust our staff, then we see no need…"

"We passed through the house from room to room, and I noticed nothing amiss or noteworthy as we did so. At length we stood upon the verandah and gazed out over the verdant hills of the estate. 'Tell me, Victor – were the brothers in the habit of taking hikes, or taking off on travels without notifying friends and staff?"

"Most certainly not. They had the interests of the estate at heart. They were most conscientious in the running of the business. They would go nowhere without first notifying one of their managers. Twice a year they took a boat up to Madras to call on acquaintances for a week, at Christmas and again six months later at the end of June.' "

"So therefore their disappearance in February cannot have been simply a trip to Madras?"

"Of course not! We checked this possibility at the shipping office in Trincomalee."

`Which company did the brothers use for their voyages to India?' "

"The Modras Line. They have offices in town."

"I might call upon them myself in the course of my investigation," said I.

"The house-boy was summoned from the kitchen, and I questioned him upon the verandah. The 'house-boy' proved to be no boy at all, but a tiny, wizened Tamil in his fifties at least. He was polite and informative, but could shed no light on the mysterious vanishing of his employers. I ran the gamut of usual questions, from whether he noticed anything amiss on the night in question – he had not – to whether the brothers were liked and respected, which they were. Finally I asked: 'What, in your opinion, has become of Master Bruce and William?' "

"At this his eyes filled with tears, and he murmured, 'I fear for their lives, Mr Holmes.' "

"You do, and why is this?"

"The little Tamil shook his head. 'Their spirits are abroad at night,' said he."

"I exchanged a glance with Trevor. 'They are? And what makes you so certain?' "

" 'Myself, I have not heard or seen them – but my kitchen boys report hearing their wails in the night from the hills around. Their spirits haunt the estate and will do so until their enemies are brought to justice.' "

"I considered his words for some minutes, my thoughts entertaining dark possibilities in the bright sunlight of that equatorial country, whereupon I dismissed the house-boy and turned to Trevor."

"And what, my friend do you make of that?"

"Poppycock, Holmes! Superstition of the first water. There are no people on Earth more given to such flights of fancy than the natives of this island. They probably heard the trumpeting of an elephant and drew conclusions."

"Perhaps I might have a word with the house-keeper?"

"Trevor informed me that the girl employed by the brothers at the time of their disappearance was no longer in service here. 'She is pregnant, and shortly after the brothers' disappearance

took ill. For the past three months she has been bed-ridden in a bungalow on the edge of the estate – the brothers hired a doctor in the early stages of her pregnancy, when she first showed signs of weakness. The doctor has attended her ever since. Later, if you wish, we might visit her and see what she can add to your investigations. Now, perhaps I could show you around the estate before the sun is at its height? I have my morning rounds to do anyway. If you would care to join me…' "

"We took a trap along the rutted tracks excavated through the red soil of the estate. From time to time Trevor reigned the horse to a holt, climbed down and engaged native workers in long minutes' conversation. One hour before noon, with the sun beating down like some heavenly furnace, Trevor pulled up on the very perimeter of the estate, jumped down and strode through the knee-high bushes to address a worker bent over in inspection of the soil. While Trevor was thus occupied, and despite the fierce attention of the sun, I elected to leave the canopied shade of the trap and take a stroll."

"I inspected a number of tea plants, about which, over the course of my botanical investigations, I have come to know a little. At length I repaired to Trevor's side, interested in the involved conversation he was conducting with the worker. They were discussing the state and composition of the soil. At one point I interrupted. 'Might this account for the state of the plants in this area?' I enquired."

" 'I didn't know you were a botanist too, Holmes,' said Trevor."

"I've gleaned a passing knowledge of the science in my reading over the years," said I. "And these plants seem, if I am not mistaken, to be suffering from Elsinoe thaea – or mottle scab."

"The manager nodded. 'And not only in this area, Mr Holmes. Fully half the estate is blighted.' "

Trevor swung his arm to indicate a broad swathe of land on the periphery of the plantation. 'The entire eastern sector will not produce this season,' said he. "I closed down the whole area when I took charge in February, locked the outbuildings where the tea was stored for drying, and ensured that no-one approached these terraces, for fear of spreading the scab.' "

" 'Do you think that the Atkinsons were aware of the disease before they vanished?' I asked."

"Trevor considered the question before replying. 'It is possible, Holmes; indeed probable.' He was silent awhile. 'Why?' he asked at length. "Do you think that this might have some bearing on the case?' "

"It is too early to say," I opined. "But certainly it is a factor to be taken into consideration."

"We had been joined, there upon the hillside, by a knot of curious native workers. They spoke rapidly in their own tongue, Sinhalese, upon which Trevor seemed to lose his temper and snap at them in their language. They fell immediately silent and appeared shame-faced."

"What were they saying?" I asked.

"Yet more superstitious claptrap," Trevor said. "They claim that six months ago, just after Bruce and William vanished, they heard the waiting of their spirits in this benighted sector. Complete rubbish, of course."

"In due course we took our leave and drove east, towards the town of Trincomalee. 'The estate spreads over some five square miles,' Trevor informed me. 'The easternmost area, bordering the town, is where the locals have their abodes. The Atkinson's housekeeper is interned in the hospital bungalow.' "

"Presently we came upon the hospital, but to grace the rude timber construct with such a title was optimistic in the extreme. It was little more than a shed occupied by four beds, only one of them taken. The doctor, an Indian in his eighties, showed us across to the girl, one Anya Amala. 'Two minutes only, sirs,' he said. 'The girl is most seriously weakened.' "

"She was a small thing barely out of her teens, with a sheen of perspiration laid across her dusky brow. She eyed our approach with something like apprehension, and as I took a seat beside the bed I was at pains to put her at ease."

`I wish only to ask a few simple questions,' I began. 'I will not detain you for long.' "

"She glanced like a frightened animal from the doctor, to Trevor, and finally back to myself. She nodded, licking her lips nervously."

" 'How long have you worked for the brothers?' I enquired. "In a whisper so soft it was almost inaudible, she said, 'I have

worked for William and Bruce almost two years, sir. They have been good and kind employers. I am most very upset when they disappear.' "

" 'Workers on the estate are of the opinion that the brothers are dead, Anya. What do you think on this matter?' "

"She shook her head, and the movement dislodged tears which fell from her massive eyes and rolled down her brown cheeks. 'I… I – oh, I cannot imagine this terrible thing!' "

"I patted her hand. 'There, there. We are doing all we can to resolve the situation.' "

`The doctor gestured that the girl had had enough, and after thanking her for her time we took our leave.'

"We returned to the house and had lunch in the shade of the verandah, after which I retired to my room and slept in the heat of the day. Dinner that night was a formal occasion attended by a few local planters and their wives. The case, of course, was the main topic of conversation, and a dozen wild and extravagant theories were proposed to explain the state of affairs."

" 'It is quite obvious to me," said one dowager, the wife of a retired planter, 'that the Atkinsons were facing a financial crisis and decided to abscond. They left like thieves in the night, and might at this very moment be enjoying the high life in Kuala Lumpur."

" 'Stuff and nonsense,' someone responded. 'All the boats from the island have been investigated. The brothers were upon none of them' "

"But you do concede, do you not, that the brothers were capable of such duplicity?"

"An uneasy silence descended upon the gathered company. It is always unsettling to have suspicion pointed at erstwhile friends of hitherto impeccable reputation."

"Presently the conversation turned to matters colonial, and I excused myself and retired to my room."

"The following morning after breakfast I told Trevor that I wished to visit Trincomalee, and he arranged a trap and driver to transport me there."

"Trincomalee is a small town with stone-built, colonial buildings dominating the main street, and ruder constructions comprising the outskirts. I stepped down from the trap on the main street, which follows the length of the ridge for some hundred yards. I decided that my first port of call should be the Colonial Police headquarters, an imposing building difficult to miss. After negotiating the interminable bureaucracy that maintains in such institutions, I was finally shown into the office of one Sergeant Mortimer, the officer in charge of the Atkinson investigation."

" 'Mr Holmes,' he said, rising from his desk to shake my hand. 'I heard that you were on the case. I must confess that I should be most grateful for any light you might shed on this dreadful matter I don't mind confessing that the affair has me baffled.' He dealt me a penetrating look. 'Might I ask how your investigations proceed?' "

"I told him that I had been on the island just over one day, and that thus far I had learnt little. 'I would be pleased to hear your opinions on the case,' I said. 'There is a rumour doing the rounds that the Atkinsons' estate was falling, and rather than face the wrath of the owners, the brothers fled the country.' "

"The Sergeant pursed his lips in contemplation. "Well, the estate was not doing that well – that much I can attest: But to be perfectly honest I could not see the brothers' taking the cowards' way out and absconding. To cover that possibility, I had men posted at all the ports for two weeks following their disappearance."

"Have you in the course of your investigations looked into their financial situation?"

"Of course. I made comprehensive enquiries at the local bank. They were overdrawn to the tune of some £1,000. The brothers… how can I put it?… the brothers were rather fond of an occasional flutter, shall we say?"

"By that I take it that they played, and lost, at cards?"

" 'So I have heard,' Seageant Mortimer said. 'But I enquired as to whether they had outstanding gambling debts, and so far as I could discover, such was not the case. The whole affair baffles me, Mr Holmes.' "

"Might they have been taken from the house and murdered by enemies?" I suggested.

" 'If they had enemies,' the Sergeant said, 'then I might entertain the notion. But I knew the brothers well, and aside from their predilection towards gambling, they were as moral a pair as could be found. They did not have a detractor in the world."

"We discussed the matter further, but I discovered no more details relevant to the affair, and in due course I thanked the Sergeant and took my leave."

"I decided to look in on the offices of the Madras Line, situated in a nearby weatherboard building. A harassed female clerk in a bright red sari barely glanced up at me as she busily copied out invoices. I introduced myself and stated my business. She was most brusque in her reply. 'The ledgers are piled over there,' she replied in the sing-song English of her people. "Why don't you look for yourself?' "

"I bit my tongue and began the arduous business of going through the records of tickets sold during the relevant period. Needless to say, I discovered nothing – as if, I told myself, the brothers would have booked tickets under their own names!"

"I returned to the unfriendly clerk and requested to see the manager. The woman looked up and smiled at me. 'I am the manager, Mr Holmes,' said she."

"In that case I would like to ask you a few questions, Madam."

"For the next ten minutes I managed to extract answers from this impertinent soul – an operation as onerous as attempting to draw blood from a stone. For my pains, I learned that the brothers had not bought tickets from the Madras Line since the Christmas before, when they had taken their customary week's holiday with friends in India."

"I thanked the manager for her estimable courtesy and stepped out into the street."

"I was about to return to the waiting trap, with little accomplished, when I noticed across the street the boarded up windows of a building upon which a faded, painted sign advertised passenger ships to various destinations around the Indian sub-continent and Malaya."

"I entered the shop next door, a bicycle repair establishment, and asked how long the shipping office had been closed. The owner considered and duly answered that the business had gone into liquidation six months earlier."

"Do you have any idea as to the whereabouts of its erstwhile manager?" I asked.

" 'He is working as the deputy-manager at the Post Office,' I was told, and to these venerable premises I duly made my way. "There, an ancient Tamil identified himself as the one-time

proprietor of the shipping office. He proceeded to regale me with a catalogue of his mercantile misfortunes, until I could redirect his conversation towards more germane matters."

"I would surely have recalled if either of the Atkinsons had bought a ticket," he said, "especially in light of subsequent events."

"As I suspected," I murmured to myself. "Thank you for your time."

"However," he went on. "I do recall an occasion when someone from the Atkinsons' estate purchased two one-way tickets for Calcutta. I thought nothing of it at the time, though since I have wondered if it were at all relevant…"

"Can you describe this person?" I asked.

"He shook his head with an affect of great sadness. 'I am an old man, and my memory for faces fails me… However, I do recall that it was a young Sinhalese, and I wondered at the time now an estate worker might come by funds enough to purchase two such tickets.' "

"Can you recall the departure date of these tickets?" I asked.

"Now let me think," said the old man, rubbing his bristled chin. "Perhaps, if my memory serves me, around the middle of February."

"The middle of February, I mused: just two weeks after the disappearance of the brothers Atkinson."

"I thanked this veritable sage for his information and made my way to the waiting trap, confident that at last my enquiries were bearing fruit."

"More news awaited me upon my return to the estate. It was late afternoon and Trevor was seated upon the verandah with the first drink of the day at his elbow. 'Will you join me in a sundowner, Holmes?' said he. He despatched a boy with orders to fetch a second drink. "And how went your inquiries?' "

" 'As well, if not better, than expected.' I told him about the tickets purchased by the worker from this very estate."

" 'In that case the affair is solved!'Trevor cried. "The brothers left upon the boat bound for Calcutta!' "

"I rather think not," said I. "You see, Sergeant Mortimer had men checking all the ships leaving the island for two weeks after their disappearance."

"Then what the deuce became of them?"

"We sat in silence for some minutes before Trevor recalled

that he had news to impart. 'By the way, Holmes, you'll be glad to learn that the Anya girl gave birth at noon today. Mother and child fit and well. A little boy, so I'm told.' "

"I lowered my drink. 'I would like to pay them another visit,' I said."

"Trevor stared at me. 'I didn't have you down as a sentimental type, Holmes!' he laughed."

" 'I assure you that my interest is purely professional,' I said. `I suggest that we make haste.' "

Trevor eyed me dubiously. "Very well, Holmes. If you insist."

"He called the boy to ready the trap, and five minutes later we were rolling down the hillside towards the hospital bungalow."

"I took the opportunity to broach a rather delicate issue. 'Trevor,' said I, as my friend manhandled the reins and we rounded a sharp bend. 'I learned today that the brothers were in debt, and moreover were rather partial to an occasional flutter." '

"I recalled my friend's reaction, the day before, when I observed that their card games involved the exchange of money. `I put it to you that you played the brothers at cards for more than mere pennies.' "

"Trevor stiffened. He would not even glance at me. 'You're right, Holmes. I should have known better than to hope you might not find out…' "

"How much did you win from them over the course of your encounters?"

"Trevor huffed and puffed for some time, before muttering, 'Some £500, all told.' "

"Very well. That is all I wished to know. You obviously had an agreement, and after all the game was conducted between gentlemen."

"We continued the ride in uneasy silence. In due course we arrived at the hospital and hurried inside. The elderly doctor showed us to Anya's bed, beside which was a crib bearing the newborn baby."

"One glance at the infant was sufficient to confirm my suspicions. Beside me, Trevor gasped. 'Good God, man! I never thought…' "

"The sleeping child had skin a tone lighter than his mother's, though that was not the clincher. The boy also possessed a fine head of luxuriant blond curls."

"From the bed, Anya was staring at us, tears falling from her massive eyes."

" 'Bruce,' I asked her, 'or William?' "

"It was some minutes before she could master her emotions and bring herself to reply. 'Young master William,' she said. 'We were in love. He promised that when our baby was born, we would go away, far from here, and start a new life together.' "

"She broke down in another fit of tears, and I glanced at Trevor." 'But does this have any bearing on their whereabouts?' he asked.

" 'I think perhaps it might.' I turned to the young girl. 'I take it, Anya, that you conducted your affair with William elsewhere than the house?' "

"She nodded, sobbing. At last she said, 'We met every second day, at six, at the bungalow on MacPherson's Hill.' "

" `To MacPherson's Hill at once!' I said to Trevor."

"Anya grabbed my arm. 'William, Mr Holmes! Do you think…?' "

"I feared the worst, but of course did not inform her. 'We can but hope and pray,' I told her without conviction."

"We lost no time and hurried from the hospital. Trevor drove us at breakneck speed across the estate, each passing minute taking us higher and higher into the green-clad hills."

" 'I wish you'd tell me what you fear and suspect, Holmes!' he cried. 'I am almost beside myself with worry!' "

" 'I cannot be certain,' I told him, 'but I rather think that all is far from well.' "

"We came upon a rise, and Trevor indicated a small timber bungalow situated a hundred yards further along the ridge. He whipped the horse to greater speed and seconds later we careered to a halt outside the bungalow. We jumped down and made our way into the building."

"I looked about the tiny sitting room, while Trevor reconnoitred the adjacent sleeping chamber. 'Holmes!' came the sudden cry."

"I hurried into the bedroom and beheld, placed upon the counterpane in the centre of the bed, a hastily scrawled note."

"I picked up the note and read it. 'Much as I supposed,' I said to myself, passing Trevor the paper."

"He read aloud: My Dear Anya – make haste to Master Trevor with this note. Trevor – for Godsake help us! We were taken by bandits three mornings back. They hold us in the hills, demanding a ransom of some £500, to be left beside the well on Chatterjee Hill. If constables are present, they threaten to kill us. Trevor, I implore you – pay the ranson and we will reimburse you in due course. Please look after Anya until our release.' "

"Signed, William and Bruce Atkinson."

" 'But of course,' said I, 'the day after the brothers disappeared, Anya fell ill and could not make the usual rendezvous.' "

" 'Good God, man,' Trevor cried. 'What tragedy. They might lie dead with their throats cut as we speak. But what now? Do I go ahead and deliver the ransom?' "

" 'I rather think that it is too late in the day for that,' I said." "The kidnappers have despatched them already?"

"I refrained from answering him, but strode outside and climbed into the trap. Trevor rushed after me."

"I said, 'You mentioned yesterday that six months ago, shortly after the brothers disappeared, you locked the outbuildings on the eastern fringes of the estate -' "

"This I did. But I hardly see…"

"Get your men to open every one and search them thoroughly. Time is of the essence."

"We returned to the house, and Trevor ordered his men to do as I willed. He distributed keys, and we once again boarded the trap and made for the eastern sector."

"Fifteen minutes later we heard a cry from a native worker not 200 yards distant. He was standing with a crowd of other men outside the open double-doors of a storage shed. They stared into the dark interior, seemingly too fearful to enter."

"We hurried across and approached the shed, and the noisome stench that assailed my nostrils confirmed my gravest fears. Covering our lower faces with 'kerchiefs, we cautiously entered the storage shed."

"Two bodies, dressed in tropical garb, were sprawled out across the floor. The heat of the shed had advanced their decay past the point of easy recognition. Trevor gagged and retched and hurried outside."

" 'I swear,' he said at last, 'I swear to bring to justice the dogs responsible for this!' "

" 'Look no farther than the two men lying dead,' said I."

" 'What!' he cried."

"Trevor, my friend – there were never any kidnappers, except in the wily imaginings of the brothers' minds. This is indeed a tragic business."

" 'Do you mean to say…' he gestured at the corpses of his erstwhile friends, speechless."

" 'They manufactured the whole sorry business, Trevor," I said. 'They had gambling debts; their estate was failing… they took the cowards" way out and came up with this disastrous plan to extract from you the £5,000. Of course they would never have reimbursed you – they planned to take the money and leave behind them their debts and the failed estate, leave in disguise by the ship to Calcutta and start a new life with their criminal gains. Of course, they were thwarted by ill-luck: they were not to know that Anya would fall ill, or that you would happen by this shed and inadvertently lock them inside. These buildings are sturdy constructs; they had no hope of escape.' "

" 'Good God,' Trevor cried, stricken. 'Their cries! Those banshee wails reported by the workers…' "

" 'It was this detail that made me suspicious,' said I. 'I am a man of science, Trevor – I have no truck with ghosts and ghouls and such. Taken together with all the other small details of this case, the brothers' gambling debts, the failing estate, the tickets booked for Calcutta, and Anya's unforeseen illness… I began to see what tragedy might have occurred.' "

"I left him pondering these terrible circumstances and made my way to the trap. At length Trevor hurried after me. 'But one thing puzzles me,' said he. 'You said that two tickets were booked for Calcutta – and yet Anya says that William promised that together they would head for India to start a new life…' "

"I paused in the process of climbing into the trap, and stared Trevor directly in the eye."

" 'There are two scenarios we can deduce from the facts as we know them," I said. "One, that William would indeed honour his professed love for Anya: once they had picked up the ransom money, Bruce would leave the island by some other means, and William would spirit Anya off to India -' "

"And the other?"

" 'The other,' I said, 'is that William and Bruce were not the gentlemen you assumed; that they booked tickets for the two of them and planned to leave Anya here while they escaped with your £5,000.' "

" 'And which', asked Trevor, 'do you suppose is the truth?' "

"I made a hopeless gesture. 'I would like to think, for Anya's peace of mind, that William intended to take her with him…' "

"Trevor stared into the heavens, his countenance racked by anguish. 'Whichever,' said he, 'the company cannot have the truth of the matter spread far and wide! Why, the scandal… You must promise me, Holmes, that your lips are sealed.' "

" 'My friend,' said I, 'you have my assurance that I will breathe a word of the matter to no one.' "

Mr Sherlock Holmes paused to refill his pipe. "There the matter ended," said he. "And, but for this letter, the details of the case might never have been known."

"What did Trevor tell the company?"

Holmes inclined his aquiline head. "I advised him to destroy the spurious ransom note, and concoct a tale whereby the brothers went one morning to check the storage shed, were bitten by a snake or somesuch, and succumbed before they might summon help. Their bodies were accidentally locked in the shed and thus the tragedy went undiscovered for six long months."

"And what became of Anya?" I enquired.

"Ever the romantic, Watson!" Holmes smiled at me. "When I returned in '94, Anya was working for Trevor on his estate, and her son was a fit and healthy six year old. I even, you will be astonished to learn, left a certain sum in trust to go towards the upbringing and education of the boy."

His eyes twinkled at me as he reached for the bottle.

"Would you care for another brandy, Watson?" he asked.

The Adventure of the Fallen Star – Simon Clark

Holmes was never comfortable in the company of women. There is no evidence that he spent any social time with Watson and his wife after their marriage except for the very occasional call forced upon him by business. Only once did Holmes meet a woman whom he believed was his intellectual equal, and that was Irene Adler, whose case is recounted in "A Scandal in Bohemia".

It was after this case that Watson became closely involved with Holmes again, suggesting that either the gloss of his marriage had started to dull, or that Mary Morstan was remarkably understanding. For a period Holmes was involved in a number of small cases many of which he felt were important but lacked interest. Some were clearly bizarre. He refers to the Dundas separation case in which the husband had developed the habit of hurling his false teeth at his wife after every meal. None of these cases appear to have been written up, either because Watson was not around or Holmes rapidly lost interest in them.All that is, except one,"Th e Adventure of the Fallen Star". This began as one of those minor cases, which Holmes almost overlooked when he became wrapped up in "A Case of Identity", but soon after events unravelled themselves which presented Holmes a singularly unusual case. Its facts were unearthed by Simon Clark.

"My dear fellow, you are puzzled; admit it," demanded Sherlock Holmes, as we sat side-by-side in the four-wheeler being briskly driven through the maelstrom of foot, hoof and wheel that is the Strand on a Friday noon.

"Indeed I am, Holmes." I held up the stone, no larger than a grape, that he'd not two moments before handed to me. "You pass me a little pebble and ask me what I make of it."

"Yes."

"Well, I confess I make nothing of it." I smiled and shook my head. "Nothing at all."

"Ha! That's because although you look, you do not observe. Remember, Watson: detail, detail, detail."

"It has, I take it, a bearing on a case you are currently investigating?"

"Only partly. But he's a curious fellow, isn't he?"

"The stone?"

"Yes, the stone, lying there in the palm of your gloved hand." Holmes, in a playful mood, gave a devil of grin. "Come on, play the game, Watson. Read the stone. See its appearance, the markings upon its surface. Feel its weight. Gauge its constitution. If it pleases you, describe to me any clairvoyant vibration that may emanate from its stony heart."

"You are teasing me, Holmes."

"I am. Yes."

I raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Forgive me please, Doctor; I am teasing you, for the case I have taken is, if I'm not mistaken, nothing more than a tease, a practical joke, a whimsical prank."

"Then I am all in the dark."

"Ha! But soon all will be clear as day."

"What possessed you to accept such a case?"

"Normally, I wouldn't have glanced at it twice. However, I am acquainted with the gentleman involved."

"A friend?"

"Ah, I would describe you as my sole friend, Watson. This gentleman, although I have never yet met him in person, was of considerable service in the past when he furnished me with invaluable information on the constitution of certain metals, which enabled me to lay to rest the matter of the golden bullet murders in King's Lynne. In short, I owe him one small favour. By Jove! Look at that, London becomes busier by the day. Within a decade the city will become so congested the only sure transport will be by Shanks's pony!"

"Then at least our slow passage northwards to Hampstead will give you sufficient time to tell me the facts of the case before we reach the home of your client."

"Indeed it will. First, Watson, the stone! Pray focus your attention upon it. Read it as if it were the page from a book." With that my friend placed the tips of his long fingers together, closed his eyes; only the slight wrinkling of his forehead beneath the brim of his shiny top hat betraying he would listen closely to my every word.

I listed everything of significance I could discern from the stone. "Weight: let me see. An ounce, perhaps. Size: no larger than a grape. Shape: pear shaped. Colour: um, silvery. Odour: none. Appearance: smooth as glass; subjected to intense heat, I would surmise."

"Where is it from?" asked Holmes without opening his eyes. "A furnace I should suppose, before that I dare not say." "Ha!" Holmes opened his penetrating eyes.

"You know where the stone originated?"

"Indeed. It came from the depths of the universe. The scorched appearance of the stone was caused by its headlong rush through our world's atmosphere. The speed being so great that the very air rubbing against the surface produced such tremendous temperatures those surfaces did in fact melt, hence the ablated base of the stone."

"Good Lord, then it is an aerolite?"

"Spot on, Watson. Yes, an aerolite, more commonly known as a shooting star or meteorite. Above us, in the heavens, are countless millions of stone fragments, whirling silently through the cold depths of space. Occasionally one falls to Earth. One might look up on a clear night and see the fiery trail one of these fragments makes. Only rarely do they reach the surface of the Earth."

I looked at our stony visitor from the heavens with more interest. "Then it's valuable?"

"Pooh, pooh, not in the least. A few shillings."

"But you say it has a bearing on the case?"

"Again I can only repeat partly. I brought it along as an introduction to the facts. This stone itself, I purchased along with a trunkful of other mineral samples many years ago." He took the stone from me, held it between the finger and thumb of his gloved hand, his face in profile to me, his striking aquiline features just inches from the stone as his heavy-lidded eyes gazed dreamily upon it. "Imagine though, Watson if you will. This slight chip of stone, so insignificant in appearance,

has drifted between the stars for many millions of years. By chance it struck this world, where it whistled groundward in a fiery streak of light. Imagine if the stone were large enough for you and I to ride upon it as it flew high above continents and oceans. At night the lights of our great cities would shine like the dust of diamonds sprinkled upon black velvet. In those cities people live their lives – real people, Doctor! – not mere ciphers. There, sons of kings and paupers might lay awake at night vexed by worries, fears, jealousies. And in those cities housing million upon million of human souls there are enough men and women intent on crimes great and small to dizzy even the greatest statistician. Imagine if you will, Watson, our world revolving beneath you, like a classroom globe. And with every tick of the watch there are a thousand thefts; with every tock of the clock a dozen murders. Ha!" He tossed the stone into the air, deftly caught it in the palm of his hand, then slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. "So, Watson, why am I sitting here in a carriage, on this day in flaming June, sizzling like a Dover sole upon its griddle, engaged on such a trifling matter?"

"The acquaintance? A favour you mentioned?"

"Of course. The case is so slight we should have the solution long before we take afternoon tea, but this gentlemen is much troubled by the case. Inordinately so. And I dare say that you, being a medical man, are consulted by a great number of people with many a cough, coryza and pimple who, clearly to you, are not particularly ill but seek reassurance from a man with the power to allay their worries."

"Ah, this case…"

"Oh forgive me, Watson, please. You must know the facts. My acquaintance, by correspondence only, is one Professor Charles Hardcastle of Hampstead. He wrote to me a few days ago beseeching me to call on him as he feared his house was being periodically entered by an individual who, in the words of the professor, 'intends to visit an iniquitous injury upon the household.' "

"Then you are looking for a common burglar?"

"Perhaps."

"So it is a matter for the police?"

"Perhaps not."

"But something was stolen?"

"Stolen? No. Borrowed."

"Borrowed?"

"Barely, the facts are these, Watson. Professor Charles Hardcastle lives in a large house in Hampstead. It stands, he tells me, in expansive grounds. Living with him in the house are his wife and son, whom is ten years of age. Also residing there are the domestic staff. The professor specializes in metallurgical sciences and has long since being interested in aerolites which are often composed of metals such as iron and nickel.These are of particular significance to him because they are not of this Earth and he hopes to discover within them metals with singular properties. The man is forty years of age, modest, hard-working, financially secure and not given to any outrageous vices. Last Monday the professor worked late into the night in his laboratory, which is housed in a purpose-built annex that adjoins his home; there he conducted certain chemical tests on aerolites. The aerolites are locked in glass-fronted cabinets. The largest stone, which is no larger than a plum, occupies pride of place in the centre of one of these cabinets. At ten to midnight, with his experiment complete, he retired to bed, locking the stones into their cabinets, then carefully locking the door of the laboratory behind him. The laboratory can be accessed from the rear courtyard through twin stout doors which are bolted from within, and through a door which leads directly into the main house. Have you followed me so far?"

"It is very clear."

"If you remember Monday's was a hot, dry night. Professor Hardcastle, mindful of his wife's concerns that he doesn't neglect his stomach, took a little supper of milk and biscuits. Then he made his way to bed. Only then did he remember he'd left his pince-nez spectacles in the laboratory, and as he is quite short-sighted he returned to the laboratory to retrieve them. He unlocked the door that leads from the house to the laboratory and entered. As he picked the pince-nez from the bench he noticed that one of his glass-fronted cases lay open. And upon placing the pince-nez on his nose he immediately saw that the largest aerolite had been taken.

"There had been a forced entry?"

Holmes shook his head. "The door he had entered by was locked. So were the twin doors to the courtyard: locked and

securely bolted. The windows all locked, too."

"An oversight then. He left the door to the house unlocked?"

"He's most particular to ensure it is locked. The laboratory contains many poisons and powerful acids. He states quite clearly in his letters it is his great fear that his son might find his way into the laboratory and injure himself playing with test-tubes and so forth. Therefore, he's most scrupulous in keeping the door locked."

"So that is the mystery?" I said.

He sighed, disappointed. "A very slight one, I'm afraid." "That an intruder stole an aerolite, shooting star, call it what you will? And that he left no clue as to his entry?"

"But there the mystery thickens."

"Yes, you remarked the object wasn't stolen, merely borrowed?"

"Correct. The stone vanished on the Monday night between Professor Hardcastle locking the laboratory then returning to it to retrieve his pince-nez which, he gauges, to be an interval of forty minutes."

"When did the stone reappear?"

"It reappeared on the Wednesday morning on the son's bedside table."

I looked at Holmes in surprise then chortled. "Then it is a childish prank. The son took the stone. Carelessly he allowed it to be discovered."

Holmes smiled. "We shall see."

The carriage left the overheated chaos of central London behind. The air became fresher, although the carriage slower, as it climbed the steep hills toward Hampstead. The canyons of town houses and commercial premises gave way to the widely spaced villas and the great expanse of Heath that rolled away beneath a clear blue sky. The clip and clop of the horse became less frequent, too, as it toiled up that particularly steep lane that soars upward beside the prominent elevation of The Spaniard's Inn. Not more than a hundred yards beyond the inn Holmes directed the cabbie to make a sharp right turn into a driveway leading to a large redbrick villa. A single-storey annex of fresher red brick abutted one flank of the house.

The moment the four-wheeler entered the driveway the garden bushes parted and a man leapt from them. He roared

with the ferocity of a lion. In his hand he carried a bunch of twigs which he shook at us with extraordinary ferocity.

"It is time!" bellowed the man. "It is time!"

I recoiled in shock. "Good heavens, the man is going to attack us."

He shouted repeatedly, "It is time! Dear God! It is time!"

"Take care, Holmes," I said as my friend ordered the driver to halt while simultaneously throwing open the door of the carriage. "The man is clearly dangerous."

"On the contrary, Watson. You'd rarely find highwaymen and footpads dressed in carpet slippers and well pressed trousers. This must be Professor Hardcastle. Oh. My good man, do be careful."

Professor Hardcastle ran forward, stumbling as he did so to his knees. He was panting. A look of such horror in his face that it aroused my immediate pity.

The man gasped, his face a vivid red beneath his blond hair. "It is time. It is time…"

He struggled unsteadily to his feet and held out his trembling hand. Clutched in his fingers were the fresh green sprigs of some plant. "Mr Holmes… it is Mr Holmes, isn't it… of course, it must." He struggled to master his breathing. Then more calmly he fixed us with a glittering gaze. "You see?" he said, looking from one to the other. "It's time." He repeated the sentence in a whisper, "It is time."

Holmes glanced at the plant, then to me. "Ah, I see. The professor is referring to thyme. He holds sprigs of the herb, thyme. And clearly he's had a dreadful shock. If you would be so good to lend a hand, Watson, we'll get the gentleman to his home, where perhaps brandy should help his poor nerves."

The brandy did indeed soothe the man's nerves. Once he'd dressed in a manner he deemed fully respectable, and we were seated in the morning room, he told Sherlock Holmes and I his story. At least he endeavoured to, for he was still in a state of shock. His hand trembled terribly. "Mr Holmes. Dr Watson. Dear sirs, I must apologize for my extraordinary behaviour earlier… but I've never experienced such a shock to my senses before… I was at my wit's end. I thought my only hope was to seize the scoundrel and strangle the life out him there and then

in the garden. Oh! Mercy! But if only that were not impossible … impossible'

Holmes said soothingly, "Professor Hardcastle. Take your good time, sir. But please tell me exactly what did happen this morning. Speak freely before Dr Watson here. I explained in my note to you he would attend this case with me."

"Of course. Of course." He breathed deeply to steady his rattled nerves. "I wrote to you concerning the missing aerolite and how it reappeared in my son's room. At the time I was alarmed, but after what happened this morning, I confess, I am terrified. For today, as I climbed the stairs to dress for our meeting, I was met by one of the maids who had been making up my son's bed. 'Excuse me, Professor,' she said to me. 'I found these on your son's bedside table.' "

"The aerolite once more?"

"Yes."

"And the sprigs of thyme?"

"Yes, arranged so the stone rested within like an egg inside a bird's nest. The moment I saw the stone and the thyme I don't believe I could have experienced a greater shock if I had been struck by lightning. Well, sirs… at that very instant I ran from the house dressed in nothing but trousers, waistcoat and carpet slippers. I'd been in my son's bedroom not ten minutes before so I knew the devil had only just placed the stone on the table."

"The devil?"

"Yes the devil, the demon… whatever damned title he must bear, because I tell you this, Mr Holmes, the man who left the aerolite and the thyme leaves in my son's room has been dead these last five years."

Sherlock Holmes smoked a small cigar as he spoke to a now less distraught Professor Hardcastle who sat in the armchair, the pince-nez upon his nose, his fingers tightly knitted, troubled thumbs pressing against each other. I sat upon a claret-coloured sofa, and, from time to time, made notes with pencil and paper.

For a moment, Holmes stood meditatively before the fireplace, which was vast enough to roast a whole side of mutton. Lost in thought, he smoked the cigar, blowing out jets of blue smoke, that were caught, even on this still summer's day, by the updraft flowing up the flue, and carried the tobacco smoke away up the huge gullet of the chimney. "Now, professor. A few questions first before we discuss your suggestion that the aerolite and the thyme where left in your son's bedroom by a deadman."

"Ask what you will, Mr Holmes."

"Exactly who was in the house at the time the aerolite made its second reappearance?"

"The domestic staff only. Mrs Hardcastle is calling on her mother in Chelsea. My son is at school."

"Day school then, he does not board?"

"No."

"Your son took the stone from your laboratory, plucked a few strands of thyme from the Heath, then left them so arranged bird's nest fashion for a prank."

"No."

"Why so certain? Boys of that age thrive on mischief." "Edward is a perfectly healthy boy, capable of pranks and japes like the next."

"But?"

"But he didn't leave the stone."

"When we first saw you, you were crying out, 'It is thyme, it is thyme.' "

"Yes."

"Then it was the appearance of that particular herb that troubled you so?"

"Yes."

"And the appearance of the herb, alongside that piece of stone, has special significance for you?"

"Indeed." Professor Hardcastle sighed, perhaps in the same manner a person who has seen the portents of doom and destruction manifesting in frightful sharp relief about him. From his pocket he brought out a stone as large and as dark as a damson plum and placed it on a copy of The Times newspaper that lay upon a table. "This is the aerolite referred to in my letter. It is of little monetary value. In my collection it bears the name 'The Rye Stone', simply because that's where I found it all of three and twenty years ago. Then I was a boy of seventeen, yet already I had my life mapped out. I intended to make science my vocation, convinced as I was that mankind needed metals of ever-increasing strength for our machines, bridges and railways. At that time in Rye was a very famous and well respected astronomer, a one Dr Columbine, not a medical man you understand, but a man of science. He was the author of many books and papers. Astronomers from all over the world would travel just to speak with him. His lectures always delivered capacity audiences. I attended one such lecture in Rye and was entranced by the man's genius and his vision of the universe. He was a small man with red hair and fiery side whiskers. Indeed he was very small – dwarfish, you might say. Boys would taunt him in the street, all of which he took with good humour, I might add. Small and fiery is how I remember him. He spoke to the audience with that same fiery passion. His eyes would flash like lamps. I immediately enrolled in Rye's astronomical society of which he was its most illustrious member. By degrees I contrived to speak with him: I outlined my own ambitions. He listened carefully, then spoke enthusiastically, exhorting me not to rely on the preconceived ideas found in textbooks. And it was Dr Columbine who revealed to me that the Earth is inundated daily by seemingly heaven-sent pieces of metal ore from the depths of the universe. And couldn't these starborne metals hold the key to our producing new, improved alloys that might revolutionize our industries? Assiduously I began collecting aerolites, accumulating a splendid array of specimens. Then one June night as we worked at his observatory we witnessed the fall of such a shooting star. In high excitement we saw it drop to Earth just beyond the town.You might imagine our excited calls as we two, Dr Columbine in frock coat and hat, myself in blazer and cap, climbed over fences like jubilant school boys, as we sallied forth to find the stone."

"You say there were just the two of you?" said Holmes.

"Yes. We found the stone where it had fallen into a clump of wild thyme. It had struck the plants with sufficient force to bruise the leaves releasing the aroma of the herb into the warm evening air."

"I see."

"Briefly, to bring the story up to date," continued Professor Hardcastle, "I moved on to university and my studies. And Dr Columbine continued his work in astronomy. But that's when the tragedy occurred."

"Tragedy?"

"Yes. Some malady laid Dr Columbine down. I don't know its nature. But, with hindsight, it clearly resulted in some creeping destruction of the brain. It wasn't immediately apparent at the time but the public lectures became yet more fiery, and the man's ideas became even more astonishing. He embarked upon a plan to build the world's largest telescope, which would be constructed upon the peak of Mount Snowdon in Wales where the cleaner air at that altitude is far more conducive to astronomical observation. And with this telescope, of absolutely gargantuan proportions, he would be able to divine what lay at the innermost heart of our universe."

"Then the man may have been visionary, not ill in his mind?"

"At first we believed this was the case. That it was his vibrant genius alone that drove him to anger when his plans didn't quickly reach fruition. But then it became apparent to all that he was indeed ill. Ill psychologically. The years passed, yet not a month would go by without his former acquaintances receiving increasingly vicious letters demanding that we sponsor his scheme – with every penny we possessed if need be! Rumours circulated that Dr Columbine threatened eminent scientists with violence if they did not pledge to fund this impossibly large refracting telescope. Indeed, five years ago I received a letter from him, stating categorically that because I had not myself pledged financial support for this instrument he would see to it that he destroyed what I loved most in the world, because I and my fellow men of science had destroyed what he, Dr Columbine, loved most in his world, his dream to build the telescope."

"The man was clearly mad," I observed.

"Indeed."

Holmes said crisply, "You say you received this threatening letter five years ago. How did you respond?"

"Until that time I'd ignored all his earlier letters demanding sponsorship. On that occasion I reported the matter to the police."

"And?"

"They attempted to locate Dr Columbine, but by that time, yet unknown to me and my brethren, the man was penniless and all but resided in the gin shops of Whitechapel."

"The police failed to find him?"

"On the contrary, three months later a corpse was pulled from the Thames. It had been in the water so long its identity could only be discerned by the laundry label in the coat, giving

the owner's name; oh! and there was also an inscribed pocket watch."

"Which, I take it," said Holmes blowing out a cloud of cigar smoke above his head, "gave every indication that the poor wretch found drowned in the Thames was none other than Dr Columbine?"

"Quite. The police were satisfied as to the identity of the body, which was later buried in a pauper's grave in Greenwich."

"And the threatening letters ceased to arrive. And no one saw hide nor hair of Dr Columbine?"

"Naturally, the man was dead."

"So the police surmised."

"Yes. What doubt could there be?"

"Every doubt. There's a gardener trimming your hedge wearing a pair of your boots. If he turned up in the Thames wearing those boots, and unrecognizable by any other evidence might not the police surmise that man was you, Professor?"

"Yes… well of course, such a mistake might be made… but… good heavens how do you know the man is wearing a pair of my boots?"

Professor Hardcastle, eyes wide with astonishment behind the lenses of the pince-nez, turned to stare out of the window at the gardener, a man of around fifty years, who was scrupulously trimming privet just half a dozen yards beyond the window.

"Your gardener," continued Holmes, fingers lightly pressed together, "is recently married to a good woman of a character similar to his own, that is both are hard working and anxious to please. Both love each other dearly. Moreover, the man wears a pair of boots once owned by yourself."

Hardcastle squinted through his pince-nez at the boots. "Why?Yes.Yes. Those are – were my old boots. My wife, rather than throwing them out, would have seen that they were offered to Clarkson. And, yes, I found the man very eager to please, indeed anxious to give satisfaction for his wages, but how could you know that?"

Holmes smiled. "Gardeners don't wear such expensive boots while they work. If he could have afforded such a pair he would have saved them for 'Sunday best.' Also from the way the man hobbles quite painfully, they are far too small for him. Indeed they would, sir, fit someone with your size feet. A size seven."

"Ah, size eight."

"I think you'll find a trifle smaller. Nevertheless, the boots you gave him are too small, but rather than appearing ungrateful he makes a point of wearing them when you will notice."

"That is why he's wearing the boots so near the window?"

"Indeed so, and vigorously trimming a hedge that visibly requires no trimming. But he's keen to create a good impression. I dare say you'll find his more comfortable workboots concealed behind some nearby bush which he will change into once he's demonstrated his gratitude to you."

"And recently married?"

"Have you seen many a gardener with clothes so clean and trousers so carefully pressed? The wife is eager to please, too. And, he, in love with his wife, is so closely shaven that he has nicked his face four, five times. Now!" Holmes briskly rose from the chair and paced the room. As he did so, he appraised, with those two keen eyes of his, certain areas of the carpet, and paid particular attention to the crystal wine decanters on the table. Holmes continued, "My example of the gardener and his wearing another man's boots disposes, I believe, with the apparently insoluble problem of Dr Columbine returning from the dead to plague you. Evidently, another man wore his coat and possessed his watch when he unfortunately fell in the Thames. Either stolen or purchased from the Doctor."

"Then Columbine is alive?"

"Yes." Holmes picked the aerolite from the table and held it between forefinger and thumb. "That is, if he were the only man to know that you found The Rye Stone in a patch of thyme?"

"Yes, he was… its place of landing is irrelevant to my experiments. I never once mentioned it to another living soul."

"But not irrelevant to this case. As you realized, most powerfully, when you saw the sprigs of thyme and the stone together. That little conjunction of herb and stone was nothing less than a message to you, sir, from Dr Columbine, which states plainly: Professor Hardcastle, I am alive. I have not forgotten my threat. I have the ability to come and go into your home at will. Now I am merely biding my time before I strike."

"My son?"

"Specifically, your son. He will murder your son in his bed within forty-eight hours."

The man's face turned white as paper. "Oh, heavens, what a horrible prediction. How can you know that?"

"I will return tomorrow morning whereupon. I will explain everything?"

"But my son is under a sentence of death. What you've told me is unspeakably cruel."

"But necessary. When I return to tomorrow I will do my utmost to save your son – but we are dealing not just with a madman, but a man who is uncommonly intelligent."

"Please don't go."

"I must make some very necessary preparations. But first please pass me the sprig of thyme from the table. Thank you, Professor."

For a moment we sat there, I upon the sofa, the professor perched unhappily on the edge of the armchair, his wide eyes watching Holmes's every move.

Holmes, took the sprig of herb to the window where the light was brightest. He gazed at the stem, then the leaves of the plant, in the peculiar introspective fashion which was characteristic of him. "It is Thymus serpyllum, more commonly known as wild thyme, a mat-forming undershrub, prevalent in dry grassy places, particularly heaths; its flowers possessing rounded heads of a reddish-purple." He lifted the plant to his nostrils. "Quite aromatic." He looked closely at the plant's stalk. "Evidently the plant is Dr Columbine's calling card; he intended it to be so. But let us see if… ah, yes!" said he in a tone suggesting a puzzle solved. "Let us see if the plant tells us a little more than Columbine intended." Taking one of his own calling cards from his pocket, Holmes placed it face down on a small table by the window. Then quickly drawing a Swiss Army knife from his trouser pocket he opened a glittering blade and gently scraped one of the plant's small leaves.

"Mr Holmes, what is it?" asked the professor, anxiously. "What have you found?"

"Just one moment, sir."

"You mentioned the plant occurs on heathland. Then the madman must have plucked it from Hampstead Heath which is across the road from my home."

"Ah, not necessarily, Professor. The plant is yielding a clue to as its origins."

From what I could see, tiny particles had fallen from the leaf when scraped, which peppered the white calling card with black. Holmes peering at these most closely, carefully drew the flat of his penknife blade from left to right across the card.

"In fact," said Holmes crisply. "The plant was taken from alongside the railway track that leads into King's Cross station, which is served by The Great Western Railway company."

"But how… I don't understand." The professor shook his head bemused.

"Professor, you will of course know that locomotives eject not only soot and smoke from the their funnels, but small fragments of unburnt coal. English coal is hard and does not leave any appreciable mark on paper; Welsh coal, however, is quite different. It is very soft and leaves a rich mark when drawn across paper – as richly dark as an artist's charcoal. Here, I see many grit-like particles of coal adhering to the leaves of this plant. This tells me it was plucked close to a railway line. The coal is indeed Welsh – please note the black marks it has left on my calling card. Therefore, I conclude the plant was picked close to the broad gauge track which serves King's Cross station. The Great Western Railway company being the only company to exclusively use Welsh coal to power its locomotives. I'd conclude, therefore, that the unfortunate Dr Columbine lives the life of a vagrant close by the aforementioned railway track."

"Yes," said the professor a trifle dazed. "But what course of action do we take now? How can we find the man?"

Instead of immediately replying, Holmes held up his hand for a moment, which caused both the Professor and I to lean forward expectantly, sensing Holmes had seen something of great relevance within the room. I tried to follow that razor sharp gaze; however, I discerned nothing amiss. Holmes continued briskly: "Leave that to me, Professor. I will alert my contacts and they will search every gin shop, ale house and railway arch until the man is found. Dwarfish, you say, with bushy red hair and sideburns?"

"Yes."

"Come, Watson. There's no time to lose."

The professor was clearly anguished at being abandoned there to the mercy of the madman for yet another night. "But what if he returns tonight?"

"He will not?"

"You can be so sure?"

Yes.^"

"How?"

"Explanations must wait until tomorrow."

I'd begun to rise from the sofa when I witnessed a most peculiar thing.

Holmes advanced to the door, as if eager to make his exit.Yet after opening the door to the hallway he abruptly turned volte face and then recrossed the room. Swiftly, silently he picked up The Times newspaper which had been lying on the table, and opened it noiselessly.

The professor from his chair, and I from the sofa, watched in utter bewilderment as Holmes quickly fanned the newspaper so as to separate the pages into a billowing white cloud of loose leaves.

My bewilderment turned to astonishment as Holmes produced a box of safety matches from his pocket, deftly struck one, then applied the brilliantly flaring match head to the corner of the newspaper.

The dry paper caught instantly.

With a look of triumph Holmes flung the burning newspaper into the firegrate where, instantly, the still substantial updraft of air drew the flames, smoke, fiery pages and all up into the cavernous throat of the chimney back.

Professor Hardcastle gaped in astonishment, his hands clutching the arms of his chair so fiercely they shook.

He must have thought my friend quite mad.

Indeed, I, too, began to suspect that world famous brain had begun to suffer the ill-effects of the furiously hot June day, when all of a sudden I heard a terrific scraping and thumping sound.

Not one moment later an object looking very much like a bundle of rags fell heavily from the chimney and into the grating in a splash of sparks and ashes from the still burning newspaper.

Hardly believing my two eyes I witnessed a pair of filthy arms erupt from the rag bundle. Before I could exclaim, an equally filthy pair of hands grasped Sherlock Holmes by the wrists.

"Professor!" called Holmes, wrestling. the creature emerging from the rags. "Now is the time to test your gardener's loyalty. We need his strong arms in here – now!"

Recovering from my astonishment, I rushed to my friend's assistance as he endeavoured to draw forth from the fireplace a hissing, spitting demon of a creature, that kicked wildly with a pair of bare feet, its toes quite ink black with soot.

"Careful, Watson! He has a razor!"

Holmes, bracing his foot against the iron fire grating, gripped the two filthy wrists and pulled hard, taking care so the barber's razor clutched in one evil looking hand did not pare his own flesh.

With a furious roar a head appeared from the flaps of cloth. Beneath a shock of red hair was a white face set with two eyes that burned with the ferocity of lamps.

The creature was more ape than man; nevertheless, I grabbed hold of the madman's collar and Holmes and I together hauled him from the fireplace. All the time he hissed and spat in a way that aroused in me equal portions of amazement and horror.

"Watson, grab the fellow's wrist. Hold it… tightly, man. He'll take off our heads with that razor. There… hold him. Tsk! Careful, this creature bites. Now where is… ah, there he is! Good man!"

The gardener had appeared at the professor's command, and doing as he was bade, held the madman in his own two powerful arms as Holmes and I bound the madman at the feet and wrists with the curtain cords.

There at our feet, writhing, spitting, straining at the chords, his face distorting into fantastical grimaces, lay a tiny man almost a dwarf of a man – with fiery red hair.

Holmes straightened, mastering his respiration. "This is… Dr Columbine."

"Yes…" Professor Hardcastle had not yet recovered from his shock. "Yes… And the man was concealed inside the chimney breast all the while?"

"Indeed he was, Sir, and listening to every conversation within the room. Now, please ask your gardener to summon the police. Oh, Professor, perhaps you would be so kind to allow Clarkson to change back into his own boots, those on his feet are pinching his toes terribly."

Once the police had taken the madman, straitjacketed and cursing, away, Holmes lit a cigarette and explained: "We know the poor demented Dr Columbine was hell bent on exacting

his revenge upon you, Professor. Sadistically, he felt the need to prolong the torture before doing away with your son. So he contrived to hide himself away inside your house, then appear to come and go almost as if he could assume a cloak of invisibility. Accordingly, he'd place such obvious clues as the meteorite and the thyme inside your son's bedroom. You might imagine the madman lying within the chimney breast, laughing silently to himself as he listened to you and your wife's anxious conversations concerning the invisible intruder in this room. He would feast on your fears with nothing less than a vampiric intensity."

"But how the dickens did he climb into the chimney, and remain concealed there for so long? Why did he not starve or die of thirst?"

"Gaining access to the house itself is child's play. The catches on the windows can be slipped with even a table knife. Once inside the house – ah! – that's when the peculiar obsessive mind of the madman comes into play. He desired more than to cause physical harm to your family, he wanted to be here to savour every expression of your discomfort and fear. So he hit upon the plan of hiding himself away in that very chimney breast. 'Which is not as outlandish as it first appears. It is summer, no fires, therefore, are lit in the grate.The chimney itself is quite clean of soot, you Professor, having had the chimney swept in the late spring as is the practice of households throughout the land. And perhaps you, yourself, will have witnessed in the past the chimney sweep sending his lad up inside the chimney to ensure it is thoroughly swept. Indeed, there are footholds and handholds inside the chimney flue to assist the child's climb." Holmes sniffed. "Though the practice of sending children up inside chimneys was, I might add, a thoroughly inhumane affair. Nevertheless, it demonstrates that if the chimney is large enough for a child to enter via the fireplace, it is also large enough to accommodate the dwarfish body of Doctor Columbine. See?" Holmes crouching by the fireplace, pointed up inside the chimney flue. "Up there he made himself a pretty little nest. On the ledges within the chimney are his supplies – water bottle, bread, biscuit, dried fruit. You'll notice he didn't chose any aromatic foods, the odours of which might have aroused your suspicions, Professor." Holmes, lifted a small cloth bag from the hearth which had tumbled down with the madman. "Ah, and inside here we find a pair of clean pumps that he'd don on leaving the chimney breast to enable him to move not only quietly around the house, but to do so without leaving any sooty footprints upon the carpets. Before ascending to his hiding place once more he will have removed these, then climbed barefoot into the chimney." Holmes dropped the bag onto the hearth. "Gentlemen, you'll notice, also, he was able to devise something akin to a hammock, rigged from lines and blankets, where he would curl himself up quite comfortably to eavesdrop on you and your good wife's frightened conversations." Holmes stood up and briskly brush a speckling of soot from the palms of his hands. "So, Dr Columbine lay snug, and quite safe from discovery in the very heart of your home. After all, who would ever think to regularly examine the interior of their chimney breast?"

"Yes," said Hardcastle. "I see how he did it – and why. But how in heaven's name did you know the devil was concealed inside the chimney?"

Holmes walked slowly up and down the room. "As in science, the solution to a crime often arrives inexplicably in a flash of inspiration, what the scientific or criminal investigator must then do is extract the hard evidence to substantiate what betting men call a hunch."

The professor's eyes widened behind the pince-nez. "You mean you guessed immediately?"

"Let us say I explored, imaginatively, areas within a house that a man of very small stature might conceal himself, yet be able to eavesdrop, and learn what evil affect his machinations are having on the family. Of course, then I proceeded to seek clues. The man must eat and drink. No doubt he slipped out at night to steal small enough amounts that would not be noticeable from your larder. The man had become fond of drink." Holmes gave a wave of a hand that took in the decanters on a table. "You'll see a dirty thumbprint on the crystal stopper. I saw, also, fine speckles of soot upon the fireplace that escaped the attentions of your chimney sweep, and that were dislodged by Columbine's entrance and egress to and from the chimney."

"But you deduced from the thyme leaves that they'd been plucked from alongside the King's Cross line?"

"Ah! My final test. The deduction was entirely spurious. There are no coal particles. The black particles upon the card are nothing more than common London soot. Moreover, you

should have noticed the Great Western Railway is served not by King's Cross station, but by Paddington station. Our viciously intelligent madman would have known that. And I realized that although our man could conceal himself inside the chimney, and not reveal his position by remaining silent, unmoving as a statue, even he had to breathe. And the more heavily he breathed, the more he moved within the chimney breast, even if it was nothing beyond a more pronounced rising and falling of his breast. Therefore, my patently absurd deduction wrongly linking the Great Western company with King's Cross station was deliberate. In short, you can imagine the man curled tightly there in the throat of the chimney, eyes blazing in the darkness, clutching his stomach and laughing silently over the supposedly great criminologist Sherlock Holmes's foolish errors; this caused a more pronounced movement of his body; enough to dislodge a single bread crumb from his clothing, or from the hammock arrangement, which I observed fall down into the hearth. Ergo: within the chimney breast was a living, breathing creature!"

"Then it is over?" asked Professor, hardly daring to believe it so. "My boy is safe?"

"Quite safe." Holmes picked up The Rye Stone. "Here is your aerolite, Professor; your very own fallen star. For countless aeons it drifted through space only to happen by chance to fall to Earth in a streak of fire. It did not will itself to engage in such a spectacular and dramatic display; it happened by pure chance, gentlemen. Such a pure chance, perhaps as a microbe in our water supply, or perhaps minuscule defect at birth brought the fiery genius of Dr Columbine crashing down into such a vile state of madness. He was no lucid criminal. He did not will his evil, any more than the stone willed itself to fall to Earth in a fiery and dramatic display of flame and thunder. It is impudent of me to suggest such a thing; however, perhaps you and your brethren, Professor, might consider creating some modest trust fund to enable your once illustrious teacher to live out his final days in a sanatorium where he can dream harmlessly of what astronomical wonders might lie in the depths of our universe. Now, Watson, if you concur, lunch at the Spaniard!"