The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

By 1898 the number of Holmes's recorded cases seemed to be running down. This does not necessarily mean that Holmes was investigating any less, but that Watson was not recording them so avidly. We know that Holmes was often critical of Watson's accounts, sometimes mercilessly so, and he was also very strict over what Watson could publish. The cases towards the end of the century, therefore, were almost certainly more secretive, but also perhaps of less interest in terms of unusual incident. The only ones that Watson did publish were "The Retired Colourman", which overlapped with the unpublished case of the two Coptic patriarchs, and "The Six Napoleons". It is almost certain that during this period Holmes also investigated the disappearance of the cutter Alicia and the fate of Isadora Persano. I have the papers about that last case but there remain some unresolved details which make it as yet unready for publication.

The Case of the Suicidal Lawyer – Martin Edwards

The change in the century did not diminish Holmes's caseload. Within a week or two of the death of Queen Victoria, Holmes was heavily involved in at least three cases.The first was the Abergavenny Murders. Martin Edwards, a writer who is also a solicitor, was allowed access to old files in the archives of the Director of Public Prosecutions, which enabled him to reconstruct the case. At the same time circumstances arose which allowed Sherlock Holmes to revisit one of his very earliest cases,"The Musgrave Ritual". After considerable research Michael Doyle, who is not related to Watson's agent, or so he tells me, was able to piece together this strange coda, which at last settled matters after over twenty-five years in "The Legacy of Rachel Howells". It also resolves a mystery noted by Conan Doyle himself in his later writings.

"You have arrived just in time, Watson," Holmes said as I returned to 22 lb Baker Street after a stroll one crisp February morning. There was a twinkle in his eye as he added, "I am expecting a visit from that rarest of creatures – a lawyer who is prepared to put his hand in his own pocket, rather than that of one of his clients, to pay for my professional services."

"Wonders never cease, Holmes!" I said lightly. "The circumstances which bring him here must be remarkable indeed."

My friend gave a dry chuckle. "They possess certain features which are of interest. It seems that Mr Matthew Dowling took a young man into his firm believing him to be a Dr Jekyll, but now has reason to fear that he may also be in partnership with a Mr Hyde."

I was delighted to see Holmes in a genial humour. For several months he had been engaged on a series of cases of the utmost consequence and of late his temper had begun to suffer. I regarded this as a warning sign that he might again be putting his health at risk. Some of his investigations had to be conducted in circumstances of the greatest secrecy and it must suffice to say that on one occasion during this period the destiny of a throne depended upon his personal intervention. Other cases excited the attention of the Press and general public throughout the land and I may in due course put them into print. These included the business of the Lincoln seamstress and her extraordinary pets and the conundrum which I have referred to in my notebook as the case of the melancholy wicket-keeper.

The strange features of those puzzles, coupled with the undeniable pleasure Holmes experienced in seeking to succeed, through the rigorous application of logic, where extensive police work had failed, at least meant that he had no need of artificial stimulation. I feared above all that he might resort again to cocaine if boredom threatened. For all that, I was concerned that the nervous energy he had expended would once again take its toll. He was himself aware of the punishing effect on his constitution of the long hours he had been working and in recent weeks a couple of chance remarks had suggested that he was beginning to contemplate retirement. Much as I relished our collaborations, my first concern was his well-being and the eagerness with which I anticipated his response to a fresh challenge was therefore matched by the silent hope that it would not tax him beyond endurance.

"So your new client has a junior partner who leads a double life?" I asked.

"Of sorts. Perhaps you would like to read what the solicitor has to say?"

He tossed me a letter bearing the previous day's date and a private address in Doughty Street.

Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes, – I am aware of the considerable esteem in which you are held as a consulting detective and my cousin Mr Toblas Wrigley speaks highly of your work in connection with Madame Montalambert's affidavit. I should therefore like to consult you personally in a matter of the utmost sensitivity. It concerns not a client of my firm, but rather Mr John Abergavenny, whom I invited to become my junior partner a little less than twelve months ago. I took him in, believing that he was a competent, likeable and trustworthy young fellow who would adhere to the same high standards which I have always set for myself. Yet his personality has suddenly undergone a grotesque and inexplicable transformation. He has become an incompetent and a debauchee. He has also threatened to commit suicide. I have taxed him on these matters, but his response has been wholly unacceptable. I have no wish to be unfair to him, but I cannot permit conduct which may damage the firm whose reputation I have laboured these past thirty years to establish, especially as we act for clients in the most sensitive transactions. I am left contemplating the need to dissolve our partnership, but before taking such a drastic step, I should be most grateful for your professional opinion. If it is convenient, I would propose to call upon you at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. I understand from Mr Wrigley that you charge at a fixed rate and for the avoidance of doubt I should make it clear that for a first consultation, I would regard the fees you agreed with Mr Wrigley as entirely reasonable.

Yours faithfully MAXWELL DOWLING

I thought for a moment before saying, "You deduce that he is a solicitor rather than, say, a stockbroker or other professional man, because that is Wrigley's line?"

"Not that alone. The prolixity of Mr Dowling's literary style suggests to me that he learned the law in the days when legal draughtsmen were paid by the word. It is a fussy letter, yet it makes the salient points. There is, too, the phraseology that he employs which I would associate with a lawyer rather than, say, a financier or a medical man. He cannot be a barrister, however, since members of the Bar do not practise in partnership. Above all, though, I would refer you to the obvious fact that this letter appears to have been composed by a man who is genuinely troubled by a mystery which he wishes to resolve with all due speed."

"Hence the early appointment?"

"Precisely. You will note, however, that he takes care to specify with some precision the terms upon which he proposes to contract for my services. Think of all those others who have anxiously sought my assistance over the years. Who else but a lawyer would take such trouble? I do not accuse Dowling of possessing an especially mercenary turn of mind. I would rather say simply that the habits of a lifetime are seldom abandoned, even in extremis. Depend upon it, my boy, this new client is a solicitor. But there is a ring at the bell. We shall soon have an opportunity to test the accuracy or otherwise of the inferences I have drawn."

We heard a measured tread upon the stairs and within moments Mr Maxwell Dowling was ushered into our room. He was a man of about sixty, small, neat and anxious in manner. He wore a hat, gaiters, black trousers and pince-nez attached by a long ribbon to the lapel of his frock-coat. He studied us both through the glasses before giving a bow which seemed to denote satisfaction with what he observed.

"It is good to meet you, Mr Holmes. Thank you for being prepared to see me at short notice. I must admit I have not myself read the accounts of your exploits penned by your faithful chronicler here, Dr Watson.Young Abergavenny has yet to persuade me of the appeal of sensational literature. But as I mentioned in my letter, I have heard from my cousin that you are intrigued by the bizarre, and the matter which brings me here is nothing if not that."

"If we are agreed that I am to charge you by the hour for my services," Holmes said, with a touch of mischief, "perhaps it would prudent for you to explain the details without more ado."

"Ah yes. Forgive me, my dear wife has been known to complain that I am a trifle long-winded." Dowling coughed. "Ahem. The further and better particulars. Certainly. I should first say, Mr Holmes, that I am solicitor with a small office in Essex Street. For the past three decades I have been a sole practitioner acting for a number of – if I say so myself – most distinguished clients. But during the past eighteen months or so, my wife has been encouraging me to think of the future. As a result, I began to look around for a partner, someone who might come into the business with a view in the long term to buying out my share of it."

Our visitor paused and I had the distinct impression that he was about to confide in us at some length concerning the financial anxieties faced by a man in such a position. Holmes was no doubt of the same mind, for he said briskly, "And so you took in this Mr John Abergavenny?"

"Yes, he had been working for a firm in Holborn with which I have regular dealings. He seemed a splendid fellow, an ideal choice. Hard-working and capable, a thoroughly decent young man. Above all, there was no question as to his integrity. He seemed to be a man I could trust and that, of course, was a matter of the most fundamental importance. He was the first to admit that he was not in the same league as his gifted elder brother, but he made it clear that he was determined not to be wholly over-shadowed."

"His brother?" Holmes asked.

"Hugh Abergavenny. The name may be familiar to you."

My friend raised his eyebrows. "Indeed. He was a lawyer, too, as I recall."

"You are correct, although he practised at the Bar rather than as a solicitor. I have seen him more than once in court and I can assure you he had a rare gift for winning over a jury, even in cases where he was appearing on behalf of the most undeserving wretch. It was a sad loss to the legal profession when he decided to devote his time to writing rather than to his career. A mistake, if I may say so, which Dr Watson here has been wise not to make."

"I could not claim," I said hastily, "to possess a fraction of the imaginative powers of Hugh Abergavenny. I must have read all of his books, although I think I am right in saying he has published nothing for some years. I regarded his early novels as splendid thrillers, reminiscent in some respects of Le Fanu and Wilkie Collins."

"As I said earlier, I cannot claim to share your enthusiasm for writing of that kind, but I would readily acknowledge that it is remarkable that he should have prospered in two such distinct fields. For John, on the other hand, success has not come so easily. Yet what he may lack in natural talent, he has always compensated for with persistence."

Holmes nodded. "That counts for a good deal in the law." "Assuredly, Mr Holmes. When we first met, John confessed to me that he had long nourished a burning desire to emulate

his brother as a writer of thrilling tales, but I sought to convince him that his future lay in enjoying the security that a partnership in a sound legal practice can provide. Certainly, after he joined my firm he did not mention his literary ambitions again and I thought I had been able to concentrate his mind on the creative possibilities which exist within the law of real property."

"So until the recent sequence of events mentioned in your note, you had no reason to regret your choice of partner?"

"None whatsoever."

"What has happened to cause you to change your mind?"

"I began to notice that John seemed constantly to be tired. His eyes looked red and sore, his manner in the morning was often sleepy. It was as if he had been up all night. Thereafter it came to my notice that he had made a number of errors in his work. There was a problem with a conveyancing transaction, a relatively simple point to which he had failed to attend. Another client complained of a mistake in a bill of costs which caused me considerable embarrassment – to say nothing of a not insignificant sum of money. More in sorrow than in anger, I took John to task about these unfortunate events. He promptly accepted that he had been at fault and assured me that there would be no recurrence."

"Did he give any reason for the difficulties that had occurred?"

"With hindsight, I recognize that he was vague. He referred to a minor health problem which had caused him trouble in sleeping and said he had obtained more suitable medication from his doctor. I have to admit that I did not regard his answers as entirely plausible, but I was hopeful that I had made my point and that there would be no need to pursue the complaints any further."

"Yet in the event you were disappointed?"

"Indeed, Mr Holmes, and I find the latest developments both shocking and perturbing. First, my outdoor clerk Bevington told me in confidence that he had been crossing Lincoln's Inn Fields late one night when he saw John Abergavenny approaching. He was in the company of a woman who appeared not – shall we say? – to be a suitable companion for a respectable young solicitor." Dowling winced. "John was talking loudly and as he passed Bevington, he hailed him with an atrociously rude remark before bursting into a fit of wild laughter. My clerk is a teetotaller and he was shocked both by John's behaviour and the fact that he stank of drink. Naturally embarrassed, Bevington hurried straight home. He has been with me for upwards of twenty years and was most reluctant, I am satisfied, to inform me of the unfortunate occurrence. He felt, however, that it was his duty to do so in the interest of the firm and I assured him that he was right."

Holmes placed his finger-tips together and looked at the ceiling. "Does your partner have a weakness for the fair sex?"

"On the contrary. I have always regarded him as a decent fellow. He is engaged to be married to a delightful young lady whose father is a diplomat. She is at present in India with him and is not due to return for another six weeks. I always understood John to be devoted to her and her alone."

"Did you speak to him about Bevington's story?"

"Immediately. This time his reaction was a prompt and outraged denial. He said he was deeply hurt by what I had said. Bevington was a blind old fool who must have been mistaken. Frankly, I would have accepted his word but for two things. First, Bevington may be old, but he is neither blind nor a fool. Second, Hugh Abergavenny himself came to see me the following day."

Holmes leaned forward. "What did he have to say?"

"Like Bevington, he was plainly unhappy about having to speak to me, but believed he had no proper alternative. I had not met him previously. I gather that the two men are not close and Hugh told me that he was aware that John had, in his younger days, felt that he was living in the shadow of his brother's achievements. In such circumstances, jealousy is perhaps inevitable."

"I might take issue with you there," Holmes interrupted. "I have myself a gifted elder brother and have always looked on him as my mentor. Let it pass, though. What did the famous novelist have to say?"

"He said that he had been anxious for some time to improve his relations with John. Apparently he had promised this to their mother some time before her death two or three years ago and his failure to do so has been on his conscience ever since. He was aware of John's enthusiasm for writing and had tried to give him help and encouragement, but to no avail. I understand that he had kindly offered to read the manuscript of a work over which

John had been labouring, in the hope that he might be able to persuade his own literary agent to take it on. Regrettably, the story proved to be a clumsily executed penny dreadful. When the brothers met again, Hugh tried to be constructive in his comments, but realized that John was sorely distressed by them. Apparently John had continued to cherish the belief that he might one day publish a book of his own and he went so far as to say that, if Hugh's judgement was sound, he had no reason to go on living. He added that he had half a mind to kill himself."

Dowling shook his head and sighed. "Emotion has no place in the law, Mr Holmes. I was saddened to hear that my partner could have responded so wildly. Once again it cast doubt on his judgment."

"As an experienced solicitor," Holmes pointed out, "you will appreciate that it is far from uncommon for words to be uttered in the heat of the moment which the speaker soon has cause to regret. I assume, however, that since Hugh Abergavenny mentioned his brother's remarks to you, he was of the opinion that they should be taken seriously."

"You are right, Mr Holmes. Hugh explained that over the years his brother had been prey to bouts of depression and that his chosen remedy, the bottle, invariably exacerbated the problem. He was especially concerned because John had been drinking before he arrived that evening and was evidently far from sober. Moreover, he made a specific threat, saying, 'If that's what you really think, I may as well chuck myself into the Thames and have done with it all.' With that, he turned on his heel and left. Hugh's anxiety was such that he followed John at a safe distance. While his brother called at a local tavern, he waited outside for upwards of an hour. Eventually, John was thrown out by the landlord and Hugh was able to call a cab and ensure that his brother was taken home safely."

"Did he arrive at the office as usual the next morning?"

"Yes, he had an appointment in court. Again, I noticed that he was rather bleary-eyed. He conceded that he had been to see his brother and had perhaps had more to drink that was strictly wise."

"Did you inform him that you had spoken to Hugh Abergavenny?"

"No. I should explain that Hugh said he felt that I was the one man left whose opinion John would respect. In view of their disagreement, he felt that he had little opportunity to exert any influence for the good, but he remained deeply troubled. He implored me not to disclose our conversation to John, but to keep a close eye on him, lest he might seek to do harm to himself."

"And did you?"

"To the best of my ability, Mr Holmes. Despite all that has occurred, I do retain a warm regard for the young man and I am appalled by the prospect that he may do himself harm."

Dowling closed his eyes for a few seconds before continuing. "The rest of that day passed without incident, but at the end of the next afternoon I had an even more perturbing visitation. One of the ushers from the Law Courts, a decent fellow by the name of Stewart, came to see me. He said that the previous evening he had been approaching Blackfriars Bridge when he saw a man with an unsteady gait trying to climb up on the parapet. As Stewart drew nearer, he recognized the figure as John Abergavenny. Alarmed, he called out John's name and asked what he thought he was doing. John spun round, seemed to recognize Stewart and then uttered a series of foul blasphemies before clambering down from the bridge. He broke into a run and, although the erratic course he took suggested to Stewart that he was far from sober, he managed to make good his escape. It was at that point that I decided to consult you, Mr Holmes. This morning my first task was to confront John and put to him the report I had received from Stewart. He denied it hotly. Even if I was prepared to believe that Bevington might have mistaken someone else for John, I could not accept that Stewart had made the same error. I was shocked that John should lie to me. For the first time we quarrelled openly and voices were raised."

Dowling paused and wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead. It was clear that he was in a state of some distress. "It cannot go on like this, Mr Holmes. I see little alternative but to end our partnership. I cannot bear dishonesty and John has badly let me down.Yet if my act were to push him into carrying out his threat to commit suicide, I would find it hard indeed to live with myself. I welcome any guidance that you feel able to give."

"The explanation for your partner's conduct may be straightforward. Drink can corrupt a man more quickly than any other

vice." Holmes glanced briefly at me as he spoke and I guessed that his own occasional lapses were passing through his mind. "Yet I fancy that the problem may be more complex than it appears at first blush."

"Have you been able to form an opinion upon the basis of the information I have provided to you?"

Holmes shook his head. "With no disrespect to you, I sense that I have yet to be presented with a complete picture of events. I need to make further enquiries."

"By all means, Mr Holmes, but where would you wish to start?"

"Perhaps by speaking to your man Bevington, as well as to John Abergavenny himself."

Dowling flushed. "Certainly you may talk to my clerk. As for John, perhaps you would bear in mind the need to be circumspect. Although my intentions are entirely honourable, I would not wish him to think that I had recruited you to spy on him."

"You need have no fear. I shall be discreet. If it is convenient, perhaps Dr Watson and I can accompany you back to your office in the hope of determining where the truth lies."

A cab took us to Essex Street. Sombre skies contributed to the air of mourning which hung over London. Barely two weeks had passed since the death of the Queen and the sense of grief among her subjects was still as palpable as a dockland fog. Our journey passed almost wholly in silence. I realized that Holmes was turning over in his mind the facts that the solicitor had placed before him and seeking to draw the different threads into a pattern that satisfied him. For my own part, the conclusion seemed obvious enough. John Abergavenny was suffering a mental breakdown. It was a case for a doctor rather than a detective.

The firm of Dowling and Company occupied the ground floor of a building close to the Embankment end of the street and after we had spent a couple of minutes warming ourselves in front of the fire in Dowling's room, the solicitor returned accompanied by his clerk.

"Please would you repeat to the two gentlemen here the facts that you reported to me the day before last concerning your encounter with Mr Abergavenny in Lincoln's Inn."

"But Mr Dowling – "

"Bevington," the solicitor said gently. "You and I have known each other for a long time, have we not? I realize that you are unwilling to be a teller of tales and your attitude does you credit. I simply ask you to bear with me. I will leave you with these two gentlemen for a few minutes and I know that you will be as frank with them as you were with me."

Thus entreated, Bevington gave us his account. It did not differ in any material respect from Dowling's summation. The old clerk was stooped and short-sighted, but after listening to him for a few minutes, I was convinced that the report he had made to his principal was tainted neither by malice nor by a mistake as to the identity of the man who had been carousing with the street-walker. Bevington was, I felt sure, not blessed with an imagination vivid enough to have enabled him to embellish his tale. He was cautious and exact and he would have made a compelling witness at any trial. After he left us, I said as much to Holmes.

"I agree. Now we must – holloa!" The door was flung open and a man burst in. He was perhaps thirty years of age, middle-sized with a beaky nose, thick curly fair hair and a moustache. There were dark rings beneath his eyes and his cheeks were flushed with temper.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

My friend bowed. "Allow me to introduce Dr Watson," he said in his suavest tone. "And you, I presume, are Mr John Abergavenny?"

"I am familiar with your legendary powers of deduction," the lawyer said tersely, "and in other circumstances I might be glad to pick your brains. What is wholly unclear to me today, however, is why you have come to these offices to listen to tittle-tattle from a member of staff who is old enough to know better. I can only assume that for reasons wholly unknown to me, your express purpose is to destroy my reputation so as to enable Mr Dowling to expel me from this practice."

"I can assure you that I have no reason whatsoever to believe that my client's motives are in any wise dishonourable. He simply seeks the truth."

"So you admit that Dowling is your client! He has engaged your services behind my back to spy on me! By God, sir, this is intolerable!"

He took a step forward and for a moment I believed that he was about to strike my friend. I tensed and so did Holmes, but then Abergavenny paused and uttered a hollow laugh.

"You will have to forgive me, gentlemen. For a moment I was about to cast legal caution to the wind." He gave Holmes a hard look. "I remembered in the nick of time my professional training – and also the fact that you once fought with McMurdo. Besides, fisticuffs will solve nothing. I would simply say this to you – a few errors at work, even an instance of professional negligence, none of these matters justifies the campaign of persecution to which I am currently being subjected. There is nothing worthy of your talents here, Mr Holmes. Good day, gentlemen."

With that, he turned on his heel and left the room. For a little while the two of us sat there in silence, Holmes stroking his jaw reflectively.

"What do you make of that?" I demanded at last.

"I recognize the symptoms of over-work," my friend said softly. "Curiouser and curiouser."

The door opened again, this time to admit Matthew Dowling. His face had crumpled in dismay.

"Mr Holmes, I think I may have achieved the worst of all worlds. John Abergavenny has just given me verbal notice to terminate our partnership with immediate effect. He said that since I preferred to believe gossip to his word of honour, the bond of trust between us had been irreparably damaged. He said he would finish the relationship between us himself rather than wait for me to do so on spurious grounds."

"Did he tell you where he was bound?"

Dowling shook his head. "He has rooms above the tailor in Lamb's Conduit Street, but I suspect that his first recourse may be to a den of infamy. I dread the thought that he might take some precipitate action at a time when he is clearly very disturbed."

He took a deep breath and made a visible effort to collect his thoughts. "Thank you for your time, Mr Holmes. This unfortunate outcome is not your fault. You will, of course, let me have a note of your fees in early course."

"You regard my investigation as concluded?"

"With respect, I do not see what else you can do."

"Does it not intrigue you that, for no obvious reason, your partner's behaviour should have changed so suddenly and in such a deleterious fashion?"

"It dismays me, but I do not know what else I can do. I cannot see rhyme or reason in it."

"Precisely. I still have the distinct impression that in this case, all the cards are yet to be put on the table. I would like to speak to the court usher you mentioned and also to your partner's brother, Hugh. Would you be willing to write me a note of introduction to the man Stewart?"

Dowling readily agreed to Holmes's request, although he was plainly unconvinced that any good would come of further

enquiries. We walked directly to the Law Courts in the Strand and were able after a short wait to see Stewart and hear about his encounter with Abergavenny at Blackfriars Bridge.

"Do you believe he meant to kill himself?" Holmes asked bluntly.

"I hesitate to say as much," said Stewart with care. He was a desiccated fellow, as dry and dusty as a tome of Blackstone's

law reports. "I can add nothing more to the conversation I had with Mr Dowling, save to make the obvious point that I would not have troubled him with an account of the incident had I not thought it a matter which needed to be drawn to his attention as senior partner of an eminently respectable firm."

We could glean nothing more from him and made our way at once to the Temple. Holmes had expressed surprise when

Dowling said we might be likeliest to find Hugh Abergavenny at his old chambers in King's Bench Walk. "I understood that he had long since ceased to practise at the Bar?"

"That is correct, but he told me he has continued to haunt the place where he first made his reputation. 'The legal world is

a source of the best stories in the world,' he said, 'If one knows where to look. I found many of my neatest plots within the four walls of my old pupil master's room'."

The clerk's office was awash with papers and pink ribbon and I wondered how many of the briefs to counsel spread casually upon the floor contained material suitable for adaptation into tales of villainy and derring-do. Dowling's guess proved to be

accurate and within a couple of minutes a boy was directing us in to a small room at the back of the building.

Hugh Abergavenny had the same beaky nose and build as his brother, but his hair was darker and thinning. I estimated that he was perhaps ten years older than John. He stood up behind a small roll-top desk on which lay a manuscript and came forward to greet us. It was clear from his expression that he was startled by our arrival, but there was no denying the handsomeness of his greeting as he stretched out his hand in welcome. I noticed that his cuffs were frayed, confirmation if it were needed that these days he regarded himself as a writer rather than an advocate.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes! This is a rare honour. I have long devoured your exploits and admired the facility with which Dr Watson here writes them up for publication."

"With some embellishment, I should make clear," Holmes said amiably. "I cannot deny that at times my colleague exaggerates my achievements in the interest of telling a good story."

"As a novelist, I cannot imagine a worthier aim or a better fault."

Holmes indicated the papers on the desk. "Your current work-in-progress?"

Abergavenny hesitated for a moment before a slow grin spread across his face. "Your legendary powers do not let you down, Mr Holmes. Yes, this is my latest novel. I put it into the hands of my literary agent this very week."

"Splendid!" I cried. "I am one of your most faithful readers and it is far too long since you published The Hangman's Cellar. I must confess that I have been hoping that your next book would continue the adventures of your character Alec Salisbury."

The author smiled but shook his head. "I am afraid that Alec was getting a little long in the tooth, which is why I felt the need to try something different. You are too polite to say that my last novel did not set your pulse racing, but the critics were not so diplomatic. The reason for my silence since then is that I have been endeavouring to come up with a story that would keep them, as well as my publishers, happy. It is difficult for a man to judge his own work, but I think I can promise that neither they nor you will be disappointed by The Accusing Skeleton."

"I am delighted to hear it," I said, unable to resist a covetous look at the sheets on the desk. "May I say also, that if by some chance you were willing to let me have an early opportunity to satisfy my hunger for your work, I would be forever in your debt."

He laughed rather nervously and said, "Well, like most authors I am rather superstitious and it is not my normal practice to show my work to third parties until it has finally been accepted for publication. Your words are very kind, though, and I am not immune to compliments, especially from such a quarter. I would be willing to loan you the first chapter for, say, twenty four hours if you wish to see whether it whets your appetite."

"You are most generous!" I said as he gathered a dozen sheets together and passed them to me.

"It is a pleasure to have such a celebrated reader. I await your verdict with bated breath. In the meantime, gentlemen, to what do I owe the privilege of this visit?"

As Holmes outlined the sequence of events that had brought us to the chambers, the smile faded from Hugh Abergavenny's face. He kept shaking his head and when he heard of the incident on Blackfriars Bridge he muttered, "Oh no." By the time Holmes had recounted our brief meeting with John at the office in Essex Street, it was clear that Hugh was deeply moved.

"It is as I feared," he said. "His mental state is severely disturbed."

"I wondered," I said, "about the part that drink may have played in your brother's apparent breakdown."

"You are an acute observer, Dr Watson. I have often suspected that modesty has prevented you from revealing in your narratives the extent to which you have yourself developed a detective's flair." Hugh cast his eyes down for a moment. "John has always had a weakness for alcohol. It can change him into a different person, aggressive, irrational and despondent by turns. His appalling behaviour whilst drunk was the main cause of the estrangement between us, a breach which I have lately been striving to repair. I had heard good reports of him in recent times and they led me to hope that he had turned the corner after accepting the offer of partnership in a sound practice. Sadly, it seems that my optimism was premature."

He shook his head. "Gentlemen, on any other day I would value the chance to spend a few hours in your company and

perhaps to persuade you to discuss some of your unrecorded cases. Who knows? Possibly I could seek to dress them up in the guise of fiction. However, my immediate priorities lie elsewhere. I must try to find John, even if it means trawling through every drinking den in London, and see if I can make him see reason. I owe our late mother nothing less. When I have more news, I shall let Maxwell Dowling and your good selves know. Perhaps I could call at Baker Street tomorrow and see for myself the famous consulting room."

"You will be most welcome," I said warmly. "By then, I shall have read your manuscript. It really is good of you to afford me the opportunity in advance of publication."

Holmes was quiet throughout our journey home and once we had arrived, he sank into a meditative trance. I sensed that he was disturbed by the day's events, but knew better than to trouble him with questions or idle conversation. After dealing with certain correspondence, I decided to amuse myself by turning to the first chapter of Hugh Abergavenny's novel and devoured it within minutes.

"By Jove, Holmes, this is splendid stuff!" Such was my pleasure in the tale that I could not help disturbing his reverie. "It is almost unbearable that I cannot continue reading. The description of the hero's visit to a warehouse in the East End and what he finds there – but no, I must not spoil the story.You must read it for yourself."

Holmes opened his eyes and said languidly, "I am afraid I do not count myself amongst Hugh Abergavenny's devoted admirers. His early books were lively enough, but compared to Collins or even Conway, he seems to favour contrivance ahead of the creation of plausible characters. The later stories are so dependent upon coincidence as to make it impossible to suspend disbelief. As for his hero, I fear that Alec Salisbury makes even Lecoq appear to be a master detective."

"You need not worry," I said, rather stiffly. "As we were told, Salisbury does not appear in this book. It really is rather fine, Holmes. Don't allow your prejudices to cause you to ignore it.

"You are the one who should have taken up the law," my friend remarked. "You are a persuasive spokesman. Very well, pass me the chapter."

He read the first pages of the book in silence and then, before I could ask his reaction, lapsed back into his dream-like state. Suddenly he sat bolt upright.

"I have been obtuse, Watson! Quick, we need to call on the younger Abergavenny at once!"

"But Holmes, what can we hope to achieve that his brother cannot?"

His strong-set features were twisted with pain. "We must strive to prevent a terrible crime. Yet I fear that already we may be too late."

"I don't understand," I said. "What crime are you talking about?"

"The murder", he said bitterly, "of John Abergavenny."

We hailed a cab and asked the driver to take us to the tailor's shop in Lamb's Conduit Street. When we reached our destination, I saw that a small crowd of onlookers had gathered outside the door beside the entrance to the shop. As we dismounted, two familiar figures emerged from the doorway.

"As I feared," my friend muttered under his breath. "We have been out-foxed."

"Mr Holmes!" cried Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. "Were your ears burning? We have just been talking about you."

He indicated Matthew Dowling, who stood by his side. The old solicitor's face was grey and drawn.

"How is John Abergavenny?" demanded my friend.

"He was taken to hospital less than a quarter of an hour ago. He is in a coma."

"Not dead, then?" A flame of hope flickered in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

"Not expected to live, though," said Lestrade. "Seems that after marching out of his office, he came home and took a massive overdose of chloral hydrate. There's a half-empty jar of the stuff on his sideboard."

Holmes's shoulders sagged and so did mine. We both knew the power of the notorious sedative. Many East End publicans, to my knowledge, still kept a jar of chloral hydrate underneath their counter so that they could slip one or two knock-out drops into the drink of any customer who started spoiling for a fight. A highly effective remedy for trouble-makers, perhaps, but if administered in excess it was lethal.

"Apparently the fellow's been behaving oddly," Lestrade continued. "Mr Dowling here and his brother have explained to me his peculiar actions of the last few days."

"Hugh Abergavenny is present also?"

"Not now," said Dowling. "He arrived here a few minutes after I did. I had become increasingly concerned about John's

safety after he left Essex Street. Finally I plucked up the courage

to come out here. I wanted to talk to John, to make him see sense. I could see a light in John's room, but my knocking was

not answered. Ultimately I prevailed upon the tailor, who lives in

the back basement, to let me use the spare key. I rushed upstairs and found John in a dreadful state. It was clear that he was very

sick. I immediately made arrangements for him to be taken to

hospital and contacted the police. No sooner had I done that than Hugh turned up. He explained that he'd been searching

for John, going round the drinking dens in which he might be found. When he had no luck, he came here. Like me, he was hoping that reason might prevail. The pity is that we were too late. I suggested to Hugh that his place was by John's side at the hospital, but we both fear that the omens are bleak."

Suddenly Holmes clapped a hand to his brow. "Lestrade, has anyone touched the jar of chloral hydrate?"

"Why, no," the detective replied. "There was no immediate need." "Mr Dowling?"

"I did not, sir. The contents are plainly marked. I fear that John knew what he was doing."

"Not John," Holmes said harshly. "Hugh."

"I don't understand, Mr Holmes. What do you mean?"

"I mean," said my friend, "that your partner was poisoned by his brother. Quick, Lestrade, let us go upstairs. The question now is whether we can prove our case."

It was late the following night before my friend and I had the opportunity to talk at length about the case over a whisky-andsoda at Baker Street. By then John Abergavenny had died, a victim of cardiac and respiratory collapse, without having regained consciousness and his brother had been arrested on a charge of fratricide.

"My interest in the case", Holmes said, "was aroused by the differences in the way John Abergavenny reacted when his senior partner put complaints to him. He quickly acknowledged his acts of carelessness. It was plain that he was over-tiring himself. That might have been because he went out drinking every night, but it seemed entirely out of character for him to do so. Besides, there was a possible alternative explanation. Perhaps he was continuing to work on his fiction late into the night after a full day's legal work, keeping it a secret because of Dowling's disapproval and a natural lack of confidence in his own literary talents. I also entertained a degree of scepticism about the incidents reported by both Bevington and Stewart -which John vehemently denied.Yet why should the witnesses lie? The contradictions intrigued me. When I mentioned the case to you originally, I drew an analogy with Stevenson's romance and from the outset the business seemed to me to possess certain of the features of a cheap thriller. An apparently respectable man leading a double life, dipping his toe in the world of vice. It is a perennial theme."

He took another sip from his glass. "I had only to meet Bevington and Stewart to be sure that they were not lying. On the contrary, they seemed unimpeachable. So – either John was behaving as wildly as they described, or someone was impersonating him. I noticed at once that Hugh resembled him in build and features. True, he did not have a moustache, was balding and his hair was different in colour. But any actor worth his salt could easily change all that."

"But Hugh was a writer, not an actor," I objected.

"He had been a court advocate," Holmes said impatiently, "and few men are better suited to playing a part than barristers. They have the advantage of professional training coupled with constant practice. I once said to you,Watson, that when a doctor goes wrong he is the first of criminals, but I should have added the rider that a practitioner of the law comes a close second." He gave a grim chuckle. "I hope I was not unduly prejudiced because I had found his writing slick and meretricious. It puzzled me that, as little better than a hack wordsmith, he had not published a book for some time. With that in mind, I regarded his explanation for haunting his old chambers as less than convincing."

I raised my eyebrows. "Surely he was wise to be seeking out fresh stories?"

"If that was so, why had he been silent for so long? I wondered if he was suffering from simple inability to write. It is a curse which, I believe, afflicts many authors. I had rather the impression of a man living on past glories, a pathetic shadow of his former self, hanging around the legal world where he had scored his early successes. A sad man, too, no doubt overtaken by younger men who had not been distracted from their careers by the lure of appearing in print. Did you notice that his cuffs were threadbare?"

"I thought it a Bohemian touch, appropriate enough in a man who had given up his wig for the pen."

"That is no doubt what he hoped people would think," Holmes said dismissively. "He seemed alarmed to see us, which further fuelled my suspicions. Yet he was no fool. How careful he was to portray himself as a man on the brink of renewed success. I could not guess why he would wish harm to his brother – who had, according to Dowling, always envied him. I was concerned for John, but failed to realize that his life was in imminent danger. As soon as he knew of my involvement, Hugh decided that the time had come to perfect his plan."

"The cold-blooded devil," I said with a shiver.

"The legal world is small and enclosed. He must have known Bevington and Stewart or known of them and he successfully used them as his dupes. He was intent on creating the impression that his brother was on the downward slope and contemplating suicide. His own visit to Dowling ensured that the calumny seemed credible.Yet in his haste he made a crucial mistake. After he left us, he called on his brother – who had returned home to cool his temper after quitting Essex Street – and pretended to sympathize with him about Dowling's behaviour in calling on my assistance. They had a drink together. When a chance came, he slipped a murderous dose of chloral hydrate into his brother's glass. But in his haste to be away before the poison took effect he forgot to wipe the jar containing the sedative."

"Leaving his fingerprints on it, then!" I exclaimed.

"As Lestrade has now established, I am glad to say. Do you recall that as recently as last December, Lord Belper's committee of enquiry recommended that Edward Henry's method of identification of criminals by fingerprints be adopted in place of anthropometry and dactylography? The details are in my scrapbook, if you care to consult it. The decision is an excellent one, by the way. Henry is a sound man and he has been kind enough to acknowledge the assistance of a monograph of my own in compiling his textbook for police on the science of fingerprinting. Hugh Abergavenny was back in King's Bench Walk before it occurred to him that it would be prudent to clean the jar. Thankfully, by the time he returned to his brother's rooms, Dowling was on the scene and Hugh had no opportunity to make good his mistake without arousing suspicion."

"How did you hit upon the truth?"

"By reading the manuscript.The first chapter of the new book was written too beautifully and boasts a plot too original for it to have been the work of a man who could never aspire beyond the pot-boiler. I realized at once that Hugh Abergavenny had lied when he claimed it as his own. It must have been the story which his brother had lent him for an opinion. Hugh told John it was worthless at the same time as he was covertly transcribing it in his own hand."

Holmes sighed. "I shall always regret my inability to save John Abergavenny, Watson. There is only the crumb of consolation that his novel will serve as a fitting memorial to him."

"It is a kind of justice," I said.

My friend's sallow cheeks flushed. "And I sincerely trust that Hugh Abergavenny, too, will receive his just deserts when his case comes to trial.

It was a sentiment that I echoed, but the murderer contrived to cheat the law. Five days before his trial, Hugh Abergavenny hanged himself in his prison cell. It emerged that he, rather than his younger brother, had a long history of nervous trouble and he had once before attempted to take his own life, when the last book he managed to complete was rejected by every publisher in London.

The Legacy of Rachel Howells – Michael Doyle

Preface

Another very singular case came within my own observation. It was sent to me by an eminent London publisher. This gentleman had in his employment a head of department whose name we shall take as Musgrave. He was a hard-working person, with no special feature in his character. Mr Musgrave died, and several years after his death a letter was received addressed to him, in the care of his employers. It bore the postmark of a tourist resort in the west of Canada, and had the note "Confl films" upon the outside of the envelope, with the words "Report Sy" in one corner.

The publishers naturally opened the envelope as they had no note of the dead man's relatives. Inside were two blank sheets of paper. The letter, I may add, was registered. The publisher, being unable to make anything of this, sent it on to me, and I submitted the blank sheets to every possible chemical and heat test, with no result whatever. Beyond the fact that the writing appeared to be that of a woman there is nothing to add to this account. The matter was, and remains, an insoluble mystery. How the correspondent could have something so secret to say to Mr Musgrave and yet not be aware that this person had been dead for several years is very hard to understand – or why blank sheets should be so carefully registered through the mail. I may add that I did not trust the sheets to my own chemical tests, but had the best expert advice without getting any result. Considered as a case it was a failure – and a very tantalizing one.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

"Some personalia about Sherlock Holmes"

The Strand Magazine, December, 1917

Over the years in which I have been associated with Mr Sherlock Holmes many players have appeared on our little stage at 22 lb Baker Street. The appearance of each was, of course, closely scrutinized by Mr Holmes and myself but once the spotlight has shifted these actors have all too often exited through the wings, never to return. I have often wondered what has become of these clients, and those associated with them in the cases which I have recorded – and in the hundreds which still await the attention of a competent biographer.

To this pattern there have been several exceptions. Professor Moriarty is a constant presence: his influence, if not the man himself, is likely to continue; the dark side of human nature will, it seems, be always with us. His colleague Colonel Moran, spectator of the Reichenbach drama, has appeared more than once on our stage as have Inspector Lestrade, his colleagues at Scotland Yard, our dear Mrs Hudson, our page boy Billy, my wife Mary and some few others. Of the majority however we have heard no more. For Sherlock Holmes, whose interest wanes rapidly with the solving of each problem, this is of little moment: friendship, like any other emotion, is to him distractive and to be avoided. To me however the passing of these ephemerae is a matter of regret; I am glad therefore for this opportunity to lay before the public a case which returns to the limelight a woman whose intelligence and avarice – Sherlock Holmes had grievously underrated when he first had occasion to be involved in an investigation in which her wicked hand had played a part. This intriguing affair has not yet been brought to a conclusion. Tracing the final threads, and the identification and arrest of the murderer, whom neither Holmes nor I have yet met face to face, appear likely to provide a bonus: a visit to the Americas, and to the splendid young country of Canada. I have every hope of being accompanied, if the activities of the London criminal permit, by Sherlock Holmes himself.

With or without Holmes – for I make bold to say that the final steps can, if necessary, be entrusted to me – this excursion will

bring home guilt to the person in question; until then however it cannot be positively asserted. The reader will forgive me if I obey the dictates of discretion by declining to specify the exact date on which these anticipatory words are penned.

It was in the spring of 1901, while Holmes and I were investigating the disappearance of the Priory School student and the murder of his bicycling German master in the north of England, that we learned of the death of Reginald Musgrave. The newspaper's account was terse: Sir Reginald, member of parliament for Hurlstone, West Sussex and squire of its Manor House and estates, had been tragically killed in a shooting mishap on Monday May 13th. A verdict of accidental death had been returned at the inquest; a memorial service was to be held at the village church and the estates were to be maintained by the deceased's next of kin, his cousin Nathaniel Musgrave.

"Is it not an irony," said Holmes, his distress obvious as we surveyed this brief announcement, "that we learn of the death of Musgrave, who inherited his estates from his father but died a bachelor, just as we make clear that the Holdernesse family has one son too many? The sibling Saltire is lured away, like young Copperfield to Dover, on the promise of a maternal affection which is not to be found at home, by a treacherous elder brother whose only aim is his destruction. Which is the better, to father two sons and such a misery or, like Musgrave, none at all?"

"That must be decided by each man for himself, Holmes. Opportunity travels always with risk as its companion."

"Just so, Watson, but I regret that Musgrave's sudden end has denied him the chance of an heir," replied Holmes thoughtfully "and also the pleasure of taking his own son through the family ritual. And what means 'shooting mishap'? One would expect from the press less reticence and more clarity. The coroner however has evidently found nothing amiss so, unless the fates decree that I am consulted in the matter, nothing appears to be done save to bid a silent ave atque vale to my erstwhile university friend and early client."

The fates were so to decree but, perversely, they stayed their hand for nearly two months; it was then their sister Atropos they sent. She came to us in the thin disguise of our landlady, bearing the morning's tray of correspondence and requests for appointments, medical for me, criminal and otherwise for

Holmes. Her rap at our door, thus effected, was so gentle, and her tap so faint, that we were unaware she had entered our chamber. She gave no warning of the remarkable train of events, of the brazen attempt at an audacious new crime – and delayed retribution for a hideous old one – that would ensue; nor was I prepared for the demonstrations of my friend's amazing powers of observation, deduction and inference, of the quick workings of his intellect and of his astonishing ability to create and test hypotheses until the truth was revealed as clearly as are the pure golden tailings and nuggets in the pan of the prospector.

Thus it was that ten days ago Sherlock Holmes and I were visited by the eminent London publisher Garrison Bolt. He wished, he had said in his letter requesting the appointment, to consult Holmes about a matter arising from his business. On the grounds that this might involve my role of chronicler Holmes had asked me, despite a period of considerable activity in my medical practice, to be present. The shrewd, scholarly face of the bookman was known to us, although we had not met for some years. It was with the house of Bolt that I had negotiated publication of my account of one of our earliest cases. I remembered very well the hard bargain he had struck and admit to harbouring some resentment as a result, a resentment heightened by the contrasting generosity of the public, whose approval of my later efforts stood in such sharp contrast to Mr Bolt's parsimony. Despite the numerous reprints of my work, from which Mr Bolt's firm reaped a considerable income, nary a penny was paid over the modest sum agreed, a circumstance which directed me to other, more generous publishers. But a bargain is a bargain and neither Holmes nor I had ever allowed ourselves the indulgence of bearing any grudge or ill will towards Garrison Bolt save that, on the occasions when he had requested my contribution of short introductions to later editions, my dislike of his business ethics always caused me to respond with a positive "No!". We greeted him cordially as he entered our Baker Street rooms and seated him as comfortably as our quarters permitted.

"I am delighted to see you again, Mr Holmes – Dr Watson," said our visitor, settling himself into an armchair.

"And we, you", replied my friend cheerfully. "It was only last evening that we were speculating on the effects, beneficial

or otherwise, of the new Literary Supplement on the fortunes of publishing houses such as yours, and on those who, like Dr Watson, supply the grist for your mills."

"It certainly introduces a new element into the novelist's equation," commented Garrison Bolt, with a wry smile, "the effects of which will be felt throughout the world. Indeed, there is an international aspect to this singular and tantalizing matter that has come up in our offices, which I believe will be of interest to you." Holmes and I leaned forward. Both paused, as though seeking the words that would best secure our attention. "It appears to me that the matter already does relate to you!"

"How so?" asked Holmes, laying aside his pipe.

"I have had in my employment, head of one of our departments, a Mr Musgrave," the publisher explained. "Some years ago he died."

"How?"

"Of natural causes."

"What type of man was he?"

"A hard-working person, of a religious bent but with no other special feature in his character. I have had no occasion to think of Newman Musgrave since – until a month ago, when we received a letter addressed to him care of ourselves. I have it with me now." Garrison Bolt handed an envelope to Sherlock Holmes. It appeared thus:

"As you see, the letter has been addressed not to Newman, but to Norman, Musgrave. We have had no other Musgraves in our employ so I feel sure that the letter was intended for Newman. It has been registered, carries Canadian postage and has the note `CONFL FILMS' upon the outside of the envelope, with the words 'REPORT SY' in the top left hand corner, in the position where the sender's return address is usually given. No such return address, or any indication as to the sender, however, appears.The postman, after some demur, agreed to leave the envelope with us.

"As we had no note of the dead man's relatives we naturally opened it. To our surprise we found inside only these two blank pieces of paper." He handed these to me. I passed them to Holmes, who glanced at them cursorily and returned them to our visitor.

"Thinking that the sheets might have some connection with 'films', or perhaps 'confidential films' ", he continued, "and not trusting them only to my own examinations, I employed the best expert advice I could secure by submitting them to Scotland Yard for analysis by every possible chemical and heat test – all without any result."

"Tut, man," cried Holmes, glancing at the envelope. "You surely received the letter at least a month ago. Have you not been tardy in submitting it for testing?"

"I fear so, sir. I had not read any emergency into the matter. It was only when the police laboratory failed me that I realized that if the mystery was to be solved more specialized advice was needed. It was then that I thought of you, Mr Holmes. Like all Londoners I am aware of your extraordinary ability to solve the insoluble, and to bring light into darkness. You will recall that our house had the pleasure of publishing one of Dr Watson's first accounts of a tour de force in your astonishing career. I was struck, too, by the postmark 'Baskerville' on the envelope, mindful that the name is associated with another of your recent adventures. The name of my employee, Musgrave, of course is to be found in yet another of Dr Watson's accounts.

I interjected, "How the correspondent could have something so secret to say to Mr Musgrave and yet not be aware that this person had been dead for several years is very hard to understand – or why blank sheets should be so carefully registered through the mail."

"Quite so.To a man like me the matter is an insoluble mystery." He turned to Holmes. "Well, Mr Holmes, you are not a man like me, and there is my hope! May I leave this conundrum in your hands? I cannot see that even you will be able to find the key to it, and the matter may perhaps be of no importance but I, for one, find it intriguing."

"And so do I!" responded Holmes cheerfully. "I will turn my mind to it – aided, I hope, by Dr Watson. The part of suppliant biographer is not his only role in this agency. You will hear from us as soon as we are ready to report."

Our visitor thanked us and left. Holmes picked up the envelope and its enigmatic contents and examined them with his lens.

"There are points about this little problem which promise to make it unique – but an insoluble mystery? What think you, doctor?"

"I would not admit as much without first making some effort," I replied. "We have the Baskerville postmark and the reference to Musgrave to go on. Of Musgrave I know only what you told me years ago; as to Baskerville I suggest we contact Sir Henry without delay. He spent some years in Canada before he inherited his Dartmoor estate; he may well be able to throw some light on this letter and its origins."

"Right, Watson! We do have these two starting points. And we may have more! Let us leave Baskerville and Musgrave for the moment, and first see what the power of reason, applied to this billet-doux, will reveal. You opined, and Garrison Bolt agreed with you, that it is very hard to understand how the correspondent could have something so secret to say to Mr Musgrave and yet not be aware that he had been dead for several years. With respect, you make two assumptions – you advance two hypotheses – which enjoy the support of no data. Why should we assume that the correspondent is ignorant of Newman Musgrave's death? We know no such thing. It is quite possible that he is well aware of it but has had some good reason for not writing until now. Some recent event may have removed the impediment. I do not say that this is probable; only that it is possible. As to your first surmise, there is no certainty that this transmission was intended for Newman Musgrave at all.

Indeed, as I turn my mind to it, the less likely does that premise become.

"Second, you find it hard to understand why blank sheets should be carefully registered through the mail. There you are certainly right. Such a mailing is absurd. If the message – for a message it must be – is not contained inside the envelope it follows that it must be found upon it."

"On the envelope itself?"

"Yes!"

"That is logical," I admitted, after a moment's consideration, "but why do you question that the message, however it is constituted, is intended for Newman Musgrave? If not for him, for whom?"

"For us!"

"For you and me?"

"Yes! Consider.The letter was brought to us by Garrison Bolt, an established publisher with whom you have done business, and are known to have done business. His name and address appear in every copy of your original work. As my brother Mycroft has remarked, your tales are to be found everywhere. It should not be surprising if the sender of this message from Canada has access to them; in fact, she clearly has."

"She?"

"The writing is in a woman's hand. The emotional characteristics – the swirling M's and E's, and the ambivalent C's in particular – are unmistakable. She, yes, she, is clearly aware of the reputation our agency enjoys. What more natural than that the publisher should refer her enigmatic communique to us? Bolt, provided he gave her letter his attention, must surely equate 'Baskerville' and 'Musgrave' to 'Sherlock Holmes'. She could be sure that he would. Indeed, to make certain of his attention she has sent it by registered post."

"You mean that she has deliberately addressed the envelope to a man she knows does not exist?" I asked.

"So I read it. This message is, and always was, intended for us, Watson!"

"Astonishing!" said I. "But what of the Baskerville postmark? Of the Canadian stamps? And what of my suggestion that we contact Sir Henry? Does it have merit?"

"I fear not," said Holmes.

"May I ask why?"

"Well, your suggestion is that he may be able to throw some light on the matter. But what light can he possibly throw?" Holmes paused. He gazed first at the ceiling, as though in concentration, then at me, in a manner reminiscent of my old school master when explaining a complicated matter to his class. "As you say, he once lived in Canada. So do some five million others. And how could this postmark possibly connect with him? Sir Henry's post office is not at Baskerville, but at Grimpen. You and I have used it frequently, as our Canadian reader of your tales is clearly aware. The seat of the Baskerville family for centuries has been in Devon, not Canada. There is, to the best of my knowledge, no town or village of Baskerville in Canada. No! Sir Henry is not involved here."

"But if the postmark is not genuine," said I, "it must be bogus!"

"Your reasoning does you credit, doctor," said Holmes with an encouraging chuckle. "You are an island of common sense in a bewildering sea of uncertainty!" He took up his lens and examined the postmark with intensity. "See here!" he exclaimed. "See that S in 'Baskerville'? What do you make of it?" He handed the lens to me.

"It is smudged and indistinct," said I. "It appears to have been tampered with."

"Exactly! The letter has been substituted for another. It appears first to have been the letter R."

I peered through the lens again. "Yes – R," I agreed.

"So we have not Baskerville but Barkerville. Is there such a place? Make a long arm for our Gazetteer if you please, Watson. Thank you. Now… Baskerville. No. Nothing. But here! 'Barkerville'," he read, "and in the west of Canada too! 'In British Columbia; part of the Cariboo Gold Fields; the site of a major gold strike in 1862, second in importance only to the recentYukon strike of 1898; a colourful frontier gambling town; an attraction to visitors; a tourist resort.' "

"But what could be the sender's object in tampering with the postmark?"

"To ensure that the envelope, with its striking allusions to Baskerville and Musgrave, would be brought to me. In this she

has succeeded. Our correspondent in British Columbia has gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure delivery of this message to us, Watson."

"But why did she not communicate with you directly?" I asked.

"Why not, indeed!" Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his forefingers together, with Garrison Bolt's envelope between them, closed his eyes and continued. "Two minds are better than one,Watson. Let us reconsider what we have deduced:This envelope is a message. Its contents are irrelevant. Its sender is an intelligent, imaginative, resourceful and determined woman. She lives in, or within travelling distance of, Barkerville in the west of Canada. She has deliberately sent it to a man she knows to be dead. She has sent it in such a manner, by registering it, by misspelling the dead man's first name as Norman, and by altering the postmark to 'Baskerville' to ensure – nay, to guarantee – that it reaches the hands not of the defunct addressee but of ourselves. She has deferred posting the letter until the occurrence of some event which has removed the reason for her not doing so before."

"Excellent!" said I.

"Have we reached the limits of what reason and energy can supply?"

"I fear that we have."

"Surely you do us an injustice. We have further avenues to explore. Do you provide the energy, Watson, and I the reason. Be good enough to make inquiries through the post office as to the origin, and if possible the sender, of this envelope. Records are kept of registered post. Now that we have ascertained the true location from which the letter was dispatched the task may not be an impossible one, especially since the postmaster who registered this envelope in Barkerville is left-handed, and therefore identifiable."

"Holmes!"

"Well, surely it is self-evident?"

"How?"

"Observe the two circular cancellation stamps. They are produced by a metal strike which, grasped by a right-handed man, naturally produces an imprint tilted to the left. These are tilted to the right."

"But is this single instance conclusive?"

"Corroboration is afforded by the registration stamp. The R, unlike the cancellations, which are upside down, is not inverted. The envelope faced the sender, not the postmaster, when handed over the counter and was turned round for the act of registration. You observe that the R stamp also tilts to the right. Cancellation and registration were therefore both effected by a left hander, and both by the postmaster. Voila tout! The steps in this reasoning are so elementary as to be facile, but the induction itself may prove of the utmost importance. Why? Because this postmaster has faced the letter's sender across his counter. He may, even now, be able to recall and identity her."

"Holmes," I ejaculated, after a moment, "this is yet another of those occasions when I feel an overwhelming urge to rise in embarrassment and to knock my head against our ceiling in sheer frustration!"

"Worry not, friend Watson," replied Holmes with a smile. "Levity is not your forté! Do you gravitate to the post office and let us see what the high principles of deduction, allied to some common sense research, can produce."

"I will do so at once," I replied, laughing, as I turned to the door.

"Thank you.You are as a crutch to a cripple. Please, my dear fellow, indulge my infirmity by handing me my briar pipe and some shag tobacco before you go. This little problem requires thought."

I was able to report to Holmes within three hours. One of the staff of the Baker Street Post Office, an avid admirer of Holmes and his methods, gladly and enthusiastically threw himself into the task of helping us. Despite approaching closing time he transmitted without a moment's delay over the spans of the Atlantic Ocean and the vastness of the Americas to far away Barkerville. The eight hours time difference he explained ensured that our message would arrive at the Barkerville office as it opened its doors for the day's work. He even promised to wait for the reply. The Canadians, despite the unusual nature of our urgently-worded enquiry, checked their records immediately; the letter to Musgrave had indeed been dispatched from their office and, they reported, duly appeared in their ledger in its proper place. The entry however, they were embarrassed to

inform us, had been tampered with: the name and address of the sender had been obliterated. Their postmaster, William Topping – and yes, they confirmed, he was left-handed and he was on duty that day – denied any knowledge of the erasure or of the sender of the message. It had been done cunningly and deliberately, he said, by some mischiefmaker, taking advantage of the distractions of a busy office.There was no question of the ledger's having been out of the station's possession – a serious breach of regulations – but it was not unusual for it to lie open on the counter. Neither Mr Topping nor his aides could recall any particular registrants, female or otherwise, on that day. The illicit erasure, they regretted, left them with no means of identifying or locating the sender. As I returned to Baker Street I reflected that Holmes was faced with an adversary armed with more than mere cunning; that an astute mind of high calibre was challenging, perhaps even threatening, us from the Americas.

"She must have tampered with the postmark at the same time, Holmes," said I, as I reported this unwelcome news. "She has taken as much care in falsifying it as in concealing her identity."

"Indeed! And she still leaves us with two puzzles: why does she wish to communicate with me, and what is her message?"

"The first I can fathom," said I. "From your account of the adventure of the Musgrave Ritual it seems that these Musgraves are not an over-bright lot. It seems clear that she intends to communicate with the family by an intermediary who is familiar with the events that arose from the ritual and intelligent enough to divine her message's true import. You qualify on both counts, Holmes."

"You may be right, Watson. I believe that you are right. It follows then that this mysterious sender knows the Musgrave family well. We progress! It now remains only to read her message." He picked up the envelope and studied it again with minutest attention. Laying down his pipe he picked up a pencil and opened his notebook.

"Bah!" He exclaimed. "Trysor, the Welsh name for treasure, can be extracted from 'Report Sy', but what of that? We have no indication whatsoever that the message's sender is a Welsh woman, or that treasure is involved. To the contrary, our correspondent is evidently a resident of Canada and our bullion

mere blank paper. I get nowhere. What make you of report Sy," Watson?"

"Sy is an identifying code perhaps?" I suggested. "Or an abbreviation for Sydney, in Australia? Or for 'symbol'?"

Holmes deliberated. "All three are possibilities. Let us consider a fourth: system. 'Confidential Films' or if there has been a slip of the writer's pen, 'Confidential Files', implies some form of orderly arrangement. 'system' would answer to both. Dare we take it as a working hypothesis and see where it leads us?"

"You are probably correct," I responded. "The word does suggest itself."

"Very well. report system it is, until further data proves otherwise. Now, what of 'confl films'?"

It was my turn to scribble. "coffins!" I cried. "The word `coffins' can be extracted from it, Holmes!"

"Good for you, Watson! 'Coffins' sounds promising; the word has a pleasing ring. That leaves us with mll. It is evidently a Roman date. M of course is 1000 and L is 50. 1000 ad plus two 50s." He thought for a moment. "But the Romans never wrote LL to express 100. Its symbol was C. So our second L is suspect. It is ambiguous. It is 'extra'. What date – or what message – is this sender trying to convey to us? 1050? 1100? Some date in between? What significance could such a date have on an envelope intended for us but addressed to Norman, or Newman, Musgrave?"

"I can think of none," I confessed.

Holmes rose to his feet. "I have it, Watson! I believe I have it!" His face glowed with excitement. "Reginald Musgrave, that devoted custodian of his ancient feudal keep, told me years ago that his estate's ancient oak tree was probably in situ at the time of the Norman Conquest. The Norman Conquest, Watson! 1066, as we were taught at school, when the feudal system was at its height. This is the explanation for the deliberate change of name from Newman to Norman! It is another of the sender's tricks. She grows more interesting hourly! She is directing us to that labyrinth of catacombs, crypts and ancient dungeons of which I told you before. Yes, my boy, the solution to this pretty puzzle lies in the ancient coffins of the Musgraves' manor at Hurlstone!"

I felt my blood quicken with excitement. "You have reasoned it out marvellously," said I.

"Well, if you will be kind enough to select an early train tomorrow to western Sussex I will send a telegram at once to Nathaniel Musgrave, the new squire, to tell him of our arrival. I have no doubt that he will be glad to see us. It will be a pleasure to introduce him to you, Watson."

"I look forward to it," said I heartily. "Reginald Musgrave was a man in whose family story, and your part in it, I found great interest. That fresh developments are now expected adds special appeal. The game is evidently afoot once more!"

"Indeed it is, old friend, and a 'grave' one it may prove to be," said Holmes with a chuckle. He was, as always, in good spirits when his brain was grappling with an intellectual challenge. At seven the next morning a first class smoker from Waterloo found us bound for Hurlstone. We arrived at the pleasant country station to find a two-wheeler waiting. The driver greeted us cheerfully.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes? Dr Watson? I am from Hurlstone, sirs, sent by Mister Nathaniel to meet you. I trust you had a good journey?"

"Thank you, yes."

Holmes glanced at me, then addressed the man again.

"Sir Reginald and I were friends for a good many years. Tell me, how did this tragedy happen?"

"An inexperienced house guest at a shooting party was the cause of it, sir. He was following Sir Reginald out of a copse to meet the beaters and failed to unload his gun while climbing over a fence. The triggers were caught by brambles. Sir Reginald took the full charge of both barrels in the back. We thank the Good Lord that the master did not suffer. It was all done in a flash."

"A tragedy indeed," responded Holmes, after a pause.

"Yes, sir. His death was a great loss. He had many friends in the district – very many. It was standing room only in St Mary's at the memorial service. He represented our district right well in Westminster, too."

On arrival at Hurlstone we were greeted warmly by Nathaniel Musgrave, a pleasant, courtly young man of aristocratic mien. Expressing our regrets at the calamity, we were ushered into the new wing of his ancient manor.

"Hurlstone appears to generate mysteries," remarked Holmes, as he seated himself in a proffered arm chair in Musgrave's study. "On my previous visit, as you know, I was summoned by your cousin to look into the disappearance of two members of your staff. I come now bringing my own puzzle: it developed yesterday in London in connection with a Mr Newman, or Norman, Musgrave, who died several years ago and who may, or may not, be related to you."

"Ah!Yes! Newman! He worked in a publishing company, did he not? He has certainly been to Hurlstone. I never met him but I know a little of him. He was a relative, but a distant one. He was an amiable churchgoer, living quietly and dedicating his spare time to the service of Rome. This prevented his taking more than a cursory interest in our estate, or indeed in the family. I am afraid we rather lost touch with him over the years. What problem has he produced?"

Holmes explained the matter, concisely summarizing Garrison Bolt's visit, the extraordinary letter and the chain of reasoning which had led him to this return visit to Hurlstone. Nathaniel Musgrave examined the envelope carefully.

"I have no correspondents in the west of Canada," he said. "I know no one there. I can make nothing of the letter other than to applaud your extraordinary deductions. You were clearly intended to bring the letter to Hurlstone, but what we are meant to do with it is utterly beyond me. Frankly I am amazed that you have deduced so much. My cousin told me of your extraordinary powers, Mr Holmes, and I can see that he was not exaggerating. As you know," he continued, "we have the crown which you so dramatically identified for us. We have had it fully restored. Perhaps you would like to see it. Incidentally, we have learned that it graced the brows of the Tudor, as well as the Stuart, kings. It was reportedly used at every coronation from that of Henry VIII until the dispersion of the regalia following Charles I's trial and execution in January of 1649, when it was, I understand, broken into pieces by Master Cromwell and his notso-merry men. We have always kept the linen bag in which the Crown was retrieved from the mere, too. It seemed a sacrilege to separate them after nearly two hundred and fifty years together in solitary confinement in Brunton's strongbox, as we call it."

Holmes looked sharply at Musgrave, an expression of extreme alertness and concentration on his face. He paused before speaking again. "What do you infer, Mr Musgrave, from this reference to 'coffins', and a date of 1050, or 1100?" he asked. "It is clearly a directive we are meant to follow."

"There at least I see no difficulty," said the young heir. "The old part of the building, like the rest of the estate, does indeed date back to feudal times. It has always been one of the duties of the incumbent at Hurlstone to preserve the original burial sites of those who lived here before us. Some are merely marked by rude stone markers with the ancient engravings obliterated by nine hundred years of wind and storm but others, mostly wooden caskets and stone sarcophagi, have been sheltered from the elements. Those of the Norman period you mention are situated in an ancient catacomb abutting, as it happens, on the very cellar in which you and my cousin found the body of our unfortunate butler."

Holmes rubbed his hands in satisfaction. "Let us lose no time in examining these coffins. Our unknown correspondent has gone to considerable lengths to see that we do and I know of no reason why we should not oblige her. By the way, Mr Musgrave," he added, "are the Hurlstone relics, graves and coffins arranged in any particular order, or system? Do the phrases 'control system' or 'control sy' have any meaning for you?"

"The words mean nothing to me," replied Musgrave, "but yes, the graves are sited in chronological order. I suppose that is the way of graves. In any case it could not be otherwise at Hurlstone. Many of the stone cases are very heavy. It would be no easy matter to move them."

The entrance to the catacombs was a sloping tunnel. Its moss-covered flagstones provided firm footing as we entered from the daylight but became treacherously slippery as we descended. The dank, fungus-covered walls dripped with moisture – a reminder of the nearby Hurlstone mere. Our host carried a flare, by whose light we picked our way down the ancient ramp of the ossuary. The odour of nitrates was unmistakable. In many places the old wooden coffins had rotted and collapsed; skeletal remains of ancient Musgraves were glimpsed as we descended – mute but eloquent testimony to our host's ancient lineage. Nathaniel Musgrave halted at a small group of crumbling stone containers, one of which had a lid, slightly ajar.

"These are the coffins of the Norman period;" said he, "most of their occupants were recorded in the Domesday Book."

"Please excuse my lack of ceremony, Mr Musgrave," said Holmes, stepping forward. "I mean no disrespect but something of immediate significance, in addition to the remains of your ancestors may, I believe, be found inside these coffins. Help me to slide this lid further, will you, Watson?"

Musgrave and I turned our shoulders to the task Holmes watched closely, then thrust his arm into the half-opened casket and withdrew from its depths a linen bag, tied at the throat with twine. He regarded it thoughtfully for some moments before speaking.

"You paid me a compliment today, Mr Musgrave, when you alluded to the deductive powers I had the pleasure of bringing to the aid of Sir Reginald. These same powers will, I believe, now enable me in turn to surprise you! Before we open this bag it would please me to tell you precisely what we shall find inside it."

I could not help laughing at this preposterous suggestion. "It seems to me," I managed, with some difficulty, to articulate, "that only a psychic, or a thief who has had access to this chamber, could make such a prediction. Since I know that you are neither, I take the liberty of doubting you! There is no way in this world in which you could possibly foretell such a thing!" "I must second Dr Watson's opinion," said Nathaniel Musgrave, also grinning broadly. "It is not possible."

"Very well," said Holmes. "I take up your gage!" He paused and continued, measuring his words in the manner of an orator addressing his audience: "In this bag you will find, certainly tamished, probably discoloured, possibly damaged but nevertheless recognizable, an orb – a ball of gold – and a sceptre. Unless the corrosion of three centuries prevents it, a smaller orb, surmounted by a cross on which rests a dove, will attach to the sceptre. When I add that the great orb is itself surmounted by a cross and that its weight is one pound, five and a quarter ounces, you will have no difficulty in verifying my prediction."

And so, to our amazement, it proved! One by one Nathaniel Musgrave withdrew the contents from the bag and placed them on the lid of the sarcophagus. The pieces were indeed horribly stained but they glittered nevertheless in the light cast by Musgrave's flare. "Rubbish they appear but rubbish I know they are not!" cried Musgrave. "They are just as you say, Mr Holmes. Whatever can they be? You astonish me!".

Sherlock Holmes bowed low in humorous acknowledgement, a look of immense satisfaction on his face.

"By Jove!" cried Musgrave. "This linen bag is identical to the one in which we recovered the crown from the lake, when you solved the puzzle of our Ritual."

"You are certain of that?" said Holmes. "Your cousin showed me the bag at the time, but I did not, as I now regret, make any special examination of it."

"Yes, I am certain. What can it mean?"

Holmes did not reply at once. He sat on the coffin, deep in thought. It was only when our host's flare sputtered out, leaving us in darkness, that he spoke again. "Musgrave," he said, "you mentioned that these catacombs abut the cellar in which we found Brunton's body. Where precisely is that cellar?"

"Within ten paces of this spot!" replied Musgrave, relighting his flare; "Up these stone steps and through that archway!" Thus we found ourselves at the site of the old Hurlstone tragedy.The stone slab that had snuffed out Brunton's life had been replaced, no doubt for reasons of safety, by a wooden trap door but, as Holmes commented, little else had changed. As before, on a barrel stood a large lantern, evidently still functional for Musgrave lit it at once. Wood was still stacked around the walls. Holmes was even able to show us two of the dented billets that Brunton and the girl Howells had used to raise the flagstone from the sepulchre. He had, he remarked, put them to one side, years ago.

On my first visit," said Holmes, "I sat here for twenty minutes, thinking over the meaning of what we had found. I must now do so again. We have much data to consider. May I suggest that you, Watson, and you Musgrave, take these historic relics to a place of safety in the house while I remain here. My pipe and tobacco will suffice for company."

I followed Musgrave as he led the way up a winding stone staircase to the daylight above. In half an hour we rejoined Holmes. He rose and stood before us, his hands on his coat lapels, his eyes alive with excitement.

"Musgrave, I have news which I fear will not please you, following as it does so hard on our discovery of…"

"Of what?" cried Musgrave. "What precisely are these rusted relics?"

"Reunited with the crown you already have, they are nothing less than the ancient Crown Jewels of England!"

Musgrave and I stared at Holmes in amazement.

"The Crown Jewels?"

"Just so. However, the fact is that others have rights to this new treasure and, hard though it may be to comprehend, they have already established an effective claim to it. They have done so moreover in a manner which will be hard to dispute or deny."

"But that is impossible!" cried Musgrave. "We only discovered the trove an hour ago. We three alone know of it! How can anyone else possibly be aware of it, let alone have registered a claim to it? And by what agency could such a claim have been made?"

Holmes smiled ruefully. "I fear that I am myself the agent!" "You?"

"Yes, I."

"Mr Holmes, I must ask you to explain yourself. You are a friend of my family. You have helped us immeasurably in the past. My cousin admired, respected and trusted you. It is inconceivable that you would deliberately act against our family's interest on behalf of others. I will not – can not – do not – believe it!"

"My dear Musgrave, what you say is true. Of course I would never knowingly do anything against your interest," Holmes assured him. "The fact is that I have been duped."

"By whom?"

"By one with a mind of astonishing power; by a daring and imaginative schemer possessed of a considerable flair and ingenuity which is the more startling for being unexpected."

"Who is this Titan?"

"Your family's former second housemaid!"

"What? Impossible!"

"I assure you no. The person who has effectively lodged a valid claim against this priceless treasure is Rachel Howells: the same Howells whose unexplained disappearance at the time of Brunton's murder – for murder it was – created such a furore."

"But if she is a murderess, Holmes," I exclaimed, "she must

be arrested. No criminal can be allowed to benefit from his crime."

"There is a difficulty," replied Holmes. "Rachel Howells has, by using us as her instruments, effectively lodged her claim. She knows however from Watson's account that there are legal obstacles. She cannot have expected to surmount them unaided. She has certainly enlisted confidants as her agents. It is to these that the crown jewels of the Tudors and Smarts must be released. Rachel Howells undoubtedly expects to reclaim them; what arrangements she has made to that end I have as yet no way of knowing. I think it unlikely however that these surrogates yet know that they have laid, let alone established, good claim to the Crown Jewels of England; nor, I suspect, are they aware that they have a murderess in their midst."

"But where are these confederates?" cried Musgrave.

"In North America, the origin of this extraordinary letter." "In Canada? In British Columbia?"

"It is not unlikely."

"But who are they? The Scowrers? The Mafia? The Red Circle?"

"That is what I must still discover. Now, Musgrave," said Holmes, laughing, "you are overwhelming me with your questions. Besides, you are leading me into Watson's deplorable habit of explaining matters backwards. Would it not be better if we repaired to your quarters, where I shall be happy to clarify the matter? Agreed? Come then, lead on!"

It was a remarkable gathering as we sat in comfortable arm chairs in Musgrave's rooms. On a table before us lay the newly discovered great orb and sceptre of the kings of England, steeped in centuries of history. Beside them Nathaniel Musgrave had placed the refurbished Hurlstone crown – golden, jewel-encrusted and magnificent. Beside these objects lay the two linen bags in which they had been found. Holmes explained:

"Before I could form a hypothesis capable of explaining the extraordinary message which directed us to these treasures, it was first necessary to assemble my data. My starting point was these two linen bags. They are, as you rightly told us, Musgrave, identical. The first, which has been kept with the crown since its recovery years ago from the mere, shows some signs of deterioration; the other little if any. On my last visit, when the

existence of only one bag was known, I paid little attention to it, ascribing its damaged condition to its sojourn in the crypt of your cellar while ten generations of your ancestors lived out their lives above. But of course I was mistaken. I should have realized that centuries of corrosion by worms and fungi, sufficient to have eaten through the walls of the wooden strongbox, would have utterly destroyed a simple linen bag. The deterioration of the bag had of course been caused only by its comparatively short immersion in your lake. But these bags are otherwise identical and in similar condition. It must follow that the crown jewels were placed in them not at the time of Charles's trial and execution but comparatively recently."

"At the time the first bag was tossed into the mere?" I suggested.

"Precisely," said Holmes. "And who was the last person we know to have handled the crown and its bag?"

"Brunton!"

"Yes, the butler Brunton and his accomplice, the person to whom he passed up the treasure – handed it up from the crypt that was to be his coffin. But wait, we have not yet exhausted the resources of applied deduction! If the bags were not in the crypt when Brunton discovered the strongbox – and we have now established that they were not – they can only have been taken there by Brunton himself. We can be sure that it was Brunton who lowered himself into the crypt, while Rachel Howells waited above. Brunton, with the treasure at last within his grasp, was of course intent on examining it; he neither needed nor wanted a witness. It is unlikely that Howells, even if invited to descend, would have been prepared to enter the crypt herself, knowing that only a simple prop, a billet of wood, prevented the stone slab from crashing down, with none above to hear her cries. With an accomplice she trusted, her avarice might have overcome her fear; with a man who had already proved faithless, never. It was Brunton then who entered the crypt; Brunton who opened the strongbox; Brunton who discovered the treasure and Brunton who filled the bags."

"Bags?" said I. "Plural?"

"Yes, bags. One was retrieved years ago from the mere, the other by us today from your catacombs, Musgrave. Brunton we know never left the crypt alive. The two bags could therefore have escaped the crypt in only one way: both were handed up by Brunton to his accomplice."

"And that could only be Rachel Howells!"

"Just so," said Holmes. Musgrave and I remained silent, our eyes riveted on Sherlock Holmes as he continued:

"We can now reconstruct the precise sequence of events.

Brunton, redoubling his efforts following his dismissal on a week's notice by your cousin, discovers the site of the cache within two days. His problem is to retrieve the treasure he believes to lie below. He confers with the angry, and astute, Rachel Howells, who strikes a bargain: she is to share equally in the treasure as the price for her help – and her silence.

She it is who provides the two linen sacks, one for each half share of the trove. Brunton takes them down into the crypt, fills one with half the treasure and hands it up to Howells.

"The sceptre and the orb for you; the crown for me, Rachel! Fair enough, my dear?" I can almost hear the words.

"What does Howells do then?" he continued. "Aware of the need for haste, she hastily stashes her bag in the nearby hiding place she has selected earlier: the sarcophagus from which we have retrieved it today. While doing so, she quickly examines the bag's contents. Despite Brunton's assurances she may well conclude that the discoloured old pieces of metal are worthless. I seem to hear her screaming imprecations down at Brunton, crouched below. Brunton, reaching up to raise himself from the dungeon, places his bag on the stone shelf beside the wooden billet. And then – murder!"

"You always suspected it!"

"Yes, Watson. Murder. No other hypothesis fits. Consider. Her means, and her opportunity, are all too close to hand. Of motives she has no lack! Revenge – for Brunton has recently wronged her – as I suggested before, perhaps much more than we know: passionate Celtic women do not take kindly to being thrown over for gamekeepers' daughters; anger – for Brunton has undoubtedly promised her that a great treasure awaits them at the bottom of the pit as a price for her help in raising the flagstone; and avarice, for Brunton's protestations that the trinkets are of immense value may – just may – be true.

"So she, the second bag lying at her feet, murders him: murders him by dashing away the wooden billet. The heavy slab crashes down. Her faithless lover is imprisoned in the tomb. In pace requiescat avidus!"

Musgrave and I had listened in fascination as Holmes's words vividly brought this ghastly tragedy to life. I took a deep breath to escape the spell he had cast.

"But this can only be a hypothesis!" I heard myself cry in protest.

"It is more than that," said Holmes. "Consider the significance of the second bag. A British jury might possibly have acquitted Howells for lack of evidence had she been brought to trial at

the time of Brunton's death: the butler had been found dead in the crypt; the Stuart crown in the mere. There was no evidence connecting Howells directly to either. She had in any event

disappeared. But now the second bag has been found and Howells's neck is in jeopardy for she, and only she, can have received it from Brunton's hand. Brunton never left that crypt alive. It was Howells, a jury will reason, who threw the one sack into the mere – her footsteps, leading to the edge of the lake, proclaim as much – after first secreting the other in its hiding place, a few steps from where she stood. This is no hypothesis, Watson. It is proof. This second linen bag places a hempen rope around the neck of Rachel Howells."

"I am sure you are right," said Nathaniel Musgrave, his eyes still fixed on Sherlock Holmes. "The facts are indisputable.

They admit of no other explanation. Murder was done in our Hurlstone cellar that day: our butler the victim; our housemaid his executioner."

Holmes continued. "Aghast at what she has done, she snatches up Brunton's bag and flees to her room, her ears ringing with the sounds of muffled screams and the drumming of frenzied

hands from the cellar. In the haven of her room she makes her plans for flight. What can she do with the bags, the evidence of her dreadful crime?Their discovery in her possession means the

gallows. She decides to leave hers in its feudal hiding place. She spends the next two days in secreting her few belongings near the gate leading from the Hurlstone estate to the world beyond.

On her final night she retires to bed as usual then, quietly, to avoid waking the night nurse, she leaves the house and walks to the lake – carefully leaving tracks to the water's edge to establish the possibility of her death by drowning as an explanation for

her disappearance – flings Brunton's treasure into the mere and takes the gravel path leading from the grounds."

"How do you know she took the path?" I asked.

"Because her footsteps took her to the edge of the mere next to the gravel path. It was at their junction that her trail ended. The mere was dragged the next day so thoroughly that the linen bag was detected and brought to the surface. But they found no body! No Rachel Howells! She had not entered the lake, therefore she had taken the path. It was always my opinion," he went on, "that she had carried herself and the memory of her crime to some land beyond the sea, an opinion I now find justified. She left your grounds, Musgrave, walked to the village, thence, taking every care to remain inconspicuous, by coach to Portsmouth."

"But would a second housemaid be capable of devising such an undertaking?" Musgrave inquired.

"It was a formidable plan, but the Welsh have many characteristics besides passion and fire," replied Holmes. "Among them are courage, cunning, and intelligence. Your cousin had a high opinion of Rachel Howells. He told me so. Remember, too, she was engaged to Richard Brunton, a man of first rate education and intelligence. It is most unlikely that he would have allied himself to a simpleton.

"It now appears that the land she chose," he continued, "was North America. Her transatlantic vessel's first port of call was probably Halifax in Nova Scotia, or perhaps Boston in New England. From there she has made her way west, settling in the wilderness gold-mining town of Barkerville – an appropriate haven for an avaricious murderess with crown jewels on her mind. No doubt she changed her name and has supported herself there under her new identity."

"You think it is Rachel Howells who has sent you this letter from Canada, then?"

"It can be no other."

"The woman must be arrested, Holmes. She is a murderess! We know her abode. Why should we hesitate?"

"No, Watson, we cannot arrest her until we have identified her with certainty as the sender of this enigmatic letter which has, thanks to our dutiful playing of the role she has written for us, both revealed the treasure and laid claim to it. Consider: the murderess hid the second bag in the coffin. The sender of this letter, and she alone, knows that the bag was hidden there and has directed us to it. To bring home guilt to Rachel Howells we must identify her not only as Hurlstone's second housemaid, and Brunton's accomplice, but also as the sender of the letter."

"But how dared she send the message and risk detection?" asked Musgrave.

"Let us put ourselves once again in her place. She has learned long ago from Watson's published account of the affair of the Musgrave Ritual that Brunton had told her no less than the truth: that the contents of the bags are indeed of immense value. Watson's narrative has told her also that her share of the treasure remained undetected when Brunton's bag was recovered from the mere. She ponders how she can lay her hands on her fortune, as she no doubt considers it. How does she reason? How can she secure the treasure but avoid the scaffold? Watson's account has told her of the legal difficulties and expense encountered by the Hurlstone estate in retaining the crown. Revelation of her own treasure will kindle a similar investigation. To reveal her knowledge of its existence is to put a noose around her neck. At the cost of her life she must not be identified as the treasure's finder. She needs an untermediary, an agent capable of dealing with the authorities and of meeting the expense necessary to retrieve the trove. She therefore finds a surrogate – or surrogates. In their name she lays claim to the treasure, relying on them to provide her with both a share of the proceeds and continuing anonymity.

"But she cannot act! Reginald Musgrave, she knows, can identify her by sight. She cannot risk claiming her fortune, even indirectly through her agents, while the possibility remains that he might, during the negotiations for its return, meet her in broad daylight.

"She learns of Sir Reginald's death in the shooting accident. The promptness with which she acts – within ten days; that's quick work, you know – argues against her having learned of it from the Hurlstone Village Chronicle, which she may possibly receive regularly. Musgrave's death may have been timely reported in the Canadian newspapers but more likely a Sussex crony has sent her a wire. She immediately makes her move by laying claim to the riches in the name of her confederates.

"Our envelope, Watson, must identify her surrogates! Its senders have, by directing us to the hideaway in the Norman catacombs of Hurlstone, effectively laid claim to the crown jewels of the ancient Stuarts. The finders of treasure have important rights, which are recognized in courts everywhere." He turned to Nathaniel Musgrave. "I believe, Mr Musgrave, that your family's rights vis-à-vis those of other claimants were in any case abandoned when your cousin signed a waiver of any further title when he established your claim to the Hurlstone crown. Yes? Then it is so: the right to our discovery today resides in the sender of this message – and that can only be the confederate, or confederates, of Rachel Howells. It is they, not we, who are the true finders. Knowing what we do, you and I, Watson, have no choice but to attest to that.You, Musgrave, will be wise to consider your position with care. These surrogates will undoubtedly approach you as negotiators but they may not be unreasonable."

Holmes withdrew the mystery epistle from his breast pocket and examined it again carefully. "So it is report system – together with our extra L – that we have available to us. What in the name of the devil can we infer from them?"

It was then that Sherlock Holmes looked up at me with a startled expression. He had evidently seen something on the envelope which we had missed.

"Watson, do you perchance have friends in the west of Canada?"

"None that I know of," said I, "save Sir Henry Baskerville, but we have already eliminated him from the equation. Why do you ask?"

"Because just as one inference often suggests another, one logogram can suggest another. But wait! I am not sure…" He scribbled furiously in his notebook. "REPORT SYSTEM L rearranges to…"

I looked over Holmes's shoulder.

"… to STORMY PETRELS!" he cried in triumph. Musgrave and I stared at Holmes in astonishment. I checked his scribbled notes. It was just as he said. Holmes went on, speaking rapidly, as one whose brain races ahead of his power to communicate: "What or who can these 'stormy petrels' be? It is a phrase that I have applied to you, Watson! And to myself! Could it be that this

is a reference to us? That it is yet another of those devices which this extraordinary woman has used to manipulate us? No. It cannot be so. The envelope is addressed not to 'Watson' but to `Musgrave'. And the words appear on the top left hand corner, the space for the sender's name. 'Stormy Petrels' is therefore not a reference to us, Watson – it is the name of the surrogates themselves – the instruments of Rachel Howells!

"Their very name tells us who and what they are: students of my methods and readers of your tales. Rachel Howells is clearly telling us so. We are dealing here not with enemies but with friends!" He paused and shook his head in comic disbelief. "What a coup-de-maitre it is! I once had occasion to chide you, Watson, in connection with the Vermissa Valley murders in America I think, for suggesting that the recreant Porlock might possibly have enclosed both cipher and key in the same envelope. In that instance we were able to decipher the message by recourse to Whitaker's Almanack. Here we have no such advantage. The sender of this envelope has outdone even Porlock: she has combined not only the cipher and its key but the addresser of the message – her surrogates – and its true addressees, myself and the estate of Hurlstone, not in, but actually on, the envelope – leaving the contents blank! There is brilliance here, Watson – scheming, calculated brilliance!"

Musgrave and I were at a loss for words. He appeared as stupefied as I.

"Clearly, we must make contact with these 'stormy petrels'," said Holmes to me, briskly breaking the silence. "We must seek them in their haunts. Our enquiries must be made in Canada.

"We know," I interjected, "that at least one of them is a lady of Welsh origin, fiery, passionate and excitable.!"

"Yes, indeed," Holmes replied, his eyes atwinkle. "Well, Watson, what say you to a visit to the Pacific coast? Could your practice spare you for some weeks?"

"I have no doubt I can arrange it," said I, "but what will be our aim? To identify and arrest Howells?"

"As I read it, Rachel Howells is at present waiting anxiously in British Columbia for news of our discovery of the royal orb and sceptre, to which she has, using this flock of petrels as her unwitting agents, effectively laid claim. When she hears of it she will act. She will persuade the group to demand delivery of the

treasure, probably by authorizing her to make the arrangements on their behalf. The claim of these petrels cannot be denied but it is within our power to thwart Howells herself."

"How?"

"By delaying announcement of our finding of the treasure until we can cause her arrest. You, I and Musgrave here are the only persons who know of it Musgrave, you will, I think, find it in your interests to fall in with our plans; this will give us time to visit and confront these people. Our information will startle them: that they have claim to the crown jewels of England and a murderess in their midst! Courtesy, no less than common sense and common justice, demands delivery of such a message in person."

"It will be most dramatic," said I. "But what of the murderess herself? Shall we arrest her in front of her comrades?"

Holmes thought for a moment. "She must be given every opportunity to state her position. She may possibly give us facts of which we are unaware. But then we must act decisively."

"She will not be the first murderess we have apprehended," I observed, "nor will it be the first time we have acted as both judge and jury."

"No, indeed! And here I foresee no difficulty. I will take with me to Canada a copy of the Hurlstone's village news sheet giving details of her disappearance. It carries an excellent likeness of Howells. Identifying the lady, despite the passage of some twenty years, should be a simple matter."

"With Howells removed to a barred cell," said I, "these stormy petrels will be free to pursue their claim to the Hurlstone jewels directly with Nathanial Musgrave. That seems appropriate."

agree," interjected the master of Hurlstone.

"Quite so, and I feel inclined to render them every assistance," said Holmes. "A group of your readers in the New World deserves our support, Watson!"

"And so say all of us!" I replied heartily. "Perhaps we should take with us your book on international law – De Jure inter Gentes, as I recall. It might prove useful in effecting delivery of the jewels to these Canadians."

"From what little I know of British Columbia The Origins of Tree Worship might be a volume of more interest to them," suggested Holmes, his expression one of high good humour.

"At the risk of re-creating that space on my bookshelf," I replied, laughing, "we can safely donate our copy!"

"You know, Watson," said Holmes the following morning on our return to Baker Street, "in reading your accounts of some of the adventures we have shared over the years I have felt that, on occasion, I have behaved towards you in a cavalier fashion. It is easy to commit the crime of taking good friends for granted and I fear I am guilty of it."

"I have never taken the least offence," I assured him, not altogether truthfully. "There have been times, it is true, when I have been oppressed with a sense of the slowness of my wits compared to yours, but I can hardly blame you for that!"

"Well, you have other qualities, doctor. Do not underrate yourself; it is as much an offence as its reverse. Wisdom and common sense have a higher value than mere quick wits. To me you are a brother-in-arms. Besides, this proposed visit to British Columbia gives me an opportunity to show some long overdue appreciation. I of course insist that the expedition shall be at my expense," he continued. "The new Holdernesse fund is more than able to meet the cost. I can think of no finer way of putting it to use!" Holmes lit a cigarette and we sat in silence, wrapped in our own thoughts, as befits good friends who anticipate the pleasures of a new adventure.

"Holmes," I interrupted, as the thought struck me, "you have not yet explained how you were able to predict precisely what we would find when we opened the second linen bag in the Hurlstone tomb. How you did so is more than I can fathom. You also explained that our discovery of the orb and sceptre completed the reunion of the ancient jewels with their Stuart Crown. But how did – or indeed how do – you know this? In my account of the Musgrave Ritual I reported, I believe accurately, your comment that there could be little doubt that the diadem once encircled the brows of the Royal Stuarts. You now clearly have no such doubts."

Sherlock Holmes smiled. "I am glad," he said, "that you have raised these points, Watson, for we are dealing here with history itself. It is fitting that your account should close with that degree of certainty that leaves no room for dispute or conjecture, Proof you ask for and – if you will accompany me as dangerously far

into the outside world as the nether regions of West Central, proof you shall have!"

Half an hour later we stood at the entrance to the National Portrait Gallery in St Martin's Place.

"Follow me, Watson!"

We ascended the stairways to the upper floor, where Holmes led the way to a spacious, high, rectangular gallery. Turning into it, he led me to the foot of a life-size portrait depicting a young man, magnificently apparelled, the whiteness of his face, lace collar and buff thigh-boots in sharp contrast to the sombre tones of his livery, standing next a table draped with deep crimson velvet. On it lay a magnificent crown and its regalia.The caption made me gasp: Portrait of Charles I by Daniel Mytens it read. The Tudor Imperial Crown of State and the State Sceptre and Orb can be seen in the picture.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed. "The crown! The jewels! They are the very ones! These are indeed the Hurlstone treasures!"

"Yes," he replied, "they are. And this portrait was painted from life! We can take pride in having restored to the light this ancient finery which has lain in a dungeon crypt for centuries. As to my prediction of the bag's contents," he continued, as though turning to a subject of more interest, "the explanation is a simple one. I had the advantage of having seen this portrait before."

"How so?"

"As part of an official group assembled to satisfy the authorities of the rightful claim of the Musgraves to the Hurlstone Crown. Reginald Musgrave was here, too. It was his solicitor, I recall, who pointed out that our discovery of the crown provided clear evidence of the success of the Smart sympathizers in thwarting Cromwell's edict ordering the destruction of the regalia following the execution of Charles. I was thus able to astonish you, and the current custodian of Hurlstone, with my prognosis that, the crown having been found in the first linen bag, it was likely that the orb and sceptre were in the second. It was the existence of that second bag that gave me the key. The instant I drew it from the open coffin the whole sequence of events that followed Brunton's death became clear to me. I had no need to open it."

"That was quick thinking indeed, Holmes," I marvelled.

"Well, perhaps I had yet a further advantage. As you know I have always felt that we had not heard the last of Rachel Howells. My mind was, I suspect, ready to accept a hypothesis into which she would fit. Incidentally, Watson," he continued, changing the subject yet again, "King Charles's head was still firm on his shoulders when this portrait was struck off. Perhaps it is as well that with the jewels in the Hurlstone crypt we did not find also the several Royal cranium that the crown once encircled."

"That would have been a sensation indeed!" I responded.

"A sensation, yes, but it might have resulted in others accompanying us on our transatlantic adventure: the eccentric Mr Dick, and Boz himself, were ever fascinated by the events of Charles's execution! They would certainly wish to see the conclusion of this business. And very good company their shades might prove! However the appearance of Watson and Holmes accompanied by two ethereal companions might prove an experience for which these worthy Canadians are not yet prepared! By the way, Watson," he added as we turned to leave, "should you decide to write an account of this somewhat cerebral affair, you might consider giving Mr Garrison Bolt an opportunity to participate. I do not believe you will find him as churlish as on the last occasion – or that he will relegate your account to delayed publication at a cut rate price in a Christmas annual!"

The Adventure of the Bulgarian Diplomat – Zakaria Erzinçlioglu

1901 also saw the cases of"The Priory School"and"Thor Bridge", whilst 1902 introduced us to "Shoscombe Old Place", "The Three Garridebs" and "The Illustrious Client". The year 1903 brings us to one of those great puzzles. "The Blanched Soldier" is a case recounted by Holmes himself, not Watson. Holmes was clearly in a begrudging mood when he wrote the case notes because he was rather vindictive about Watson having deserted him for a wife. It would seem that sometime towards the end of 1902 or early 1903 Watson married again, and Holmes felt rebuffed and neglected. In truth, however, Watson had not neglected Holmes. He was there all the time. Holmes just chose to write him completely out of the story of "The Blanched Soldier" by way of rather childish spite occasioned by Watson's marriage some years later when Holmes wrote up the notes.

During the course of the case Holmes mentioned that he had an urgent commission for the Sultan of Turkey that had to be dealt with. Thanks to the researches of Dr Zakaria Erzinçlioglu, the eminent pathologist, who had access to certain papers in his home country, it has been possible to bring together the full facts of "The Adventure of the Bulgarian Diplomat", and vindicate Watson's position once and for all. Holmes may have had one of the greatest brains we have ever witnessed, but at times he could be a cantankerous and awkward individual.

By the early years of the new century the extraordinary powers of Mr Sherlock Holmes had been put to many a severe test andhis successes had brought him fame throughout the continent of Europe. Although many of those cases gave my friend great opportunities to demonstrate those deductive methods of reasoning by which he achieved such remarkable successes, yet no case involved a greater array of bizarre personalities and in none would the consequences, in the event of my friend's failure, have been more horrific than in the case I am about to lay before the public for the first time. For reasons that will become clear to the reader of this narrative, it is only now possible to reveal the full facts of what must be considered one of the crowning points of my friend's career.

It was on a cold and bitter evening in January, 1903, that my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes and I returned from a bracing walk to the rooms at Baker Street. We ascended the staircase in silence, for we were both frozen to the marrow, and a moment later were glad to find ourselves standing in front of a roaring fire in Holmes's large and untidy room. We stood rubbing our hands before the grate and soon the warm blood was coursing through our veins. Holmes took one of his empty pipes and placed it between his teeth, then flung himself into the basket chair and picked up a large envelope that had been lying open on the table at his elbow. He removed the large, folded sheet of paper from its envelope and, spreading it out on his knee, began to read it quietly to himself with a frown of concentration on his face. As he did so, I could not help studying the envelope, which Holmes had replaced upon the table. It was of a cream colour and uncommonly large, but its most extraordinary feature was the design emblazoned across it. This was like a large and extremely intricate treble clef mark in gold, the body of the mark being made up of fine lines running back and forth along its length.

"Well, Watson," said Holmes, who had been watching me furtively. "What do you make of it?"

"I must say it is a most unusual envelope, Holmes, but I confess that I can infer nothing of interest from it," I replied.

Holmes rose from his seat and handed me the letter. "It arrived by special courier this morning.You know my methods, Watson. Apply them."

I took the letter in one hand and the envelope in the other and started my examination. First, I looked closely at the envelope with its singular design. Following my friend's methods I took up his magnifying lens from the table and examined the design minutely. I then sniffed at the envelope, as I have seen Holmes do on occasion. I then unfolded the letter and read aloud the contents:

Dear Mr Holmes,

I am commanded by my Sovereign to request your advice on a matter of extreme sensitivity. It is impossible for me to enter into the details of the problem in this letter, nor is it advisable for me to identify myself in writing. I will take the liberty of calling at your rooms this evening at 8 o'clock to acquaint you with the case.Your esteemed brother Mycroft is already fully conversant with the relevant facts.

"A case from a royal client!" I cried, "My dear Holmes, I congratulate you." Holmes waved a deprecating hand. "Pray continue with your examination," he said.

I sat down and turned the letter over and over in my hands, examining it from every angle. I cudgelled my brains in an attempt to come to some inference about the significance of the letter or the character of the writer, but, try as I may, I could not arrive at any profound conclusion upon the subject. Nevertheless, I was determined to show Holmes that I was not totally devoid of ideas on the matter.

"It would seem clear from the high quality of the paper and the envelope," I said, with some importance, "and from the fact that he is writing on behalf of his sovereign that your correspondent is a man of high position. I would also say that he is a foreigner, judging by the peculiar symbol on the envelope and by the fact that he refers to 'my Sovereign'. An Englishman would have written 'the King'. Also, the use of the word 'esteemed' in such a context strikes me as being distinctly un-English. I can find no further clues to the identity of the man."

Sherlock Holmes sat silently with his elbows on the arms of the chair and his chin resting on his clasped hands, eyeing me closely. At length he spoke.

"Quite right, Watson, quite right. The man is a foreigner of distinction and I will confess that I have not been able to arrive at many much deeper conclusions myself."

I felt a glow of satisfaction as he rose and crossed to the mantelpiece, where he rested his elbow and turned to face me.

"Indeed, Watson, apart from the obvious facts that the author is an old – I might say, very old – Turkish nobleman, who does not smoke, who has only recently arrived in this country, who is very highly educated, even by the general standards of modern diplomats, who is particularly well trusted by the Sultan of Turkey and who is of exceptionally robust health for a man of his age, there is little else that I can deduce. When I add that he has a smudge of ink on the little finger of his right hand, that he spent some considerable time composing his short letter, that he has a beard, that his hair is of an almost pure white, that he is a man of austere, almost Spartan, habits and that he is an old soldier who has seen action in many military campaigns, I will admit that my limited stock of knowledge about our correspondent is exhausted."

"I must say that your stock of knowledge is better described as exhaustive," I said with some asperity, for I was nettled by-this display of omniscience, "since I do not admit that such a wealth of information can be considered limited by any accurate observer."

"Excellent, Watson!" he replied with a chuckle, "Touché! A most opposite response!" He came over to where I sat, took up the letter and envelope and seated himself again in the basket chair. Somewhat mollified, I asked him how he arrived at his remarkable conclusions about the letter-writer through a mere examination of the letter and envelope.

"That the man is a Turk and a nobleman is evident from the fact that the envelope bears the sign of the Tugra, which is the personal emblem of the Sultan of Turkey," said Holmes, "No commoner or foreigner could possibly have been entrusted with such stationery. That he is a very old man can be deduced from the nature of his handwriting. He does not smoke because, being a Turk, if he had been a smoker he would have smoked Turkish tobacco, which has a distinctive aroma that would have clung, however faintly, to his writing materials. I have an especially sensitive nose and yet I can detect no hint of a tobacco aroma on either the letter or the envelope. He is very highly educated because he wrote the letter in English in his own hand; if the letter had been written by a scribe the writing would undoubtedly have been that of a much younger man. In general, modem diplomats speak and write French for diplomatic purposes. This man wrote his letter in English – and quite acceptable English at that, Watson – which shows that he speaks at least two languages other than his own, since, being a diplomat, it is certain that he speaks French – he would not have gone far in his career if he didn't. He has only recently arrived in this country because, as we have seen, he has written his letter on the Sultan's own stationery and not on the usual stationery of the Turkish Embassy, which would have identified itself as such. It seems clear that our man is on a special mission from Turkey and is acting in an almost independent capacity from the officials at the embassy. Had he been in this country for some time he would hardly have written on special letter-paper from the embassy in Belgravia, which is where the courier came from. Also, the fact that he effectively states that he is on a mission for the Sultan means that he has just arrived, since he is unlikely to lie idle for any length of time before conducting the Sultan's business.

"As to his being a particularly trustworthy courtier, this is manifest from his age. The urgent tone of the letter tells us that the matter is of some importance and yet the Sultan did not choose a younger and more energetic man for the task. The fact that he sent an aged man across Europe must mean that he is particularly reliable and trustworthy. He is of exceptionally robust health because, not only was he capable of making such a journey at his age with apparent ease, but also because he is venturing out on a night like this soon after his arrival in this country. The ink-stained finger I infer from the very slight smudge on the letter 'y' in 'liberty', which can only have been made by the little finger of the right hand when the writer crossed the `t'. A number of hairs were caught in the fold of the paper, which suggests that the man had a beard at which he must have tugged while writing, which in turn suggests that he took some time over the composition of the letter, possibly because he was uncertain about how much he wanted to commit to paper. The hairs are of an almost pure white. Have I convinced you, Watson?"

"Your deductions are certainly very plausible," I replied cautiously, "but what about the Spartan habits and the military career?"

"It is well-known that upper-class Turks, and, indeed, the members of the ruling classes of our continental neighbours, are in the habit of anointing themselves with fragrant perfumes. You know what these foreigners are like, Watson! However, my sensitive nose was unable to detect any such fragrance on the envelope or enclosure. That, taken together with our man's robust old age and the fact that he does not smoke, suggests that he is of Spartan habits. At least, the probability lies in that direction. As for the military career, you will perceive this smaller design to one side of the main emblem on the envelope. This is the military version of the Tugra, which is used by the Sultan only when dealing with his most senior generals. Will it pass, Watson?"

I had opened my mouth to reply, when the sound of horses' hooves was heard in the street outside. Holmes sat up. "It is almost eight o'clock,Watson, and our visitor has arrived." He rose and crossed to the window, when I heard the door downstairs open and close. A slow, deliberate tread could be heard on the stairs. It is a curious thing, but I was suddenly filled with a sense of foreboding, such as I had never before experienced during any of Holmes' cases. The exotic source of the problem, the hint of international intrigue and the distance travelled by our, as yet nameless, visitor for the purpose of meeting my friend, all conspired to give me an irrational feeling of unease. I stood up, facing the door, uncertain what to expect, in spite of Holmes's confident conclusions regarding the appearance and character of our Turkish client.

There was a knock at the door. "Come in," said Sherlock Holmes.

Many persons of singular appearance and bizarre background have passed through the door of the room in Baker Street. And yet the apparition that now entered was by far the most grotesque of all those who came to seek the advice of Mr Sherlock Holmes; whatever I had expected, it was not the figure that now stood before us. I venture to say that even Holmes himself was taken by surprise, although he showed no sign of it. For the visitor who came from so far afield resembled nothing more than a mediaeval monk. His 'habit' was of good quality cloth, but there was no belt or rope round the waist, and the man's head and face were completely obscured under a huge cowl. Incongruously, the right hand held a black cane. A moment later the effect was abruptly transformed, when our visitor lifted his hands and threw back his hood over his shoulders, revealing the ruddy face of an old man with a luxurious white beard and moustache, neither of which bore any trace of the yellowing that comes from years of smoking. He was a man of at least eighty years old, yet still halt and hearty, of average height and build and on his head he wore a round astrakhan hat, which he now removed.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes?" he said, looking at my friend, "Permit me to introduce myself; I am Orman Pasha, personal emissary of His Imperial Majesty the Sultan and formerly Commander of the Ottoman Armies in Europe." He came across the room and shook hands with Holmes.

"This is my friend, Dr Watson, who has assisted me in many of my cases," said Holmes.

"Ah, Dr Watson, the chronicler," said our guest, with a smile, as he shook hands with me.

"Pray remove your cloak and have a seat beside the fire," said Holmes.The old man took off his extraordinary cloak-habit and I was astonished to find that he was wearing full dress uniform, complete with golden epaulets and a maximum of gold lace per square inch on his chest. He sat down slowly on the chair indicated by Holmes and turned his gaze upon us. Beholding this old man, with his shrewd but kindly eyes, all feelings of unease left me, but my curiosity as to the purpose of his visit increased.

"Orman Pasha," began Holmes, "your letter reveals nothing about the nature of your mission. Perhaps you could begin by furnishing us with the details of the case, before telling me how I can be of service to your sovereign." The old Turk was silent for a few moments, before he began his narrative.

"You will be aware that the political situation in the Balkans, ever since the war between my country and Greece in 1897, has been in turmoil. Several of our Balkan neighbours have fomented trouble in our cities, most especially the agents of the Bulgarian Government. Three months ago, a Bulgarian emissary, one Anton Simeonov, arrived in London in order to seek support from the British Government in the matter of Bulgarian claims upon Turkish territory in the province of Rumelia on the grounds that it has a large Bulgarian minority. The British Government gave him no encouragement in the matter, but the Russians have given him their full support and are themselves pressing the British Government to support his country's claim. My own Government has rejected all Bulgarian claims. Four weeks ago Simeonov narrowly escaped death, when he was attacked in the street by a masked man with revolver, as Simeonov was on his way home from the Bulgarian Consulate in the evening. The shot missed its target and Simeonov fled to safety. The incident, however, was seized upon by the Czar's Ministers, who have sent a note to the Turkish Government, accusing Turkey of employing assassins to murder Simeonov and claiming that this was an act of war against the Slavonic peoples, whom the Russian Government sees as being under its protection.

"At that point my sovereign lord the Sultan commanded me to come to England to enter into negotiations with representatives of those countries that have an interest in the matter, as well as the British Government, which is acting as mediator. Since my arrival from Constantinople two days ago, however, matters have taken a more menacing turn, for Simeonov was found murdered last night in Royston Manor, the home of Lord Eversden, the Foreign Secretary. It is only through the intense efforts of the British Government that the Czar has been prevailed upon not to declare was against Turkey. My Government denies any involvement in the matter. Nevertheless, if this mystery is not resolved immediately and the true villain not brought to justice, there can be little doubt that Turkey and Russia will be at war before the week is out, and that other countries in Europe will join on either side. I am here to ask for your help in solving this problem so that a catastrophic war may be avoided."

I whistled; the very idea of a war engulfing the whole of Europe was unthinkable. I looked at Holmes, who appeared totally/unmoved by our guest's disturbing narrative. "Pray tell us about the circumstances surrounding the late Mr Simeonov's death," he said.

Our guest resumed his narrative. "It took place, as I have said, in the home of Lord Eversden, Royston Manor, near Stoke Morden in Surrey. Lord Eversden has a great interest in Balkan affairs and he had invited a number of diplomats concerned with the current dispute to dinner at his house yesterday evening, with the purpose of discussing the matter in a relaxed and informal setting. Those invited were Count Balinsky, the Russian Ambassador; Mr George Leonticles, the Greek Consul; Mr Anton Simeonov; Baron Nopchka, the Austro-Hungarian Ambassador; Colonel Yusufoglu, the Turkish Military Attaché; and myself. All Lord Eversden's guests were to stay the night, and the atmosphere after dinner was, as far as was possible under the circumstances, quite agreeable. We had dispersed after the meal, some having gone to the smoking room, others to the library, while I had accompanied Lord Eversden to his study, where he was showing me a number of rare Persian manuscripts, an interest we have in common. At about half past nine o'clock, we were horrified to hear the loud report of a revolver being fired, followed by a dreadful cry of agony. The sound came from the upstairs corridor and Eversden and I rushed out of the study and up the stairs as fast as we could. Lying on the floor, just outside his bedroom, was Simeonov with a bullet hole through his chest. He was not dead and was gasping for breath, while Yusufoglu knelt beside him. Standing a few feet away was Leonticles, the Greek, with an ashen face, looking down at the dying man. Lord Eversden and I both knelt down on the floor, since it was clear that Simeonov was trying to say something. I said: "Who shot you?" He gasped for a few moments then, pointing at Yusufoglu, said, quite clearly: "The salon… the salon", then fell back and breathed his last. When I stood up I was aware that Count Balinsky and Baron Nopchka had arrived and were staring aghast at the corpse on the floor. A number of servants had also collected, and stood frozen into inaction, awaiting their master's orders. Lord Eversden instructed one of them to telephone the Bulgarian Legation and dismissed the others.

"Yusufoglu and Baron Nopchka removed the body to the deceased's bedroom, while the rest of us stood outside. Count Balinsky was as white as a sheet and was clearly trying hard to control his emotions. As soon as Yusufoglu emerged from the bedroom, Balinsky strode up to him and said, "This is your doing, you murderer!" Then turning to me, he said, "You and your country will pay for this! You have massacred enough

people of my race and you will pay! You will pay!" He was quite out of control and, as if this was not enough, Yusufoglu, who is a man of a rather brooding temperament, shouted back: "I am not a murderer, you know the truth, ask yourself who is the murderer!" He took a step forward, but I placed a restraining hand on his arm and Balinsky, who was shaking with rage, also made a move towards Yusufoglu, but Lord Eversden stepped forward and planted himself between them. "I beg you to calm down, Count," he said in a firm voice, then, turning toYusufoglu, he said, "Colonel, please!" Balinsky pushed his way rudely past Eversden and went swiftly down the staircase.

"The most puzzling thing about this mystery, Mr Holmes, is that a revolver was found lying beside the body."

"Surely, that is not difficult to explain, since the murderer must have dropped it as he fled from the scene," interrupted Holmes.

"The revolver had not been fired, Mr Holmes," said Orman Pasha, "and no other revolver was discovered."

Holmes rubbed his hands. "Pray continue your most interesting narrative."

"Two hours later the officials from the Legation arrived and the body was removed. Baron Nopchka pointed out that, since the matter was of great diplomatic sensitivity, the investigation would have to be handled very discreetly. It was then that I told the assembled company of my instructions from the Sultan and there was general agreement that you should be invited to look into the case. An Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard was summoned and was asked to work discreetly and to offer you every assistance if you agreed to accept the case. I regret to say that his initial investigations revealed nothing.

"There is little that remains to be told.This evening I attended a meeting with the Foreign Secretary in Whitehall, a meeting at which Count Balinsky and Baron Nopchka were also present. The Count's contribution was a series of threats of war; he had contacted his Government by telegraph and reported to the meeting that the mood in St Petersburg is that war is imminent. I contacted the Porte by telegraph and I am informed that the Turkish Armies in Rumelia and the Caucasus have been put on a state of readiness. I have given you the full details of the matter, Mr Holmes, and it now only remains for me to ask whether you would agree to investigate the problem and discover the true perpetrator of this crime."

Sherlock Holmes sat silently in his chair for a while, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair and his finger tips together, just touching his chin. He appeared to be looking at the wall beyond our visitor. Suddenly, he stood up and, looking down at our visitor, he said abruptly, "I very much regret that I can offer you no assistance in this matter."

I was aghast. Apart from my disbelief at Holmes's rejection of the oppressive and weighty problem that had been brought before us, I was taken aback to see our aged friend rebuffed in such a brusque manner. "Holmes," I said, "What can this mean? Surely, you are not going to refuse to act in a matter of this kind? Think of the consequences – do you wish the world to be plunged into a horrific war, when it is in your hands to prevent it?" Holmes said nothing, but continued to look down at our guest with a face devoid of expression.

Orman Pasha sat with a frown of disappointment on his face and said nothing for some moments. At length he spoke. "Mr Holmes," he said, "I fail to understand -".

"Come, come, my dear Pasha," said Holmes, firmly, "you understand only too well. I fear you have not told me the whole truth in this matter."

"Mr Holmes!" The Pasha rose to his feet in indignation.

"Oh, I have no doubt that you have told me all the facts relating to the case as far as they are known to you," said Holmes, "but I regret to say that you have not been fully open with me concerning your motives in asking me to investigate this matter. I cannot accept the case unless I am taken fully into your confidence."

There was a silence, during which the Pasha stood looking at Holmes with a frown of displeasure on his face, while Holmes remained as impassive and as immovable as ever. At last, the Pasha spoke.

"Perhaps, you will explain what you mean, Mr Holmes," he said.

"By all means," replied my friend, "will you tell me the name of the young man you are trying to protect, or shall I?"

Orman Pasha stared at Holmes in disbelief. Slowly, he resumed his seat and soon his expression changed to one of wry amusement.

"In spite of everything I have heard about you, Mr Holmes, I still managed to underestimate you," said Orman Pasha, "Your brother warned me that you have an uncanny ability to arrive at the truth. It encourages me a great deal. What you say is the truth; I am under instructions from the Sultan, not only to do my utmost to resolve this dangerous political crisis and to prevent a war, but to safeguard the reputation of Prince Murat, the Sultan's nephew. But how could you possibly have known?"

Sherlock Holmes sat down on the edge of his seat and leaned forward towards the Pasha. "Two clues, both furnished byYour Excellency, revealed the truth to me. First, you told me that this Simeonov was attacked in the street about four weeks ago, which is shortly after the time young Prince Murat arrived in this country for an unofficial visit, as everyone knows from reading the papers. It became immediately apparent to me that you were concerned that no one should suggest any link between the two events, especially since the Prince has repeatedly made known his views concerning the Bulgarian question. Secondly, the very fact that the Sultan instructed you to seek my advice and did not put his faith in the regular police force suggests that he was anxious that if the truth be found out – and be found to be unpalatable – my discretion could be relied upon to keep the matter quiet until the Prince be removed from this country and, hopefully, be dealt with suitably in Constantinople. Am I correct?"

The Pasha was listening with an expression of mingled amusement and respect on his face as Holmes was speaking.

"Well done, Mr Holmes," he said, when Holmes had finished, "His Imperial Majesty, had he been present here, would have approved. He is well acquainted with your achievements and, indeed, is an enthusiast like yourself, having made a detailed study of the structure of the wood of the different kinds of tree that abound on his estates."

Holmes sat back in his seat. "His Majesty would seem to a most interesting man; I shall make a point of sending him a copy of my monograph upon the use of wooden objects as murder weapons," he said. "However, to return to the matter in hand, where was the Prince at the time of the murder?"

"He was residing in Buckingham Palace as a guest of the King. There is no question of his involvement in this affair."

"I have no doubt of it, but, if I am to act with the minimum of hindrance I must askYour Excellency to prevail upon the Prince to leave England at once and return to Constantinople."

"I will do as you ask, Mr Holmes.The departure of the Prince would take a great weight off my mind."

He rose from his seat. "Will you accept the case, Mr Holmes?" he asked.

"I will gladly do all I can to assist in this matter," replied my friend, "but I will need an address at which I may contact you."

"The Turkish Embassy in Belgrave Square will find me," replied the Pasha and, after donning his hat and cloak, he departed. When the horses' hooves had died away in the street outside, I asked Holmes what he intended to do.

"I will have an early night, Watson," he said, "there will be much to do tomorrow."

The dawn of the new day saw us having an early breakfast, after which we took a cab for Victoria station, where we boarded the first train to the village of Stoke Morden. As the train rattled towards its destination, Holmes, after watching the scenery fly past for a time, suddenly turned to me and said; "What do you make of the dying man's last words, Watson?"

"He referred to a salon and pointed at the Turkish Military Attaché," I said, "On the face of it, it would suggest that he was accusing him of the murder, but I confess I cannot see the significance of his reference to a salon. Could it be that he and the Turk had agreed to meet in a particular salon to discuss some dispute, but that the Turk decided to take matters into his own hands and shoot Simeonov without taking the trouble to discuss the matter first? It seems far-fetched, but I can think of no more plausible explanation."

"And yet, Watson, other plausible explanations may be offered," replied Holmes, "It may be, for example, that he was directing those present to some incriminating evidence to be found in a salon that may be known to one of them. I will admit, however, that I do not find such an explanation compelling."

"There is also the most singular altercation that immediately followed the man's death, when the Count and the Military Attaché accused one another of murder," I said.

"Is that how you interpreted it?"

"Yes, what other interpretation could possibly be made?"

"Consider what was actually said," replied Holmes, "The Count shouted 'This is your doing, you murderer' at the Military Attaché, but the Military Attaché did not, in fact, make a counter-accusation, but said, 'I am not a murderer, you know the truth, ask yourself who is the murderer.' He did not say 'I am not a murderer, you are the murderer'; his actual reply would suggest that he did not believe that the Count was the murderer, for if he did he would, presumably, have said so quite openly, since there seems to be little love lost between the two of them."

"In that case his reply seems further to suggest that both he and the Count know the identity of the murderer," I said.

"That is, of course possible," said Holmes, cryptically, and was silent for the rest of the journey.

When we arrived at Stoke Morden, Holmes hailed a cab and asked our driver to take us to Royston Manor, the home of Lord Eversden. After a frosty drive beneath an iron-grey sky, we arrived at the ivy-covered Manor that was the scene of the terrible murder, the commission of which seemed to threaten the peace of the world. We rang the ancient bell and an aged, somewhat lugubrious butler opened the door. Holmes presented his card and asked to see Lord Eversden. We were shown into a large drawing room, where we awaited the arrival of his lordship. Holmes and I stood looking out of window at the bleak winter scene and at the rooks circling and cawing above the trees. Suddenly, the drawing room door was flung open and two men, apparently in the middle of an involved argument, entered together. One was a man of above average height, with a fine, domed bald head and a silver moustache, while the other was a large and corpulent man, whom I instantly recognized.

"Sherlock," cried the large man as soon as he saw my friend, "we were expecting you." It was Holmes's brother Mycroft, the wizard of Whitehall. Holmes was clearly delighted, if not surprised, to see his brother, who introduced us to the tall man, who was Lord Eversden, the distinguished Foreign Secretary.

When we had all sat down, Lord Eversden looked at Holmes and said: "Your brother has told me that Orman Pasha has been to consult you regarding the tragedy that has taken place in my house. It is no exaggeration to say that this matter is fraught with danger, as I believe Orman Pasha, who is highly regarded in British Government circles, has informed you. We welcome your involvement and I wish to assure you that my house and staff are at your disposal."

"Thank you, my lord," replied Holmes, "I should like to begin by making an examination of the house."

We all followed Holmes up the staircase and Lord Eversden showed us the spot in which the body had been found. Holmes knelt to the ground and examined the carpet minutely, then asked, "Which way was the body lying? Were the feet pointing towards or away from the staircase?"

"They were pointing towards the staircase," replied Lord Eversden, "and his head was lying just next to the small side table by the entrance to the room."

Holmes stood up. "Now, my lord," he said," can you recollect where everyone was standing when you and Orman Pasha arrived here?"

Lord Eversden thought for a moment. "Colonel Yusufoglu was kneeling beside Simeonov between him and the bedroom door. Mr Leonticles was standing some feet away beyond Simeonov's head."

"In other words, he was standing where Simeonov could not see him?" asked Holmes.

"No, Simeonov would not have been able to see Leonticles from where he was lying," replied Lord Eversden, "Count Balinsky and Baron Nopchka arrived after the Pasha and I did, and they stood looking over our shoulders at the dreadful sight."

"Thank you, Lord Eversden, your comments are most illuminating," said Holmes, "Now I would like to examine Mr Simeonov's bedroom."

We entered the bedroom and Holmes made straight for the window. "Was the window closed when you came upstairs?" he asked Lord Eversden.

"As far as I can recollect, although I did not enter the room, but I could see the window from the corridor. Only Nopchka and the Colonel went in, carrying Simeonov's body."

Holmes opened the wardrobe, which proved to be empty, then dropped to the floor and looked under the bed. He reached with his arm under the bed and pulled out a small and very old Gladstone bag.

"Did this belong to Simeonov?" he asked.

"Yes, it was all the luggage he had," replied Lord Eversden.

Holmes placed the bag on the bed and opened it. It appeared to contain nothing but clothes and the usual paraphernalia of a visiting guest. Suddenly Holmes looked up at the window and froze. The expression on his face was so startling, that we all followed his gaze, but I, for one, could see nothing out of the ordinary.

"What is it, Sherlock," cried Mycroft, "what was there outside the window?"

Holmes quickly recovered his composure. "Nothing," he said, "Just a sudden movement, probably a bird." He closed the bag and replaced it under the bed. We next went to the bedrooms of all the other guests, but there was nothing to be gleaned from those either.

After an examination of the outside of the house and of the grounds, where Holmes searched in vain for any signs of footprints, we returned to the drawing room, where we all sat down, except for Holmes, who remained standing beside the fireplace.

"Lord Eversden," he began, "it is my desire to meet the diplomats who were your guests two days ago, but, before I do so, I would like to have an assessment of their characters and backgrounds by yourself and my brother. To begin with, Orman Pasha. Of course, I have already made his acquaintance and he struck me as an able and honest man. You both know him better; do you accept my conclusion?"

Lord Eversden spoke first: "Yes, he is a thoroughly decent and honourable man. I have known him for thirty-seven years." Mycroft was nodding. "He is without doubt one of the most distinguished of Turkish diplomats. HMG has always had excellent dealings with him; he is known to be incorruptible."

"And Colonel Yusufoglu, the Military Attaché?" asked Holmes.

"Ah, he is a hard man to know," said Mycroft, "a rather dark, brooding fellow, who strikes me as being quite capable of nursing a grudge." He turned to Lord Eversden, who added: "I do not know the man well, but I will confess that I took an instant dislike to him."

"What is known of his background?"

"He was on the staff of the Turkish Governor of Thessaly," replied Mycroft, the fount of political knowledge, "which is effectively a part of Greece that is still under Turkish rule, or so the Greeks would claim. The Governor, Hassan Pasha, dealt with a firm, but fair hand with the riots that broke out there last year and earned the gratitude of the Greeks, which is something out of the ordinary in Græco-Turkish relations. Yusufoglu was his deputy and he, too, earned a reputation for fair dealing when members of the various rioting factions were brought to justice. He took up his post in the Turkish Embassy in London only six months ago."

"And Count Balinsky – what kind of man is he?" asked Holmes.

"A man of very definite and set beliefs and of a violent temper, as you will have gathered from Orman Pasha's account," said Lord Eversden, "A dangerous man and not one to be trifled with. He is a strong believer in Pan-Slavism and has a deep-seated hatred and mistrust of the Turks. As for Baron Nopchka, he is a benign, if not very imaginative, nobleman, belonging to one of Austria-Hungary's oldest families. He is a close confidante of the Emperor. A liberal by temperament, he supported greater parliamentary representation for the Slavonic peoples of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, but is secretly highly suspicious of the political activities of the Slays in his country."

"Which leaves us with Mr George Leonticles, the Greek Consul," said Mycroft, "He, like Yusufoglu, has not been long in his post. He held a number of Greek Government positions in Greece before he came to England. Rumour has it that he was involved in certain political activities that earned him the Greek king's displeasure. He is a man of a somewhat nervous disposition and keeps himself largely to himself."

"One final question; what was Mr Simeonov's London address?"

Mycroft drew out a small notebook from his pocket. "Number. 6, Harrington Mews,W1," he said, "but I fear that the Bulgarian Legation is unlikely to furnish you with permission to visit the place. Since the British Government's refusal to support his Government's claims, the Bulgarian authorities have been quite uncooperative."

Holmes and I returned to London during the early afternoon. On the way I ventured to say to my friend: "Holmes, you have not so far commented on the singular presence of the loaded, but unfired, revolver beside Simeonov's body. I have been giving the matter some thought and can only conclude that the revolver was Simeonov's and that he tried to protect himself from his murderer by pulling out his own revolver when he realized that he was about to be shot. Do you agree?"

"The facts will bear that interpretation, I suppose," replied Holmes, as the train arrived at Victoria station.

"Do any other interpretations occur to you?" I retorted.

"Yes, Watson," replied Holmes, with a light in his eyes and leapt off the train. We hailed a cab and Holmes asked the driver to take us to the Russian Embassy. On arrival, Holmes, handing his card to the usher, asked to see the Ambassador. A few moments later, we were shown into Count Balinsky's sumptuous room.

Count Balinsky remained seated when we entered and regarded us coldly and with tight lips as we stood before his desk. He wore an expression of barely controlled anger and was turning Holmes' card over and over between his fingers. He was a lean man, with a pale face and eyes that burned like fire. He was clean-shaven, except for a pencil moustache that pointed abruptly upwards at the edges.

"You are the agent of the Turk, are you not?" he said coldly.

"I have been requested to look into the mystery of the late Mr Anton Simeonov's murder by His Excellency Orman Pasha," replied Holmes.

"And you come to me for help?" he asked in tones of great astonishment.

"I came to ask whether you can shed any light on this tragic affair," said Holmes.

"I can shed a great deal of light, Mr Holmes," replied the Count, menacingly, "That Turkish colonel did it. I told him so quite openly in everyone's presence."

"What evidence do you have for this?" asked Holmes.

"Evidence?" asked the Count, with an expression of bitter amusement on his face, as though the request for evidence was of questionable taste. "Who else had a motive? Why should any of the other guests, other than the Sultan's envoy, have wished to kill Simeonov? Orman Pasha was with Lord Eversden when the murder was committed, so that leaves Yusufoglu."

"Someone else could have murdered him in order to incriminate Yusufoglu," said Holmes, quietly, looking straight into the Count's eyes, "It is even possible that Simeonov was murdered in order to foment trouble between your country and Turkey."

The Count's eyes narrowed and his lips tightened. Suddenly, he stood up. "Thank you, Mr Holmes," he said, in a white rage, "This interview is concluded."

After our unceremonious ejection from the Russian Embassy, we took another cab, this time to the embassy ofAustria-Hungary. When we arrived there, we received a totally different kind of reception, for Baron Nopchka was very much a gentleman. He was of medium height and robust build and had fair hair, paling into silver at the temples. His patient expression, good-humoured eyes and elegant blond moustache all combined to give the impression of an honest middle-European nobleman; it was not difficult to imagine him wearing his Tyrolean hat and shooting wild boar at a hunting lodge in the Vienna woods. He rose as we entered his room and shook hands with us, saying how pleased he was to learn that my able friend had agreed to investigate the tragedy.

"Baron Nopchka," began Holmes, after we sat down, "it is my desire to arrive at a conclusion about this tragedy without delay. You will forgive me, therefore, if I ask you whether you have any suspicions as to who committed the murder."

The Baron's eyebrows rose. "That is not a very diplomatic question," he replied, with a wry smile, "but, under the extraordinary circumstances in which we find ourselves, I must admit that it is a fair one. Nevertheless, I cannot say that I have any ideas on the matter, but I can only express my devout hope that Colonel Yusufoglu is not the murderer, since the consequences are unthinkable. And yet Balinsky is convinced that it is he."

"Where were you and Count Balinsky when you heard the shot that killed Simeonov?"

"I was in the smoking room and Balinsky, I believe, was in the library. At least, when I rushed out into the hall, I saw Balinsky outside the library door. We then ran up the stairs together."

"You say that Count Balinsky was outside the library door; was he standing there, or did he appear to be running out of the library?"

"No, he was just standing there," said the Baron, with a frown, as if some new thought had just struck him.

"Was there any indication of the direction in which he was walking before you rushed out of the smoking room?"

"No," said the Baron again, still frowning, "he was standing still, with his back to the library door."

"Was the library door open or closed?"

"Closed."

There was a silence, then Holmes spoke. "Do you know where Mr George Leonticles was when the shot was fired?"

"No, I only saw him when I reached the upper landing. He was standing a few feet beyond where Simeonov lay, looking quite white."

"In your opinion, would you say that he was capable of murder?"

"It is possible, of course, but he is such a mild-mannered man that I frankly cannot see him committing murder. He was quite shaken by the incident."

"If he had killed Simeonov, he would have had good cause to appear shaken."

"Yes, I expect he would."

"You carried the body into the bedroom with Colonel Yusufoglu; did you notice whether the colonel was armed?'

"I certainly did not see any weapon. He was not wearing a jacket at the time and, after we placed the body on the bed we went downstairs together and he remained within my sight for at least the next hour."

"Are you convinced of his innocence then?"

The Baron said nothing, but his frown returned. He shifted in his chair. "Mr Holmes," he said at length, "there is something else

I feel I ought to tell you. I have shied away from so doing because

I do not know the meaning of what I witnessed and I feared that my account would only confuse matters and possibly incriminate

innocent individuals. However, from what I have heard of you and, moreover, now that I have met you in person, I am convinced that I can rely upon you utterly to arrive at the truth in this tangled affair." Holmes bowed his head solemnly to the Baron.

"Shortly after I and the other guests arrived at Royston Manor, I went into the library to examine some of Lord Eversden's books. (Books are a great passion of mine, Mr Holmes.) As I entered, which I did quietly in order not to disturb other readers, I heard the voices of Mr Leonticles and Colonel Yusufoglu, the Turkish Military Attaché. Leonticles was saying, "We have no choice, we must act now, we will not have a better chance." Whereupon Yusufoglu replied: "No, no, not yet, not here. It would be safer – " At that moment Count Balinsky walked noisily into the room and their conversation ended abruptly. As I said, Mr Holmes, I do not know what this means and I leave it in your capable hands."

I looked at Holmes and was thrilled to see on his face that tense expression of exhilaration that indicated that he was hot on the scent. He rose and bowed to our gentlemanly host.

"Baron Nopchka," he said with barely suppressed excitement, "your observations were invaluable."

The Baron's honest face looked both bewildered and encouraged by Holmes' comments. He said: "Have you arrived at some conclusion about the case Mr Holmes? Good news or bad?"

"I have not yet quite concluded my investigations and, in any case, I am bound to report first to Orman Pasha, who commissioned me to look into the matter," said Holmes, "However, I will say to you, Baron, that there is cause for optimism."

We took our leave from the embassy, leaving a considerably puzzled, but to a great extent relieved, Austro-Hungarian nobleman behind us.

We arrived late at Baker Street, with Holmes in an excellent mood. A telegram awaited Holmes; he tore it open and read it aloud: "Prince on way to Constantinople. Ó.P" "Excellent!" cried Holmes, "Our Turkish friend is playing the game."

We consumed a magnificent dinner prepared by Mrs Hudson, during which Holmes refused to speak about the case. When we finished and were sitting by the fire, Holmes smoking his most malodorous pipe, he looked at me with shining eyes and said: "Watson, I intend to commit a felony tonight. Do you still have your service revolver and your jemmy?" I was thrilled; it was

some considerable time since Holmes and I had one of those adventures that temporarily placed us on the wrong side of the law. "Holmes," I said, earnestly, "I'm your man; just give me half an hour to collect them from my rooms."

It was approaching midnight when Holmes and I arrived at Harrington Mews. We made our way stealthily to Number 6 and, as we approached, Holmes whispered in my ear: "Do you have your jemmy to hand Watson." I nodded, and we stole up to the door like burglars. I was about to put my jemmy into action, when I gasped: "Holmes, the door is already open!" Holmes stood still.

"Interesting, Watson, interesting," said Holmes in a whisper, "the night may yet yield many surprises." We entered the house noiselessly. Holmes made his way swiftly but quietly to the study. As we reached the door, we could see light coming through the crack at the bottom. There was a sound as of someone shuffling papers in the room. We stood stock still and listened, when suddenly the shuffling stopped and the gas light was turned off.

"Now, Watson!" said Holmes and we rushed into the room, only to see a dark shadow leap out of the open window and into the yard at the back. "After him, Watson!", shouted Holmes. I rushed to the window and jumped out; I could see my quarry making for the railings, hopping on one leg as though he had injured a foot in his fall. I sped towards him, but tripped over some wood and fell heavily over. When I got to my feet the intruder had gone. I hobbled painfully to the railings, but there was no sign of him to be seen. I returned crestfallen to Holmes.

"It matters little, Watson," he said, when I told him of my failure, "we will make the gentleman's acquaintance in the morning." During my absence Holmes had not been idle, but had gone through the papers on the desk and in the drawers. He was now holding a small scrap of paper up to the light. "There is devilry here,Watson!" he said, his face set and hard, "but it is now time to return to our beds, for there is much to do on the morrow." With that, we made our back to Baker Street and, in my case at least, a night of fitful and troubled sleep.

I awoke the next morning to find Holmes shaking me by the shoulder.

"Wake up Watson! The game is afoot!"

"What o'clock is it, Holmes?" I asked, drowsily.

"Seven, Watson, and breakfast is ready."

I rose, washed and went in to breakfast. Holmes had already had his and was eager to go, so I gobbled my toast and swallowed my tea as quickly as I could and, before many minutes had passed, we were on our way to an address Holmes had given to the driver of our cab.

By contrast with the previous night, Holmes appeared preoccupied rather than excited. I asked: "Have you arrived at a conclusion, Holmes?"

"You know the way I work, Watson, my conclusions will be given when I am ready."

We travelled in silence to our destination, which turned out to be the small building that housed the Greek Consulate. We entered the building and asked to see the Consul, Mr Leonticles, and were immediately admitted to the Consul's office.

Mr George Leonticles, the Greek Consul, was a short man with jet-black hair, a pale face and a fastidious pointed goatee beard and waxed moustache. He was suave and courteous in his manner, but seemed ill at ease. He rose stiffly and invited us to sit down.

"How may I help you, gentlemen?", he asked.

"Mr Leonticles, my name is Sherlock Holmes and I have been commissioned to look into the murder of the late Mr Simeonov," replied Holmes, "It would materially aid me in my investigation if you would answer a few questions relating to that mystery."

Mr Leonticles smoothed his beard and moustache before replying. "I would be happy to offer any assistance, Mr Holmes, but I regret to say that I know little that would be of interest to you.^"

"Nevertheless, you may well be able to help clarify a few points," said Holmes, "for example, could you tell me where you were when you heard the shot that killed Mr Simeonov?"

"I was in my room."

"Your room is two doors down from Simeonov's, and yet when Lord Eversden and Orman Pasha arrived, they found Colonel Yusufoglu kneeling beside the body, while you stood some distance away. Why did you not rush to his assistance?"

"Yusufoglu's room was between mine and Simeonov's and he was able to reach him first," replied Leonticles, beads of perspiration beginning to appear on his forehead.

"Was the colonel in his room when the shot was fired?" asked Holmes.

"I think so. When I came out into the corridor he was already there, kneeling beside Simeonov."

"Mr Leonticles," asked Sherlock Holmes, bluntly, "did Colonel Yusufoglu kill Mr Simeonov?"

"No!"

"You seem remarkably sure of that. How can you know that he did not kill Simeonov?"

"Colonel Yusufoglu is not capable of murder. I have – I am sure he did not kill him."

"And yet Count Balinsky seems certain that the colonel is the murderer."

"Count Balinsky is mistaken," said the Consul firmly.

"Thank you, Mr Leonticles," said Holmes, suddenly, and rose to leave the room. As we reached the door, Holmes stopped to examine a small Greek statuette on a table beside the window.

"I have a great interest in the art of the Ancient Greeks. Is this not a reproduction of Aphrodite?" he asked the Consul, with a charming smile upon his face.

"No, no," replied our host, "coming round his desk, limping slightly as he came, and pointing to another sculpture on a table on the other side of the room, "this is Aphrodite." "Of course," said Holmes. "Thank you again, Mr Leonticles, we will take no more of your valuable time."

"We progress, Watson," said Holmes, as we sat in the cab on our way to Belgrave Square, "You noticed his limp?"

I had, indeed, noticed it. "Very similar to mine, Holmes, after I tripped over the pile of wood at Harrington Mews," I said, "Why did you not confront him with it?"

"There was no need," replied Holmes, "he knew it."

"But might he not flee the country, now that he knows you suspect him of breaking into the Bulgarian's house?" I asked.

"No, Watson," replied Holmes, with a smile, "I think not."

We arrived at the Turkish Embassy and were admitted by a porter who reminded me of the genie from Aladdin's lamp. He wore red boots with upturned toes, black baggy trousers and a green and highly ornate tunic. He accepted Holmes's card without a word and went to deliver it to Orman Pasha. A few minutes later, a sombre fellow in a suit and a fez came and escorted us to the Pasha's room.

This time Orman Pasha was not in full dress uniform, but was wearing a black frock-coat. He rose from behind his desk and greeted us warmly.

"Mr Holmes," he said, as he motioned us to sit down, "dare I hope that you have good news to tell?"

"We are approaching a solution to the mystery, Orman Pasha," said Holmes, "but there are some loose ends that remain. I am hopeful that a disaster may yet be averted."

"I am greatly relieved to hear it, Mr Holmes," replied the Pasha.

"I do, however, have a few questions to ask you, after which I would like to meet Colonel Yusufoglu," said Holmes, sitting back in his chair. "Orman Pasha, if, as we shall for the moment assume, the Bulgarian emissary was not murdered by your Government's agents, who else would have a motive for killing him?"

The Pasha thought for a moment. "Of the people present at Lord Eversden's dinner, I cannot think of anyone who might have a motive. They are all people in prominent diplomatic positions and I cannot see what any of them would gain from doing such a thing."

"Do you not think then that the reasonable conclusion to be drawn is that one of your Government's agents did, in fact, commit the murder? Colonel Yusufoglu was kneeling beside Simeonov; Simeonov appeared to accuse him with his dying words; Count Balinsky is convinced of his guilt. No other evidence seems to suggest the guilt of any other man. Must not the conclusion be that the colonel is guilty?"

The Pasha looked at Holmes with an expression of mingled amusement and impatience. "Mr Holmes," he said, "why do you suggest such a thing when you are already convinced that it is not true?"

"Why does Your Excellency conclude that I do not accept this as the truth?"

"Because you have already told me that you have high hopes of averting disaster, Mr Holmes. If you did, indeed, believe in Yusufoglu's guilt, you would not have said that."

Holmes smiled his tight, secret smile. "Guilt is a matter of definition.We must not forget that, in any murder, the murderer's motive is of at least equal importance to his identity."

The Pasha's brow darkened. "I fear, Mr Holmes, that, whatever the motive, it will make little difference in this case if Yusufoglu is the murderer. Do you wish to speak with him now?"

Holmes nodded and the Pasha rang a bell. The sombre individual entered the room and was given a few brief instructions in Turkish, whereupon he left, to return a few minutes later with a tall, broad-shouldered man – Colonel Yusufoglu. He was a dark-complexioned giant, with fierce black eyes and a thick black moustache. I will admit that he struck me as a morose fellow, who might well commit murder if the need arose.

The Pasha introduced us and Holmes and I shook hands with him. He sat down, eying us suspiciously.

"Colonel," began Holmes, "I hope you will excuse me if I speak openly and bluntly, because of what is at stake in this matter. You are, no doubt, aware that you are seen as being the prime suspect for the murder of Anton Simeonov. What have you to say in your defence?"

"I did not murder the Bulgarian," replied the colonel stolidly. "Then who did?"

"I had been given to understand that it was your task to find that out."

"Nevertheless, I would be interested in your views on the matter."

"I did not witness the killing, how could I know who killed the man?"

"What did you mean when you said to Count Balinsky that he knew the truth?"

"I meant that he must know that I had every reason not to commit the murder. Even he must be aware that such an act would precipitate the events we were all anxious to avoid."

"Why did you say 'Ask yourself who is the murderer'?"

The Military Attaché shifted uneasily. "I was inviting him to think more clearly." I noticed that Orman Pasha was looking at the colonel with a worried expression on his face, as though he found his answers to Holmes's questions weak and unconvincing.

Holmes leapt to his feet. "Thank you, colonel, you have told me everything I need to know."

The colonel rose from his seat, looking at Holmes with an expression half angry and half fearful. He turned and said something in Turkish to Orman Pasha, who nodded. The colonel turned and looked at Holmes with smouldering black eyes, then abruptly left the room.

"Orman Pasha," said Holmes, when the colonel had gone, "does any member of your staff speak Bulgarian?"

"I speak Bulgarian myself, Mr Holmes," replied the Pasha, with an expression of mild astonishment on his face.

"Good, then perhaps you would be good enough to tell me whether this English sentence is a correct translation of the Bulgarian sentence above it." He handed our host a small piece of paper. The Pasha took it and I was disturbed to see the old man start violently.

"What is the meaning of this, Mr Holmes," said the Pasha, "What are you telling me?"

"I am telling you that this case is much more complicated than we thought at the outset. I take it the translation is accurate?"

"It is accurate, Mr Holmes," said the Pasha, shaking his head in puzzlement and disbelief.

On our way back to Baker Street, Holmes stopped at a post office to send a telegram. He then went to pay a visit to his brother Mycroft at the Diogenes Club and I made my way to Baker Street alone.When he finally arrived, Holmes walked over to the mantelpiece and, to my horror, he stood contemplating the syringe that enabled him to indulge his only weakness.

"Holmes, my dear fellow," I said, "you have arrived at your final conclusion in this case."

"Yes,Watson, I have arrived at my final conclusion."

We had a quiet dinner, as usual prepared by the excellent Mrs Hudson. After the meal, Holmes stood up. "Tomorrow morning we will go Stoke Morden to save the world," he said. "Better have an early night, Watson." He disappeared into his bedroom, while I went to mine in a sombre mood.

eventually arrived at Royston Manor, I noticed that a number of fine carriages drawn by magnificent horses were moving off the broad gravel pathway that led to the house. We were admitted by the old butler and were shown into the drawing room, where, to my astonishment, I found that all the dramatis personae of the recent tragedy were present. Lord Eversden was seated in his armchair, with Orman Pasha on the settee beside him. Baron Nopchka sat at the other end of the settee, while Mr Leonticles and Colonel Yusufoglu were sitting on armchairs opposite the settee. Count Balinsky, as though disdaining the company of others, sat somewhat apart, near the window. Mycroft Holmes was sitting on an upright chair in front of a table behind the settee.

As we entered, Lord Eversden rose and came across to greet us.

"I received your telegram, Mr Holmes," he said. "As you can see, they are all here. Inspector Lestrade will be arriving in about one hour's time." He motioned us to sit down, which I did on an upright chair near Baron Nopchka. Holmes declined the invitation and remained standing.

"My lords and gentlemen," began Holmes, "I am happy to be able to report that I have unravelled the mystery that has recently cast a shadow over international relations. Regrettably, it is unlikely that we will be able to bring the culprit to justice, since we are dealing with a very clever criminal. My investigations allow me to conclude that an armed burgler managed to gain entry to the house. He made his way stealthily upstairs, where he was surprised by Mr Anton Simeonov. Before Mr Simeonov was able to raise the alarm, the burglar drew his revolver and shot him, just as the victim was about to defend himself by drawing out his own weapon. The murderer was then able to conceal himself behind the large armchair in the corridor and stayed there when you all arrived at the scene. When you all left the corridor, he made his escape through one of the windows, through which he jumped. He then cleverly concealed his tracks and made off. It is highly unlikely that he will ever be apprehended."

We all stared at Holmes. Lord Eversden said: "But this is not credible, Mr Holmes. There is nothing to suggest that such a thing happened." He turned a troubled look to Mycroft, who, alone in the gathered audience, was nodding, with an amused smile of understanding on his face.

Count Balinsky snorted derisively: "Do you think my Government will accept such a story, such a transparent fabrication?" He rose to his feet. "Excuse me, Lord Eversden, but I am obliged to telegraph the Czar's cabinet." He took a step or two across the room, with a smile of malicious satisfaction on his face, when Holmes took a long stride and barred his way.

"My dear Count," he said severely, "I strongly advise you to sit down. The story I have given you may be preferable to your Government – and to you – than the alternative I am able to offer." The Count glared at Holmes, but slowly his expression changed to one of hunted suspicion. Holmes returned to the spot at which he had been standing, while the Count remained standing for a few moments. The whole room was tense. Slowly, the Count resumed his seat.

"The difficulty with this case was the absence of a motive, other than the obvious one in the case of an assassination by agents of the Turkish Government," said Holmes. "The foolishness of such an undertaking, especially under the present political atmosphere, suggested that murder by a Turkish agent was extremely unlikely. Such a crime could not possibly have served the aims of the Turkish Government – in fact, quite the reverse – so I dismissed it as a real possibility from the outset. However, this does not mean that the murder could not have been committed by a Turkish person for non-political reasons. This, too, seemed unlikely, since such a person committing such a crime would be perfectly aware of the political interpretation that some people would put upon it.

"Therefore, my working hypothesis was that the crime was not committed by either of the Turkish guests. Orman Pasha, in any case, was not under suspicion, since he was with Lord Eversden at the time. But Colonel Yusufoglu was found kneeling beside Simeonov and Count Balinsky accused him of the murder. On the other hand, the colonel appeared to be unarmed but, had he been the murderer, he would not have had time to dispose of the weapon, unless he shot Simeonov, rushed away to dispose of the weapon and then, perversely, returned to place himself in the incriminating position of kneeling beside the man he had shot.

"The other confusing aspect of this case is that I had started with the assumption that Simeonov's murderer and the man who assaulted him some weeks ago were one and the same. At least, it seemed reasonable to assume that the two events were related. My investigations revealed to me that they were not and that was the clue that solved the mystery."

Holmes turned to Lord Eversden. "Someone in this room killed Simeonov, but he is no murderer. The only murderer among your guests was Simeonov himself!"

Except for Mycroft, we all gasped with astonishment. Count Balinsky sat forward in his chair and his expression looked more hunted than ever. Leonticles looked paler than usual. Colonel Yusufoglu covered his face with his hands.

"Yes," said Holmes, looking in turn at the Greek Consul, the Turkish Colonel and the Russian Count. "You know the truth of this. When ColonelYusufoglu said that Count Balinsky knew the truth, he was speaking the truth, was he not Count?"

"You dare to accuse a member of the Czar's Government of killing -" he began, rising to his feet.

"Control yourself, Count," said Holmes, harshly. "No one has accused you of killing Simeonov. Your crime is far more diabolical." The Count opened his mouth to reply, but all eyes turned towards him, and no sound came from his throat. He sat down, his face working.

"When the colonel said that Count Balinsky knew the truth, he meant that he knew that Simeonov was a murderer. Count Balinsky understood this very well, but preferred to pretend he did not, for reasons that will become clear presently. In fact, Simeonov was shot as he was about to commit another murder. His intended victim was ready for him and the tables were turned. The revolver lying on the ground was the one with which Simeonov intended to commit murder, not one that he drew out to defend himself.

"When I examined Simeonov's belongings, I discovered a small box containing what appeared to be greeting cards. So they were – of a kind. I hope I will be forgiven for distracting attention by pretending to see something through the window, but it was necessary for me to extract them without being seen to do so. Each card had the letters vmro on it." Holmes drew one out of his pocket and held it up. The letters were very large and were easily visible across the room. Holmes turned to Count Balinsky: "You recognize these symbols of the notorious Balkan anarchist organization with no name, do you not, Count? I imagine everyone else in this room does as well. However, only three people here present knew about Simeonov's murderous past and of his membership of that organization. When Watson and I broke into Simeonov's house, I discovered three other cards, each with the letters IMRO printed on it. Imro is a rival anarchist organization, bitterly opposed to the first. One card had the following written on it in Bulgarian: "Death is near.You have been warned." My translation was kindly confirmed by Orman Pasha when I showed it to him yesterday. The card also bore the December date on which Simeonov was assaulted in the street. His would-be assassin on that occasion was a member of the opposing criminal group.

"Understanding this helped me to understand the rest. Baron Nopchka overheard Mr Leonticles urging ColonelYusufoglu to act, but the colonel was urging restraint. The Baron was worried by this because he thought that Mr Leonticles may have been referring to a planned murder of Simeonov, but he was wrong. Mr Leonticles wished to expose Simeonov for the criminal he was, whereas the colonel was probably urging Mr Leonticles to wait until they were at a meeting in London, where the building would be guarded by policemen, making it difficult for Simeonov to escape once he was identified. Count Balinsky barged noisily into the room while the colonel was speaking, but it is my belief that he had overheard enough of the conversation to understand its significance. He then told Simeonov what he had heard and Simeonov determined to take matters into his own hands.

"It was Mr Leonticles who recognized Simeonov. He was in Thessaly when Colonel Yusufoglu was serving there as the Governor's Deputy and they were both involved in quelling the riots instigated by vmro. As soon as he recognized Simeonov as one of the criminals who were condemned to death, but later escaped, he told Colonel Yusufoglu.

"We come now to the question of why Count Balinsky told Simeonov of Mr Leonticles' recognition of him. The Count is, as we all know, determined to start another Russo-Turkish war, from which he believes Russia would benefit. The Count was

well aware that, if he told Simeonov that Leonticles knew of his past, Simeonov would try to silence him. If a Greek is murdered during this meeting, suspicion would immediately fall upon the Turks. If Simeonov was killed, suspicion would still fall upon the Turks. Either way, he could use the event as an excuse to forment trouble and urge the Czar to declare war against the Sultan. His plan could not fail. He waited downstairs outside the library so that he would be able to rush upstairs when someone else appeared – in the event it was Baron Nopchka – in order to ensure himself an alibi."

"Mr Leonticles was armed with a revolver, when he heard Simeonov creeping up behind him. He shot him first and ran to the other end of the corridor to hide the weapon temporarily behind the large armchair in the corner. I have no doubt that he disposed of it efficiently later. The colonel heard the shot and rushed out of his room; he may have seen Mr Leonticles hiding the weapon, but he then went to the dying man, perhaps to hear what he had to say. When I interviewed the colonel yesterday he as good as told me that he knew Mr Leonticles killed Simeonov. I asked him whether he knew who murdered Simeonov and he did not say 'No', but replied: 'I did not witness the killing, how can I know who killed him?" His avoidance of the word 'murder' was also revealing."

Holmes turned to George Leonticles, the Greek Consul. "Have I given a passable account?" he asked.

The Consul remained silent, with a strained face, for a few moments. "Yes, Mr Holmes, you have. But you have not explained the meaning of the dying man's last words, although I am sure you understand that, too."

Yes," said Holmes, "I understand the meaning of his last words. A dying man fighting for breath cannot easily say a word of many syllables. The capital of Thessaly is Salonika and the riots there became known as the Salonika Incident. I think Simeonov recognized Colonel Yusufoglu as he was dying and was trying to tell him that he remembered him from the days of the Salonika Incident."

A heavy silence descended upon the room. Presently, Lord Eversden spoke, addressing the gathered company in general:

"Tomorrow I will seek an audience with His Majesty the King, with the purpose of requesting His Majesty's approval for a diplomatic deportation order to be prepared. I will also ask His Majesty to invite the Czar's Government to appoint an Ambassador to the Court of St James, that post being currently vacant." Count Balinsky sat perfectly still, although the fire still burnt in his eyes.

There was a soft knock on the door and the lugubrious butler entered. "My lord," he said, "a person from Scotland Yard has just arrived. His name is Inspector Lestrade."

"Thank you, Jenkins," said Lord Eversden, "ask him to wait a few moments." The butler withdrew, lugubriously.

Holmes looked at Lord Eversden. "I am now obliged to make my conclusions known to the police. Which account am I to give them?"

Lord Eversden turned to Orman Pasha, who shook his head and said: "It is abundantly clear that a burglar broke in." He rose, came across the room and shook Holmes warmly by the hand. "Mr Holmes, thank you. What we owe you is beyond evaluation."

Holmes and I returned to Baker Street in the evening. Holmes started ascending the stairs, but I went to have a few words with Mrs Hudson. When I joined Holmes upstairs, I found him sitting in his chair with an air of dejection and despondency about him. He was looking at the syringe on the mantelpiece.

"An interesting case,Watson. I wonder whether the world will ever come to its senses. This Balkan crisis nearly plunged the whole world into misery; I trust no such crisis will arise again in our lifetime."

"I trust not, Holmes," I said, as Mrs Hudson entered with a tray, which she placed on the table and left. Holmes sniffed the air and said: "Hello, what's this, Watson?"

"Turkish coffee, Holmes. One of Orman Pasha's attendants gave it to me as we were leaving Royston Manor. He said that the Pasha asked him to say that it was a better stimulant than many others."

Holmes smiled to himself as he sipped the coffee. "Excellent, Watson," he said.

The Enigma of the Warwickshire Vortex – F. Gwynplaine MacIntyre

According to Watson's accounts, Holmes investigated just three more cases in 1903 – "The Mazarin Stone", "The Three Gables" and "The Creeping Man". After the last case he decided to retire. He probably did this on the occasion of his fiftieth birthday. He settled in a small house on the South Downs near Eastbourne and spent his time beekeeping, on which he wrote a treatise, the Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, and bringing together all of his own papers to produce the definitive volume The Whole Art of Detection.

He was very strict about his retirement, refusing to venture back to his old practice. Nonetheless, a mind as active as Holmes's would never be at rest. He recorded an investigation of his own, "The Lion's Mane" in 1907, but it is rather surprising that he did not record the culmination of a case that had puzzled him for thirty years. This was the remarkable one of James Phillimore, who stepped back into his house to collect his umbrella and was never seen again. Holmes investigated the case early in his career but had been unable to resolve it. The mercurial interests of F Gwynplaine MacIntyre have caused him to undertake research into a number of areas, none of which were Holmesian, but a stroke of luck while researching the development of the cinema in New York brought the conclusion of the case to light. Many others have attempted to resolve this enigmatic case but here, at last, is the answer.

Strange Disappearance of Local Businessman

A peculiar and unexplained incident is reported from Leamington. On the Wednesday morning, two bankers of this community made a visit to Number 13a, Tavistock-street, the residence of Mr James Phillimore, age 33, who desired to accompany these gentlemen to their place of business for the purpose of discussing a financial transaction.

Stepping into the street, Mr Phillimore glanced momentarily upwards, and – although the weather has been fair this past fortnight – he remarked to his companions: "It looks like rain. Let me get my umbrella." Whereupon he stepped back into his own house, closing the front door but leaving it unlocked, whilst his colleagues remained on the doorstep.

A moment later, the two gentlemen over heard Mr Phillimore shouting from within: "Help me! I can't -" His words were terminated in mid-sentence. Mr Phillimore's two callers straight away entered the house's antechamber, where a most peculiar sight awaited them.

The floorboards in the centre of the foyer were scorched, in a pattern forming a circle roughly six feet in diameter as if some unknown vortex had visited this portion of the room, and no other. Mr Phillimore's muddy footprints could be clearly seen, in a trail leading directly to the perimeter of this circle. The rear half of a footprint protruded from the outer edge of the circle: the front half of Mr Phillimore's right foot had evidently entered the circular mystery, yet it left no imprint within.

An umbrella-stand stood unmolested in a corner of the vestibule, well away from the circle. The ferrule of Mr Phillimore's umbrella, with several inches of the shaft, was found on the floor at the outer edge of the circular enigma. The missing portion of the umbrella – which presumably had accompanied Mr Phillimore into the circular zone – had been neatly sheared off.

Both of the witnesses to this astonishing occurrence are prominent bankers of Leamington Spa, whose veracity and sobriety are above reproach.

The house has now been thoroughly searched by the local police, and there is no evidence of sink-holes nor of any hidden chambers. At this reporting, no trace of Mr Phillimore has been found.

Extract from The South Warwickshire Advertise

for Thursday, 26 August 1875

My friend Sherlock Holmes had recounted the Phillimore case to me in only the briefest terms, for he was disinclined to discuss his rare failures. I knew only that the incident had occurred very early in his detective career, shortly after the Gloria Scott affair. Mr Phillimore of Leamington Spa, Warwickshire, had vanished quite as if the Earth itself had swallowed him up, and he might never reappear unless the Earth itself should open and regurgitate him.

On the afternoon of 18 April 1906, I was examining a patient in my London surgery when word arrived that a great earthquake had lain waste to the mighty city of San Francisco. By nightfall the grim toll was confirmed: several hundreds were injured or dead, and many thousands were homeless. For the next thirty hours, the transatlantic cable relayed further news: the coal-gas lines beneath the San Francisco streets had ruptured in the earthquake, in consequence of which the entire city was now engulfed by fires that raged unchecked. In the safety of my Harley Street surgery, I resolved myself to make a modest contribution to any public subscriptions which might be set up in London to aid the San Franciscan victims.

Scarcely a fortnight later, a telegram bearing a familiar return address in the Sussex Downs was delivered to my rooms. The message consisted of only three words: "Come at once" and the signature "Holmes". No further text was necessary.

I made haste to Victoria station and purchased a first-class return for the down train to Brighton. After an unusually long wait for my train's arrival, the railway journey passed quickly enough. At the Brighton cab-rank, a coachman conveyed me to the gateposts of my destination.

The house of Mr Sherlock Holmes was outwardly like any bachelor's domicile, but the gardens surrounding it provoked astonishment. The house was flanked and garrisoned on all sides by long thin wooden cabinets which – upon closer inspection – were in fact bee-hives, oozing the pale beeswax and darker secretions of their insect inhabitants. The constant buzzing was a thousandfold Babel. As I strode up the front path amid an escort of inquisitive bees, I glimpsed the face of my friend and summoner at a nearby window. Before I even had time to make use of the boot-scraper beside the doorstep, I was ushered within.The bees, fortunately, elected to remain outside. A moment later I was cross-legged on a haircord settee, in the parlour of my good friend Sherlock Holmes.

"Delighted you came, Watson." He passed forth his cigar-case, and I accepted a black perfecto. Whilst I cut this and lit it, Holmes resumed: "You must pardon my bees. One of the hives has just today produced a new queen, and she has been kept busy murdering all of the dormant queens."

"I had not known that bees could be persuaded to live in wooden cabinets," I said.

Holmes selected a Havana panatela, and lit his cigar without cutting it. "The bees live in a nearby hollow oak. Those cabinets are my own creation, inspired by the devices of an American beekeeper, the Reverend Langstroth. Each honeycomb occupies its own cabinet, and may be removed without disturbing the other combs." Without warning, my friend changed the subject abruptly: "Watson, I regret that you were obliged to wait so long for your train at Victoria station."

"You were aware of the delay, then?" I asked him.

"Not at all," said Sherlock Holmes. "As soon as you entered my house, I observed that your train was delayed."

I smiled indulgently. "You must have memorized Bradshaw's Railway Guide, and you inferred the tardiness of my train from the hour of my arrival."

"I never memorize idle data,Watson. My mind is a workroom, not a storage room." Holmes pointed his long fore-finger towards my feet. "Your shoes, I observe, are freshly polished. Owing to the urgency of my telegram, you would not have chosen to delay your departure from London by devoting time to such trifles. You must have been unwillingly detained at the railway terminus, and – during the enforced wait – you availed yourself of the bootblacks who ply their trade along the Belgrave wall of Victoria station."

"Remarkable, Holmes! What you say is the truth."

"Furthermore," my friend continued, "there is one particular bootblack in the Belgrave Road whose brown boot-cream is of

a distinctive russet colour, not available commercially. I believe that he makes up the mixture himself, from an original receipt. Your footgear, Watson, bears the mark of that tradesman."

Once again I was astonished. "But surely, Holmes, you did not summon me here to discuss bootblacks," I ventured.

"Indeed not." Holmes went to the fireplace, and retrieved a folded document from the mantelshelf. "You are doubtless aware of the recent holocaust in San Francisco."

I nodded sadly. "Yes, the earthquake and the subsequent fires. A dreadful accident."

"Accident is hardly the word, Watson. Precisely one day after the San Francisco earthquake, my good friend Pierre Curie the distinguished French scientist – was struck and killed by a horse-cart in Paris. That misfortune was an accident. This San Francisco affair is something rather worse: our planet Earth has burst open at the seams."

I nodded once more. "In spite of scientific progress, men are still at the mercy of Nature."

There was a dark look in his eyes as Sherlock Holmes spoke: "It is not Nature which preys upon men, Watson. The predator who threatens humanity is man himself." Holmes sat down and unfolded the document in his hands. "I have received a despatch from two American gentlemen: Mr Henry Evans, the president of the Continental Insurance Company; and Mr James D. Phelan, a former mayor of San Francisco. These men have pledged themselves to the cause of resurrecting their dead city, and of seeing San Francisco rise from the ashes."

"Strange that a former mayor, rather than the current office holder, should undertake such a mission," I remarked.

"The current mayor is part of the problem, Watson." Sherlock Holmes glanced at the document before him. "Mr Phelan informs me that, during his own term as mayor of San Francisco, municipal funds were allocated for the wages and training of police officers and firemen, as well as funds for the purchase and maintenance of fire-engines and pump-waggons, and for horses to convey them."

"A prudent investment, surely," I said.

"Perhaps not," Holmes's frown deepened. "Mayor Phelan's letter goes on to state that the present mayor of San Francisco one Eugene Schmitz by name – is the agent of a ring of thieves and grafters who have systematically looted the city's coffers and enriched themselves by several millions of stolen dollars. Due to the absence of funds, the police force and fire department of San Francisco are mere skeleton crews: ill-trained, and obliged to fulfil their duties with defective equipment. In consequence, when the earthquake struck, the death-toll was far higher than it might have been. Doctor, it may interest you to know that the recent San Francisco earthquake, and the ensuing conflagrations, have claimed seven hundred human lives."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed.

"Indeed. But if Mr Phelan is to be believed – and I believe him, Watson – more than 300 of those deaths, as well as 20 million dollars' worth of property damage, are the direct result of Mayor Schmitz's embezzlements. Had the city's funds been allocated to their rightful needs, those people never would have died."

"A tragedy, surely. But what has this to do with you, Holmes?"

My friend refolded Mr Phelan's epistle and pocketed it. "The Continental Insurance Company, and several other assurance firms as well, are now threatened with bankruptcy as a result of the torrent of policy claims emanating from San Francisco. Mr Evans and his colleagues intend to make good on all claims, but they are resentful at bearing the costs for this tragedy whilst the thieves who caused it go free. Mayor Schmitz and his corrupt associates are to blame, yet no evidence of their guilt can be established."

We smoked in silence for a moment, and then Holmes spoke again: "Evidently my reputation has travelled all the way to California, Watson. This letter is the result. Mr Phelan and Mr Evans, joined by a syndicate of insurance brokers, have offered me carte blanche if I will but journey to San Francisco and place myself at their disposal. These men wish to engage my services in a matter of deduction and investigation. They desire me to find solid proof, such as will stand up in any American court, of the malfeasances of Schmitz and his henchmen."

"And do you intend to accept this commission, Holmes?" I asked him.

"My dear Watson, I already have. American politics are a dark labyrinth which I have never entered before, and the challenge intrigues me." Holmes arose and stretched himself.

"One more thing, Watson. The hospitals and emergency wards of San Francisco are filled to bursting with the injured and the dying; there are not enough doctors in that broken city to attend to them all. Your medical talents would be welcome in this crisis. And I may have need of your assistance during my own investigations. Shall I notify Continental Insurance to advance me the funds for two steamship tickets to America?"

The question was altogether unexpected. I hesitated for the briefest of moments while I considered how to inform my wife, then extended my hand. Sherlock Holmes clasped it in both of his own.

"Capital, Watson! We shall be occupied for two months at the very least. Inform your Harley Street patients to make other arrangements in your absence. As for my bees: until we return I can only hope that their new queen will rule wisely."

And so our adventure began. We sailed from Southampton on 12 May bound for New York City aboard a steamship aptly christened the New York. During the voyage, Sherlock Holmes kept his remarkable brain occupied with the game of observing our fellow passengers and deducing their origins, vocations and personalities from the clues offered by their physical appearances and behaviours.

We arrived in New York City's harbour on the morning of 19 May. There was still the wide continent of North America to be traversed, but Mayor Phelan had arranged for us to be granted passage on any of the US Army's relief trains bringing provisions and medical aid from NewYork to the refugee camps outside San Francisco. After clearing the New York customs house, health station, and currency exchange, Holmes and I secured a four-wheeler and made haste with our luggage north and east through Manhattan to the Pennsylvania station – for Holmes was determined to begin the long transcontinental railway journey as soon as possible.

By noon we reached the New York Central terminus, where Holmes was much distrait to be told that the next relief train did not embark until tomorrow morning. "There's nothing for it, Watson," he said. "We are obliged to spend a night in this metropolis. Let us quarter ourselves in an hotel, and then we shall see what diversions the island of Manhattan can offer us."

I took charge of the transfer of our bags to the Herald Square Hotel, on the south side of West Thirty-Fourth Street, whilst Holmes sent a telegram to Continental Insurance's main office. "I have cabled Mr Evans with the news that I shall be aboard tomorrow's train," Holmes informed me after I had dealt with the hotel's guest-register, "and I have told him that I am bringing with me the greatest field surgeon of my acquaintance."

"You flatter me, Holmes."

"I think not. Come, Watson! For this afternoon and evening, at least, let us seek such pleasure as this city affords, knowing that tomorrow morning our unpleasant task begins. In the telegraph office I overheard that Maude Adams is appearing in Peter Pan at the Empire Theatre in West Forty-Sixth Street. Let us spend tonight in Neverland, and give no thoughts to pain or San Francisco."

Sherlock Holmes and I proceeded northwards, up the wide Manhattan thoroughfare known as Broadway. Just south of West Thirty-Seventh Street, at Number 1367, Broadway, my attention was arrested by a brown stone building papered with gaudy posters. This proved to be the Edisonia Amusement Hall, and the posters outside advised us that, for five cents' admission, we might view an exhibition of Thomas Edison's miraculous invention, the Vitascope.

"I have heard of this machine, but never seen it in operation," I remarked to Holmes, with more than a hint of eagerness in my voice. "Mr Edison's Vitascope has gone one better than the magic-lantern: his invention can project images that actually move!"

" 'Invention', indeed!" Holmes remarked with an audible sniff. "Edison has no more invented the Vitascope than I have invented the wheel. Watson, the first kinetographic camera and projector were devised by Louis Le Prince, a Frenchman who dwelt in Yorkshire. I myself attended a demonstration of his apparatus in Leeds in 1888. But come: since you are clearly so keen to witness this Vitascope, let us pay the admission and enter."

The amusement hall's afternoon programme was well attended, but Holmes and I were able to secure two seats in the pit-stalls, conveniently adjoining the centre aisle. The stage of the amusement hall was bare, except for a large white

rectangular screen that seemed to afford no great promise of entertainment. The performance had not yet begun, and in the theatre seats all round us the audience were abuzz with a myriad of conversations. "I am no longer homesick for my bees." Holmes murmured to me, amid the general huzzbuzz. "It appears that we may converse freely without breaching etiquette, since everyone else in this place is talking anyway. Watson, I can never sit through a moving-picture exhibition without thinking of the strange case of James Phillimore."

For a moment the name meant nothing whatever to me, but then the penny dropped: "Wasn't he the man who vanished from his own house in Warwickshire?"

"The same." In the red plush seat beside me, Holmes sighed wearily. "One of my earliest failures, Watson. Following his vanishment in 1875, neither I nor anyone else ever clapped eyes on Mr James Phillimore again."

"Surely a man who vanished in 1875 could have nothing to do with moving-pictures," I proposed, "for they had not yet been invented."

Sherlock Holmes nodded. "Watson, I have told you that the kinetograph was invented in England by Louis Le Prince. In 1890, during a visit to his native France, Monsieur Le Prince consented to demonstrate his device at the Paris Opera House. In September of that year, he boarded a train at Dijon, taking his camera and projector into a first-class compartment. When the train reached Paris, Watson, that compartment was empty. Despite an exhaustive investigation, neither Le Prince nor his motion-picture apparatus were ever seen again."

"Astonishing!" I remarked.

"I had read of the case at the time, and offered my services to the French authorities," Holmes went on. "The Sûreté declined my offer. Still, to this day I can never view a kinetograph without thinking of its inventor's curious fate, and when I think of Le Prince's vanishment I am naturally put in mind of James Phillimore."

"Was Phillimore a friend of yours, Holmes?"

"I never met him," said my companion. "Phillimore's peculiar disappearance in 1875 aroused much attention at the time, and I journeyed to Leamington Spa to join the search for him. Among the furnishings in Phillimore's house in Tavistock Street was found a cabinet study of a man in his early thirties; his two banking colleagues identified this photograph as a likeness of James Phillimore. I obtained a copy of the portrait, and committed it to memory. Watson, for twenty years after his vanishment – even when my wanderings brought me to the gates of Lhassa and Khartoum – I never was able to pass through a crowd without searching amongst its constituents for the face of James Phillimore. But now, after thirty-one years, I am resigned that he has vanished forever."

At that moment the house lights dimmed, and the theatre audience fell silent. A man stepped forth upon the stage, and introduced himself to us as Mr Edwin Stanton Porter of the Edison Film Company. He assured us that the Vitascope possessed a full palette of diversions – comedies, dramas, nature studies – and that all of these would be on offer at this afternoon's performance.

"I particularly wish to draw your attention to the closing item on the bill," said Mr Porter to his wrapt audience. "This very morning, a Vitascope photographer set up his apparatus in the streets of Manhattan. He has captured true-life scenes of New York City, taken in natural sunlight. Ladies and gentlemen, the photographic record of those events has already been developed and shipped to this theatre, barely four hours after they occurred." An excited murmur went round the auditorium at this point. Mr Porter continued: "It is hoped that, in future, the Edison Film Company will devise a means by which any newsworthy event anywhere on the globe can be captured by Mr Edison's wonderful Vitascope, and projected onto screens throughout the planet instantaneously."

In his seat beside me, Sherlock Holmes muttered something. Now Mr Porter left the stage, and of a sudden we were plunged into utter darkness.

Without warning, a railway engine burst onto the stage, rushing headlong towards the audience. There was a general panic, followed by gasps and applause as the realization came that this oncoming juggernaut was a kinetographic image in one of Mr Edison's Vitascope films. I confess that I had risen halfway from my seat, in flight from the illusion, before Holmes's grip on my arm restrained me. "Calm yourself, Doctor. It is only a toy."

I regained my seat, and the programme resumed. The next Vitascope was a tableau vivant of several plump ladies striking poses in Grecian robes. This was followed by a display of ocean waves. Next came an extract from the opera Faust – an opera, that is, without music or voices, for I was disappointed to observe that these Vitascope life-studies were devoid of sound and colour. The actors were obliged to perform their roles in dumb-show. Still, they were remarkable – and their silence lent them an air of dignity that speaking actors often lack.

" Ton my word, Watson," Holmes whispered beside me. "This thing is no mere toy. It is marvellous! Long after the actors on that screen have died, their images will still walk and gesticulate for generations yet unborn!"

Now there commenced a low comedy titled Why Mrs Jones Got a Divorce, followed by an even lower melodrama called Ching Lin Foo Outdone. Beside me in the darkness, Holmes writhed in his seat.

"The greatest educational tool ever devised, and this man Edison squanders it on knockabout farces," Holmes remarked in disgust.

Now the picture changed again, to a play titled The Dream of a Rarebit Fiend. On the screen before us, a man wearing a frock-coat was seated at a table, consuming his dinner ofWelsh rarebit. The picture faded momentarily, and at once this same man was in his bedroom, attired in a nightshirt and a peaked nightcap. The transformation was instantaneous, and I did not see how it was done. The nightshirted man clambered into his bed, drew up the counterpane, and went to sleep with remarkable alacrity.

Suddenly the bed rose from its moorings and flew out the window, with its occupant – now awake and terrified – clinging fast to the headboard. The bed flew over the rooftops towards the spire of a church that was surmounted by a weathervane which seemed rather larger than necessary. Here the animated bed ejected its passenger, and flew onwards without him. All about me in the dark of the music-hall, the audience roared with laughter whilst the poor fellow in the nightshirt dangled helplessly from the weathervane, kicking and bellowing. The last scene – with no intervening transition – showed him safe in his bedroom again, wakening from a nightmare. Solemnly raising his right hand and gazing heavenward, whilst moving his lips in dumb-show, the fellow vowed a silent oath: presumably against eating Welsh rarebit at bedtime.

"Watson, this is really quite enough," Sherlock Holmes remarked beside me, amidst the raucous merriment of the audience surrounding us. "Surely, in Manhattan's vasty deeps, we might find entertainment more refined than this. Let us elsewhere ourselves."

The image on the screen had changed once more. Now it depicted an urban crossroads, quite unremarkable excepting that the trams, broughams, and other conveyances – in the American manner – were moving on the wrong side of the street. Upon the screen, men and women were proceeding in their usual fashions and varying gaits, entering at the one side and exeunting at the other. A newsboy hawked his gazettes between two hoardings underneath a street-lamp, and although this object was unlit – the tableau taking place in full daylight – I was surprised to observe that the street-lamp was outfitted for electrical current, not gaslight. Two signs depending from the lamp-post apprised us that this crossroads was the intersection of "Broadway" and "W. 58th Street". In the background, a clock-dial set into the face of a distant tower gave the time as ten-seventeen. Evidently, this newest vitascope film was neither farce nor tragedy, but merely an impromptu vignette of Manhattanites in their native environs… and as such, no especial drama was about to unfold.

"You are right, Holmes," I whispered to my friend. "I have beheld my fill. Let us away to the Empire Theatre, and pay tribute to Miss Adams."

During the while I said these words, the images, on the screen continued their silent processions. As I spoke, yet one more figure made his entrance within the background of the tableau before us. He was a man of above the middle height, thirtyish, with neatly trimmed moustaches. He was well-shod, in expensive cordovans, and clutching in his left hand a furled umbrella. But something about him was out of the common: his pin-striped suit was of a cut which had passed out of fashion some thirty years ago, and he sported side-whiskers in the style called dundrearies, which have long been out of vogue. Suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my wrist: the finger-tips of Sherlock Holmes were pressing into my flesh, as Holmes's body went rigid.

"Watson!" he shouted, so loudly that every person in the theatre might have heard him. "That man on the screen! He is lames Phillimore!"

From the dark rows behind us, someone shouted for Holmes to keep still.

I felt a chill run up my spine as I beheld the flickeringVitascope image. James Phillmore had vanished thirty-one years ago, yet the newcomer on the kinetographic screen looked barely thirty years of age. "You must be mistaken, Holmes," I whispered, so as not to disturb the audience. "If Phillimore is still alive, he is in his sixties now."

"I tell you, Watson, he is the very man!" Holmes stood erect, and pointed his long arm towards the screen. "That man is James Phillimore to the life, and he has not aged a single day since he vanished!"

I think that every head in the audience must have turned towards us at that moment, and every tongue – in harsh American accents – shouted at us to be quiet. Therefore I was certain that no one save Holmes and myself observed what happened next upon the Vitascope's screen.

As if responding to Sherlock Holmes's voice, the man on the screen abruptly turned and looked directly toward us. His eyes widened in delight, and his mouth split into a broad grin. His lips moved silently, in unheard speech.

Holmes leaped forth from his seat. "Down in front!" bellowed some person behind us.

I have said that the man in the picture stood within its background. No longer. Looking directly at Sherlock Holmes, the silent image of James Phillimore strode boldly to the foreground of the image. With a brief sidelong glance before resuming his gaze in Holmes's direction, he traversed West Fifty-Eighth Street, stepped onto the kerb of the near side, and placed his well-shod feet firmly atop the pavement whilst he raised his umbrella, and pointed it squarely at Holmes. Now I too leaped out of my chair.

The other simulacra within the Vitascope screen took no notice of James Phillimore, but continued their own exits and entrances at both sides of the rectangular image. At the centre of the screen, the left hand of James Phillimore silently aimed his umbrella into the audience: directly towards the head of Sherlock Holmes. At the same time, Phillimore raised his right hand to his brow in a sardonic salute.

At that instant, James Phillimore vanished!

There was no question of a trap-door beneath him. With my own eyes, I had seen Mr James Phillimore disappear into thin air. On the Vitascope screen, the people and conveyances of West Fifty-Eighth Street maintained their kinetographic cavalcade, utterly oblivious to the fact that a man had vanished from their midst.

"Quickly, Watson!" In a trice, Sherlock Holmes bounded into the theatre's gangway and made a dash for the nearest exit. And once again, as so often in the past, I found myself following at his heels, in pursuit of our quarry.

"James Phillimore is in Manhattan, Watson, for that kinetograph was photographed today!" Holmes declared as we pelted through the lobby of the Edisonia Amusement Hall. "I have promised the officers of the Continental Insurance Company that I shall be aboard tomorrow's train to San Francisco, and I am honour-bound to keep that pledge. Therefore we have a trifle less than sixteen hours in which to find a man who has eluded me for thirty-one years. Watson, come! The game is afoot!"

We raced out of the theatre, emerging into Broadway. My friend made haste to flag down a passing hansom. Holmes instructed the cabman to convey us to Broadway and Fifty-Eighth, the scene of Phillimore's latest disappearance. The cabman whisked up his reins, and a moment later the pursuit of Phillimore had begun.

"There must be some mistake, surely," I said to my companion, as we settled into the seat and our hansom proceeded northwards through difficult traffic. "How can you be certain that the Vitascope we saw was photographed today?"

"It was obvious, Watson. You saw the newsboy in the image? The caption scrawled across his hoardings duplicated the headline in today's New York Herald."

I still was utterly astounded at having seen a man vanish. "But are you certain that the man on the screen was really James Phillimore? We are in Manhattan, Holmes: perhaps this fellow was an American who bears a chance resemblance to Phillimore."

Sherlock Holmes shook his head. He had withdrawn a jotting-book from his pocket, and was busily sketching within this as

he spoke. "Depend upon it, Watson: that man on the Vitascope screen was an Englishman."

"How can you be certain, Holmes?"

"No man can hide his heritage, Watson. I can tell an American from an Englishman by the arrangement of his boot-laces: the man we saw just now was British… or else he has an English valet to tie his shoes for him. And did you observe the salute that Phillimore gave as he vanished?" Holmes duplicated it now – cocking his right elbow, Holmes's hand went to his forehead: the upper edges of his finger-tips went flat against his brow, whilst his thumb pointed downwards. "That is how a soldier in the British army salutes… as you know full well from your own campaign in Afghanistan." Now Holmes saluted again; once more the hand went to his brow, but this time his fingers were parallel to the ground, and his thumb pointed rearwards. "This is the American military salute, Watson: it is also the salute of our own Royal Navy. When I investigated Phillimore's background in 1875, I found no record of military service.Yet he must have been a boy once, and boys play at being soldiers. They learn their drill from observing real soldiers, and copying them."

Holmes was right: the man in the Vitascope had displayed a British salute.

"Furthermore," Holmes went on, sketching furiously in his jotter as our cab progressed, "did you remark, Watson, that the man on the screen briefly glanced to one side?"

"Of course." I nodded. "As he stepped off the kerb into the road, he glanced sideways to see if there was oncoming traffic."

"Quite so, Watson. But he glanced to the right. That is as we do in England. In American roads, and European ones, a pedestrian glances first to the left. An Englishman acquires the foreign habit when he has spent some time outside our Empire. But the man on the screen, Watson, turned the wrong way: he is accustomed to British thoroughfares, and has only recently arrived in the United States."

Of a sudden, I shuddered once more. "The fact remains, Holmes, that we saw a man vanish into thin air."

"We saw nothing of the kind, Watson. Are you aware of the French illusionist Georges Mélies? He works his conjuror's tricks inside a kinetoscope. Our quarry Phillimore knows the same dodge."

"I don't understand."

"Did it seem to you, Watson, that Phillimore's eyes on the Vitascope screen were looking directly at us in the orchestra-stalls? I thought the same thing… for a moment. But such a thing is impossible. When we observe a moving-picture, we see only what the camera saw. Phillimore did not see us, did not salute us. He was looking directly into the lens of the camera, whilst saluting the cameraman… and through the camera's borrowed gaze we fancied that he looked at us."

"But, Holmes! We saw him vanish… like a phantasm!"

"Watson, no. A kinetographic camera records movements not only through space, but through time. I think I know why Phillimore saluted: to distract the cameraman's attention towards his right arm, and away from his left."

"His left hand carried an umbrella," I recalled.

"Quite so, Watson. And did you mark what he did with it? Just before he disappeared, Phillimore seemed to aim the shaft of his umbrella directly towards us. In fact, he extended it towards the camera."

"And then he vanished, Holmes!"

"No. He merely cut out a fragment of time. That is, he thrust the tip of his umbrella into the camera's mechanism – thereby jamming it – then withdrew his umbrella and walked away. The cameraman required precisely four minutes to unjam the mechanism."

"How the deuce can you know how long…"

"When our quarry vanished, Watson, did you not observe a sudden lurch within the image on the Vitascope screen?"

I shook my head. "I saw only James Phillimore… and then the place where he wasn't."

"Ah! But just before he vanished, the clock on the tower behind him read ten seventeen. And then, at the precise instant after he vanished, the clock abruptly jumped to ten twenty-one. The newsboy's posture shifted instantaneously from one position to quite a different one. All the other people and vehicles in the tableau vanished as well… and were replaced by others. Georges Méliès learned the same trick by accident, Watson. He was photographing traffic in Paris when the mechanism of his camera jammed. The traffic kept moving whilst Méliès endeavoured to restart his apparatus. Afterwards, when Méliès

developed his film and projected it, he was astonished to see a Parisian omnibus abruptly transform itself into a hearse."

By now we had reached West Fifty-Eighth Street; Holmes paid the cabman, and we alighted. I had never been here before, yet I recognized the place: the buildings, the newsboy underneath the street-lamp, even the clock-dial on the distant tower were just as I had marked them on the Vitascope screen… except with colours added to Mr Edison's photographic palette of greys. As our cab departed, I remarked to Holmes: "Then the man in the Vitascope film cannot be James Phillimore at all, Holmes."

My friend's jaw tightened. "No, Watson. He is Phillimore to the life. In every particular, the man whom we saw is identical to his cabinet photograph. I committed the portrait to memory in 1875, Watson. I shall never forget those dundrearies! Our quarry is even wearing the same suit: pin-stripe, of a cut and design favoured by tailors in Savile Row some thirty years ago. I interviewed the two Leamington bankers who were present when Phillimore vanished: they assured me that the suit he wore in his portrait is the one that Phillimore was wearing on the morning when he vanished."

"Very few suitings last for thirty-one years," I remarked.

"And very few men can vanish for three decades and return without growing a day older," Holmes replied. "Yet our quarry is just such a man."

The day was warm, yet I felt suddenly cold. "Holmes, is it possible that James Phillimore has slipped sidelong in Time? I recall the original case: there was evidence of some sort of circular vortex in Phillimore's house. Can a man fall through a hole in Warwickshire in 1875, and emerge in Manhattan in 1906? It would explain why Phillimore has not aged, and why his suit has not become more worn."

We were standing outside a greystone edifice at Number 1789, Broadway. A brass plate near the entrance informed us that this was the home of something called "The Cosmopolitan. A Hearst Publication". Sherlock Holmes tapped his fore-finger alongside his nose, as if taking me into a confidence. "Ignore the newsboy, Watson, and humour me in a charade."

Holmes strode purposefully to the exact spot where the Vitascope apparatus had stood. "This is a good place to start Watson," said my friend in a loud voice, "if we intend to collect the reward."

I did not take his meaning, but I played along: "Yes! Certainly! A good deal of money is at stake."

Sherlock Holmes now took out a tape-measure, and began making precise measurements of the kerb and the pavement, all the while muttering about a large reward. He seemed wholly unaware of the newsboy, who was observing Holmes's every movement with the keenest attention. When he was unable to contain his curiosity any longer, the urchin spoke in thick American tones: "Wutcha lookin' fer, cul?"

"Go away, lad," said Holmes. "Can't you see that we're busy? The officers of the Edison Film Company have engaged us to investigate a serious incident of vandalism, and…"

"I know wutcher aftuh," said the boy conspiratorially. His mouth was crammed full of some glutinous substance which he chewed furiously whilst he spoke, thus obscuring his diction all the more. "You're lookin' for the jasper who jiggered that camera, ain'tcher?"

Holmes looked up from his measurements. "The Edison Film Company have offered a substantial reward for information leading to the arrest of the man who damaged one of their kinetographic…"

"How much?" said the boy. "That reward, I mean."

"We have no intention of paying good money for idle rumours," said Holmes. "Since you clearly did not witness the incident…"

"I seen him!" boasted the newsboy. "I seen the whole thing!" Now he began to re-enact the whole affair, in broad movements, taking by turns the roles of James Phillimore, the Edison cameraman, and even the camera itself. "There was one o' them camera fellers here, takin' pitchers. A dude came along, swingin' his umbreller, see? He looked like the kind of a guy who would make trouble just fer the sport of it. Sure enough, I seen him poke his umbrelly into that camera there. He pulled it out again, and then he walked away laughin'. The umbrella weren't damaged, but the camera started racketin' loud enough to wake yer dead granny. The cameraman started cussin', and he had to stop the camera. I seen him fiddle it fer a coupla minutes, and then he started it up again." The boy's face split into a broad grin. "Do I get the reward?"

"Not unless you can tell me the culprit's name and address," said Sherlock Holmes, pocketing his tape-measure and drawing forth his jotting-book. Somehow a five-dollar banknote had gone astray from Holmes's note-case and was now protruding – by accident, surely – from the leaves of his jotter. "If you can offer us some useful information…"

"That's them!" said the boy, stabbing a grimy finger towards the book as Holmes opened it.

I looked over his shoulder, and was amused to see what my friend had been sketching so industriously during our cab-journey. In the pages of his jotting-book, Holmes had drawn two large portraits that I recognized as likenesses of our adversaries from bygone adventures: Professor Moriarty and Colonel Moran. Between these two, scarcely more than an afterthought, was a small and hastily scribbled rendition of James Phillimore. Yet the newsboy now ignored the large conspicuous drawings of Moriarty and Moran, and pointed unerringly at the tiny likeness of Phillimore. "That's them!" he said triumphantly. "That's both o' them!"

For once, Sherlock Holmes seemed confused… but he regained his composure swiftly enough to withdraw the jotting-book an instant before the freckled urchin tried to snatch the banknote within. "Both of them, you say?" asked Holmes.

The newsboy nodded. "You heard me, boss.That guy wit' the umbreller: after he wrecked the camera, I seen him walk into that buildin' over there." The newsboy nodded towards the offices of the Cosmopolitan. "The cameraman left, an' I kept peddlin' my papers, see? Then, mebbe half an hour later, the umbrella man comes out again. Only this time there's two of him."

Holmes and I exchanged glances. "Can it be that there are two James Phillimores?" I wondered aloud.

"There were, 'coz I seen 'em," the newsboy replied. "Like they could o' been twins… an' that there's pitcher o' both o' them." The boy tapped his hand against the jotting-book, leaving ink-stained finger-prints upon the drawing of James Phillimore. "Same suit, same hat, same lip-spinach, the works. Only difference was, one twin had an umbreller and one twin didn't." As he spoke, the newsboy's fingers gravitated towards the stray banknote, but Holmes kept this just out of reach.

"And did you see where he… where they went, lad?" Holmes enquired.

The newsboy's eyes gleamed greedily. "What's it worth t'yuh?" he asked.

"Five dollars," said Holmes. "But I want the truth, mind!" He brandished the sketch of James Phillimore again. "Where did this man go?"

"There was two of him, I tol' yuh… so y'ought to pay double," said the newsboy.

Holmes sighed, and pressed two fivers into the newsboy's eager hands. "Now, then!"

"I seen 'em get into a cab," the boy reported. "Just b'fore the door closed, I heard one o' the twins – the one `thout an umbreller – tell the driver to take 'em both to Madison Square."

Thus it chanced that, five minutes later, Sherlock Holmes and I were in another cab hastening towards Madison Square: a place unknown to us, yet which the cab-driver assured us he knew intimately.

" 'Pon my word, Watson," Holmes declared, as our cab went south on Broadway, "but this mystery gets stranger every moment. Thirty-one years ago, James Phillimore stepped through a doorway and ceased to exist. This morning he returned from the void: not a day older, and none the worse for his absence. And now it seems that he has become identical twins."

"Do you suppose the newsboy told the truth, Holmes?" I pondered. "He might have lied to us, just to claim a reward."

“I think not, Watson." Once more Holmes produced his jotter, revealing the thumb-nail portrait of James Phillimore flanked either side by the two colossi of Moriarty and Moran. "A liar posing as an eyewitness would have claimed to recognize the first likeness he saw. Our newspaper johnny went right past the two largest and most obvious portraits in my impromptu rogues' gallery – he did not recognize them, Watson – and he seized upon the smaller study that he did recognize: our quarry James Phillimore… who now appears to have borrowed a trick from the amoeba and split himself into identical twins."

The southward traffic along Broadway was more congenial than its northbound counterpart had been, and soon we turned eastward and arrived at the crossroads of Madison Avenue and East Twenty-Seventh Street. Here awaited us a green

quadrangle of parkland which, of a certainty, must be Madison Square. I paid the cabman, and I had no sooner alighted on the kerb than the hand of Sherlock Holmes was at my shoulder: "Watson! Look!"

I turned, and looked… and thought I must be seeing double.

At the far end of the park stood two identical men. Both were dressed in pin-striped suiting, of an outmoded cut. Both wore moustaches and dundreary whiskers.

Both of them were James Phillimore.

In swift movements of his lithe muscular limbs, Sherlock Holmes crossed the quad. In consequence of my Jezail wound, I was unable to keep pace with him. Thus I was still several yards from our quarry when Holmes approached them and asked: "Have I the honour of addressing Mr James Phillimore and Mr James Phillimore?"

Both men laughed in unison. "You have that honour, sir," said one, in British tones.

"You have indeed," said his twin, in an American accent.

Now I came huffapuffing up to join them, and I made a strange discovery. The two James Phillimores were not identical. One of them – the Englishman – was in his early thirties: of a certainty, the same man whose likeness we had witnessed in the Vitascope. But the American was in his sixties. He was also, I saw now, some three inches shorter than his British confederate, and slightly fuller of physique. The American's eyes were light blue, whilst the Englishman's eyes had irises of a queer pale hue which I can only describe as horn-coloured. His face was long and lantern-jawed, whereas the American's face was nearer square-shaped. The strong resemblance of the two men was due to the fact that they were dressed in matching outfits, and their faces sported identical side-whiskers and similar moustaches of chestnut-coloured hair.

Remembering Holmes's words, I glanced at both men's shoes. Neither one's footwear matched the other man's, nor did their boot-laces. The eyelets of the older man's shoes were laced criss-cross, in what I gather to be the American manner. The younger man's boots were laced straight across the instep, in the familiar British form.

"Might as well take these off, don't you think?" asked the Englishman. He reached up to his face, and plucked off his own whiskers… leaving only a few stray wisps of crepe hair still stuck in place with spirit-gum.

The American laughed. "Yes, I was getting hot in these." He snatched away his own set of side-whiskers. His moustaches remained in place, and they appeared to be the genuine articles. But now, in the bright sunlight of Madison Square, I noticed a faint chestnut-coloured stain along the edges of his collar: the American's hair was naturally white, and he had dyed it brown in order to match the colouring of his British companion.

And yet, even without their disguises, there was a certain kindred quality in these two editions of James Phillimore, a look of keen intelligence within the countenance of both men… which suggested that – despite their outer discrepancies – these two men might indeed be identical twins of the mind.

The southwest corner of Madison Square's quadrangle was truncated, creating a space in which a row of park benches were secluded from the traffic of nursemaids and perambulators. My friend beckoned the three of us to join him there. "I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate Dr Watson," he announced to the counterfeit twins. "Please have the goodness to reveal your true names, and the reason for this peculiar hoax."

The American bowed before seating himself. "Might as well tell it all, since no harm's done. My name is Ambrose Bierce, and I am the Washington correspondent for Mr Hearst's Cosmopolitan. Perhaps you've read my column 'The Passing Show'?"

"I have not" Holmes transferred his attentions to the younger man. "And you, sir?"

The lantern-jawed Englishman smiled. "My name is Aleister Crowley."

"Ambrose and Aleister." Holmes sniffed. "Two unusual names, with the same initial. What is the connexion between you two, pray?"

The two culprits exchanged shamefaced glances. "We may as well spill the works," the American ventured to his cohort, with a grin. "It's too good a joke to keep to ourselves."

"Very well," said the long-faced Englishman. He turned to confront Sherlock Holmes, and began to explain: "My name at birth was Edward Crowley, Junior."

"Named after your father," I murmured, but Crowley shot a glance of the most withering scorn in my direction as soon as I said this.

"Named for my mother's husband," he corrected me. "At the time of my birth, my mother Emily Bishop Crowley resided at number 30, Clarendon Square, in Leamington, Warwickshire. I was born there on 12 October, 1875."

"Shortly after the disappearance of James Phillimore," said Sherlock Holmes, nodding sagely. "Come, what else?"

"As to my birth," ventured Ambrose Bierce, "that calamity occurred in Ohio, in 1842. Nine siblings preceded me. For some

reason, it amused my father to afflict all his offspring with names employing the initial letter 'A'. Our dramatis personce, in the order of appearance, reads as follows: Abigail, Amelia, Ann, Addison, Aurelius, Augustus, Almeda, Andrew, Albert… and Ambrose."

"What has this to do with James Phillimore, then?" asked Holmes.

"I was just coming to that," said Ambrose Bierce. "In my thirtieth year, in the company of a wife whom I never loved,

I emigrated to England and became a writer for Tom Hood's Fun magazine and The Lantern. My wife and I lived at first in London, but during the spring of 1874 we set up housekeeping at Number 20 South Parade, in…"

"… in Leamington,Warwickshire," Holmes finished for him. "Watson, I recall the general topography of Leamington Spa

from my sojourn there in 1875. Clarendon Square and the South Parade are scarcely a mile apart. Directly between them is Tavistock Street… and the house from which James Phillimore performed his disappearance. Which was indeed a performance… was it not, Mr Bierce?"

Ambrose Bierce nodded sadly. "I shall say nothing against the character of Mrs Crowley, except to observe that – like myself -

she was trapped in a loveless marriage. Suffice it to report that she and I… consoled each other during the spring and summer of 1875."

I began to see where this was leading. There was a physical resemblance between Bierce and Crowley that transcended their identical costumes. And if Ambrose Bierce had known Emily Crowley some eight or ten months before the birth of her son Aleister, then it was quite possible that…

"The house in Tavistock Street, Bierce," said Sherlock Holmes impatiently. "Was this the scene of your trysts?"

Bierce nodded once more. "Leased by me from the estate-agents. A false identity was advisable, of course…"

"And so you took the name James Phillimore?"

"I did." said Bierce. "Edward Crowley was a strait-laced man who considered all forms of entertainment to be highly immoral. He avoided restaurants, theatres, and music-halls… and forbade his wife to visit such emporia. My own wife Mollie was of similar demeanour. On the other hand, Mr James Phillimore and his female companion – do I make myself clear, sir? – gave much custom to Leamington's pleasure-palaces. At some point during this period, Emily Crowley found herself with child."

Bierce paused a moment, then resumed: "In May of 1875, my wife departed for California… taking our two infant sons with her. Tom Hood – my literary sponsor in England – had died a few months previously. By late August, Mrs Crowley's expectant condition was approaching its climax, and – as she had no intention of leaving her husband – I felt it politic to return to America."

This time it was my turn to serve as questioner: "But what about Mr Phillimore's strange disappearance?" I asked. "The signs of the peculiar vortex…"

Ambrose Bierce threw his head back and laughed. "I have always been intrigued by the idea that there might be holes in the universe – vacua, if you will – capable of swallowing a man whole, so that he vanishes without a trace. I have written several stories on the subject. I have already decided that – when my time comes to call it quits – I shall vanish into one of the holes in the universe, and leave no mortal remains. So when it came time for me to abandon my Tavistock residence – and my Phillimore identity – I fancied that it might be amusing to stage-manage such a vanishment. And then to watch the results from a distance, in the safety of my own persona."

Sherlock Holmes shifted his posture on the bench. "Now I understand a detail which has baffled me these thirty years", he nodded. "The weather in Warwickshire was fair for two weeks before Phillimore vanished, with no rain at all. Yet Phillimore somehow tracked mud into his own house, even though he

stepped outside for only a moment. Had I not been so untrained in the art of detection in those early days, I should have noticed that the muddy trail within the house had no corresponding source in the gutters without. Now I comprehend: the muddy footprints in the antechamber were set there in advance, moulded from clay."

With a smile, Ambrose Bierce acknowledged his handiwork. "Brilliant, wasn't it? All the various details – the footprints leading to nowhere, the scorched floorboards, the decapitated umbrella, even the two impeccable witnesses brought to the scene by a pretext – all the details were part of my scheme, sir."

"And yet you vanished into thin air…" I began.

"Not at all, sir. 'Twas simplicity itself. When I came out the house's front door to greet my callers from the bank, the foyer was already bedecked with the tokens of my abduction. I went back in through the front door as James Phillimore, took a moment to call out for help while I donned a cobbler's smock and yanked off my false whiskers… and then I slipped out the back way, like any respectable tradesman."

Aleister Crowley chuckled. "Because James Phillimore was heard to cry for help, the witnesses assumed that he disappeared against his will. It never occurred to anyone that he'd done a bunk voluntarily."

Sherlock Holmes arose from the park bench and – with great solemnity – bowed to Ambrose Bierce, then reseated himself. "Come now, sir!" said my companion to Bierce. "I confess that you foxed me. Now for the rest of the tale, if you please: why, after so many years, has James Phillimore resurfaced of a sudden?"

This time it was Bierce's turn to chuckle. "Although I left England shortly before the birth of Emily Crowley's only child, I corresponded with her secretly. She kept me apprised of her son's progress. In 1897 – following the death of Edward Crowley, Senior – I took the liberty of writing to his heir, and revealing my role in his past. I also mentioned my family's tradition of forenames beginning with the letter A."

Crowley nodded. "That was the year in which I changed my forename to Aleister."

"We have maintained our correspondence ever since," Bierce revealed. "In the meanwhile, my tasks as a journalist have obliged me to travel throughout the United States without ever returning to Europe.Young Crowley here has journeyed to Russia and Tibet, but never until now has he visited America. My wife died in April of last year, and my two sons that I had off her have been dead these past five years: one of them a suicide. I am therefore alone, which means that I am in bad company. I live in Washington at present, but I make frequent trips to New York City to call upon my employer Mr Hearst. When Aleister Crowley wrote to me a few months ago from his home in Scotland, informing me of his intention to visit New York, I decided that we should meet at last."

"But why bring James Phillimore back from the dead?" queried Sherlock Holmes.

"That was part of the joke," answered Aleister Crowley, placing his hand upon Bierce's shoulder fondly. "I have always had a taste for bizarre jests. My mother's husband was entirely devoid of humour, yet Ambrose Bierce's wit is keenly similar to my own: I should like to believe that I have inherited this from him. Several years ago, Father Ambrose – as I choose to call him – sent me a cabinet photo of himself in his James Phillimore disguise, with a letter recounting the hoax in all its delicious details. When I agreed to call upon Mr Bierce at the Cosmopolitan offices, I decided to amuse myself by visiting him in the guise of James Phillimore. I had the costume made up in London before my departure."

"Clearly my own sense of humour and Aleister Crowley's run on similar lines," said Ambrose Bierce. "For we both hatched the same notion independently, and I too decided to resurrect James Phillimore for our meeting. I still had the suit handy in camphor-balls, so I let it out a bit and bought some stage-whiskers to match the ones I wore thirty years ago. Say, all the boys in Hearst's office busted out laughing fit to kill when I walked in there dressed like Prince Albert. Then, when young Aleister here came traipsing into the room in the same get-up…"

"I can imagine the hilarity," said Sherlock Holmes, without smiling. He rose again from the bench, beckoning me to join him whilst he strode towards the cab-rank at the southern edge of Madison Square. "Watson, come! We still have time to see Maude Adams give her evening performance at the Empire." Turning back, my friend doffed his hat to the pair of erstwhile

Phillimores. "Adieu, gentlemen," said Sherlock Holmes. "I suggest that James Phillimore's latest vanishing-act should be his farewell performance. Since Doctor Watson and I are on our way to San Francisco – where the list of recent deaths is a prodigious one – I can easily arrange for James Phillimore's name to be inserted among the rolls of the dead. Let us keep him that way. Farewell!"

The Case of the Last Battle – L. B. Greenwood

After the last case and that of "The Lion's Mane" Holmes kept himself to himself for several years until the ominous rumblings of war brought him into government service in the episode recorded by Watson in "His Last Bow". That was the last published case of Sherlock Holmes, set in 1914. There have been many who have written apocryphal cases of Holmes's wartime adventures and continuing cases into the 1920s, but I believe almost all of these are apocryphal. But there was one last case, the details of which remained hidden in the archives of the War Office until Canadian author and Sherlockian, Beth Greenwood, unearthed them. Here, at last, is the very final case of Sherlock Holmes.

"He's dead, sir."

"I know that, Jackson," I snapped.

Quite unpardonably, but I was still wet with the boy's blood, and his death was only the last of so many. For this was early November of 1918, I was the sole doctor in the field dressing station, and if any few acres in all history had been as tortured as those around Ypres, I have never heard of it.

A mug of something hot and brewed – front-line coffee could seldom be told from tea – was poked into my hand. "Thanks, Jackson. Sorry about the temper."

" 'S all right, sir. Wot 'bout them in the corner? They're quiet enough now, but…"

Stiff-legged with exhaustion, I staggered over to the five mounds of blankets. No cots could be spared for the merely sick, no matter how desperate their condition, nor could we hope that any ambulance would have room for several days. Not

after such an attack as had all too recently once again blasted this segment.

Of course we had dealt with illness from the earliest days of the war. (In fact, my first medical task for the army had been to inform a furious major that he had contracted measles.) The present sickness, however, was one that I hadn't seen until a month or so ago, since when an increasing number of cases from both sides had been brought to my station.

The cause seemed to be some kind of respiratory infection, with a high fever, furiously aching limbs, and all too often an agitated delirium. For a small dressing station over-run by wounded, attended by one elderly doctor whose only assistant had until a year ago been a butcher's apprentice at Smithfield, the sufferers made very disruptive patients, poor fellows.

So, sometime during the previous night, I had injected the present five victims with morphine. One I now found had died, two were still deeply unconscious, three were beginning to stir, with amazingly cool skin and regular breathing. This was far better than I had expected: mortality of fifty per cent or more had been common. I told Jackson to soften some hardtack in boiled water – we had nothing better to offer – and to start sponging them off, with now at least some hope of their remaining clean.

I was leaning wearily against a tent pole, sipping the cooling concoction in my mug, when from behind me seemed to come that never forgotten voice, in words as few and peremptory as always. "Watson, I need you."

I'm hallucinating, I thought, not much surprised: I couldn't remember when I had either slept or eaten. I knew that since the early days of the war Holmes had been immersed in something most secret, and I had heard whispers of his having been occasionally glimpsed in the very private drawing rooms of the mighty of several countries. Wherever he was this night, he would not be in a bloody dressing station on the Western front.

Yet the steel grip that had descended on my shoulders was real enough, and so was the asperity with which I was being shaken. "Pull yourself together, doctor.You're wanted."

An embossed silver flask had been raised to my lips.

I pushed it away. "Right now, Holmes, that would finish me. And as for being wanted, I believe I am. Far more so than a man with my white hair should be – "

I stopped because I had been unceremoniously turned so that I could see a spotless whitecoated figure, with a stethoscope in his pocket and a large glistening black bag in his hand, already moving among my sick and wounded. He glanced over at me with grave young eyes and nodded.

"Dr Ostenborough, Watson," Holmes waved a perfunctory introduction. "I know you too well to think that you would leave without a replacement, and he begged for the opportunity. Now

come."

"Ostenborough," I repeated stupidly as Holmes pulled me firmly out of the tent. "Wasn't he with the palace?"

"One of the King's personal medics, yes. Which should give you some idea of the seriousness of what we're facing."

Waiting for us was a British sergeant at the wheel of an old French taxi!

"She's a right proper bitch," the sergeant told me cheerfully, "dunno when I've driv worse, but she'll go, sir, she'll go."

"I have been getting around by rather unconventional means," Holmes explained with some of his old light air, "and took what was available. In with you, Watson, and take a pull at this." He again handed me the silver flask. "There's nothing we can do until we reach the chancellory. No, no explanations now."

The brandy was like a liquid memory of luxuries that had never been common in my life. "Did both flask and contents come from the palace too?"

"The monks of France made the brandy, the late Czar sent some bottles from the White Palace to his royal cousin of England, the flask is Bavarian and was given me by Prince Max."

"So even the Chancellor of Germany is behind you, Holmes."

"He is, yes. I cannot say the same for all his countrymen. Drink up, Watson, and catch up on some sleep. I fear you will need it before our present mission is over."

My last sight was of Holmes's familiar lean figure (Had he lost weight? Probably. Who had not?) settled deep in the corner beside me, his head on his chest, his hands locked on his knees. We could have been just pulling out of Paddington.

Was that world still there, somewhere, the world for which we were fighting?

I remember only fragments of Holmes's and my journey. I know that we lurched along for some time, more than once getting stuck and being freed by soldiers who were already as mud-coated as the road, and then transferred to first one train, then to another. Somewhere I foggily became aware that my old medical bag was resting between my feet – trust Holmes to remember to bring it – and was comforted by its familiarity.

I came to myself as we climbed on board yet another train, to discover that we were in a decidedly elegant car. Holmes flung open a corner door to reveal the nearly forgotten wonders of a spacious bathroom, with a spruce attendant carefully arranging a complete set of gentleman's attire.

I emerged a new man, and sat down with Holmes to the kind of breakfast that haunts the dreams of every hungry Englishman.

"These clothes," I questioned while rapidly spooning up melon balls in orange juice. "They're a perfect fit."

"So they should be," Holmes replied austerely, "I was most specific. All right, Watson, eat and listen. You know the military situation.The last German attempt has failed, our counterstroke has stalled – "

"Once more American forces arrive," I began, only to be interrupted in my turn.

"Exactly, and the Germans know that as well as the Allies. The only realistic question now is the terms of peace. Prince Max agreed to become chancellor for precisely that purpose, and there seemed some hope that he could succeed."

"If ever a man could be trusted by all sides," I agreed, "it is Prince Max."

"With the secret approval of both London and Paris, he has been in covert communication with the President of the United States."

"At last!" I cried, over a mouthful of fresh roll.

"Contain your jubilation, doctor, for Prince Max sent his inquiry about what would be necessary to end the war without the knowledge of the Kaiser, and his Most Foolish Majesty is now adamantly refusing to accept the necessity. Even more worrying, General Ludendorf has regained his nerve and is urging another attack, in which scheme he has the support of the more fanatical officers."

"Suicidal!" I exclaimed. "Murderous!"

"All of that, and yet unfortunately still possible. The Kaiser has once more taken to his private train and is busily rattling about well behind the lines, well away from anyone who would press unwelcome truths upon him. And Prince Max has fallen ill: he is now quite incapable of trying to trace and corner Germany's official leader."

I groaned. "Is the illness serious?"

"I fear so. Even yesterday, when I last saw him, the prince was… not himself. The trouble is that we have so little time. By now the prince will have received the American president's reply, a message that must be answered very soon, or the hounds of war will bay once more."

He was looking at me with a grave significance that I couldn't pretend not to understand. "The prince will certainly have doctors, Holmes. Surely the best that Germany has to offer, and that is saying much."

"Medically, no doubt. Politically and militarily, however, they belong to the Kaiser and to General Ludendorf, all determined to chase the chimera of victory yet once more."

"Even so, Holmes, I doubt that the prince would accept my poor services. Why should he?"

"Because you're English, doctor, and my friend," Holmes replied with unanswerable finality.

We arrived in Berlin in the early hours of the morning, and were met by a chauffeured limousine with curtained windows, Several times I peered out, always to see clusters of people, men and women, drifting restlessly around; some soldiers were also on the streets, even a few officers, but they were doing nothing except to mingle with the strangely moving crowds. I glanced often at Holmes, but he neither looked out nor spoke.

At the Chancellory we were escorted directly to Prince Max's quarters. As we climbed those marble steps and passed through those ornate halls, however, more than one officer turned pointedly away: obviously Holmes had spoken truth and we were not welcome to all here.

As we waited in the anteroom of the prince's suite, the door to the inner chambers was thrown open by a plain black-clothed figure, with short grey hair and honest peasant face now taut with worry, scowling ferociously at a departing visitor. This was

a gentleman of aquiline features, in evening dress, who bowed to Holmes with a deference that was openly mocking.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes," he said in perfect English. "I fear you will find that the prince is no longer capable of attending to business matters. Good day, Hans, be sure to take good care of your master." He smiled unctuously as Hans stiffened with fury, and swaggered away.

"Who was that, Holmes?" I asked, puzzled. "I'm sure I've never seen him before, yet he seems familiar."

"No doubt because Count Hoffenstein resembles his cousin, Von Bork, whom you… met, shall we say, some years ago."

I had indeed, having been with Holmes when he trapped that master spy in his own house on the Dover hills.

"Bad," Hans's angry interjection showed both his deep concern and bitter frustration. "I keep all others away, but he, this Count, he come anyway. Bother my master. He… lost, Herr Doktor, lost like child.You help, please, please, Herr Doktor."

I was already hastening into the inner room, with Holmes close behind me. That poor Hans had cause for worry was obvious from the first glance.

Prince Max stood by his desk in a shifting sea of paper letters, envelopes, memos, notepads. His hands were full, the desk top was covered, every drawer was open, the carpet littered.

The prince looked up at us with a flushed and despairing face. "I cannot find it!" he cried, his chest heaving. "I had it, I had it in my hands only moments ago, but it has gone! Where is it? Where?" He flung his arms wide, and paper flew like confetti.

"Your Highness, this is Doctor Watson. He – "

"I had it moments ago, Mr Holmes! Moments! Yet now it has gone!"

"Have you had the paper since Count Hoffenstein left, Your Highness?"

Awareness flickered briefly in the prince's strained face. "I had just taken it out of my pocket when Hans announced him, and I…" He turned his wild eyes on me. "I have always kept it in my inside pocket, always from the first, and when the new message came… I must… I must… Where is it?"

He was shaking from head to foot, panting for breath.

"Your Highness," I said firmly, grasping his arm, "you should be in bed."

"No, no, doctor, I cannot. Not until I have found it. I cannot otherwise answer, you understand… No, no, no!"

Between the three of us we finally managed to get the poor prince into bed, and, with Hans on one side and I on the other, to keep him under the covers until exhaustion at last claimed him. The respite, I knew, would be brief.

Meanwhile Holmes had quickly gone through the prince's outer clothing, removed a small ring of keys from a buttoned pocket, and returned to the office. When I joined him, he was sitting at the desk, on which now lay neat piles of papers, staring thoughtfully at one page, which had been ruled off into regular squares, all filled with letters.

"Your verdict was correct, Holmes," I said. "The prince is very sick and I'm afraid worsening."

Holmes looked at me with distant eyes in which awareness of my presence only slowly dawned. "Do you know the cause?"

"Some kind of influenza, I think," I replied. "It's spreading fast among the troops on both sides of the front."

"The outcome?"

"Some survive, though few when they're as close to pneumonia as the prince."

"Pneumonia," Holmes repeated grimly. "So at best he'll be incapacitated for days. Can you do nothing to hasten recovery? Time is so precious,Watson, even hours may make the difference between whether hundreds – thousands – live or die."

"I have had some small success with injections of morphine," I said. "I have nothing else."

"Then by all means try the injections, doctor. I had hoped that the prince might come to himself long enough to remember something – anything – that would help me with this, but…" He handed me the following.

I stared at the meaningless rows of consonants in bewilderment. "This is the latest message from the President of the United States?"

Holmes nodded. "I believe so. Certainly it is on American paper, was stored in a locked inner drawer of the prince's desk, and is obviously in code."

"Then what had the prince lost? Or was that merely a delusion of his illness?"

"Far from it, doctor. What he had lost – to be precise, what Count Hoffenstein carried away with him – is the key to this and all such communications from the American president. The prince kept it, as he said, in an inner pocket, and had no doubt just taken it out in order to read this message with its aid when the count forced his way past Hans and entered.

P M B F D R C S T C N

R W N T D H S T V S N

C Y C R S S S G N R R

F N T W H D R h S L B

D R T G T H C T K F M

R M T N H N N T T P H

R S M C P N T T R M P

N L T Y N V W T N L T

B N C C D N F C G V H

D J K N L M L N P B Q

R S R T T V Y W X W W

"Whether or not the count knew that the prince had, moments before, received this page from the president I do not know, thought I should think it highly likely. Certainly he used the prince's near delirium to remove the paper from wherever the prince had hastily shoved it – child's play for a man like the count."

I looked again at the page I held, with no more enlightenment than before. "What on earth would the key to this be like?"

"A page of lightly transparent paper of the same size and shape and with the same squares ruled on it, but with the random letters that are added as mere disguise blacked out. By placing that page over this, one can see at once the letters that form the true message."

"There are no vowels," I pointed out.

"Not necessary." Holmes scribbled on a notepad and handed it to me. "Can you read that?"

He had written HLMSNDWTSN.

"Holmes and Watson," I said.

"Precisely."

I stared back at the page of filled squares. "Without the key is it hopeless?"

"I won't concede that, doctor. It is only the pressure of time that worries me. At least we do start with some advantages."

"I can see none, Holmes, absolutely none."

Holmes tapped the top left and bottom right of the page. "We know that this is a personal message from the American president to the German chancellor. Since the first two letters here are PM and the last WW, surely it is probable that these stand for Prince Max and Woodrow Wilson."

"That is not much."

"There are other assumptions that we can, I think, safely make. For instance, since the prince is fluent in English and the president not in German, almost surely the language used is English. Also, though the two are naturally of the highest political status, they are amateurs in the employment of codes. Therefore the device selected is apt to be simple.

"Further, even sending such pages as this between them is becoming increasingly difficult to arrange safely: Count Hoffenstein will not be the only spy on the watch along the route. Therefore the same code will most probably have been meant for all their covert communications, meaning that ample space will have been allowed. You will note that the last three lines of the squares on this page have the consonants interspersed in regular alphabetical order, from B to X. That almost surely indicates that the message is contained in only the first eight lines.

"We're not beaten yet, doctor. Not while we both have work to do."

With that I certainly agreed, though heaving a deep sigh at our chances of success. I returned to the prince, who was struggling to get out of bed, and administered a small dose of morphine.

Though this quickly quietened him, he still had periods in which his whole body jerked, his eyes fluttered uneasily, and he would cry out thickly, "Where… where… where…" as long as he could find breath. These symptoms ceased after the second

injection, but his breathing became increasingly strained, his face even more flushed,, his skin burning. He was, for good or ill, nearing the crisis of his illness.

Hans was invaluable during these hours, doing unquestioningly whatever I bade. Even when, all else seeming to be failing, I turned to that simple nursery remedy of alternating hot and cold fomentations high on the chest and low on the back, for an hour at a time.

When not actively engaged in such tasks, Hans stretched out at the foot of his master's bed, alert to the smallest move or sound. I dozed in a chair by the fire; if my waking thoughts were on my patient, those in my moments of haze were filled with an endless parade of consonants.

Concede that the secret message began with "Prince Max," yet what words or words was hidden within bfdrcstcn that completed the first line? Certainly nowhere in the message had I been able to decipher either the Kaiser's name or title, and yet I would have expected that Queen Victoria's deluded grandson would be a major topic of such a message.

For, as long as he refused to accept the reality of Germany's sure defeat, and as long as the officer corps retained their steadfast devotion to their oath of loyalty (how praiseworthy a trait had only the man and the cause been worthy!), the war would continue, for weeks, even months. Literally buckets of blood would pour forth in every dressing station across the front, and that would be only from those who survived long enough to be brought to such medical oases.

Sometime toward evening I went back into the office to tell Holmes of the prince's continuing struggle: like the world, he was in but not yet through the darkest hour. I found Holmes still seated at the desk, still frowning down at that page of lettered squares, and above him swirled the blue smoke of his pipe. I returned to the bedside.

Near evening, following more hot and cold fomentations, the prince's breathing eased. Could I hope that he would shortly rouse enough to be able, even briefly, to assist Holmes? Dare I try to force my patient to that point? I decided the risk was not worth it: the prince was too ill, my faith in my friend too great. Instead I administered another dose of morphine.

As the second dawn brought a trace of blue to the sky's

blackness, Hans woke me, tears of joy streaking his old face, and led me to the prince's bedside. The drugged coma had faded into genuine slumber, the chest rose and fell naturally, the cracked lips were tinged with a normal pink. The Chancellor would recover.

I hastened to tell Holmes the good news, and found the office and the adjacent rooms all deserted. The guard in the antechamber told me that "the other English Herr" had gone out hours ago.

Did that auger well or not? Who could say?

In a couple of hours the prince awoke with that weak and unquestioning acceptance of everything that marks the early recovery from serious illness. I wanted to order a bowl of gruel for him, but Hans would have none of it: his master hated gruel and should have hot bread and milk, made as only Hans could make it, with honey.

"And coffee, please," the prince murmured, a clasp of the hand showing his gratitude for his old servant's devotion.

I willingly agreed, and was myself devouring sandwiches when Holmes walked in unannounced.

"I am pleased to see you better, Your Highness," he said to Prince Max with his customary calm. "May I put on the wireless? An announcement from the palace is expected momentarily."

We waited motionless, all four, as the moments that seemed like hours passed. Then the music – one of the more sombre selections of Bach, as I recall – was abruptly cut off, and in hushed tones a man's voice stated that the Chancellor, Prince Max of Baden, had just issued a statement: His Most Gracious Majesty Kaiser Wilhelm II had abdicated, and all the royal princes agreed to renounce the throne in the cause of peace.

Prince Max and Holmes exchanged a long and ultimately understanding gaze. At last with a little sigh the prince said, "So His Majesty wouldn't see you, either. Even at the last."

"What can you expect", I said, with the bitterness of four years, "from a man who has never been in battle and who yet would sport a huge golden helmet?"

The prince gave a small smile. "Spoken like a true Englishman, Dr Watson. I am greatly relieved at what you have done, Mr Holmes, for I fear that I could not have. Necessary though I can see that it was."

"I think you would have done so, Your Highness, if you had seen the growing turmoil in the streets and also read the message from President Wilson."

Slow and painful memory grew in the prince's tired eyes. "I had asked what the terms would be for the end of the war and had just had his reply – I remember that, though I had had no time to decipher the message when the count arrived. You found the key to the code, then, Mr Holmes? Where was it?"

"I fear in Count Hoffenstein's pocket,Your Highness."

The prince passed a weak hand across his face. "Somehow I am not surprised. We have never been intimate, yet he shook my hand so heartily before leaving! No doubt in order to remove the key that I had pushed under the blotter on my desk. However did you manage to read the message, Mr Holmes?"

"With more effort than it should have taken, Your Highness. The trick in making out such a code, you understand, is to run through all possible combinations of the letters, adding vowels as required, until words are formed.

"All I could see at first was score, shortly extended to fourscore. I couldn't imagine President Wilson using such arcane language, yet I could make nothing else out from the first letters. Then I realized that the squares unneeded for the message had not been filled at random, as is usual, but with words that, while not part of the communication to Your Highness, yet meant much to the President of the United States. What would such a man at such a time quote that begins with fourscore?"

" 'Fourscore and seven years ago,' " Prince Max promptly began, " 'our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation – ' "

" 'Conceived in liberty,' " Holmes finished.

"The start of the Gettysburg address!" I exclaimed.

"I could have told you that and saved much time and trouble," the prince observed sadly, "if I had been able."

"That could not be helped, Your Highness. When the consonants of the address are taken out, what remains are those that form the president's message, his reply to your question as to what would be needed to end the war. 'Abdication without succession. Renewed Allied attack imminent. Prompt reply vital.' "

" 'Prompt reply'!" the prince breathed, "and I was delirious!

Mr Holmes, very many owe you great thanks. Did you have any difficulty in convincing the chief of our wireless services that your order came from me?"

"Oh, I have friends everywhere," Holmes replied vaguely. "Also I had taken the liberty of usingYour Highness' stationery."

And, I was sure, of forging the prince's handwriting with mastery skill.

"The last time I called on the Kaiser," Prince Max observed sadly, "he sent out word that he couldn't see me as it was already seven o'clock and he was late in dressing for dinner. It was then five minutes past midnight. I fear it has been five minutes past midnight for my poor country for a long time, Mr Holmes. What is the date?"

"The tenth of November, Your Highness. All should be concluded tomorrow."

"Hans, champagne." We raised our glasses. "To the eleventh of November," Prince Max said with tears in his eyes. "May the world never forget."

That is why I pen these lines, so that the part that Sherlock Holmes played in those final days may be known to all. May the world never forget.

After this case Holmes retired again to his cottage in Sussex. Watson paid him the occasional visit but they were both now in their seventies and travelling became tiresome. By 1926 Watson had finished compiling the last of his notes. The final published story, "Shoscombe Old Place" appeared in the March 1927 Strand Magazine. Watson died soon after, but Holmes's remarkable constitution kept him active well into the 1930s. It is somewhat bizarre that no death certificate exists for Sherlock Holmes, but I do know that his cottage in Sussex was sold in August 1939, just before the outbreak of the Second World War. Holmes was, by then, about eighty-six and is unlikely to have been involved in any further war-time investigations, but the fact that his death is not recorded in the United Kingdom is suggestive that, just before the outbreak of War, he emigrated. Where to and why I do not know. No doubt he had decided it was time for one last great adventure.