A Grimm Holmes

The Crew of the Barque Lone Star

Copyright

Copyright © 2017 by The Crew of the Barque Lone Star

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Contents

Foreword

Sleeping Beauty, fact or fiction?

The Adventure of the Purloined Sheep

The Case of the Whispering Wall

The Adventure of the Beastly Betrothal

Little Plaid Cap

Cracking the Case

I’ll Be Back !

Watson's Title: Sherlock Holmes & The Adventure of the Sick Dog Holmes' Title: Trusty John

The Adventure of the Glass Slipper

The Curious Affair of the Shoes that Danced Themselves to Pieces

The Adventure of the Missing Irregulars

Baker Street Elementary

ORIGINAL TALES WHICH THIS VOLUME IS BASED ON

“Little Brier-Rose or Sleeping Beauty”

“Little Bo Peep”

“The Goose-Girl”

“The Robber Bridegroom”

“Little Red-Cap”

“Humpty Dumpty”

“Death's Messengers”

“Faithful Johannes”

“Cinderella”

“The Shoes That Were Danced to Pieces”

“The Children of Hameln”

Foreword

The Crew of the Barque Lone Star was founded as a scion society of the Baker Street Irregulars in April, 1970. Through the years, the society has been home for many authors of fiction, Sherlockian criticism, and other non-fiction pieces of work.

So, as we approach our 50th anniversary of existence, it just seemed appropriate to have our present members develop a Sherlock pastiche.

The theme for this book was borrowed from two sources… first, presently there is an opera being developed, based on a fairy tale solved by the world’s consulting detective. Second, one of the foremost Sherlockians in the country, Gayle Puhl, has authored two volumes of short stories where Sherlock Holmes solves beloved fairy tales, folk tales, nursery rhymes, and other children stories.

When approached, several members of our society enjoyed the idea of trying their own skill at the same type of pastiche. So the stories included in this volume are all from the fertile minds of crew members of the Barque Lone Star.

The stories authored by our members comprise the first half of the volume. The original tales comprise the second half of the book.

Thanks for your efforts.

Sleeping Beauty, fact or fiction?

By Dean Clark

Based on “Sleeping Beauty”

About 30 years ago, I received a package from Hamish Hudson containing a purported, unpublished manuscript by Dr. John H. Watson in which he described what he considered Sherlock Holmes's greatest service to England – saving (at least for a few, but very productive, years) the partnership of Gilbert and Sullivan.

Some research soon revealed that Hamish Hudson was the great grandson of Martha Hudson and the heir to the estates of Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, and John Watson, all of whom were assumed to have died without issue. Consequently, I edited the manuscript (a very easy and delightful undertaking) and it was published by The Afghanistan Perceivers of Oklahoma under the title “The Case of the Infernal Nonsense” and with authorship attributed to Dr. Watson.

Hamish Hudson has, in the succeeding years, forwarded to me several other manuscripts extracted from the files of the Holmes siblings and Watson which revealed heretofore unknown events in their lives. All were edited by me and published, in some form or other, by the Perceivers and attributed to whoever appeared to be the original author.

Hamish Hudson sent the manuscript printed below to me in February 2017. It differs from its predecessors in that it was not extracted from the inherited papers but, in a reversal of fortune, was sent to him in late 2016.

Whoever sent it to Hudson claimed that the manuscript was a Watson original and that “it deals with the strangest and most unbelievable situation in which Sherlock Holmes ever participated.” Hamish Hudson, in his cover letter which accompanied the manuscript, agreed completely with that assessment.

He added that, because the events described in the manuscript were so incredible, he was undecided regarding publication and authorship.

Therefore, he was leaving any decision regarding either up to me. As is obvious, I have decided to proceed with publication but to do so under my own name so that all of the (much anticipated) derision would be directed to me and not to Dr. Watson.

The reader has probably noticed that the preceding sentence did not say “to the memory of Dr. Watson.” The reason will be made clear in the following as will the oft asked question concerning the absence of an obituary for Sherlock Holmes in The Times of London.

The manuscript begins, as do so many of the Canonical tales, with Holmes and Watson at their ease in their sitting room at 221B Baker Street.

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Sherlock Holmes retired from detective work in 1905...with the exception of some James Bondish activities before and during World War I.

How do I, a man born during the first third of Vicky's long reign, know about James Bond and that what was originally known as The Great War had to be enumerated due to subsequent, and even more catastrophic, hostilities? I believe I now have you full attention, so read on!

When Holmes informed me, in late 1904, about his imminent career change from detectivery to beekeeping, my response was, I imagine, typical. I asked, “Why?”

I don't know what I expected his response to be but I'm certain that I did not expect him to reply with a fairy tale. I would not have been surprised had my literary agent done so but Holmes, the most ruthlessly logical mind that I have ever encountered or can even imagine, was someone whom I felt would pay no attention to such infantile, far-fetched, and totally unscientific pablum fit only for very young children.

He would, I was positive, have quickly eradicated the story from his very full mental attic and certainly not remember it will enough to recite the main features of the plot.

But a fairy tale is what I got.

“Do you remember the story of Sleeping Beauty?” Holmes asked in response to my monosyllabic reply to his announcement that he was exiting the detective business.

“Vaguely,” is said. “I suppose you mean the version by the Brothers Grimm which I think is actually pretty tame when compared to the later adaptation by Tchaikovsky.”

“Perhaps I can convince you to alter you view, old fellow. Please hand me volume S of my index.”

I found the appropriate volume and, a few moments later, Holmes was relating the history of the story.

“As frequently happened with the grim Grimm’s, the plot is not original. The story they published in their 1812 collection, under the title “Briar Rose”, was a minor reworking of the tale most commonly known in English as “Sleeping Beauty” which was published by Charles Perrault in 1697 in French. As you know, I have French ancestry on my mother's side and I remember her reading the story to me in that language in which it has the title “La Belle au bois dormi.” I remember that well because it is one of my last memories of her. She died soon thereafter.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“It is a story for another time, a time for which I am not yet ready,” Holmes said. “So, returning to Perrault, his version is also an adaptation. It is based on a story titled “Sun, Moon, and Talia” published by the Italian author Giambattista Basile in 1634. And even this version is an adaptation. The story exists in folk tales of many cultures. The earliest known version is French. It was eventually published in 1528 as part of the narrative “Perceforest” but it is known to have been an oral part of the literature as far back as 1330.”

“That is quite interesting,” I replied, “but now that I know it, to paraphrase an acquaintance, I shall do my best to forget it because I see no need for it to occupy any of the limited space between my ears.”

“You, of course, have every right to do so. However, I ask that you reserve judgement for just a little longer. Do you remember the plot?”

“Not as well as you, apparently.”

“Then I shall do the honors. I think that all we need are the essentials. So, once upon a time, as lots of fairy tales begin, there lived a king and queen who seemed to have everything needed for blissful existence. The only thing missing from their lives was a child and the absence of biological issue resulted in endless lamentations. One day the queen was lamenting, even more mournfully than usual, while chatting with a frog. Such things can happen, are just taken for granted, in fairy tales. The frog, as also frequently happens in such stories, had magical powers and, probably to end the queen's nonstop dirge, granted her wish. And, sure enough, nine months later, she gave birth to a baby girl of superlative beauty.”

“It sounds to me like the queen put one over on her husband,” I said. “Good lord, a frog with magical powers! It seems much more likely that the queen had a secret lover, became pregnant by him, and, showing remarkable lack of creativity, made up the story about the frog to explain things to her credulous consort whose brain power had probably been greatly reduced by generations of inbreeding.”

“A possibility, to be sure, but irrelevant because, in this case, paternity is not a major factor in the ensuing events. In fact, the frog in question soon departed for a role in a contemporary fairy tale in which he was kissed by an even more beautiful princess and, because such things can happen in theis form of literature, instantly metamorphosed into a handsome prince who soon married the princess with the potent pucker and, ultimately I assume, ascended the throne.”

“Now that's a nice bit of happy ever-aftering,” I said.

“Agreed, but now we must return to the previous fairy tale. Soon after the beautiful princess was born, the ecstatic king ordered a huge feast in her honor. However, due to a diplomatic blunder, a wise woman was not invited and she took umbrage to the nth degree at this slight. She crashed the feast and put a curse on the infant, to wit that in her fifteenth year she would prick her finger on a spindle and die on the spot.”

“That would seem easy to circumvent,” I said. “Just lock her in a room, under heavy guard, between her fifteenth and sixteenth birthdays.”

“So it would seem,” Holmes said. “However, we have already established that the royal couple were not overly bright. They were, in fact, so stupid that they were away from the palace, probably on some kind of royal ribbon cutting, on their daughter's fifteenth birthday and compounded their stupidly by failing to have her under competent guard during their absence. They had, furthermore, not even made the girl aware of the curse. She, like many her age, reveled in this rare bit of freedom and soon began wandering unaccompanied through areas of the castle which had been strictly off limits. She eventually came upon an old woman in one of the upper chambers… and, well, you can guess the rest.”

“Except she didn't die after pricking her finger. She fell into as deep sleep.”

“You are correct. This is a major flaw in the narrative but it is what we have and must deal with it. I assume the wise woman, in the years following her dramatic appearance at the feast, had second thoughts and modified the curse to the effect that every living thing in the castle – royal family, courtiers, servants, animals including insects – fell into the same deep sleep. This lasted for a hundred years until, you guessed it, a handsome prince showed up and kissed the sleeping beauty. I assume he was a descendent of the princess with the transforming kiss in the other story because as soon as he pressed his longing lips upon those of the somnolent princess, she and everybody else in the castle immediately awoke. A marriage followed, within the week, because in that era, fifteen was bordering on spinsterhood.”

“Not, to my mind, exactly what you would call a ripping yarn like a Clark Russell sea story,” I said. “So, refresh my memory as to why we are discussing it.”

“Because,” said Holmes, “it is the reason I am ending my career as a consulting detective and moving to the country to become a beekeeper.”

There was a prolonged silence before I finally said, “Holmes, you have astonished me dozens of times during our long association, but never more than at this moment. Let me make sure that I understand correctly. You are ending a career that has brought you financial security and international fame at what I could call the peak of your ability to move to the country and become a novice beekeeper because of a fairy tale.”

“Precisely, my dear fellow. I can understand your confusion because I was even more confused two weeks ago after a discussion I had with Mr. Brian Richard Blankenship. It was the most astounding thing I have ever heard in this room, much more amazing that what I just told you.”

“Holmes, are you back on cocaine and with a seventy, not seven, percent solution?”

“Certainly what I heard from Mr. Blankenship could be compared to a hallucination. Although he appeared to be no more than 30, he said he would be 131 years old on his next birthday and that his remarkable longevity was due to the fairy tale we know as Sleeping Beauty.”

“I am amazed, Holmes, that you did not immediately call for Mrs. Hudson and ask her to show the gentleman out.”

“I was about to do that very thing but Blankenship anticipated my intention and said he could prove his claim in this very room in one week's time. I countered that documents would be easily forged. He laughed and said he would never attempt to fool the great Sherlock Holmes with something so transparent. He would provide visual proof that I would accept without question. He then produced some paraphernalia from his Gladstone which allowed me to take his fingerprints and make impressions of his ears. He returned in exactly a week and, after just one glance, I agreed with his superannuated claim.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Not as hard to believe as what I saw in that very spot exactly a week after our first meeting. You know my flair and love for the dramatic. Well, Blankenship may have one upped me. He had his hat pulled well down on his head, was wearing a heavy coat, and a muffler concealed the lower part of his face. When these accoutrements were removed, I saw that the 30-year-old man I had met only a week previously had aged about 60 years. The fingerprints and impressions of his ears confirmed it was the same man. Those are the two anatomical features that do not change significantly over time.”

“What happened then?”

“He told me the story of Sleeping Beauty but with one major difference from the version that I just told you. Blankenship said that the key element of the story, the part about all the living things in the castle existing for a hundred years post needle prick and pre appearance of handsome prince with kilowatt kisses, was in essence true. The rather ridiculous story, as incredible as the one I made up about Irene Adler's wedding and which you published and which the reading public, for some unknown reason accepts, grew up over the years as a kind of folklore to explain why some folks were living well over a century and to obscure the reason for their longevity.”

“Which was?”

“A precise mixture of bee pollen, royal jelly, honey and beeswax discovered by an unknown genius in prehistoric times.”

“Preposterous!”

“Hardly. Beekeeping and harvesting their various products is one of mankind's earliest achievements, possibly antedating agriculture. Jars of honey have been found in the tombs of pharaohs. Aristotle experimented with and wrote extensively about bees. And, as a doctor, you are surely aware of the many health benefits associated, both in folk remedies and much advertised commercial offerings, with bee products.”

“But why did Mr. Blankenship decide to share this secret with you and not publish it so that it could rigorously tested by the scientific community?”

“Excellent questions for a change, Watson.”

I nodded in acknowledgment of this rare compliment from Holmes and he then proceeded to answer what I had asked.

“According to Blankenship, the secret has been closely guarded for centuries because of fear – fear that one group would somehow monopolize it and produce a race of super soldiers who would control most of the world, or fear that mass production of the formula would lead to shortages and the inevitable ensuing riots would result in the extinction of bees, the effects of which would be far more devastating than curtailing the longevity of a handful of supracentenarians.”

“Those reasons do not explain why he chose you.”

“He did because I fit the parameters. Strict adherence to the regimen in effect locks an individual's biological age in place for a century. However, after that, they age dramatically, about a decade a day and die within a week or two. So, when the end of his or her bonus century nears, he or she must find an appropriate successor. Blankenship chose me because I fit the most important parameters.”

“Which are?”

“In my case, being a rather robust middle age, without extensive family, and being a competent chemist. You don't want to use the formula on someone too young or too old and you don't want someone with nosy relations wondering why they don't age along with everybody else. And, my experience as a chemist could mean that I might be able to discover a modification of the formula which would extend its effects indefinitely. I think the last reason might have had the biggest impact on my selection.”

“It would seem that these supracenenarians are as greedy as most others. You would think they would be satisfied with an extra century.”

“A question for another time, Watson. The salient point for now is that I am in the process of purchasing Mr. Blankenship's bee farm in Sussex. I anticipate finalization within the week. My plan is to move there as soon as possible and begin my experiments. My plan, by the way, also includes a major role for my oldest, dearest, and most valuable friend. It goes without saying, but I will say it anyway, that that, of course, is you.”

“I will gladly assist the best and wisest man I have ever known – even though I do have some doubts about his new vocation. So what exactly would be my role.”

“Surely, you have observed that you also fit the parameters for selection as a supracentenarian. Of advanced middle age, to be sure, but with a robust constitution that has allowed you to fully recover from serious wounds and heartbreak. You have no immediate family and a fine mind enhanced by an excellent medical education and, I abhor false modesty, your long association with me. Since I am allowed to pick my successor, I plan to pick you, in ten years not a hundred, with the caveat that you fight off your propensity to marriage for the next decade. I sincerely hope you do because I'm not sure my sanity could survive a century without your stabilizing presence.”

This is where your typical fairy tale wraps things up with the familiar coda “and they lived happily ever after.” The ever-aftering was, on the whole, happy but somewhat convoluted.

Holmes, as scheduled, started ingesting the magic formula in 1905. I successfully avoided entangling alliances and begin in 1916.

In the late 1920s, Holmes decided that it was time that we left England before suspicions arose concerning our changeless countenances.

Mycroft Holmes, although he thought the whole idea inane, came up with an innovative plan – metamorphose into fictional characters!

I, like you I imagine, said “ridiculous” when Mycroft broached the idea. But, when the chief proponent of the plan is one of the smartest people in the world and the eminence grise of the British Empire, it proved to be not difficult at all.

Mycroft rather easily expunged all official records of our existence and convinced Greenhough-Smith, editor of the Strand, the I was an invention of my literary agent and that he was the actual author of the stories now referred to as the Canon by those curious people who play what they call the “great game” which involves pretending that Holmes is real and the chronicled events actually occurred. They are more correct than they know.

And so began a nomadic existence that lasted about 75 years and included every continent except Antarctica. Holmes's chemical experiments did not succeed.

He was quite excited by the discovery of the double helix by Watson (no relation) and Crick and the resulting unraveling of the secrets of the human cell in the succeeding decades.

We spent considerable time analyzing the steady avalanche of stories, films, plays, TV shows, comic books, etc. that failed to slake the appetites of that curious group of people entranced by their idealized conception of London circa 1895.

They even celebrate his birthday (many in New York in early January!) even though they don't know the exact date. The people call themselves “Sherlockians” or “Holmesians.” Not a single Watsonian! I admit that causes a pang of jealously every now and them because my contribution to the incredible popularity of the Canon was not trivial.

Indeed, Holmes's own attempts to relate two of his cases are universally regarded as far inferior.

Sherlock Holmes died on schedule in 2005. I thought the remaining decade of my own existence would be somber in the extreme.

However, they turned out to be the happiest years of my life due to the appearance of a Ms. Debussy Fields (the French composer was her parents' favorite). Let me just say that it's worth waiting well over a century if the right woman… well, it's not exactly ever-aftering but I expect it is as close as you can get.

She obviously is my chosen successor. So why, in addition, have I chosen to break with precedent and “go public” with this knowledge as my own death nears?

It is the response of an old soldier to the near constant wars of the last century. It is now my strong belief that war does not settle anything and, perhaps, if people knew their lives would extend well over a hundred years they might just stop politicians from sending other people's children into battle.

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Thus ends the manuscript sent to me by Hamish Hudson.

The Adventure of the Purloined Sheep

By: John H. Watson, M.D., F.R.C.S.

(A Heretofore Un-Published Manuscript.

Edited by Lawrence Fischman. All Rights Reserved)

Based on “Little Bo Beep”

Shortly after the autumnal equinox of 1900 I found myself again at 221B, ensconced in my old fireside chair contemplating my friend Sherlock Holmes as he sat opposite. I could see by the way he incessantly fondled his briar that he was in the throes of one of his inactive periods and was desperate for some new matter to be brought to his attention.

Upon outbreak of the Boer War in October, 1899 I had answered a summons to reenter Her Majesty’s service as a surgeon. I was assigned the rank of major for the duration and seconded to the Army school for combat surgeons at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Netley, Sussex, there to teach field surgery to young physicians fresh out of medical school. Over the years, I had maintained my skills as a trauma surgeon by assisting at Bart’s when the workload from the “Saturday Night Massacres”—those weekend nights when the stabbings, barroom brawls and yes, even shootings, which had become the fashion in London—threatened to overwhelm the resident staff. It was the latter category, gunshot wounds, to which I had devoted most of my attention and which became my expertise.

When I again put on my uniform—or, in honesty, a new, bespoke one from a shop in Saville Row, as my old one seemed to have shrunk considerably at the waist and in the tunic—I had contacted Murray, my dresser from my active-duty days in Afghanistan, and urged him to join me. Murray, however, now owned a small chain of public-houses in Manchester as well as having been blessed with a young wife and several children. He had, somewhat wistfully, I fancy, declined, citing his business and domestic obligations.

I had wangled a fortnight’s leave and decided to spend part of it looking in on Holmes and in part finishing an article to be submitted to The Lancet on the surgical repair of gunshot wounds to the clavicle and scapula.

I removed my Sam Browne and unbuttoned my uniform tunic. Stretching my legs in front of me, I took a welcome a sip of the gin and tonic I’d poured to toast the beginning of my leave. Holmes, I noticed, was attired in a suit but had eschewed a waistcoat in deference to the Indian Summer warmth. Eager to demonstrate that my diagnostic skills were still as sharp as my lancet, I ventured, “Expecting a visitor, I perceive.”

Holmes good-naturedly replied, “Excellent, Watson. Although you’ve been engrossed in repairing the awful things that our fellow men inflict upon one another, you’ve not forgotten the deductive skills you learned whilst sitting in that very chair. Have a look.”

Holmes passed me a telegram which bore yesterday’s date; sent from Oban, a town in Western Scotland. “Mr. Holmes,” it began, “I wish to consult you regarding a matter of the utmost urgency and gravity. I dare not tell you more except in person. Were my predicament to become known I should be ruined. I shall call upon you tomorrow as soon as I arrive in London. I am able to pay a reasonable fee for your services which may entail your coming here. Do not respond to this message as to do so might jeopardize any possibility of your success. I shall risk that you will be able to receive me when I arrive.” The message was signed “Lillian (Mrs. Robert) Bowe-Peop.”

“Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”

“Obviously some Affaire de Coeur, a straying husband or perhaps madam has a lover who has stolen her heart and possibly something more tangible, but of no less value.”

“You’re surely correct, but let us reserve judgment until the lady’s had her say.” Holmes glanced at his watch. “The Great Northern Railway Edinburgh-to-London express has undoubtedly arrived at King’s Cross, so enlightenment should not be long in coming.

“Whilst we wait, pray tell me what you think of our nation’s latest foreign adventure-in-arms. I have been reading Mr. Churchill’s dispatches, but I’m afraid he’s a bit bellicose for my taste.”

Because of our long and deep friendship, I knew that I could say things within these walls that, if spoken in public, might find me hauled before a general court marshal. I therefore proceeded to unburden myself. “In a word, Holmes, ‘appalling.’ The casualties, dead and wounded, are piling up at an intolerable rate.

“Almost daily a new contingent of wounded are landed under cover of night at Penzance and carried by the Great Western Railway in coaches with blackened windows to a siding in a remote part of Paddington and from there transported down to Netley where my cadre of young lancet-wielders and I do our best. When the casualty numbers become publicly-known, there’ll be a veritable riot in Commons on question day, not to mention an actual one in the streets. I’ve half a mind to have a word with your brother Mycroft.”

Concurring in my own sentiments, Holmes shook his head both in sorrow and in anger. “Remember the German banker, Schwabach? We met him at Madame Dreyfus’s? As a banker, he expressed his abhorrence of war in economic terms. Whereas you, dear friend, put it in terms all too human. But enough, I do believe I just heard the front-door bell.”

Within a moment’s time we heard footsteps on the stairs: a heavier plodding, surely the tread of Mrs. Hudson, followed by a lighter, younger one. After knocking, Mrs. Hudson entered followed by a woman dressed in a traveling cape with a shawl in a red and green tartan. Seeing me, Mrs. Hudson let out a gasp. “Why Doctor Watson, is it really you?” She patted her ample bosom several times. “I declare. You’ve given an elderly woman quite a start! I didn’t hear the bell; who let you in?”

“My dear Mrs. Hudson, you must not think ill of me. I confess that I let myself in using my own key which I retain to this day. As for ‘elderly woman’…why Mrs. Hudson, you’re just as youthful as when I first set eyes upon you. Wasn’t it just yesterday? But that said, how is your rheumatism these days?”

“The rheumatism seems to be holding its own; it’s my hip and knee joints that are not faring so well. Those aspirin that you prescribed for me last year have done wonders, but some days it’s a trial just to get out of bed.”

“Why don’t you go ’round to my former surgery and see Dr. Tilbury? He’s been keeping up my practice while I’m away. I’m going to drop in on him myself tomorrow. You could come with me.”

“Ahem…”

“Do forgive us…Mrs. Bowe-Peop.” Holmes bowed graciously. “This is my colleague, Dr. Watson, and of course you’ve met Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson, in addition to being our…my…landlady is also our dear friend. Dr. Watson’s been away for some time so you must pardon his impromptu medical consultation. Do please take a seat on the divan. Mrs. Hudson, do you think you might find a spot of tea for our visitor?”

The lady, whom I made out to be on the sunny side of thirty, took her seat. Mrs. Hudson had taken her cape and shawl and hung them on the coat rack. Beneath the cape she was dressed in a plain grey skirt of light, summer wool over which she wore a matching short jacket open at the front. Beneath the jacket was a white, cotton blouse adorned with a bit of ruffle. She wore neither hat nor jewelry, save a modest gold wedding band.

“Actually, Mr. Holmes, if you’ll not think me un-ladylike, I’d prefer a wee dram of that Laphroig I see on your drinks cart. Four hundred miles and 8 ½ hours on the train does warrant something stronger than tea.”

“Of course, Madam. Do you prefer it neat or with soda?”

“Neat, if you please.”

Holmes went to the bottles and poured a measure for himself and one for the lady. “Watson?”

“I’m good for the moment, Holmes.”

After I had extracted her promise to see Tilbury, Mrs. Hudson took her leave. Holmes handed the visitor her glass and resumed his seat. “You may speak freely in Dr. Watson’s presence. He’s as closed-mouth as a sphinx when need be. I assume you’ve come about your missing Shetlands…”

“I say, Mr. Holmes…” Mrs. Bowe-Peop took a stout swallow of her whisky. “I’ve read Dr. Watson’s accounts of your methods—and, may I interject, I fervently hope that he shall find no occasion to write up my ‘little problem’—but I took pains to prevent the theft from becoming public knowledge. I’ve not even reported it to the local constabulary.”

“That’s perhaps just as well, Mrs. Bowe-Peop. They often are as much a hindrance as a help. But before I explain how I was able to so quickly form a hypothesis regarding your ‘little problem,’ as you put it, may I ask whether I’ve correctly pronounced your name?”

“Yes, and I thank you for it. It’s ‘peep’ as in ‘people.’ Some say ‘pea-opp’ which is most annoying. Robert’s family shortened it from some unpronounceable Gaelic name generations ago. My husband calls me ‘Lil.’”

“You need not fear that your difficulty has become common knowledge, my dear lady, at least from this quarter. You are, may I say, an extraordinary woman. You write and speak as one who has more than a basic, elementary education. You are refined in manner, but readily make your presence known when you must. Your attire is most becoming, if two seasons out-of-fashion.

“Yet when I gripped your hand I noticed that your nails are close-trimmed and there are calluses on the upper part of your palm. So you work for your living, but not in some sedentary, in-door occupation. You are a woman at home out-of-doors. This much I deduce from your hand and from your suntan. You do not wear eyeglasses, thus your slight squint tells me that you often look at distant objects in the sunlight.

“So what could occupy an outdoors-woman who resides near Oban? You and Mr. Bowe-Peop are most certainly Shetland sheep farmers. I quickly confirmed this by observing the few strands of moorit and border collie hairs clinging to the hem of your skirt.

“As for missing sheep, it is, I admit, a mere hypothesis, but one on which I’d stake a good-size wager. As soon as I read your telegram, I knew that an Affaire de Coeur was not bringing you to my rooms. You are much too sensible a woman for that sort of thing, although it is sometimes unwise to rule out such matters, even among the gentry. Indeed, in that instance, it is a mistake to do so. Your telegram, although short on details, speaks volumes in its clarity and determination, without the slightest whiff of hysteria. So please, Madam, do put before us the details of this most serious crime.”

“I confess that I’m in awe and at the same time embarrassed. When I dress for the city—an infrequent occurrence—I take pains with my appearance. But as I was leaving for the train the dogs crowded ’round to be petted as did Dolly our bellwether ewe. I was in a hurry, so I did not notice that they’d left evidence of their affection. When I got to Edinburgh it was late and I was tired, so I checked into a small commercial hotel. After a brief supper I went straight to bed failing to notice my state of dishabille. I shall rectify the oversight as soon as possible. Thank you for pointing it out.

“My husband and I are, as you’ve discerned, Shetland sheep raisers. We have 240 head, counting the missing. Robert is a reserve officer, a captain, in the 12th Lancers. His regiment was called up so I assume by now he’s at the front and I’m left to deal with this crisis on my own. Not that I’m some shrinking violet, Mr. Holmes, but…” Mrs. Bowe-Peop took a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed her eyes. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, in addition to worry over my husband and dealing with our missing sheep, Robert and I are expecting a little lamb of our own in the Spring. So…”

“Quite understandable,” said Holmes kindly. “But pray continue. When did the animals go missing?”

“I discovered the theft…for I’m sure it is that…just before mid-day this past Sunday. They must have been taken in the dark hours of the morning.”

“How many?” Holmes asked.

“Six rams and two dozen ewes, Mr. Holmes. The loss, although grave at any time, is even more keenly felt as the ewes are just now coming into estrus so the tupping season is upon us. The rams were bought at the last Border Union Agricultural Society auction. We paid a handsome sum for them hoping to upgrade our flock. These are our best ewes. Even among Shetlands, they are exceptionally good breeders.”

“Why are you sure they were stolen? I understand that if you merely leave them alone they will come home wagging their tails behind them.”

“Not in this case, Mr. Holmes.” Mrs. Bowe-Peop finished her whisky. “I’ve not simply lost a few head and do not know where to find them. Were that the case I would not have made the journey to London to consult you in person. In anticipation of tupping season, these were penned up, the rams separated from the ewes. The rest of the flock remains at pasture as the forage is still good.”

“You stated that you discovered them missing Sunday morning. With your husband away, I take it you are alone? Was there no one else who might have heard something? Sheep are not silent creatures. Thirty head cannot silently vanish into thin air!”

“No, Mr. Holmes. There’s the McHenry’s who live in one of the cottages with their grandson, but they were away visiting family on Islay and did not return until Monday. Mr. McHenry and the grandson, Titus, work the sheep with me. Mrs. McHenry helps with the chores and is a master shearer.

“The McHenry’s came with the place when Robert and I took over. Heathcliffe Farm has been in my family for generations. My parents died five years ago within months of one another and I inherited. I was ending my third year at Glasgow University and Robert, who is a few years my senior, was a sergeant at the Glasgow Bar.”

“I thought you said he is a captain.”

“He is, Dr. Watson. A ‘sergeant’ is a lawyer; someone who in England is called a ‘barrister.’ He argued cases in court and, I must add, hated it. When my parents passed and left the farm to me, because it had been in my family for so long, I was loathe sell it. Robert and I agreed we’d enough of city life so we became shepherds.”

Undeterred by my gaffe, I continued, “What about your dogs?”

Holmes smiled. “Very astute, Watson. You’re thinking of the case of the missing racehorse and the dog that didn’t bark in the night. What was it…almost ten years ago?”

“I remember it. I believe you called it ‘The Adventure of Silver Blaze,’ Dr. Watson. But no, gentlemen, it would be a waste of your time and my money to suspect the McHenry’s. No more honest, loyal people ever lived. I cannot account for why the dogs didn’t bark.”

“What time did you retire for the night?”

“It must have been around nine o’clock, Mr. Holmes. I’m not certain. A neighbor, Ian McKissack, came ’round. We had a whisky and visited a bit. I said I wasn’t feeling well and he left. Might I trouble you for another glass of the Laphroig, Mr. Holmes? It’s a local favorite.”

“I’ll do the honors. I’m ready for a refill myself.” As I took her tumbler, I could see her hand shaking and that a deep crimson flush had spread from her neckline to her cheeks. When I handed the replenished glass to her the liquid almost spilled over the rim.

Leaving no doubt that Holmes had also noticed her distress, he said, “Take a moment to compose yourself, Mrs. Bowe-Peop. Neither Watson nor I wish to pry into your private life but whatever has caused you so much consternation may be material to our inquiries. In addition to our discretion, be assured that there is nothing you can tell us that hasn’t been heard in these rooms before.”

Holding the tumbler with both hands she took a good swallow. With downcast eyes she continued, “Mr. McKissack owns a manor north of our place on the Soroba Road. He’s unmarried and fancies himself a ladies’ man. Since I first met him, I’ve suspected that his feelings toward me were more than merely neighborly. Knowing that Robert was off to Africa, and possibly knowing that the McHenry’s were away, he came calling ‘just to see how I was getting on.’ Or so he said. It became evident, not long after drinks were poured, that his agenda for the evening was nothing so benign.

“Let me assure you that I would have nothing to do with Ian McKissack even if I were not happily married to a man whom I deeply love. So I’m quite sure I did nothing to encourage his attentions. Were Robert to find out, he’d thrash the man within an inch of his life, if not shoot him dead with his service revolver.

“He tried to embrace me, but I pushed him away, rather hard. Apparently he was unused to being rejected, so he left and I retired. I arose unusually late Sunday morning with a terrible headache. I even retched twice. After that I went into the kitchen and made a pot of tea. I downed a couple of cups, then I got dressed and went out to look after the animals. That’s when I discovered the theft.”

“Tell me about your other neighbors.”

“They’re all sheep farmers such as we: hard-working and as far as I know good, honest people. That’s part of the reason Robert and I moved to the country.”

“Are there any, save the louche, McKissack, with whom you don’t get along?”

Mrs. Bowe-Peop answered readily. “None come to mind, Mr. Holmes. We’re a fairly isolated lot. We see one another mostly at auctions, or at the wool markets. Were I to hear that a neighbor had an accident or an illness, naturally I’d go by to see if there’d be anything I could do and they’d do the same for us. But we’re not gentry; hands-on sheep farming does not allow much time for socializing.

“There is one exception: Lady Vanessa Bulwer-deVille. She’s the widow of some minor nobility. She’s our nearest neighbor although her place, ‘Southmore Manor,’ is some distance away. One of Robert’s last cases before he hung up his robe and wig was representing the plaintiff in an action against Lady deVille’s late husband. The court found for Robert’s client and awarded substantial damages. As a result, her ladyship doesn’t much care for Robert and me.”

“Your telegram was emphatic regarding secrecy. Would it not have been better to raise the alarm in hope that someone might recognize your missing flock? Are they earmarked?”

“They are, but earmarks mean nothing to a thief. Among honest folk they are useful to sort out which animal belongs to whom at an auction or if one strays from home. But a thief can change the earmark in no time.

“Should our difficulty become known, it could mean the end of our farm. Although I own the land, the animals are mortgaged. We had very little capital and almost no sheep at the beginning. To build up the flock we had to borrow and put the animals up as collateral. Thus far, we’ve been able to service the debt with a wee bit left over. If the loss becomes known, in all likelihood the bank will call in the debt and sell off the flock. And if the foreclosure sale doesn’t bring enough to satisfy the debt, Robert and I could be sued for the deficiency so we’d likely lose the farm as well. Losing the farm, and with a bairn on the way, you must see, gentlemen, that I do not exaggerate our predicament.”

“We do see, Madam, and we are at your service. One last question: How’s the fishing in your area?”

“The fishing, Mr. Holmes? I thought I was engaging your services to catch a thief, not a salmon!”

“You are indeed. But if we are to catch this thief, we may have to catch a salmon, or at least give the appearance of trying to. If we are to preserve secrecy, and I agree we must, it would hardly do for Watson and me to arrive as ourselves. Much better we show up incognito, Sir Isaac Walton’s guidebook in hand, there to try our luck.”

“Aren’t you overlooking one thing, Holmes? My leave’s only a fortnight and I have other commitments.”

“Nonsense, old chap. The game’s ahoof.”

In reaction to Holmes’s bon mot Mrs. Bowe-Peop gave him a withering look. But in a moment it turned into a smile and then a laugh. “I do hope, Mr. Holmes, that your deductive skills are as sharp as your wit. This is the first time I’ve laughed in weeks.”

“You may assume that they are, although your ‘little problem’ does present some interesting features. Watson, would you kindly see Mrs. Bowe-Peop downstairs and hail her a cab?” I need to write out a telegram to Mycroft to arrange for a word with him in the morning while you look in on your practice.” Holmes rose and went to his cluttered desk, eventually locating a British Railways timetable. Donning his reading glasses, he quickly perused the pages. “Madam, we’ll take the overnight to Edinburgh and arrive at Oban at 2:30 Friday afternoon.”

“Thank you both so much. I believe I’ve time to catch tonight’s train, and thereby save a night’s expensive lodging in London. I shall meet you at the Oban station.”

Next morning, it took my sternest opprobrium medicorum to finally bundle Mrs. Hudson into a hansom and off to my consulting rooms. While she was in with Tilbury I rummaged about for my fishing gear. After Mrs. Hudson left, Tilbury and I spent some time going over several patient files. I met Holmes at Simpson’s for lunch. Holmes reported that he’d shared my remarks about the course of the war with Mycroft and that Mycroft promised to take my concerns under advisement. It was mid-afternoon before we returned to Baker Street where I busied myself with my fishing gear. Holmes went out and returned about an hour later with a sizeable bundle wrapped in brown paper. In response to my inquiring look, he said, “A few items we’ll need for the journey.”

I remember little of the London-to-Edinburgh journey. After a decent dinner in the dining car, I fell asleep immediately. I awoke as the train was pulling into the great Waverley terminal at Edinburgh. I was still groggy as we boarded the train for Oban. I managed a late breakfast as the train passed ’round the northern end of Loch Lomond.

Mrs. Bowe-Peop was awaiting us on the platform as we clambered down from our first-class compartment at sixes and sevens with our rods, waders and other fishing paraphernalia. In our disguises—which were the contents of the package Holmes had brought back to Baker Street—our client did not immediately recognize us among the numerous and sundry passengers debarking with us. Holmes had added a drooping moustache and wispy goatee and a monocle on a long black ribbon. He wore a frock coat over stripped trousers, a stiff wing-collared shirt and a homburg hat. Looking like an African explorer, I was in an off-white linen jacket, matching knickerbockers and calf-high boots. Holmes had affixed a pair of outlandish mutton-chop whiskers to my usually clean-shaven cheeks and topped off the ensemble with a ridiculous pith helmet. Our client stood there in an obvious state of consternation until Holmes finally addressed her, “Mrs. Bowe-Peop?”

At first bewildered by Holmes’s boldness, she said, “Yes, I’m…” Just then the identity of the two apparent strangers dawned upon her. “Oh! It’s you Mr…”

“Torvil Siegerson, Madam, of the Norwegian Department of Fisheries. And this is my colleague, the famous ichthyologist, Professor Algernon Netley.”

Mrs. Bowe-Peop raised her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh as I sputtered, “Algernon? Really, Hol…I mean Siegerson!”

“You gentlemen will need to wait for me at the station entrance. I left the dog cart at the farrier. The horse was favoring one leg on the way in so I left him to be looked at. Hopefully, it’s only a loose shoe; I do not need any more animal problems at present.”

“Algie and I would be happy to walk with you. The exercise will do us good after being cooped up on trains for so long.”

Laden with our gladstones and fishing gear, our progress along the busy commercial street was hardly brisk. We had passed a block or two when our client came to a stop. “There, Mr…Siegerson…see the man coming toward us; that’s Ian McKissack.”

McKissack was a tall, brawny man with regular, some would say “handsome,” features. Seeing Mrs. Bowe-Peop he limped toward us leaning heavily on a cane. As he halted in front of us he removed his fedora revealing a head of thinning dark hair mixed with a few strands of brown.

“Good afternoon, Lillian…Mrs. Bowe-Peop. What brings you to town?

“I’m Ian McKissack.” He held out his large hand.

“Ya, Torvil Siegerson I am,” Holmes replied in an exaggerated Scandinavian accent as he extended his hand to meet McKissack’s. And this be Professor Algernon Netley, ya.” As he introduced me I noticed that Holmes was scrutinizing the man from head to toe as thought he were some rare species of fish.

“Algernon Netley, professor of ichthyology.”

“Professor Netley is the famous ichthyologist and I am with the Norwegian Department of Fisheries. Ve come to study the local fishes. You have heard of the professor, ya?”

“Why yes…I’m sure I have. You are lodging with Mrs. Bowe-Peop?” He smirked as though the arrangement were somehow improper.

“Ya, this is so. She make us very good price, ya Professor.”

“Yes,” I mumbled, “a very good price. And what do you do Mr. McKissack?”

“Nothing much, I’m afraid. Land-owner, landed gentry, I suppose. In fact, I’m coming from my solicitor’s having just signed a lease of my peat bog. Seems the distillers are expanding to serve the American market and need much more peat for their grain-drying process. Lillian, you should consider doing so as well. They’re paying good money for the rights…more than you can make taking in boarders.” He gave us a derisive glance. “With Robert away, I imagine that some extra cash would come in handy. I’m certain my solicitor could negotiate a good deal for you, especially if I have a word with him. That’s what good neighbors do; help one another in times of difficulty.”

“I think not, Mr. McKissack. We shall manage one way or another. If you will excuse us, we must be on our way. Gentlemen?”

“Well, should you change your mind, let me know. It’s far less risky than sheep farming.”

I could see the crimson flush had returned to Mrs. Bowe-Peop’s cheeks and that Holmes was clenching his jaws in anger. After we’d walked on a few paces I expressed all our feelings, “I think it would have been a better use of these fishing rods had I given that scoundrel a good thrashing with them. Landed-gentry, indeed!”

“I almost wish you had…Professor. But he’s a physically-powerful man able I’m sure to hold his own in a street brawl. In fact, he’s the county caber champion.”

“Well, he’s gone and good riddance.”

“Just so, Professor. We’d not be of much use to our client locked up in the local gaol.” Turning to our client, Holmes said, “It appears, Madam, that you may have pushed him harder than you thought; that’s rather a serious limp.”

“I observed, “Looked like he was favoring his left-side piriformis muscle. I wonder how he injured it.”

Fortunately, it was only a loose shoe as Mrs. Bowe-Peop had hoped so we were on our way in short order. As we drove along the Soroba Road, Holmes asked our client about peat bogs. “They’re all around, Mr. Holmes. Heathcliffe Farm has about thirty acres’ worth. We cut a bit each winter for fuel, but otherwise stay away from them. They’re not useable for grazing as the soil is too soft. As a precaution we’ve fenced the area off. After a heavy rain, sheep can become trapped and drown.”

“So why not turn the acreage into a cash crop?” Holmes asked.

“Not worth it. The distiller’s land agent has come ’round a few times, but we’ve declined. Once the peat’s gone, the land turns into a fetid swamp. The peat holds the moisture and prevents the pasture from eroding. It also traps pollutants before they can run off into the streams and to the sea.”

Presently we came to a cairn at the right-hand side of the road. Our client slowed and said, “This marks the beginning of McKissack’s land. He calls his place ‘Fenswick Manor.’ I’ve been there a few times. It’s rather run down now, but I’m sure was once quite grand.”

When we came to the lane leading to McKissack’s place, Holmes asked, “Do you mind if we stop a moment?” Mrs. Bowe-Peop brought the horse to a stop. Holmes eased down off the back of the cart and spent a few moments looking at the road. Then he walked over to the lane and peered at the ground for a bit. He returned to the cart and bid our client to carry on.

When we arrived at Heathcliffe Farm our client became our gracious hostess. We were shown to a comfortable cottage adjacent to the main house. She introduced us to the McHenrys whom I immediately concluded were as innocent… dare I say it…“as new-born lambs.” After cocktails and an excellent dinner featuring saddle of lamb—quite as good as that served up by Escoffier—Holmes and I bid our hostess goodnight and retired to our cottage. The day had cooled so that it was quite pleasant outdoors. Holmes and I shed our jackets and sat on the small porch enjoying post-prandial cigars.

“I would certainly hate to see the Bowe-Peops lose such a charming place, Holmes.”

“Fear not, Watson.”

“Then you already have formed a theory?”

“Perhaps, Watson, but you know how I detest articulating a solution until all the facts are in.” With that, Holmes ground out the stub of his cigar and bid me goodnight.

The next morning as I was enjoying a second helping of fresh eggs and mutton sausage—in an effort to regain some of the weight I’d lost from the endless hours of work and subsisting on army rations—Holmes, in the company of the McHenry men, walked back up to the road. When he returned I could see that he’d gotten some new information that he was processing in that great mind of his.

Mrs. Bowe-Peop, being unfamiliar with Holmes’s methods, assumed he’d report what he’d learned. She was therefore disappointed when all Holmes did was to ask for the loan of the dog cart and of Titus to act as our guide. He did share our itinerary which was to amble up the stream marking the southern boundary of Heathcliffe Farm. Our client cautioned us not to go past the fence lest we trespass on the Bulwer-deVille estate. Titus brought the cart ’round and loaded up our fishing accoutrements.

Titus let us off at a bridge where the Soroba Road crossed a shallow stream. We synchronized our watches and Holmes gave his to Titus instructing him to return for us in three hours’ time. We ambled upstream casting as we went. I even managed to land an eight-pound salmon. When we reached a fence at right-angles to the stream, Holmes took out his binoculars and, standing on the lower beam of the fence, scanned the area in all directions. During this time Holmes said almost nothing save to commend me on my skill as an angler. We made our way back to the road where Titus was waiting for us.

Mrs. McHenry cleaned the salmon and prepared it for our luncheon. Our client politely waited until the meal was done to ask whether we’d located her sheep or found any clue as to their whereabouts. When Holmes responded in the negative, she became despondent. “Oh Mr. Holmes, it must be too late. I’m sure I shall never see them again! Where can they be? Surely a mystery such as this cannot be beyond your famous powers.”

“Do not despair, Mrs. Bowe-Peop. I’m satisfied that your sheep are happily tupping away nearby. Make no mistake; we shall find them. There are, however, a few matters upon which I hope you can enlighten us.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes; ask anything.”

Before Holmes could do so, Mrs. McHenry led a liveried footman into the room. The footman bowed and handed Mrs. Bowe-Peop an envelope. After Mrs. McHenry had shown him out, Mrs. Bowe-Peop opened the envelope. “For you…Mr. Siegerson and Professor Netley.”

I took the envelope from her hand and read it. “I say, Holmes…I mean Siegerson…Lady Bulwer-deVille has invited us to tea this afternoon.”

“Capital, Algie. I saw that we were under observation from Southmore Manor while you were wrestling that leviathan into your creel.”

“That dreadful woman’s up to no good, gentlemen. Mark my words. But before you go, you wanted to ask me some further questions. I trust that I’ve satisfied your curiosity as to the salmon fishing here ’bouts.”

“Indeed you have, Madam. I have four further questions: First, when McKissack was here, did you ever leave him alone?”

Mrs. Bowe-Peop thought for a few moments. “Only briefly, Mr. Holmes. He asked if I had something to go with the drinks, so I got a tin of biscuits and some cheese from the pantry.”

“As I suspected. Second, was McKissack limping when he came to call?”

“Why, no. In fact, he said he’d been practicing for the upcoming caber tournament.”

“Interesting. Third, are rams ever aggressive? Will they attack a human?

“Occasionally, especially during tupping season. It’s not happened to me, but during our first tupping season a ram got cross-ways with Robert and butted him right in his midsection He was incapacitated for a week.”

“Lastly, how do you get your sheep to market?”

“We hire a dray wagon and team of horses. Most of the small farmers do that. It’s cheaper than owning them. If the dray breaks down, the liveryman repairs it. Same with the horses. We can scarcely afford one horse, much less a team of draft horses. Since we only need them a few times a year…”

“From whom do you hire them?”

“Mr. Blantyre, the farrier. He owns several wagons and teams. Are you thinking that whoever stole my sheep hired a dray from Blantyre’s?”

“It’s possible…”

“Then first thing tomorrow I shall go to Oban and inveigle him into allowing me to see his rental ledger. In the meantime, while you are having tea with her ladyship, I shall be cleaning and oiling Robert’s shotgun.”

“I don’t think that either shall be necessary, Mrs. Bowe-Peop. Kindly allow me to do the job you paid me to do. Although…” Holmes paused, “…I trust that you brought your Webley along, Watson.”

I nodded.

“Excellent. That will be all the firepower we shall need, if that.”

On the way to Southmore Manor I drove the dog cart and Holmes busied himself with his binoculars. I did interrupt him briefly to express my dismay at the way he’d treated our…his…client. Or perhaps I was just expressing my frustration at not knowing where investigation was headed. “Holmes,” said I, “You realize you were abominably rude to Mrs. Bowe-Peop. The woman’s as brave and resourceful as any you’ve ever known—Irene Adler or Fiona Pippin perhaps being the foremost. But think how her present circumstances have affected her. She awakens each morning wondering whether today will be the day when she receives the telegram from the War Office telling her that her husband is dead or missing or captured. On top of that, having the best of her flock stolen while she slept…”

I looked over at Holmes who had lowered his binoculars and was about to respond. Before he could, I continued, “And please spare me the lecture on your methods…not expressing an opinion until all the facts are in. The woman’s paid you good money, probably more than she can afford. She deserves better.” Holmes said nothing, but I do believe I saw him nod in agreement.

We presented ourselves at the ancient stone pile that was Southmore Manor at the appointed time. As we drove up there was an unusual-looking motorcar parked in the gravel roundabout. “I see we’re not the only invitees,” I remarked. I walked around the vehicle, a four-seater with the steering wheel on the right side of the rear seats. “I don’t think I’ve seen this make before…Siegerson. Perhaps it’s imported from Norway.”

“No, Professor, it’s an Arrol-Johnston, manufactured here in Scotland. Built for durability…to handle the wretched Scottish roads.”

Before Holmes could expound on horsepower and petrol consumption a butler bid us welcome and led us to a musty drawing room to meet our hostess and the other guests. Lady Bulwer-deVille appeared to be in her mid-forties and trying to look younger. By that I mean that she wore a full complement of make-up and a dress that revealed rather a lot of skin, one which would have better suited an ingénue less than half her age. Despite her losing battle with Father Time, she had an engaging smile and a bit of a twinkle in her eye.

Holmes and I each in turn took her proffered hand. The other guests, two men, rose from their seats on a divan. “Mr. Siegerson, Professor Netley, I am delighted that you could join us. This is Ebenezer McTighe,” she nodded in the direction of a wizened gnome of a man wearing an ensemble that was the twin of Holmes’s, but instead of a monocle he wore a pince-nez. “He manages the Oban branch of the Bank of Loch Lomond. And this is Nigel Bender. Mr. Bender is an estate agent employed by the distillers to secure leases of peat bogs.”

Hands were shaken all ’round and we took seats in two club chairs opposite the divan. As Lady Bulwer-deVille poured, Holmes said, “Your Ladyship to me looks familiar. I think maybe we meet before, ya? Was it when King Oscar II was in Oslo two years ago?”

“Surely not, Mr. Siegerson.” A pronounced flush appeared above her décolletage. “I’ve been down to London and to Paris many times with my late husband and we once attended a ball at Balmoral when Her Majesty was in residence. But I’ve never been to Olso.”

“Then I have you with someone else confused. Please excuse me, Ladyship.”

“What brings you to the Oban area, Gentlemen,” the banker asked.

“I come the fishes to study. Our fjords from over-fishing are becoming depleted. I want your conservation methods to observe. Professor Netley…”

“I…I am investigating breeding habits. Quite an interesting subject.”

“How works the banking business here, Mr. McTighe. I have friends in the Department of Banking at home. You have maybe some methods that I can tell them about, ya?”

“Banking is the same here as it is in Norway. It has its moments, but on the whole rather dull I should say. Just now is unfortunately ‘one of those moments.’ The auditors are sniffing ’round examining our mortgages. I’m afraid it is entirely possible that I shall have to call more than one due on account of insufficient collateral.” McTighe removed his pince-nez and cleaned the lenses with his pocket handkerchief.

“Fortunately,” he continued, “Bender here has come to the aid of several of our mortgagors. Leasing of their peat bogs will provide sufficient cash flow so that I can stave off foreclosure. I heartily wish that some of my more recalcitrant customers would see the light.”

“Isn’t that being a bit short-sighted,” I asked. “I understand that depleting the bogs is devastating to the surrounding lands. Am I misinformed?”

“You are indeed, Professor.” Bender, his red face turning even redder, leaned forward and glared at me. “The local preservationists are quite ’round the bend on the subject. There is no scientific basis for their exaggerated claims. Mother Nature will have her way no matter what mankind may do. Sheep farming will not be damaged in the slightest by our harvesting a few tons of peat here and there.”

A short, powerfully-built man, Bender stood and shook his fist at me. “As a scientist you should be better informed.”

I started to rise and respond to his rudeness when our hostess interrupted. “Now, now, gentlemen. Do not allow such a dull subject to spoil our tea-time. While I agree with Mr. Bender…”

“As do I,” McTighe interjected.

“…there are some who hold the view that the peat bogs are best left alone. However, I have not hesitated to lease mine to Mr. Bender’s clients.”

With decorum restored we continued talking about less controversial subjects such as McTighe’s motorcar until Holmes said we must be making our way back. He mentioned the bank of dark clouds we’d seen on the western horizon and wanted to return to Heathcliff Farm before the rain. We thanked our hostess for an interesting tea and took our leave. Neither McTighe nor Bender rose to offer his hand, nor did Holmes or I.

Once outside, I tendered the reins to Holmes but he declined. As soon as we were out of earshot he began laughing as hard and as loud as I’d ever known him to do. “I’m sorry, Holmes, I evidently missed out on the joke.”

“Lady Bulwer-deVille…” Holmes howled in mirth and slapped his knee. “Did you see her blush when I said I thought I knew her? Her name is Maisie Entwistle. She was known in East End as ‘Crazy Maisie Tuppence.’ She worked in one of those dock-side dance halls where sailors go to dance for tuppence-a-dance. She was quite a looker, and, I’ve heard, a good dancer. But totally without inhibitions.”

Holmes glanced at the lowering sky. “We’d best step lively, Watson. I want to get Mrs. Bowe-Peop’s sheep back in the fold before the rains come. I’d hate to solve the crime, only to return a flock of drown sheep to her.”

“Then you know where they are?”

“Don’t you, old fellow?”

“I have my suspicions, Holmes. But to paraphrase you, I do not like to state the solution until all the facts are in.”

Mrs. Bowe-Peop was waiting for us and clearly in no mood for banter. When she asked about our visit to Southmore Manor, Holmes said we’d met Bender and McTighe. At the mention of the name “McTighe” she stiffened. “So you’ve met the wallydraigle. Charming, isn’t he?”

“Like most bankers, as charming as the remnants of Watson’s salmon.”

“And Bender…”

I answered, “Not a very pleasant fellow. I doubt that he could sell water to a man dying of thirst; much less persuade sensible people to encumber their property in such a dangerous project. We almost came to blows.”

“We’d best hurry along, Watson and you too Mrs. Bowe-Peop. I’m sure you’d like to have your sheep back before the rain comes.”

“Oh! Thank you, Mr. Holmes. You’ve found them. Are they al-right? Where are they?”

“At McKissack’s, where they’ve been since they were purloined. Could you ask the McHenrys to join us?”

Mrs. McHenry was in the kitchen. Mrs. Bowe-Peop asked her to fetch her husband and Titus. As soon as Mrs. McHenry left the room, Mrs. Bowe-Peop went out to the parlor and returned carrying a double-barreled shotgun. “This should secure McKissak’s cooperation.”

“Put the weapon back, Madam. McKissack will get his just desserts at the hands of the law. If you wish to participate in the dénouement, I’ve something else in mind for you. Do by chance own any provocative clothing?”

“Mister Holmes, how dare you ask such a thing? What sort of woman do you think I am? In Baker Street, your words made me feel quite good about myself. But now, in my own home, you suggest that I’m some sort of…tart. Really, Mr. Holmes!”

“I entertain no such thoughts, Madam. I stand by my earlier words. Think of it as a disguise, if you will. Someone needs to keep McKissack distracted whilst Watson and I, along with the McHenry men, attend to other business.”

Our client thought for a moment. “Well, I see that you meant no slander, Mr. Holmes. Let me think…Oh yes. I have a peasant blouse and skirt which Robert purchased for me in Barcelona when we were on our honeymoon. The blouse is off the shoulders and the skirt comes barely to mid-calf. I’m afraid that’s all I have in the way of ‘provocative clothing.’ Will that do?”

“Admirably, I’m sure.”

“I also have some low-cut pumps if I can squeeze my feet into them.”

“Then by all means do so, and as quickly as possible.”

Mrs. Bowe-Peop dashed off to her bedroom and returned a few minutes later in the aforementioned garments carrying the high-heeled shoes in her hand. She’d taken time to put on a bit of lip rouge and had done up her hair in a chignon. All and all she had transformed herself from farm-wife into a most attractive…or I should say “provocative”… young woman. By the time she’d returned the McHenrys had appeared and stood, looking bemused, awaiting their assignments.

Holmes quickly described our respective roles and soon we were off toward Fenswick Manor. Mrs. Bowe-Peop drove the dog cart with me concealed in the rear kept company by Dolly the ewe. Having endured Dolly’s odor for just a few minutes, I resolved to burn my costume as soon as possible. To make matters worse, the creature insisted upon nuzzling my neck and trying to lick my ear.

Holmes and the McHenrys followed on foot as rapidly as they could. I knew that we were close to our destination when Mrs. Bowe-Peop slowed and made a left-hand turn. She drew the horse to a halt and paused for minute as though debating whether to press on. Then she snapped the reins and the horse started forward coming to a stop at the front door.

I could feel Mrs. Bowe-Peop getting down from the cart and heard her footfalls on the coarse gravel. I also thought I heard a faint “wretched shoes!” I could hear her use the brass knocker. My heart in my mouth lest Dolly let out a bleat, I pushed her away and cautiously peeked out from under the tarpaulin in time to see the door open and McKissack standing there. In the light from the house I saw that he was dressed in a kilt and a white shirt open at the collar.

The cart was parked close enough to the door that I could hear the conversation. “Why Lillian, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you here on such a threatening night? How lovely you look.”

“Why thank you, Ian. I came because I felt badly about how I treated you last Saturday. You were only being neighborly…were you not?”

“Why of course…just being neighborly.”

“So I could not let another Saturday pass without making my apology. Also, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk about leasing my peat bog. With Robert away, I have no one to help me decide. You did mention that you’d be willing to help. May I come in?”

“Certainly, Lillian. I’m sorry about my rather casual appearance. Obviously I was not expecting company. Let me show you to my library…it’s much cozier than the parlor. I’ll fix drinks while you make yourself comfortable.” “That would be fine, Ian. If the storm comes perhaps we can wait it out together. And please call me ‘Lil.’”

I saw the door close but did not hear a lock turn. I waited a minute, then lifted the tarpaulin and climbed down. I half coaxed and half lifted Dolly down and tethered her to the rear wheel. Just then the Western sky lit up in a brilliant display of lightning followed in a few seconds by a tremendous clap of thunder. Dolly reacted with a nervous bleat. I petted her to calm her down. From the short interval between the lightning flash and the thunder I feared we hadn’t much time.

My assigned task was to surreptitiously enter the house and provide protection for Mrs. Bowe-Peop in case things got out of hand. If possible I was to make my way to the entry hall and make sure the door was unlocked for Holmes. My Webley in hand, I made a quick reconnaissance around the sprawling house. I readily located the room to which McKissack had escorted Mrs. Bowe-Peop as it was the only one on the ground floor which was lighted, save the entry hall. Through a gap in the drapes, I saw her seated on a divan covered with a tartan throw that matched McKissack’s kilt. McKissack was standing at a drinks cart, pouring a whisky.

Upon completing my circumnavigation, I took off my boots—no easy task—and tip-toed to the front door. Holding my breath, I tried the handle which turned readily. Cautiously I pushed the door open and entered. Guided only by the light from the foyer I made my way down a hallway until I saw the illumination coming from the library. I came to an un-lit room just next to the library. I closed my eyes before entering the room to allow them to adjust to the dark lest I trip over some ill-placed piece of furniture. I made my way into the room and found a chair next to the wall adjacent to the library. I sat and placed the Webley in my lap. Holmes had instructed me to let him in precisely at 8:30. I was trying to figure out how I was going to read my watch when nature provided the solution. I held the time-piece close to my face and when the next flash of lightning came I was able to see the time. I spent the next minutes listening for any untoward sounds from the next room and holding the watch to my face.

At 8:30 I rose and went to the front door. I opened it and admitted Holmes, also in his stocking feet. I pointed down the hallway to the light emanating from the library and nodded to indicate that thus far nothing was amiss. He glanced about the foyer and took off up the stairway as I returned to my post. As I was making my way, there was another flash of lightning. This time there was almost no interval between the flash and the thunder clap. In a moment I could hear the beginning of the down-pour.

I resumed my post. A few minutes passed. I spent them listening to the rain and wondering what Holmes was up to. Even over the rain, I could now hear voices from the library. Then I heard a scream followed by “Ian, no!” I sprang to my feet. Unfortunately, in my haste my revolver fell from my lap and managed to slide under a large divan. I dared not take time to retrieve it, thinking that my presence would be sufficient deterrent to further misbehavior on the part of our un-suspecting host.

In seconds I burst into the library and saw Mrs. Bowe-Peop on the divan with McKissack. He had his huge arms around her and was trying to kiss her. As she struggled she kicked over the cocktail table in front of the divan sending glasses and a decanter flying. “Unhand her, you scoundrel,” I shouted striding toward the divan.

Hearing my voice, McKissack jerked his head around. “What the devil!” How dare you break into my home! I’ll…”

“You’ll unhand the lady at once; that’s what you’ll do,” I shouted back. At that McKissack sprang from the divan. I could see him wince as he put weight on his left leg. He kicked the cocktail table away and charged toward me. I charged toward him and managed to strike the first blow, a round-house right to the jaw.

He stopped and blinked for a moment as I prepared to deliver the coup de grace. I drew back my fist then he let out a fierce roar and before I could land the blow he’d grabbed me about the waist and squeezed the breath out of me with just his hands. With another roar he threw me across the room like a caber log—a good dozen feet—so that I slammed into the wall next to the door. I slumped to the floor in a daze from striking the back of my head.

Mrs. Bowe-Peop had taken refuge behind the divan. Peering over the top of the divan, McKissack bellowed, “What’s going on Lil? Who is he? What’s he doing in my home? What game are you playing?”

His name is Major John H. Watson and I am Sherlock Holmes. And you may be certain, Ian McKissack, that this is no game. Caber practice is over.” As I struggled to my feet Holmes assumed a pugilist’s stance, leading with his left. He engaged with McKissack raining jabs as fast as the rain outside. However, Holmes’s skilled blows did no more damage than my awkward but powerful roundhouse.

McKissack blocked most of Holmes’s punches with his massive forearms. With his right arm He seized Holmes and clamped him in a vicious headlock. He grabbed me at the throat with his left hand and in an instant had me in a headlock as well. I tried to twist out causing my mutton-chops to peel loose. I began pounding my fist into McKissack’s piriformis muscle. He grunted in pain with each blow but also tightened his grip even more. The crook of his elbow was over my nose and mouth so that I could not draw breath. I again felt myself about to pass out when I heard a dull thud above me then all three of us, McKissack, Holmes and I, were sprawled on the floor. Gasping for breath, I rolled out from under McKissack’s arm and looked up. There was Mrs. Bowe-Peop holding a heavy crystal flower vase with a smear of blood on the bottom.

When Holmes and I had regained our feet Mrs. Bowe-Peop said, “I told you he was a brawler. You wouldn’t let me bring the shotgun, so I had to improvise.”

“Could you improvise further and locate something with which to tie him up? We should be out in the bog helping the McHenrys load up the sheep into Mr. Blantyre’s dray wagons which I’m sure the McHenrys have located by now. We can hear McKissack’s confession when he wakes up.”

Mrs. Bowe-Peop had presciently brought with her a pair of sensible shoes. When we were re-shod we proceeded through the deluge in search of McKissack’s peat bog. Holmes located tracks in the sodden ground made by heavy wagons and large horses as well as the imprints of a smaller animal, presumably Dolly. We had also loaded several lanterns into the dog cart and by the guttering light of one of these we made our way toward what we hoped was McKissack’s bog. After some minutes we saw lanterns mounted on fence posts and a moment later heard the agitated bleating of the sheep and the nervous whinnying of the horses.

With the rain still pouring down and amidst flashes of lightning and claps of thunder, even with five of us it took the better part of an hour to get all the animals loaded into the wagons. The McHenry’s mounted the driver’s boxes and started back to Heathcliffe Farm.

Once back in the manor house, soaked to the skin, we found McKissack where we’d left him, sprawled in front of the divan; his arms and legs securely bound. I had managed to locate my revolver and now sat in a chair opposite McKissack holding the weapon in my hand. He was only semi-conscious so Holmes removed his sodden jacket and squeezed the water from it into McKissack’s face. When he’d sufficiently returned to sentience Holmes and Mrs. Bowe-Peop drew up chairs on either side of mine. I probed McKissack’s head wound and determined that it was superficial, no fracture.

McKissack asked Holmes to unbind his legs as he was in considerable pain. As Holmes did so I brandished my revolver so that McKissack would not entertain the idea of trying to over-power us again. He asked for whisky which Holmes provided. After taking a stout swallow he said, “Lillian…Lil…what is the meaning of this? Why did you come here? Why did you bring these men…whoever they are? I thought…”

“Mrs. Bowe-Peop will have nothing further to say to you until you are in the prisoner’s dock and she in the witness box. You will, however, answer my questions and if you are completely truthful things may go more easily on you when you stand in the dock.”

“I…I don’t know what…”

“Do not disgrace yourself further by lying, McKissack. Fortunately, we have recovered Mrs. Bowe-Peop’s sheep which you purloined in so dastardly a manner.” At that, Holmes threw a handful of cloth earmarks onto McKissack’s lap. “I shall tell you how and you shall tell us why you did it. Then if you will agree to testify against your co-conspirators, perhaps the court will grant you a measure of leniency.

“As soon as Mrs. Bowe-Peop related the facts of the theft, I thought you were involved. This afternoon when I learned that you’d asked her for something to eat to go with your drink my suspicions were confirmed. It was a ruse to give you the opportunity to add a few drops of this to her glass. I found it in a cupboard in your bed chamber.” Holmes took a small vial from his pocket and handed it to me. The label read “Chloral Hydrate.”

“Despicable.” I remarked, as I tossed the vial into McKissack’s lap.

Holmes continued, “Though it was not your main purpose, you could not resist trying to have your way with her. Had it been your main purpose, you would have waited until she was unconscious. However, your confederates were no doubt growing impatient so you appeared to leave. They had driven there in dray wagons hired from Blantyre. Then the three of you loaded up the sheep and drove the wagons here where McTighe had left his motorcar.

“Although I’m sure the dogs put up a furious racket, Mrs. Bowe-Peop was unconscious so she heard nothing. I was able to confirm the movement of the wagons by examining the tracks from Fenswick Manor to Heathcliffe Farm and back out to the Soroba Road. One of the wagons has a conspicuous tear in one of the cross-bands on the right rear wheel. I also found tracks of an Arrol-Johnston motorcar which I learned belonged to the banker McTighe.

“When we saw you in Oban I noted the presence of a few strands of moorit in your hair, rather an odd thing for a gentleman of leisure. Owing to your unfamiliarity with handling of sheep—rams especially—you turned your back on a particularly aggressive ram that, as is wont to happen, butted you soundly on your left piriformis muscle. I am indebted to Major Watson for that rather arcane lesson in anatomy.”

“But why did he do it, Mr. Holmes?”

“When you told me that your sheep were mortgaged, Mrs. Bowe-Peop, I knew I had a likely motive. My suspicion grew stronger when you told us about the peat-bog land grab. At Lady Bulwer-deVille’s, McTighe all but admitted that he is the force behind the odious scheme to steal your farm. Perhaps McKissack can enlighten you further.”

“Please forgive me, Lillian. I too have a mortgage, ten-thousand pounds; it will be due in a week’s time. I was at McTighe’s mercy. He said if I did not lease my peat bog and persuade you to do so, he would not renew. Bender told us that persuasion was useless. It was McTighe who came up with the idea of purloining your sheep in order to bring pressure on you.”

McKissack continued, “When I saw you in Oban yesterday with those two, I told McTighe. He was instantly suspicious. It was his idea to have Lady Bulwer-deVille invite them to tea. He wanted to learn what they were really up to and to use them to convey a final warning to you.”

“One last question,” Holmes knelt down and retied McKissack’s, legs. Was Lady Bulwer-deVille in on the conspiracy?”

“Not to my knowledge, Mr…Mr. Holmes. But you’ll have to get that out of McTighe or Bender. That’s all I’m going to say until I speak with my solicitor.”

We passed the night in McKissack’s library. Holmes and I moved him to the chair last occupied by our client and she lay down upon the divan. With McKissack’s consent I administered a drop or two of the chloral hydrate mixed in with a small whisky and McKissack was soon asleep snoring most annoyingly. Holmes and I took turns at napping and keeping watch until day-break.

The rain stopped during the night and dawn broke to clear skies. I drove Mrs. Bowe-Peop back to Heathcliffe Farm where after changing my clothes I picked up our gladstones and gear and returned to Fenswick Manor. After Holmes had changed clothes we man-handled McKissack into the dog cart and started for Oban. The road was a river of mud washed out in some spots so our journey was slow and taxing, made no easier by having to listen to McKissack’s whining entreaties.

Presently we arrived at the Oban constabulary. I left Holmes and proceeded to Blantyre’s. I arranged with him to return the dog cart to Mrs. Bowe-Peop and recover his dray wagons and teams. I entrusted him to deliver a warm note of well-wishes from Holmes and me. By the time I made it to the interview room, McKissack was nearly finished writing out his confession. Soon thereafter the chief constable had written applications to the justice of the peace for arrest warrants for McTighe and Bender. Holmes and I managed to catch the mid-day train to Edinburgh thence back to London. During the long train journey, I could see that Holmes was already slipping back into a state of ennui caused by having little to occupy his mind.

A week after returning to duty I was going through the charts of a batch of newly-arrived wounded and I came across the name “Peop, Cap’t. Rob’t.” According to the chart he’d suffered a bullet wound which had shattered his left clavicle. The bone had been set and the wound debrided and cleansed with carbolic acid. The bullet had not been removed because it was wedged against the sub-clavian artery. There was a note from one of my former disciples annexed to the chart requesting that I personally perform the surgery to remove the bullet.

I went to him immediately and found a ruggedly-handsome young man of some thirty years. He was pale and, I judged, had lost considerable weight. I examined the wound site and found that there was no infection owing to the prompt and effective treatment at the field hospital. He shook my hand and managed a wan smile.

I asked how he was doing and checked to see whether he was running a fever which would have required that the surgery be postponed. His brow was cool so I was able to tell him that I would do the surgery in the morning. He thanked me and asked if I would be so kind as to post a letter to his wife informing her of his circumstances. This I agreed to do and added that I would send her a telegram to that effect immediately. He demurred citing his lack of funds to pay for a telegram. I told him I would gladly pay. I asked him whether he’d heard from his wife. He said the last letter he’d had was in early September. He was sure she’d written faithfully, but as he was at the front, no mail had reached him.

“Well,” said I, “I’m sure she’ll have an interesting story for you when you return home.”

—The End —

The Case of the Whispering Wall

By Jack Brazos III

A Sherlockian Pastiche with Grimm’s Fairy Tale,

“The Goose Girl” as a backdrop

THE QUEEN

There was a flash – deafening silence – the sound arriving through the atmosphere a full five seconds later, then the shock of explosion jarring the earth and filling the battlefield with debris and an ever-changing red, grey, violet, then red again as suddenly my ear drums hurt terribly. I blinked, then realized the brief delay of cannon fire was the re-loading. Alarm shot through my body. The mid-afternoon heat was only in the mid-eighties, but it seemed over a hundred as the terror of battle caused the sweat to sour on my uniform and cast a chill upon my skin. I had to reach cover, crawl under something. As I tried to roll over I caught a fleeting glance of Murray trying to reach me. I struggled, there was another flash, I blinked frantically and gasped for breath………….. Silence.

* * *

“Heavens Watson, you almost twisted out of your chair. It must be another nightmare,” muttered Holmes as he turned away from the window overlooking the street and picked up the morning Times. I was bathed in perspiration, gasping for breath and finally fully awake.

“Watson, the lady arriving shortly is an elder queen from a small eastern European nation whom I fear misfortune has befallen her young daughter. She is under extreme duress and will be very nervous during the course of my interview. Would you care to assist me?”

“How can you tell she will be under extreme duress and very nervous?” I snapped.

“My dear Watson, I just observed the last few minutes of agony and frustration that she experienced in merely disembarking from the Landau in front of our building.”

“Of course, it will likely be good therapy for me.” I mumbled still trying to shake off the effects of my hellish flashback.

Holmes merely smiled behind an article in the Times announcing the conclusion of a visit by representatives of three small Eastern European breakaway nations. The next sound was that of Mrs. Hudson announcing the entry of the aging Queen of the Eastern Kingdom of Putinski and her bodyguards.

“Your Majesty; I received your letter of introduction and am pleased to meet you in person. Let me present my colleague, Dr. Watson.”

“A military man, I see,” replied the aging Queen as she briefly surveyed me and glanced about the room.

“You have a clear eye, your Majesty,” I replied.

“I am old, not dead,” as a slight smile accompanied the driest of humor.

“Mr. Holmes, your reputation precedes you.”

“I have asked Mrs. Hudson to bring fresh coffee. When you are comfortable, you may begin,” Holmes suggested.

At this point Mrs. Hudson entered with coffee and scones which provided the Queen time to catch her breath and collect herself. The warm coffee seemed to calm her.

“One year ago my only daughter reached marriageable age. She is a lovely child of fair and delicate beauty; a lass who can light up a room by merely entering. Her charm and beauty brings warmth and comfort to the starkest castle. My late husband, the King of The Eastern Kingdom of Putinski, had been on good terms with the King of The Republic of Rumandia before the great European shake-up of our numerous borders. Before my husband passed away we arranged marriage between our daughter and his young son when the two reached marriageable age. Last year that time came. This union will cement the friendly relationship between our two nations for generations to come. The Republic of Rumandia is some distance and many days travel from our Kingdom.”

“And what exactly are you asking me, my Queen?”

“My frustration is as follows. My daughter, Princess Abigail, a fair and delicate child has been gone almost three months now and I have heard nothing from her or her maid-in-waiting. She is a delicate and sensitive girl who would normally keep close contact with me. Three months ago I packed up for her many costly items and trinkets of gold and silver, cups and jewels, a royal dowry. I also dispensed her maid-in-waiting who was to ride with her and hand her over to the bridegroom. Each had a horse for the journey. My daughter’s horse, named Falada, was a special gift from an uncle. She said that she could talk to Falada and in turn the horse could understand and talk back to her. She is quite emphatic that she and the horse can have conversations between each other. The child really believes that. As I have heard nothing from Princess Abigail and her maid-in- waiting has failed to return, I fear that foul play has befallen her and misfortune is at my doorstep. I want to commission you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, to go to The Republic of Rumandia and investigate what has happened to my fair and delicate daughter, then resolve the matter as necessary. If done satisfactorily, you shall be rewarded handsomely. Here is an initial deposit.”

The aged Queen brought forth a handsome article, intricately inlaid and made of solid gold, a magnificent item, as down payment.

“This case interests me significantly. Dr. Watson, what is your opinion?”

“In many ways this is a missing person’s case,” I remarked. “I find it highly stimulating.”

“My Queen, we will be happy to accept this commission. We shall begin shortly,” replied Holmes. And thus did the adventure begin.

* * *

After the Queen and her bodyguards had departed, I poured fresh coffee and began to digest what I had just heard and agreed to participate in. Leaning on my elbows, I sipped the hot coffee while wondering if I could lift the beautiful and massive gold object that rested comfortably on our sideboard.

“Let us see if I understand just what happened here, Holmes. You have just accepted a huge chunk of solid gold as mere down-payment to hunt down a young Princess several countries over in a re-organized section of Europe who is riding a talking horse and likely happily married to her new-found Prince who is expected to inherit a country that he will someday govern. And I’m the one who is having nightmares?” Holmes merely smiled.

PREPARATION

The following day when I arose Holmes was nowhere to be seen. Around noon he appeared.

“I presume that you can prepare this afternoon for extended travel?”

“If necessary.”

“Good. Mycroft has designated you, Dr. John Watson, as the Traveling Ambassador to the Newly Formed Breakaway Countries of Eastern Europe. Your assignment, should you accept it, will be to meet with the dignitaries and or rulers of these countries to lay the groundwork for good will, future trade and commercial agreements, more or less as introductory and courtesy calls and also inquire about the health and welfare of one Princess Abigail.”

“How nice of you,” I replied with a touch of irony.

“Watson, I feel that during the course of your introductions, you should notify The King of The Republic of Rumandia that among your many duties, that we have been retained to verify that Princess Abigail has arrived safely to his young prince.

“Yes, this should prove to be rather interesting.”

“Good, we leave tomorrow.”

* * *

Once on French soil we began the slog across the Continent. As our journey progressed Holmes began to formulate a plan of investigation. Fortunately, no one knew who we were so our movements should be unrestricted. We just had to be careful how we asked questions. Holmes, in his wisdom, decided that he should be a traveling minister spreading the word of God. I, in my role as Traveling Ambassador should meet and become friendly with the officials and dignitaries of The Republic of Rumandia and if possible meet the young Prince and his betrothed from The Eastern Kingdom of Putinski,

THE MINISTRY

The minister, The Right Reverend Homer Sherlock preached as a traveling minister throughout The Republic of Rumandia. His messages were clear, concise and uplifting. He preached directly from the Bible in a congenial and inspirational manner. Within a few weeks he was very much in demand as a guest minister in a large number of the churches.

The King excused all persons from work on the Lord’s Day and so The Goose- Girl did not have to work and could attend church services with any congregation she chose. After hearing the Right Reverend Homer Sherlock, she was so moved that she began to attend services wherever he spoke, enjoying his messages greatly. Shortly she found an opportunity to meet him after a service and they enjoyed discussing the Holy Scriptures at length. The Reverend casually inquired about her daily activities and she explained that she was able to find work for the King assisting a small boy, young Conrad, tending geese and that she was now known as The Goose- Girl. He smiled understandably and noted that it was honest and noble work. However, he also noticed that she was sad about the subject. Several days later she noticed that he crossed the field from time to time while slowly traveling to another church.

DESCRIPTION OF THE COMMUNIQUE

The Reverend noted that each day the maiden and young Conrad drove the geese through a pass or corridor to a fertile field beyond where the grass was very good and enjoyed by the geese. When passing through this corridor something strange occurred between the Goose-Girl and something within the passageway. The Reverend followed closer one day.

The location in question was a short corridor or open air passageway, no more than twenty feet in length, worn into the rock formation centuries ago by some ancient stream about ten feet in depth that would accommodate three men abreast. It was frequently used by the local farmers and tradespeople as a short-cut to drive their flocks of foul, chicken, ducks and geese to fertile grazing on the sides of the gently rolling hills nearby. This grass was the best for miles around.

When passing through the short corridor, when the wind was just right, you could hear the wind speak passages not unlike something from a long lost lover’s sonnet.

“Alert the King! Alert the King! Oh my Princess, how you have been betrayed. Is there no justice in all the land? Alert the King! Alert the King!”

When Holmes investigated, there appears to have been an animal head mounted on the wall some time back. The remnants of the animal head appear to be alive and well. In many ways, this was just plain scary.

THE GOOSE-GIRL

The Reverend and the Goose-Girl would visit on occasion which she always enjoyed. The Right Reverend also noted that some time while tending the Geese on the fertile fields, little Conrad would want to pull her beautiful hair as she began to unbraid it and comb it out. On the occasion when he tried to pull it, she would sing some sort of lullaby, the wind would blow and young Conrad would lose his hat and have to chase it for half an hour or so. It seemed to aggravate him but she did it on each occasion but not in a cruel or unkind manner. Interestingly during this same time that the boy was chasing his hat, she would unbind and comb out her long and beautiful hair. While her hair was unbound, The Reverend was shocked to see that her hair was beyond any beauty he had ever seen. It appeared like pure gold and glowed with the richness of heaven itself. It literally transformed the girl by radiating her true grace, wisdom and beauty.

The effect was to beautify everything in her presence. Everything surrounding the girl was like a gift directly from God. The Reverend had never seen anything so stunning. He also noted that she always managed to braid her hair back up before young Conrad was able to return.

THE PRAYER

As circumstances prevailed, they began to cross paths more frequently and over the weeks began to spend more and more time together until it was every other day they crossed paths. Each time they met it seemed very rewarding for the Goose Girl and as they became even more friendly and trusting of each other the Reverend ask:

“What makes you so sad, dear girl?”

“I cannot say,” she replied sadly. “I was sworn to secrecy.”

“Well,” counseled The Right Reverend Homer Sherlock, “if it were against your will, God would be understanding.”

“If I did not swear not to tell, I would have been put to death on the spot.”

“Interesting,” replied Reverend Sherlock, “I feel that if we pray out loud to God right now together and you reveal to him the complete story in its entirety, openly to God in prayer, he will forgive you for seeking help under his direction. I shall be here with you every step of the way”

* * *

And so the Goose- Girl, with The Right Reverend Homer Sherlock, holding her hand in support and both on their knees, the Goose- Girl began to pray aloud:

“Dear Lord, I am the daughter of the late King of Eastern Kingdom of Putinski and am betrothed to the young Prince of The Republic of Rumendia to wed upon my arrival in The Republic. I was sent by my mother with my Maid-In-Waiting, my dowry and my horse Falada. On the day we departed, my mother drew me aside, took a knife and cut my finger. As it bled, she caught three drops of blood in a white handkerchief and gave them to me saying,

‘Dismount, and take my cup which you have brought with you for me, and get me some water from the stream, for I should like to drink.’

But my waiting-maid became rebellious and said;

“Get off your horse yourself, and lie down and drink out of the water, I don't choose to be your servant.’

So I, with great thirst alighted, bent down over the water in the stream and drank, and my waiting-maid refused to allow me to drink from the golden cup. Then I said, ah, heaven, and the three drops of blood answered,

“if this your mother knew, her heart would break in two.’

But I was humble, said nothing, and mounted my horse again and rode some miles further, but the day was warm, the sun scorched me, and I once more became thirsty. When we again came to a stream of water, I again cried to my waiting-maid, dismount, and get me some water in my golden cup, as I had long ago forgotten the girl's rebuke. But the waiting-maid said in a more hostile manner,

‘if you wish to drink, get it yourself, I don't choose to be your maid.’

Then in my great thirst, I the king's daughter alighted, bent over the flowing stream, wept and said, ah, heaven, and the drops of blood again replied, if this your mother knew, her heart would break in two.

And as I was thus drinking and leaning right over the stream, the handkerchief with the three drops of blood fell out of my bosom, and floated away with the water escaping my notice as I was embroiled in my troubles. My Waiting-Maid, however, had seen it, and she rejoiced to think that she now had power over me, the bride, for since I had lost the drops of blood, I had become weak and powerless.

So when I returned to mount my horse again, the one that was called Falada, the Waiting-Maid said,

‘Falada is more suitable for me, and my nag will do for you,’ and I found that I must be content with the lessor horse.

Then the Waiting-Maid, with many hard words, forced me to exchange my royal apparel for her own shabby clothes, as I had lost the drops of blood and therefore my power, given to me by my mother. Then the Waiting-Maid compelled me to swear by the clear sky above me, that I would not say one word of this to anyone at the royal court, and if I had not taken this oath she would have killed me on the spot. But my horse Falada heard all this and observed it well.

The Waiting-Maid now mounted Falada and I, the true bride, mounted the bad horse, and thus we traveled onwards, until at length we entered the royal palace. There were great rejoicings over her arrival, and the prince sprang forward to meet her, lifted the Waiting-Maid from her horse thinking she was his consort.

She was conducted upstairs, but I the real princess, was left standing below. The old King who was observing all of this, saw me standing in the courtyard. Soon he came down and stated;

‘The Princess says that she picked you up on the way for a companion and to give you something to work at, that you may not stand idle. I have no work but I have a little boy who tends the geese and you may help him.’

The little boy was called Conrad, and I was to help him to tend the geese. Soon a knacker came to cut off the head of Falada as it vexed the false princess along the way although I suspect that she was afraid that the horse might tell how she had behaved to the King's daughter. I secretly promised to pay the knacker a piece of gold if he would perform a small service for me. There was a great dark-looking gateway in the town, through which morning and evening I had to pass with the geese, would he be so good as to nail up Falada’s head on it, so that I might see him again, more than once.

The knacker's man promised to do that, and so he cut off the head, and nailed it fast beneath the dark gateway.

Each morning, when Conrad and I drove out our flock through the passageway to the fertile meadows, I said in passing,

“Falada,” hanging there.

And the head would answer,

“Alas, young queen, how ill you fare.

If this your mother knew, her heart would break in two.”

Then we would drive the geese into the country. When we would come to the bountiful meadow, I would take down and unbind my hair which was like pure gold, and young Conrad would see it and be delighted in its brightness, and always wanted to pluck out a few hairs. Then I would say,

“blow, blow, thou gentle wind, I say,

blow Conrad's little hat away,

and make him chase it here and there,

until I have braided all my hair,

and bound it up again.”

And there would come such a violent wind that it blew Conrad's hat far away across country, and he was forced to run after it. When he would come back I had finished combing my hair and had put it up again, and he could not get any of it. Then Conrad would become angry, and would not speak to me, and then we would watch the geese until the evening, and then go home.

This is the way I live O’Lord. It is, as the Reverend said, honest work. But also, he is right, my mother would be oh so disappointed that her heart would break. Amen.”

It was obvious that the girl had finished her open prayer to the Lord as The Right Reverend Homer Sherlock had requested, but it was still taking the Reverend a moment to adjust to the magnitude of the deception forced upon this young and dainty girl. Quickly he adjusted.

“That was very heart rendering and now I shall request mercy in your behalf. Fear not my child, this injustice will not be ignored.”

“Our father who art in heaven, please hear this young girl’s prayer and let justice be done in this matter. Amen.”

“Come now my child, it is now in God’s hands. I must go. We shall meet again soon.”

And with that they parted company.

CONRAD’S FRUSTRATION

And the following day young Conrad went to the old king and announced that he would not tend the geese with that girl any longer. When the old King asked why, he answered;

‘She aggravates me the whole day.”

‘How does she aggravate you?” the old King asked.

‘In the morning when we take the geese through the gateway pass to the rich pasture, there is the remainder of a horse’s head hanging on the wall of the passage and the Goose-Girl says’,

“Alas Falada” ……

and the remnant of the horse’s head replies

“Alas, young queen how ill you fare. If your mother knew this, her heart would break in two.”

Then Conrad went on to relate what happened when the Goose- Girl began to take her hair down had how he had to chase his hat.

The old King commanded Conrad to return as usual the next and placed himself so he might witness for himself what young Conrad had told him. And as it was, he heard how the maiden spoke to the head of…………and he followed Conrad, the maiden and the flock and saw with his own eyes how after a while the maiden sat down and unplaited her hair, which shown with heavenly radiance. Soon she said;

‘blow, blow, thou gentle wind, I say,

blow Conrad's little hat away,

and make him chase it here and there,

until I have braided all my hair,

and bound it up again.’

Then came a blast of wind and carried off Conrad's hat, so that he had to run far away, while the maiden quietly went on combing and plaiting her hair, all of which the king observed. Then, the old King departed until the Goose-Girl came home that evening. He called her aside, and asked why she did all these things. To which she replied.

“I may not tell that, and I dare not lament my sorrows to any human being, for I have sworn not to do so by the heaven which is above me, if I had not done that, I should have lost my life.”

At this point the old King began to carefully consider what Dr. Watson, the Traveling Ambassador, had told him in a previous interview.

STRATEGY

It wasn’t very hard to locate the new traveling Reverend as he was quite popular. I managed to locate Holmes in a small village just outside the capital.

“You have made quite a name for yourself,” I prodded. “Find out anything about our missing princess?”

“As a matter of fact quite a bit Watson, we are going to have to move quickly. The wedding is within a few weeks.”

“I know, I managed to gain an audience with the old King and shared the concerns of Queen of the Eastern Kingdom of Putinski concerning well-being of her daughter, the real Princess. He was quite shocked at the idea of an imposter, but he had doubts of his own. The old King told me that the wedding would be the first Sunday of next month. I have met the visiting Princess and she seems remarkably plain to me. In many ways unskilled in social matters and simple formalities that one would expect from a young girl of her background.”

“I can imagine,” replied Holmes. “However, I have good news. I have located the real Princess.”

“Good, but what do we do?”

“Watson, it seems that there has been an enormous fraud that has taken place and it is about to become a tragedy if we do not move quickly” Holmes stated earnestly.

The plan that Holmes had developed, I felt was dangerously dependent on timing.

The young Prince was quite happy as he was about to be married.

“Come we must rejoice. I want to plan a great celebration with the multitudes of the Kingdom present as this shall be the beginning of a great generation. I want as many of the citizens present as possible.”

While planning the activities and details of the celebration, the secreted young Princess suggested that the now very popular traveling The Right Reverend Homer Sherlock be invited to speak as he always had something interesting and uplifting to say. He should make for an interesting speaker for this festive occasion.

On the eve of the wedding there was a great celebration. At which time The Right Reverend Homes Sherlock sought an audience for himself and Dr. Watson with the old King of The King of Rumandia.

* * *

“Your Majesty, it grieves me to bring this matter to your attention at this time but I fear that a great fraud is about to be perpetrated up your son, the Prince. My name is Sherlock Holmes of London, England and this is Dr. John Watson, my trusted colleague. We have been retained by the Queen of the Eastern Kingdom of Putinski to investigate what had happened to her daughter, the real Princess of the Eastern Kingdom of Putinski. Here are our papers of employment and you may reference my brother, Mycroft Holmes of The British Crown.”

“Hmmmm, yes. I have heard of you. I have also had a brief discussion with your colleague, Dr. Watson as Traveling Ambassador. My own inquiry has revealed that you have also done considerable work with Scotland Yard as well as other police agencies around Europe.” Holmes bowed slightly.

“Well, you gentlemen see the situation that I and my son are in here. How do you recommend that we proceed? I do have a wedding coming up and I would like for it to be the correct bride.” The old King commented, somewhat at a loss at the turn of events.

Sherlock Holmes began softly.

“Usually the simplest answer is the best answer to a problem.”

“I suggest that we let the girl make her own case with her own beauty, charm, elegance, style and persuasion. And we do so in the following manner.”

And so it took place.

* * *

The aged king summoned his son, and revealed to him that he had got the false bride who was only a waiting-maid, but that the true bride would be seated beside him at the great feast. The young king rejoiced with all his heart when he saw her beauty and youth, and the great feast was made ready to which all the people and all good friends were invited.

JUSTICE

At the head of the celebration table sat the bridegroom with the King’s daughter, the true Princess on one side of him and the Waiting-Maid on the other. The Waiting-Maid was blinded by the beauty of the Princess and did not recognize her in her stunning royal garments. The Right Reverend Homer Sherlock preached a very rewarding sermon on the subject of justice, just deserts, fair play and punishment of the wicked. His message was well received.

Later in the evening when all had eaten their fill, enjoyed much wine, were joyful and gay, The Right Reverend, with the old King observing closely, posed a riddle to the unsuspecting Waiting-Maid referencing the entire episode;

“What justice would a person deserve who betrays her employer, by force deprives her of food and drink, takes her place, treats her badly, by coercion takes her personal things, steals her property, impersonates her by fraud, swindles her out of her inheritance and cheats her out of her rightful station in life?”

“What punishment say you?”

Then the false bride said arrogantly and with full confidence in her fraud,

She deserves no better fate than to be stripped entirely naked, and put in a barrel which is studded inside with pointed nails, and two white horses should be harnessed to it, which will drag her along through one street after another, till she is dead.”

“IT IS YOU!” announced the aged King stepping forth angrily to pronounce judgment, “and you have pronounced your own sentence, and thus shall it be done unto you.”

After justice had been rendered, the young Prince married his true bride and launched a happy and prosperous empire that lasted for generations to come.

IN THE EASTERN KINGDOM OF PUTINSKI

“Mr. Holmes, it is good of you to pay me this visit,” welcomed the aged Queen of the Eastern Kingdom of Putinski.

“I thought it most important that Dr. Watson and I make a personal report to you, and it is most favorable news that we have. Your daughter is happily married to the young Prince of the Republic of Rumandia. Here is a handkerchief with 3 drops of blood from the young Princess representing the strength that you bestowed upon her at the beginning of her journey and a photograph of the Prince and Princess on their wedding day. They wish to convey to you that they shall come to visit within three months to share their joy and celebration with you.”

The old Queen was delighted.

* * *

“And my Waiting-Maid?”

“Unfortunately she met with tragedy that resulted in the loss of her life by her own specifications.”

“What a pity,” replied the old Queen dryly.

“Come, let us discuss the remainder of your payment for services rendered to my Kingdom.”

—The End—

The Adventure of the Beastly Betrothal

By Brenda S. Hutchison

Based on “The Robber Bridegroom”

The London morning promised a day of azure heavens and temperate climate beyond my open bed-room window. Buds appeared on the plane tree. With reluctance, I shut out that fresh world and turned the latch. Descending my stairs, an idea injected a jaunty spring into my actions.

“Holmes,” I addressed my friend in the sitting-room. “Let’s take a morning stroll. We can find breakfast along the way. Regent’s Park might be perfect.”

Over the morning paper, Sherlock Holmes’s grey eyes briefly focused upon me. “Good morning, Watson,” he flatly stated, resuming his preferred activity.

Life’s courtesies were dispensable within our rooms until they were notably absent and capable of diverting the conversation. Holmes knew this full well; however, I recognized his ploy. He could read the paper later.

“Good morning,” I responded. Then, I hastily continued, “I will inform Mrs. Hudson that we will take our meal out. Be ready when I get back.” I was beyond the door before he could counter.

When I returned to the sitting-room, Holmes was prepared to depart. He stepped away from the bay window with a curl at one corner of his mouth. Undoubtedly, he was aware of my maneuver, but was at ease with making an abrupt outing.

I wondered what I had missed. The discarded paper, oddly revealing the social page, was on the floor; however, before I could reach for it, Holmes was out the door. I hurried to catch up.

Atop an unsatisfied sense of curiosity was my discomfort caused by a disparity in dress. Spontaneity came at a cost with no time for change. My timeworn tweed suit was not what I normally wore to stroll through the park. As well, it was dowdy in comparison to my companion’s elegant black frock-coat. Going down the stairs, discomfort receded by the time we were outside. The differences in our attire became of no importance. My tweed cap shielded my head as well as Holmes’s top hat covered his.

The two of us walked side-by-side as we headed northward along Baker Street. The stroll was just what we both required. The blue skies and sprouts of greenery were a balm upon my winter-weary soul. No doubt Holmes was similarly affected. While the crisp air and exercise placed a welcome colour upon my friend’s face, the change of view enlivened him. His walking stick boldly conducted the metre of his steps. When the ferrule errantly caught on a crack, Holmes spun to neatly snatch the falling stick before he whirled and carried onward. His strides lengthened and tempo intensified.

The pace was arduous. “Will you, please, slow down?” I breathlessly pleaded.

“We must swiftly reach the corner,” he answered over one shoulder. “Try to keep up.”

When I turned the corner, I found Holmes with his back pressed to the wall. He must have noted my arrival as I passed through his field of vision; but, his concentration was otherwise engaged. I suddenly gathered a grim purpose behind the hurried walk to Marylebone Road and limped into position at his side. We watched. We waited.

The meeting of the two roads was busy. That a party had designs on us among this throng was surely ill-considered. Holmes’s awareness and defending skills were to our advantage. In contrast, leaning against the wall, my breaths were still irregular. I reluctantly readied for action.

Holmes’s full attention unexpectedly followed a beautiful, unattended young lady who bustled past us. Dressed in a tawny walking dress with black braid adornments, her deep russet hair in an upswept coiffure beneath a stylish straw hat, she stopped only ten steps beyond our hiding place. She peered down Marylebone Road to her left, and then to her right. She appeared confused.

Holmes signaled me to follow. He went to stand before the lady, removed his top hat and bowed. Then, upright, Holmes inquired, “May I be of service, Miss Miller?”

Disconcerted, her cheeks charmingly flushed and her petite mouth muttered apologies. She averted her brilliant blue eyes from his face and turned aside to escape, only to come face to face with me. Her alarm was palpable.

The discomfort that I had felt earlier regarding my attire returned quite strongly. I likely appeared a ruffian to her. “Please do not fear me,” I begged. “I, too, am at your disposal. I am Dr. John Watson.”

Her smile put me at ease. Although I was unfamiliar with the surname Holmes addressed, I trusted his judgement in knowing to whom assistance should be given. I also trusted my instinct to help a woman in distress.

Holmes stepped beside me. “Miss Miller, I am Sherlock Holmes.”

Rather than retrace our steps to 221 B, Baker Street, the three of us sat at a table near the rear of a small café, an intimate little tea-room with blue and gold décor reminiscent of Eastern Europe, located a short distance from Regent’s Park. This was preferable to Miss Miller who felt slightly lightheaded and fatigued following her pursuit of us. As my appetite was piqued, I wholeheartedly agreed with the change in venue. Holmes, however, was more circumspect as it was not customary to conduct a confidential interview in such surroundings. As a compromise, he claimed the seat from which he could best observe the café clientele and wait staff.

After partaking of two cups of tea and ingesting sundry baked goods with clotted cream, I noted Holmes’s empty teacup and half-eaten scone. Miss Miller daintily lowered her teacup to its saucer. On her plate appeared a few scattered crumbs. I served myself a third cup of tea under Holmes’s impatient eye.

It was time to handle business.

“Miss Miller, I read the announcement of your betrothal to Mr. Randall Vance Thornycroft in this morning’s paper.”

“That is correct, Mr. Holmes.”

“Felicitations on your future nuptials,” he said, penetrating eyes trained upon her.

Miss Miller, stunned, attempted to graciously accept Holmes’s congratulatory remark. A little smile formed upon her lips, bittersweet in its tenuous hold. Before it completely disappeared, glistening tears pooled in her eyes and a teardrop fell to her lap.

Holmes motioned for me to assist the lady while he occupied his time paying the waiter more than necessary in order to retain the table. When my colleague refocused his attention on us, he seemed satisfied that the young lady was now sufficiently recovered.

“Let us begin once more,” Holmes declared.

She looked askance at him; but, an apology for probing her feelings was not forthcoming. “You undoubtedly discern the heart of my trouble, Mr. Holmes. Please allow me to explain the circumstances.”

Holmes disregarded both her biting voice and my noticeable glee as neither could quell his irrepressible eagerness for a fresh case. He leaned forward and instructed, “Please. Do expound upon them. You will forgive me if I interrupt. Proceed.”

If we had been interviewing back at our rooms, my friend would have closed his eyes to listen. In this lively setting, he comfortably crossed one leg over the other, placed his fingertips together, and focused on a distant point across the café.

Miss Miller provided a clue to her youth when she clasped her hands in her lap and stiffly sat up to recite her story. Then, perturbed by Holmes’s seeming inattention, she looked to me for encouragement. Upon my signal, she began, “My father is Barrington Smythe Miller, the owner of the Brackenhall and Oakendale grain mills. In 1879, he married Charlotte Fay Quenby. Their union brought about my birth on 5 April 1880. That very day, Father lost his wife and I, my mother. I am named for her. Our immediate family consists of the two of us.”

The lady paused for a breath and sip of cooled tea.

Holmes looked at her. “Your father did not raise his daughter unaided. You are well-educated. Your manners are impeccable. You did have a woman in your life, perhaps an older relative, such as an aunt, or possibly a dedicated female servant to impart feminine refinements; however, at the proper age, you attended a boarding school in France.”

A brief nod with a rosy flush upon her face prefaced the question, “How did you know?”

Holmes scoffed. “Miss Miller, even the good doctor will have detected the wisp of accent Franҫais.” He was impatient. “Please resume. You have yet to make your trouble plain.”

Steeling her nerve, she continued, “A fortnight ago, Father welcomed me home from school with the surprising news that I was betrothed to Mr. Thornycroft. It was a shock. Though calling upon me often since my return, that man remains a stranger to me. Even though the two of them approved the match five years ago, their agreement assured my remaining unaware until my homecoming after I turned seventeen. Father and I have had harsh words on several occasions since he apprised me of my situation. He believes that I am incapable of sensibly understanding my feelings. I beg to differ. Mr. Thornycroft repels me.” Miss Miller faltered over word choice. “No, he instills fear in me. You see, gentlemen, I do not dread the rigours of being a wife. I am certain that Father sees that as my objection. But, my sense is that Mr. Thornycroft imperils my life.”

At this, Holmes abruptly sat more erect and frowned at her. If anything was to strain her fortitude, his ire would. “Young lady, you have approached me on a whimsy. You are speaking of feelings and senses. Although I fundamentally, and vigorously, disagree with the primitive marriage contract, how do you know you are endangered? What evidence do you have that the bridegroom bodes you ill?”

Face reddened beneath his criticism, Miss Miller appeared close to dashing from the café. Isolated by Holmes’s challenging tirade, she desperately pleaded with her swimming blue eyes for my support.

I interjected, “I believe credence should be given the lady’s fear.” My gallant errantry bore me no victory.

Whereas my reaction to this maiden was one of empathy and protectiveness, Holmes coldly huffed and spun to peer beyond the café’s window. It was he wishing to depart. All of a sudden, he eyed me with an odd smile before turning a kindlier aspect in her direction.

Holmes gently apologized to the lady. Thereafter, he pleasantly directed, “Miss Miller, please describe Mr. Thornycroft’s physical appearance.”

After a minute, she snuffled, “He is as tall as Dr. Watson, but heavier, more muscular. He has light brown hair with side-whiskers and a mustache to match. I think his eyes are hazel.”

“That is sufficient. Thank you. Did you tell anyone that you planned to visit Baker Street?”

“Eliza, my maid, knows.”

“Is she new to the household?” asked Holmes.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. Father hired her in order to make my rooms ready for my homecoming and to serve as lady’s maid.”

“I suggest that you be more cautious in your confidences.”

Miss Miller’s eyes and mouth opened wider in realisation.

Holmes hastened to stand. “You have not reached the crux of your account; but, I suggest that we adjourn to Regent’s Park.”

As we arose to follow, Holmes darted aside toward the broad service hallway, also at the rear of the café. Ancient peeling wallpaper of yellow flowers framed several open doorways. Holmes guided us toward the sounds of a bustling kitchen at the rear of the establishment. We immersed ourselves in steam and heat before Holmes pulled us through a door that led into an alley where my friend set a purposeful stride, leaving me to take Miss Miller’s elbow and follow. Before long, we took York Gate into Regent’s Park.

My friend matched the leisurely pace of other visitors. The park imbued our company with a refreshing forgetfulness as we strolled the green ways. At least, I thought that was true. Holmes’s critical glance at me while I patted the lady’s arm hooked about mine as we strolled proved his mind’s unceasing whirring. Indeed, his intuition was the rocky crag upon which dashed the flowers and droning insects.

Clearing his throat, Holmes divulged, “I have taken precautions, dear lady, on your behalf because I believe Mr. Thornycroft repeatedly passed before the café.”

A sound very like a startled bird escaped Miss Miller.

“There now,” I whispered as she tightened her grip on my arm.

“This is the same man I spotted from our window, Watson. He came second to your primary arrival, Miss Miller. I erred in identifying him a possible client who would leave his card.” Holmes drew us to a halt. “Given this man is the bridegroom, your apprehension commands merit. I accept your case, Miss Miller.”

Holmes cast a meaningful glance at me before he took her arm from me. “We had best complete this interview and send you home in a cab. Shall we take up your statement again?”

As I followed after them in the direction of Chester Road, my eyes continually searched for the bridegroom among the swelling number of people.

“Having convinced my father, Mr. Thornycroft requires that I visit his country home, Ashcroft Hall in the County of Northampton. There will be a dinner tomorrow evening at eight o’clock. Until now, Father demanded his calling on me be in my father’s house. I am unnerved by Father’s abrupt accommodation. I wonder by what means this change was secured. Father has tried to assure me that nothing is untoward, telling me that Mr. Thornycroft explained he wished to assure me of his position in society and the advantages of our union. He has invited company to dinner; so, he feels that I should not hesitate over possible impropriety.”

At this point, Holmes released her arm and stepped away to consider. Once done, his face decisively swiveled toward Miss Miller. “I shall be joining you.”

Miss Miller smiled.

“Holmes, how can you be sure that Thornycroft did not see the three of us?”

“Do you mean aside from his not confronting us? It is a consideration, though I have no qualms, Doctor. Do not forget the range of disguises in my repertoire.” A minor key of injury rang in his voice with the last.

“You must take me in reserve,” I insisted. “You might require my aid.”

“Be assured, Watson, that we shall make plans back at our rooms.”

We strolled northward.

“Miss Miller, if we arrive at your father’s house at two o’clock, will he be away?” inquired Holmes.

“Yes, he does not return home until four o’clock.”

“Follow my instructions,” he told her. “Inform no one of our involvement. If Mr. Thornycroft comes calling, feign a headache and remain locked in your bed-room.”

At the mention of Thornycroft, the lady’s face overshadowed; however, there was a determined set to her bow mouth, as she listened, that reflected strength and bravery that I hoped would eventually flourish in her youthful heart.

After we arrived at Chester Road, we walked alongside it to eventually depart the verdant lawns of Regent’s Park. Taking small turnings, we reached Albany Street where Holmes whistled twice to summon a hansom cab. I aided the lady to ascend the cab. Holmes penciled the address she gave the cab-driver onto his shirt-cuff before paying our client’s fare. We exchanged brief farewells as the cab departed.

Holmes whistled for another to take us home. We clambered aboard and the cab carried us away from the curb. My friend gave a low whistle. “That’s the man I observed outside the café.”

The man he indicated appeared a match for the bridegroom.

Holmes continued, “Such unwarranted interest in a young lady’s doings could be indicative of jealousy, greed, or control. Intrigue might be interesting.”

Back at our rooms, we laid our plans. Each of us had our duties. While I set about gathering items we agreed to be required for this venture, Holmes departed to conduct a number of concomitant matters and research with the promise, “I shall return before tea time.”

At four o’clock, Mrs. Hudson served tea, crumpets, and an enigma. On her tray, she brought up a large envelope. “A messenger delivered this for you, Mr. Holmes.”

The puzzle interfered with my learning what Holmes discovered. Yet, I fell equally prey as my companion.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” breathed Holmes, joining her beside the dining-room table. He lifted the packet from the tray, but hesitated to open it. Then, glancing sidelong at her, he stated with poise, “I assure you, Mrs. Hudson, that your delectable crumpets will be eaten.” Smiling, he dismissed our landlady, watching until the sitting-room door closed behind her.

I stood at his shoulder, appraising the intriguing packet in his hands, when he noticed my keen interest. “Shall we see what this brings?”

Holmes snatched up a knife from the tray and cautiously cut the thick paper open at one end. After peeking inside, he tipped its contents onto the dining-room table. A single sheet of cream paper bore a brief note from Miss Miller. With it were two smaller grey envelopes, both addressed to her. She wrote that these notes had come to her father’s house and she saw neither until this afternoon. The first, with her name misspelled, was placed the previous night on the doorstep. “Watson,” he muttered. “Someone privy to the circumstances wrote this note. The announcement in the newspaper did not appear until this morning.” The second arrived in the morning post while she was in our company. The closing of her note was a request for counsel.

Holmes extracted the notes using tweezers and examined both the envelopes and the single pieces of paper with a pocket-lens. Then, he placed the notes side-by-side on the table. Both carried identical verses.

Beware evil, you pretty bride,

Baneful Ashcroft; must not abide.

Ashen pall, oh! How they cried.

Embers eddy, sparks skyward ride,

Winding veils shroud; dusky deeds hide.

Carving vows, oh! How he lied.

Beneath the final lines on each page appeared the signature of a single name: Featherstone.

“It is a rather dark warning, is it not?” I uttered.

“Yes,” said Holmes. “It obviously refers to Miss Miller’s betrothal to Mr. Thornycroft and her impending residence at Ashcroft Hall. However, Doctor, as ominous as these lines appear, I perceive a beneficent, and feminine, hand behind them. Her emotive writing trembles in the first and freely flows in the second. A woman wishes to scare Miss Miller away for her own good.”

“Will you attempt to locate this Featherstone woman and question her?”

“That would be a wasteful pursuit,” grumbled my friend. “Though I know she lives in or near Highgate, note the postal mark on the second envelope, the name she signs is most assuredly a pseudonym. And we, old fellow, take action to-morrow. These warnings achieve an alternate purpose to intent by further raising our guard. Our plans remain the same with one exception. Ready your service-revolver, old friend.”

For several moments, silence filled the room with a stifling atmosphere. Holmes was first to stir. “I will wire Miss Miller to advise her,” said he over one shoulder. Yanking open the sitting-room door, he shouted out, “Mrs. Hudson!”

It was then that I sadly remembered the cold tea and crumpets.

As I cleaned my weapon at the dining-room table, I discovered that cold tea and crumpets were sufficient to fortify me until I ate dinner alone. Holmes had departed after arranging the wire. He insisted that I sleep and not await his return.

During the early afternoon of the following day, I descended my stairs in assured willingness for adventure only to discover a new client standing before the sitting-room hearth. As this woman faced away and appeared unaware of my presence, I hesitated to disturb her. Holmes was not yet in attendance. A stylish hat let fall tantalizing tulle to the pale russet ringlets adorning the nape of her neck. She wore a well-tailored luscious green travel dress with a petite cape. Walking boots of black accentuated the fashion’s black buttons and piping. Attractive of posture and contour, I was amazed when she gracefully raised her left arm from beneath the cape to pluck out Holmes’s pen-knife where it secured his correspondence to the mantle. She then proceeded to study the top letter. An objection formed upon my lips; however, consternation robbed me as she exhaled a cloud of smoke and casually dropped her right hand to one side, exposing both cigarette and female audacity. In the absence of her hosts’ permission, she was brazen. For me, her impropriety diminished her loveliness. Before I realized it, the letter was on the fire, singed and curled at its fringes.

I lunged for the tongs. “What the blazes are you doing?”

“I am merely discarding a proposed case of little interest, Doctor.” The voice was that of Sherlock Holmes.

Whereas I had been taken aback on previous occasions by my friend’s deceptiveness, the circumstances of this instance wrought annoyance. My hands shook as I replaced the tongs. Being tormented by a fictitious female form was embarrassing. In my defence, the effect of feminine accoutrements and detailed artistry transformed him into a woman by all appearances.

The woman in green coquettishly tilted her face toward me with my friend’s pleased grin in place of her mouth. “Well, Watson, no doubt my disguise shall perform admirably. You required a full three minutes to bestir yourself into action.”

“It is a magnificent disguise, yet unnerving,” I admitted. “Two minutes perhaps.”

Holmes emanated a sense of extreme satisfaction.

“But why, in heaven’s name, would you choose a feminine guise rather than one corresponding to your sex?”

Holmes hurled the cigarette upon the fire as if my question retracted the praise. Both nostrils and mouth exhaled a fug along with a hasty explanation, “She shall appear less threatening to our adversary. And he shall be less wary.”

Boldly meeting the dragon-woman’s eyes, I hastened to agree while struggling to refrain from laughter.

Holmes huffed. A wisp of smoke arose.

“Rosewater and mint are strategic, not tobacco,” I advised.

While Holmes retreated to his bed-room, I examined a dainty rosewood and silver walking stick he had left leaning against the nearby basket chair. The wood finish was exceptional, without blemish. A tracery of inlaid silver leaves, fully seven inches in length, rendered the perfect setting for a silver handle resembling an English rose.

My friend swept back into the room.

“This is beautiful,” I said.

He accepted the walking stick from me. “Mycroft arranged that I borrow it.” Glancing at the clock, Holmes stated, “Mrs. Hudson has a four-wheeler awaiting us.”

My friend placed the tip of the walking stick to the floor and retrieved the black reticule from the chair. “Shall we go?”

Attending my friend as a lady, I handled our luggage and returned to offer my hand at the doorway. With Holmes’s black-gloved hand in mine, we crossed to the growler where I assisted his step up. In the creamy lace teasing from beneath his dress hem, I noted the extent to which Holmes went for disguises.

Holmes and I rode together, sharing the button-tufted seat, in silence. My mind was abuzz over his disguise. He had failed to consult me regarding his choice and had assumed that I would be obliging in playing my part. My participation was requisite for the charade due to the matter of the proper treatment of genteel women. While we were in one another’s company, I would be instrumental in his presentation to observers. I felt torn by the desire for his feminine portrayal to prove a triumph, as it bore strongly on the case, or a flop, assuring his discarding the costume and reestablishing our manly camaraderie.

We arrived at the Miller home by two o’clock. As I went to collect our client, she slipped out and gently closed the door. “Good afternoon, Dr. Watson. I was waiting.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Miller.” I took her travel bag from her hand before we walked toward the cab.

“Since I am not expected to return to-night, I gave Eliza the day to do as she wishes,” she told me. The lady’s indigo blue travel dress and hat accentuated the blue brilliance of her eyes.

At the street, I helped the lady gain the step and moved toward the cab’s rear to stow her bag. I overheard Miss Miller’s giggles which lent a grim business a lighter quality. I climbed aboard to find Miss Miller mesmerized, settled into a charmed smile by my companion’s incarnation of a woman.

Holmes appeared aloof, possibly put off by her merriment. As I took my seat, Holmes rapped against the roof with the walking stick. The cab-driver lashed the team to carry us onward.

Presently, Holmes explained to Miss Miller in a practised voice perfectly pitched and inflected to carry off his deception, “Charlotte, my dear, I am your aunt, a half-sister of your mother. Introduce me to the bridegroom and his guests as Miss Lenore Peabody; but, you must address me as Aunt Lenore.”

“We approach the train station,” I announced.

After gently laying his right hand upon her left hand and seeing that she flinched, Holmes firmly said, “You must not draw away from your aunt. Imagine that I am a woman. In this, you must follow my instructions or this evening could end badly for me.” Then, patting her hand, Aunt Lenore cooed, “Trust one another, Charlotte.”

I thirstily drew encouragement from Miss Miller as she tenderly placed her right hand atop his. Consideration of failing our mission and bringing disaster upon my friend had escaped me. That our plucky young ally would remain near him was a comfort.

After the four-wheeler rocked to a halt, we disembarked. The driver handed off our luggage to a steward with a cart. Discovering that Holmes had already procured three tickets on the northbound express, we soon stepped into an unoccupied train carriage where Holmes promptly drew the draperies to discourage anyone from joining us.

Only when the train lurched into motion did Holmes use his own voice again. “Ashcroft Hall is located in the East Midlands, far from the main road that stretches between Kingsthorp and Brixworth, northwest of Northampton. Everything is arranged. We will have tea in Northampton. Soon after, driver and rig will arrive for us. Miss Miller, your part is to remain beside or within sight of Aunt Lenore while at Ashcroft Hall.”

“Is that entirely necessary, Mr. Holmes?” she asked.

“I only require what I deem necessary. Lenore Peabody is your guide and protector.”

By the time we arrived in Northampton, we were simply two ladies and a gentleman on an outing. The blue sky was an invitation to diverting activities at variance to our true purposes. We had tea and a variety of petite sandwiches at the train station’s outdoor café. When an enclosed carriage with matched team drew up to the station, my friend quietly instructed me, “Our driver’s name is Talbot. Confirm that this is he.”

“Certainly,” I replied, rising and donning my bowler. Before long, I gained verification.

As soon as we loaded and boarded, Talbot drove us through Northampton, toward Kingsthorp. Once beyond that town, Talbot drew up at a side-turning to set alight the carriage lamps. Holmes stepped out to stretch his legs. When we continued, the quality of the road deteriorated. The jostling drained the colour from Miss Miller’s face. She rolled down the shades to either side of her. Holmes simply withdrew behind closed eyes.

My eyes were drawn to what passed beyond my window. The umber sunset liberally applied deepening hues to the countryside. Presently, a wooden signpost marked our destination and Talbot directed the team to the right, following a winding rutted lane over undulating earth. In the distance, the lane climbed toward the wooded crown of a lofty hill where the day’s final sunrays ceded to darkness, revealing a wan half-moon. A fretful eye of flickering light spied down from among tree limbs at the upper height of the rise.

Those trees were the woodland through which I would be making a clandestine approach. I pulled down the shade. Gathering my overcoat nearer, I checked that my service-revolver still rested in its pocket and both gloves in the one opposite. I drew my overcoat around to slip my arms into its sleeves. “Night-time is going to be brisk,” I grumbled.

Miss Miller tugged her cape more closely.

Holmes spoke in a hushed voice, “Remember that when you arrive near the house, a locus south of it allows for observation of dining-room, entrance, and parlour. Be appeased, Watson, for the north wind breaks upon the structure.”

He knew all too well that he spoke of my secondary assignment. My initial assignment was to take account of any inhabitants in the out-buildings. Only by accomplishing the first would I gain relief in the second.

The carriage was climbing, nearing my departure. A vague sense of dread thrummed through my body; but, duty beckoned. I draped a muffler over my head and about my neck before tucking its tails inside my coat. I crammed the bowler hat atop my head. As well as we had considered the plan, it presently seemed a thrashed-out proposal for which I readied.

Holmes interrupted my contemplation. “Your apprehension is unfounded, Watson.”

“But, Holmes,” I stammered.

The carriage rocked to a halt.

“You and I shall meet again,” he declared. His confidence was heartening.

Holmes leaned past me and shoved wide the door. “We cannot linger. Grab your bag and stand away.”

After descending, I secured the door and stepped to the rear rack. I banged my fist on the carriage when done. The wheels scattered dust and pebbles against my legs and boots before I could get clear, prompting several hopped steps to one side of the lane. The cold further tightened my muscles. The noises of the horses and wheels quickly receded. The woodland greeted me with creaks and groans where the buffeting wind thrust. I buttoned my coat and donned warm gloves.

With wary thoughts for that fretful eye, I grabbed the bag and crept beneath swaying limbs where I noticed disturbed undergrowth. This brought me to a rough path, a welcome simplification of my approach. I eventually happened upon a space of hewn tree stumps where pale moonlight shown down. Retrieving items from my bag, a reserve box of cartridges went into the pocket holding my revolver. A compass, spyglass, and Holmes’s hand-drawn map went inside the pocket where my gloves had been. Thrice shielding dancing flame on a matchstick, I lit a dark-lantern and lowered its shield for scarce light. I hid the bag beneath dry leaves. Moving onward, I soon arrived at the edge of the woodland, opening onto inhabited land.

Referring to the map, Holmes’s notes indicated that a gatehouse had long ago been destroyed. He also marked the location of a water well that still served the inhabitants. Forty yards from the estate house, three out-buildings were built in near proximity to one another. Candle light was aglow inside one. Sprightly music flowed from it. Holmes’s map made orientation simple, with a single exception. Rising high above the trees was a cylindrical tower perhaps twenty yards east of my position. The map marked nothing in that direction. Convinced that I had sufficient time to both investigate this unforeseen mystery and act as spy, I set out.

When I broke through the trees into an overgrown plot of thickets surrounding a burned-out building, I nearly abandoned further exploration. I risked opening the dark-lantern. Skirting the prickly thicket, I identified what once was a blacksmith shop. A narrow path led nearer the ruin. Jagged black wood scattered about a cold forge beneath a collapsed ceiling. I continued along the path to arrive at the tower. It was a soaring smokestack above a large furnace. The area held a layer of sawdust, a significant supply of wood stacked on a rack, and tools for tending fire.

The furnace emanated heat.

I grouched under my breath, “Such a grand discovery, Holmes. They burn their rubbish.” I spun back the way I had come. Then, I stopped.

Gusting wind revealed something fluttering low at the corner of the burned building. I strode forward and shined light upon it before cautiously collecting it off a splinter. Across my palm lay a frayed strip of white lace, dirtied by soil and bits of sawdust. It was odd to find such an item in that place. I felt it possibly important enough that I slipped it into my overcoat’s inner pocket.

While my eyes searched without result for similar singularities, the even sawdust captured my attention. Holmes’s principles of detection saved me from blundering through imaginative conclusions. I crouched to further observe the ground under the dark-lantern’s eye. A fresh scattering of sawdust dominated an older discoloured layer. With the exception of my boot-marks, the entire surface revealed tracery from rake-tines. A fastidious cleansing had likely occurred while neglecting the lace.

I rushed forward, seized the poker, and pried open the furnace’s door. Waves of heat buffeted me. I stabbed the poker’s hooked point among the glowing ashes and stirred. Sparks arose. My eyes teared from dripping perspiration and merciless heat before I sensed the poker making contact with a substance harder than ash near one side. Fishing it toward the door, it caught on the hook in the last moment of my tolerance and tumbled onto the ground before the furnace. I eagerly slammed the door with the poker.

Kneeling and directing the dark-lantern, I gingerly examined the black article while nudging it with the poker. As a doctor, I recognized it: an incomplete fifth digit or little finger. Beneath the brittle blistered skin were two phalanges and one neatly-severed partial phalange. The size was indicative of an older child or a small adult female.

My medical analysis yielded to a sense of urgency. I rolled the warm specimen in a fresh handkerchief before safeguarding it alongside the lace. Returning to the point where I had arrived at the abandoned forge, an overlooked path presented. Its well-worn condition haunted me; I was positive it led where I needed to go. I lowered the shield on the dark-lantern and hastened to safeguard Holmes and Miss Miller.

The estate house was Georgian. Its southern faҫade exhibited six tall windows on the lower floor, three each upon either side of a broad entrance bounded by white pilasters and topped by a broad fan transom. Seven windows aligned on the upper floor. Light escaped the windows to flee across the grounds.

My hiding-place while kneeling behind a hedge of hollies bordering the front garden provided a view of the dining-room, opulent in reds and golds. Through the spyglass, the candle light dazzled from among crystal and silver pieces. Thornycroft sat at the head of the rich table, the master, with seven guests in attendance, three ladies and five gentlemen. An elderly woman sat in a bath-chair at the opposite end and three guests each sat upon either side of the table. Miss Miller was upon the bridegroom’s right. As Aunt Lenore, Holmes sat between two gentlemen who faced the window. Given my dining experiences, I estimated that the dinner party had advanced by perhaps three wines with courses according to the remaining tableware. I had been overlong at the furnace. This post was my priority. The lingering warmth and pressure of the little finger against my breast reinforced my conviction. If trouble arrived from the out-buildings, so be it.

“Late to the party, are we?” a raspy voice breathed near my left ear.

Instinct drove my right fist, bloodying Inspector Lestrade’s mouth. He swore a garbled oath behind a stained handkerchief.

“What are you doing here?” I spouted in astonishment.

Lestrade’s moist eyes rolled his answer.

I added rather late, “I do apologize.”

Lestrade simply nodded.

Injured by my fist, he deserved my succor; but, I was unprepared, having forsaken my medical satchel for this night’s equipment. I had not even a fresh handkerchief to offer the man. The fifth digit!

“Lestrade, I discovered …” I began.

“Shush,” he interrupted me.

I fished through my pockets to locate the saved items. As I loosely wrapped the lace about the handkerchief, I told him, “Here, take these.”

“Quiet,” he spat, as he signaled that I listen. I placed the handkerchief wrapped about with the torn lace into his free hand. He absent-mindedly slipped them into his coat pocket.

We peeked through the hollies.

Drumming hooves swept up the approach to the house. A burly whiskered man dismounted at a sprint. His steed’s reins dangled free. He stormed the front steps. He breeched the entrance. His voice boomed within the walls.

“What do you see?” asked Lestrade.

“Thornycroft left the table to confront the interloper,” I answered behind the levelled spyglass. “I cannot observe them from this angle. Let us move farther along the hollies.”

“No. We need to move closer, Doctor.”

“Wait,” I said. “Miss Miller has risen in some distress. Holmes is making his way to her. The four men are also standing.”

“Come along,” growled Lestrade.

Though I felt him move away, my eye remained focused through the spyglass. Miss Miller and Aunt Lenore departed through the doors where Thornycroft had slipped. At that moment, I witnessed the four male guests assume spirits unbecoming gentlemen. They followed after the two ladies.

The old woman in the bath-chair clasped her hands and wept.

The sound of a whistle thrice blown troubled the frigid air.

I put the spyglass away and hurried after the inspector.

Just ahead, Lestrade blew a shrill blast upon a police whistle as he set a smart pace toward the entry door. As I now charged to catch up to him, five uniformed constables appeared from hiding to converge upon the inspector. Talbot, our driver, sprinted to join. I would only later learn that he was of the Northampton constabulary. Inspector Lestrade and the police detail swept up the steps and through the open door.

Once I arrived inside the hall, I observed Lestrade and his men assuming custody with practised form. The four male guests stood in a neat row for the officers to clamp the darbies. Lestrade ordered two men to collect the household staff. The wild horseman now sat with his legs drawn up at the fringe of the parlour rug. He mumbled gibberish.

The bridegroom stood still with his back to us at the base of the staircase. I moved nearer, to one side, in order to render aid to my friend if needed. Holmes, having assumed a higher position on the staircase, grasped the rosewood walking stick in one hand and, with the other, poised the point of an epée upon Thornycroft’s throat. Holmes’s keen eyes and steady hands refined the target. Holmes appeared feverish, perhaps flushed after activity while wearing his cumbersome disguise, the requisite finery for a formal dinner. A spot of blood showed upon Holmes’s lower lip. When Lestrade approached and momentarily stared beyond his new prisoner in amusement at Holmes’s costume, the point of the epée remained steady. The inspector drew the bridegroom rearwards to secure him. Holmes lowered the unblemished blade, returning it to its crafty covering.

I stepped up to shake my friend’s hand. “Congratulations.”

He nodded in mute acceptance while slipping his hand from mine. “Yes, my dear Watson. We return home. But now, I wish to cleanse away Aunt Lenore and change into more agreeable clothing.” He turned to deliberately continue up the stairs.

At that moment, Miss Miller and the elderly woman, both unharmed, arrived from the dining-room. I descended and approached Miss Miller to be introduced; however, before we could manage the social nicety, Lestrade enlisted my medical services to tend a nasty bite wound suffered by one of the constables. The elderly lady directed Miss Miller to the necessary supplies. Then, the constable and I retreated into the parlour for his treatment.

When we stepped back into the entry hall, the great house stood silent, the lights and fires extinguished. Lestrade waited just within the open entryway with a lantern. As the injured constable and I passed, the inspector secured the door.

“Oh, Doctor Watson,” called the inspector. “Thank you for helping the man. And thank you for this.” He lightly patted his pocket. “I will require more information from you later.”

A variety of conveyances awaited our appearance, prepared to journey to Northampton. It required two black Mariah’s to transport the prisoners. Lestrade took the hand of one of the drivers and swung up to the box. Talbot sat in the box of the carriage, prepared to be our driver again. Climbing aboard, I discovered that I was the final passenger. Holmes leaned back with his eyes shut and his hands loosely wrapped about the walking stick. There was the hint of tobacco smoke about him. The attire he made use of, likely pulled from one of the wardrobes, was a poor fit on his slender physique. The elderly woman, who gently snuffled, was leaving the house, at least for a time, as she required aid to live. Only her countenance was visible for the colour of her clothing blended too well with the darkness surrounding her. Miss Miller, alone, remained alert to welcome me. We left Ashcroft Hall behind us.

In spite of my profound curiosity, Holmes’s elucidation of the case finally occurred five days later. At Baker Street, Holmes fell into a morose mood that only broke with the arrival of a military personage in conventional attire. His commission was to retrieve the walking stick. Holmes apologized for requesting that I absent myself while they conversed. I retreated.

I rushed down from my bed-room when I heard the outer door close.

Holmes was in the sitting-room, lounging in the basket chair with his legs extended and his ankles crossed toward the warmth of the hearth. He glanced at me with a smile when I entered.

“Watson, you have been decidedly patient with me,” he said. “Mrs. Hudson is bringing up coffee and cake, a new recipe. Let us sit and speak of our recent case.”

During my making a record of these adventures through the years, I have learned to never pass on such an offer, neither refreshments nor illumination. “Oh, gladly, Holmes,” I responded while making myself comfortable in the chair opposite him.

Following a moment of thought, Holmes began. “My research revealed that Thornycroft’s business reputation marked him a suspect due to his ruthlessness. He took advantage of people and ruined them if it was to his advantage. Barrington Smythe Miller borrowed a large sum of money from Thornycroft five years ago. In addition to interest on the loan, Mr. Miller had to promise Charlotte’s hand in marriage.”

“He must have been desperate beyond sound reasoning,” I declared.

“Mr. Miller took a terrible chance,” Holmes continued. “He slowly realized Thornycroft’s nature, though he never truly knew its dark depth, and decided too late to protect his daughter. His unexpected arrival at Ashcroft Hall enraged the bridegroom.”

“Miller was the horseman!”

“That is correct. As you went to collect Miss Miller at the door, the maid Eliza watched from a distance and reported to Mr. Miller that her mistress departed with a man. He became incensed, believing Thornycroft had stolen his daughter away. His own guilt may have unhinged him. His state appeared madness by the time he entered Ashcroft Hall.”

It was at this time that Mrs. Hudson interrupted us. She carried the tray of coffee and slices of cake to a small table between us. A tidy stack of mail lay bundled to one side. “I will serve, Mrs. Hudson,” I hurried to volunteer. She accommodated me. The disturbance threatened to forestall my friend’s clarification of the case. I made certain the sitting-room door was closed. When I turned back to the tray, Holmes had already delved into the mail to my disappointment. He was reading a letter. “Please carry on with your account of the case, Holmes.”

“Ah, but certainly,” he assured me, resting the letter on his lap. “Thornycroft and Miller were in conflict when Miss Miller and I left the dining-room. It was quite an uneven match. I entered the fray and received a slap across the face.” Holmes’s tongue briefly touched where his lip had been split. “His gold ring probably injured my lip. Thornycroft still believed me to be a woman. Otherwise, the practicality of specific strikes upon my person would have been given greater weight. Our client blew the whistle I had provided her. She had climbed halfway up the staircase. The men, with whom we had been dining, burst all at once through the doors, directionless. Thornycroft pushed Mr. Miller down and turned upon me; however, before his men crossed the hall to join him, Thornycroft was at my mercy. They followed my orders. In the end, Mr. Miller, unfortunate in his countless choices, lost all that truly mattered.”

“Miss Miller,” I stated.

“Yes, I believe she scorned her father. She refused my suggestion that she go to him. Instead, she went to help the elderly woman.”

“I cannot imagine such hardness resting within her bosom,” I said. “Perhaps she will forgive her father and be kind to him when she grows older.”

“Perhaps,” muttered Holmes.

We sipped our coffee, each to his thoughts.

“When did you draw Inspector Lestrade into this business?” I inquired.

“It was Lestrade who first approached me. He sought assistance from me six weeks ago regarding robberies in Northampton and the surrounding counties. He deigned to share with me the pertinent records of the past year. I offered him fresh insight and indicated possibly overlooked matters requiring study. Lestrade was duty-bound to seek justice. My sentiment, though unofficial, was no less earnest; however, I was not invited to consider further data as new investigations opened. Yet, when I required men to assist, Lestrade was the second man, after you, whom I thought to recruit.”

“I am confused, Holmes. Thornycroft was identified as an untrustworthy man of business. Then, you were helping investigate robberies. What has this to do with the other? And how do the furnace and the little finger fit into the puzzle?”

“Watson, this web of criminality spread in multiple directions; however, the many investigators failed to share information. The Professor spun the best web. Thornycroft was simply the leader of the gang, the robber bridegroom. Ashcroft Hall was their lair, the common location among the various cases. During the past year, there had also been disappearances of young women from several counties. This I learned from the Northampton police force. The gang was suspected. From one source, there was an account of cannibalism.”

“Is that true, Holmes?”

“I hold no illusions regarding what can take place in the countryside. I have no doubt that the furnace was specially built to dispose of evidence. What better way than burning for the leavings?”

“We will probably never know whose finger I discovered,” I lamented. “That death must have been a horrible ending.”

“Yes, Doctor. Be encouraged for the missing young women may yet be found alive. One of them may have nine digits.”

“Yes, I suppose I must be optimistic.” My thoughts turned to Miss Miller. She had grown much in the short time we had known her. She kept her head during the pandemonium and calmed the old woman. “Have you learned what became of the elderly lady I observed sitting in the bath-chair?”

“My dear Watson,” stated Holmes as he dangled the letter and envelope before my eyes. “It is an exquisite, though curious, balancing of human nature and human frailty when the mother of such a felonious creature as Thornycroft discovers both rescuer and lady’s companion in his targeted victim. Madame Thornycroft and Miss Miller will leave on holiday to the Continent three days hence.”

—The End—

Little Plaid Cap

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, reinterpreted by Sandra Little

(Part One: Little Red Cap infused with Sherlock Holmes)

ONCE there was a dear, quite tall man whom everyone at Scotland Yard admired and wanted to shake hands with, though it was his grandmother who truly loved him most of all. There was nothing she would not give him. She had even made him a little plaid deerstalker cap, which was so becoming on him that the mainstream media never represented him wearing anything else—and that was why everyone called him Little Plaid Cap.

One day, Little Plaid Cap's brother said, “Look, Little Plaid Cap, here is a piece of cake and a bottle of wine and some secret plans for a submarine. Take them to Grandmother. She is sick and weak due to Too Much Art in the Blood. No one will visit her secluded little cottage, so it will be an excellent place to hide the plans, and perhaps the cake and wine will make her feel better. You’d better start now before the path gets too saturated with sticky yellow fog. Walk properly, like a good, dear boy, and don’t leave the path or you will fall down and break the bottle and there won’t be anything for Grandmother-- and we all know how the French love their wine. And when you get to her house, don’t forget to say 'good morning', and don’t go looking in all the corners deducing things because that is quite rude.”

Normally, Little Plaid Cap would lure his companion, a soldier who had returned from the wars, away from either his workplace or his latest wife for a journey such as this, but his brother had requested expediency and it was but a short trip. He would travel alone.

"I will take great care," Little Plaid Cap assured his brother.

His grandmother lived in the wood, half an hour's hansom ride from the village. No sooner had Little Plaid Cap set foot on the forest path than he met a man with thick sideburns and beady eyes he immediately recognised as the rogue ruffian known only as The Wolf. Little Plaid Cap knew what a wicked beast he was, but he wasn't afraid of him.

"Good morning, Little Plaid Cap," said he.

"Thank you kindly, Wolf."

"Where are you going so early, Little Plaid Cap?"

"To my grandmother's."

"And what's that you've got under your Inverness cape?"

"Cake and wine. My brother's housekeeper baked yesterday, so Grandmother, who is sick and weak, shall have something nice to make her feel better."

"Where does your grandmother live, Little Plaid Cap?"

"In St John's Wood, fifteen or twenty minutes' ride from here, under the three large, copper-coloured beech trees. There are moss rose bushes just below. You must know the place."

‘How overconfident and brazen he is!,’ thought The Wolf. ‘Why, to rid myself of him would be a far more worthy challenge than merely stealing those plans. Maybe, if I'm clever enough, I can get them both.’

So, after walking along the path for a short while beside Little Plaid Cap, he said, "Little Plaid Cap, open your eyes. What lovely flowers! Why don't you look around you? Or are you, much like an automaton, incapable of enjoying all the pleasure which nature bestows? I don't believe you even hear how sweetly the birds are singing. It's so delightful out here in the wood, yet you trudge as solemnly as if you were going to the dentist." In this way, The Wolf hoped to distract Little Plaid Cap, and therefore do away with him.

Little Plaid Cap looked up, and saw the sunbeams dancing this way and that between the trees and the beautiful flowers all around him, pausing briefly to admire the fragrant lilac bushes, the violets, hyacinths and wild carnations strewn about the forest floor (for despite his singular focus, he was certainly quite capable of appreciating all forms of beauty afforded by Divine Providence). He smiled and said, "Grandmother will be pleased if I bring her a bunch of nice fresh flowers. It's so early now that I am certain to be there in plenty of time." Once he had picked one, he exclaimed that surely there must be a more beautiful one farther on, and so he went deeper and deeper into the wood and The Wolf soon lost sight of him.

The Wolf, foiled in his nefarious scheme to lead our beloved protagonist astray, eviscerate him, and steal the plans, decided his best course of action was to head straight to Grandmother's house. He knocked at the door.

"Who's there?"

"Little Plaid Cap, bringing cake and wine. Open the door."

"Just raise the latch," cried the grandmother, "I'm too weak to get out of bed."

The Wolf raised the latch and the door swung open. Without saying a single word, he went straight to Grandmother's bed and bound her from head to toe and tossed her in an airing cupboard. He then threw open her closet to reveal a stunning array of dressing gowns, one in every colour of the rainbow. He chose a mouse-coloured one, which he donned along with her nightcap, and lay down in the bed. He settled under the duvet and drew the curtains, for the old woman had a sketchpad near her nightstand -- you will recall that she was an artist!

Meanwhile, Little Plaid Cap had been running about picking flowers, and when he had as many as he could carry and was certain the Wolf was nowhere to be seen, he started off again to Grandmother's. When he arrived, he was surprised to find the front door open, and was struck with a creeping, shrinking sensation as he stepped into the house.

"Halloa!" he called out, but there was no answer.

Then he went up to the bed and drew the curtains as well (though truly it was more like a quick sketch, since he was anxious). His grandmother had the cap pulled far down over her face, and clearly was not his grandmother at all, for The Wolf was hardly a master of disguise. And this was Little Plaid Cap's own grandmother, after all. He knew her pretty well. Still, best to play along for the time being.

"Oh, Grandmother, what big ears you have!"

"The better to hear you with."

"Oh, Grandmother, what big eyes you have!"

"The better to see you with."

"Oh, Grandmother, what big hands you have!"

"The better to grab you with!"

And no sooner had The Wolf spoken than he bounded off the bed and grabbed Little Plaid Cap. When The Wolf had tied him up and thrown him into the cupboard as well, he began to ransack the basket, searching for the plans. That was precisely when Little Plaid Cap's companion arrived.

"Old boy!" Little Plaid Cap said under his breath upon hearing the scuffle, "You've found me after all! I was worried it would be a long time. I should have known never to underestimate you." He easily slipped free of his own bonds and quietly untied his grandmother, making sure she was in good health.

The soldier leveled his service revolver and was just about to fire when it occurred to him that The Wolf might have taken both his companion and his grandmother elsewhere, and he needed to assure their safety, first and foremost. In exchange for his life, The Wolf revealed their hiding place. They were both alive and well, though the old woman could barely breathe, so dark and oppressive it had been inside the hiding place, whilst Little Plaid Cap had patiently awaited the moment his soldier would free him.

The soldier (who also happened to be a doctor) checked Little Plaid Cap's bare wrists, gently running his hands over the fading red marks on his skin. After permitting the soldier a moment to reassure himself all was well, Little Plaid Cap ran outside and brought back great stones. Together, they set up a contraption by which the heavy stones pinned The Wolf to the side of a nearby bridge so that his legs would no longer carry him, where he would be forced to await the arrival of the authorities.

All three were happy; the grandmother ate of the cake and drank of the wine and had a bit of restorative brandy as well, and soon felt much better; and as for Little Plaid Cap, he said to himself, ‘Never again will I leave without my faithful companion.’ The flowers made Grandmother sneeze, so he presented them to the soldier, who liked them very much indeed.

-- The End --

Little Red Cap and Granny Holmes

by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, reinterpreted by Sandra Little

(Part Two: Sherlock Holmes Infused with Little Red Cap)

ONCE upon a time there was a dreadful little girl who was hated by everyone who looked upon her, save for her grandmother, who would have given anything for the horrible child. She had even made her a little cap of blood-red velvet, which suited the girl so well that she would never wear anything else -- and so she was called ‘Little Red Cap.’

Though it was without doubt due to the cap and cloak her grandmother had made for her, Little Red Cap preferred to think the appellation arose from her great love of hazardous plants-- particularly of the mushroom which bore that very name. Little Red Cap loved the darkness of the forest, wherein all manner of poisons could be found with just a scratch beneath the waxy surface of a leaf, buried amongst roots, or hidden deep within the cheerfully-coloured flowers. She studied them without mercy till they yielded their secrets.

Her grandmother had encouraged her in her studies, but recently she had cautioned Little Red Cap on her growing recklessness. The old woman feared that her granddaughter would be lured into dark magic, from which there would be no turning back. When she discovered Little Red Cap had poisoned her songbird, Grandmother refused to provide the girl with the equipment needed to further her studies-- unless it was under the tutelage of a Wise Woman. Grandmother thought them a strange lot-- solitary heathens with bohemian ways scattered throughout the land, so very different from village folk-- but they knew light as well as darkness and could always be trusted to guide someone safely through the journey.

But Little Red Cap had refused to so much as glance at Granny Holmes. The odd woman in the secluded hut did not frighten her, as she had done to so many others (though they still found courage enough to come to her for aid). Little Red Cap simply preferred to study on her own, without restrictions. Especially from other horrid old women.

One day her mother said to her, "Come, Little Red Cap, here is a piece of cake and a bottle of wine; take them to your grandmother, she is ill and weak, and they will do her good. Set out before it gets hot, and when you are going, walk nicely and quietly and do not run off the path, or you may fall and break the bottle, and then your grandmother will get nothing; and when you go into her room, don’t forget to say, 'Good morning', and don’t peep into every corner before you do it."

Little Red Cap rolled her eyes, but turned to face her mother and smiled politely as she spoke. "I will take great care," said Little Red Cap. Alas, the woman did not know what a wicked creature her daughter was, for this was the opportunity she had been longing for. The old woman was a hinderance. There were sacrifices to be made in the pursuit of knowledge.

‘I must act craftily,’ she thought, and walked off the path and looked round the sunlit forest in search of the right flowers for a deadly effect. She saw a shadowy figure walking along the road, carrying a small pouch much like her own.

"Good day, Little Red Cap," said Granny Holmes.

"Thank you kindly, Granny," she replied demurely.

"Whither away so early, Little Red Cap?"

"To my grandmother’s."

"What have you got in your apron?"

The questions were becoming a nuisance, but the doddering old woman was harmless. And it would help for someone else to bear witness to the fact that her grandmother had already been quite ill. "Cake and wine; yesterday was baking-day, so poor sick grandmother is to have something good, to make her stronger."

"Where does your grandmother live, Little Red Cap?"

"A good quarter of a league farther on in the wood; her house stands under the three large oak-trees, the nut-trees are just below; you surely must know it," replied Little Red Cap impatiently, as she continued to refuse to look her in the eye, scanning the woods instead for the right toxins to harvest.

Granny walked for a short time near to Little Red Cap, and then smiled warmly and said, "See, Little Red Cap, how pretty the flowers are about here—why do you not look round? I believe, too, that you do not hear how sweetly the little birds are singing; you walk gravely along as if you were going to school."

This must be the most anyone had ever heard the old woman talk. Perhaps her grandmother had already told her of Red's interest in the forest's riches and Old Lady Holmes was evaluating her as a potential pupil. Little Red Cap raised her eyes, and saw the sunbeams dancing here and there through the trees, and pretty flowers growing everywhere, but it brought her no joy. She was not finding the mushrooms she sought, growing in ragged clumps on the leeward side of the trees.

"Their smell and color are an embellishment of life. We have much to hope from the flowers," said the old woman, who grinned broadly as she turned from the path, moving deeper and deeper into the wood. Little Red Cap smirked. ‘Yes. The flowers are quite useful indeed.’

She had found that which she had sought. Her grandmother had eaten of the poisoned food and drunk of the poisoned wine and no one had been the wiser. Nor would any notice the disappearance of the modest savings of a dead woman.

When Little Red Cap set out to purchase a brand new microscope from the crippled old peddler who somehow made his way in from Tottenham each week, she noticed that that old Holmes Woman was there yet again, with the unblinking eyes of a vulture, watching her carry it home. That wouldn't do. Addled or no, the old witch knew far too much. Certainly no one would make a social call, and aside from the brave souls seeking assistance none would visit her... save for another old woman who came delivering food, and a middle-aged woodsman who brought firewood, supplies from the city, and other items from local shops as needed. Rarely, a very large, nearly ancient man could be seen hobbling down the path like an elephant in heeled boots. That was the extent of Granny Holmes's regular visitors. The witch would not be missed.

Each time the peddler came to town, she raided his wares looking for something unique and intriguing, and upon the third visit she had found what she had been searching for. A neat little thing it was, too-- a small, black and white ivory box with a sliding lid. She set to work on creating a poisoned trap.

Her grandmother's money did not go as far as she had hoped, but it had been enough for the microscope and some of the rarer herbs: Tapanuli, Black Formosa, Devil's Foot Root...all from far-away places like Sumatra or Khartoum which she was certain she'd visit soon. All with deadly potential. But she was sentimental at heart, and prepared a draught from the same species of mushroom which she had used to rid herself of her grandmother.

She prepared the potion carefully, immersed the tip of sharp, metal spring in the solution, and concealed it within the box. When the lid was pushed open, the point would dart out and puncture the finger of whomever would disturb it, like a fanged serpent, and deliver the poison deep within where it would freeze the victim's very heart. She wrapped it tightly in shiny golden paper, and when the courier came by on his rounds she sent it off with him, and waited.

Three days later there came a knock upon the door of her mother's house. The courier wished to speak with Little Red Cap urgently.

"I am sorry sir, but it is not proper for my daughter to meet with a gentleman whom--"

"The apology is mine to make, madam. I am sorry, but the matter cannot be delayed. Granny Holmes—”

"It's all right, mother, I am sure the courier means not to proposition me, he only brings word of my future tutor, though why I cannot be certain. Have you come from Granny Holmes, sir?" she asked sweetly.

“I have just left her.”

“What of her, then? How is she?”

“She is desperately ill. That is why I have come.”

Little Red Cap motioned him to sit, and in doing so, caught a glimpse of her own face in the mirror over the mantelpiece. She tried her best to school her features into genuine concern.

“I am sorry to hear this,” said she. “I scarcely know Granny Holmes as of yet, but was considering studying with her next spring. I have much respect for her talents, though I believe we have differing approaches. I am far more interested in botany than...I suppose it would be alchemy, her specialty?"

“It was on account of your special knowledge that Granny Holmes desired to see you. She has a high opinion of you and thinks you the only one who could help her.”

Little Red Cap took a quick breath. “Why?” she asked. “Why should Granny Holmes think that I could help her with her illness?”

“Because of your knowledge of plant-borne disease.”

“But why should she think that this disease which she has contracted is related to botany?”

“Because she has been working with Mariner's Landing seaweed. She fears she must not have taken adequate precautions.”

Red Cap smiled pleasantly and picked up a small, leather pouch. “Oh, that's it—is it? I trust the matter is not so grave as you suppose. How long has she been ill?”

“About three days.”

"It might resolve on its own if--"

"You must come!" he pleaded, "For she is near death and says she wishes to consult with you and you alone." He rose from his chair and paced the room.  "When I came by as usual to deliver the firewood, she was unable to open the door. She asked who was there in the weakest of voices and when I said it was John, here with more wood, she said I should just raise the latch. That she was too weak to get out of bed."

He looked pleadingly at Red Cap. "Then she stared at me with terribly sunken eyes and asked me how many coins I had within my purse and of what denomination. I hoped beyond hope she meant to see if had sufficient funds to fetch a doctor for her, but she only bade me rearrange them-- some in one pocket, some in the other. I was better balanced this way, said she. Some talk followed of random things. Of the increasing number of oysters--"

“So she is delirious!"

"Yes."

"Other symptoms?"

John looked down as he spoke. "Now, not many know of this, but... I am a Root Doctor myself. I have spoken at length with Granny Holmes, often, about tinctures and such. So I know she was certainly far from herself. When I pressed her for information with which to attempt my own diagnosis she said she felt as if she was a tiny, flickering candle, still trying in vain to light an entire room. I tried to... to get closer. To see if she was as feverish as she looked to be with her flushed cheeks. She bade me move back. Then..." Red Cap could see this pained the man to explain. "Then she said my worth was not as a healer, but rather lay in my ability to fetch things. And I should go fetch someone in whom she had confidence." He swallowed. "She said you have the finest tools and the keenest mind with which to utilize them. Please. Please go to her."

"It would be inhumane not to. I will see her."

"I must leave. I am too long from my errands. You will see her today?"

"You have my word.”

When Red Cap arrived at the tiny hut she was surprised to find the door standing open. The room was dim in the fading sunlight, but one could still make out the gaunt, wasted face wracked with fever, dark crusts clinging to her lips, as she gazed out from the partially-drawn bed curtains. The thin hand that attempted to gesture Red Cap toward a chair beside the bed twitched incessantly. Her eyes closed as if drifting off. Red Cap needed her awake a moment or two longer, and shook her by the shoulder.

“Is that you, Little Red Cap?” Granny whispered. “I hardly dared hope that you would come. It is very good of you—very noble of you to show charity to one such as I. I appreciate your special knowledge.”

Little Red Cap gave no response and moved closer to her bedside.

"Oh! Granny Holmes," she said, "What a hollowed face you have! What flushed cheeks! What sunken eyes and trembling hands! Do you know what ails you?”

“"Better for you to tell me. I am quite certain you know what this is." Granny Holmes's voice nearly gave out entirely as she finished, "For I believe it to be the same."

“Ah! You recognize the symptoms?”

She struggled to gain the breath with which to speak. “Only too well. I knew. That you did it. Then.”

“Oh, you did, did you? Watching my every move. And now, crawling to me for help?”

“Water!” she gasped.

“You're precious near your end, but I don't want you to go till I have had a word with you, so I'll give you water. There...neatly, now! That's right. Can you understand what I say?”

She groaned. “I never said a word. Even though I was certain. You were... looking for... poison. Not flowers. By the trees. Do what you can…for me. Let bygones be bygones,” she whispered. “Only cure me, and I'll forget it.”

“Forget what?”

"You as good as admit you killed your grandmother." The old woman's desperate words gushed out like a stream tumbling over jagged rocks. "I'll put the words out of my head— I swear it. I'll erase it all. I'll forget it."

“You can forget it or remember it, just as you like. I don't see you in the witness box. You are destined for quite another type of box." Little Red Cap smiled. "It matters little if you know all about my grandmother's death; it is not hers we are here to discuss, but yours.”

“Yes.”

“The fellow who came for me—the delivery man—said that you contracted it from mishandling extracts."

“I could only account for it so."

“And yet you call yourself Wise? Well we know the limits of your wisdom. Think back, witch. Can you think of no other way you could have contracted this?”

“I can't think. My mind is gone. For heaven's sake help me!”

“Yes, I will help you. I'll help you to understand just where you are and how you got there. I'd like you to know before you die.”

“Give me something to ease my pain.”

“Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow. Listen now! Can you remember anything unusual around the time your symptoms began?”

“Nothing.”

“Think again.”

“I'm too ill to think.”

"Listen! You ‘shall’ hear me, witch! Do you remember a box—an ivory box? It came by post. You opened it—do you remember?”

“Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a sharp piece of metal inside it. Some prankster—”

“It was no merry prank. Who asked you to keep watch on me? If you had only left me alone, I would not have had to hurt you.”

“I remember,” she gasped. “The spring! It drew blood. The box-- on the table.”

“The very one-- which just so happens to fit perfectly within my pocket. You value knowledge. Know that I killed you. You knew too much of Grandmother's fate, so I have sent you to share it. As for me...I will sit here, and I will watch you die.”

Granny's voice had sunken to an almost inaudible whisper.

“What is that? Light the candle? Shadows begin to fall. Yes, I will. The better to see you, dear Granny Holmes.” She lit the candle on the nightstand. "Is there any other little service that I can do for you, ‘Magistra’?"

Granny’s voice was suddenly both as clear and as quick as a mountain spring. “Yes, you can toss some more of John's firewood into the stove, and then put the kettle on. I need a good rolling boil to cook the potatoes. I'll have to get the butter and salt later; first things first."

"What?"

“Yes, I'm very hungry, and I think I would rather like mashed potatoes. The best way to pretend to be ill is...to be ill, you see. I give you my word-- for three days I have tasted neither food nor drink until you were good enough to pour me out that glass of water. Well, I say good, though you had other motives which had scarce little to do with goodness. And the same can be said of your lighting the candle. That was a signal, by the way. Might have been cumbersome for me to do so myself, as I was rather preoccupied with feigning my death, so thank you for that.  Harken! I hear the step of a friend!"

Granny Holmes beamed as two men entered the room. "Dearest Friend John, I thank you, for doing all I asked of you without explanation. And thank you as well, Constable Morton. I hope you have heard all that was necessary?"

“For the murder of Victoria Smith,” Morton stated, advancing on Red.

“And you might add my attempted murder as well. Your prisoner has a small box within the pocket-lining of her cape which I would handle very gingerly if I were you.” She turned to the courier and her smile faded. "John, I owe you a thousand apologies. And my eternal thanks for convincing her to come."

John's face was as stone. "You must have known she would."

"Knowing her vindictive nature, it was likely she would wish to look upon her handiwork."

John moved closer, hesitantly, and peered at her face.

"Vaseline upon one's forehead."

"The better to replicate the ravages of fever."

"Your eyes, Granny...?"

"Belladonna. It is quite difficult to see you, in fact."

"And then the rouge and wax..."

"Nothing to this disease which a sponge would not cure. And so now you see why I had to use every means at my disposal for you to keep your distance. I could not have my secrets revealed. You are far too perceptive to be deceived; it was my only hope against discovery."

"You think I am perceptive and call me your dearest friend, and yet you think me incapable of keeping your secrets."

"For you to be deceived is difficult; for you to deceive, impossible. It is not in your nature, John. Be glad on this. You are a good man, a protector, a healer."

"I am a deliverer of parcels," he spat out.

She closed her eyes, let out a huff of breath, then quietly said, "John," upon reopening them, her head tilted down in supplication.

"No, it's fine. My days of secrets and adventure and intrigue are all well in my past, and--"

"I had you send my message to a murderer," Granny Holmes smiled. "Or had you forgotten that small detail? That is a rather dangerous task, for even the best and bravest of messengers."

"I had no knowledge of that fact with which to lay claim to bravery."

"And I... needed to feel I could fool you to ensure myself that I could fool her. Long enough till your return with the constable, at least."

"You had doubts?"

She looked at John and cleared her throat before speaking. "Yes. And if I could fool you, I could fool anyone, for no one knows me but half as well."

There was a moment of silence before John spoke. "I know you must be hungry. You often are after solving any puzzle, let alone one requiring a three day fast."

Granny Holmes smiled. "I tried to get her to put a kettle on."

"Did you?"

"Yes. She was not as accommodating as she was about the lighting of the candle."

"Then let's see to that first, shall we? Is there anything in particular I can prepare for you? Nothing too complicated. I may be a good man and a protector and a healer and a brave courier, but I am no cook."

"Could you, by chance, find it within your purview to boil some potatoes?"

—The End—

Cracking the Case

by Steve and Pam Mason

Based on “Humpty Dumpty”

“Mr. Holmes, thanks so much for seeing me on such short notice. I admit I just have nowhere else to turn.”

The woman who had presented herself to Holmes and myself was ghostly white, all color drained away from her visage, from either fear or fatigue.

“Madam, I cannot offer you a guaranteed solution, but if I may somehow relieve the obvious stress you are under, I will do my best. I believe I speak for Dr. Watson he too will support you in this time of need. Please try to give me the facts, succinctly and without too many digressions.”

The woman shifted nervously on the chaise, teetering on the edge.

“My husband and I have recently celebrated the 5th anniversary of our nuptials. While we have yet to be blessed with children, our plans certainly included having ‘a basket’ of them. Due to the ‘fragile’ natures of relatives on both sides of our family, he decided it would benefit us to take out an insurance policy in case of a tragic end to either of us.”

“And what was the amount of payout on this policy?”

“10,000 pounds, which is not a princely sum, but would have kept the surviving spouse and offspring comfortable. The policy was issued last month, but went into effect immediately.”

“Interesting,” I stated; “I don’t believe immediate coverage is normal.”

“You’re right, Dr. Watson. However, my husband paid a higher premium for this provision. He is very anxious harm may come to him in the very near future. Now I am afraid his prediction has come true.”

At this point, our visitor became more visibly shaken. Holmes directed that I prescribe a stiff belt of alcohol to steady her. After a minute or two, she was able to continue.

“My husband had recently taken up a very dangerous vocation, high wall walking. His team would close down a street, and then charge to watch my husband walk along a building or wall edge.”

Holmes’ brow creased. “That seems a very dangerous sport for anyone.”

“It was, but my husband seemed to think he was invincible… he even had me convinced a fall simply would not be fatal.”

I interrupted. “But ma’am, you just told us your husband paid extra for the insurance due to his fear of impending harm.”

“At the time of the policy, he was worried… but since taking up this new work, his regimen had changed. His outlook changed also.”

Sherlock continued the inquiries. “Did your husband use a net in case of a misstep?”

“Normally yes, but he believed he had mastered the art to the point he no longer needed the protection.”

Again with the crying. And another belt of steadying tonic.

“Yesterday was his first performance without a safety net. The police believe it was a simple misstep as he was distracted by a large bird flying near his head. He fell three floors and landed head first. As you can guess, it was not a pretty sight.”

“I am so sorry… did you happen to witness the tragedy?”

“I was there for the stunt, but I had just entered the building to use the facilities when he fell to his death.”

Sherlock showed an expression of confusion. “So please explain why you are here. So this seems a simple accident, easily avoidable, but sadly, very straight forward.”

“I contacted the insurance agency yesterday… they seem to think it might have been a suicide… a new policy, followed quickly by a death…”

“And of course, they will not pay out on a suicide… the policy is null and void,” Holmes opined.

“Please help me prove it was an accident, and my husband did not take his own life. Without those funds, I would have to pawn my husband’s watch, just to make ends meet.”

With this, she pulled out an exquisitely jeweled pocket watch out of her pocket. Holmes eyebrows rose, but otherwise tried not to show too much interest in the timepiece.

I was impressed with the piece. “That’s a beautiful watch.”

“Yes. My father actually designed and built it. I learned at my father’s knee how to clean, maintain, and repair clocks and watches.”

“Would you mind if I took a look at that? I have thought of writing a small monograph on pocket watches and what they can reveal about the owner.”

“Holmes, I would appreciate it if you did not…”

“Sorry Watson, I did not know you were still sensitive about the subject.”

“Ma’am, would you be willing to allow me to hold onto this watch for a few days. I would love to examine it a little more closely.”

You could see the extreme hesitancy on her features, but after a few seconds, she quietly relented.

“And what did your husband do before his fateful walk?”

“The same thing he has done every day for the past week. He visited a Turkish bath, which he claims helps him clear his mind before he performs. The warm waters have been therapeutic for him.”

“If you were to return in two days, at four o’clock, I believe I will be able to supply you with ample evidence to provide to your agent. There is no doubt your husband did not die at his own hand.”

“Thank you Mr. Holmes. I will indeed be in your debt. Unfortunately, I will not be able to pay you until the policy is cashed in.”

“Let’s worry about that after my work is completed.”

“You are a saint.”

“We shall see…”

* * *

As usual, my medical practice kept me away from our rooms until the appointed time two days later. I had just arrived, with our client close on my tail. She seemed to have recovered slightly from her recent ordeal. Holmes, of course, was able to give her some comfort with his gentle nature.

“Please have a seat madam. I have looked into your case more thoroughly. As I said two days ago, I am sure your husband did not commit suicide.”

“Oh what a relief. If you would be willing to sign an affidavit to your findings, I believe I can put this mess behind me.”

Holmes leaned forward, so the end of his nose was extremely close to her own facial features.

“Madam, I will only say this once. This will not do. I may be able to assist you, but only if you are willing to tell the truth to Dr. Watson and myself.”

Immediately our client became flustered. “I have no idea what you are talking about, you impertinent being.”

Holmes countered. “You may leave now. I will provide my findings to the police, and they will be more than happy to interview you further.”

Figuratively, our client cracked under the withering stare of Holmes.

“You are correct Mr. Holmes. I have not been honest with you. I am at my wit’s end. What am I to do?”

“Tell me what happened. Leave nothing out. You will be judged on your actions as fairly as possible, but only if you open up. Do you understand?”

The client closed her eyes and just sat motionless for several moments. Finally, Holmes attempted to move her to action.

“You have tried my patience. Will you not follow my advice, for your own sake, Mrs. Dumpty.”

“I will… but first, may I ask, can you tell me how you figured out what truly happened?”

“I can… your husband’s ability to get an insurance policy, admitting to his unusual occupation, could only happen if the insurer believed he was immune to damage from an accident. Since Mr. Dumpty chose to work with no safety net, I deduced something must have changed in his own physical make-up to him believe he was invulnerable to a tragic accident. You yourself provided me two of the crucial clues to the case.”

“… and what were those?”

“First, you mentioned your husband had been visiting a Turkish bath for the week before the ‘accident.’ Of course, that seemed so strange for an oversized egg. So I visited the bath-house you had mentioned two days ago. You are correct, he had been visiting the premises each day. But the day of the accident, he made a special request of the owner of the spa. He was placed into a special bath, whose water was brought up to boiling temperature for a period of fifteen minutes.

“Or so he thought. Mr. Dumpty, can I call him Humpty, used his own pocket watch for his time in the boiling bath. Little did he know the watch was running fast. His perception of fifteen minutes was in reality less than nine minutes. While this would be sufficient time to harden a smaller being, a man of your husband’s size and heft would never reach the solidity he sought in such a short time.

“When last we met, you indicated you were the daughter of a watchmaker, and had apprenticed under him. It would have been easy for you to change the inner workings of the watch. Have I correctly laid out the facts to your satisfaction?”

Only a few sniffles this time. No need for brandy.

“Yes you have. But every story has two sides, unlike an egg. Humpty and I met several years ago, and as I have already laid out, we married five years ago. And things were “poachy” up until a few months ago. During our nightly outing to walk the dog, he tripped and fell against a light pole. For most people, that may have resulted in bruise or even broken bone. For him, it caused a major crack in his outer shell. Fortunately, his core yolk was unharmed, and surgeons were able to patch the crack.

“He changed after that. He became “hard” to reach. I guess most people do after a life-threatening event. He became more daring, almost as if he had a death wish. And he became very jealous of my pristine shell. Over and over, he would imply that a few cracks would add character, and only a major crack would help me better appreciate what he had gone through. He even purchased a gigantic egg cracker that he would hold over me in bed.

“I could only take so much. So I hatched a plan, no pun intended, to stop the threats. As you were able to deduce, once he decided to harden his inner being through the boiling process, changing the watch so he was undercooked was easy.”

Holmes interrupted. “And when you disappeared into the building, I am assuming it was to “scramble” up the stairs, to release a cuckoo bird. That particular breed has a unique affinity toward eggs, and so it was not surprising our feathered friend went straight to your husband, distracting just enough for him to misstep.”

“That was the only way I could think to get him off the roof. The winds were not strong enough to push him off. He was extremely agile and well-balanced. X-rays showed his yolk to be very well-centered.

“There is my story, Mr. Holmes. I am in your hands. You can take what steps you like. As I have already said, there is no woman living who can fear death less than I do.”

Those words sounded strangely similar to me. Where had I heard them before?

Holmes continued. “Well, it is a great responsibility that I take upon myself… See here, Mrs. Dumpty, we’ll do this in due form of law. You are the prisoner. Watson, you are a British jury, and I never met a woman who was more eminently fitted to represent one. I am the judge. Now, gentleman of the jury, you have heard the evidence. Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?”

Again with the similar language.

“Guilty,” said I. Not all things stay the same. “I believe you to be a “rotten egg” at heart.”

“Watson, I believe you are judging her a little harshly. While I believe her motive to have been ‘mislaid’, I cannot in good faith condemn her completely. ‘Although I cannot lay an egg, I am a very good judge of omelets.’ After all, ‘An egg is always an adventure; the next one may be different.’ And remember, ‘A true friend is someone who thinks that you are a good egg even though he knows that you are slightly cracked.’”

“Holmes, you just stole three quotes from other famous personalities to justify your position. This is beneath you. Plus, all of your puns are simply to try and “crack me up.”

“True, but I believe our client to be redeemable. Therefore, go forth into the world and do good deeds for the rest of your days. That will justify my faith in you.”

A few months later while reading The Times, I found an article to share with Holmes.

“It appears our widow will be alright after all. She has sued the king’s men for malpractice for not being able to put Humpty together again; she has sued the building engineer and architect for defective design of the wall (not enough safety features), and even sued the City of London for negligence. All were settled out of court, and everyone has signed a non-disclosure form. This will make her rich.”

Holmes broke out into a small smile. “Yes she will. I am sure whoever helped build her case was also sufficiently compensated.”

We ate well that night, and for months to come.

—The End—

I’ll Be Back !

by Steve Mason

Based on “Death’s Messenger”

Sherlock Holmes stared down into the abyss, ensuring Moriarty had reached the bottom of the falls. His mind was already determining his next steps. Focusing on the water cascading by him, Holmes did not notice the quiet approach of the stranger until he stood right beside the world’s greatest consulting detective.“Is he dead…??”

“Yes, I accompanied him to the bottom of the falls. What’s left of him will soon be fish food.”

Holmes glanced at the newcomer with a smirk. “I did not know you had a sense of humor.”

The shrouded figure responded, “Just because my job is to take living humans to the other side, does not preclude me from enjoying the work.”

“As long as you realize I’m not ready to go yet.”

At that moment a large stone struck off the side of the cliff where they were standing, striking Death directly in the chest. The force of the blow knocked him down onto his back. Immediately a larger stone landed near his feet, bounced and came to rest on his mid-section. The weight of the rock immobilized the spectre as a bug pinned to a display board.

Holmes glanced up and spotted the second most dangerous man in London, Colonel Sebastian Moran. The snarl on his visage revealed his frustration the stones had missed their intended target, Holmes himself. Moran disappeared from the edge, not to be seen by Holmes for three years, across the street from 221b Baker Street.

The detective brought his attention back to Death, who lay under the large boulder, utterly defeated.

“You realize if I stay in this position, no one will die in the world, and it will get so full of people that they won’t have room to stand beside each other.”

Holmes, taking pity on the messenger of demise, used the first rock tossed by Moran, with a large branch nearby, to leverage the stone off the chest of Death.

Once composed, Death looked directly at Holmes, stating, “You know, I spare no one, and can make no exception with you – but that you may see that I am grateful, I will promise you that I will not fall on you unexpectedly, but you will see me again at the time of your next failure as a detective.”

Holmes responded, “It is something gained that I shall know when you come, and at any rate be safe from you for a period.”

Holmes left Death on the ledge, to fulfill the provisions of the ‘Great Hiatus,’ before returning to London to continue his career. The years went by, and he stayed light-hearted, and enjoyed himself, and lived without thought. In his middle years, Holmes retired to Sussex Downs, to live out the rest of his life, focused on his apiary and its inhabitants.

----------

One day, a knock on the door of his cottage awakened Holmes from his daily afternoon nap. Holmes slowly moved to the door, peering through the curtain. He was always careful to not open the portal to solicitors or unwanted clients. Happily, the face looking back at him was very welcomed.

“John, it has been a while. Please come it.”

The duo retreated into the study, where Holmes still conducted small chemical tests, mostly for his own entertainment.

“To what do I owe this unexpected visit.”

“Mr. Holmes, you know I come out to check on you during the first week of each quarter of the year. I have not seen you since December.”

“You are right… it seems like I just saw you a few weeks ago. How is the practice?”

“It keeps me very busy, the patients are not as patient as they used to be, no pun intended…”

“And the wife…?”

John winked. “She is wonderful, as always… you know she is expecting again…”

“Your third…?”

“No, we will be up to four… two boys, two girls… we should bring them out here for you to see…”

Holmes smiled. “Oh, since the days of the irregulars are over, I am not sure I am up to hearing the pitter patter of small feet around the house.”

“I can understand… as I understand so many things… but there is one thing I just cannot wrap my mind around… Holmes, you were born in 1854, if the calculations by the BSI and others are to be accepted. It is 1996. That would make you 142 years old…. It’s just not feasible…”

John’s voice trailed off with the last statement.

Holmes wistfully looked out the window for a long period before responding. “You know, your great grandfather was the last person I allowed to call me just by my surname. I believe my longevity is simple. The bees keep me alive. I have developed the perfect honey, bee pollen, and royal jelly combination. I can share some with you if desired.”

“Sorry, I am not accepting that story. People all over the world eat those ingredients and do not live to anywhere close to your age. Try again.”

“And just like your ancestor, you cannot accept the easiest explanation. Then, let me provide you the truth…”

Holmes then related to the young physician the tale when he met Death at the Reichenbach falls, his saving of the spectre’s life, and the agreement reached.

“By the time I retired to this humble abode, I had successfully concluded over 1,600 cases, or adventures, as your grandfather was prone to call them. If you recall, in the “The Five Orange Pips,” I indicated to John Openshaw that I had been beaten four times–three times by men, and once by a woman. That adventure occurred in September, 1887. You can guess the identity of the woman, Miss Irene Adler. I do not need to detail the three men.

“Now recall, at the end of my meeting with Death, he stated I would see him again ‘…at the time of your next failure as a detective.’ When I retired in 1914, my last case chronicled by Dear Watson as “His Last Bow.” It truly was my last bow as a detective. And I may immodest to tell you, I was never defeated again as a detective after my encounter on the falls with Death.

“So here I am, and here I will be until the end of time. This explains why the London Times has never carried my obituary.”

John had no response to the tale, so he just sat and stared at the Master.

“You know, it has been said by many over the years about myself, ‘Sherlock Holmes -- The man who never lived and never died…’ well, they are half right… I’ll see you next quarter… bring the kids… we’ll have a picnic…”

—The End—

Watson's Title: Sherlock Holmes & The Adventure of the Sick Dog Holmes' Title: Trusty John

By Karen Olson

Based on “Faithful Johannes”

I.

A Portentous Day in 1892

The day dawned frosty and heavy with a noxious yellow fog creeping up and down the London streets, rising higher than the windows of our first-floor sitting room at 221B Baker Street. The thick fog concealed numerous criminals and miscreants as they quietly went about their sinister deeds while decent folks gathered around their coal fires.

Holmes says the coal fires contribute to the infamous London fogs, but I'm not so sure. Holmes' knowledge of weather may just be fake science. His agent, Conan Doyle stopped by the other day and he agreed with Holmes' comments about the fog, but Doyle believes in faeries, so how much credence can I give him concerning a weather phenomenon...

I am John H. Watson, MD, late Indian Army surgeon. Since I arrived in London after being invalided out of the army in 1880 due to wounds sustained in Maiwand, I have been periodically sharing these Baker Street rooms with Sherlock Holmes, the world's first consulting detective. Although I have a respectable medical practice, I am more commonly known around the empire as Holmes' biographer, and I have made a tidy sum by retelling our adventures for readers of The Strand Magazine.

Our cases have ranged from blackmail and theft to kidnapping and murder. The victims have spanned all levels of society from royalty to street urchins. We have been targeted for elimination by none other than Professor James Moriarty, the Napoleon of crime, and his henchmen, including the Moran brothers, James and Sebastian. Their murderous weapons include cudgel, firearms, explosives, poisons, the newly invented German air rifle, garroting, and anything else that could produce the desired fatality.

When my dear wife, Mary, is incommoded by my medical practice or absent the city, I return to the digs on Baker Street to assist Holmes with his detection work.

Last night's marathon playing of his violin signaled that he was between cases, a situation harmful to the health of a superior mind which craves stimulation. I hoped that the fog would not discourage potential clients from seeking his counsel any longer.

Today, as his usual habit, Holmes spent much of the early morning reading criminal news and agony columns in various newspapers. Later he alternated between reading Grimm's Fairy Tales and consulting his commonplace book, a bibliographic work of his own invention intended to reference people, places and things which might present themselves in future cases. He checked the index under "K" and mumbled, "Keswick, the London paperhanger; Klopman, the Nihilist; Ku Klux Klan..."

All this before we sat down to enjoy our breakfast of black pudding and tea... Soon Holmes was ready to light up his third pipe of shag for the morning and he reached for that tobacco which he kept in the toe of a Persian slipper on the mantel.

II.

The Tale of a Tail

Our landlady, the good Mrs. Hudson, had just left the room with our breakfast dishes when we heard a pounding on the front door.

The next thing we knew, the door to the sitting room was flung open and in stepped a small grubby lad clutching a hound as large as himself. It was difficult to ascertain which had absorbed the most mud and grit, the lad or the dog.

"Here, here," I said, "What... "

Holmes said flatly, "Hello, Wiggins. What seems to be the trouble with friend Toby?"

"How did you get past Mrs. Hudson?" I asked.

"Please, Sir. I told her Mr. Holmes have told me to bring him my dog. Sorry for the little lie, Sir. Oh, Mr. Holmes! I think he's done been poisoned! Can you help us?" The child seemed quite distressed.

"Well, let's have a look at him while you tell us what led up to this. Doctor, what do you think?"

Holmes sought to reassure the lad.

"Ahah, well, the tissues seem a little dehydrated, but his heartbeat is strong, nose is cold, and eyes are bright." That's about all I know about dogs.

Wiggins began: "Old Sherman give me Toby to take care of while he gone to Loch Ness this week to net some kind of big fish he wanted to stuff. He said if I take good care of Toby, he'd give me his badger."

"Now early this morning we, that is me and Toby here, was over by Paddington Station when this toff come by and ask if we was for hire to track somebody who'd just came off the train. I told him it would cost him ten bob. He looked like he could pay and he said he would."

"What did this man look like, Wiggins?" Holmes looked suspicious.

"He were dressed like a swell, with a dark suit and a waistcoat, with a gold watch on a chain. He weren't much to look at. He were tall and thin with a sharp nose and dark eyes. His hair were gray and hung on his collar under his high hat. His forehead were tall, too, and his face were kind of sunk in on the sides." The lad paused thoughtfully. "He talked real good though, kind of like you, Mr. Holmes."

He give me a handkerchief for Toby to take the scent and pointed out the way the man must have came. It were easy to follow him, even in the fog. But it turns out it weren't no Him. It were a Her."

"Me and Toby caught up to her on Pitt Street as she gone into Number 41. A butler opened the door and said, 'Good morning, Miss Adler.' "

"What did the woman look like," asked Holmes expectantly.

Wiggins paused again, then stated, "She were tall and she walked funny and I couldn't see her face 'cause she had this cloth wrapped around her head and face sort of like a A-rab or a robber. She didn't have no purse that I seen. Her blue dress were fine. She looked like them rich ones in the park on Sunday, and she weren't no serving girl either; I can tell ya."

"So we goes back to the station and tells the man. He give me the ten shillings and two pieces of cake. Me and Toby goes to Kensington Gardens and sits on a bench under a tree. The man had said that Toby should have one piece of cake and I the other 'cause we both done such a good job. Well, I gives Toby his piece but before he could eat more than a small bite and before I could eat any of mine, this giant beast comes out of the fog, gulps both pieces of cake and starts to run across the park with me and Toby right behind him."

"I swear, Doctor, it was just like that monster hound you wrote about what killed them folks on the moors. Except this one didn't kill nobody. In fact, half-way to the fountain, it just fell over, stone dead. There weren't no marks on him neither. He just looked like any other old dog, only bigger. But he maybe didn't look so big when he were dead."

Toby sniffed him and then backed up and wouldn't go near that dog again. Honest, Mr. Holmes, I never seen nothing like it, but I swear that's what happened. That dead dog and Toby getting real sick after that got me to thinking that maybe that cake were poison.

"You can leave Toby with us for a day or two, but I think he'll be alright. Sounds like both you and Toby had a close call there. Did the man who hired you say anything else?", inquired Holmes gently.

"He said he knowed I'd likely give my dog some of the cake, so he give me a piece for me and a piece for Toby. And he said the cake were special and we should eat it all up right away because it wouldn't keep. It been such a long time since we had cake and now it looks like we ain't never going to get none."

On the lad's departure I knew we could count on Mrs. Hudson to correct this deficiency, and I patted the boy's grimy shoulder.

III.

The Game is Afoot

Holmes looked angry but said no more until after the lad had left. Then he said, "Watson, please fetch Toby a large bowl of milk and a soft blanket. Then, come, Watson! The game is afoot!"

I knew that although Holmes was totally committed to his profession, he had referred to Miss Irene Adler as "The Woman", and although her methods were not strictly legal, I think he admired her intelligence and her cleverness. Besides that, she had a sparkle in her eyes and a beautiful countenance. It was, therefore, no surprise that Holmes leapt at the chance to rescue the lady from possible harm from one whose description, according to Wiggins, so perfectly fitted that of Moriarty himself.

We left hurriedly for Pitt Street and as Holmes requested, I carried my pistol and some extra cartridges in my jacket pocket. The fog had lifted a little, increasing visibility by a dozen yards and leaving the sidewalks with an oily sheen and an odour of sulfur.

When we reached our destination, we slipped into the doorway of an abandoned building across the narrow street and waited. Almost immediately, the door to number 41 opened and out came a woman in a long blue dress who fit the description given by Wiggins. If this really was Irene Adler I knew Holmes would be in a manic fugue for some days. Still, the woman's face was covered, not unusual in the fog, and she walked straight ahead, in an odd way with long strides and out-turned feet.

Suddenly everything seemed to happen at once. She walked straight up to us and as she pointed her closed parasol at my companion she said, "My dear, Mr. Holmes" in a deep, hoarse voice. Holmes somberly replied, "Sebastian." The scarf covering her face slipped and revealed a somewhat coarse, masculine face with an evil sneer. It was not Irene Adler! At that moment, the pistol I was endeavoring to remove from my jacket slipped out of my hand and landed on the sidewalk with a loud report.

The woman clutched her side, uttered an expletive, dropped her parasol, and fled into a hansom cab which must have been waiting for her in the street.

I started to follow the poor woman to see if she had been seriously injured by my clumsiness. Now I saw drops of fresh blood leading to the street. Holmes grabbed me by the arm, and laughing, said, "Trusty John. You have saved my life. I assume Colonel Moran will not pose further threat for at least a few days. I certainly want to closely examine this cleverly disguised air rifle. Von Herder's invention is deadly but fascinating," he said, picking up the parasol.

"But, Holmes... " I stammered.

Holmes hummed softly all the way back to Baker Street and said, "Perhaps I should send a 'speedy recovery' missive in care of Professor Moriarty."

Note:

I have delayed the publication of this adventure purely as a matter of vanity. Even though my actions alone saved the day, the full story does not reflect well on my intellectual capabilities, and my heroism was somewhat inadvertent. While always endeavoring to faithfully report the facts of a case, I have relegated this telling to the tin dispatch-box at Cox and Co., the Charing Cross banking firm, in hopes that future readers will view me with some modicum of charity.

J.H.W.

—The End—

The Adventure of the Glass Slipper

by Walter Pieper

Based on “Cinderella”

During my long association with my friend Sherlock Holmes there have been many cases that were strange, horrific, and might I say even bizarre. But as I look over my notes, I find one in particular that grabbed the attention of Holmes immediately.

It was a cold, dreary day in November 1896. It had been raining for several days and the swirling yellow fog and the dampness made one feel fortunate to be close to the fire in our sitting room at 221B. Holmes spent much of the time cataloging his various newspaper clippings from the Times, but his days of inactivity had made him restless and irritable.

It is times like this that make me worry that Holmes may be tempted to reach for the morocco case containing the seven percent solution. I know that this demon is sleeping but I fear that it can always awaken. However, with the sound of familiar footsteps on the stairs leading up to our quarters, I knew that a new case was at hand.

“Come in Lestrade. It is always a pleasure to see one of Scotland Yard’s finest at our door,” said Holmes.

Holmes had always had contempt for Scotland Yard’s inspectors but always felt that Lestrade was the best of the lot.

Lestrade opened the door.

“My word, Mr. Holmes, how did you know it was me?”

“Elementary, Lestrade. The weight of your steps and the hesitation in your stride made me realize that it could only be you. How can I help you? I trust that you are seeking my assistance on some matter that is leaving Scotland Yard at a loss. But first you must be absolutely chilled to the bone. Have some brandy. That should warm you up. Watson, would you be so kind?”

I went to the tantulus and poured some brandy for the inspector.

“Thank you Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,” said Lestrade as he drank the amber liquid. “It does warm the bones I have to admit. I am coming to you sir about a problem that has just baffled us down at the Yard.”

“Sit down Lestrade and tell us all about it.”

Holmes sat back in his chair, closed his eyes and put his fingertips together as he always does when he is in total concentration.

“Well you see sir it’s like this. A package arrived at the Yard and when it was opened it contained a glass slipper. Now doesn’t that seem odd to you. Inside the package was a note asking us to find the woman whose foot fits this slipper.”

Holmes opened his eyes and leaned forward in the chair.

“Who signed the note?” he asked.

“The note was signed by Roger Thistlethorpe.”

“Not The Thistlethorpes of Bollingbrooke Castle. They are one of wealthiest families in England. Their wealth dates back to the Plantagenet Dynasty,” stated my friend.

“You’re right on that one Mr. Holmes.”

“Has anyone at the Yard tried to contact the family or more importantly Roger Thistlethorpe himself?”

“As we speak, Stanley Hopkins is up there right now investigating the matter. I brought the slipper with me so you could examine it yourself.”

Lestrade gave the glass slipper to Holmes. He examined it very closely with his lens and turned it over several times in the process.

“This object is very singular and appears to be made of the finest crystal that comes from somewhere on the continent—perhaps eastern European in origin. Also, the person who wore this slipper has a very small, narrow foot. Do you mind if I keep this Lestrade?”

“Not at all, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes looked at me and said, “Well Watson, are you up to a trip to Bollingbrook Castle?”

“Certainly.”

“Then pack your bags and take your service revolver. Be a good fellow and look on Bradshaw’s.”

“There’s a train leaving Victorian Station in two hours, Holmes.”

“Excellent! Please let Mrs. Hudson know that we may not be back until tomorrow.”

We left Victoria Station and after a few hours we arrived at Bollingbrook train station.

We were met by Inspector Stanley Hopkins of Scotland Yard.

“A pleasure to see you again, Hopkins,” said my friend.

“Same here Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. This is a strange business. Young Roger Thistlethorpe is distraught over the matter. He met this young woman at a ball held at the castle. He was immediately smitten by her and danced with her all night. When midnight approached, she fled from the castle and vanished into the darkness. He discovered that she had dropped one of her glass slippers on the steps.”

“I take it that he does not know who she is or where she lives.”

“Right you are sir.”

We drove from the train station to the castle in a four wheeler. It was extremely foggy with bone chilling cold.

As we approached Bollingbrook, the castle loomed up before us with its turrets and battlements piercing the sky. It is one of the oldest castles in England and dates back to the Norman Conquest.

Over the centuries, additions were made to the original structure making it a sprawling and imposing edifice.

We exited the carriage and were greeted at the door by young Roger himself.

“I am so happy to see you Mr. Holmes. Inspector Hopkins said that you would be coming to help in the investigation,” exclaimed Roger.

“I need to be given all the data concerning this matter. May we come in?”

We were ushered into the great room. It reminded me so much of Baskerville Hall so many years ago with its dark, gloomy, gothic interior and sense of foreboding.

The young master told us of the ball that was held there several days ago and how he met this beautiful young woman dressed up like a princess.

They danced all night and when the clock struck midnight, she rushed down the steps and disappeared into the night not to be seen again. In her haste, she dropped one of her glass slippers on the steps of the castle.

“This is all I have left to remind me of this beautiful woman, Mr. Holmes. I am filled with despair thinking that I will never find nor see her again.”

“Did she accompany someone or did she arrive alone?”

“I asked other people who were present at the ball and from what I can gather it appears that she works for Lady Hastings and her two daughters,” said Hopkins.

“Lady Hastings has the reputation of being a vain, wicked shrew and from what I understand her daughters are not much better. She treats her servants just dreadfully. One young woman in particular is treated the worst.”

“What is the name of this young woman?”

“She is known as Cinderella. She lost her mother when she was a young child and was raised by Lady Hastings and her daughters. All her life she has been treated worse than a common servant girl. She wears dirty ragged clothes and sleeps in the attic. The strange thing, Mr. Holmes, is that the description that several townsfolk have given of her matches the description of this woman that young Roger met at the ball.”

“Mr. Holmes, is it possible that I have not lost her after all?” said Roger Thistlethorpe.

“I do not assume until I have all the facts but it appears that this case may be solved shortly. I just have to get a few more pieces of this puzzle,” said my friend.

“I think a visit to Lady Hastings and her daughters is in order.”

Lady Hastings’ residence was located in a very rural area only a few miles from the castle. Hastings Manor was once glorious in appearance but had obviously fallen on hard times.

A rutted, muddy road led up to the front of this decrepit building. Chickens, pigs and other animals roamed freely over what had once been well manicured grounds. It was sad to see what this once proud house had become.

Hopkins, Holmes and myself knocked on the front door only to be opened by a slovenly servant. Holmes presented his card and asked to see the lady of the house.

We were shown in and told to wait for Lady Hastings in the front room. She was a large woman who wore shabby clothes that were at one time rather elegant but I could tell that she still tried to present herself with an aristocratic style.

“What is it that you want?” she rudely asked.

“Madam,” said Holmes, “we are making inquiries about an individual who we feel is residing in this house. I believe her name is Cinderella.”

“I know of no such person. I would like you to leave my home.”

“Not until we search the premises. I am Inspector Stanley Hopkins of Scotland Yard and I have reason to believe that there is such a person locked in the attic of this house.”

I leaned over to Holmes and whispered, “If indeed we find this woman in the house how will we determine if she is indeed the person Roger Thistlethorpe met at the ball. I am sure that her appearance is vastly different from the person he saw.”

Holmes replied, “I already have a means of determining if Cinderella is the same person.”

As we rose to go upstairs, Lady Hastings ordered her servants to restrain us.

Her servants blocked Hopkins’ path but Holmes and I were able to bypass and raced up the stairs. When we reached the attic door, we heard a pounding and a woman’s voice.

“Please let me out. By all that’s holy please, dear God, free me from this prison,” she screamed.

We heard footsteps racing up the stairs behind us.

“Quick Watson! We must open this door.”

The door was of thick oak with a massive lock. I turned the knob but the door would not budge.

“Watson shoot the lock!”

I pulled out my service revolver and fired. The bullet dislodged part of the lock but the door still held.

“Again, Watson!”

I fired again, aiming at the very core of the mechanism. This time there was an explosion as the lock finally blew apart and pieces of metal flew in all directions.

We opened the door and rushed inside. There standing before us was a beautiful woman, who was grimy, barefoot and wearing ragged clothes.

“Thank you kind sirs for saving me!”

“Are you Cinderella?” Holmes asked.

“Yes sir, I am.”

“Then quick, try on this glass slipper.”

She held out her foot and Holmes slipped the shoe on. It was a perfect fit.

At the moment, Lady Hastings, her servants, and Inspector Hopkins arrived at the door.

“Hopkins, the mystery has been solved. This is Cinderella. The glass slipper fits her perfectly. Please inform young Roger that we have found her.”

With that the mystery of the glass slipper was over.

A final note—Roger Thistlethorpe was finally reunited with his Cinderella. Holmes and I attended their wedding.

Thus this fairy tale ends and dare I say that they lived happily ever after.

—The End—

The Curious Affair of the Shoes that Danced Themselves to Pieces

By Michael J. Quigley, BSI

Based on “The Shoes That Were Danced to Pieces”

It was a cold, and dreadfully wet morning in early November in the year 1903. My wife was away for a few weeks visiting an aging relation, and so rather than knocking about an empty house in Queen Anne Street, I decided to visit Baker Street for a few days or so and to be once again in familiar surrounds and to be with my dear friend. On the morning after I had arrived, I awoke to find my friend’s disposition was almost as foul as the weather as we sat after breakfast on either side of a golden fire in the old room at Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had been silent all the morning, dipping continuously into the agony columns of a succession of papers until at last, having apparently given up his search, he sunk motionless folded in his chair and smoking his cherry wood pipe, which always signaled a disputatious mood, as he stared unblinkingly at the crackling fire—his dejected newspapers in a pile on the floor.

A thick fog rolled in between the lines of dun-coloured houses while the patter of the rain drops were as constant and deafening as the gunfire from the Ghazis in that dusty valley in Afghanistan more than twenty years earlier. For some reason, I always equated heavy rain as it battered the windows and sash with the sounds of distant combat. A clap of thunder only added to the illusion. The houses opposite our rooms loomed like dark, shapeless blurs through the heavy yellow wreaths of fog and slashing deluge which cast a sepia pallor on the white cloth and the glimmer of china and silver, for the table had not been cleared yet.

When suddenly, there came the ringing of bells from the ground floor. It wasn’t the gentle jingle of the doorbell that always forecasted a new adventure. This was the jarring alarm of bells of the new-fangled telephone that had been installed in the entry hall just a few months ago. Holmes took an immediate practical liking to the modern convenience when it was installed, but according to Mrs. Hudson, in the weeks since, it seems to have entirely escaped his notice. I wish I could say the same. Even in my short time back at Baker Street, inevitably it would sound its infernal and incessant ringing at the most inopportune times, such as during afternoon tea or in the middle of the night when some constable on duty at the Yard felt compelled to call upon “the great Sherlock Holmes” to inform him that there has been a murder in Limehouse or a burglary in Mayfair. In as much as I came to despise the damn thing, Holmes, for his part, seemed to be quite oblivious to clarion call every time it rang. Only Mrs. Hudson ever answered the contraption. And thus was so on this bleak morning. I heard the muffled tone of our housekeeper’s voice as she picked up the receiver mid-ring. Moments later, the stately trod of her footfalls on the 17 steps that led up to the sitting room. I opened the door as Mrs. Hudson placed the extension at the top of the landing on a silver salver and proceeded to carry it into the room, its long fabric-covered wire trailing along behind her. “Inspector Martin of the Greater Manchester Police Department for you, sir.”

“What, could he possibly want?” queried Holmes, not bothering to break his trace-like staring at the fire. “I’m sure I don’t know!” quipped Mrs. Hudson, “said it was urgent and then asked for you, sir.” Holmes unfolded himself, stood up to full height and stretched his arms over his head as if waking from a long slumber. “Well, then… we mustn’t keep the Inspector waiting.” Taking the receiver in hand with a condescending “Yes, Inspector, how can I be of service?” Holmes’ face betrayed his growing interest in whatever it was that Inspector Martin had called about. “Indeed, “said Holmes, “yes, quite right. I shall come presently.”

Holmes hung up the phone, gave a nod and a wry smile to Mrs. Hudson, and dashed into his room to change out of his dressing gown and put on proper clothing without a further word. “I say, Holmes! What on earth was that all about?” “A delightful little mystery!” he shouted through the open door connecting his room with the sitting room, “it would appear that Sir Algernon Grim-Babbington of Grimsley Hall, Stockport, has made an inquiry to the police of the utmost delicacy. But since no crime appears to have been committed, they referred the matter to me.”

“What matter?”

“The curious matter of his daughter’s shoes having danced themselves to pieces.”

“Doesn’t seem very curious to me, Holmes. Clearly his daughter has been to some cotillion or party and danced the night away. Hardly a mystery and certainly not one that I think rises the level that should interest you.”

A few moments later, my friend reentered the room dressed in a dark frock coat, starched collared shirt with a silk cravat, and the emerald stickpin. I knew immediately that there was money in this case! Holmes only ever wore that precious stickpin when he was trying to make quite the impression. It was, after all, a gift from a most gracious and noble lady. I dare say, I can’t recall seeing Holmes wearing it since she died only a few short years ago.

“Grim-Babbington… isn’t he the Conservative MP representing Greater Manchester?” Holmes closed his eyes and with a flourish of his arms, made a slight bow, “quite so, and a descendant from someone who was born on the wrong side of the blanket of one of the Plantagenets no less. I shall give you a more complete accounting of the facts enroute. If we hurry, we can just make the 11:15 to Manchester.” Holmes packed his Gladstone and within fifteen minutes, we were splashing down Baker Street in a Hansom on our way to Euston Station.

It wasn’t until we were seated in our compartment that Holmes made good on his promise to lay the facts of the case before me. “Sir Algernon has a daughter, Sophie, who is a headstrong young woman of twenty-one years and known to the local constabulary as a rabble-raiser when it comes to political and social welfare issues. She has a suiter, a young law student named David Norton Worthington, who shares his father’s liberal politics and therefore does not enjoy the support of Sir Algernon as a suitable companion for his daughter. Sir Algernon has, for his part, forbidden his daughter from seeing Mr. Worthington under any circumstances. And has taken rather extreme measures that she should be kept separate from him; that of locking his daughter in her bedroom each night to ensure that she does not sneak away under darkness for a midnight tryst.

“My goodness! How utterly medieval of the man.” I exclaimed… “but what does any of this have to do with the state and serviceability of her shoes?” “That, my dear Watson, is the delightful part of this mystery.” I could see that Holmes’ black mood was lifting even if the rain clouds and fog had not. “Sir Algernon did lock Sophie in her room last night, but when the door had been unlocked this morning by the housekeeper, she discovered that the young lady’s shoes had been terribly worn and scratched. Sir Algernon demanded to know how they came to be in such a state, but Sophie denied any knowledge, and claimed that she had been asleep and secured in her room all the night.”

“How extraordinary!” I said as I turned to look out the window as we sped through the soggy countryside. “But honestly, Holmes. This is hardly a matter for you… no gigantic hound or dancing men, just a young lady hiding a late-night rendezvous with a boy her father disapproves of.”

“Hardly that, Watson. Hardly that.”

The rest of the journey was quite uneventful. I passed the time reading the Pink ‘Un, whilst Holmes smoked several cigarettes filling the compartment with an odious stench. He had the most extraordinary and unnerving ability to stare at a person for a great length of time, but be miles away lost in his thoughts. I would have found it quite rude and unsettling had I not gotten used to his trance-like state as he pondered the facts of a new case. It was for these moments that I developed the habit of never being without a newspaper or other distraction.

We came upon Grimsley Hall just after the rain had subsided and the sun had begun to shine its warm orange beams on the lush freshly watered landscape. It was something out of a fairytale! The timber-framed Grimsley Hall dominated the hillside overlooking an orchard and the woodland beyond. It was the oldest and largest manor house in the area, centered on a great hall dating from the 14th century, but the majority of the house having been built in the Tudor period. We were met at the front door by Sir Algernon himself. He didn’t strike me as the sort of domineering father who would lock his daughter away in the tower, as it were, at all. He was a seemingly delightful gentleman. A balding man who stood about six feet tall, a bit portly, but who cut a very stately figure. He had a well-trimmed grey beard and was dressed in a tweed Norfolk jacket and plus-fours.

“Hello gentleman. Thank you very much for coming all this way on a wet Saturday morning for what must seem merely a trifle.”

“Think nothing of it.” Holmes retorted, “There is nothing as intriguing as a trifle.”

“I must apologize for Inspector Martin’s absence.” Said Sir Algernon, “He was quite insistent that this matter be left in your capable hands.” Then with an outstretched arm, Sir Algernon welcomed us both to Grimsley Hall. He led us inside and down a long hall absolutely brimming with medieval weapons and suits of glistening armour, until we reached the smoking parlor. “Will you have a cigar, gentlemen?”

“With all respect sir,” Holmes said, “we have come a long way in the rain. Please give us an account of the facts as you understand them and pray, be precise as to detail.”

Our host reiterated what he had told Holmes over the telephone, and that he had discovered further evidence that his daughter had been “gallivanting” with young Mister Worthington. Dipping his left hand into his coat pocket, he produced a small Moroccan covered book.

“This is my daughter’s dairy. As you can plainly see from her recent entries, including last night, the letters “DNW” written in her own hand and with no further explanation.” He continued to relay how he had questioned his daughter about both how the shoes came to be in such a state and about the diary entries. “She denied any knowledge of why the shoes should be so worn down, and became quite indignant that I would read her private diary. She has locked herself in her room all morning and will not answer any attempt to summon her.”

Holmes stood grimacing at Sir Algernon for an awkward few moments. Our host becoming more uncomfortable and less genial as the silence lingered. Finally, Holmes said, “Sir Algernon, the shoes. I should like to examine Sophie’s shoes.”

“Quite so! I had completely forgotten.”

Sir Algernon motioned to the smoking cabinet between two large tufted leather club chairs where sat a pair of lavender coloured suede women’s ankle boots placed neatly atop the cabinet. Holmes took them both in his hands, walked over to the large window, and held them up very close to his eyes. “Hmmmm…. These shoes are new, but the ivory ribbon forming the bow on each is not.” Taking out his small magnifier, he examined the distressed shoes for about three full minutes.

“Quite so. They were part of my late wife’s wedding dress. Sophie asked to decorate her new shoes with something dear from her mother’s things.”

“Then these were to be Sophie’s bridal shoes?” Holmes asked.

“Yes.” Said Sir Algernon.

“And the groom was to be Mr. David Norton Worthington of Manchester?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. But that was before…”

“Before… what, Sir Algernon?”

“Before he began filling her head with dangerous ideas that would upset the societal norms and endanger the economy. Before he set my own daughter against me and everything I had built my political career upon.” Holmes had cracked Sir Algernon’s genial veneer.

“So you withdrew your permission for her to marry, forbade her from any contact with her betrothed, and locked her in her room at night to protect society and the economy?” Holmes finished inspecting the shoes, placed them neatly upon the cabinet, and sat in one of the tufted chairs. He crossed his legs and helped himself to one of the cigars that Sir Algernon had offered us when we arrived. Lighting the cigar and taking a few puffs, Holmes glanced at our host and with his eyes, beckoned him to sit beside him. “Come sir, surely there is more to these draconian methods than mere politics. Let us have the full facts.”

Sir Algernon sat in the chair opposite Holmes and breathing a desperate sigh of relent, he came to the point he had hoped to avoid. “You are right, Mr. Holmes. I have not been as forthcoming as I know I should be in this matter, but as I told Inspector Martin, it is a matter of utmost delicacy. I haven’t even told my daughter of my true reasons for setting myself so firmly against Mr. Worthington and her marriage to him.”

“At first, he seemed to be an eager young lad with a bright future as a solicitor before him. He didn’t come from a wealthy family, but his people are known within the community and I wasn’t opposed to the match. Sophie had known David for some years through a local charity where they both volunteered, helping poorhouse women find jobs as seamstresses, typists, or other such employment.”

“But I soon discovered that David had an ulterior motive to show such interest in my daughter. David has a serious gambling habit and has racked up a sizable debt. He has been heard to boast in the public house that he will soon be coming into some money. When I learned of this, I confronted him outright. He didn’t deny it. He said that Sophie was completely within his power. That he would only have to call and she would come running.” Sir Algernon became quite red in the face as he spoke. “I tried to tell Sophie that David wasn’t right for her. That he didn’t have her best interests at heart, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She claimed that I was trying to control her life. And now I’m afraid that she is literary running off in the night to dance into the sunset with a swindler… a charlatan… a user of women!”

Holmes looked up at the distraught father. “She wasn’t dancing.”

“Then pray tell me what could she have been doing to bring such utter destruction to those shoes?” Sir Algernon queried in a puzzled tone. “No, Mister Holmes, I am afraid you are mistaken. There was a ball last night in Manchester city. Every year at this time, Mister Worthington’s law firm hosts a large ball for their clients and partners. Sophie has often attended in years past. I find it no coincidence that the shoes should be in such a state the morning after the ball. Clearly, my daughter has been dancing!”

Holmes didn’t even attempt to disguise his amusement at being ‘put in his place’ by Sir Algernon. “Sir, it is, as you say, no coincidence that the shoes were abused in such a manner as they were on the very night of the ball, but only a quick glance at the shoes will confirm that they were not destroyed by dancing, but rather by walking.”

“Walking?” Shouted Sir Algernon.

“Well… perhaps a bit more than walking,” said Holmes, “they were marched to pieces.”

“Marched? How can that be?” I asked. Sir Algernon was clearly beginning to question the value of having consulted my friend, “Nonsense, man! The Guy Fawkes parade is tonight. There was no parade for Sophie to have marched in last night. You are guessing.”

“I never guess. Besides, there are more reasons to march than just parades. Look at the shoes. Notice the bits of crushed brick, glass and charred paper embedded in the blackish mud that coats the soles. Note also that the ribbon used to tie the shoes are likewise charred and smell of smoke and creosote.” Holmes passed the shoes to me. “Watson, what do you make of it?”

“Well… there is quite a bit of glass as you say, and the fine fabric of the suede uppers has many scuffs and lacerations.” I said.

“Yes. Please continue.” Holmes stated as he again sank back into his chair.

“The soles of the shoes are heavily trod and well worn.” I continued.

“Precisely where are the soles most worn, my dear Watson?” asked Holmes as he locked eyes with Sir Algernon.

“The heels are nearly completely worn down and the left one is of course missing entirely.” I said emphatically.

“Excellent, Watson. Thank you.” Holmes smiled as he and Sir Algernon stared into each other’s eyes.

Sir Algernon piped up, “That proves nothing. She might have broken the heel whilst dancing, surely.”

“You see,” said Holmes, “but you do not observe the plain fact that a woman dances on the balls of her feet, yet it is the heels that have borne the brunt of Sophie’s late night escapade.” Holmes continued, “And the black mud and crushed glass? How do you account for that, Sir Algernon?”

“I do not need to account. That is why I have engaged you, sir!”

“Precisely. I would then direct your attention to the morning edition of the Times. In it you will note that there was a march, a demonstration in fact in Manchester city last night in front of the offices of an influential conservative newspaper. A large group of women calling themselves the Women’s Social and Political Union, took to the streets in the name of women’s suffrage. According to the press, they lit bonfires and smashed windows by hurling bricks with paper bills tied to them.” Sir Algernon examined the shoes as Holmes spoke. “A new more militant wing of the suffrage movement is forming right here in Manchester, Sir Algernon. But you, of course, already know this. You yourself reported Sophie’s political bias as being a danger to the status quo, but either your arrogance or your feelings for your daughter blinded you to the simple truth that she is among the many hundreds and thousands of women who are demanding their right to be counted and heard. You invented, in your own mind, a fiction that Sophie would run off in the night to dance with her gentleman friend, perhaps even elope with him. But I submit to you, that she has taken a similar account of Mister Worthington’s motives to become engaged to her. Indeed, I believe that his betrayal was the last straw which drove her to more militant activities within the suffrage movement.”

Holmes’ words reduced our host to silence as his face ashened to match the colour of his beard. He took a moment to absorb what Holmes had told him as he took the tattered shoes in hand to examine them himself. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, I quite see how you might reach that conclusion. The mud and bits of glass and brick are compelling, but what of her diary entry? Surely the “DNW” entry refer to David Norton Worthington!” Holmes absently scoffed, “does it?” At that moment, Sophie burst into the room.

“Father, who are these men? She had a nervous, but determined look about her. Sir Algernon glared a moment at his daughter and said, “This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his associate, Dr. Watson. I have sent for them to shed some light into your activities and how your shoes came to such a state as this.” She swallowed a hard swallow and adopted a defiant pose extoling, “Father, I told you that I have no idea how the shoes came to ruin. I awoke to find…” Holmes interrupted, “Come now, that will never do. You know perfectly well how these shoes were destroyed. Your march will be for naught if you don’t stand up for the truth now.” Holmes’ words seemed to have an effect on the young woman. “Yes. You are right, Mr. Holmes, I am responsible for the destruction of the shoes. But I do not see what business it is of yours”

Sir Algernon’s face flushed, “it is MY business and that of whom I should engage on its behalf! Tell me, did you meet with David last night?”

“No father, I never wish to see him again!”

“Then who is “DNW”?” Sir Algernon held the diary in front of her. Sophie’s eyes grew large and grabbed the diary from her father. “How dare you invade my privacy, father! How dare you!” She turned toward the door in a huff. Suddenly, Holmes said in a raised tone, “Deeds, not words!”

Sophie stopped dead in her tracks and turned around. “I beg your pardon, sir?” Holmes finished his cigar and placed it in the ashtray. “Deeds, not words. Surely you understand my meaning.”

“I do not!” steamed Sir Algernon. “What are you accusing my daughter of, sir?”

“I do not accuse her of anything other than having an opinion.” Said Holmes. The mood in the room hung as heavy as the smoke from Holmes’ cigar. I felt compelled to break the tension. “Undoubtedly he means that your daughter’s deeds, that of sneaking off to see the young Mr. Worthington gives evidence against her protestations that she did not. Come, come my dear, let’s have the truth out.”

“No Watson,” said Holmes, “she is telling the truth, although not the full truth. She did not see Mr. Worthington last night, as she herself attests. The diary entry of “DNW” are not initials of a man. They are the initials of a motto: ‘Deeds, Not Words!’ These very words have become the slogan of the Woman’s’ Social and Political Union, or WSPU. They adorn the banners and placards the women demonstrating last night were carrying. They are the rally cry of a movement frustrated by inaction and mere rhetoric.”

Finding her pride and gathering her dignity, Sophie straightened and boasted, “You are quite correct. Mr. Holmes. Why should I be ashamed of it? But how could you know this?”

Holmes reached for a second cigar, lit it, and after a long draw said, “Because my dear, it is my business to know what other’s do not know.”

“Come, Holmes,” I cried. “How could you know what the women were chanting at a protest you were not witness to?” As soon as those words slipped past my lips I knew I would regret having uttered them. “Watson, the answer to that is an absurdly simple one I assure you. The Times! As I am fond of saying, the Press is a most valuable institution.”

“Mr. Holmes, how did you know that I was a suffragette?” she asked.

“Shoes do not disintegrate inexplicably overnight, Miss Grim-Babbington. Nor do they ‘dance themselves to pieces’. Had you gone dancing, you would have taken some form of transport to the venue and danced on a polished floor. You would have returned by a similar conveyance and your shoes would have been spared the fate that was ultimately visited upon them. But a demonstration… a march through the streets of Manchester would account for the black mud that may only be found in a metropolitan thoroughfare. The broken glass and crushed bits of brick clay give evidence to your participation in the breaking of windows. And the worn and even broken heels tell a story of hard walking and likely a chase… perhaps from the police? My dear, once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains—however improbable—must be the truth.”

Holmes took another puff on his cigar. “There remains but one mystery unaccounted for… how did you escape from a locked room and return into it in such a manner as not to disturb the lock? For the room was surely secured from without.”

“You are quite right, Mr. Holmes. Almost entirely.” Sophie said with a haughty demeanor. “The house is very old, dating back to the days of the destruction of the monasteries. We are Roman Catholic and our house had a priest hole and several secret passages. I discovered a loose floorboard in my dressing room with adjoins my bedchamber. I found that it concealed a passage that led under the main house and to a large boulder, the Mass rock, just at the edge of woods opposite my window. From there, I could easily make my way to the road and into town. I did march with the WSPU and we did some mischief, I don’t deny it. And yes, we did flee the scene when the police were called for. I made my way back to my room by the same manner in which I escaped it.”

“But you said that Holmes was not entirely correct. It seems to me he was bang on!” I said.

“I reject his premise, Dr. Watson.”

“What premise?” I asked.

“Mr. Holmes claimed to have ‘eliminated the impossible’, but his very words state the opposite… they confirm the very thing we were demonstrating and marching for. Mr. Holmes, the word ‘impossible’, itself states ‘I’m possible!’”

Holmes took a moment to respond. “My apologies, Miss Grim-Babbington. You cut me to the quick. You are indeed possible and, may I say, quite remarkable. In both words and deeds, you impress me as a woman…” Holmes suddenly stopped mid-sentence. “Forgive me. You impress me.”

He then made a polite bow to Sir Algernon and with a wave of his hand, he declined payment of any kind. We made our way back to London in silence.

We arrived back in London by early evening. The rain had long since ended and the sun had broken through the gloomy clouds of the morning and was now setting in an orange and purple glow. London shined bright and clean like a new penny! It wasn’t until we alighted from the cab that deposited us at 221B Baker Street when Holmes spoke. “Watson, Old Chap! We are living in a new age where everything is possible. What do you say to some roast beef at Simpsons?”

—The End—

The Adventure of the Missing Irregulars

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

Based on “The Children of Hameln”

The knock came as Holmes and I sat down for breakfast. Sherlock paused, his fork and knife suspended above his plate, ready to attack the kipper lying there. “Come in, Wiggins.”

A lad of about sixteen stepped into the room, and peered at my flatmate. “How’d ya’ know it was me?”

“Quite obvious, really.” Holmes chewed a bite of fish. “No one had knocked on the front door, and your steps were too light for a man and too quick for a lady. Therefore, Mrs. Hudson had let in a boy through the back entry. I suppose it could’ve been another of the Irregulars, but given you are their leader, logically, it would be you.”

Wiggins’ mouth formed an o. “Laws. That’s a ‘nificent piece of thinkin’.”

“What I am unable to ‘think’ out, however, is the purpose of your visit.”

The young man sobered immediately at this pronouncement, his lower lip trembling. “It’s me mates. They’re gone.”

Sherlock’s next forkful froze halfway to his mouth. A piece of kipper swung from the tines. “Gone? How?”

“I dunno, ‘xactly. The six of us went to sleep, and when I woke up, they was gone.”

“This morning?”

He shook his head. “Yesterday mornin’. I spent all day searchin’ for them. Walked all over town, whistlin’ our call to come together. Nuthin’.” His eyes glistened. “Sumthin’ bad’s happened to ‘em. It’s like the earth swallowed ‘em.”

A stone formed in the pit of stomach at the news of the Irregulars’ disappearance. London in 1895 had variety of ways of “swallowing” people, and it was quite possible that was what happened to the boys. Even Holmes might have trouble locating them. Sherlock, however, expressed no such doubts.

“Unless the laws of physics somehow shifted yesterday, they are somewhere,” Holmes said. He dropped his fork and kipper onto his plate, and raised his gaze to the boy. “As you can see, gravity has not been altered. Since physical laws are operating as they should, the same most definitely applies to the Irregulars.”

He turned to me as he pushed himself away from the table. “Watson, shall we begin the investigation?”

Mimicking Sherlock’s action of grabbing his deerstalker, I doffed my own bowler as I followed them from the apartment. And fearing the worse, I also tucked my service revolver into my jacket.

I had accompanied Holmes to many parts of the city—above and below ground, to opium dens, and down the Thames—but I had never found myself so deep in London’s underworld as I did that day with Wiggins. As our hansom moved from Baker Street toward Whitechapel and the East End, the houses grew grimmer and the streets more narrow and crooked.

When the road became unpassable, we paid the driver and proceeded on foot, stepping carefully to avoid small mountains of garbage and the open cess-trough running through the middle of the lane. Just as I had determined I could not abide another moment of breathing this miasma without detrimental effects to my health, Wiggins turned into a doorway and led us into another sort of hell. Drawing on my military training, I set my back straight and immobilized my expression as if the stench of too many people living in too close quarters had no impact. I glanced at Holmes. He seemed as unaffected as I hoped I appeared. At one point, we stepped over a man sprawled across the hallway, a cloud of gin drifting around him.

Halfway down the corridor, Wiggins unlocked a door. The floorboards creaked as we entered the small, slant-roofed room. The scent shifted from that of the squalid hallway to odors from a previous meal. Along with a table holding some unwashed bowls, small mounds of blankets and rags, most obviously serving as beds, were scattered around the room. Sunlight leached in through a single grimy window, dust motes chasing themselves in and out of its haze.

“See,” Wiggins said, moving his arm in a wide circle, “they’s gone.”

With a sigh, he poked a toe into one of the blankets, his chin quivering once again. He turned to face the window, most certainly to compose himself.

“Is this exactly how you found the room when you awoke?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, sir. I hadn’t wanted to come back. Hadn’t slept here ‘cause it’s too quiet.”

“And the door was locked? No one could get in or out without a key?” The boy nodded. “Where do you sleep?”

He pointed to the door. “Over there. To keep anybody from breaking in. Charlie sleeps on top of our hidey-hole. We keep the sal’ry you give us under a loose board there.”

Deep lines creased Holmes’ forehead while he considered where the boy had gestured. “Please check your savings.”

Despite the dirt on the urchin’s face, I could see it pale when the meaning behind Sherlock’s request sank in. Wiggins scurried across the room and jerked back the covers. Whoever had taken the money hadn’t even bothered to replace the board. A black hole now gaped in the floor.

He spun back around to face my friend. “Why? Why would they take it all and leave me like this? We was family.”

I dropped my gaze to the worn boards at my feet. The realization of his companions’ betrayal hit me as if a physical blow. I knew these boys. Had passed out their shillings in reward for information they collected. Treated more than one injury for each one of them. If this revelation affected me so deeply, what must it be doing to Wiggins? And Holmes? With as much discretion as I could muster, I checked out my companion. His usually stoic features had softened.

“I can’t tell you why—yet,” he said to Wiggins. “But I can tell you it is not what it appears to be. And we shall begin with that window.”

In a few long strides, he was at the casement, studying the frame, the latch, the top hinges and the murky glass itself.

“You ain’t thinkin’ they left through there?” Wiggins asked as the two of us observed his actions. “The latch’s rusted tight. We ain’t ever been able to o—”

Sherlock pushed the bottom of the window frame, and it swung silently outward, leaving a gap wide enough room for a boy to wiggle through. Kneeling down, Holmes stuck his head out the opening.

Over his shoulder, he reported back his observations. “The roof on the lower floor extends beyond this one and provides narrow passage. Given the trail of disturbed tiles leading to the back of the building, I would wager we will find something providing a means for descending to the ground from there.” He hauled himself back inside and stood. After swiping his hand over the hinge at the top of the window, he rubbed his fingertips together and sniffed.

“What do you make of this, Watson?” he asked, extending his palm.

I hesitated for a moment, glancing first at Wiggins before stepping forward and inhaling the scent. The lemony, slightly sweet, aroma took me by surprise. “Wait a moment,” I said, pausing for another whiff. “I recognize that. But why would chamomile be on a hinge?”

“Because, my dear colleague, it has been processed as an oil and used to lubricate the window. Whoever lured these children away—and I do believe they were tempted from this room by someone—is most likely of Teutonic origins, for the Germans are known for their preference for chamomile oil. We have our first clue, and I know where to find the second.”

Shutting the window, he turned and strode from the room. Wiggins and I hustled to keep up with him. The intensity of his movements told me he was now caught up in the hunt. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned abruptly on his heel to question Wiggins.

“How can we reach the alleyway?”

The boy pointed toward the rear of the building. “There’s a door that-a-way.”

Before he had even finished, Holmes was off again. Exiting the house, I pulled up short on the small stoop there, barely avoiding tripping over my friend. Sherlock was bent at the waist, studying the ground leading to the alley. Wiggins burst out a second later, running into me. I swayed precariously for a moment, bile rising in my throat as the prospect of landing face down in the mud (and whatever else was mixed with it) loomed before me. Wiggins, however, grabbed the back of my jacket and pulled me upright. I had no time to thank him. Holmes straightened and spoke up, pointing to a stack of wooden crates by the side of the building.

“They used those to climb down from the roof,” he said and turned his gaze to the ground again. “The mud is too churned up in the alley to indicate which way they went after that. What’s in that direction?”

Wiggins glanced to his right where Sherlock was pointing and shrugged. “More buildings like this one, I ‘spose.” He pointed to the left. “Not much that a-way.”

After glancing in both directions, Holmes took off toward the less occupied direction. Again, we followed, with me cursing under my breath about not having had the foresight to change my boots before I left. I was certain I would have to chuck these once we returned to Baker Street. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to remove all the muck from them. How Sherlock managed to keep his footing as sure as he did while maintaining his pace was beyond me.

At the end of the alley, he paused for a moment and continued to the right toward what appeared to be an open area ahead. When we reached it, he stooped again and picked up a piece of mud-spattered paper. He squinted at it and then the area around us.

“There was a circus here.”

He handed me the bit of trash he’d retrieved—the corner of a poster announcing the circus’ performances, ending last night.

“We was here, you know.” Wiggins stared ahead, speaking to the churned-up field lying before him. “Always good pickin’s at a circus. The people, they don’t notice you in a crowd. Do you think me mates joined the circus?”

“I believe that may just be the case,” Holmes said. “We’ll talk about the pickpocketing later. First, I need you to tell me about the circus. What you did. What you saw.”

The boy squeezed his eyes shut and puckered his mouth, as if forcing his memories to appear before him. “We went at night. When the crowds were greatest. Good pickin’s, like I said.”

“Did anyone catch you? Seem to be watching you?”

“I—no, wait.” His eyes widened as he stared at my friend. “There was one fellow. The snake man. He played a flute.”

“I know the kind,” I said, glad to contribute to the discussion. “Saw them all the time in India. Skinny men in turbans and long beards. The tune was supposed to charm a cobra out of the basket.”

“That’s the one,” Wiggins said. “In a tent with other circus sorts. You know, a lady with a beard, a strong man, them types.”

“What makes you think the snake man noticed you?” Sherlock asked.

The boy lifted his shoulder. “It was just a feelin’ I had. When you’re workin’ the crowds like we do, you sorta grow an extra eye. All the people were starin’ at the snake what raised hisself out of the basket, a-waving this way and that. But I could just feel the man watchin’ us—not the snake—all the while he was tootin’ on that pipe of his.”

“I hate that horn,” I said with a shiver. “Sort of a whiney sound.”

I imitated the nasally sound of the reedy flute I’d seen during my time in Afghanistan and India.

“It didn’t sound like that at all,” Wiggins said. “And it looked more like a tin whistle, but much fatter and longer than the ones they plays on the streets.”

“Impossible,” I said. I’d seen dozens of these snake men, and I wouldn’t have my authority questioned by this boy. “You just didn’t study it. There’s a bulge in the middle.”

Holmes focused on me. “Watson, I’ve found Wiggins to be a very reliable witness. If he said it resembled a tin whistle, we must take him at his word. As for it being impossible, I believe you know my response to that.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Sherlock had already spun on his heel and was marching back the way we came. All I could do was chase after him as fast as I could without slipping in the mud.

When Wiggins and I reached surer ground, we caught up with my friend, and I asked, “Where are we heading now?”

“The train station. They will know where the circus was headed next.”

“And when we finds them?” Wiggins asked. “You’ll help me bring ‘em home, right?”

That statement stopped him almost in mid-step. He turned to the boy and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know the boys are your family. But you have to understand we can’t make them return if they are there of their own volition.”

The boy’s mouth flattened to a straight line, and the muscles in his neck formed cords. He knocked the hand off his shoulder and fairly shouted at us. “They didn’t leave me on their own. We’re a family, and families don’t just…don’t—…I know they wouldn’t.”

Before either of us could respond, he took off down the street, leaving us to stare at his back. My heart contracted as the boy rounded the corner and disappeared. I had to agree with him that it seemed odd for the others to have abandoned him, but the evidence seemed to point to that conclusion. I said as much to my colleague but expressed also my concern for their leader as well.

“Shouldn’t we go after him?”

“The boy’s emotions are running high.” His mouth pulled down as he continued on his way. “Once he’s cooled a bit, he’ll remember we are his best hope for finding his ‘mates.’ I wouldn’t doubt he’ll be back before we purchase our tickets.”

The Bow Road station serviced a number of rail lines. We soon found that the circus had arranged passage on an express to Ipswich last night, and we purchased our own tickets to that port city. Sure of Wiggins’ imminent return, he left another ticket for the urchin with a detailed description of the lad with conductor.

We had barely settled ourselves into our compartment when the train jerked to life.

My friend crossed his arms, and frown pulled down every feature of his face. “The choice of a port city as their destination suggests plans to leave for the continent. Let’s hope their departure wasn’t immediate. Once they leave the country, I fear it will be more difficult to find our little band of ruffians.”

The implication of losing the boys’ trail hit me like a punch in the stomach. And I knew such a prospect didn’t sit well with Holmes either. He spent the entire trip staring out the window at the passing landscape and the shadows grewing in length as the day slipped into night. Characteristically, he waved off my offer to bring him something from the dining car. I knew he preferred not to eat, but I had no such qualms, our breakfast having been interrupted hours ago.

At the Ipswich station our inquiries about the circus were rewarded with directions to the circus grounds, and my friend’s step had a renewed spring as we hailed a cab to carry us there.

I peered around the driver in anticipation, hoping to catch sight of at least one of the Irregulars. Perhaps they would be circulating among the crowd, selling tickets or small packets of sweets. Or assisting with the animals behind a show tent. Once spotted, we would round them all up and—

“Holmes, have you thought about what you will say to them? How to encourage them to return?”

“I’m hoping Wiggins will be able to do that,” he said, also glancing around the driver. “As I predicted, he did return to the station and boarded the train at the last moment. While you were dining, I sought him out. Although still upset with me, he did accept my offer of sufficient funds for food and transport to the circus.”

I leaned back against the tufted seat, amazed as always at the man’s insights.

Despite our efforts to catch a glimpse of our destination, its aromas were the first to signal our proximity. The first hint was the spicy scent of meat pies. Even though I’d eaten only an hour earlier, my mouth watered at the thought of sinking my teeth into the crispy crust, the savory filling oozing into my mouth. A musky odor, not unlike that of the Irregulars’ lodgings, soon overpowered the first scents and squelched my appetite. In addition to the cacophony of fragrances—both pleasant and foul—was the muddle of human conversations, shouts from the barkers enticing visitors to spend their coins, and the protests from animals—both wild and domestic.

As our driver pulled the cab to a halt, a figure rushed past us and into the circus proper.

Sherlock slapped his hand on his thigh. “Good lord, the boy is going to spoil everything.”

He sprang to the ground and took off after Wiggins, leaving me to pay the driver. Once again, I found myself sprinting to catch up with my friend. Weaving our way through the crowds, I craned my neck in search of Wiggins or the other Irregulars. Holmes made a sharp turn to the left and headed toward an elongated canvas pavilion. A series of banners strung over the top promised a side show, complete with a snake charmer.

As we approached the tent, a dense crowd slowed our progress. With some effort, we pushed our way through to the entrance and learned the reason behind the crowd’s interest. A tall, muscular man held Wiggins in a tight grip against his chest. The boy’s feet pin-wheeled in the air, unable to touch the ground, while he let loose a blue streak of curses.

He caught sight of us and shouted from his captivity. “Mr. Holmes, tell this brute to let me down.”

“Ain’t goin’ to do no such thing,” the man said, turning to my friend. “The cheater tried to sneak in without paying.”

Wiggins struggled in the man’s grasp.

“I wasn’t sneakin’ in. I woulda bought a ticket, but the line was too long. Just wanted to see if my mates are in there. Let. Me. Go.”

The behemoth shook his head, making no effort to release poor Wiggins. In return, the boy continued to argue, demanding to be put down.

“Keep your voice down, Wiggins,” Sherlock said in a harsh whisper.

My stomach knotted as my colleague’s concern became apparent. With all this attention, our suspect might realize he was being sought. If we didn’t calm Wiggins down….

I stepped up to the man and fished in my pocket for some coins. Holding them out to the brute, I said, “Here. More than enough for three tickets as well as something for your troubles.”

The man dropped our young friend and held out his hand for payment.

By the time I’d finished that transaction, both disappeared. I rushed through the tent entrance and found the area deserted except for a woman (I guessed from the dress she wore) with a long beard seated in an overstuffed chair. She pointed to my left. “If you’re seeking a man and a boy, they ran that way.”

I expressed my thanks and continued through the various exhibits promised by the sign outside—a chimpanzee squealed at me from a cage, and an extremely obese man winked at me through fat almost obscuring his eyes. Passing a man about three feet tall, I caught up with the two in the next section.

Wiggins had a thin man in a turban by the shirt front and was shouting into his face.

“I know you have ‘em. Don’t lie to me. Where are me mates?”

The man resembled a turtle, having tucked his head into his shirt collar. He managed to sputter out a response. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. What mates?”

“My friends. We was at the circus in London—”

“But I wasn’t in London,” the man said. “I-I mean I was in London, but I wasn’t—”

Sherlock put a hand on Wiggins’ arm and said in a soft voice, “Steady, boy. This isn’t the man we’re looking for.”

“Of course he is,” he said, not taking his gaze from the man’s face. “He’s the snake man, ain’t he?”

The man’s color was changing from crimson to white, and I feared he was about to pass out before sharing what he knew.

“Look at the flute.” Holmes raised the man’s arm to Wiggins’ line of sight. The man clutched a flute with a large bulge in the middle, similar to those I’d seen in India. “Not at all like a penny whistle.”

Wiggins squinted at the object in the man’s hand and let go of his shirt. The snake man dropped to the ground, and Sherlock grabbed his arm to steady the poor innocent.

A realization hit me about the same time as it must have hit Wiggins. Before the circus man had fully recovered, the boy grabbed his shirt once again.

“Where’s the other snake man?”

Once again Holmes put a calming hand on Wiggins arm to make him let go.

“I’ve been trying to tell you.” The performer smoothed his shirt front and coughed. “He left. Took his flute and the snake. The ringmaster told me to blow on this and pretend to call out the snake. This one’s stuffed. I pull on a wire to make it come out of the basket.”

Wiggins’ gaze twitched between the man and the basket on a raised platform along the backside of the tent. He rubbed the back of his neck, and I stepped toward him, planning a kind phrase to share. Before I could speak, he drew in a shaky breath, straightened his spine, and asked, “Where’d he go?”

“One of the clowns heard him say something about Rotterdam.” Voices were coming in our direction, and the man glanced toward the entrance. “I got to get back to my place before the people pass through. I don’t want to have to go back to muckin’ out the monkeys. They’re right vicious varmints. Bit me more than once.”

No sooner had the man positioned himself on the floor by the basket, then the crowds swarmed in. The man began a tuneless succession of reedy tones from his “flute.”

“Where’s this rotten dam?” Wiggins asked Sherlock.

“Rotterdam is in Holland,” Holmes said, “We must see about booking passage as soon as possible.”

Once again our luck was with us, and we purchased three tickets on a ship leaving that very night. Despite the late hour and the ship’s gentle rocking, the boy spent most of the night pacing about our cabin—until we sent him to do the same along the corridor.

The morning broke sunny and clear, and as we stepped onto land again, Wiggins stared up and pointed to a tall tower on the edge of the dock. “Lors. What’s that?”

“A windmill,” Sherlock said without glancing in the direction indicated.

He was occupied with scanning the store fronts lining the opposite side of the street. He focused on one, and the boy and I were hard-pressed to keep up with his quick march as he headed toward it. French and German writing covered the front display window and a sign with a pipe hung above the door.

Inside the tobacconist’s shop, Sherlock spoke in German to a man behind the counter. After a bit more discussion, the man slid a box of French cigarettes to our companion, and we were off again down a street leading along a canal and away from the dock.

“What was all that about?” I asked between gasps for air.

“I was trying to locate where there might be crowds—a market or some such event.”

“I gots ya,” Wiggins said, not sounding half as winded as I did. “You wants a place where there’ll be children. A place where me boys’ll blend in.”

“Precisely. According to the tobacconist, there’s a weekly market no more than a half mile or so from here.”

“You goin’ to smoke those?” Wiggins asked.

My friend glanced at the package of cigarettes in his hand, almost surprised to see them there. “I couldn’t very well take the man’s information without giving him something in return. You may have them, if you wish. They’re French. You may find them quite different from our British.”

“I’ll save ‘em,” Wiggins said, “and share ‘em with me mates.”

My breath wheezed past a lump which formed in my throat. Would we find them? I glanced at Holmes. His gaze fixed on the path ahead, he gave no support to Wiggins’ plans. Did that mean he knew what the other Irregulars were up to? Or did he wish to spare Wiggins a harsh truth until the last possible moment?

My thoughts were cut short when several children pushed around us, running into a square at the end of the street. A woman hit me in the back, almost causing me to topple into the canal’s murky waters. Sherlock grabbed my arm and steadied me just in time.

“Het spijt me heel erg.” said the woman. While I spoke no Dutch, her contrite expression told me she was apologizing.

I had no opportunity to respond. A young girl of about six squirmed and tugged against the woman’s grasp, jerking her forward, “Haast, mama. Haast.”

“Something’s got all the children riled up,” I said, running a hand down my vest front. “Must be a carrousel. I can hear the music.”

Wiggins stilled for a moment, then broke into a run.

“That ain’t no carrousel,” he shouted over his shoulder. “That’s the snake man. I recognize the song.”

He pushed past the woman and her daughter, joining the others racing toward the square. Holmes and I chased after him, but a crowd of youngsters impeded our progress. A large number of children and adults circled a man dressed in loose, colorful pants, a vest with every hue of the rainbow, and a yellow- and red-printed scarf tied about his head. I knew in a moment he wasn’t Indian, and while his dress suggested a gypsy, he was clean shaven.

Any other observations fled my mind as the merry tune he played had me bouncing on my toes.

The throng had also slowed Wiggins, and we reached him at the edge of the assembled. When he made as if to move closer to the center, Sherlock pulled him back by his arm.

“I understand your impulse to confront the man,” Holmes said in a low voice to the boy, “but I believe you know my methods well enough to understand that sometimes one must step back and observe, learn his methods as well.”

Wiggins shoulders slumped and nodded. “You’re right, I s’pose.”

“I would suggest we separate, taking different parts of the crowd and see if we can spot any of the Irregulars. That is why we are here,” Sherlock said.

With a nod, I moved to the far side of the crowd. Remaining at the outer edge of those encircling the flautist, I tried to view as much of the crowd as possible. The audience was evenly distributed between adults and children. The girls wore dresses similar to their British counterparts, but with white aprons and a stiff peaked cap. The boys, on the other hand, wore loose-fitting shirts and baggy pants secured at the ankles. A kerchief was tied about the boys’ necks and a flat cap adorned their heads. Many of the adults were similarly dressed. Almost all wore shoes made of wood and were now making a loud clomping sound as they danced about.

Despite the clapping and thumping, the tune the man played reached all those in the square. The general merriment coaxed a smile from me that broadened when I caught sight of the joy registering on both the face of the woman who had run into me. I found myself drawn even deeper into the tune’s delight, now clapping my hands with the others. I glanced about to see what Holmes and Wiggins were up to. I didn’t see Holmes, but Wiggins had joined in a group of youths dancing at the edge of the crowd.

The flautist made a slight shift in the tune, speeding up the beat. Those gathered about took up the rhythm. The children turned to their parents and held out a hand. As if a natural response, the parents dug into their purses or pockets, gleefully handing over a coin. The children then danced to the front and dropped it into a cap at the man’s feet.

“Geef me een muntje?”

I jumped when a little Dutch boy spoke at my side. He repeated his request and held out his hand.

Although I had no clue what he said, I knew he’d asked for money to pay the flautist. More importantly, I desired to do so. Without hesitating, I reached into my pocket and dropped a coin into his outstretched hand. A part of me wanted to share more. I stuck my hand into my pocket, prepared to give the boy more coins, but he had already danced toward the front and the flute player’s cap—now filled with a small mountain of coins.

My hand was still in my pocket when I felt smaller hand enter next to mine. I glanced down, and another youth, dressed like all the other Dutch boys, gave me a smile as he withdrew the rest of the coins in my pocket. His gaze fixed on mine, and, unbidden, my left hand stretched across my waistcoat to unfasten my watch chain. I was aware of how the links weighed in my hand as I pulled the family heirloom from its pocket. For a moment, I let it dangle in the air above the boy’s palm. The moment I let it go, another, larger hand caught the watch before it landed in the boy’s.

Following the hand to the arm, the shoulder, and the face, I saw Sherlock’s mouth move, but could make no sense of his words. The flute music filled my ears, brain, soul. I studied my friend, knowing that I knew him. After all, I could tell you his name was Holmes but couldn’t place him. Also, his appearance was odd—correct, but not correct. Another moment of study, and it hit me. The man had put down the flaps on his deer stalker cap to cover his ears.

Sherlock grabbed the boy by his shirt and pulled both him and me away from the square. Only after several blocks did the first faint calls of seabirds and the slap of water in the canal penetrate my consciousness.

“Can you hear me, Watson?” my friend asked.

“Of course I can,” I said, halting the middle of a street. I faced him. “Despite my time in gun battles, I’ve always had excellent hearing.”

He turned to the boy. “What about you, Charlie?”

“Charlie? One of the Irregulars?” I crouched and pulled off his cap to get a better view of his face. “My heavens. It is Charlie.”

The boy stared at me, but without recognizing me or the words I spoke. I studied the blank eyes that suggested he was blind as well as deaf. With his apparent limited faculties, I considered if safe to let go of him when I stood. The moment he was free, however, he turned and sped off back to the square. I took off after him, but after a few steps, the flute music once again filled my ears, and I stopped, knowing he’d been compelled to return.

Hands grasped my forearms and pulled me backward until I was once again aware of my surroundings.

Spinning about, I faced my friend. “What’s happening? Where’s Wiggins?”

“One moment, Watson.” He lifted the flaps of his deerstalker and tied them on top of his head and pulled tobacco plugs from his ears. “Now I can hear you. I’m terribly sorry. I wasn’t able to warn you. I didn’t discover the power of the man’s flute before I sent you and Wiggins off. I was barely able to save myself from its control. While not particularly appropriate, I used my pipe tobacco to stop my ears with the flaps to hold them in place.”

“You’re saying the music…? Some sort of mass hypnosis?”

“If hypnosis, it’s the most devious type I’ve ever seen. A form of complete mind control.”

“I’ve been to many concerts and listened to street musicians, but never felt compelled to hand over my money. It certainly is beyond any typical flute music. What about the Irregulars? What have they got to do with it?”

“Where’s your pocket watch, Watson?” The man’s lips turned up slightly in a most annoying smile when I checked my waistcoat to no avail. He dangled the watch between us. Only then did I recall planning to give it to Charlie. “I saved this from being passed on to the snake man.”

“While the children distract their parents with coins, the Irregulars fleece them of the rest,” I said once the whole scenario became clear to me.

“Precisely. And with the parents’ full cooperation.”

I glanced up the street toward the square. “Wiggins is still there. Will he be like…Charlie?”

“I don’t think so. Firstly, because he wasn’t included when the others left. Secondly, my blocked hearing allowed me to observe the process. The children were the ones who collected the coins and took them forward. The parents provided the money, but none seemed propelled to step forward themselves. I would say that the music has a more profound effect on children—perhaps just as dogs can hear sounds we cannot. Charlie’s control—and I assume that of the other Irregulars—appears more complete. You saw that even when you were no longer affected, he remained ‘hypnotized,’ for lack of a better word.” Holmes tipped his head in the direction of the square and was silent for a moment. “The music appears to have stopped. I believe we’ll be safe to collect Wiggins.”

Back at the square, the crowd was breaking up. Little knots of children and parents drifted in different directions. Some shook their heads as if to clear out the final musical notes. The flautist, Charlie, and the other Irregulars were nowhere to be seen. We did, however, find Wiggins standing near the spot the snake man had occupied, staring at the bricks. Only when Sherlock shook him did the boy raise his gaze and focus first on Holmes and then me. His eyes had the same vague light I had observed in his friend. His second glance at my colleague and me, however, held more recognition of our presence.

“Where is he?” Wiggins asked, jerking about to check all directions in the square. “Where’d the snake man go?”

“Somewhere to count his ill-gotten gain, I’m sure,” I said.

“We need to find him,” Wiggins said, panic in this voice. “Force him to tell us what happened to me friends.”

Sherlock raised his hands as if calming a rearing horse. “I agree with you. We must take them away. They didn’t leave of their own free will. He has them under some sort of spell, and I believe I know how it’s done.”

He recited what we had observed about Charlie, and how it was all linked to the flute and its music. As he listened, Wiggins’ nostrils widened, and his mouth flattened to a straight line. My friend concluded with, “I’m afraid however he’s controlling your friends, it will take more than just getting them away from the music. Even when Dr. Watson was far enough away, Charlie was still under the spell. I can only hope we can find a means of breaking whatever hold the man has on them. And when we do, we must be certain he can never enslave any others.”

“Let’s find them then,” said the boy. He searched about the square. “Where’d they go?”

“Before we take off, I would suggest we prepare ourselves. We need to prevent the effects of the music on us. I see an apotheek on the far side of the square. I’m certain they will have the cotton wool and wax needed to seal our ears.”

While the flautist’s trail might have appeared cold to the average person, when we returned to the square, Holmes glanced about the area, taking in the streets that led into the plaza. “We know they didn’t return in our direction,” he said, pointing back toward the port area. “And he would seek to blend into the population. Given Charlie’s dress, I would suggest we consider a working-class area, which would be that way.”

We took off in the direction he indicated, seeking any additional trace of their presence. Wiggins’ continuous sighing, and my own growing sense of desperation was pushing me to suggest to our companion that perhaps his deductions were wrong. While I was seeking a way to form the words in the gentlest of fashions, Sherlock pointed to a man standing the door of a bakery.

“They have most definitely passed in this direction. And quite recently.”

Dressed in a baker’s white apron, the man, slack-jawed and with a blank stare, still held out his arms as if he were carrying something, most likely bread and other goodies shared with the Irregulars.

We continued on, but might have never caught them had the flautist not decided a beer might go well with what they had already taken. As we neared a tavern we could hear flute music—an Irish jig. Holmes pulled us into an alley to stuff our ears before going further. The sweat on my fingers made it difficult to mix the cotton and beeswax to form the ear plugs. I feared what I might be compelled to do should they fail.

To my relief, the plugs worked quite well, creating a rather disconcerting sensation. I found myself taken off-guard and easily buffeted about those coming from behind. To keep my equilibrium, I maintained a focus on my colleague’s back. His straight spine and sure step told me he had no problems negotiating in this silent world.

A scene similar to that in the square greeted us when we entered the tavern. Instead of children clapping their hands, we discovered men and women moving rhythmically to an apparently lively tune. I followed Holmes’ lead of keeping to the back of the room and clapping in time with the movements of the crowd.

Wiggins, however, seemed less concerned with blending in and stood on his toes, scanning the crowd. A hard ball formed in the pit of my stomach when he stiffened beside me. I followed his gaze and once again caught sight of Charlie easing himself beside a man whose attention was fixed on the flautist. For a brief second, I caught sight of a coin purse before it dropped into the boy’s pocket. Wiggins must have seen the same thing because he pushed through the spectators toward his friend.

Fearing he’d alert the snake man to our presence, I took off after the boy.

By the time I was abreast of Wiggins, he already had Charlie’s arm in a solid grasp. I checked around for Sherlock, but he was nowhere to be seen. The two boys tussled, and Wiggins shouted something into his friend’s face. The younger Irregular didn’t respond to Wiggins, other than to twist about in his grasp. The tavern goers ignored the thrashing in their midst as well. My thought was to pull the two boys outside and see if we might not be able to break the snake man’s control.

The flute player, however, must have realized his tune wasn’t working on everybody because the tavern’s other occupants stilled, then turned on one accord to face the three of us. My mouth dried as I recognized the blank, hard light in their eyes. I had no interest in learning what the flautist had designed for them to do. Wiggins recognized our troubles as well and keeping Charlie in his grasp, shifted himself so that his back was to mine. Hands reached out for us, grasping at my neck. I struggled to shrug off their hold, swinging my arms and kicking all that I could. I connected with many, but the sheer number of them was proving impossible to overcome.

My cries echoed within my head, and Wiggins’ own shouting vibrated against my back. The hands tightened about my neck, cutting off my screams. Black patches floated through my vision. I continued to struggle but knew my efforts were slowing and useless and prepared myself for my fate only to have their grips relax and step away from me. I gulped several breaths, and my sight cleared. All around me, the tavern-goers shook their heads as light reappeared in their eyes. I turned to the snake man and saw Holmes towering over the man, his foot on his chest and the flute held high in one hand. I pulled the plugs from my ears, and sounds rushed in: the murmuring of the crowd, the whining of the snake man, and Sherlock’s shouted warning that the man best not move.

I grabbed Wiggins’ arm and pulled him, with Charlie still in his grip, toward the two men. I retrieved my service revolver from an inner pocket and pointed it at the flautist. With the snake man now under my supervision, Holmes removed his own plugs.

“I see you’ve found Charlie,” Sherlock said to Wiggins.

When the boy only squinted at him, Sherlock took hold of the younger boy’s arm to allow Wiggins to unstop his ears.

As soon as he could hear again, the oldest Irregular scanned the room about him and asked, “Where’re the others?”

“The briefest appraisal of Charlie here suggests they are still under the flute’s spell,” said Sherlock. “But I’m certain this man here could reverse it, if he wished.”

“Why should I?” the snake man asked in a German accent. “I’ve been making a good living with those boys. Best fleecers I’ve ever had. No more children’s pennies. I’m on my way to making a true fortune. Just like my ancestor.”

Sherlock turned the flute over in his hands. “A beautiful piece of woodwork. Saxon in origin, if I’m not mistaken.” He glanced at me. “Have you heard of the pied piper of Hamlin, Watson?”

“As a child, I recall a fairy tale—”

“It’s not a tale,” the man said, his upper lip curling into a sneer. “Story’s been passed down through our family, along with the flute. My brothers and sisters laughed at me when I practiced and practiced on it, trying different tunes. They didn’t find it quite so funny when I called the rats. And screamed quite loud when the creatures devoured them from the feet up. Once I could control the rats, children were the next step. But I wanted more and got it. Thanks to this boy and his friends.”

“Look at ‘im, Mr. Holmes,” Wiggins said, a catch in his voice. He pointed at the boy in his grasp. “He’s right. He’s still got Charlie and the rest of me mates. He’s gots no reason to help, either.”

“Give me back my flute, and I’ll call them back. Take the spell off them.”

Sherlock studied the instrument in his hand, and then to its owner. “I think not. There’s no guarantee you won’t call them to attack us. Or call the rats.”

“Then they’ll be gone forever. They know where to go. See how that one squirms in his friend’s grasp? Let him go, and he’ll disappear into a mountain. Same as the Hamlin children did six hundred years ago.”

Holmes rubbed his jaw. Rarely did my companion hesitate, but I could tell he was debating with himself how best to solve the issue before us. I myself lacked a clear path. We couldn’t let the Irregulars commit what amounted to suicide. Neither did I have any confidence that the man wouldn’t just abscond with the flute and the boys.

“Get ‘em back, Mr. Holmes,” Wiggins said, his voice breaking. “Lookit how Charlie’s fightin’ me. I can’t hold all me mates.”

Sherlock fingered the flute and put it to his lips for a brief note. He jerked his head up and stared at Wiggins.

“Didn’t you mention you have a special whistle for the Irregulars? Some way to call them back together when you’re separated?”

The boy stared at Sherlock for a moment, then a smile split his face. “Laws, Mr. Holmes. Ain’t you the clever one.”

“Whistle it now. And keep repeating it.”

With a nod, he puckered his lips and began a high, sweet tune. After a few renditions, Sherlock took it up on the flute. As he did so, Charlie relaxed in Wiggins’ grasp. A murmur passed through the crowd and one by one, the other Irregulars appeared in the doorway and pushed their way to where we stood. When all were assembled, Holmes stopped. The boys’ eyelids fluttered a few times before they stared at each other and the tavern around them.

“Binky,” Charlie asked the boy nearest him, “what the devil are you wearin’?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Binky said.

“Laws. Where are we?” the Irregulars asked one another and their leader.

“Rotten dam. In Holland,” Wiggins said. “I’ll explain it all to you later.” The boy’s eyes shimmered when he faced Sherlock. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Thank you for saving me family and bringing us back together.”

“It was a much your tune as anything I did. Let’s head back to the port and see about passage back to London.” Showing the flute to the snake man, he said, “I’ll keep this. It’s much too dangerous in your hands.”

“You aren’t going to take him back with us?” I asked.

“I doubt anyone at Scotland Yard would believe in a magical flute, but, if I’m not mistaken, we do have a new addition to the items you have stored in the vault at Cox and Company.”

—The End—

Baker Street Elementary

ORIGINAL TALES WHICH THIS VOLUME IS BASED ON

“Little Brier-Rose or Sleeping Beauty”

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm

In past times there were a king and a queen, who said every day, "Oh, if only we had a child!" but they never received one.

Then it happened one day while the queen was sitting in her bath, that a frog crept out of the water onto the ground and said to her, "Your wish shall be fulfilled, and before a year passes you will bring a daughter into the world."

What the frog said did happen, and the queen gave birth to a girl who was so beautiful that the king could not contain himself for joy, and he ordered a great celebration. He invited not only his relatives, friends, and acquaintances, but also the wise women so that they would be kindly disposed toward the child. There were thirteen of them in his kingdom, but because he had only twelve golden plates from which they were to eat, one of them had to remain at home.

The feast was celebrated with great splendor, and at its conclusion the wise women presented the child with their magic gifts. The one gave her virtue, the second one beauty, the third one wealth, and so on with everything that one could wish for on earth.

The eleventh one had just pronounced her blessing when the thirteenth one suddenly walked in.

She wanted to avenge herself for not having been invited, and without greeting anyone or even looking at them she cried out with a loud voice, "In the princess's fifteenth year she shall prick herself with a spindle and fall over dead." And without saying another word she turned around and left the hall.

Everyone was horrified, and the twelfth wise woman, who had not yet offered her wish, stepped forward. Because she was unable to undo the wicked wish, but only to soften it, she said, "It shall not be her death. The princess will only fall into a hundred-year deep sleep."

The king, wanting to rescue his dear child, issued an order that all spindles in the entire kingdom should be burned. The wise women's gifts were all fulfilled on the girl, for she was so beautiful, well behaved, friendly, and intelligent that everyone who saw her had to love her.

Now it happened that on the day when she turned fifteen years of age the king and the queen were not at home, and the girl was all alone in the castle. She walked around from one place to the next, looking into rooms and chambers as her heart desired. Finally, she came to an old tower. She climbed up the narrow, winding stairs and arrived at a small door. In the lock there was a rusty key, and when she turned it the door sprang open. There in a small room sat an old woman with a spindle busily spinning her flax.

"Good day, old woman," said the princess. "What are you doing there?"

"I am spinning," said the old woman, nodding her head.

"What is that thing that is so merrily bouncing about?" asked the girl, taking hold of the spindle, for she too wanted to spin.

She had no sooner touched the spindle when the magic curse was fulfilled, and she pricked herself in the finger. The instant that she felt the prick she fell onto a bed that was standing there, and she lay there in a deep sleep. And this sleep spread throughout the entire castle. The king and queen, who had just returned home, walked into the hall and began falling asleep, and all of their attendants as well. The horses fell asleep in their stalls, the dogs in the courtyard, the pigeons on the roof, the flies on the walls, and even the fire on the hearth flickered, stopped moving, and fell asleep. The roast stopped sizzling. The cook, who was about to pull kitchen boy's hair for having done something wrong, let him loose and fell asleep. The wind stopped blowing, and outside the castle not a leaf was stirring in the trees.

Round about the castle a thorn hedge began to grow, and every year it became higher, until it finally surrounded and covered the entire castle. Finally, nothing at all could be seen of it, not even the flag on the roof.

A legend circulated throughout the land about the beautiful sleeping Little Brier-Rose, for so the princess was called. Legends also told that from time to time princes came, wanting to force their way through the hedge into the castle. However, they did not succeed, for the thorns held firmly together, as though they had hands, and the young men became stuck in them, could not free themselves, and died miserably.

Many long, long years later, once again a prince came to the country. He heard an old man telling about the thorn hedge. It was said that there was a castle behind it, in which a beautiful princess named Little Brier-Rose had been asleep for a hundred years, and with her the king and the queen and all the royal attendants were sleeping. He also knew from his grandfather that many princes had come and tried to penetrate the thorn hedge, but they had become stuck in it and died a sorrowful death.

Then the young man said, "I am not afraid. I will go there and see the beautiful Little Brier-Rose."

However much the good old man tried to dissuade him, the prince would not listen to his words.

The hundred years had just passed, and the day had come when Little Brier-Rose was to awaken. When the prince approached the thorn hedge, it was nothing but large, beautiful flowers that separated by themselves, allowing him to pass through without harm, but then behind him closed back into a hedge.

In the courtyard he saw the horses and spotted hunting dogs lying there asleep, and on the roof the pigeons, perched with their little heads tucked under their wings. When he walked inside the flies were asleep on the wall, the cook in the kitchen was still holding up his hand as if he wanted to grab the boy, and the maid was sitting in front of the black chicken that was supposed to be plucked. He walked further and saw all the attendants lying asleep in the hall, and above them near the throne the king and the queen were lying. He walked on still further, and it was so quiet that he could hear his own breath. Finally, he came to the tower and opened the door to the little room where Little Brier-Rose was sleeping.

There she lay and was so beautiful that he could not take his eyes off her. He bent over and gave her a kiss. When he touched her with the kiss Little Brier-Rose opened her eyes, awoke, and looked at him kindly.

They went downstairs together, and the king awoke, and the queen, and all the royal attendants, and they looked at one another in amazement. The horses in the courtyard stood up and shook themselves. The hunting dogs jumped and wagged their tails. The pigeons on the roof pulled their little heads out from beneath their wings, looked around, and flew into the field. The flies on the walls crept about again. The fire in the kitchen rose up, broke into flames, and cooked the food. The roast began to sizzle once again. The cook boxed the boy's ears, causing him to cry, and the maid finished plucking the chicken.

And then the prince's marriage to Little Brier-Rose was celebrated with great splendor, and they lived happily until they died.

—The End—

“Little Bo Peep”

English Nursery Rhyme

Little Bo peep has lost her sheep

And doesn't know where to find them.

Leave them alone and they'll come home,

Bringing their tails behind them.

Little Bo peep fell fast asleep

And dreamt she heard them bleating,

But when she awoke, she found it a joke,

For they were all still fleeting.

Then up she took her little crook

Determined for to find them.

She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed,

For they left their tails behind them.

It happened one day, as Bo peep did stray

Into a meadow hard by,

There she espied their tails side by side

All hung on a tree to dry.

She heaved a sigh, and wiped her eye,

And over the hillocks went rambling,

And tried what she could, as a shepherdess should,

To tack again each to its lambkin.

—The End—

“The Goose-Girl”

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm

There was once upon a time an old queen whose husband had been dead for many years, and she had a beautiful daughter. When the princess grew up she was betrothed to a prince who lived at a great distance. When the time came for her to be married, and she had to journey forth into the distant kingdom, the aged queen packed up for her many costly vessels of silver and gold, and trinkets also of gold and silver, and cups and jewels, in short, everything which appertained to a royal dowry, for she loved her child with all her heart.

She likewise sent her maid-in-waiting, who was to ride with her, and hand her over to the bridegroom, and each had a horse for the journey, but the horse of the king's daughter was called Falada, and could speak. So when the hour of parting had come, the aged mother went into her bedroom, took a small knife and cut her finger with it until it bled. Then she held a white handkerchief to it into which she let three drops of blood fall, gave it to her daughter and said, dear child, preserve this carefully, it will be of service to you on your way.

So they took a sorrowful leave of each other, the princess put the piece of cloth in her bosom, mounted her horse, and then went away to her bridegroom. After she had ridden for a while she felt a burning thirst, and said to her waiting-maid, dismount, and take my cup which you have brought with you for me, and get me some water from the stream, for I should like to drink. If you are thirsty, said the waiting-maid, get off your horse yourself, and lie down and drink out of the water, I don't choose to be your servant.

So in her great thirst the princess alighted, bent down over the water in the stream and drank, and was not allowed to drink out of the golden cup. Then she said, ah, heaven, and the three drops of blood answered, if this your mother knew, her heart would break in two. But the king's daughter was humble, said nothing, and mounted her horse again.

She rode some miles further, but the day was warm, the sun scorched her, and she was thirsty once more, and when they came to a stream of water, she again cried to her waiting-maid, dismount, and give me some water in my golden cup, for she had long ago forgotten the girl's ill words. But the waiting-maid said still more haughtily, if you wish to drink, get it yourself, I don't choose to be your maid. Then in her great thirst the king's daughter alighted, bent over the flowing stream, wept and said, ah, heaven, and the drops of blood again replied, if this your mother knew, her heart would break in two.

And as she was thus drinking and leaning right over the stream, the handkerchief with the three drops of blood fell out of her bosom, and floated away with the water without her observing it, so great was her trouble. The waiting-maid, however, had seen it, and she rejoiced to think that she had now power over the bride, for since the princess had lost the drops of blood, she had become weak and powerless.

So now when she wanted to mount her horse again, the one that was called Falada, the waiting-maid said, Falada is more suitable for me, and my nag will do for you, and the princess had to be content with that. Then the waiting-maid, with many hard words, bade the princess exchange her royal apparel for her own shabby clothes, and at length she was compelled to swear by the clear sky above her, that she would not say one word of this to anyone at the royal court, and if she had not taken this oath she would have been killed on the spot. But Falada saw all this, and observed it well.

The waiting-maid now mounted Falada, and the true bride the bad horse, and thus they traveled onwards, until at length they entered the royal palace. There were great rejoicings over her arrival, and the prince sprang forward to meet her, lifted the waiting-maid from her horse, and thought she was his consort.

She was conducted upstairs, but the real princess was left standing below. Then the old king looked out of the window and saw her standing in the courtyard, and noticed how dainty and delicate and beautiful she was, and instantly went to the royal apartment, and asked the bride about the girl she had with her who was standing down below in the courtyard, and who she was. I picked her up on my way for a companion, give the girl something to work at, that she may not stand idle.

But the old king had no work for her, and knew of none, so he said, I have a little boy who tends the geese, she may help him. The boy was called Conrad, and the true bride had to help him to tend the geese. Soon afterwards the false bride said to the young king, dearest husband, I beg you to do me a favor. He answered, I will do so most willingly. Then send for the knacker, and have the head of the horse on which I rode here cut off, for it vexed me on the way. In reality, she was afraid that the horse might tell how she had behaved to the king's daughter.

Then she succeeded in making the king promise that it should be done, and the faithful Falada was to die, this came to the ears of the real princess, and she secretly promised to pay the knacker a piece of gold if he would perform a small service for her. There was a great dark-looking gateway in the town, through which morning and evening she had to pass with the geese, would he be so goood as to nail up Falada's head on it, so that she might see him again, more than once. The knacker's man promised to do that, and cut off the head, and nailed it fast beneath the dark gateway.

Early in the morning, when she and Conrad drove out their flock beneath this gateway, she said in passing, alas, Falada, hanging there.

Then the head answered, alas, young queen, how ill you fare. If this your mother knew, her heart would break in two.

Then they went still further out of the town, and drove their geese into the country. And when they had come to the meadow, she sat down and unbound her hair which was like pure gold, and Conrad saw it and delighted in its brightness, and wanted to pluck out a few hairs. Then she said, blow, blow, thou gentle wind, I say, blow Conrad's little hat away, and make him chase it here and there, until I have braided all my hair, and bound it up again.

And there came such a violent wind that it blew Conrad's hat far away across country, and he was forced to run after it. When he came back she had finished combing her hair and was putting it up again, and he could not get any of it. Then Conrad was angry, and would not speak to her, and thus they watched the geese until the evening, and then they went home. Next day when they were driving the geese out through the dark gateway, the maiden said, alas, Falada, hanging there.

Falada answered, alas, young queen, how ill you fare. If this your mother knew, her heart would break in two.

And she sat down again in the field and began to comb out her hair, and Conrad ran and tried to clutch it, so she said in haste, blow, blow, thou gentle wind, I say, blow Conrad's little hat away, and make him chase it here and there, until I have braided all my hair, and bound it up again.

Then the wind blew, and blew his little hat off his head and far away, and Conrad was forced to run after it, and when he came back, her hair had been put up a long time, and he could get none of it, and so they looked after their geese till evening came.

But in the evening after they had got home, Conrad went to the old king, and said, I won't tend the geese with that girl any longer. Why not, inquired the aged king. Oh, because she vexes me the whole day long. Then the aged king commanded him to relate what it was that she did to him. And Conrad said, in the morning when we pass beneath the dark gateway with the block, there is a horse's head on the wall, and she says to it, alas, Falada, hanging there.

And the head replies, alas, young queen how ill you fare. If this your mother knew, her heart would break in two.

And Conrad went on to relate what happened on the goose pasture, and how when there he had to chase his hat.

The aged king commanded him to drive his block out again next day, and as soon as morning came, he placed himself behind the dark gateway, and heard how the maiden spoke to the head of Falada, and then he too went into the country, and hid himself in the thicket in the meadow. There he soon saw with his own eyes the goose-girl and the goose-boy bringing their flock, and how after a while she sat down and unplaited her hair, which shone with radiance. And soon she said, blow, blow, thou gentle wind, I say, blow Conrad's little hat away, and make him chase it here and there, until I have braided all my hair, and bound it up again.

Then came a blast of wind and carried off Conrad's hat, so that he had to run far away, while the maiden quietly went on combing and plaiting her hair, all of which the king observed. Then, quite unseen, he went away, and when the goose-girl came home in the evening, he called her aside, and asked why she did all these things. I may not tell that, and I dare not lament my sorrows to any human being, for I have sworn not to do so by the heaven which is above me, if I had not done that, I should have lost my life.

He urged her and left her no peace, but he could draw nothing from her. Then said he, if you will not tell me anything, tell your sorrows to the iron-stove there, and he went away. Then she crept into the iron-stove, and began to weep and lament, and emptied her whole heart, and said, here am I deserted by the whole world, and yet I am a king's daughter, and a false waiting-maid has by force brought me to such a pass that I have been compelled to put off my royal apparel, and she has taken my place with my bridegroom, and I have to perform menial service as a goose-girl if this my mother knew, her heart would break in two.

The aged king, however, was standing outside by the pipe of the stove, and was listening to what she said, and heard it. Then he came back again, and bade her come out of the stove. And royal garments were placed on her, and it was marvellous how beautiful she was. The aged king summoned his son, and revealed to him that he had got the false bride who was only a waiting-maid, but that the true one was standing there, as the former goose-girl. The young king rejoiced with all his heart when he saw her beauty and youth, and a great feast was made ready to which all the people and all good friends were invited.

At the head of the table sat the bridegroom with the king's daughter at one side of him, and the waiting-maid on the other, but the waiting-maid was blinded, and did not recognize the princess in her dazzling array. When they had eaten and drunk, and were merry, the aged king asked the waiting-maid as a riddle, what punishment a person deserved who had behaved in such and such a way to her master, and at the same time related the whole story, and asked what sentence such a person merited. Then the false bride said, she deserves no better fate than to be stripped entirely naked, and put in a barrel which is studded inside with pointed nails, and two white horses should be harnessed to it, which will drag her along through one street after another, till she is dead.

It is you, said the aged king, and you have pronounced your own sentence, and thus shall it be done unto you. And when the sentence had been carried out, the young king married his true bride, and both of them reigned over their kingdom in peace and happiness.

—The End—

“The Robber Bridegroom”

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm

Once upon a time there was a miller who had a beautiful daughter. When she came of age he wished that she was provided for and well married. He thought, "If a respectable suitor comes and asks for her hand in marriage, I will give her to him."

Not long afterward a suitor came who appeared to be very rich, and because the miller could find no fault with him, he promised his daughter to him.

The girl, however, did not like him as much as a bride should like her bridegroom. She did not trust him, and whenever she saw him or thought about him, she felt within her heart a sense of horror.

One time he said to her, "You are engaged to marry me, but you have never once paid me a visit."

The girl replied, "I don't know where your house is."

Then the bridegroom said, "My house is out in the dark woods."

Looking for an excuse, she said that she would not be able to find the way there.

The bridegroom said, "Next Sunday you must come out to me. I have already invited guests. I will make a trail of ashes, so that you can find your way through the woods."

When Sunday came, and it was time for the girl to start on her way, she became frightened, although she herself did not know exactly why. In order to mark the path, she filled both her pockets full of peas and lentils. At the entrance of the forest there was a trail of ashes, which she followed, but at every step she threw a couple of peas to the ground, to the right and to the left. She walked almost the whole day until she came to the middle of the woods, where it was the darkest, and there stood a solitary house. She did not like it, because it looked so dark and sinister. She went inside, but no one was there. It was totally quiet.

Suddenly a voice called out:

Turn back, turn back, you young bride.

You are in a murderer's house.

The girl looked up and saw that the voice came from a bird, which was hanging in a cage on the wall. It cried out again:

Turn back, turn back, you young bride.

You are in a murderer's house.

Then the beautiful bride went from one room to another, walking through the whole house, but it was entirely empty, and not a human soul was to be found. Finally, she came to the cellar. A very old woman was sitting there shaking her head.

"Could you tell me," said the girl, "if my bridegroom lives here?"

"Oh, you, poor child," replied the old woman, "where did you come from? You are in a murderer's den. You think you are a bride soon to be married, but it is death that you will be marrying. Look, they made me put a large kettle of water on the fire. When they have captured you, they will chop you to pieces without mercy, cook you, and eat you, for they are cannibals. If I do not show you compassion and save you, you are doomed."

With this the old woman led her behind a large barrel where she could not be seen.

"Be quiet as a mouse." she said. "Do not make a sound or move, or all will be over with you. Tonight when the robbers are asleep we will escape. I have long waited for an opportunity."

This had scarcely happened when the godless band came home. They were dragging with them another maiden. They were drunk and paid no attention to her screams and sobs.

They gave her wine to drink, three glasses full, one glass of white, one glass of red, and one glass of yellow, which caused her heart to break. Then they ripped off her fine clothes, laid her on a table, chopped her beautiful body in pieces and sprinkled salt on it. The poor bride behind the barrel trembled and shook, for she saw well what fate the robbers had planned for her.

One of them noticed a gold ring on the murdered girl's little finger. Because it did not come off easily, he took an ax and chopped the finger off, but it flew into the air and over the barrel, falling right into the bride's lap. The robber took a light and looked for it, but could not find it.

Then another one said, "Did you look behind the large barrel?"

But the old woman cried out, "Come and eat. You can continue looking in the morning. That finger won't run away from you."

Then the robbers said, "The old woman is right." They gave up their search and sat down to eat. The old woman poured a sleeping-potion into their wine, so that they soon lay down in the cellar and fell asleep, snoring.

When the bride heard them snoring she came out from behind the barrel, and had to step over the sleepers, for they lay all in rows on the ground. She was afraid that she might awaken one of them, but God helped her, and she got through safely.

The old woman went upstairs with her, opened the door, and they hurried out of the murderer's den as fast as they could.

The wind had blown away the trail of ashes, but the peas and lentils had sprouted and grown up, and showed them the way in the moonlight. They walked all night, arriving at the mill the next morning. Then the girl told her father everything, just as it had happened.

When the wedding day came, the bridegroom appeared. The miller had invited all his relatives and acquaintances. As they sat at the table, each one was asked to tell something. The bride sat still and said nothing.

Then the bridegroom said to the bride, "Come, sweetheart, don't you know anything? Tell us something, like the others have done."

She answered:

Then I will tell about a dream. I was walking alone through the woods, when finally, I came to a house. Inside there was not a single human soul, but on the wall there was a bird in a cage. It cried out:

Turn back, turn back, you, young bride.

You are in a murderer's house.

Then it cried out the same thing again. Darling, it was only a dream. Then I went through all the rooms. They were all empty, and there was something so eerie in there. Finally, I went down into the cellar, and there sat a very old woman, shaking her head. I asked her, "Does my bridegroom live in this house?"

She answered, "Alas poor child, you have gotten into a murderer's den. Your bridegroom does live here, but he intends to chop you to pieces and kill you, and then he intends to cook you and eat you."

Darling, it was only a dream. After that the old woman hid me behind a large barrel. I had scarcely hidden myself there when the robbers came home, dragging a girl with them. They gave her three kinds of wine to drink: white, red, and yellow, which caused her heart to stop beating. Darling, it was only a dream. After that they took off her fine clothes, and chopped her beautiful body to pieces on a table, then sprinkled salt on it. Darling, it was only a dream. Then one of the robbers saw that there was still a ring on her ring finger. Because it was hard to get the ring off, he took an ax and chopped off the finger. The finger flew through the air behind the large barrel, and fell into my lap. And here is the finger with the ring.

With these words she pulled out the finger and showed it to everyone who was there.

The robber, who had during this story become as white as chalk, jumped up and tried to escape, but the guests held him fast, and turned him over to the courts. Then he and his whole band were executed for their shameful deeds.

—The End—

“Little Red-Cap”

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm

Once upon a time there was a dear little girl who was loved by everyone who looked at her, but most of all by her grandmother, and there was nothing that she would not have given to the child. Once she gave her a little cap of red velvet, which suited her so well that she would never wear anything else. So she was always called little red-cap.

One day her mother said to her, come, little red-cap, here is a piece of cake and a bottle of wine. Take them to your grandmother, she is ill and weak, and they will do her good. Set out before it gets hot, and when you are going, walk nicely and quietly and do not run off the path, or you may fall and break the bottle, and then your grandmother will get nothing. And when you go into her room, don't forget to say, good-morning, and don't peep into every corner before you do it.

I will take great care, said little red-cap to her mother, and gave her hand on it.

The grandmother lived out in the wood, half a league from the village, and just as little red-cap entered the wood, a wolf met her. Red-cap did not know what a wicked creature he was, and was not at all afraid of him.

"Good-day, little red-cap," said he.

"Thank you kindly, wolf."

"Whither away so early, little red-cap?"

"To my grandmother's."

"What have you got in your apron?"

"Cake and wine. Yesterday was baking-day, so poor sick grandmother is to have something good, to make her stronger."

"Where does your grandmother live, little red-cap?"

"A good quarter of a league farther on in the wood. Her house stands under the three large oak-trees, the nut-trees are just below. You surely must know it," replied little red-cap.

The wolf thought to himself, what a tender young creature. What a nice plump mouthful, she will be better to eat than the old woman. I must act craftily, so as to catch both. So he walked for a short time by the side of little red-cap, and then he said, "see little red-cap, how pretty the flowers are about here. Why do you not look round. I believe, too, that you do not hear how sweetly the little birds are singing. You walk gravely along as if you were going to school, while everything else out here in the wood is merry."

Little red-cap raised her eyes, and when she saw the sunbeams dancing here and there through the trees, and pretty flowers growing everywhere, she thought, suppose I take grandmother a fresh nosegay. That would please her too. It is so early in the day that I shall still get there in good time. And so she ran from the path into the wood to look for flowers. And whenever she had picked one, she fancied that she saw a still prettier one farther on, and ran after it, and so got deeper and deeper into the wood.

Meanwhile the wolf ran straight to the grandmother's house and knocked at the door.

"Who is there?"

"Little red-cap," replied the wolf. "She is bringing cake and wine. Open the door."

"Lift the latch," called out the grandmother, "I am too weak, and cannot get up."

The wolf lifted the latch, the door sprang open, and without saying a word he went straight to the grandmother's bed, and devoured her. Then he put on her clothes, dressed himself in her cap, laid himself in bed and drew the curtains.

Little red-cap, however, had been running about picking flowers, and when she had gathered so many that she could carry no more, she remembered her grandmother, and set out on the way to her.

She was surprised to find the cottage-door standing open, and when she went into the room, she had such a strange feeling that she said to herself, oh dear, how uneasy I feel to-day, and at other times I like being with grandmother so much. She called out, "good morning," but received no answer. So she went to the bed and drew back the curtains. There lay her grandmother with her cap pulled far over her face, and looking very strange.

"Oh, grandmother," she said, "what big ears you have."

"The better to hear you with, my child," was the reply.

"But, grandmother, what big eyes you have," she said.

"The better to see you with," my dear.

"But, grandmother, what large hands you have."

"The better to hug you with."

"Oh, but, grandmother, what a terrible big mouth you have."

"The better to eat you with."

And scarcely had the wolf said this, than with one bound he was out of bed and swallowed up red-cap.

When the wolf had appeased his appetite, he lay down again in the bed, fell asleep and began to snore very loud. The huntsman was just passing the house, and thought to himself, how the old woman is snoring. I must just see if she wants anything.

So he went into the room, and when he came to the bed, he saw that the wolf was lying in it. Do I find you here, you old sinner, said he. I have long sought you. Then just as he was going to fire at him, it occurred to him that the wolf might have devoured the grandmother, and that she might still be saved, so he did not fire, but took a pair of scissors, and began to cut open the stomach of the sleeping wolf. When he had made two snips, he saw the little red-cap shining, and then he made two snips more, and the little girl sprang out, crying, ah, how frightened I have been. How dark it was inside the wolf. And after that the aged grandmother came out alive also, but scarcely able to breathe. Red-cap, however, quickly fetched great stones with which they filled the wolf's belly, and when he awoke, he wanted to run away, but the stones were so heavy that he collapsed at once, and fell dead.

Then all three were delighted. The huntsman drew off the wolf's skin and went home with it. The grandmother ate the cake and drank the wine which red-cap had brought, and revived, but red-cap thought to herself, as long as I live, I will never by myself leave the path, to run into the wood, when my mother has forbidden me to do so.

It is also related that once when red-cap was again taking cakes to the old grandmother, another wolf spoke to her, and tried to entice her from the path. Red-cap, however, was on her guard, and went straight forward on her way, and told her grandmother that she had met the wolf, and that he had said good-morning to her, but with such a wicked look in his eyes, that if they had not been on the public road she was certain he would have eaten her up. Well, said the grandmother, we will shut the door, that he may not come in. Soon afterwards the wolf knocked, and cried, open the door, grandmother, I am little red-cap, and am bringing you some cakes. But they did not speak, or open the door, so the grey-beard stole twice or thrice round the house, and at last jumped on the roof, intending to wait until red-cap went home in the evening, and then to steal after her and devour her in the darkness. But the grandmother saw what was in his thoughts. In front of the house was a great stone trough, so she said to the child, take the pail, red-cap. I made some sausages yesterday, so carry the water in which I boiled them to the trough. Red-cap carried until the great trough was quite full. Then the smell of the sausages reached the wolf, and he sniffed and peeped down, and at last stretched out his neck so far that he could no longer keep his footing and began to slip, and slipped down from the roof straight into the great trough, and was drowned. But red-cap went joyously home, and no one ever did anything to harm her again.

—The End—

“Humpty Dumpty”

Mother Goose

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a big fall.

All the king's horses and all the king's men

Couldn't put Humpty together again.

—The End—

“Death's Messengers”

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm

In ancient times a giant was wandering along the highway when suddenly a stranger jumped toward him and shouted, "Stop! Not one step further!"

"What?" said the giant. "You, a creature that I could crush between my fingers, you want to block my way? Who are you that you dare to speak so boldly?"

"I am Death," answered the other one. "No one resists me, and you too must obey my orders."

But the giant refused, and began to wrestle with Death. It was a long, violent battle, and finally the giant got the upper hand, and knocked Death down with his fist, causing him to collapse by a stone. The giant went on his way, and Death lay there conquered, so weak that he could not get up again.

"What is to come of this?" he said. "If I stay lying here in a corner, no one will die in the world, and it will become so filled with people that they won't have room to stand beside one another."

Meanwhile a young man came down the road. Vigorous and healthy, he was singing a song and looking this way and that. Seeing the half-conscious individual, he approached him with compassion, raised him up, gave him a refreshing drink from his flask, and waited until he regained his strength.

"Do you know," asked the stranger, as he stood up, "who I am, and whom you have helped onto his legs again?"

"No," answered the youth, "I do not know you."

"I am Death," he said. "I spare no one, nor can make an exception with you. However, so you may see that I am grateful, I promise you that I will not attack you without warning, but instead will send my messengers to you before I come and take you away."

"Good," said the youth. "It is to my benefit that I shall know when you are coming, and that I will be safe from you until then."

Then he went on his way, and was cheerful and carefree, and lived one day at a time. However, youth and good health did not last long. Soon came sickness and pain, which tormented him by day and deprived him of his rest by night.

"I shall not die," he said to himself, "for Death will first send his messengers, but I do wish that these wicked days of sickness were over."

Regaining his health, he began once more to live cheerfully. Then one day someone tapped on his shoulder.

He looked around, and death was standing behind him, who said, "Follow me. The hour of your departure from this world has come."

"What?" replied the man. "Are you breaking your word? Did you not promise me that you would send your messengers to me before you yourself would come? I have not seen a one of them."

"Be still!" answered Death. "Have I not sent you one messenger after another? Did not fever come and strike you, and shake you, and throw you down? Has not dizziness numbed your head? Has not gout pinched your limbs? Did your ears not buzz? Did toothache not bite into your cheeks? Did your eyes not darken? And furthermore, has not my own brother Sleep reminded you every night of me? During the night did you not lie there as if you were already dead?"

The man did not know how to answer, so he surrendered to his fate and went away with Death.

—The End—

“Faithful Johannes”

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm

There was once upon a time an old king who was ill and thought to himself 'I am lying on what must be my deathbed.' Then said he 'tell faithful John to come to me.'

Faithful John was his favorite servant, and was so called, because he had for his whole life long been so true to him. When therefore he came beside the bed, the king said to him 'most faithful John, I feel my end approaching, and have no anxiety except about my son. He is still of tender age, and cannot always know how to guide himself. If you do not promise me to teach him everything that he ought to know, and to be his foster-father, I cannot close my eyes in peace.'

Then answered faithful John 'I will not forsake him, and will serve him with fidelity, even if it should cost me my life.'

At this, the old king said 'now I die in comfort and peace.' Then he added 'after my death, you shall show him the whole castle - all the chambers, halls, and vaults, and all the treasures which lie therein, but the last chamber in the long gallery, in which is the picture of the princess of the golden dwelling, shall you not show. If he sees that picture, he will fall violently in love with her, and will drop down in a swoon, and go through great danger for her sake, therefore you must protect him from that.'

And when faithful John had once more given his promise to the old king about this, the king said no more, but laid his head on his pillow, and died.

When the old king had been carried to his grave, faithful John told the young king all that he had promised his father on his deathbed, and said 'this will I assuredly keep, and will be faithful to you as I have been faithful to him, even if it should cost me my life.'

When the mourning was over, faithful John said to him 'it is now time that you should see your inheritance. I will show you your father's palace.'

Then he took him about everywhere, up and down, and let him see all the riches, and the magnificent apartments, only there was one room which he did not open, that in which hung the dangerous picture.

The picture, however, was so placed that when the door was opened you looked straight on it, and it was so admirably painted that it seemed to breathe and live, and there was nothing more charming or more beautiful in the whole world.

The young king noticed, however, that faithful John always walked past this one door, and said 'why do you never open this one for me.'

'There is something within it, he replied, 'which would terrify you.'

But the king answered 'I have seen all the palace, and I want to know what is in this room also, and he went and tried to break open the door by force.’

Then faithful John held him back and said 'I promised your father before his death that you should not see that which is in this chamber, it might bring the greatest misfortune on you and on me.'

'Ah, no, replied the young king, 'if I do not go in, it will be my certain destruction. I should have no rest day or night until I had seen it with my own eyes. I shall not leave the place now until you have unlocked the door.'

Then faithful John saw that there was no help for it now, and with a heavy heart and many sighs, sought out the key from the great bunch.

When he opened the door, he went in first, and thought by standing before him he could hide the portrait so that the king should not see it in front of him.

But what good was this. The king stood on tip-toe and saw it over his shoulder.

And when he saw the portrait of the maiden, which was so magnificent and shone with gold and precious stones, he fell fainting to the ground.

Faithful John took him up, carried him to his bed, and sorrowfully thought 'the misfortune has befallen us, Lord God, what will be the end of it.'

Then he strengthened him with wine, until he came to himself again.

The first words the king said were 'ah, the beautiful portrait. Whose it it.'

'That is the princess of the golden dwelling, answered faithful John. Then the king continued 'my love for her is so great, that if all the leaves on all the trees were tongues, they could not declare it. I will give my life to win her. You are my most faithful John, you must help me.

The faithful servant considered within himself for a long time how to set about the matter, for it was difficult even to obtain a sight of the king's daughter.

At length he thought of a way, and said to the king 'everything which she has about her is of gold - tables, chairs, dishes, glasses, bowls, and household furniture. Among your treasures are five tons of gold, let one of the goldsmiths of the kingdom fashion these into all manner of vessels and utensils, into all kinds of birds, wild beasts and strange animals, such as may please her, and we will go there with them and try our luck.'

The king ordered all the goldsmiths to be brought to him, and they had to work night and day until at last the most splendid things were prepared.

When everything was stowed on board a ship, faithful John put on the dress of a merchant, and the king was forced to do the same in order to make himself quite unrecognizable.

Then they sailed across the sea, and sailed on until they came to the town wherein dwelt the princess of the golden dwelling.

Faithful John bade the king stay behind on the ship, and wait for him.

'Perhaps I shall bring the princess with me, said he, 'therefore see that everything is in order, have the golden vessels set out and the whole ship decorated.'

Then he gathered together in his apron all kinds of golden things, went on shore and walked straight to the royal palace.

When he entered the courtyard of the palace, a beautiful girl was standing there by the well with two golden buckets in her hand, drawing water with them.

And when she was just turning round to carry away the sparkling water she saw the stranger, and asked who he was.

So he answered 'I am a merchant, and opened his apron, and let her look in.

Then she cried 'oh, what beautiful golden things.' And put her pails down and looked at the golden wares one after the other.

Then said the girl 'the princess must see these, she has such great pleasure in golden things, that she will buy all you have.'

She took him by the hand and led him upstairs, for she was the waiting-maid.

When the king's daughter saw the wares, she was quite delighted and said 'they are so beautifully worked, that I will buy them all from you.'

But faithful John said 'I am only the servant of a rich merchant. The things I have here are not to be compared with those my master has in his ship. They are the most beautiful and valuable things that have ever been made in gold.'

When she wanted to have everything brought up to her, he said 'there are so many of them that it would take a great many days to do that, and so many rooms would be required to exhibit them, that your house is not big enough.'

Then her curiosity and longing were still more excited, until at last she said 'conduct me to the ship, I will go there myself, and behold the treasures of your master.'

At this faithful John was quite delighted, and led her to the ship, and when the king saw her, he perceived that her beauty was even greater than the picture had represented it to be, and thought no other than that his heart would burst in twain.

Then she boarded the ship, and the king led her within. Faithful John, however, remained with the helmsman, and ordered the ship to be pushed off, saying 'set all sail, till it fly like a bird in the air.'

Within, the king showed her the golden vessels, every one of them, also the wild beasts and strange animals.

Many hours went by whilst she was seeing everything, and in her delight she did not observe that the ship was sailing away.

After she had looked at the last, she thanked the merchant and wanted to go home, but when she came to the side of the ship, she saw that it was on the high seas far from land, and hurrying onwards with all sail set.

'Ah, cried she in her alarm, 'I am betrayed. I am carried away and have fallen into the power of a merchant - I would rather die.'

The king, however, seized her hand, and said 'I am not a merchant. I am a king, and of no meaner origin than you are, and if I have carried you away with subtlety, that has come to pass because of my exceeding great love for you. The first time that I looked on your portrait, I fell fainting to the ground.'

When the princess of the golden dwelling heard this, she was comforted, and her heart was drawn to him, so that she willingly consented to be his wife.

It so happened, while they were sailing onwards over the deep sea, that faithful John, who was sitting on the fore part of the vessel, making music, saw three ravens in the air, which came flying towards them.

At this he stopped playing and listened to what they were saying to each other, for that he well understood.

One cried 'oh, there he is carrying home the princess of the golden dwelling.'

'Yes, replied the second, 'but he has not got her yet.'

Said the third 'but he has got her, she is sitting beside him in the ship.'

Then the first began again, and cried 'what good will that do him. When they reach land a chestnut horse will leap forward to meet him, and the prince will want to mount it, but if he does that, it will run away with him, and rise up into the air, and he will never see his maiden more.'

Spoke the second 'but is there no escape.'

'Oh, yes, if someone else mounts it swiftly, and takes out the pistol which he will find in its holster, and shoots the horse dead, the young king is saved. But who knows that. And whosoever does know it, and tells it to him, will be turned to stone from the toe to the knee.'

Then said the second 'I know more than that, even if the horse be killed, the young king will still not keep his bride. When they go into the castle together, a wrought bridal garment will be lying there in a dish, and looking as if it were woven of gold and silver, it is, however, nothing but sulphur and pitch, and if he put it on, it will burn him to the very bone and marrow.'

Said the third 'is there no escape at all.'

'Oh, yes, replied the second, 'if anyone with gloves on seizes the garment and throws it into the fire and burns it, the young king will be saved. But what good will that do. Whosoever knows it and tells it to him, half his body will become stone from the knee to the heart.’

Then said the third 'I know still more, even if the bridal garment be burnt, the young king will still not have his bride. After the wedding, when the dancing begins and the young queen is dancing, she will suddenly turn pale and fall down as if dead, and if someone does not lift her up and draw three drops of blood from her right breast and spit them out again, she will die. But if anyone who knows that were to declare it, he would become stone from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot.'

When the ravens had spoken of this together, they flew onwards, and faithful John had well understood everything, but from that time forth he became quiet and sad, for if he concealed what he had heard from his master, the latter would be unfortunate, and if he disclosed it to him, he himself must sacrifice his life.

At length, however, he said to himself 'I will save my master, even if it bring destruction on myself.'

When therefore they came to shore, all happened as had been foretold by the ravens, and a magnificent chestnut horse sprang forward.

'Good, said the king, 'he shall carry me to my palace, and was about to mount it when faithful John got before him, jumped quickly on it, drew the pistol out of the holster, and shot the horse.

Then the other attendants of the king, who were not very fond of faithful John, cried 'how shameful to kill the beautiful animal, that was to have carried the king to his palace.'

But the king said 'hold your peace and leave him alone, he is my most faithful John. Who knows what good may come of this.'

They went into the palace, and in the hall there stood a dish, and therein lay the bridal garment looking no otherwise than as if it were made of gold and silver.

The young king went towards it and was about to take hold of it, but faithful John pushed him away, seized it with gloves on, carried it quickly to the fire and burnt it.

The other attendants again began to murmur, and said 'behold, now he is even burning the king's bridal garment.'

But the young king said 'who knows what good he may have done, leave him alone, he is my most faithful John.'

And now the wedding was solemnized - the dance began, and the bride also took part in it, then faithful John was watchful and looked into her face, and suddenly she turned pale and fell to the ground as if she were dead.

On this he ran hastily to her, lifted her up and bore her into a chamber - then he laid her down, and knelt and sucked the three drops of blood from her right breast, and spat them out.

Immediately she breathed again and recovered herself, but the young king had seen this, and being ignorant why faithful John had done it, was angry and cried 'throw him into a dungeon.'

Next morning faithful John was condemned, and led to the gallows, and when he stood on high, and was about to be executed, he said 'every one who has to die is permitted before his end to make one last speech, may I too claim the right.'

'Yes, answered the king, 'it shall be granted unto you.'

Then said faithful John 'I am unjustly condemned, and have always been true to you, and he related how he had hearkened to the conversation of the ravens when on the sea, and how he had been obliged to do all these things in order to save his master.

Then cried the king 'oh, my most faithful John. Pardon, pardon - bring him down.'

But as faithful John spoke the last word he had fallen down lifeless and become a stone.

Thereupon the king and the queen suffered great anguish, and the king said 'ah, how ill I have requited great fidelity.'

And ordered the stone figure to be taken up and placed in his bedroom beside his bed. And as often as he looked on it he wept and said 'ah, if I could bring you to life again, my most faithful John.'

Some time passed and the queen bore twins, two sons who grew fast and were her delight. Once when the queen was at church and the father was sitting with his two children playing beside him, he looked at the stone figure again, sighed, and full of grief he said 'ah, if I could but bring you to life again, my most faithful John.'

Then the stone began to speak and said 'you can bring me to life again if you will use for that purpose what is dearest to you.'

Then cried the king 'I will give everything I have in the world for you.'

The stone continued 'if you will cut off the heads of your two children with your own hand, and sprinkle me with their blood, I shall be restored to life.'

The king was terrified when he heard that he himself must kill his dearest children, but he thought of faithful John's great fidelity, and how he had died for him, drew his sword, and with his own hand cut off the children's heads.

And when he had smeared the stone with their blood, life returned to it, and faithful John stood once more safe and healthy before him.

He said to the king 'your truth shall not go unrewarded, and took the heads of the children, put them on again, and rubbed the wounds with their blood, at which they became whole again immediately, and jumped about, and went on playing as if nothing had happened.

Then the king was full of joy, and when he saw the queen coming he hid faithful John and the two children in a great cupboard. When she entered, he said to her 'have you been praying in the church.'

'Yes, answered she, 'but I have constantly been thinking of faithful John and what misfortune has befallen him through us.'

Then said he 'dear wife, we can give him his life again, but it will cost us our two little sons, whom we must sacrifice.'

The queen turned pale, and her heart was full of terror, but she said 'we owe it to him, for his great fidelity.'

Then the king was rejoiced that she thought as he had thought, and went and opened the cupboard, and brought forth faithful John and the children, and said 'God be praised, he is delivered, and we have our little sons again also, and told her how everything had occurred. Then they dwelt together in much happiness until their death.

—The End—

“Cinderella”

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm

A rich man's wife became sick, and when she felt that her end was drawing near, she called her only daughter to her bedside and said, "Dear child, remain pious and good, and then our dear God will always protect you, and I will look down on you from heaven and be near you." With this she closed her eyes and died.

The girl went out to her mother's grave every day and wept, and she remained pious and good. When winter came the snow spread a white cloth over the grave, and when the spring sun had removed it again, the man took himself another wife.

This wife brought two daughters into the house with her. They were beautiful, with fair faces, but evil and dark hearts. Times soon grew very bad for the poor stepchild.

"Why should that stupid goose sit in the parlor with us?" they said. "If she wants to eat bread, then she will have to earn it. Out with this kitchen maid!"

They took her beautiful clothes away from her, dressed her in an old gray smock, and gave her wooden shoes. "Just look at the proud princess! How decked out she is!" they shouted and laughed as they led her into the kitchen.

There she had to do hard work from morning until evening, get up before daybreak, carry water, make the fires, cook, and wash. Besides this, the sisters did everything imaginable to hurt her. They made fun of her, scattered peas and lentils into the ashes for her, so that she had to sit and pick them out again. In the evening when she had worked herself weary, there was no bed for her. Instead she had to sleep by the hearth in the ashes. And because she always looked dusty and dirty, they called her Cinderella.

One day it happened that the father was going to the fair, and he asked his two stepdaughters what he should bring back for them.

"Beautiful dresses," said the one.

"Pearls and jewels," said the other.

"And you, Cinderella," he said, "what do you want?"

“Father, break off for me the first twig that brushes against your hat on your way home."

So he bought beautiful dresses, pearls, and jewels for his two stepdaughters. On his way home, as he was riding through a green thicket, a hazel twig brushed against him and knocked off his hat. Then he broke off the twig and took it with him. Arriving home, he gave his stepdaughters the things that they had asked for, and he gave Cinderella the twig from the hazel bush.

Cinderella thanked him, went to her mother's grave, and planted the branch on it, and she wept so much that her tears fell upon it and watered it. It grew and became a beautiful tree.

Cinderella went to this tree three times every day, and beneath it she wept and prayed. A white bird came to the tree every time, and whenever she expressed a wish, the bird would throw down to her what she had wished for.

Now it happened that the king proclaimed a festival that was to last three days. All the beautiful young girls in the land were invited, so that his son could select a bride for himself. When the two stepsisters heard that they too had been invited, they were in high spirits.

They called Cinderella, saying, "Comb our hair for us. Brush our shoes and fasten our buckles. We are going to the festival at the king's castle."

Cinderella obeyed, but wept, because she too would have liked to go to the dance with them. She begged her stepmother to allow her to go.

"You, Cinderella?" she said. "You, all covered with dust and dirt, and you want to go to the festival?. You have neither clothes nor shoes, and yet you want to dance!"

However, because Cinderella kept asking, the stepmother finally said, "I have scattered a bowl of lentils into the ashes for you. If you can pick them out again in two hours, then you may go with us."

The girl went through the back door into the garden, and called out, "You tame pigeons, you turtledoves, and all you birds beneath the sky, come and help me to gather:

The good ones go into the pot,

The bad ones go into your crop."

Two white pigeons came in through the kitchen window, and then the turtledoves, and finally all the birds beneath the sky came whirring and swarming in, and lit around the ashes. The pigeons nodded their heads and began to pick, pick, pick, pick. And the others also began to pick, pick, pick, pick. They gathered all the good grains into the bowl. Hardly one hour had passed before they were finished, and they all flew out again.

The girl took the bowl to her stepmother, and was happy, thinking that now she would be allowed to go to the festival with them.

But the stepmother said, "No, Cinderella, you have no clothes, and you don't know how to dance. Everyone would only laugh at you."

Cinderella began to cry, and then the stepmother said, "You may go if you are able to pick two bowls of lentils out of the ashes for me in one hour," thinking to herself, "She will never be able to do that."

The girl went through the back door into the garden, and called out, "You tame pigeons, you turtledoves, and all you birds beneath the sky, come and help me to gather:

The good ones go into the pot,

The bad ones go into your crop."

Two white pigeons came in through the kitchen window, and then the turtledoves, and finally all the birds beneath the sky came whirring and swarming in, and lit around the ashes. The pigeons nodded their heads and began to pick, pick, pick, pick. And the others also began to pick, pick, pick, pick. They gathered all the good grains into the bowls. Before a half hour had passed they were finished, and they all flew out again.

The girl took the bowls to her stepmother, and was happy, thinking that now she would be allowed to go to the festival with them.

But the stepmother said, "It's no use. You are not coming with us, for you have no clothes, and you don't know how to dance. We would be ashamed of you." With this she turned her back on Cinderella, and hurried away with her two proud daughters.

Now that no one else was at home, Cinderella went to her mother's grave beneath the hazel tree, and cried out:

Shake and quiver, little tree,

Throw gold and silver down to me.

Then the bird threw a gold and silver dress down to her, and slippers embroidered with silk and silver. She quickly put on the dress and went to the festival.

Her stepsisters and her stepmother did not recognize her. They thought she must be a foreign princess, for she looked so beautiful in the golden dress. They never once thought it was Cinderella, for they thought that she was sitting at home in the dirt, looking for lentils in the ashes.

The prince approached her, took her by the hand, and danced with her. Furthermore, he would dance with no one else. He never let go of her hand, and whenever anyone else came and asked her to dance, he would say, "She is my dance partner."

She danced until evening, and then she wanted to go home. But the prince said, "I will go along and escort you," for he wanted to see to whom the beautiful girl belonged. However, she eluded him and jumped into the pigeon coop. The prince waited until her father came, and then he told him that the unknown girl had jumped into the pigeon coop.

The old man thought, "Could it be Cinderella?"

He had them bring him an ax and a pick so that he could break the pigeon coop apart, but no one was inside. When they got home Cinderella was lying in the ashes, dressed in her dirty clothes. A dim little oil-lamp was burning in the fireplace. Cinderella had quickly jumped down from the back of the pigeon coop and had run to the hazel tree. There she had taken off her beautiful clothes and laid them on the grave, and the bird had taken them away again. Then, dressed in her gray smock, she had returned to the ashes in the kitchen.

The next day when the festival began anew, and her parents and her stepsisters had gone again, Cinderella went to the hazel tree and said:

Shake and quiver, little tree,

Throw gold and silver down to me.

Then the bird threw down an even more magnificent dress than on the preceding day. When Cinderella appeared at the festival in this dress, everyone was astonished at her beauty. The prince had waited until she came, then immediately took her by the hand, and danced only with her. When others came and asked her to dance with them, he said, "She is my dance partner."

When evening came she wanted to leave, and the prince followed her, wanting to see into which house she went. But she ran away from him and into the garden behind the house. A beautiful tall tree stood there, on which hung the most magnificent pears. She climbed as nimbly as a squirrel into the branches, and the prince did not know where she had gone. He waited until her father came, then said to him, "The unknown girl has eluded me, and I believe she has climbed up the pear tree.

The father thought, "Could it be Cinderella?" He had an ax brought to him and cut down the tree, but no one was in it. When they came to the kitchen, Cinderella was lying there in the ashes as usual, for she had jumped down from the other side of the tree, had taken the beautiful dress back to the bird in the hazel tree, and had put on her gray smock.

On the third day, when her parents and sisters had gone away, Cinderella went again to her mother's grave and said to the tree:

Shake and quiver, little tree,

Throw gold and silver down to me.

This time the bird threw down to her a dress that was more splendid and magnificent than any she had yet had, and the slippers were of pure gold. When she arrived at the festival in this dress, everyone was so astonished that they did not know what to say. The prince danced only with her, and whenever anyone else asked her to dance, he would say, "She is my dance partner."

When evening came Cinderella wanted to leave, and the prince tried to escort her, but she ran away from him so quickly that he could not follow her. The prince, however, had set a trap. He had had the entire stairway smeared with pitch. When she ran down the stairs, her left slipper stuck in the pitch. The prince picked it up. It was small and dainty, and of pure gold.

The next morning, he went with it to the man, and said to him, "No one shall be my wife except for the one whose foot fits this golden shoe."

The two sisters were happy to hear this, for they had pretty feet. With her mother standing by, the older one took the shoe into her bedroom to try it on. She could not get her big toe into it, for the shoe was too small for her. Then her mother gave her a knife and said, "Cut off your toe. When you are queen you will no longer have to go on foot."

The girl cut off her toe, forced her foot into the shoe, swallowed the pain, and went out to the prince. He took her on his horse as his bride and rode away with her. However, they had to ride past the grave, and there, on the hazel tree, sat the two pigeons, crying out:

Rook di goo, rook di goo!

There's blood in the shoe.

The shoe is too tight,

This bride is not right!

Then he looked at her foot and saw how the blood was running from it. He turned his horse around and took the false bride home again, saying that she was not the right one, and that the other sister should try on the shoe. She went into her bedroom, and got her toes into the shoe all right, but her heel was too large.

Then her mother gave her a knife, and said, "Cut a piece off your heel. When you are queen you will no longer have to go on foot."

The girl cut a piece off her heel, forced her foot into the shoe, swallowed the pain, and went out to the prince. He took her on his horse as his bride and rode away with her. When they passed the hazel tree, the two pigeons were sitting in it, and they cried out:

Rook di goo, rook di goo!

There's blood in the shoe.

The shoe is too tight,

This bride is not right!

He looked down at her foot and saw how the blood was running out of her shoe, and how it had stained her white stocking all red. Then he turned his horse around and took the false bride home again.

"This is not the right one, either," he said. "Don't you have another daughter?"

"No," said the man. "There is only a deformed little Cinderella from my first wife, but she cannot possibly be the bride."

The prince told him to send her to him, but the mother answered, "Oh, no, she is much too dirty. She cannot be seen."

But the prince insisted on it, and they had to call Cinderella. She first washed her hands and face clean, and then went and bowed down before the prince, who gave her the golden shoe. She sat down on a stool, pulled her foot out of the heavy wooden shoe, and put it into the slipper, and it fitted her perfectly.

When she stood up the prince looked into her face, and he recognized the beautiful girl who had danced with him. He cried out, "She is my true bride."

The stepmother and the two sisters were horrified and turned pale with anger. The prince, however, took Cinderella onto his horse and rode away with her. As they passed by the hazel tree, the two white pigeons cried out:

Rook di goo, rook di goo!

No blood's in the shoe.

The shoe's not too tight,

This bride is right!

After they had cried this out, they both flew down and lit on Cinderella's shoulders, one on the right, the other on the left, and remained sitting there.

When the wedding with the prince was to be held, the two false sisters came, wanting to gain favor with Cinderella and to share her good fortune. When the bridal couple walked into the church, the older sister walked on their right side and the younger on their left side, and the pigeons pecked out one eye from each of them. Afterwards, as they came out of the church, the older one was on the left side, and the younger one on the right side, and then the pigeons pecked out the other eye from each of them. And thus, for their wickedness and falsehood, they were punished with blindness as long as they lived.

—The End—

“The Shoes That Were Danced to Pieces”

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm

Once upon a time there was a king who had twelve daughters, each one more beautiful than the others. They slept together in one room, where their beds stood next to each other.

At night when they were lying there, the king closed their door and barred it. However, when he opened it the next morning he saw that their shoes had been danced to pieces.

No one could determine how it had happened. Then the king proclaimed that whoever could discover where they went dancing each night could chose one of them for his wife and become king after his death. However, anyone who attempted this, but failed to make the discovery after three days and nights, would forfeit his life.

A prince soon presented himself, offering to undertake the venture. He was well received, and that evening was taken to a room adjacent to the bedroom.

A bed was made for him there, and he was told to watch where they went and danced. So they would not be able to do anything in secret, or go out to some other place, the door to their room was left open.

However, the prince's eyes felt as heavy as lead, and he fell asleep. When he awoke the next morning, the twelve had been dancing, for their shoes all had holes in their soles. The same thing happened the second and the third evenings, and his head was chopped off without mercy. Many others came to try this risky venture, but they too all lost their lives.

Now it happened that a poor soldier, who was wounded and could no longer serve in the army, was making his way to the city where the king lived.

An old woman met him and asked him where he was going.

"I'm not exactly sure myself," he said, then jokingly added, "But I would like to discover where the princesses are dancing their shoes to pieces, and then become king."

"That is not so difficult," said the old woman. "Do not drink the wine that they will bring you in the evening."

Then she gave him a cloak and said, "When you put this on you will become invisible, and you can follow the twelve."

Having receiving this good advice, the soldier became serious, took heart, went to the king, and announced himself as a suitor.

He, like the others, was well received, and was given royal clothes to wear. That evening at bedtime he was escorted to the anteroom.

Just as he was going to bed, the oldest princess brought him a goblet of wine. However, he had tied a sponge beneath his chin and let the wine run into it, drinking not a single drop himself. He lay down, and after a little while began to snore as if he were in the deepest sleep.

The twelve princesses heard him and laughed. The oldest one said, "He could have spared his life as well!"

Then they got up, opened their wardrobes, chests, and closets, took out their best clothes, and made themselves beautiful in front of their mirrors, all the time jumping about in anticipation of the dance.

Only the youngest one said, "I'm not sure. You are all very happy, but I'm afraid that something bad is going to happen!"

"You snow goose," said the oldest one. "You are always afraid! Have you forgotten how many princes have been here for nothing? I wouldn't even have had to give this soldier a sleeping potion. He would never have woken up."

When they were ready, they first approached the soldier, but he did not move at all, and as soon as they thought it was safe, the oldest one went to her bed and knocked on it.

It immediately sank beneath the floor, and they all climbed down through the opening, one after the other, the oldest one leading the way. The soldier saw everything, and without hesitating he put on the cloak and followed after the youngest one.

Halfway down the stairs he stepped on her dress.

Frightened, she called out, "Who's there? Who is holding my dress?"

"Don't be so stupid," said the oldest one. "You just caught yourself on a hook."

They continued until they came to a magnificent walkway between rows of trees.

Their leaves were all made of silver, and they shone and glistened. The soldier thought to himself, "You'd better take some proof," and he broke off a twig.

A loud cracking sound came from the tree. The youngest one called out again, "It's not right. Didn't you hear that sound?"

The oldest one said, "That is just a joyful salute that they are firing because soon we will have disenchanted our princes."

Then they came to a walkway where the trees were all made of gold, and finally to a third one, where they were made of clear diamonds. He broke a twig from each of these.

The cracking sound frightened the youngest one each time, but the oldest one insisted that it was only the sounds of joyful salutes. They continued on until they came to a large body of water. Twelve boats were there, and in each boat there sat a handsome prince waiting for them.

Each prince took a princess into his boat.

The soldier sat next to the youngest princess, and her prince said, "I don't know why the boat is so much heavier today. I have to row with all my strength in order to make it go."

"It must be the warm weather," said the youngest princess. "It's too hot for me as well."

On the other side of the water there was a beautiful, brightly illuminated castle. Joyful music, kettle drums, and trumpets sounded forth. They rowed over and went inside.

Each prince danced with his princess. The invisible soldier danced along as well, and whenever a princess held up a goblet of wine, he drank it empty as she lifted it to her mouth.

This always frightened the youngest one, but the oldest one silenced her every time. They danced there until three o'clock the next morning when their shoes were danced to pieces and they had to stop. The princes rowed them back across the water.

This time the soldier took a seat next to the oldest princess in the lead boat. They took leave from their princes on the bank and promised to come back the next night.

When they were on the steps the soldier ran ahead and got into bed. When the twelve tired princesses came in slowly, he was again snoring so loudly that they all could hear him.

"We are safe from him," they said. Then they took off their beautiful clothes and put them away, placed their worn out shoes under their beds, and went to bed.

The next morning the soldier said nothing, for he wanted to see the amazing thing once again. He went along the second and third nights, and everything happened as before.

Each time they danced until their shoes were in pieces. The third time he also took along a goblet as a piece of evidence.

The hour came when he was to give his answer, and he brought the three twigs and the goblet before the king.

The twelve princesses stood behind the door and listened to what he had to say. The king asked, "Where did my daughters dance their shoes to pieces?"

He answered, "in an underground castle with twelve princes."

Then he told the whole story and brought forth the pieces of evidence.

The king summoned his daughters and asked them if the soldier had told the truth. Seeing that they had been betrayed, and that their denials did no good, they had to admit everything.

Then the king asked him which one he wanted for a wife. He answered, "I myself am no longer young, so give me the oldest one."

Their wedding was held the same day, and the kingdom was promised to him following the king's death.

But the princes had as many days added to their curse as they had spent nights dancing with the twelve princesses.

—The End—

“The Children of Hameln”

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm

In the year 1284 a mysterious man appeared in Hameln. He was wearing a coat of many colored, bright cloth, for which reason he was called the Pied Piper.

He claimed to be a ratcatcher, and he promised that for a certain sum that he would rid the city of all mice and rats. The citizens struck a deal, promising him a certain price.

The ratcatcher then took a small fife from his pocket and began to blow on it. Rats and mice immediately came from every house and gathered around him.

When he thought that he had them all he led them to the River Weser where he pulled up his clothes and walked into the water. The animals all followed him, fell in, and drowned.

Now that the citizens had been freed of their plague, they regretted having promised so much money, and, using all kinds of excuses, they refused to pay him.

Finally, he went away, bitter and angry. He returned on June 26, Saint John's and Saint Paul's Day, early in the morning at seven o'clock (others say it was at noon), now dressed in a hunter's costume, with a dreadful look on his face and wearing a strange red hat.

He sounded his fife in the streets, but this time it wasn't rats and mice that came to him, but rather children: a great number of boys and girls from their fourth year on. Among them was the mayor's grown daughter.

The swarm followed him, and he led them into a mountain, where he disappeared with them.

All this was seen by a babysitter who, carrying a child in her arms, had followed them from a distance, but had then turned around and carried the news back to the town.

The anxious parents ran in droves to the town gates seeking their children. The mothers cried out and sobbed pitifully. Within the hour messengers were sent everywhere by water and by land inquiring if the children -- or any of them -- had been seen, but it was all for naught.

In total, one hundred thirty were lost. Two, as some say, had lagged behind and came back.

One of them was blind and the other mute. The blind one was not able to point out the place, but was able to tell how they had followed the piper. The mute one was able to point out the place, although he [or she] had heard nothing.

One little boy in shirtsleeves had gone along with the others, but had turned back to fetch his jacket and thus escaped the tragedy, for when he returned, the others had already disappeared into a cave within a hill. This cave is still shown.

Until the middle of the eighteenth century, and probably still today, the street through which the children were led out to the town gate was called the bunge-lose (drumless, soundless, quiet) street, because no dancing or music was allowed there.

Indeed, when a bridal procession on its way to church crossed this street, the musicians would have to stop playing.

The mountain near Hameln where the the children disappeared is called Poppenberg.

Two stone monuments in the form of crosses have been erected there, one on the left side and one on the right. Some say that the children were led into a cave, and that they came out again in Transylvania.

The citizens of Hameln recorded this event in their town register, and they came to date all their proclamations according to the years and days since the loss of their children.

According to Seyfried the 22nd rather than the 26th of June was entered into the town register.

The following lines were inscribed on the town hall:

In the year 1284 after the birth of Christ

From Hameln were led away

One hundred thirty children, born at this place

Led away by a piper into a mountain.

And on the new gate was inscribed:

Centum ter denos cum magus ab urbe puellos duxerat ante annos CCLXXII condita porta fuit.

[This gate was built 272 years after the magician led the 130 children from the city.]

In the year 1572 the mayor had the story portrayed in the church windows.

The accompanying inscription has become largely illegible.

In addition, a coin was minted in memory of the event.

—The End—