A Grimmer Holmes

The World’s Most Famous Detective Solves Cases from the Grimm Brothers and Other Tales

The Crew Of the Barque Lone Star

Edited by Steve Mason

Formatted by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

Copyright © 2018 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.

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Contents

Foreword

‘Grimm’ Tales of Death by Steve Mason

A Possible Answer to a Too Rarely Asked Question by Cindy Brown and Dean Clark

Rapunzel

The Adventure of the Limping Yeti by Ann Caddell

Chunda’s Wisdom Quest

Baker Street Elementary Created by Joe Fay, Rusty Mason, and Steve Mason

The Adventure of the True Bride by Jayantika Ganguly, BSI

The True Bride

The Queen Bee by Jennifer Liang

The Queen Bee

A Seed of an Idea by Steve Mason

Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater

How do You Like Your Bacon? by Steve Mason

The Three Little Pigs

Sherlock Holmes and the Missing Shoe by Rebecca McManamy

Cinderella

A Most Fortuitous Meeting by Sherlock Holmes as Told to Karen Olson

Dr. Know-All

The Adventure of Little Red Cap by Walter Pieper

Little Red Cap

The Case of the Loud Librarians by Gayle Lange Puhl

Inspiration for “The Case of the Loud Librarians

The Adventure of the Counterfeit Squire by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

Rumpelstiltskin

The Raven by Dr. Jim Webb

The Raven

More About Sherlock Holmes Scions

Also by the Crew of the Barque Lone Star

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.

As we approach our 50th anniversary of existence, it seemed appropriate to have our present members develop a Sherlock pastiche. Thus, A Grimm Holmes was published in 2017, with plans to develop a volume each year through 2020.

The theme for the series was borrowed from two sources. First, an opera based on a fairy tale solved by the world’s consulting detective. Second, two volumes by Gayle Puhl (a contributor to this second volume) where Sherlock Holmes solves beloved fairy tales, folk tales, nursery rhymes, and other children stories.

The success of the first volume has lead to additional contributors to this volume, and we invite you to relish the creativity from the fertile minds of the Crew of the Barque Lone Star as they delve into A Grimmer Holmes.

'GRIMM’ TALES OF DEATH

By Steve Mason

We love reading Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm

Whose tales of suspense breach over a cup's brim

Watson and Holmes are asked to solve

How the witch or beast did dissolve

Tales are colorful, they are seldom pr

Their aged stories are very wicked, not kind,

To all of those that torment, tales certainly bind,

Their aged stories are very wicked, not kind,

To all of those that torment, tales certainly bind,

Truly, these sets of brothers were certainly Grimm.

A POSSIBLE ANSWER TO A TOO RARELY ASKED QUESTION

By Cindy Brown and Dean Clark

(Based on “Rapunzel”)

The authors, dedicated Sherlockians for many years, have often mused, frequently aloud, about a curious void in the oceanic, and ever increasing, amount of research concerning The Master. The most famous address in the world is 221 B Baker Street, London, where Sherlock Holmes (and between nuptials) John H. Watson resided for more than two decades. Appending a letter to the numerals does not necessitate the existence of a 221 C, D, E, etc. but it does mandate the presence of a 221 A! So, who lived there? We have looked in vain throughout the canon and higher criticism for enlightenment.

Perhaps Sherlockian scholars automatically assume that Mrs. Hudson, Holmes’s landlady, lived in 221 A. But can that be taken for granted? Perhaps she lived in a converted mews at the rear of the main building. Perhaps she lived across the street in another rental property or perhaps she didn’t live anywhere near Baker Street but commuted from a mansion in Belgravia financed by her extraordinary real estate acumen. Or, perhaps, Mrs. H didn’t exist at all but was invented by Watson to make otherwise coldly logical narratives more commercially palatable.

Since the legions of researchers had failed to shed light on this dilemma, it was quite a surprise to get the first hint toward discovering the possible identity of the tenant in 221 A in a very un-Sherlockian venue. We were at our usual and favorite place, the Buzzbrew restaurant near the corner of Wycliff and Lemmon in Dallas, TX, which is the site, every Tuesday night, of Classical Open Mic (COM).

We were the first to arrive and the amazingly efficient (perhaps clairvoyant) Bridget had us appropriately beveraged within seconds. The usual suspects then began to filter in: Barbara and Chris; John (just back from his most recent sojourn to Ecuador); Gary, Joan, and Michelle (eyes a twinkle with mischief); the golden-throated Robin, who was deciding (in consultation with Gary, her teacher) the aria with which to bedazzle us later in the evening; and Rodney, a native of Boston who mysteriously always serenaded us with “New York, New York.”

At about 8:15, Ronnie – COM’s official timekeeper seated at an adjacent table with his lovely lady friend, Sherry – announced it was exactly 8 p.m., which meant SHOWTIME. Brent and Thiago responded with a superb performance of the marvelous sonata for clarinet and piano by Saint-Saens written when the composer was a mere lad of 86. After the prolonged applause subsided, an elderly lady (perhaps even older that S-S when he wrote his final masterpiece) approached our table.

This quickly silenced the normally voluble troupe for two reasons. First, despite her great age, time had not completely eroded what had once been beauty of an extraordinary degree. Second, her clothing and jewelry (and the presence of a liveried chauffeur a few steps to her rear) seemed prima facie proof of the kind of wealth that assured entrée to emporia, where the wares are displayed without price tags.

“Please excuse the interruption,” she said. “But I overheard you discussing who lived at 221 A Baker Street. If it is convenient for you to call on me at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, I will provide some pertinent information on that subject.”

She then placed a calling card on our table, abruptly about-faced, and walked toward the exit. The obvious deluxe quality of the card, embossed and on expensive paper, elongated the profound silence caused by her sudden appearance and equally sudden departure. But the address on the card nearly metamorphosed the silence into shock. It was in an area code on Lakeshore Drive, where starter homes ran between five and six million dollars.

Could this be an elaborate practical joke? Our eyes turned first to Michelle, then John, but they appeared as stunned as the rest of the group.

Needless to say, we dressed to the tens or elevens and drove to the entrance of the mansion, overwhelming in both size and exquisite landscaping, precisely on time. A butler, straight out of central casting for any English country house mystery, greeted us and, somewhat to our surprise, said we were expected. We were escorted to a massive two-story library and told our hostess would join us shortly. The spaces in between the towering bookcases contained paintings of extremely high quality, with the exception of one area that contained photographs of two women as beautiful as “A list” movie queens would like to be, at various stages of their lives. The clothing in some of the pictures indicated they dated from the late 1800s.

“My grandmother is on the left and her daughter, my mother, is on the right,” said a voice from behind us. We turned and saw the elderly woman we had met the night before. She held a picture in front of her and said, “This was taken in 1895, when my mother was 5 and they were living at 221 A Baker Street. My grandmother’s name will be of interest to you. It was Mae Wisteria Lodge, but that is a story for another time. “

Questions erupted from both of us, but our hostess cut them off with an imperious gesture of her hand.

“All in good time,” she said. “For now, it is sufficient to know that my grandmother was tragically widowed while pregnant with my mother. She was, however, left with a substantial inheritance and, since she had no desire to continue an unexciting existence similar to a brainless Jane Austen heroine, she and my mother moved to London, and into 221 A, early in 1892.

“That date is interesting because at that time 221 B was unoccupied. Sherlock Holmes was in the middle of his Great Hiatus and Dr. Watson was then married and attempting to establish a medical practice elsewhere in London. Mrs. Hudson was delighted with the income provided by the new tenants. Mycroft Holmes was still paying the rent on the vacant 221 B, but that arrangement could have ended at any time.”

There was a pause while the maid re-entered and served some exceptionally delicious cava. Our hostess took a sip from her glass, then resumed.

“Shortly after arriving in London, my grandmother discovered her true talent, finance. She had a Midas touch with her investments – not just financial instruments like stocks and bonds but real estate, fine art, even plays. Her ability in this arena was soon recognized in financial circles and she was soon giving advice, for a fee, to some of England’s wealthiest families. This eventually evolved into one of the world’s first wealth management companies. Although my grandmother became extremely rich, she never moved out of 221 A because of her friendship with Mrs. Hudson. She ultimately bought the property in the early 1900s after Holmes and Watson had moved away.”

After another pause, during which a maid served more cava, our hostess continued.

“If you assume that my grandmother and mother got to know the occupants of 221 B after Holmes returned in 1894, and Watson, following the death of his wife, moved back in later that same year, you would be right. You would also be correct if you assumed that a true friendship arose between all the parties. That friendship led to one of the greatest challenges the great Sherlock Holmes ever faced –babysitting.”

Yes, dear reader, we did laugh long and hard at that and our hostess herself could barely repress a smile.

“This was the result of a series of circumstances that left Holmes no choice,” our hostess said. “My grandmother was suddenly summoned by a client who was facing financial ruin. Normally, Mrs. Hudson would look after my mother, but she had gone to visit her sister. Dr. Watson, who never got over his addiction to gambling, was at his weekly poker game. That left only Holmes, and even his great brain could find no way out of a job for which he had neither training nor talent.

“Fortunately, we have a record of what was likely a unique event in Holmes’s career. Late in her life, my mother wrote her memoirs, which have remained unpublished. I have extracted the pertinent pages regarding that memorable evening and made a copy for each of you.”

She then handed us the reminiscence, which follows.

* * *

When Mr. Holmes and I were alone, and he realized that he had to entertain his young charge (me), it was obvious that he had no idea of how to proceed. I made no effort to help him out and, indeed, rather enjoyed watching his mental agony. He somehow found his way to the bookcase and thought he found salvation therein. He grabbed a copy of Grimms’ Fairy Tales, treating it almost as if it were the Holy Grail, quickly opened it, and began to read the story of Rapunzel.

I bided my time, for a minute or two, and then interrupted. “If your plan is to bore me to the point that I’ll fall asleep so that you won’t have to entertain me, you are most mistaken.”

Mr. Holmes was taken by complete surprise, a rare experience for him. “What do you mean?” he said.

“You are going to have to do a lot better than one of those stories by the Grimms’, that are dull, dull, dull and nonsensical to boot,” I replied.

Mr. Holmes just stared at me, so I continued.

“Rapunzel is a perfect example. Parents just give away their children? Hair grows to 20 or 30 feet? How could a young girl ever stand up with that much weight hanging from her head? How could she ever comb it in less than a day or even walk around without tripping over her tangled tresses … or fit that into a bathtub or turn over in bed without smothering herself to death?”

“Well,” Mr. Holmes started to say, but I was just getting warmed up.

“Or what about the old woman flying off with Rapunzel? Flying? Mr. Holmes, if you had invented heavier-than-air aviation, wouldn’t you have deduced it had profit potential greater than baby farming and, consequently, gotten in touch with a patent attorney? Even your hack writer friend Conan Doyle could do better than that!”

Mr. Holmes finally stopped my tirade by holding up his hands in mock surrender.

“I concede,” he said. “And I recall that I also outgrew nonsensical fairy tales at about your age or even younger.”

“You have finally said something interesting,” I replied. “So, what did you do?”

“I, like you, insisted on more realistic narratives. My nanny’s solution was to read to me from the Police Gazette. Heavenly days: grisly murders, damsels in distress, artful art thieves, blackmail, smarmy lawyers.”

“Now, at last, things are picking up,” I said. Mr. Holmes actually smiled as he recalled his introduction to the Police Gazette and crime literature in general.

“The next time my nanny had her day off, I pulled off the first B and E of my career. I used one of my mother’s hairpins to pick the lock on nanny’s bedroom. I searched diligently to see if she had hidden copies of the Police Gazette and found a stack of them in one of her hat boxes. I borrowed one and carefully returned it on her next day off. It took about a year to exhaust that mother lode. It probably influenced my ultimate decision to become the world’s first consulting detective.”

“Problem solved,” I said, “Read to me from the Police Gazette – preferably a murder most foul.”

“A splendid idea, “he said, “but I doubt there is a Police Gazette on the premises. A glance at the bookcase implies your mother’s taste runs to Trollope three deckers, which are excellent but lack the Police Gazette patina.”

My disappointment must have been palatable, but suddenly Mr. Holmes’s expression changed from puzzled to satisfied.

“I just remembered,” he said, “a case that took place long ago – nearly 20 years ago and, amazingly, has some aspects in common with Rapunzel. So, I proposed that, due to the unfortunate lack of Police Gazettes in the immediate area, I tell you the particulars. They are not without interest, although my narrative will lack the literary flair of my friend Dr. Watson.”

“Good,” I said. “He spends too much time on the romance instead of the science of criminal investigation.”

Mr. Holmes smiled in appreciation, and I smiled internally because I knew that, even at age 8, I had the ability to charm a masculine ego (even one as justifiably inflated as that of Sherlock Holmes) into doing what I wanted.

“This story begins nearly 20 years ago, when I was just starting out as the world’s first consulting detective,” Mr. Holmes said. “The days were long, and my door bell rarely rang; indeed, it was often silent for weeks at a time.”

“Then, after a particularly long stretch of inactivity and unproductive chemical experiments, a woman who identified herself as Mrs. Adams appeared at the door to my modest rooms at exactly 1 p.m. She was, despite her valiant efforts to appear calm, obviously distressed – and justifiably so because her beloved niece had been missing, perhaps kidnapped, three days earlier and the police, using their already antiquated investigative techniques, had make no progress in their search for her.”

“If this was at the beginning of your career, how did Mrs. Adams learn about you,” I asked.

“Good question,” he replied. “Mrs. Adams is by profession a vocal coach who works with both amateur and professional singers. She is well regarded in theatrical circles where I had a certain cachet due to some work I did for the famous impresario D’Oyly Carte a year or so earlier. One of her students came for a lesson in the morning, found Mrs. Adams distraught over the situation involving her niece, and recommended my services.”

“Just in the nick of time, I would expect,” I said.

“Just barely,” Mr. Holmes said, “because the story that Mrs. Adams related that day indicated I had to move fast if I had any chance to find her niece before it was too late.

“The young woman who was missing was more like Mrs. Adams’s daughter than niece. She was American but moved to London a few years earlier after her parents died in a boating accident. Her aunt had herself been widowed shortly before, and the two women thrown together by twin tragedies became devoted to each other.

“The niece was now 17 and had recently begun exploring the city on her own. Mrs. Adams, of course, disapproved of a young woman going around town unescorted but – as I’m sure your mother will discover in due course – it is difficult to corral young ladies of spirit.”

I took this as a compliment and smiled demurely.

“The niece had, three days earlier, gone to visit the British Museum while her aunt was busy with her afternoon vocal lessons. The niece was expected to return in time for tea at 4 o’clock, and Mrs. Adams became worried when it was 30 minutes past that time and the girl had not appeared. Mrs. Adams hurried to the museum and questioned the guards. One guard remembered seeing the girl, not surprising since she was uncommonly attractive. He said that, about 3 p.m., she appeared to have grown faint and that shortly after she had left with a middle-aged man, whom he assumed was her father. Mrs. Adams went straight to the police, and after they had predictably failed to discover anything, she had turned up on my doorstep.

“A kidnapping in broad daylight at the British Museum,” I said. “That took some nerve.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, “but I didn’t have to think about the mentality of the perpetrator because this was not likely to be a kidnapping for a ransom. No note demanding money had been received, so the motive must be more sinister – a forced marriage being the least horrible of the many possibilities.”

A brief silence followed before Mr. Holmes continued.

“I immediately went to the museum, but I did not talk to the guards, who had already been questioned, and were unlikely to add anything to what they had already told Mrs. Adams. Instead, I sought out the young boys who loitered near the entrance to the museum, who hoped to make a few quid by helping people, particularly the elderly, in and out of their hansom cabs. The brightest of the lot, no more than 12 and looking younger, was named Wiggins. A few test questions convinced me he was honest and observant.

“He recalled a well-dressed man who had visited the museum a number of times and who seemed unduly interested in pretty and unescorted young women. Wiggins described the man as tall and slender, with a long forehead and a receding hairline. He seemed to move his head back and forth similar to what a serpent might do while watching for his next prey.

“I knew, as soon as I heard this, that the missing girl was in grave, possibly mortal, danger because Wiggins had just described one of the most ruthless men in London. His name was …”

“MORIARTY,” I yelled in what must have been the zenith of 19th-century girlish glee. “That is exactly how Dr. Watson describes the Napoleon of crime in ‘The Final Problem.’ This must have been your first encounter with him.”

Mr. Holmes gave me one of those indulgent and, simultaneously, insufferable looks that a clever child receives when she or he has been just a bit too clever and made a mistake.

“You are right and wrong,” Mr. Holmes said condescendingly. “His name was Moriarty, but he was not the professor because he was….”

“His twin brother, “said I, glowing with self-satisfaction.

“Wrong again, “ Mr. Holmes said with an increasingly annoying tone. “You have not yet eliminated all possibilities, which is what you must do in order to be left with the truth. So, continue to eliminate and, when you are done, tell me the truth.”

I thought hard for a minute, but inspiration was on holiday, so I reluctantly said, “I give up; what is the answer?”

“Elementary, my dear preciousness. He is one of three identical triplets, each of whom are named James for some unknown reason. Fortunately for our missing miss, although the brothers are mirror images of each other, the one known as the professor had nearly all of the trio’s combined intellect. The others, although his equal in malevolence, never even rose to the level of competent criminality due to their stupidity.”

“So, how did you go about finding this particular Moriarty?” I asked. “You couldn’t use Toby the wonder dog because stupid doesn’t have a unique scent.”

I paused because inspiration had just returned from vacation. Then, I reverted to girlish glee and said: “I’ve got it. This wasn’t your first encounter with Professor Moriarty, but it was the first time you used the Baker Street Irregulars!”

“Excellent,” said Mr. Holmes, “You have the makings of a detective. You, without doubt, have already surpassed Lestrade et al. at the Yard.”

I could hardly wait for him to continue because the game was now oh-so-deliciously afoot!

He sensed my anticipation and cut to the chase.

“I instructed Wiggins to assemble a dozen trusted friends, and had them circulate throughout London, using their eyes and ears to pick up information about Moriarty. They would be paid a shilling a day and, the one who discovered Moriarty, would get a bonus. It took less than a day since this particular brother may have been the dumbest of the siblings. It turned out that he was hiding the girl in an abandoned castle a few miles outside the city limits. The castle was believed to date to the time of the Norman Conquest but had been gradually destroyed during the country’s periodic wars of succession and was finally abandoned about two centuries ago. However, the central tower had somehow remained intact and it was here, in a room at the very top, that Moriarty the least had imprisoned the young woman.”

“Ah, there is the similarity to Rapunzel,” I said.

“But there it ended,” he replied, “because the young lady’s hair was of normal length and I had no magical powers like the old crone in the fairy tale. Wiggins led me to the castle that evening and we could hear the girl singing in the top room, probably in an attempt to keep her nerves from fraying. I remember that she had a truly beautiful voice and had obviously been well trained by her aunt.”

I groaned with disappointment and said: “So you just broke in and took the girl home. What a mundane ending. No wonder Dr. Watson has chosen not to inflict this case upon the reading public. “

“It was not quite that simple,” Holmes said. “The only entrance to the tower was a heavy door with no keyhole. I admit I was puzzled as to its operation. Since the girl seemed to be physically unharmed, I told Wiggins that we would wait for Moriarty to return. If he had not shown up by sunrise, then we would notify the authorities. The plan worked. Moriarty returned just as the sun was clearing the horizon. He was carrying a basket, likely containing food for his prisoner. I signaled to Wiggins to remain silent and hidden while Moriarty approached the door. He put the basket down, then used both hands to pull a large candle, which was on the wall near the door, out of its holder. The door opened, slowly and crankily. We waited but were ready to spring into action if we felt the girl was in danger.

“But, we had nothing to lead us to that conclusion. Moriarty returned after a short time and put the candle back in the original place. The door closed. Wiggins and I waited for several minutes, until we were sure that Moriarty was no longer in the area, before we approached the castle and pulled the candle out of its holder. The door opened. We rushed up the stairs and found the girl, chained to a wall but unharmed. It was child’s play to pick the lock on the chain and free the girl. We were soon back in London. We stopped to send a telegram to Lestrade advising him to arrest Moriarty and then we reunited the young lady with her aunt. Mrs. Adams, of course, could not contain herself. She hugged her niece and said, ‘Renie, Renie, it’s really you. I had almost given up hope.’

“I then realized that, in my haste – justified as it was under the circumstances to begin my search for the missing girl – that I had never learned her name. And, since I did not want to intrude on the emotionally draining reunion of the two ladies, I quietly left and never did learn it.”

“I know her name,” I replied. “It’s Irene Adler. She’s my godmother.”

* * *

The portion of the memoir that we had been given stopped abruptly, as abruptly as a beautiful woman seeing another beautiful woman wearing the same dress. We finished reading our separate copies simultaneously and we looked instantly at each other, then at our hostess.

“There is more, much more,” she said. “And you shall see it in three days’ if….”

“If?” we responded in unison.

“If you return in three days, with a written explanation of how Sherlock Holmes came to the realization that the woman, publicly declared dead by Dr. Watson some years earlier, was alive and perhaps even a regular visitor to London.”

She rose and left the room. We were then politely but firmly escorted out into the brutal Texas heat, which only increased our confusion. Perhaps, surprisingly, overly priced alcohol at an ostentatious eatery in the flamboyant, over-the-top shopping center called Highland Park Village brought some clarity or at least a path forward. We would write a denouement to the shocking memoir and present it, to the old lady in three days. These musings follow.

* * *

Memory does not immediately dredge up an instance in the canon when Sherlock Holmes was taken so completely by surprise. Speculation to his reaction will be just that, with no eyewitness corroboration from Dr. Watson that would provide evidence as to how Holmes conducted himself under similar circumstances. We will, however, assert one postulate before proceeding – that Holmes did not faint, as Watson did upon learning that his friend, presumed dead three years earlier, had survived his encounter with Professor Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls.

Although Holmes did not faint, it is fair to assume that he was momentarily, or more than momentarily, stunned. But, being Sherlock Holmes, he quickly recovered and resumed the dialogue, which is presented here as if it were the actual (it can be surmised) ending of the memoir.

“Perhaps you had better start from the beginning of your relationship with Miss Adler,” Mr. Holmes said after a few moments of silence and reflection.

“I will start 12 years prior to that because, obviously, I did not meet Irene Adler until I was born in 1890 and the case you just described occurred in 1878,” I said. “Of course, my deciphering what happened in those 12 years is based on what I was told, mostly by my mother, but I find it plausible.”

I paused to allow Mr. Holmes to respond, but he said nothing, so I continued.

“Shortly after Irene was reunited with her aunt, she departed for the continent to begin her professional career. She had, as you were ear-witness to, a voice of exceptional beauty and, thanks to her aunt’s training, exceptional technique. She was, in addition, physically stunning and a skilled actress. That accumulation of assets made her one of her generation’s divas within a few years.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Holmes, “I became aware of a remarkable young singer named Irene Adler sometime in the early 1880s.”

“Although her career was on the continent, she visited her aunt in London at least once a year,” I said. “And this is when she met my mother, and, less than a year later me, in 1892, shortly after we had moved here. They immediately became best friends and Irene was delighted – as she told me many times – to be asked to be my godmother. In retrospect, it is hardly surprising that two well-educated, independent-minded women, both fairly rare at the time, would become close friends.”

Mr. Holmes thought for a few moments – even took his unlit pipe out of his pocket and put it in his mouth for a few seconds – before responding.

“My professional interaction with Irene Adler – who Dr. Watson described, with complete abandonment of literary restraint, in ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’ – occurred in 1888 and was published in 1891. The story has much interesting information, including the fact that Irene Adler had died.”

“Which was obviously false,” I said. “Irene and my mother concocted that story together and Mother, as a particularly charming, attractive lady, was able to the – let’s face it – easily delude John H. Watson. You yourself did it, if we are to believe the events described in ‘Scandal,’ by convincing Dr. Watson that the marriage ceremony you allegedly took part in actually happened, and that such a patently fake marriage would be deemed legal in the eyes of appropriate authorities.”

“Point conceded,” Mr. Holmes said. “But why did they go to the trouble to convince Watson that Irene Adler was dead?”

“Because, unlike you, Mr. Holmes, Irene did not believe the king of Bohemia when he implied that he would not continue harassing her. He may have believed it at the time, but, as you yourself witnessed, he was a man of violent temper, which could trigger at any moment and he might have said something that would have resulted in a reenactment of Henry II and Becket.”

“That does seem reasonable,” Mr. Holmes said.

“So,” I replied, “the two women decided that Irene must die – not actually of course, but fictitiously and with enough verisimilitude to convince the king to turn his attention in other directions. As I understand it, Irene took care of her death and Mother took care of the financing to lead a life of anonymous idleness. Irene had been highly paid in the last few years of her divaness and, moreover, many of her admirers had given her valuable pieces of jewelry. Mother’s financial acumen quickly grew those assets to a level that assured Irene a very comfortable existence.”

“But to give up her career,” Mr. Holmes said, “and such a career, at its peak….”

“Apparently, Irene was not tormented by that,” I said. “She told Mother that she was actually getting bored with her life as an opera star, that she had sung all the roles she wanted to, and that appearing over and over in the same parts was not nearly as glamorous as the public thinks it is. She was, in fact, concerned that this attitude might result in a diminished quality of her performances, in effect cheating those who had bought expensive tickets to see her, and therefore it might be best if she died, at least in theory, before that point.”

“Definitely a plausible theory,” said Mr. Holmes, who paused and played some more with the pipe, which reeked of cheap tobacco.

After a minute or so, he gave me a stern look and said: “If Miss Adler has gone to such lengths to disappear, why are you telling me that she is still very much alive? Are you not betraying a confidence?”

I, of course, was expecting that and my response was quick.

“No,” I said firmly. “I am telling you this because Irene wants you, particularly you, to know that she is still alive!”

Mr. Holmes was almost physically staggered by this revelation and, as he seemingly was unable to speak, I held the floor.

“I overheard a conversation only yesterday between Irene and my mother,” I continued. “Irene said that, in her recent travels, she had experiences with men on three continents, and that the only man who had been worthy of her attention was Sherlock Holmes … and furthermore, she had now got ‘adventuring’ (as Dr. Watson so diplomatically wrote) out of her system and was ready to become domesticated and have a child whose father was a famous consulting detective. Yes, Mr. Holmes, Irene Adler is in London as we speak. I expect she will contact you soon.”

* * *

Unfortunately, the accuracy of our reconstruction cannot be assessed one way or the other. When we returned after three days to the mansion on Lake Shore Drive, we found the house closed up and a huge For Sale sign in the front yard. Gary, our friend from the Buzzbrew restaurant, had broad connections among Dallas real estate agencies; he told us the asking price was $15 million.

So what are we, and you, dear reader, to think? True or false or some intractable mixture, like space and time, or did we just make the whole thing up as some heretics claim was done by Dr. Watson and his literary agent?

The easiest explanation is that the original meeting at the Buzzbrew with the elderly, wealthy lady was the prelude to an elaborate, expensive practical joke and that the memoir describing Sherlock Holmes’s babysitting career was pure fiction. The strongest evidence supporting that conclusion, and it is strong, is that the 8-year-old heroine is far too worldly wise for someone that age, no matter how precocious.

On the other hand, we are unaware of any acquaintance with the motive or financial means to perpetuate such a complicated exercise with no reward other than some merriment at our expense. We have neither the time nor money to investigate this possibility. Unless someone comes forward and confesses, and no one has, we will not consider that possibility any further.

The other possibility is that the story is true, and the memoir is an accurate record. This assumption immediately evokes interesting conjectures:

- An Adler-Holmes union with the strong possibility of descendants and lineage extending to the present;

- How did the author learn about Holmes’s association with D’Oyly Carte, which was the result of his participation in the world premiere of The Pirates of Penzance by Gilbert and Sullivan? This brief episode in Holmes’s career is mentioned only in a book published by the Afghanistan Perceivers of Oklahoma and has had limited circulation.

- The picture on the wall of the Lakeshore Drive mansion showed a woman named Mae Wisteria Lodge and her daughter. So, did the authors actually see a picture of Irene Adler?

- What about the names Mae Wisteria Lodge, which bring pleasant memories of one of the supreme comedians and to one of the later additions to the canon. A possibility is that Watson invested some of the increasingly substantial earnings with the female financial wizard who lived in the same building. After watching his assets notably increase, he named a story in her honor.

- Finally, how did Irene Adler sneak in and out of 221 A Baker Street without the famous resident of 221 B recognizing her? She was a skilled actress and adept at makeup – perhaps even a mistress of disguise. And, how delightfully naughty to consider how Sherlock Holmes had, perhaps repeatedly over a period of years, seen but failed to observe.

* * *

The authors thank fellow Sherlockian Brian Wilson for editing assistance. Any errors in the text are not his responsibility, nor are they the responsibility of the authors. They are due to the notorious faithlessness to the facts of John H. Watson and/or his literary agent.

RAPUNZEL

There were once a man and a woman who had long in vain wished for a child. At length the woman hoped that God was about to grant her desire. These people had a little window at the back of their house from which a splendid garden could be seen, which was full of the most beautiful flowers and herbs. It was, however, surrounded by a high wall, and no one dared to go into it because it belonged to an enchantress, who had great power and was dreaded by all the world.

One day the woman was standing by this window and looking down into the garden, when she saw a bed which was planted with the most beautiful rampion - Rapunzel, and it looked so fresh and green that she longed for it, and had the greatest desire to eat some. This desire increased every day, and as she knew that she could not get any of it, she quite pined away, and began to look pale and miserable.

Then her husband was alarmed, and asked, "What ails you, dear wife?"

"Ah," she replied, "if I can't eat some of the rampion, which is in the garden behind our house, I shall die."

The man, who loved her, thought, sooner than let your wife die, bring her some of the rampion yourself, let it cost what it will. At twilight, he clambered down over the wall into the garden of the enchantress, hastily clutched a handful of rampion, and took it to his wife. She at once made herself a salad of it, and ate it greedily. It tasted so good to her - so very good, that the next day she longed for it three times as much as before. If he was to have any rest, her husband must once more descend into the garden. In the gloom of evening, therefore, he let himself down again. But when he had clambered down the wall he was terribly afraid, for he saw the enchantress standing before him.

"How can you dare," said she with angry look, "descend into my garden and steal my rampion like a thief? You shall suffer for it."

"Ah," answered he, "let mercy take the place of justice, I only made up my mind to do it out of necessity. My wife saw your rampion from the window, and felt such a longing for it that she would have died if she had not got some to eat."

Then the enchantress allowed her anger to be softened, and said to him, "If the case be as you say, I will allow you to take away with you as much rampion as you will, only I make one condition, you must give me the child which your wife will bring into the world. It shall be well treated, and I will care for it like a mother."

The man in his terror consented to everything, and when the woman was brought to bed, the enchantress appeared at once, gave the child the name of Rapunzel, and took it away with her.

Rapunzel grew into the most beautiful child under the sun. When she was twelve years old, the enchantress shut her into a tower, which lay in a forest, and had neither stairs nor door, but quite at the top was a little window. When the enchantress wanted to go in, she placed herself beneath it and cried,

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

Let down your hair!"

Rapunzel had magnificent long hair, fine as spun gold, and when she heard the voice of the enchantress she unfastened her braided tresses, wound them round one of the hooks of the window above, and then the hair fell twenty ells down, and the enchantress climbed up by it.

After a year or two, it came to pass that the king's son rode through the forest and passed by the tower. Then he heard a song, which was so charming that he stood still and listened. This was Rapunzel, who in her solitude passed her time in letting her sweet voice resound. The king's son wanted to climb up to her, and looked for the door of the tower, but none was to be found. He rode home, but the singing had so deeply touched his heart, that every day he went out into the forest and listened to it. Once when he was thus standing behind a tree, he saw that an enchantress came there, and he heard how she cried,

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

Let down your hair!"

Then Rapunzel let down the braids of her hair, and the enchantress climbed up to her. "If that is the ladder by which one mounts, I too will try my fortune," said he, and the next day when it began to grow dark, he went to the tower and cried,

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

Let down your hair!"

Immediately the hair fell down and the king's son climbed up. At first Rapunzel was terribly frightened when a man, such as her eyes had never yet beheld, came to her. But the king's son began to talk to her quite like a friend, and told her that his heart had been so stirred that it had let him have no rest, and he had been forced to see her. Then Rapunzel lost her fear, and when he asked her if she would take him for her husband, and she saw that he was young and handsome, she thought, he will love me more than old dame Gothel does. And she said yes, and laid her hand in his.

She said, "I will willingly go away with you, but I do not know how to get down. Bring with you a skein of silk every time that you come, and I will weave a ladder with it, and when that is ready I will descend, and you will take me on your horse."

They agreed that until that time he should come to her every evening, for the old woman came by day.

The enchantress remarked nothing of this, until once Rapunzel said to her, "Tell me, Dame Gothel, how it happens that you are so much heavier for me to draw up than the young king's son - he is with me in a moment."

"Ah! You wicked child," cried the enchantress. "What do I hear you say. I thought I had separated you from all the world, and yet you have deceived me."

In her anger she clutched Rapunzel's beautiful tresses, wrapped them twice round her left hand, seized a pair of scissors with the right, and snip, snap, they were cut off, and the lovely braids lay on the ground. And she was so pitiless that she took poor Rapunzel into a desert where she had to live in great grief and misery.

On the same day that she cast out Rapunzel, however, the enchantress fastened the braids of hair, which she had cut off, to the hook of the window, and when the king's son came and cried,

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

Let down your hair!"

she let the hair down. The king's son ascended, but instead of finding his dearest Rapunzel, he found the enchantress, who gazed at him with wicked and venomous looks.

"Aha," she cried mockingly, "you would fetch your dearest, but the beautiful bird sits no longer singing in the nest. The cat has got it, and will scratch out your eyes as well. Rapunzel is lost to you. You will never see her again."

The king's son was beside himself with pain, and in his despair, he leapt down from the tower. He escaped with his life, but the thorns into which he fell pierced his eyes. Then he wandered quite blind about the forest, ate nothing but roots and berries, and did naught but lament and weep over the loss of his dearest wife.

Thus, he roamed about in misery for some years, and at length came to the desert where Rapunzel, with the twins to which she had given birth, a boy and a girl, lived in wretchedness. He heard a voice, and it seemed so familiar to him that he went towards it, and when he approached, Rapunzel knew him and fell on his neck and wept. Two of her tears wetted his eyes and they grew clear again, and he could see with them as before. He led her to his kingdom where he was joyfully received, and they lived for a long time afterwards, happy and contented.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE LIMPING YETI

By Ann Caddell

(Based on “Chunda’s Wisdom Quest”)

Perhaps the greatest frustration I have faced in my long and fulfilling relationship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes has been his reluctance to allow me to bring to light some of his most unusual and fascinating adventures. While this refusal could sometimes appear capricious, at other times it was necessitated by genuine concern for our national interest. In no case was the latter truer than in the adventure of the limping yeti.

As the more devoted readers of these humble accounts will recall, when Holmes astonished me with his apparent return from the dead three years after his struggle with Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls and launched me directly into the adventure of the empty house, the only description I was permitted to transcribe of his time in the Himalayas was that, in his words, “I travelled for two years in Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhasa, and spending some days with the head lama.” How little this brief account conveys of the true nature of that Tibetan sojourn!

In the hours that we spent catching up on three years of news before embarking on the night’s adventure, Holmes divulged to me his real activities while in Tibet, and their bearing on the geopolitical ambitions of our far-flung empire. Now that a new century has dawned, and our country’s own military adventure in Tibet has come to a close – and has yet again demonstrated that armed conflict is indeed “a very preposterous way of settling a dispute,” as Holmes and I agreed in connection with the adventure of the cardboard box – he has granted his permission (if somewhat grudgingly) to lay the remarkable facts before the public. Since I was not directly involved in the affair, I will endeavor to recall as best I can Holmes’s own words as he related the events to me on that long-ago night. Perhaps then he will not level against me his usual charge of embroidering, exaggerating, or romanticizing his exploits.

“Well, Watson,” began Holmes as he leaned back in his favorite armchair with a freshly lit pipe, “although you have seen a highly abbreviated account of my Tibetan journeys under the name of ‘Sigerson, the Norwegian explorer,’ the full story might interest you greatly. It was certainly of interest to my brother Mycroft, who passed along my gleanings to his contacts in Whitehall.

“When I arrived in Tibet, I was most gratified to make the acquaintance of the 13th Dalai Lama in the monastery at Lhasa. Imagine my astonishment, and my blushes, to discover that word of my few trifling achievements in criminal detection, which you have so fancifully placed before a long-suffering public, had reached all the way to the remote mountain fastnesses of the Himalayas! The monks were eager to discuss my deductive reasoning methods and compare them to the techniques of mental concentration that they have developed over centuries of meditation.”

“Surely Holmes,” I interjected, “there can be no comparison between your modern, scientifically rigorous approach and the primitive mumbo-jumbo of benighted heathens.”

“Come, come, Watson,” he replied. “As a medical man, you understand that the workings of the human brain are mysterious. To misquote the bard, ‘There are more things in skullcap and nerves, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ But to return to my point, the monks proposed that I study their methods of attention and breath control to see if they would augment my own powers.

“One of the primary techniques of the monks involves focusing on the passage of the breath in and out of the body, thus gradually excluding the intrusive thoughts and feelings that keep the mind roiling. The monks believe that the calmed mind permits feelings and actions of love and kindness towards their fellow creatures, both human and otherwise. In my own case, Watson, I practice kindness towards my fellow man by working to rid him of the criminal element, but I suppose the principle is the same.

“At any rate, I found that the breath technique had a definite influence on my mental state, and I was ready to pursue further research. The monks suggested that I take the rugged path to the mystical land of Pema Ko, where greater enlightenment awaited. The head lama himself seemed especially anxious for me to undertake the journey and return with reports of my impressions. He was, however, evasive as to its exact location, merely insisting that I would realize when I had arrived. In the absence of a Bradshaw, or any trains for said Bradshaw to describe, I was forced to set off on foot on the path indicated, with my few provisions in a bundle on a stick over my shoulder.

“Hoping to reach my destination before night fell in that barren and mountainous region, I let my haste overcome my discretion and found myself tumbling down a steep hillside with a hard landing at the end. I knew immediately that I had twisted my ankle to such an extent that I would be unable to walk normally for at least a few days. Out of sight of the monastery, and any other signs of civilization, I would be stranded with only my small store of provisions, some nearby berry bushes, and a rushing stream.

“As I was considering my situation, a herd of goats ambled over the hill and came over to investigate me. As you know, Watson, I am a long-time city dweller with little experience of livestock, but there was something especially friendly and appealing about these goats, and I felt strangely comforted by their presence. I even started discussing my predicament aloud with them (although the discussion was quite one-sided). I also found that practicing the breath-focus techniques of the monks was a great help in calming my apprehensions and helping me to plan a strategy. I decided to wrap my ankle, rest as much as possible, and use the stout staff from my bundle to help me limp the short distance to water and berries. I also endeavored to persuade the goats to remain with me overnight to ward off the chill of approaching autumn. They were surprisingly amenable to my arguments.

“As the goats and I were reaching an understanding, I noticed a large figure loping along the ridgeline in the distance. Although the figure was basically human-shaped, it walked with a strange rolling gait and seemed unusually bulky and shaggy. I was uncomfortably reminded of the tales the monks had told of the mysterious yeti of the Himalayas, creatures who shared some human characteristics but were wild, unpredictable, and often dangerous. While skeptical that such a creature could exist undetected for centuries, I had to admit that the remote mountain fastnesses of Tibet would be the ideal environment for as-yet-undiscovered fauna.

“Over the next several days, my ankle slowly healed and I was able to hobble, with the help of my stick, to the stream and the berry bushes. Every day, the strange hairy creature passed by twice, going to and from a small hut that I was just able to make out in a hollow of the hills. The goats seemed unperturbed by his presence, often following him to his hut and returning a few hours later, so I concluded that he was at least not dining on the local livestock. However, he seemed to be showing more interest in me, inching a little closer each day and peering at me through his shaggy brows.

“Then one day, on his homeward route, the creature appeared to be stumbling, limping, and struggling to remain upright. The next morning, he did not appear at all. By this time, I had recovered much of my mobility, and I decided that if I did not see the creature the next day I would investigate further. My normally active mind had begun to chafe under my enforced idleness, even with the aid of the monks’ breath exercises, and the prospect of a mystery to solve bucked me up tremendously.”

“At least,” I chuckled, “you were cut off from your usual supply of chemical assistance to which you have been too quick to turn in the past.”

“Now, Watson,” said Holmes, “you must admit that I have shown no permanent ill effects from those habits which you so rightly condemn. However, in this case I was sufficiently energized by the thought of adding a new species to our age’s list of discoveries – and also finding out what this hairy fellow was up to with his regular back-and-forth.

“The next morning, binding up my ankle and grasping my staff, I set out for the hut in the distance. As I approached the door, I could hear faint moaning sounds from within. In the dimness, I could see a bulky figure lying under a blanket on the floor, shifting about slightly. Cautiously, I ventured inside. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I was surprised to see a well-furnished, comfortable interior much at odds with the rude exterior of a goat-herder’s hut. The appearance of the occupant, however, was not calculated to set my mind at ease. He was much larger than the general run of mankind, certainly larger than the usually diminutive Tibetans, and his brutish, sweat-soaked face was twisted in a grimace of pain. More alarming was the abundance of long, coarse hair surrounding his face and disappearing past his shoulders under the blanket.

“His semi-human appearance, combined with the monks’ frightening tales of man-eating yeti with smooth, human-like faces, nearly convinced me to flee the hut. But the breathing exercises I had recently learned helped to settle my fears, and I stayed to investigate further. Carefully approaching the fellow, I lifted the blanket and discovered that his left foot had been mangled by a large section of a thorn bush, with several splintered twigs still embedded in the swollen flesh. His fever and delirium were clearly the result of this untended injury. Since he seemed in no condition to attack me, I carefully removed the remaining thorns and sticks from his foot, washed the wound with water from the nearby stream, and bandaged the area. I was also able to pour a little water down his throat, although I had no access to brandy, your preferred curative. I then took a closer look at the interior of the hut.

“No simple goat-herder’s hut this! The single room was stocked with Russian-English dictionaries, books on cryptography, writing materials, code tables, telescopes and field glasses, surveying equipment, and a variety of hand-drawn maps and papers in both Russian and English, as well as documents in what appeared to be sophisticated encryption. None of the monks’ tales had mentioned yeti who read multiple languages and were versed in cryptography, and I postulated that I was dealing with a fellow human – though an unusually large and hirsute one. Further inspection of the hut turned up a supply of false hair, spirit gum, and theatrical makeup, proving my hypothesis.

“Since my new friend was in no condition to converse, I took the liberty of reading some of the English-language documents. They appeared to be reports on the movements of other, similarly disguised individuals, along with descriptions of geographical and topographical landmarks, and speculation about the military utility of the land and its populace. As I scanned the material, I recalled mentions by my brother Mycroft of past attempts by the British to map the entire region of Tibet, and efforts by the Russians to increase their influence in the country. Clearly the “yeti” was a spy, evidently for either Britain or Russia – but which?

“Thanks to my ministrations, the yeti-spy was breathing more easily and seemed to have settled into a less fevered sleep. I was not sure I wanted to be within reach when he awakened, and decided to camp out at some distance from the hut. When I exited, I found several of the goats milling about expectantly, as though they had some relationship to the gentleman inside. However, they seemed content to follow me to a nearby tree where I set up camp for the night. That evening I had plenty to occupy my mind, although I sadly missed my favorite pipe and armchair and the presence of my faithful friend and publicist.”

“Well, Holmes,” I remarked drily, “It is gratifying to hear that I am not so easily replaced by a few specimens of mutton on the hoof.”

“Speaking of mutton,” continued Holmes, “I decided to pay a bit more attention to my four-legged friends. I had previously thought that some of them had oddly shaved patches in various places, but had attributed that to a clumsy herdsman collecting goat-hair. On closer inspection, I noticed that the shaved areas seemed to follow actual patterns, and I thought back to the cryptography books in the hut. As you recall, I had some success interpreting the “dancing men” delivered to Mr. Hilton Cubitt’s young wife, but in this case, I did not have enough messages to crack the goat-hair code.

“Over the next two days, as I tended the yeti-spy and he came out of his feverish stupor, he began to mumble a bit – not enough to make sense, but enough to demonstrate that he was, at least, an English-speaker. As my Russian is spotty at best, this made my investigations much easier. By the third day, I found him coherent and responsive, but wary. And yet again, Watson, your literary labors on my behalf bore fruit. When I identified myself, and bolstered my claim with a few unpublished details of some cases at which you only hinted in your stories, I found him all too eager to account for himself and enlist my help.”

“So glad that my literary teasing had a beneficial result,” I murmured.

Disregarding me, Holmes continued. “Only if you agree to utmost secrecy can I speak freely of what Major Robert Aldershot (the true name of my yeti acquaintance) told me in confidence. Major Aldershot was part of a network of spies deployed to keep tabs on a similar network of Russian spies, while continuing the project of mapping Tibet that had started in the 1860s. The yeti ruse had been suggested by the folktales the original surveyors heard in their travels through the mountains, and Aldershot with his huge frame and heavy features was the perfect man for the job.

“In the near-absence of rail and telegraph service, Aldershot and his comrades had to improvise communications. They worked out a simple code that could be shaved into the hair of goats, and trained the goats to visit the network of spies in turn. Since there were limits to how much technical information could be conveyed in this way, Aldershot also made a habit of trying to visit the other British spies to collect intelligence from their surveillance of the Russians. ‘And things were going swimmingly,’ Aldershot told me, ‘until one of the Russians caught sight of me and I had to run for it. I managed to lose him but in the process, I fell into that patch of thorn bushes and thoroughly tore up my foot. I barely made it back to the hut, and I don’t know what would have become of me if you hadn’t come along when you did. What are you doing here, by the way? Not exactly a relaxing visit to the seaside.’

“I quickly filled him in on my situation vis-à-vis Moriarty, and my studies with the high lama and the monks. At the mention of Pema Ko, he exclaimed ‘But this is Pema Ko. That’s the local name for this hollow in the mountains. And I’ve never heard that it’s especially mystical or conducive to enlightenment. That high lama is a deep one. He’s concerned about Russian incursions, and we’ve been very discreetly keeping him abreast of our findings, but we haven’t been able to communicate with him for a while because of the increased Russian presence. I have a feeling that the enlightenment he sent you to seek is less spiritual than political.’

“And so, Watson, I was summarily enlisted into the British espionage effort in Tibet. As soon as Aldershot was sufficiently recovered to manage without me, he outfitted me with warm clothes and provisions, along with a wealth of new information to pass on to Mycroft and a less comprehensive account to satisfy the high lama. I bade farewell to the goats and made my wary way back to the monastery, keeping a sharp eye out for Russian spies, mysterious mega-fauna, and tripping hazards. The monks were sufficiently impressed by my advanced spiritual state that they made me an honorary bodhisattva, and the high lama was sufficiently impressed by Aldershot’s report that he began making plans for a hasty retreat to China, if such should become necessary. On my return to civilization, I passed along to Mycroft the information that will help Whitehall to plan the next moves in the Great Game that continues to play out in the East.”

Holmes would give no further hints of the content of his discoveries, but I feel assured that they were put to good use at the highest levels of government. I was, however, somewhat disappointed at the lost opportunity to name a new species after my friend. I opined that “Holmos Sherlockius” had a nice ring to it, but with his customary modesty, he scoffed at the suggestion. “Surely, Watson,” he sighed, relighting his pipe, “you have immortalized me enough in literature. I am relieved that you cannot similarly inflict my name upon zoology. I must admit, however, that my sojourn among the goats has given me a new appreciation for my cashmere overcoat.” And with that, we were off on our next adventure as though the intervening years had never happened, and with the prospect of many more to come.

CHUNDA’S WISDOM QUEST

Chunda labored up the rocky path and stopped at the crest of the hill. With the sleeve of his young monk’s robe, he wiped his sweaty brow.

Just yesterday the elder monks had bid him goodbye. “For your next wisdom lesson, follow this path to the mystical land of Pema Ko.”

“How will I know when I get there?” Chunda had asked.

“Just pay attention” the oldest monk had replied.

Now Chunda gazed down the path. “If I hurry,” he thought, “I might find Pema Ko by sundown.” Racing to the bottom of the hill, he stumbled and fell.

“My ankle!” he cried.

Chunda winced as he slid the shoe off his swollen foot. He untied his sash and wrapped his ankle.

After crawling to a meadow, he rested against the trunk of a big tree. “I’ll never find Pema Ko.” He fretted. “I’ve ruined my wisdom quest.”

Just then goats sprang into the meadow. Chunda smiled as they gathered around. “Do you think I could be a wise monk someday?” he asked. A goat licked Chunda’s hand.

Atop the grassy hill, a dark figure lumbered across the high meadow. “What a strange creature,” muttered Chunda. “Looks like a man, but bigger. More like a gorilla! I hope he stays away from me.”

The sun rose higher, and Chunda grew thirsty. “I hear rushing water. Time for a drink.” He hoisted himself up with a large stick and limped to the river. The goats trotted behind.

After a long drink, Chunda picked some berries. “With these and the food in my pack,” he thought, “I can last a while. Maybe I can still find Pema Ko when my ankle heals.”

Chunda sat under the tree. “I miss the monks,” he told the goats. “They always say ‘Watching the breath eases the mind, then you can be gentle and kind.’” He focused on his breath, in…out…in…out. Before long, stars shone through the branches. He closed his eyes and softly snored among the slumbering goats.

The next day Chunda saw the creature again. “He must be going to the river,” muttered Chunda. “I think he lives alone up there in that shack.”

Chunda spent his days petting the goats and watching the creature. Each day his ankle hurt as much as it did the day before. “I’ll never find Pema Ko and become wise,” he worried.

One day Chunda did not see the creature. He watched the shack closely, but the creature did not appear. Chunda grabbed his walking stick. “A wise monk would find out if something’s wrong!”

Chunda hobbled up the hill to the shack and peeked through the open door. “Oh!” he cried. The gigantic creature lay outstretched, eyes closed and fangs apart. “Is he an animal or a human?” Chunda wondered. He inched his head inside. “Looks like both,” he whispered. “I know! He must be a Yeti!”

Chunda peered closer. The Yeti’s gruesome face was smooth. “A hairless face! That’s the kind that eats humans! I’d better get away fast!”

Just then the Yeti moaned.

The pitiful sound tugged at Chunda’s heart. He could see a huge splinter of wood lodged in the Yeti’s foot. Drops of sweat glistened above the creature’s bushy brows. “He’s ill,” murmured Chunda. “If I remove the splinter, he might heal.”

The Yeti moaned again.

“Oh, I should help. But he might eat me. What should I do? What would the monks do? They’d say “watching the breath eases the mind, then you can be gentle and kind.”

Chunda focused on his breath, in…out…in…out. He limped toward the Yeti. With both hands, he pulled the splinter out of the swollen foot. The Yeti’s loud groan sent shivers down Chunda’s spine. With a corner of his sleeve, Chunda dabbed the wound. Then he tore a strip of cloth from his robe and bandaged the Yeti’s foot. All the while, the Yeti watched him through half-closed eyes.

“I hope I helped you,” said Chunda as he limped away.

The Yeti emerged from the shack the following day. Chunda grinned as he watched the creature limp across the high meadow. “The Yeti’s limp is exactly the same as mine,” thought Chunda. The next day the Yeti limped more quickly. Chunda limped more quickly too. Soon the Yeti walked with ease.

“The Yeti’s foot is healed,” thought Chunda. He stepped through the meadow. “And I can finally walk too!”

Chunda stopped and rubbed his chin. “How strange. In helping the Yeti, I helped myself. That’s like a lesson from the monks. Yes, a wisdom lesson!” He looked around and laughed. “I’ve been in Pema Ko all along!”

As dusk fell, Chunda packed his belongings. “Tomorrow I head back to the monastery,” he told the goats. “Brrr. Just in time. The snows are coming.”

Suddenly, the animals scattered. Chunda jerked his head to see the Yeti leaping toward him.

GRRRRRR!

Chunda’s heart pounded. “The creature’s come to eat me!” He focused on his breath, in…out…in…out. The Yeti lunged forward, threw a bundle on the grass, and bounded off.

Chunda bent down. On the ground was an animal fur. He smiled. “This will keep me warm on my journey.”

In the morning, Chunda said goodbye to the goats. “Look after the Yeti!”

Then he grabbed his pack and hiked toward the rocky path. “Wait until I tell the monks about my lesson,” thought Chunda. “Maybe I’ll become a wise monk after all!”

BAKER STREET ELEMENTARY

Created by Joe Fay, Rusty Mason, and Steve Mason

THE ADVENTURE OF THE TRUE BRIDE

by Jayantika Ganguly (Jay), BSI,

“The Great Agra Treasure”

(Based on “The True Bride”)

My friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes has always been known to be a chivalrous, if somewhat misogynistic, gentleman. He was unfailingly polite when dealing with the fairer sex and excelled at gently putting nervous ladies at ease when they visited our rooms at Baker Street with problems for him to solve. It was a rather useful skill, for we had had our fair share of hysterical women begging for his assistance. One such case, in particular, stands out in my memory as though it were yesterday. It had been a complex matter, and so mired in secrets and mythical tales that even Holmes had faced some difficulty unravelling it all.

It was a gloomy evening in the month of October in the year 1881 that it happened. Holmes and I were seated in front of the fire in the living room of our apartments at Baker Street. I perused a medical journal while Holmes pored over some rare musical sheets he had recently acquired. He had been extraordinarily busy of late, and I had been concerned about his health, given his propensity to neglect basic human needs when immersed in his work. Having successfully concluded his latest case barely a few days ago, I had managed to persuade him to spend some time at home to rest before his next assignment. I was pleased to see a healthy flush of colour appear in his pale cheeks.

“You look a little too pleased with yourself, my dear doctor,” Holmes said, looking up suddenly. “Is it because you and Mrs. Hudson have successfully managed to make me succumb to the mundane daily routine of three square meals a day and eight hours of sleep over the past few days?”

“Merely musing over your unhealthy habits, Holmes,” I retorted.

There was a hint of amusement in his keen grey eyes as he shook his head ruefully. Before he could speak, however, the door was thrown open violently and an attractive young noblewoman burst in, Mrs. Hudson at her heels.

“Mr. Holmes!” the young lady wailed, throwing herself at my friend.

Holmes looked so comically uncomfortable as the young girl sobbed loudly against his chest and clutching at the lapels of his dressing robe, that Mrs. Hudson and I could only exchange a glance and suppress our smiles. Holmes shot a pleading look at Mrs. Hudson. Sighing, our long-suffering landlady gently pulled the young lady away from Holmes, and the relief on my friend’s face was palpable.

I held out a handkerchief to the girl as Mrs. Hudson led her to a chair and offered her tea. Three cups of tea (with generous amounts of brandy) and two handkerchiefs later, the young woman finally appeared to have calmed down enough to be able to speak.

She was clearly from a wealthy family, judging from the expensive fabric of her attire and the jewels she wore. Even though currently marred by her distress, she was rather lovely, with bright blue eyes and golden curls that were carefully arranged around her heart-shaped face, clearly the work of a skilled maid. She could not have been more than twenty.

Holmes looked pained as he murmured gently, “If this is about your former fiancé, my dear lady…”

“Edward is still my fiancé, Mr Holmes!” the girl cried, fresh tears streaming down her face. “I do not know how that woman managed to steal him away from me!” Then her eyes widened in shock. “How did you know, Mr. Holmes? I have not even introduced myself yet!”

“I have my ways,” Holmes replied enigmatically.

Surprisingly, his mystic reply seemed to reassure the girl. She dabbed at her eyes and faced us with a determined look on her pretty face.

“My name is Elena Cornwall. I am the only daughter of Lord Cornwall of Westbury. My fiancé is Edward Portman, the eldest son of the Duke of Devonshire. We have known each other since we were children, Mr. Holmes, and we have been betrothed for over five years now. And yet, last week, when that foreign girl turned up at the ball we were hosting at one of my father’s estates, he spent the entire evening dancing with her. Then, she showed up again at our next ball – this time hosted by the Duke, and Edward refused to even look at me! And last night…last night she kissed him before all our guests, and he just…he smiled at her! And then she said how happy she was that he finally remembered everything, and how they would be together forever now…” she trailed off in the end and burst into tears again.

“What a scoundrel!” I cried.

Holmes, however, remained silent, clearly waiting for her to continue. When she was calm again, the girl – Lady Elena – said softly, “Mr. Holmes, there is something not right about all of this. The Edward I that know and love would never deceive me. I do not know why he is acting the way he is, but I am certain there are sinister forces at work. This girl, she called Edward ‘Ian’ on the first evening. Edward looked shocked for a moment, and then he went to dance with her immediately. It was only my father and I who heard the name ‘Ian.’ The next day, I visited Edward to enquire, but he begged me not to interfere with the matter and promised to sort it out. Since then, he refuses to meet me, and the Duke, too, refuses to speak to my father. All they say is that the matter will be taken care of soon, and that Edward will marry me as scheduled later this year.”

She looked up at Holmes, her blue eyes clouded with misery. “But Mr. Holmes, how can I simply stand by and wait when the man I love is being intimate with another woman right in front of my eyes? And worse still, even though she was dressed like a princess at all three balls she attended, I learnt last evening from a mutual friend of Edward and I that this girl – Ingrid, she calls herself – has been living as a shepherdess for the last two years in the village next to the Duke’s country-estate. Edward has been working in London for the last five years, so she probably did not see him until very recently when he visited the estate.”

“Who is Ian, if I may ask?” Holmes enquired.

Lady Elena sighed. “I do not know, Mr. Holmes. My father seems to have an idea, but he refuses to tell me anything. Father heard that Edward and Ingrid are getting married in a few days. He told me this morning that I should forget about Edward’s duplicity and he would find me a good, honest man to marry.”

Her father’s concern struck me as perfectly valid, and I said so.

“But how could I just forget the man I have loved all my life, Dr. Watson?” the girl cried passionately. “Do I not deserve to know the truth?”

“Certainly,” I told her. “However…”

Holmes held up a hand to silence me. “You mentioned that Mr. Portman refused to look at you at the second and third ball. Were you able to speak with him at all?”

The girl shook her head sadly. “He looked past me several times, as if he did not even know who I was, and whenever I attempted to get close enough to speak, he fled.”

What a callous man, I thought.

“One more question. You mentioned that your fiancé been working in London for the last five years. Do you know if he has travelled to the continent during this period at all?”

“No, Mr. Holmes. Edward has not set foot outside of Great Britain in the last five years. The farthest he has been during this period is Manchester, when we attended my cousin’s wedding. Edward and I meet twice a week, and I would have known if he had gone out of the country. Never in the past five years has there been a week when we have not met at least twice.”

Holmes’ eyes glittered. “I will take the case,” he said seriously.

Lady Elena looked immensely relieved. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes!”

“Now, my dear lady, Watson and I would like to speak with your friend first, and then, if required, visit the village later?”

“I will arrange for him to meet you immediately,” the young woman said. “Would lunch tomorrow be suitable? Stewart is supposed to meet Father and I for lunch in any case, and Father said he may have to leave for Cardiff in the morning. Would it be suitable for you and Dr. Watson to come to my house at noon?”

“Very much so.”

Lady Elena wrote down her address for us and took her leave, looking infinitely better than she had upon her arrival.

Holmes turned to me, his eyes shining with excitement. “What do you make of it, Watson?”

“This Edward Portman appears to be a reprehensible character that deserves to be flogged in public,” I said sternly. “It is clear to me that he pretended to be ‘Ian’ and had an affair with the poor foreign girl while his young fiancée remained unaware, and now that the matter has come to light, he is trying to save his skin. Perhaps he wishes to use his influence to get rid of the unlucky Ingrid; he may have promised to marry her so that she would not expose his true character to the public!”

Holmes chuckled. “What an upstanding man you are, Watson; your future wife shall be a fortunate lady.”

I was pleased. “So, you agree?”

“No.”

My surprise must have shown on my face, for Holmes smiled slightly and shook his head. “It is a capital mistake to theorise before we have adequate data, Watson. If this Edward was a scoundrel as you imagine, would he not have had the girl Ingrid thrown out immediately? No one knew her but him; he could have easily told our young client that he had no idea who the girl was and have her removed from the premises. Why entertain her for not one, but three social gatherings? Does that not sabotage his chances with Lady Elena?”

Before I could reply, our door was flung open yet again, and an elderly lady rushed in, once again followed by Mrs. Hudson.

“Stay away, Holmes the busybody!” the agitated lady cried in a heavily accented voice. “I shall not let you take away my poor Ingrid’s man when she has finally smiled again after two years of misery!”

“Curioser and curioser,” Holmes muttered.

I offered the old lady a seat, and Mrs. Hudson offered her a beverage. She ignored us and continued to rant at Holmes, slipping into German invective, perhaps involuntarily. Holmes listened to her silently, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.

“My apologies,” he said finally, when she stopped speaking. “I am afraid I cannot do that.” He smiled slightly. “I do not believe the truth would adversely affect the lady Ingrid. I would certainly like to speak to her, though.”

As though summoned by Holmes’ wish, an ethereally beautiful young lady appeared. She looked at the furious old lady and immediately put an arm around her shoulder.

“Calm down, Grandma,” she said softly. She looked up at Holmes. “I apologise for my grandma,” she said. “She loves me very much, and she has been very worried about me because I have not been home for two years.”

Holmes nodded amicably. “It is certainly strange for a lady of your stature to be living in a foreign country as a shepherdess, Lady Ingrid.”

“It is all because of that English bastard Ian,” the old lady spat. “My poor Ingrid, being in love with such a swine…and he pretended to be such a gentleman when he was at our castle back in Germany, too! What two-faced men you British produce!”

“Grandma…”

The old lady disregarded the young girl’s plea and continued, “Even if he has agreed to marry you now, my child, I am afraid he might just be taking advantage of your good nature, like your stepmother used to.”

“Ian forgot about me, Grandma. Now he remembers. We will marry soon and return to Germany.”

“Forgot…!” I exclaimed, unable to believe my ears.

The beautiful girl looked at us with clear grey eyes. “You are Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” she asked, staring at my friend.

“At your service, my lady,” Holmes replied gallantly.

“Would you hear my side of the story as well, Mr. Holmes? It is alarmingly like one of the fairy tales of my country.”

“The True Bride?” Holmes asked.

She nodded.

Holmes gestured for her to take a seat. Leading the old lady by the hand, the lovely young woman sat down and faced us calmly. Mrs. Hudson served tea again and withdrew.

“Ian and I met in Germany three years ago,” she began. “We soon fell in love, and after spending nearly a year together, he asked me to marry him under the lime tree in my garden. I have not had a very happy life, Mr. Holmes. My mother died giving birth to me, and my father passed away when I was very young. My stepmother was never kind to me; she would often ask me to perform impossible tasks and then punish me when I could not fulfil them. However, when I was thirteen, Grandma found me. My stepmother passed away soon after, and Grandma brought me to her castle. I lived there for several years and learnt from the best of tutors. Ian was riding by and spotted me playing with some birds in the garden. He fell off his horse, and we spoke then for the first time when I went to help him.” She blushed. “It was perhaps love at first sight.”

I frowned. It did not make any sense. How could the duplicitous Edward have spent a year in Germany when Lady Elena had been meeting him twice a week here in London?

Holmes listened eagerly.

“After a year, Ian proposed, and I happily accepted.” She held up her hand to show a ring with a stone the exact colour of her eyes. “He gave me this ring and told me he would have to briefly return to England to take his father’s permission. I offered to accompany him, but he said that his family situation was a little difficult, and hence it would be best for him to go alone. He promised to return in two months. When he did not return, I came to England to look for him, but I knew nothing but his name, so I could not find him. I had left Germany without telling Grandma and I soon exhausted the small sum I had carried with me. Fortunately, a kind farmer offered me shelter and let me tend to his sheep. I intended to work and look for Ian as long as I could. Grandma found me a few weeks ago, and we accidentally found out that Ian was Edward Portman when my employer recognised him from some portraits of Ian and myself that Grandma had brought with her. After that, it was easy to find out his location and I showed up at the ball a few days ago. I had to give it one last try, just like the fairy tale. And Ian came to me as soon as I called out his name. He seemed a little different from before on the first evening, as though he did not know me, but he invited me to the second ball, and he was back to the Ian I knew and loved. Yesterday he told me that he had his father’s consent and we would marry at his family’s church in a few days and then return to Germany together.”

“Did he not tell you why he disappeared for two years?” I asked incredulously.

Lady Ingrid inclined her head. “He said that he met with an accident and was incapacitated for over a year. It was only recently that he was able to walk properly. He did not wish for me to wed an invalid, so he stayed away, thinking I might forget him and find another man to love.” She looked down at the carpet. “The fool. As if I would love him less, even if he could never walk again.”

What a farce! I was so incensed that I was unable to say anything out loud. To deceive two good women…

Holmes, however, seemed to be deep in thought. “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” he muttered. It was an old adage of his.

The German ladies seemed impressed.

Holmes stood up suddenly. “Lady Ingrid, are you aware that Edward Portman has been betrothed to Lady Elena Cornwall for several years, even before he met you?”

“I learnt last week,” she said quietly. “I asked Ian, but…”

“The scoundrel refuses to speak of it. Says he will sort it out,” the old lady said shrilly. “I do not like that man, Ingrid. He has duped you, and he has duped the other girl, too. I do not know why you still love him and wish to marry him…”

The girl remained stubbornly silent.

“Lady Elena has asked me to find out the truth,” Holmes said quietly. “Would you not like to learn the truth as well, Lady Ingrid?”

The girl trembled with silent emotion. “I do not know, Mr. Holmes. I wish to believe in Ian…”

“But it is difficult under such suspicious circumstances, is it not?” I murmured.

“Herr Doctor is right,” the old lady said. “But I do not wish for Ingrid to be unhappy ever again. If this lying man brings her happiness, I will let her have him for as long as she wants.”

Holmes kept his eyes fixed on the young girl.

She finally looked up, her chin raised with determination. “I would like to know the truth, too,” she said quietly. “Would that be unfair, Mr. Holmes?”

“Not at all,” Holmes said pleasantly.

She nodded gratefully. “We are staying at the Langham for now.”

“I shall be in touch, then,” Holmes assured her.

The German ladies took their leave.

“What a convoluted problem,” I observed. “What do you think, Holmes? How could it be possible that the man has so expertly managed to deceive two women? Unless one of the girls is lying…”

“Do either of them appear to be lying to you, Watson?”

I shook my head.

“That is my impression as well, my dear doctor.”

“But how the devil is it possible for the man to be in two countries at the same time, Holmes?”

Holmes smiled enigmatically. “That is what we have been tasked to find out.”

* * *

The next day, Holmes and I visited Lady Elena’s manor as scheduled. Her friend, Stewart Farnworth, who was also acquainted with Edward Portman, was a jovial young fellow. He clearly had a soft spot for the lady, and was not particularly pleased with the treatment meted out to her, either.

“Imagine my surprise, gentlemen, when I saw this shepherdess girl all dressed up like a princess and dancing with Edward while Elena was miserably standing in a corner! And then she told me that this was the third time!” he cried. “I could never have imagined that our straight-laced Edward would ever do something like this.”

“Were you well-acquainted with the girl, Mr. Farnworth?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I saw her several times when I visited the village. My ailing aunt lives in the area, and I am often called upon for she has no children of her own. I spoke to the farmer who employed her – Kenneth, he is a good man. He told me he had found her famished and fatigued…must have been about two years ago. She seemed lost, so he brought her to his farm and let her tend to the sheep. She was a hard worker, but kept to herself, and did not stir up trouble for anyone. Kenneth probably wanted her to marry one of his nephews – for the girl really is a pretty little thing, Dr. Watson. But she would hardly talk to anyone, and she was often singing the same song to the animals – something about broken promises and lime trees.”

“Did you visit Mr. Portman at his father’s country estate?”

“Just once, and that was just a few days ago. I was surprised, for I thought he was still in London. He was with the girl, looking happier and more animated than I had ever seen him before. Edward is normally a rather reserved fellow, you see. But there he was, laughing and dancing in the sunlight with her, without a care in the world. I greeted him, and he looked at me as if he had no idea who I was. I wanted to find out what had happened, for Edward had always been devoted to Elena, so I attended yesterday’s ball, and…” He stopped and looked at Lady Elena, who was fighting back tears. “I suppose you already know what happened.”

Holmes seemed thoughtful at Farnworth’s reply. “Did Mr. Portman seem different to you at yesterday’s ball, too?”

“Completely different, Mr. Holmes,” the young man replied. “He only had eyes for Ingrid, and it was as if he could not see or recognise anyone else.”

“He was like that at the second ball, too,” Lady Elena said softly.

Holmes nodded absently. Then, with a small smile, he asked Lady Elena to visit Baker Street the following evening with a promise to reveal the truth. We took our leave soon after. On our way out, Holmes and I parted ways, for he said he had an errand to run. So, I returned to Baker Street by myself, musing over the matter and unable to think of a plausible solution.

It was already nightfall by the time Holmes came home. He appeared quite pleased as he entered.

“Fruitful day?” I asked.

“Indeed, my dear doctor,” he said cheerfully. “I know the truth now.”

He refused to elaborate further. Knowing his flair for the dramatic by now, I resigned myself to wait for the big revelation the next day.

The next morning, Holmes left before I woke up and returned rather late in the afternoon. A few minutes after he arrived, we received yet another agitated visitor – this time, it was the Duke of Devonshire.

“Mr. Holmes,” he said unceremoniously. “Please stop your investigations into my family’s private affairs.”

Holmes returned the elderly gentleman’s angry gaze calmly. “I am afraid I cannot do that.”

The Duke’s lips thinned with anger. “I could make life difficult for you.”

Holmes’ mellow gaze sharpened. “You could try,” he said pleasantly.

That incensed the Duke further. “You have no idea what you are dealing with.”

“On the contrary,” Holmes said calmly. “I know the truth you have hidden away for twenty years.”

The Duke went impossibly pale and staggered. Alarmed, I helped him to a seat and offered him a brandy.

“I had to keep my son safe,” the elderly nobleman said quietly.

“That does not give you the right to play with young lives. You do realise the trouble your insistence on secrecy has caused, don’t you?” Holmes said sternly.

The Duke did not reply.

There was a knock on the door and a young man entered. It was clearly the Duke’s son, for their resemblance was striking.

“Ah, young Mr. Portman. Which one are you?” Holmes asked cheerfully.

The young man’s face drained of colour. “I have no idea what you mean, Mr. Holmes. I am merely here to escort my father back home.”

“He knows,” the Duke told his son.

“Oh,” the young man said, taken aback. Then he smiled ruefully. “I suppose rumours of your talents are not exaggerated. I should probably have persuaded Elena not to engage you.”

“You have caused the young lady much heartache, Mr. Edward Portman,” Holmes told him, none too gently.

The young man looked infinitely sad for a moment. “I know,” he said softly. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am for that, Mr. Holmes.”

“It is not me you owe that apology to,” Holmes retorted.

“I know.”

There was another knock on the door, and Lady Elena entered, looking much calmer compared to her last visit to our apartment. She blinked in surprise when she saw the Duke and his son. True to her genteel nature, she regained her bearings immediately and greeted them politely.

“Oh, Elena,” Edward Portman sighed. “I have put you through hell, haven’t I?”

She did not reply. She looked at Holmes and raised an eyebrow.

The Duke said softly, “It was at my insistence that my son kept the truth from you, my dear. Please do not blame him. I cannot tell you how many times in the past few days he has begged me to permit him to reveal the truth to you.”

Before Lady Elena could reply, there was another knock, and the two German ladies entered. They stopped short upon seeing our three guests.

“Ian,” Lady Ingrid demanded. “What is the meaning of this? How did you get here before us?”

“We shall all know the truth shortly, Lady Ingrid,” Holmes declared, and I led the ladies to seats as well. “We are short of just one person.”

As if on cue, there was another knock on the door, and a young man entered. As soon as he removed his hat, everyone except Holmes jumped up from their seats in surprise, including myself.

Our newest guest was the splitting image of Edward Portman!

“Please take a seat, Mr. Portman,” Holmes called out, and the young man sat down next to Lady Ingrid.

She stared at him in shock. “Ian…?”

“Yes, my dear?” he replied with an affectionate smile, taking her hand and bringing it to her lips.

Lady Elena, on the other hand, stared at the young man next to the Duke. “Edward,” she cried softly. “What on earth…?”

“I am sorry, Elena,” the boy said helplessly. “I could not tell you.”

“Twins,” I muttered.

Holmes fixed his raptor gaze upon the Duke. “Is it not time for you to explain?” he asked quietly.

The Duke sighed. “I suppose I longer have a choice. You have outwitted me greatly, Mr. Holmes.” He eyed everyone in the room and declared, “I have a request. What I tell you, as well as the fact that I have two surviving sons, must not leave this room until the threats to my heirs have passed.”

“Edward is your heir,” the young man next to Ingrid – Ian Portman – said immediately. “As I said before, I am going to Germany with my wife in a few days. I need neither your wealth nor your title, Father. My existence will have no further impact on your lives.”

“At least half of it is rightfully yours, Ian,” his brother retorted.

Their father held up a hand and began his tale. “Twenty-five years ago, my wife and I were blessed with twin sons, Edward and Ian. However, when they were four years old, Ian was abducted. We were unable to find him for months, and ultimately, he was presumed dead. Our family’s title and wealth are accompanied by danger. What we kept from the public was that we were able to find Ian. Even as a child, he had known to flee from his captors. However, he was but a child, and was unable to find his way back. Thanks to a certain friend, however, we were able to find him,” the Duke paused and glanced meaningfully at Holmes.

“He was traumatised and had lost his memories. We changed his last name and he was brought up on the continent, mostly in boarding schools in France, Germany and Switzerland. My wife and I travelled often and met him, but we did not reveal to him that we were his parents until he was thirteen. Edward, who had been so traumatised by the incident, had lost his memories of his twin brother as well, so we kept him in the dark. Two years ago, I received word from Ian that he had met the woman he wished to spend his life with and was returning to England to speak to us about it, and to reintroduce himself to his brother. However, he had already set sail before I could warn him, and he was attacked immediately after he arrived – he was probably mistaken for Edward, and we have always taken care to keep Edward’s security in mind even in his daily life – so when Ian was seen without guards, my enemies took their chance. Ian was badly injured but survived, and was bedridden for more than a year. We finally told Edward of his brother’s existence, and they have grown close in the last two years.” He gazed fondly at his children. “What we did not know was that Ingrid had head out to look for Ian when he did not return.”

Ian smiled broadly. “I could hardly believe it when Edward came running to me and said that my Ingrid was in England looking for me! I went to the next ball pretending to be Edward…and there she was, my beautiful, wonderful Ingrid. She told me how she had come looking for me.” He stared at her, adoration shining in his eyes. “I have wronged you so terribly, my dear…I cannot fathom how you can bear to forgive me.”

Lady Ingrid smiled gently.

“So, it was not Edward at the last two balls,” Lady Elena whispered. “I thought…”

Edward looked miserable as he said, “I am so sorry, Elena. I do not know how to even apologise to you…it must have been terrible for you.”

“It is not his fault,” the Duke said. “I forbade both my sons to reveal the truth to anyone, even though both of them wished to tell you.” He glanced at Lady Elena. “My dear child, I hope you would find it in your heart to forgive my son.”

Lady Elena nodded and looked down. Her shoulders trembled. Edward rushed to her immediately and took her hand. “Would you permit me to apologise to you, Elena?”

She nodded again and he smiled. “My angel!” he cried. “I promise I shall never hide anything from you again, my dear. I cannot tell you how sorry I am to have kept you in the dark.”

“He was miserable,” Ian quipped. “He kept asking Father for permission.”

Lady Elena finally smiled. Edward looked dazed with relief.

“But how did you learn the truth, Holmes?” I asked.

“As I said before, Watson, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. We had three facts: first, the boy had definitely been in Germany and England at the same time; second, both ladies said that their man was behaving differently – Lady Elena said Edward was different at the last two balls, and Lady Ingrid said that Ian was different at the first ball; third, Stewart Farnworth, too, remarked on both of these – he had seen Ian in the country while Edward was in London, and he had seen the difference in their behaviour. All of this would lead to the logical conclusion – there were two different men. So, I looked up some records and spoke to a mutual acquaintance – the friend the Duke referred to earlier, and confirmed my theory.”

Silence reigned for a full minute, before Lady Elena said, “That was brilliant. Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

Everyone echoed her sentiments, and I had the rare privilege of seeing Holmes visibly happy.

“A simple matter,” he said, waving his hand.

The two happy couples and the two older guardians took their leave soon after. It was not until several years later that Edward Portman became the new Duke of Devonshire, and publicly acknowledged the survival of his twin brother. I received a letter from Lady Elena shortly thereafter, informing me that I was free to narrate the story their tale and how Holmes had helped them. Holmes was quite amused at the epistle.

“You can use all your romanticising skills and make this adventure a fairy tale, Watson,” he said, chuckling.

I could not turn down such a request, of course!

THE TRUE BRIDE

There was once on a time a girl who was young and beautiful, but she had lost her mother when she was quite a child, and her step-mother did all she could to make the girl's life wretched. Whenever this woman gave her anything to do, she worked at it indefatigably, and did everything that lay in her power. Still she could not touch the heart of the wicked woman by that; she was never satisfied; it was never enough. The harder the girl worked, the more work was put upon her, and all that the woman thought of was how to weigh her down with still heavier burdens, and make her life still more miserable.

One day she said to her, "Here are twelve pounds of feathers which thou must pick, and if they are not done this evening, thou mayst expect a good beating. Dost thou imagine thou art to idle away the whole day?" The poor girl sat down to the work, but tears ran down her cheeks as she did so, for she saw plainly enough that it was quite impossible to finish the work in one day. Whenever she had a little heap of feathers lying before her, and she sighed or smote her hands together in her anguish, they flew away, and she had to pick them out again, and begin her work anew. Then she put her elbows on the table, laid her face in her two hands, and cried, "Is there no one, then, on God's earth to have pity on me?"

Then she heard a low voice which said, "Be comforted, my child, I have come to help thee." The maiden looked up, and an old woman was by her side. She took the girl kindly by the hand, and said, "Only tell me what is troubling thee." As she spoke so kindly, the girl told her of her miserable life, and how one burden after another was laid upon her, and she never could get to the end of the work which was given to her. "If I have not done these feathers by this evening, my step-mother will beat me; she has threatened she will, and I know she keeps her word." Her tears began to flow again, but the good old woman said, "Do not be afraid, my child; rest a while, and in the meantime I will look to thy work."

The girl lay down on her bed, and soon fell asleep. The old woman seated herself at the table with the feathers, and how they did fly off the quills, which she scarcely touched with her withered hands! The twelve pounds were soon finished, and when the girl awoke, great snow-white heaps were lying, piled up, and everything in the room was neatly cleared away, but the old woman had vanished. The maiden thanked God, and sat still till evening came, when the step-mother came in and marvelled to see the work completed. "Just look, you awkward creature," said she, "what can be done when people are industrious; and why couldst thou not set about something else? There thou sittest with thy hands crossed."

When she went out she said, "The creature is worth more than her salt. I must give her some work that is still harder."

Next morning, she called the girl, and said, "There is a spoon for thee; with that thou must empty out for me the great pond which is beside the garden, and if it is not done by night, thou knowest what will happen." The girl took the spoon, and saw that it was full of holes; but even if it had not been, she never could have emptied the pond with it. She set to work at once, knelt down by the water, into which her tears were falling, and began to empty it. But the good old woman appeared again, and when she learnt the cause of her grief, she said, "Be of good cheer, my child. Go into the thicket and lie down and sleep; I will soon do thy work."

As soon as the old woman was alone, she barely touched the pond, and a vapour rose up on high from the water, and mingled itself with the clouds. Gradually the pond was emptied, and when the maiden awoke before sunset and came thither, she saw nothing but the fishes which were struggling in the mud. She went to her step-mother, and showed her that the work was done. "It ought to have been done long before this," said she, and grew white with anger, but she meditated something new.

On the third morning she said to the girl, "Thou must build me a castle on the plain there, and it must be ready by the evening." The maiden was dismayed, and said, "How can I complete such a great work?" - "I will endure no opposition," screamed the step-mother. If thou canst empty a pond with a spoon that is full of holes, thou canst build a castle too. I will take possession of it this very day, and if anything is wanting, even if it be the most trifling thing in the kitchen or cellar, thou knowest what lies before thee!"

She drove the girl out, and when she entered the valley, the rocks were there, piled up one above the other, and all her strength would not have enabled her even to move the very smallest of them. She sat down and wept, and still she hoped the old woman would help her. The old woman was not long in coming; she comforted her and said, "Lie down there in the shade and sleep, and I will soon build the castle for thee. If it would be a pleasure to thee, thou canst live in it thyself."

When the maiden had gone away, the old woman touched the gray rocks. They began to rise, and immediately moved together as if giants had built the walls; and on these the building arose, and it seemed as if countless hands were working invisibly, and placing one stone upon another. There was a dull heavy noise from the ground; pillars arose of their own accord on high, and placed themselves in order near each other.

The tiles laid themselves in order on the roof, and when noon-day came, the great weather-cock was already turning itself on the summit of the tower, like a golden figure of the Virgin with fluttering garments. The inside of the castle was being finished while evening was drawing near. How the old woman managed it, I know not; but the walls of the rooms were hung with silk and velvet, embroidered chairs were there, and richly ornamented arm-chairs by marble tables; crystal chandeliers hung down from the ceilings, and mirrored themselves in the smooth pavement; green parrots were there in gilt cages, and so were strange birds which sang most beautifully, and there was on all sides as much magnificence as if a king were going to live there.

The sun was just setting when the girl awoke, and the brightness of a thousand lights flashed in her face. She hurried to the castle, and entered by the open door. The steps were spread with red cloth, and the golden balustrade beset with flowering trees. When she saw the splendour of the apartment, she stood as if turned to stone. Who knows how long she might have stood there if she had not remembered the step-mother?

"Alas!" she said to herself, "if she could but be satisfied at last, and would give up making my life a misery to me." The girl went and told her that the castle was ready. "I will move into it at once," said she, and rose from her seat. When they entered the castle, she was forced to hold her hand before her eyes, the brilliancy of everything was so dazzling. "Thou seest," said she to the girl, "how easy it has been for thee to do this; I ought to have given thee something harder." She went through all the rooms, and examined every corner to see if anything was wanting or defective; but she could discover nothing.

"Now we will go down below," said she, looking at the girl with malicious eyes. "The kitchen and the cellar still have to be examined, and if thou hast forgotten anything thou shalt not escape thy punishment." But the fire was burning on the hearth, and the meat was cooking in the pans, the tongs and shovel were leaning against the wall, and the shining brazen utensils all arranged in sight. Nothing was wanting, not even a coal-box and water-pail. "Which is the way to the cellar?" she cried. "If that is not abundantly filled, it shall go ill with thee."

She herself raised up the trap-door and descended; but she had hardly made two steps before the heavy trap-door which was only laid back, fell down. The girl heard a scream, lifted up the door very quickly to go to her aid, but she had fallen down, and the girl found her lying lifeless at the bottom.

And now the magnificent castle belonged to the girl alone. She at first did not know how to reconcile herself to her good fortune. Beautiful dresses were hanging in the wardrobes, the chests were filled with gold or silver, or with pearls and jewels, and she never felt a desire that she was not able to gratify. And soon the fame of the beauty and riches of the maiden went over all the world. Wooers presented themselves daily, but none pleased her.

At length the son of the King came and he knew how to touch her heart, and she betrothed herself to him. In the garden of the castle was a lime-tree, under which they were one day sitting together, when he said to her, "I will go home and obtain my father's consent to our marriage. I entreat thee to wait for me here under this lime-tree, I shall be back with thee in a few hours." The maiden kissed him on his left cheek, and said, "Keep true to me, and never let anyone else kiss thee on this cheek. I will wait here under the lime-tree until thou returnest.

The maid stayed beneath the lime-tree until sunset, but he did not return. She sat three days from morning till evening, waiting for him, but in vain. As he still was not there by the fourth day, she said, "Some accident has assuredly befallen him. I will go out and seek him, and will not come back until I have found him."

She packed up three of her most beautiful dresses, one embroidered with bright stars, the second with silver moons, the third with golden suns, tied up a handful of jewels in her handkerchief, and set out. She inquired everywhere for her betrothed, but no one had seen him; no one knew anything about him. Far and wide did she wander through the world, but she found him not. At last she hired herself to a farmer as a cow-herd, and buried her dresses and jewels beneath a stone.

And now she lived as a herdswoman, guarded her herd, and was very sad and full of longing for her beloved one; she had a little calf which she taught to know her, and fed it out of her own hand, and when she said,

"Little calf, little calf, kneel by my side,

And do not forget thy shepherd-maid,

As the prince forgot his betrothed bride,

Who waited for him 'neath the lime-tree's shade."

the little calf knelt down, and she stroked it.

And when she had lived for a couple of years alone and full of grief, a report was spread over all the land that the King's daughter was about to celebrate her marriage. The road to the town passed through the village where the maiden was living, and it came to pass that once when the maiden was driving out her herd, her bridegroom travelled by. He was sitting proudly on his horse, and never looked round, but when she saw him she recognized her beloved, and it was just as if a sharp knife had pierced her heart. "Alas!" said she, "I believed him true to me, but he has forgotten me."

Next day he again came along the road. When he was near her she said to the little calf,

"Little calf, little calf, kneel by my side,

And do not forget thy shepherd-maid,

As the prince forgot his betrothed bride,

Who waited for him 'neath the lime-tree's shade."

When he was aware of the voice, he looked down and reined in his horse. He looked into the herd's face, and then put his hands before his eyes as if he were trying to remember something, but he soon rode onwards and was out of sight. "Alas!" said she, "he no longer knows me," and her grief was ever greater.

Soon after this a great festival three days long was to be held at the King's court, and the whole country was invited to it.

"Now will I try my last chance," thought the maiden, and when evening came she went to the stone under which she had buried her treasures. She took out the dress with the golden suns, put it on, and adorned herself with the jewels. She let down her hair, which she had concealed under a handkerchief, and it fell down in long curls about her, and thus she went into the town, and in the darkness was observed by no one.

When she entered the brightly-lighted hall, everyone started back in amazement, but no one knew who she was. The King's son went to meet her, but he did not recognize her. He led her out to dance, and was so enchanted with her beauty, that he thought no more of the other bride. When the feast was over, she vanished in the crowd, and hastened before daybreak to the village, where she once more put on her herd's dress.

Next evening, she took out the dress with the silver moons, and put a half-moon made of precious stones in her hair. When she appeared at the festival, all eyes were turned upon her, but the King's son hastened to meet her, and filled with love for her, danced with her alone, and no longer so much as glanced at anyone else. Before she went away she was forced to promise him to come again to the festival on the last evening.

When she appeared for the third time, she wore the star-dress which sparkled at every step she took, and her hair-ribbon and girdle were starred with jewels. The prince had already been waiting for her for a long time, and forced his way up to her. "Do but tell who thou art," said he, "I feel just as if I had already known thee a long time." - "Dost thou not know what I did when thou leftest me?"

Then she stepped up to him, and kissed him on his left cheek, and in a moment it was as if scales fell from his eyes, and he recognized the true bride. "Come," said he to her, "here I stay no longer," gave her his hand, and led her down to the carriage. The horses hurried away to the magic castle as if the wind had been harnessed to the carriage.

The illuminated windows already shone in the distance. When they drove past the lime-tree, countless glow-worms were swarming about it. It shook its branches, and sent forth their fragrance. On the steps flowers were blooming, and the room echoed with the song of strange birds, but in the hall the entire court was assembled, and the priest was waiting to marry the bridegroom to the true bride.

THE QUEEN BEE

By Jennifer Liang

(Based on “The Queen Bee”)

“Watson, how would you feel about going on a holiday?”

Watson looked up from the novel he was grossly engaged in reading. He was reclined in a deep green armchair, as comfortable as a potato in dirt.

“A holiday?” he replied, awaking from his trance. Watson thought about it. His practice was going well, but had slowed down somewhat; Mrs. Abbington, a frequent client of his had started to recover from frequent bouts of coughing. Another patient, Mr. Hampton, had finally taken his advice and ceased indulging in so much bacon that caused him chronic constipation.

“It appears your practice has slowed down because everyone’s health has improved, as well as your own practice.” Holmes smiled. “This will be most convenient, because I expect this holiday could last a few weeks, perhaps even a month.”

“Where were you thinking of going, Holmes?” Intrigued, Watson planted the novel face-down on his lap.

“I received a most interesting case of a young man in Germany. Although I did not expect news of my fame to reach that far on the continent, Mr. Augustus has written me a letter from Vienna. Let me read it aloud to you.”

“Dear Mr. Holmes, I am writing you because I have heard stories of your works and I would like to use your services as a consulting detective. My two elder brothers have disappeared one night and have not been seen for several days. Ordinarily, they would return after a night or two, but they have been gone so long that I’ve become quite concerned. Mr. Holmes, please help me find my brothers and you shall have my sincerest gratitude and compensation.”

Holmes paused for a moment to turn the letter over. “Have a look at the original letter Watson, tell me if you can guess why I was so intrigued. I was so fascinated that I quickly sent my reply to meet him.

Holmes then continued, “I sent my reply, and this is his response:

“I shall be waiting for you at the Green Dragon Inn, where I will be wearing a mauve colored hat. We will then travel back together. I will be very pleased to take you on a tour of my beautiful homeland.”

Watson examined the letter. It was written on coarse, cheap paper used originally as part of a logbook. Each neatly written word was written on the lines of the logbook where the description of contents should be. There were no smudges or prints.

He thought carefully, and slowly said, “There is something strange about this letter. The handwriting is too lovely for this paper.”

“Excellent, Watson! What can you conclude?”

“The letter was forged!”

“Well, not exactly. Imagine the only paper the man could get was this cheap stuff. Despite this Austrian address, the letter is in perfect English, with excellent handwriting. What do you make of that?”

“Clearly, the man is well-learned.”

“Exactly, does that not seem at odds with this scrap of paper? It clearly came from a log book of a man that keeps geese. You can see some of the impressions of previous transactions if you look closely enough.” Holmes explained. “I believe this man to be of somewhat nobility who for some reason is employed as a laborer at a farm.”

* * *

Later, Holmes and Watson entered the Green Dragon Inn. Soon enough, they spotted a young man wearing a purplish hat and drinking a mug of beer. As they approached him, he looked up with a welcoming smile, showing white teeth in a sunbaked face. “Sherlock Holmes, I presume?”

“Yes, and my companion Watson. You must be Mr. Ernest Augustus George.”

He nodded smiling, “Indeed, sir.” He took off his hat, revealing fashionably waved golden hair. As the young man sat down, he had the elegant bearing of a noble. He waved someone over for a couple of mugs of beer.

As Holmes and Watson sat with their beverages, he began to tell the tale. “My family is royalty without a crown, and in order to support my family, I work as an assistant to a baker and a farmer. I have put on this disguise as an ordinary person in order to work without anyone recognizing me.

My brothers are much different than I, and I have found them to be involved in gambling and forgery. So far, they have been able to avoid the unsavory characters that surround these kinds of businesses, but not for long. Both have disappeared, and the police have not been able to find them. I have heard of you through my friend in London, who often sends me copies of the exciting stories that Mr. Watson publishes!”

Holmes and Watson sat, digesting the tale with their beer, and with a few additional questions about the case, they set off for the Belgian countryside.

As the train passed by the lush scenery, Watson made himself comfortable next to Holmes. Sometimes when Watson drifted off during the day for a nap to the hums and clicks of the train, he felt the brushing of Holmes’ sleeves against his and the reverberation of Holmes’ voice laughing with their companion. The young Augustus was apparently an amateur botanist, and Holmes could easily make conversation with the young man.

Now at their last stop, they were waiting as their bags were unloaded from the train. Watson was engaged in conversation with a lovely red-headed lady, who had a most charming blush and sparkling grey eyes. She was with her two sisters, but Watson thought she was the most exquisite. He wasn’t sure if she understood anything he said, but seemed to laugh a great deal. Her hand was in his, and he was leaning forward, when --

“Watson!” A voice boomed behind him and a hand clapped his shoulder. “It is time to disembark.”

“Oh, but really, Holmes –" Watson started as Holmes started to tug on his jacket.

“Crime waits for no man!” exclaimed Holmes. Watson sadly bid the girl goodbye, and let Holmes drag him by the collar towards the exit of the train.

When they reached the estate of Augustus’ family, Holmes suggested looking inside the bedrooms of the brothers for clues. They started at the oldest of the brother’s, Charles.

Nothing seemed out of place. Holmes poked around, and behind the boiler was a small diary. It was clean of dust, unlike the boiler itself. Upon closer examination, it looked to be a record of debts. There were several names, some were repeated many times throughout the book. A couple of these names included “S.Pfeiffer” and “A. Wolff”.

“Look here, Mr. Augustus!” Holmes exclaimed. “Evidently, your brother had lost a great deal of money to gambling at the horse races.”

“Yes,” Ernest Augustus replied sadly, “He and my other brother, George William, spent much of their time gambling at the race track. They have made many enemies for themselves.”

Holmes also noted a map, upon which a small village nestled between a thick swath of forests. The village was about a day’s journey, and was circled in pencil. Holmes inquired if Ernest Augustus was familiar with it. Ernest Augustus nodded. “This is where my brothers would go to place bets on horses, and engage in all sorts of unseemly activity. It is easier to go to a place a bit far away where they can go about anonymously and not have the family name smeared with their deeds.”

Holmes nodded. “Let us go to this village and see what Pfeiffer and Wolff have to say. Wherever we go, let us pretend that Watson and I are looking for your brothers because he is indebted to us as well.”

They chose the inn, “The Purple Window”, where there was a nearby pub. Augustus approached a bartender, and asked if the bartender knew of this Pfeiffer and Wolff.

“Wolff would be me.” The sound came from a rough looking middle-aged man with yellow teeth grinned at them.

“This is Arnold and Sauer,” Augustus spoke, gesturing to Holmes and Watson, “I am looking for these two men. These men are holding me to their debts, and I need to find them.” He handed a photograph of his brothers to Wolff.

Before Augustus could begin describing them, Wolff replied, “Ah, if it isn’t the Schneider brothers. You are in luck. The last I saw of them, they had gone to the dark forest to the east with a man named Pfeiffer. I pity those two, and myself, for the two may never see the light of day and I will never get my money back!” Wolff sneered and took a swig of his beer.

“Why would that be?” Asked Holmes.

“Because Pfeiffer is a terrifying man, and he always gets his due. He looks like the average German, but there is no doubt among those who deal in the underworld, that he is a crime lord with extraordinary powers.” Wolff replied.

Holmes and Watson exchanged glances. “Could the culprit behind the disappearance of these young men be Moriarty?!” they thought.

Wolff muttered, “I would not journey to that forest if I were you. Best to leave your brothers and keep your life. Pfeiffer probably took them to his recently acquired property, upon which a house is built. A witch lived and died there, and the entire house is enchanted! Stones come alive and shine with an eerie glow at night, and nobody dares approach it!”

With that, Holmes, Watson, and Augustus set out to the dark forest to meet their fate. The foliage was so lush, that day seemed to become night. The wind, although rustling the leaves, did not force the branches to move to let light in. Instead, the wind became the eerie music of the forest as it whistled by the ears of the men. Not a chirp of a bird, nor call of any animal could be heard.

Suddenly, they came across an anthill the size of a cat, where glowing red ants seemed to crawl all over the forest floor. Holmes, who led the way, was about to step on one with his foot in panic, when Ernest Augustus rushed over and suddenly grabbed Holmes in his arms. “Mr. Holmes! You mustn’t kill them! They are still living things, though frightening ones.” The three carefully walked around the anthill, taking care not to disturb any of the ants.

They continued on. Hunger growled in their bellies. Then, they came to a lake. Although it was dark, they could see a flock of handsome ducks, fat and sleepy from eating. They gave a passing glance at the travelers, and continued with their activities, diving and grooming themselves peacefully.

Although the three had thought to bring provisions in a picnic basket, nothing seemed as delicious as a roasted duck. Watson could feel himself salivate at the thought of biting into a juicy piece of bird. “Holmes, Mr. Augustus- what do you say we make camp here? I have my pistol with me, and I think I would do well at making a fire to roast these ducks!” Watson said excitedly. Holmes looked ready to agree, but Ernest Augustus interrupted him.

“Leave these creatures in peace! I will not allow you to kill them! There is something about them that must be sacred. Look at them. These are no ordinary ducks.”

One of the ducks impassively witnessed the exchange, then turned up its beak and went back to courting a female.

Holmes and Watson were so hungry, but Ernest Augustus was so persistent, that they agreed to simply eat their provisions.

Still with hunger unsatisfied, the three walked some more and came to a bee’s nest. Its comb seemed to glow even in the dim light. There was so much honey, that it dripped thickly down the tree trunk. It seemed like a ripe opportunity to Holmes.

“Let us build a fire under this bee’s nest. Surely, we would do little harm taking some honey, and I would like to use the opportunity to observe their behavior,” suggested Holmes.

Still, Ernest Augustus stood firm on the subject. “Leave these creatures in peace. I will not allow you to disturb them.”

Exasperated with the boy, but also understanding that he was their client, Holmes and Watson agreed to continue. Finally, they arrived at this estate, where the surrounding plants had thrived in the absence of humans. Ivy had turned the façade of the house into a wall of green, leafy scales, and the garden overgrown. A couple of stone statues stood on the grounds. One was in a posture of running, and another standing, but turning around, and another in the posture of walking. Ernest Augustus’ eyes struggled to see, but when he approached two of them, he cried out in horror, “These are the bodies of my brothers!”

“Strange,” Holmes murmured, “These stone statues seem very freshly placed.”

Suddenly, a ghostly figure that glowed in the darkness, appeared at the doorway of the mansion. The figure was draped in white rags, and its eyes, pupil-less, glowed red. In one hand was a lantern that glowed with a green light and the other hand held a bloody knife. The figure moaned in a high-pitched screech, “Leave this place! Leave this place! Leave or you will be cursed!” The wind howled, and the figure disappeared in several puffs of glitter. The three men looked at each other. They must find out what happened.

“After you, gentlemen.” Ernest Augustus chirped. He looked ashen, even though his tone of voice sounded eager to enter.

They approached the house. Holmes noticed that there were several pairs of footprints. Upon closer examination, there were only three sets of distinct footprints in the dust aside from theirs. The front door was locked when Holmes tried it. He turned to the others, “I believe there is nothing supernatural at all about this situation. Let them think that I have gone away, but I will be hiding and observing. Watson -- I leave Augustus in your hands.”

With that, Sherlock Holmes disappeared into the sinister looking foliage.

Ernest and Watson approached the door. Surprisingly to the both of them, the door opened without resistance. They stepped into the foyer. Standing at the other end of the room, was the specter.

“Now you have entered the cursed house!” it bellowed.

Ernest tried to run back to the door, but he found that it was bolted shut. The specter laughed.

“Ha ha ha ha ha- now, you are trapped! If you ever wish to get out, you must face my three trials, and then defeat me, the final curse!”

Flames and smoke billowed out behind him, making Watson and Ernest Augustus cough and sputter.

“My first challenge is this! You must collect all one thousand pearls scattered in the mire by the end of three hours. If you fail, you shall never escape!” The specter moaned, then disappeared in another puff of glitter.

A shower of black pearls seemed to come from the ceiling, and scattered in the dirty ground below. As hard as Watson and Ernest Augustus looked, they could only come up with a few handfuls.

Ernest Augustus, tired and hungry, kneeled down and started to cry. As he wept, Watson patted his shoulder in pity and comfort. Although the young prince was brave and courageous, he was still just a boy after all!

Watson was just about to attempt escape out of the window, when he saw the glowing red ants that the boy had saved earlier. They started to scatter, and sooner or later, they had gathered up all one thousand pearls in a neat little pile. The largest ant seemed to bow to Ernest Augustus before leading his entourage into the cracks.

Ernest Augustus and Watson barely had time to celebrate before the ghoul appeared again, a look of displeasure written on its pale and withered face.

“Fine! So, you have completed your first task. Now you must come to the garden and complete the second task.”

Augustus and Watson steadied each other as they followed the ghoul out the door and into the garden. Holmes, watching from a distance but still in the house, was waiting for his chance. Watson would do a good job protecting Augustus, and meanwhile, he would be able to see what was happening. The ghoul, he noted, always stayed much farther ahead of Watson and Augustus, and he never left the house. Even when leading the two into the yard, he stepped aside in a whirlwind of robes, but still very carefully.

Now, the second task was to find the treasures of a princess at the bottom of a deep lake. Augustus agreed to do it, and stripped down to his undergarments, but still he could not dive very far down without coming up for air. Augustus, shivering and shaking, looked into the dark forest beyond, wished that he could have been a man of more strength and hardiness. He was about to attempt his final dive, when the beautiful ducks they had seen earlier came marching from the shadows. Quacking and waddling quickly in formation, they started to dive one by one into the lake. They were there for what seemed like several minutes, and then they surfaced with clusters and chains of precious jewels set in gold. They left them all at the bare feet of Ernest Augustus, bowed one by one to him, and then marched back into the leaves.

Stunned, they looked to the ghoul. It sneered, and pointed in the direction of a cellar. “You will find your last task in there. I have cursed three princesses and turned them into scarecrows by making them eat a poisoned sweet. One has taken honey, one sugar, and the last, a poisoned fruit. You must tell me which one has taken the poisoned honey, and you must find which one has taken the poisoned sugar. If you cannot find which one is the correct princess in the next hour, I will curse you.”

Ernest and Watson looked at each other. “This could be a trick, Mr. Watson. Suppose we go into the cellar and they lock it behind us, trapping us!” Ernest Augustus face turned pale.

“Look at them, Mr. Augustus. They seem to have no weapons, and right now that ghostly fellow is too far away from us to lock the cellar. Even if he were to come now, I could fire my pistol, and he would have to leave.”

“Right,” said Augustsus, with steely resolve. “Suppose one of us goes in, and the other stands guard at the entry to make sure they cannot follow us, or if they do, that you will make sure that the ghoul cannot trap us.”

Ernest Augustus shouted, “We will face your challenge, Mr. Ghoul, but after that you will face ours! I came for my brothers and I will make you release them from your curse!”

“We will see about that!” The ghost leered, billowing more smoke behind him.

When they reached the entrance of the cellar, Augustus turned to Watson. “Mr. Watson, allow me to be the one to undergo the trial. This is my journey to find my brothers, and I want you to be able to escape if it happens.”

Watson nodded. “I will do whatever I can to keep you safe.”

Ernest Augustus descended the dark stairs, feeling the warm dampness of the summer become earthy. He struck a match, allowing the light to follow. There, three scarecrows dressed in pink outfits lay at the bottom of the stairs. Each were dressed in pink dresses, with buttons for eyes, and red thread stitched into the burlap bag for lips.

He looked back at Watson, whose shadow was still visible. Ernest Augustus sniffed the lips of each scarecrow. They smelled sweet, but of what? As he was pondering a way to find out what each princess had been poisoned with, he heard a small buzzing sound. He felt a presence the size of a grape land on his shoulder. He struck another match and turned to face his shoulder. Perched on his shoulder, a large bee fluttered its wings and seemed to wink at him. The bee took off in the direction of the scarecrows, hovering over all of them for what seemed like hours. Finally, it settled on the lips of the smallest scarecrow and stayed there until Ernest Augustus picked it up. Looking at the other scarecrows, he vowed to come back for them.

He walked up the steps out of the cellar, moving faster and faster as he realized that the trials were over, and when he stood at the top, shouted, “This one is the cursed princess that has eaten the honey!”

The ghoul fell back in shock, and pointed a bony finger at him and shouted, “This is not over, you shall--!” Before he had time to finish his sentence, a crash of wood and glass sounded in the house, and there was the sound of stomping footsteps which ended at the appearance of Sherlock Holmes from the side entrance.

“Not so fast, you imposter! I have caught your brother, and you will end this trickery immediately! Take off your mask!” Holmes triumphantly dragged his companion forward, a stout man with a sullen expression.

“Charles!” Ernest Augustus yelped incredulously.

The ghoul angrily wiped at his face, and underneath was pale skin. He removed the hairpiece, and curly dark hair was hiding underneath.

“George!” Ernest yelped again, clapping his hands to his face.

Both brothers had the decency to flush with shame. Finally, Charles broke the silence and said, “We didn’t mean any harm, Ernest. We were forced to come here by a man named Pfeiffer, who, had somehow compelled us with some sort of witchcraft persuasion to do his bidding and guard the house. But we needed to keep other people from trying to find the treasure too. So, we invented the ghoul and its trials to frighten others.”

“Where is Mr. Pfeiffer now?” Holmes asked.

George shook his head. “I have no idea. Soon after cursing my brother and I to be bound to this house, he vanished into the air.”

“How did you create the illusion of the ghoul and the miasma that always seemed to be surrounding it?” Watson wondered.

“I am quite good with tricks involving mirrors and interesting effects with smoke and flames,” Charles said proudly.

“Although you clearly have great talents in trickery, ransacking an abandoned property is very much a crime. I shall be obligated to report this to the proper authorities.” Holmes sternly said.

Although the brothers could have easily overpowered Holmes, they knew that their ruse was coming to an end, and agreed to escort the other three men out of the forest. Ernest Augustus had not forgotten about the scarecrows in the cellar. Remembering that this world was still filled with magic, he kissed the lips of the smallest scarecrow, he watched in astonishment as she became the beautiful girl that Watson was chatting with on the train. Her identity was truly that of a German princess!

Ernest Augustus then kissed the other two scarecrows, and they transformed into the sisters of the girl.

Ernest Augustus along with his brothers, returned the princesses to their rightful homes, where they forever had the gratitude of their father, the king. In time, Ernest Augustus married the youngest princess who had eaten the cursed honey, and they lived happily ever after.

THE QUEEN BEE

Two kings’ sons once upon a time went into the world to seek their fortunes; but they soon fell into a wasteful foolish way of living, so that they could not return home again.

Then their brother, who was a little insignificant dwarf, went out to seek for his brothers: but when he had found them they only laughed at him, to think that he, who was so young and simple, should try to travel through the world, when they, who were so much wiser, had been unable to get on.

However, they all set out on their journey together, and came at last to an ant- hill. The two elder brothers would have pulled it down, in order to see how the poor ants in their fright would run about and carry off their eggs.

But the little dwarf said, ’Let the poor things enjoy themselves, I will not suffer you to trouble them.’

So on they went, and came to a lake where many many ducks were swimming about. The two brothers wanted to catch two, and roast them.

But the dwarf said, ’Let the poor things enjoy themselves, you shall not kill them.’ Next they came to a bees’-nest in a hollow tree, and there was so much honey that it ran down the trunk; and the two brothers wanted to light a fire under the tree and kill the bees, so as to get their honey. But the dwarf held them back, and said, ’Let the pretty insects enjoy themselves, I cannot let you burn them.’

At length the three brothers came to a castle: and as they passed by the stables they saw fine horses standing there, but all were of marble, and no man was to be seen.

Then they went through all the rooms, till they came to a door on which were three locks: but in the middle of the door was a wicket, so that they could look into the next room. There they saw a little grey old man sitting at a table; and they called to him once or twice, but he did not hear: however, they called a third time, and then he rose and came out to them.

He said nothing, but took hold of them and led them to a beautiful table covered with all sorts of good things: and when they had eaten and drunk, he showed each of them to a bed-chamber.

The next morning, he came to the eldest and took him to a marble table, where there were three tablets, containing an account of the means by which the castle might be disenchanted. The first tablet said: ’In the wood, under the moss, lie the thousand pearls belonging to the king’s daughter; they must all be found: and if one be missing by set of sun, he who seeks them will be turned into marble.’

The eldest brother set out, and sought for the pearls the whole day: but the evening came, and he had not found the first hundred: so, he was turned into stone as the tablet had foretold.

The next day the second brother undertook the task; but he succeeded no better than the first; for he could only find the second-hundred of the pearls; and therefore, he too was turned into stone.

At last came the little dwarf’s turn; and he looked in the moss; but it was so hard to find the pearls, and the job was so tiresome! – so he sat down upon a stone and cried. And as he sat there, the king of the ants (whose life he had saved) came to help him, with five thousand ants; and it was not long before they had found all the pearls and laid them in a heap.

The second tablet said: ’The key of the princess’s bed-chamber must be fished up out of the lake.’ And as the dwarf came to the brink of it, he saw the two ducks whose lives he had saved swimming about; and they dived down and soon brought in the key from the bottom.

The third task was the hardest. It was to choose out the youngest and the best of the king’s three daughters.

Now they were all beautiful, and all exactly alike: but he was told that the eldest had eaten a piece of sugar, the next some sweet syrup, and the youngest a spoonful of honey; so he was to guess which it was that had eaten the honey.

Then came the queen of the bees, who had been saved by the little dwarf from the fire, and she tried the lips of all three; but at last she sat upon the lips of the one that had eaten the honey: and so the dwarf knew which was the youngest.

Thus, the spell was broken, and all who had been turned into stones awoke, and took their proper forms.

And the dwarf married the youngest and the best of the princesses, and was king after her father’s death; but his two brothers married the other two sisters.

A SEED OF AN IDEA

By Steve Mason

(Based on “Peter, Peter Pumpkin Eater” and “A Blanched Soldier”)

I had only time to sit down in my favorite chair before Holmes inquired, “How was the golf game today?”

“How could you possibly know I was out partaking in that pastime today?”

“Quite easily, once I took the time to observe my friend, not just see him. I noticed you have developed a tan line along the midpoint of your brow. Never have I seen such a demarcation before on your forehead. I must deduce you have begun an activity that keeps you outside on a more regular basis, and you are wearing some type of headwear to help protect you from the baking rays of the summer sun. I behold a very slight but noticeable indentation on the inner side of your fingers, particularly your left hand, along the proximal phalanges. I recognize those deformities as someone who is gripping too tightly the leather of a golf club. Specifically, the exaggerated grip of a ‘bulger’ club can cause these tell-tale marks on a golfer’s fingers. How is your game? I assume you are trying your luck at Bushley Hall?”

“I will never earn a living at it, but I am enjoying it.”

“You have arrived just in time, as we are about to be visited by a very distraught individual.”

“And you know that how?”

“I received a very sad note, describing a dire situation. They asked to call on us, at this time. And I believe I hear the quiet tread on our stairs of a small, meek, person.”

The door knob turned, and a diminutive face peeked around to take on our lodgings.

Sherlock, in a lower tone, “Please enter and make yourself comfortable. You will find friends here that you need not fear.”

A young girl entered, with her eyes so enlarged to cover over one half of her face. It is Holmes’ habit to sit with his back to the window and to place his visitors opposite, where the light falls full upon them, but that seemed inappropriate for this visitor. The girl seemed somewhat at a loss how to begin. Holmes did not attempt to help her, for her silence gave Holmes more time for observation.

“From Nursery Land, I perceive.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, with some surprise.

“Grade school age.”

“Exactly.”

“Only child of a family, no doubt.”

“That is so. Mr. Holmes, but this is starting to get a little creepy.”

“Yes, indeed. So how can I help you.”

“I fear my mother has been wrongly imprisoned by my father.”

“Imprisoned,”? I blurted out.

“Well, that is how it appears. My father, Peter is a hard nail.”

Holmes lit his pipe and leaned back in his chair.

“That’s disgusting… do you mind putting it out?” Our client grinned mischievously.

“I will give you the facts, and I hope you will be able to tell me what they mean. I’ve been awake all-night puzzling my brain, and the more I think the more incredible does it become.

“My mother, Wendy, in the past two weeks has complained of weakness and diarrhea. She had taken to her bed, and I was only able to see her by passing notes under the bedroom door. But in the past week, not a word–not one word, Mr. Holmes. and she my closest pal.”

“Well, what have you done?” I asked.

“I have approached my father with my concern. We had a bit of barney right away, and my father has accused me of being ‘cheeky’ and not respectful to my parents. The next morning, I found my mother had been moved out of our home and now lives next door in a specially-built room.

“So, I came to a dead end, Mr. Holmes. There was no getting past it. I could only pretend to accept the situation and register a vow inwardly I would never rest until my mother’s fate had been cleared up. It was a dull evening. We dined quietly, the two of us, in a gloomy, faded old room. My father tried to get me to speak of my day at school. I was so bored by the whole proceeding I made an excuse as soon as I decently could and retired to my bedroom. I opened the curtains and looked out into the garden, remarking it was a fine night with a bright half-moon. And there was my mother staring into the window at me.”

My client had paused as one in deep emotion.

“Pray continue,” Holmes said. “Your problem presents some very unusual features.”

“She was outside the window, Mr. Holmes, with her face pressed against the glass. I have told you I looked out at the night. When I did so I left the curtains partly open. Her figure was framed in this gap. The window came down to the ground and I could see the whole length of it, but it was her face which held my gaze. She was deadly purplish–never have I seen a woman so violet. I reckon ghosts may look like that; but her eyes met mine, and they were the eyes of a living woman. She sprang back when she saw I was looking at her, and she vanished into the darkness.

“Mother had hardly vanished before I was at the window. There was an awkward catch, and I was some little time before I could throw it up. Then I nipped through and ran down the garden path in the direction I thought she might have taken. Soon after, I heard the distinct sound of a closing door from the residence next to our home.

“There was nothing more I could do, and I spent an uneasy night turning the matter over in my mind and trying to find some theory for the facts. Next day, I approached the residence in a careless fashion as though I were strolling aimlessly round the grounds. As I did so, a small, brisk, bearded man in a black coat and bowler hat–not at all the gardener type–came out of the door. To my surprise, he locked it after him and put the key in his pocket. Then he looked at me with some surprise on his face.

“‘Do you live here?’ he asked.

“I explained I did and I was the daughter of the woman in the residence.”

“‘There is no one living in the residence but me’ said he with a rather guilty air. He passed on, but when I turned I observed he was standing, watching me.

“I had a good look at the little house as I passed it, but the windows were heavily curtained, and, so far as one could see, it was empty. I strolled back to the house and waited for night before I went on with my inquiry. When all was dark and quiet, I slipped out of my window and made my way as silently as possible to the mysterious lodgings.

“I have said it was curtained, but now I found the windows were shuttered as well. Some light, however, was breaking through one of them, so I concentrated my attention upon this. I was in luck, for the curtain had not been quite closed, and there was a crack in the shutter, so I could see the inside of the room. It was a cheery place enough, a bright lamp and a blazing fire. Opposite to me was seated the little man whom I had seen in the morning. He was smoking a pipe and reading a paper.”

“What paper?” Holmes asked.

Our client seemed annoyed at the interruption of his narrative.

“Can it matter?” she asked.

“It is most essential.”

“I really took no notice.”

“Possibly you observed whether it was a broad-leafed paper or of that smaller type which one associates with weeklies.”

“Now that you mention it, it was not large. It might have been the Nursery Rhyme Times. However, I had little thought to spare upon such details, for another person was seated with her back to the window, and I could swear this was my mother. I could not see her face, but I knew the familiar slope of her shoulders. Just then, there was a sharp tap on my shoulder, and there was my father beside me.

“‘This way, young lady!’ said he in a low voice. He walked in silence to the house, and I followed him into my own bedroom. He had picked up a time-table in the hall.

“‘There is a train to London at 8:30,’ said he. ‘The trap will be at the door at eight. I am sending you off to school until this is completed.’”

“At this I lost my temper, Mr. Holmes, and I spoke with some warmth.

“‘I have seen my mother, and I am convinced for some reason of your own you are concealing her from the world and me. I have no idea what your motives are in cutting her off in this fashion, but I am sure she is no longer a free agent.’”

Such was the problem which our visitor laid before Holmes. He now proceeded, using his familiar method of logical analysis, to narrow down the possible solutions.

“The servants,” I asked; “how many were in the house?”

“None. Just our family.”

“There was no servant, then, in the detached house?”

“None, unless the little man with the beard acted as such. He seemed, however, to be quite a superior person.”

“That seems very suggestive. The matter should certainly be inquired into. I will go back with you to Nursery Land.”

“Yes, time is of the essence?”

As we drove to the residence we picked up a grave and taciturn gentleman of iron-gray aspect, with whom Holmes had made the necessary arrangements.

“This is an old friend,” he said. “It is possible his presence may be entirely unnecessary, and, on the other hand, it may be essential. It is not necessary at the present stage to go further into the matter.”

“You say you saw your mother’s face quite clearly at the window, so clearly you are sure of her identity?”

“I have no doubt about it whatever. Her nose was pressed against the glass. The lamplight shone full upon her.”

“It could not have been someone resembling her?”

“No, no, it was she.”

“But you say he was changed?”

“Only in colour. Her face was–how shall I describe it? – it was of a grape. It was tinted.”

Holmes’ case was practically complete, and there was only one small incident needed to round it off. When, after a considerable drive, we arrived at the strange old rambling house which our client had described, it was Peter, the father, who opened the door.

He wore brown leather gloves, which at the sight of us, he instantly shuffled off, laying them down on the hall-table as we passed in. Holmes has an abnormally acute set of senses, and a faint but incisive scent was apparent to him.

“Daughter, you have deliberately disobeyed me. You must return to school. And now, you bring in strangers to my house. Turning upon us, “I am familiar with your ignoble profession, but you must take your reputed talents to some other field. There is no opening for them here.”

“I cannot leave here,” said our client firmly, “until I hear from mother’s own lips she is under no restraint.”

Our involuntary host responded, “I cannot forcibly remove my daughter, but I can have the two of you extracted from my house. I will telephone down to the county police and ask the inspector to send up two constables. I will tell him there are burglars in the house.”

“One moment,” said Holmes. “Mr. Peter, we are aware of your rights, and we have no legal status within his house. On the other hand, you should recognize your daughter’s action is prompted entirely by solicitude for your wife. I venture to hope if I were allowed to have five minutes’ conversation with you, I could certainly alter your view of the matter.

“Besides, any police interference would bring about the very catastrophe which you dread.” Holmes took out his notebook and scribbled one word upon a loose sheet. “That,” said he as he handed it to Peter, “is what has brought us here.”

Peter stared at the writing with a face from which every expression save amazement had vanished.

“How do you know?” he gasped, sitting down heavily in his chair.

“It is my business to know things. That is my trade.”

He sat in deep thought, his gaunt hand tugging at his straggling beard. Then he made a gesture of resignation.

“Well, if you wish to your mother, you shall. It is no doing of mine, but you have forced my hand. We shall join Mr. Winston and her in five minutes.”

At the end of that time we passed down the garden path and found ourselves in front of the mystery house at the end. A small bearded man stood at the door with a look of considerable astonishment upon his face.

“This is very sudden, Peter,” said he. “This will disarrange all our plans.”

“I can’t help it, Mr. Winston. Our hands have been forced. Can Wendy see us?”

“Yes, she is waiting inside.” He turned and led us into a large, plainly furnished front room. A woman was standing with her back to the fire, and at the sight of her, our client sprang forward with outstretched hands.

“Why, mother, this is fine!”

But the other waved her back.

“Don’t touch me. Keep your distance. Yes, you may well stare! I don’t quite look the lovely woman, do I?”

Her appearance was certainly extraordinary. One could see she had indeed been a handsome woman with clear-cut features, but mottled in patches over this surface were curious purplish patches which had tinted her skin.

“I wanted to be sure all was well with you, Mother. I saw you that night when you looked into my window, and I could not let the matter rest till I had cleared things up.”

“Peter told me you were still there, not yet left to school, and I couldn’t help taking a peep at you. I hoped you would not have seen me, and I had to run to my burrow when I heard the window go up.”

“But what in heaven’s name is the matter?”

“Well, it’s not a long story to tell,” said she. “A few weeks ago, I began to experience symptoms of the most violent nature… specifically flatulence and diarrhea. The symptoms can only lead to one diagnosis, coeliac disease, as described by Pediatrician Samuel Gee, in 1887.

“I began to worsen, with more stomach pain and was atrophied, pale, feeble and incapable of work. The diarrhea manifested as loose stools that were white, malodorous and flatulent, and the disease was intractable and liable to periodic return.

“Your father consulted with Mr. Winston here, who is somewhat a specialist in auto-immune disorders. He was the one who confirmed the diagnosis of coeliac disease. His treatment included moving me into this house, made of pumpkin. It is widely known pumpkin seeds, meat, and fluids are full of beta-… I’m sorry doctor, what did you call it…?”

“Beta-carotene, which is very useful in the treatment of auto-immune diseases.”

The mother continued. “So, there you have my tragedy. I hoped against hope the diagnosis was wrong, but as you can see from my purplish tint, I am doomed. Under pledge of secrecy, Mr. Winston, who is a surgeon, was prepared to stay with me. It seemed simple enough on those lines. The alternative was a dreadful one – segregation for life among strangers with never a hope of release. But absolute secrecy was necessary, or even in this quiet countryside there would have been an outcry, and I should have been dragged to my horrible doom. Even you had to be kept in the dark. Why my husband has relented I cannot imagine.”

Peter pointed to Holmes.

“This is the gentleman who forced my hand.” He unfolded the scrap of paper on which I had written the word “Coeliac.” “It seemed to me if he knew so much as that it was safer he should know all.”

“And so it was,” said Holmes. “Who knows but good may come of it? I understand only Mr. Winston has seen the patient. May I ask, sir, if you are an authority on such complaints, which are, I understand, focused on the gastro-intestinal tract?”

“I have the ordinary knowledge of the educated medical man,” he observed with some stiffness.

“I have no doubt, sir, you are fully competent, but I am sure you will agree in such a case a second opinion is valuable. You have avoided this, I understand, for fear pressure should be put upon you to segregate the patient.”

“That is so,” said Peter.

“I foresaw this situation,” Holmes explained, “and I have brought with me a friend whose discretion may absolutely be trusted. I was able once to do him a professional service, and he is ready to advise as a friend rather than as a specialist. His name is Sir Jack Horner.”

The prospect of an interview with Lord Roberts would not have excited greater wonder and pleasure in a raw subaltern than was now reflected upon the face of Mr. Winston.

“I shall indeed be proud,” he murmured.

“Then I will ask Sir Jack to step this way. He is at present in the carriage outside the door. Meanwhile, Peter, we may perhaps assemble in your study, where I could give the necessary explanations.”

As Holmes was finishing his little analysis of the case, the door was opened and the austere figure of the great internist was ushered in.

He strode up to Peter and shook him by the hand.

“It is often my lot to bring ill-tidings and seldom good,” said he. “This occasion is the more welcome. It is not coeliac.”

“What?”

“Your wife was concerned she was showing the first symptoms of scurvy, and had read a “old wives tale” study massive ingestion of prunes could keep the disease from taking hold. What she did not know was the constant taking in of this fruit can lead to diarrhea, flatulence, and of course weakness over a period of time.”

“But what about the purple appearance,” Peter inquired.

“Simply, she rubbed her juice-stained hands over her face, thinking this would also fight off the onslaught of the dreaded illness. Take her out of that pumpkin house, place her on a sensible diet, and she will be as good as new in a week or two. I pledge my professional reputation– – But the man has fainted! I think Mr. Winston had better be with Peter until he recovers from this joyous shock.”

PETER, PETER, PUMPKIN EATER

Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater,

Had a wife and couldn't keep her;

He put her in a pumpkin shell,

And there he kept her very well.

HOW DO YOU LIKE YOUR BACON?

By Steve Mason

(Based on “The Three Little Pigs”)

“Well, halloa, Peterson… welcome back to our humble abode.” Holmes acknowledged the Commissionaire’s entrance into our lodgings with a wave of the hand. “Sit by the fire and indulge yourself with one of these exquisite Alexandrian cigarettes. A certain Professor Coram made me aware of their unique flavor.”

Peterson turned down the offer, instead wishing to relate his problem to Holmes immediately.

“Mr. Holmes, I would like to introduce you to Mrs. Wolf. She is a neighbor of mine, married to Mr. Wolf, who worked at the Stock Exchange.”

I could not resist. “That’s funny, I thought they only employed bulls and bears at the Exchange?”

Holmes’ stern look suggested he did not appreciate my attempt at humor. However, Peterson did have to stifle a snicker into his coat-sleeve.

“Sadly Dr. Watson, this is not a time for levity. Mrs. Wolf has just suffered a terrible loss. It appears her husband has lost his life as the result of a tragic accident.”

At this, Mrs. Wolf began openly weeping. Well prepared, I offered her a sniff of ammonia, followed by a shot of brandy.

Holmes berated me, “You know, Watson, not everything can be cured with those two remedies.”

“Actually, some brandy might just hit the spot, if you would be so kind,” she whispered.

Holmes did not appreciate the tongue I stuck out at him as I proceeded to procure the medication out of the tantalus.

“Mrs. Wolf, I am sorry for your loss. Please provide me the details in as precise and concise a manner as possible. I will then determine if the facts warrant sufficient interest for me to get involved.”

Before she could start, Peterson interjected. “A little background. Three days ago, Mrs. Wolf asked me to accompany her to the family home, and investigate two mysterious packages she had found in her root cellar, which doubles as a meat storage room.

“The two packages were very large, wrapped in white butcher paper, and tied with string. There were no other markings on the outside of the packages.”

“What type of knot was used to tie the packages?” Holmes inquired.

“I’m not a sailor. I have no idea. The type you use to tie your shoe laces, I guess.”

“Please proceed.”

“I used a scissors to cut the string, unwrapped the paper, to find a butchered swine in each package, fully dressed and ready to be cooked.”

“I see nothing strange in this,” I intervened… “It sounds like Mr. Wolf may have been planning a backyard barbecue.”

“That simply is not possible,” cried Mrs. Wolf. “Once Big became friends with Practical Pig, we swore off all pork products. I cannot image why those carcasses would be in our cellar.”

“Big? Practical Pig?” I asked.

“Yes… my husband’s first, or given name, was ‘Big.’ His middle name was ‘Bad.’ So… Big Bad Wolf. Practical Pig is co-owner of a construction company, with his two brothers, Fifer and Fiddler. They originally went into business with my husband, running a pawn shop called ‘Ham Hocks’, after he left the Exchange.”

“When you unwrapped the bodies, and inspected them, you didn’t by chance find any new blue gems hidden away?” That earned me another stern look from Holmes.

Not to be sidetracked, Holmes asked Mrs. Wolf to bring the discussion back to the beginning. “Why do you believe your husband is dead, and it a tragic accident, or something more sinister, in your opinion?”

“Practical Pig told me so… while in the midst of helping to cook some vegetables (turnips and the such) at the Pig’s home, my husband (while stirring the mixture), accidentally fell into the pot over the fire. Sadly, Practical Pig was out chopping more wood, and so he discovered the accident too late to resuscitate my poor departed.”

“I am sorry for your loss… but it does appear to be a simple matter of an accident. I am not sure what assistance I may be able to provide you.”

“When he left our house, he told me he was going to Practical Pig’s house to ‘get out of that cursed agreement,’ and wash his hands of his affairs. This happened the same day the bodies were found in our cellar.”

“Yes, that surely is too monstrous a coincidence. Mrs. Wolf, I will be happy to look into the matter, and will try to give you some comfort and answers within a few days. I hope this will be satisfactory to you.”

“Yes, bless you Mr. Holmes… while I am not a rich person, I will pay you what I can.”

“Do not fret over such trifles… my collection agent, Watson, can work out terms agreeable to both parties once the mystery is concluded.”

After the pair left, Holmes reflected, “Watson, it is interesting how many adventures I have been party to that involved wolves… that girl with the red hood who thought the wolf had eaten her grandmother, the boy who continued to cry the wolf was attacking the sheep, not to mention: The Wolf and the Lamb; The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing; The Wolf, the Mother, and Her Child; The Wolf and the Lion; The Sheep, the Wolf, and the Stag; The Wolf and the Crane; The Wolf and the Sheep; The Wolf, the Fox, and the Ape; The Wolf and the Shepherd; The Ass and the Wolf; The Lamb Chased by a Wolf; The Wolf and the Goat; The Wolf and the Horse; The Dog and the Wolf; The Wolf and His Shadow; The Plowman and the Wolf; The Lion, the Wolf, and the Fox; and The Dog Chasing a Wolf.”

“Hmm... Holmes, most all those are actually fables attributed to Aesop in ancient Greece. Are you sure you were involved with all of them?”

“Watson, after solving over 1,600 cases, it’s hard to remember all of them. However, I believe I have encountered Mrs. Wolf’s husband before… many, many times… hand me my index for ‘W’.”

After thumbing through several pages, he exclaimed, “Aha! I thought it would jog my memory. Please read the following to me…”

He don’t take no time to play

time to play time to play

All he does is work all day

You can play an laugh and fiddle

don’t think you can make me sore

I’ll be safe

and you’ll be sorry

When the wolf comes to your door

Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf

The big bad wolf, The big bad wolf

Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf

“Sorry Holmes, I have no idea of the meaning of this.”

“It means the waters run deep, the matter cuts deep, this is a deep business…”

“OK, I get it… so what will be our first move?”

“I plan on getting a spear, and going to Allardyce’s to transfix a pig…”

“And this will help solve this case in what manner?”

“You’re right… probably not much help… but I have several other avenues to investigate. I should be back in time for dinner tonight.”

With that, Holmes disappeared from our drawing room. I was not to see him for several hours, at which point he re-entered our living space, drenched with water, and holding an apple in his mouth. After finishing off the remnants of the dinner Mrs. Hudson had left for us, and washing it down with a small glass of port, Holmes was willing to detail his adventures of the day.

“I must admit, my initial instincts toward this mystery were completely wrong. That occurs when you let the past cloud your present-day judgements. Hmm… I like that… make sure you write it down.”

“Were you successful in your investigations?”

“It is still a little early, but I believe I have solved most of the points to the case. After leaving you this morning, I traveled by train from Waterloo to near Farnham, a location familiar to you from your chronicles, I believe was called, ‘The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist.’ The local house agent was able to direct me to the residences of Messrs. Fifer and Fiddler Pigs. What I found surprised even me. Both residences were completely devastated. It appeared both had been struck by a horrendous wind, up to a cyclone in strength. However, a quick observation of Practical Pig’s home showed me it is still intact and functioning. I was able to catch the afternoon train back in time to enjoy a quick meal here.”

“That does not explain your soaking wet condition, nor the apple...”

“On the way back, I asked Inspector Gregson to meet me at a local restaurant, where I performed a quick experiment. I was trying to ascertain how long a being could survive in pot of simmering water…”

“Holmes, that is outlandish, you could have been boiled alive…”

“It was peckishly warm, but I was able to withstand the heat for a minute or two, which places in doubt how Mr. Wolf met his maker.”

“… and the apple…”

“To solve this mystery, I must think like the players in the game… an apple in my mouth helped me think as a pig might. Tomorrow, I plan on returning to Farnham to conclude this activity. Will you be so kind as to accompany me?”

“Of course. The practice is very slow.”

“Wonderful. We shall take the 9:13 out of Waterloo.”

The next morning found us standing outside 221. Holmes allowed eight cabs to go by before procuring the ninth one. This paranoia is getting out of hand.

We had the carriage to ourselves save for a duck and goose, who were obviously just returning from obtaining their nuptials. I am as open to new things as anyone, but these mixed marriages will take some adjusting…

“Holmes, I believe I have solved the mystery.”

“Let’s hear your theory. As one of the pig’s might have said, ‘I am all ears.’”

“It’s simple… The Big Bad Wolf, once he partnered into the construction company, recognized that he was not getting as big a share of the profits as he desired… so he decided to kill off the three other partners, starting with Fifer and Fiddler. Using an unknown piece of equipment, he knocked down their two houses, and then butchered the pair. I believe he was intent on killing the third, Practical Pig, but somehow the pig got the better of him, and drowned him in the pot. Case of self-defense, if you ask me.”

“Once again, I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your deductions are erroneous; your conclusion would only be valid ‘when pigs fly.’”

“If they flew, I’ll wager the cost of bacon would soar also.”

“As we have arrived at our destination, let us conclude this action in time to return for a fine dinner on the Strand.”

We took a trap to the neighborhood in which all three pigs, as well as the Wolf lived. I was astonished by the utter destruction of the first two pigs’ houses. It must have indeed been a massive machine to cause such damage. The first house simply looked like the world’s largest tumbleweed (my obligatory western U.S. reference); the second house was a pile of broken sticks. But down the street, the third house, that of Practical Pig, was untouched.

Holmes and I circled the house, but all the windows were painted to prevent peeping Tom’s. At the back door, Holmes used his lock picking instruments to obtain entry into the dwelling.

As we entered the large living room, which I will admit was very ‘sty-lish,’ we encountered several people standing around a large cauldron with a boiling liquid.

“Welcome Mr. Holmes… Dr. Watson… I assumed you would find your way here once you had solved the clues.”

“I am glad to see you chose not to attempt to run away from your deeds. I assure you I had taken measures to ensure you could not escape the country.”

“Nor did I intend to. I plan on making a clean breast of it all. You can hang me, or you can leave me alone.”

I had to interrupt. “Wait… Holmes, I was expecting to find the third pig here. Why is Mrs. Wolf here? And who are these other people?”

“Watson, while I had already worked out all the details in my own mind, I will let Mrs. Wolf explain the course of events. I will fill in any details she may not have been privy to.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. You should understand when our family first relocated to this neighborhood, from the village, we were not welcomed. Evidently, the three pigs had been told very unfavorable stories from their Grandfather while they were small piglets. While the stories were considered ‘boarish,’ the message to not trust wolves was well-embedded. It took us several years to prove to the three pigs that we did not wish them any harm. Slowly, we became good neighbors.

“Soon, my husband graciously invited the three piggy brothers to join him in his pawnbroker enterprise. Little did he know they would slowly start draining the assets and resources from the business. Bad once broke down, and exclaimed to me, ‘they are hogging all my work. I shall be ruined.’

“Then Practical Pig provided Bad with an opportunity to join the three brothers in a start-up construction company. With his finances in ruins, he did not have many options in the matter. Little did he know what was in store.

“To keep it simple, Fifer Pig was in charge of obtaining supplies of straw, which were used in the insulation of all building projects. Fiddler Pig was responsible for obtaining sticks, used for the framing of the structures. Practical Pig provided the bricks for the external walls of the buildings. Bad was assigned the task of safety officer, ensuring that the final structures were sound and not subject to damage from natural events.

“To describe this relationship as untenable is an understatement. Bad was berated on a daily basis by all three brothers, feeling that he was not carrying his weight. Hard for him to accept since they had bankrupted him earlier in the year.

“One day Bad asked to speak to Practical Pig privately. Once out of earshot of the other two brothers, Bad gave Practical the results of one of his recent safety audits and analysis. Test results indicated the bricks Practical had provided to finish out their most recent construction site, a new barn on Farmer Dell’s homesite, were substandard. The bricks also contained significant levels of asbestos. Not only the farm animals, but the construction workers (including Fifer and Fiddler) may now have to deal with the repercussions of mesothelioma.

“Bad told Practical he would have to share this information with Fifer and Fiddler. As you can imagine, Practical reacted violently, feeling he was being ‘ham-bushed.’ He proceeded to threaten Bad with jail time, by accusing him of allowing unsafe structures to be finished and used as residences. Bad wanted specific examples of his claim. So, the two of them proceeded to Fifer’s residence. Practical instructed him to blow on the house, ensuring Bad that Fifer was out of town. Bad proceeded to do huff and puff and blow at the structure. The house crumpled. The same thing happened at Fiddler’s house. Bad was dismayed that he had certified these structures as being structurally sound. There was then a ‘twist in the tale.’ Two things he did not know. Practical had sabotaged both houses, weakening them to the point that even a gentle breeze would have brought them down. Secondly, Bad did not know that Fifer and Fiddler were both home at the time, thus being crushed during the demolition.

“Laughing, Practical then admitted to Bad the sham he had just pulled on him, and that Bad was now guilty of manslaughter charges, as well as wanton destruction of private property.

“Bad returned home, confessing to me the entire story and that he had been ‘ham-bushed.’ He then told me he was going to confront Practical at his house concerning the entire situation.

“After Bad had been gone for three days, I became extremely distraught. I knew I could not approach the local constabulary over the issue, so I have rounded up a few of my closest friends, Bo Peep, Muffet, Boy Blue, Red Riding Hood, and Prince Charming and asked them to accompany me to this residence. It was then Practical gave me the misleading truth about the ‘accident’ involving Bad and the simmering pot.

“After visiting you, our little gang decided to return early this morning to confront Practical and squeeze the truth out of him. Bo Peep and Muffet were very persuasive. Practical ‘squealed like a pig,’ confessing the entire operation was his brainchild.

“He has been quietly cutting corners on all raw building materials, including the straw, sticks, and bricks. The additional profits have been padding his own pockets. He admitted he developed the elaborate scheme to get his brothers, as well as my beloved, out of the picture.”

Holmes reached out to hold Mrs. Wolf’s paw. “I applaud your tenacity in clearing your husband’s name. I am sorry that he got pulled into such a nefarious conspiracy.”

I had to interrupt. “Should we not try to discover where Practical Pig is now so he can be arrested and made to face up to his crimes.”

“Oh Watson. I don’t think that will be necessary.”

Red Riding Hood then called out… “Anyone interested in a steaming bowl of hambone soup?”

Laughter filled the small cottage.

THE THREE LITTLE PIGS

Once upon a time there was an old mother pig who had three little pigs and not enough food to feed them.

So, when they were old enough, she sent them out into the world to seek their fortunes.

The first little pig was very lazy. He didn't want to work at all and he built his house out of straw. The second little pig worked a little bit harder but he was somewhat lazy too and he built his house out of sticks. Then, they sang and danced and played together the rest of the day.

The third little pig worked hard all day and built his house with bricks. It was a sturdy house complete with a fine fireplace and chimney. It looked like it could withstand the strongest winds.

The next day, a wolf happened to pass by the lane where the three little pigs lived; and he saw the straw house, and he smelled the pig inside. He thought the pig would make a mighty fine meal and his mouth began to water.

So, he knocked on the door and said:

"Little pig! Little pig!

Let me in! Let me in!"

But the little pig saw the wolf's big paws through the keyhole, so he answered back:

"No! No! No!

Not by the hairs on my chinny chin chin!"

Then the wolf showed his teeth and said:

"Then I'll huff

and I'll puff

and I'll blow your house down."

So, he huffed and he puffed and he blew the house down! The wolf opened his jaws very wide and bit down as hard as he could, but the first little pig escaped and ran away to hide with the second little pig.

The wolf continued down the lane and he passed by the second house made of sticks; and he saw the house, and he smelled the pigs inside, and his mouth began to water as he thought about the fine dinner they would make.

So, he knocked on the door and said:

"Little pigs! Little pigs!

Let me in! Let me in!"

But the little pigs saw the wolf's pointy ears through the keyhole, so they answered back:

"No! No! No!

Not by the hairs on our chinny chin chin!"

So, the wolf showed his teeth and said:

"Then I'll huff

and I'll puff

and I'll blow your house down."

So, he huffed and he puffed and he blew the house down! The wolf was greedy and he tried to catch both pigs at once, but he was too greedy and got neither!

His big jaws clamped down on nothing but air and the two little pigs scrambled away as fast as their little hooves would carry them.

The wolf chased them down the lane and he almost caught them. But they made it to the brick house and slammed the door closed before the wolf could catch them. The three little pigs they were very frightened, they knew the wolf wanted to eat them. And that was very, very true.

The wolf hadn't eaten all day and he had worked up a large appetite chasing the pigs around and now he could smell all three of them inside and he knew that the three little pigs would make a lovely feast.

So, the wolf knocked on the door and said:

"Little pigs! Little pigs!

Let me in! Let me in!"

But the little pigs saw the wolf's narrow eyes through the keyhole, so they answered back:

"No! No! No!

Not by the hairs on our chinny chin chin!"

So, the wolf showed his teeth and said:

"Then I'll huff

and I'll puff

and I'll blow your house down."

Well! he huffed and he puffed. He puffed and he huffed. And he huffed, huffed, and he puffed, puffed; but he could not blow the house down. At last, he was so out of breath that he couldn't huff and he couldn't puff anymore.

So, he stopped to rest and thought a bit.

But this was too much. The wolf danced about with rage and swore he would come down the chimney and eat up the little pig for his supper. But while he was climbing on to the roof the little pig made up a blazing fire and put on a big pot full of water to boil. Then, just as the wolf was coming down the chimney, the little piggy pulled off the lid, and plop! in fell the wolf into the scalding water.

So, the little piggy put on the cover again, boiled the wolf up, and the three little pigs ate him for supper.

SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE MISSING SHOE

By Rebecca McManamy

Dedicated to Angela Lusk, who always

believes in my best

(Based on “Cinderella”)

I

A most troubling tale had reached the people of London, from the tea rooms of high society to the back alleyways of the tramps. The daughter of the late Baron Tremaine had gone missing. More scandalous her stepmother and her two daughters were prancing around town, spending his fortune at every opportunity on gaudy treasures and scams. What should have stayed high society gossip had begun to grip all of London, and even Sherlock Holmes would find himself unable to avoid becoming involved.

It was a rainy afternoon in London as Sherlock and Watson relaxed in the parlor. Watson read the evening newspaper leisurely, the rain creating a drowsy mood in the room.

A knock at the door by Ms. Hudson helped to rouse both men from the sleepy mood. A well-dressed man entered and bowed as Mrs. Hudson closed the door.

“I am so sorry to come unannounced good sirs,” the gentleman started slowly. Watson narrowed his eyes as recognition began chewing at the back of his brain. No name came forward, but he knew he had seen this man somewhere before.

“You see,” the man continued quite nervously, “I have heard tales of your expertise in solving mysteries, and I have become involved in one currently.”

“You have heard of me in the German Empire?” Holmes asked with a smirk. The man wrung his hands uncomfortably and looked down.

“The German Empire?” Watson inquired confused. The man spoke the Queen’s English perfectly with no distinguishable accent. Even as he questioned Holmes, the fog in his brain was slowly clearing; he could almost recognize the man now.

“Why, my dear Watson, this is Baron William von Wilhelm, a second cousin of the Emperor of the German Empire. Am I wrong, my good prince?” Holmes asked.

The haze cleared from Watson’s brain, and he gasped. Quickly, he threw the paper aside and began to stand and bow, but Wilhelm stopped him.

“Please, no formalities are needed. I come to you as a man, not as a baron and certainly not as a cousin to the Emperor,” he explained sadly.

“What kind of dilemma could you have that your soldiers or officials could not solve?” Watson asked surprised.

“Have you perchance heard about the ball that was held two weeks ago in downtown London?”

“The Winter Ball? Yes, we have heard mention,” Holmes responded looking out the window.

“There, I met a beautiful woman with golden curls. We danced, and spoke, and to be honest I am desperately in love with her and want her to be my bride. My men were able to find her address from her name, but her mother claims she ran away from home several months ago. But, this simply cannot be true. She was there at the ball just two weeks ago. I know I danced with her at that ball!”

“What is her name?” Watson asked curiously.

“Cindy. Cindy Tremaine,” Wilhelm answered breathlessly. “All I have left of her is a single shoe that she must have left by accident when she was leaving the ball.” Wilhelm produced a box with a small shoe of crystalline glass. It was a small and petite shoe that would only fit a handful of women.

“Baroness Cindy Tremaine?” Watson asked surprised.

“Yes. I believe her father passed not too long ago,” Wilhelm explained, holding out the box and shoe.

Holmes walked over and inspected the shoe in the box before carefully taking it from Wilhelm’s hands.

“Please, Mr. Holmes, I am desperate. My future happiness depends on you finding her.”

Holmes quietly studied the shoe longer before nodding. “Do not worry, my good sir; we will find your future bride.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes! Here is the address for her mother, Lady Tremaine. Also, here is my hotel; I am staying in downtown London until next Sunday. Do you think you can find her before then? I wish to take her home to Germany with me,” Wilhelm happily handed Watson the papers, looking at Holmes hopefully.

“I cannot guarantee it, but I give you my word I will try,” Holmes said with a smile.

II

Two days later, Watson and Holmes walked through the outskirts of London towards the address Wilhelm gave for the Tremaine household.

“Holmes, I was looking in the papers, and I am not sure we will be able to find this young woman. It seems she has been missing from home for a few weeks. There is even an ad for a reward for information to find her,” Watson stated sadly.

“I too saw that ad, Watson,” Holmes began as they walked past neatly manicured yards and flower bushes, “But the young baron is certain he danced with her just two weeks ago. I do not think the baron is a fool, so we must seek out the girl. Do you not find it convenient that Ms. Tremaine went missing only two weeks after her father’s funeral, leaving his vast fortune to his second wife?” “I am more surprised it was not left to her in the first place,” Watson stated simply.

“They were only married for a year, my dear Watson. Certainly, he wanted her cared for, but the majority of his fortune would still belong to the child of his blood.”

“Perhaps, the heart is a strange thing,” Watson said with a laugh.

Holmes grunted as they walked up to the Tremaine household.

After two solid knocks, a young woman answered the door. She studied the two gentlemen with her large royal blue eyes with a fair face framed with two curls of yellow blond hair. “Are you here to see Mrs. Tremaine?” she asked softly.

Honestly, Watson was surprised that such a beautiful young woman was answering the door and not the lady of the house.

“Yes, we are Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. She should be expecting us,” Watson explained smiling.

She nodded and opened the door, taking their coats and seating them in the large common room. Large paintings and gaudy curtains outlined the area. The girl excused herself as Holmes and Watson marveled at the pure ugliness of the room.

After a few minutes, a skinny woman wearing a black mourning dress entered with two young women at her side in similar black mourning dresses. Her black hair streaked with grey was up in tight bun while both her daughter’s black hair were tied back with curls waterfalling down the back.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, thank you for coming to our home,” the older woman greeted curtseying, the two girls mimicking her

“Mrs. Tremaine, the honor is ours,” Watson said as he and Holmes bowed.

After Mrs. Tremaine and her daughters were sitting on the couch, Holmes and Watson took chairs across from them. The girl who led them in brought in tea and poured all of them glasses. At one point, one of Mrs. Tremaine’s daughters nearly tripped her, to the delight of her mother, but the serving girl was able to catch herself in time. She walked back quickly, the daughters and Mrs. Tremaine looking very pleased with themselves.

“You were very scant on the details; how may I help you, Mr. Holmes?” Mrs. Tremaine asked pleasantly.

“It has come to my attention that your step daughter Cindy was at the winter ball some two weeks ago. I have a client quite interested in speaking with her,” Holmes explained sipping his tea.

“Oh my, I have no idea what you are speaking of! Cindy ran away months ago. Your client must be confused with one of my other two daughters, Anastasia or Drizella,” she stated surprised, motioning to the two other girls.

“Is your client the emperor’s cousin?” one of the girls asked excitedly.

“Drizella,” Mrs. Tremaine whispered angrily causing the girl to blush and look down.

“Why, yes, he so happens to be,” Holmes said with a smile.

“He is quite certain it was Cindy he danced with,” Watson stated politely, putting his teacup down on the table.

“He must have been so dazzled with my daughter’s beauty he misunderstood her name,” Mrs. Tremaine said flashing a dangerous smile.

“Perhaps. Tell me, what did you and your daughters wear to the ball?” Holmes asked.

“Well, Anastasia wore a beautiful crimson red dress and Drizella an emerald green. I wore black, such is customary for a mourning widow.”

“Your daughters were allowed such colors?” Watson asked surprised.

“I know it turned some heads, but my girls are at their peak marriage age. I could not afford to pass up an opportunity to find them husbands. I do not want my poor daughters to become old maids,” Mrs. Tremaine answered, the girls looking down and nodding in agreement.

“But of course! And it was not their father who died, but your husband,” Holmes added with a smile.

“Oh, Baron Tremaine was a father to these two as much as he was to his own Cindy, may his soul rest in peace,” Mrs. Tremaine stated sadly, taking a handkerchief from her hand to dab the sides of her eyes.

“If I may, do you know why Cindy ran away?” Watson asked

“Oh, I have no idea,” Mrs. Tremain exclaimed, almost sounding a wail, “We loved that dear girl so much, and miss her so much!”

Anastasia and Drizella followed their mother’s theatrics, acting as though they were about to burst out crying as well.

“Oh, my dear ladies, we are so sorry to upset you,” Watson said standing and offering a handkerchief to Anastasia.

“Oh, thank you, good sirs. But, we will survive. We must,” Mrs. Tremaine stated calming herself. The two girls followed.

“One more question, madame, before I leave you. What kinds of shoes did your daughters have?” Holmes asked leaning in.

Mrs. Tremaine paused. She exchanged quick side glances with her two daughters. “I am not sure. I know both of them lost a shoe while at the ball however,” she finally answered, the two girls nodding enthusiastically.

“I see. Well, we may call on you again. Would that be all right with you?” Holmes asked standing.

“But of course! Please, tell your client he is more than welcome as well,” Mrs. Tremaine added, standing with them.

As they were walking out of the house, Watson pondered everything they heard. Finally, he asked, “Why did you not show them the shoe?”

“They were expecting it. They know something, and I was not going to reveal my hand so quickly,” Holmes explained, looking deep in thought.

“Where are we going now?” Watson asked confused.

“To a pub near here. There is plenty of gossip around that house, and I want to see what I can dig up. Cindy has been missing for months, but our client claims they danced together. Someone is lying, and I intend to find out who,” Holmes explained with a sly smile.

Sometime later, Watson and Holmes sat in the pub on the outskirts of the city. It was much nicer inside than most pubs since it was so close to wealthy and high-brow society. Both men sipped their beer, listening to side conversations.

“Man, that foreman at the dock is a slave driver,” a man complained.

“I haven’t had a girl that good in ages!” another agreed.

“Did you hear that Cindy Tremaine is still missing?” a man asked at a table close to Holmes and Watson.

Holmes leaned in a little closer to hear more of the conversation.

“Not surprised, I mean her daddy was rich, and everyone knows that woman he married was only in it for the money,” his companion laughed.

“No, but seriously. I heard she killed him and forced his daughter to become their maid!” the first explained.

“What? No!”

“Yes! That way they had access to all the money. Apparently, he didn’t leave a cent to the missus - only to his beloved Cindy.”

“Man, that’s cold,” his companion said with a shake of his head.

“More like smart,” the waitress said bringing them another round. “Who’s going to look twice at a serving girl?”

“True that, love. But I’d look at yours’, three of four times,” the first man said with a wink. The girl laughed and walked away.

“My dear Watson, do you remember what color hair our client the baron said his date had?” Holmes asked with a smile turning towards his companion.

“Why, blonde curls!” Watson exclaimed, “Do you really think it is the maid?”

“Absolutely. But it is a matter of proving it,” Holmes said putting his hand on his chin.

“What do you propose old boy?” Watson asked excited.

“I think we will call upon the baron and have him come with us to Mrs. Tremaine again,” Holmes said with a wide smile.

III

Two days later, Wilhelm accompanied Holmes and Watson to the Tremaine household. To Watson’s surprise, the young blonde woman did not open the door but an older gentlemen. When the three entered the main room, Mrs. Tremaine and her daughters were already sitting on the couch. Both Drizella and Anastasia looked like they in pain while Mrs. Tremaine smiled and greeted them warmly.

“Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson! And your majesty! What a wonderful surprise!” Mrs. Tremaine greeted happily, curtseying deeply. Both Anastasia and Drizella remained on the couch, although they both did bow their heads.

Wilhelm gave a stiff bow and the three took their seats across from the women.

“What do we owe this illustrious visit?” Mrs. Tremaine asked happily.

“Well, my good lady, when talking with Baron Wilhelm, we all decided the best way to tell who he danced with at the ball was to bring the missing shoe. Since both of your daughters claimed to have lost a shoe, we decided it must fit one of them. However, we also know there are other women in this household, so we would like to check them as well. After all, maybe one of your servants “borrowed” a dress and masqueraded as a lady of higher stature,” Watson explained.

Without a word, Wilhelm slowly took out the box with the shoe. Mrs. Tremain’s smile grew seeing the shoe.

“Absolutely! Although, I assure you we are the only three women in this household,” Mrs. Tremaine stated smiling.

“Well, then this makes it very simple,” Watson said smiling. Holmes simply watched intently, saying nothing.

Wilhelm stood without a word and kneeled between the daughters. Drizella held out her right foot first, grimacing slightly. Slowly Wilhelm slipped the shoe on her foot and Drizella smiled as it went on smoothly.

“Oh, Drizella, you must have been the mystery woman! You, silly girl!” Mrs. Tremaine exclaimed happily.

“Why don’t you walk around?” Holmes asked quietly.

Slowly, carefully, Drizella stood. After one step, she collapsed sobbing. Wilhelm stood to the side stone-faced as Watson ran over to her. He immediately knelt down as Mrs. Tremaine watched angrily. He removed the shoe and gasped at the blood poor down from her heel.

“Why in God’s name have you mutilated yourself like this?!” Watson asked upset.

Drizella only sobbed in response.

“Hurry, get me some bandages!” Watson barked angrily to Mrs. Tremaine. Holmes watched as the woman glared at Watson before disappearing into the next room. A few moments later, she returned with bandages. After Watson finished putting a bandage on both of Drizella’s heels, he picked her up.

“Where can I take her? She must stay off of her feet,” Watson demanded.

“Watson, allow Baron Wilhelm to take her. You will hurt yourself,” Holmes said quietly.

Watson grimaced and slowly handed Drizella to Wilhelm who took her into another room.

“Did you do the same fool thing?” Watson asked angrily.

Anastasia only nodded, tears falling down her face. Mrs. Tremaine retrieved more bandages, and Watson bandaged her heels as well. When Wilhelm returned, he promptly carried Anastasia away as well.

Angry, Watson stood and stared at Mrs. Tremaine. “Did you demand these girls mutilate themselves?”

“Absolutely not!” Mrs. Tremaine exclaimed, her anger changing to worry. “I do not know what would cause these poor girls to do such a fool thing. Oh, if only the baron -”

“Still your tongue, woman,” Holmes barked. Watson turned surprised as Mrs. Tremain immediately stopped talking. Wilhelm finally returned, looking angrier than ever.

“Bring the other women of your house, Mrs. Tremaine. Without the mutilation this time,” Holmes said quietly.

“There are no other women,” Mrs. Tremain stated raising her chin.

“What about that blonde maid we saw two days ago?” Watson asked worried.

“We had to fire her. She was a horrible girl,” Mrs. Tremaine stated looking away defiantly.

“Liar,” Holmes said simply.

“I beg your pardon, sir!” Mrs. Tremaine exclaimed, rage in her eyes.

“Liar,” Holmes stated standing up and walking up to her. “Every word out of your mouth is another lie. The girl is still in this house, and I do believe she is the girl you are looking for, Baron Wilhelm.”

“You vile man, you leave my house at once!” Mrs. Tremaine screeched.

“I will not, unless it is to fetch Scotland Yard,” Holmes replied, staring her down. Mrs. Tremaine set her jaw as Watson looked around the room.

“Where could she be Holmes?” he asked curiously.

“In the kitchen I presume. Probably locked away. Let us go and have a look,” Holmes responded.

“You will not!” Mrs. Tremaine added as Holmes walked past her to the kitchen.

“Madam, cease your screeching. You have caused enough trouble for today,” Watson stated following Holmes. When Mrs. Tremaine attempted to follow, Wilhelm blocked her.

Holmes and Watson walked past the surprised butler into the back of the kitchen. There they found a small closet with a chair pressed up against the door. Watson removed the chair and found the door to be locked.

“Bring me the keys, my good sir,” Holmes called to the butler.

“Sir, you should not -” the butler replied.

“Bring me the keys or you too shall be implicated in this crime,” Holmes stated.

The butler ran over and hurriedly unlocked the door. Inside was the young woman, sitting on the floor in a pile of ash. She had her head buried in her hands, but her golden blonde curls cascaded down her shoulders.

“My dear, are you all right?” Watson asked kneeling down.

The girl shuddered and reared back before relief washed over her face. “You’re...the gentlemen from the other day?”

“Yes, my dear. You are safe now. Are you Ms. Cindy Tremaine?” Watson asked gently offering a hand.

“Yes… Yes sir. That is me,” she answered softly taking it.

“Well, there is someone who is quite wanting to see you,” Watson said with a soft chuckle as he helped her up.

“Oh no sir! You cannot! He cannot -” she began, fresh tears running down her face.

“Cindy,” Wilhelm whispered breathlessly from behind the men.

“My Lord!” Cindy exclaimed.

Watson and Holmes moved aside as Wilhelm ran up and hugged her tightly.

“Oh Cindy, Cindy. I knew you were not a dream. What dreadful people for hiding you!”

“Y-Your Majesty!” Cindy exclaimed surprised.

“Come with me, Cindy. You will never have to suffer like this again. Marry me!” Wilhelm said putting her down and getting on one knee.

“I - why - yes! Yes! I will!” Cindy exclaimed, happy tears running down her ash covered face.

One week later, Holmes and Watson sat in the study as rain fell outside. Holmes looked out the window, mindlessly plucking his violin as Watson read the paper.

“Oh, it seems our young love birds have returned to Germany already. They will be getting married in two months time,” Watson said happily.

“Yes, Wilhelm left me an invention before he left,” Holmes responded with a smile.

“What will happen to the Tremaine daughters now that their mother is in prison?” Watson asked putting down the paper.

“Ms. Tremaine graciously agreed to pay for a chaperone and maids so they could keep the house until they find husbands of their own. She really has a heart of gold,” Holmes stated putting down the violin.

“I suppose she gets her happily ever after,” Watson said chuckling picking up the paper.

“As she deserves. As all good people deserve,” Holmes agreed, smiling at Watson.

CINDERELLA

Once upon time a girl named Cinderella lived with her stepmother and two stepsisters. Poor Cinderella had to work hard all day long so the others could rest. It was she who had to wake up each morning when it was still dark and cold to start the fire. It was she who cooked the meals. It was she who kept the fire going. The poor girl could not stay clean, from all the ashes and cinders by the fire.

“What a mess!” her two stepsisters laughed. And that is why they called her “Cinderella.”

One day, big news came to town. The King and Queen were going to have a ball! It was time for the Prince to find a bride. All of the young ladies in the land were invited to come. They were wild with joy! They would wear their most beautiful gown and fix their hair extra nice. Maybe the prince would like them!

One day, big news came to town.

At Cinderella’s house, she now had extra work to do. She had to make two brand-new gowns for her step-sisters.

“Faster!” shouted one step-sister.

“You call that a dress?” screamed the other.

“Oh, dear!” said Cinderella. “When can I–“

The stepmother marched into the room. “When can you WHAT?”

“Well,” said the girl, “when will I have time to make my own dress for the ball?”

“You?” yelled the stepmother. “Who said YOU were going to the ball?”

“What a laugh!” said one step-sister.

“YOU?” yelled the stepmother. “Who said YOU were going to the ball?”

“Such a mess!” They pointed at Cinderella. All of them laughed.

Cinderella said to herself, “When they look at me, maybe they see a mess. But I am not that way. And if I could, I WOULD go to the ball.”

Soon the time came for the stepmother and step-sisters to leave for the big party. Their fine carriage came to the door. The stepmother and step-sisters hopped inside. And they were off.

“Good-bye!” called Cinderella. “Have a good time!” But her stepmother and step-sisters did not turn around to see her.

“Ah, me!” said Cinderella sadly. The carriage rode down the street. She said aloud, “I wish I could go to the ball, too!”

Then - Poof!

All of a sudden, in front of her was a fairy.

“I wish I could go to the ball, too!”

“You called?” said the fairy.

“Did I?” said Cinderella. “Who are you?”

“Why, your Fairy Godmother, of course! I know your wish. And I have come to grant it.”

“But…” said Cinderella, “my wish is impossible.”

“Excuse me!” said the Fairy Godmother in a huff. “Did I not just show up out of thin air?”

“Yes, you did,” said Cinderella.

“Then let me be the one to say what is possible or not!”

“Excuse me!” said the Fairy Godmother in a huff. “Did I not just show up out of thin air?”

“Well, I think you know I want to go to the ball, too.” She looked down at her dirty clothes. “But look at me.”

“You do look a bit of a mess, child,” said the Fairy Godmother.

“Even if I had something nice to wear," said the girl, "I would have no way to get there."

“Dear me, all of that is possible,” said the Fairy. With that, she tapped her wand on Cinderella’s head.

At once, Cinderella was all clean. She was dressed in a beautiful blue gown. Her hair was set up high on her head inside a golden band.

“This is wonderful!” said Cinderella.

“Dear me, all of that is possible,” said the Fairy Godmother.

“Who said I was done?” said the Fairy Godmother. She tapped her wand again. At once, a beautiful carriage came to be, with a driver and four white horses.

“Am I dreaming?” said Cinderella, looking around her.

“It is as real, as real can be,” said the Fairy Godmother. “But there is one thing you must know.”

“What is that?”

“All of this lasts only to midnight. Tonight, at the stroke of midnight, it will all be over. Everything will go back to how it was before.”

“Then I must be sure to leave the ball before midnight!” said Cinderella.

“Good idea,” said the Fairy Godmother. She stepped back. “My work is done.” And with that, the Fairy Godmother was gone.

“All of this will last only to midnight.”

Cinderella looked around her. "Did that even happen?" But there she stood in a fine gown, and with a golden band in her hair. And there were her driver and four horses before her, waiting.

“Coming?” called the driver.

She stepped into the carriage. And they were off.

Over at the ball, the Prince did not know what to think. “Why do you have that sad look on your face?” the Queen said to her son. “Look around you! You could not ask for finer maidens than these.”

“I know, Mother,” said the Prince. Yet he knew something was wrong. He had met many of the young women. Yet after he said “hello,” one by one, he could find nothing more to say.

"Look!" Someone pointed to the front door. “Who is that?”

All heads turned. Who was that lovely maiden stepping down the stairs? She held her head tall and looked as if she belonged. But no one knew her.

"Look!" Someone pointed to the front door. “Who is that?”

“There is something about her,” said the Prince to himself. “I will ask her to dance.” And he walked over to Cinderella.

“Have we met?” said the Prince.

“I am pleased to meet you now,” said Cinderella with a bow.

“I feel as if I know you,” said the Prince. “But of course, that is impossible.”

“Many things are possible,” said Cinderella, “if you wish them to be true.”

The Prince felt a leap in his heart. He and Cinderella danced. When the song was over, they danced again. And then they danced again, and yet again. Soon the other maidens at the ball grew jealous. “Why is he dancing all the time with her?” they said. “How rude!”

“Many things are possible,” said Cinderella, “if you wish it to be true.”

But all the Prince could see was Cinderella. They laughed and talked, and they danced some more. In fact, they danced for so long that Cinderella did not see the clock.

“Dong!” said the clock.

Cinderella looked up.

“Dong!” went the clock again.

She looked up again. “Oh, my!” she cried out. “It is almost midnight!”

“Dong!” rung the clock.

“Why does that matter?” said the Prince.

“Dong!” called the clock.

“I must go!” said Cinderella.

“Dong!” went the clock.

“Oh my!” she cried out. “It’s almost midnight!”

“But we just met!” said the Prince. “Why leave now?”

“Dong!” rung the clock.

“I must GO!” said Cinderella. She ran to the steps.

“Dong!” said the clock.

“I cannot hear you,” said the Prince. “The clock is too loud!”

“Dong!” rung the clock.

“Goodbye!” said Cinderella. Up, up the stairs she ran.

“Dong!” went the clock.

“Please, stop for a moment!” said the Prince.

“Dong!” rung the clock.

“Oh, dear!” she said as one glass slipper fell off her foot on the stair. But Cinderella kept running up.

“Dong!” said the clock.

“Please wait a moment!” said the Prince.

“Dong!” rung the clock.

“Goodbye!” Cinderella turned one last time. Then she rushed out the door.

“Dong!” The clock was quiet. It was midnight.

“Wait!” called the Prince. He picked up her glass slipper and rushed out the door. He looked around but could not see her blue dress anywhere. “This is all I have left from her,” he said, looking down at the glass slipper. He saw that it was made in a special way, to fit a foot like none other. “Somewhere there is the other glass slipper,” he said. “And when I find it, I will find her, too. Then I will ask her to be my bride!”

“This is all I have left from her,” he said, looking down at the glass slipper.

From hut to hut, from house to house, went the Prince. One young woman after another tried to fit her foot inside the glass slipper. But none could fit. And so the Prince moved on.

At last the Prince came to Cinderella’s house.

“He is coming!” called one step-sister as she looked out the window.

“At the door!” screamed the other step-sister.

“Quick!” yelled the stepmother. “Get ready! One of you must be the one to fit your foot in that slipper. No matter what!”

The Prince knocked. The stepmother flew open the door. “Come in!” she said. “I have two lovely daughters for you to see.”

The first step-sister tried to place her foot in the glass slipper. She tried hard, but it just would not fit. Then the second step-sister tried to fit her foot inside. She tried and tried with all her might, too. But no dice.

“Come in!” she said. “I have two lovely daughters for you to see.”

“Are there no other young women in the house?” said the Prince.

“None,” said the stepmother.

“Then I must go,” said the Prince.

“Maybe there is one more,” said Cinderella, stepping into the room.

“I thought you said there were no other young women here,” said the Prince.

“None who matter!” said the stepmother in a hiss.

“Come here,” said the Prince.

“Maybe there is one more," said Cinderella, stepping into the room.

Cinderella stepped up to him. The Prince got down on one knee and tried the glass slipper on her foot. It fit perfectly! Then, from her pocket Cinderella took out something. It was the other glass slipper!

“I knew it!” he cried. “You are the one!”

“WHAT?” shouted a step-sister.

“Not HER!” screamed the other step-sister.

“This cannot BE!” yelled the stepmother.

But it was too late. The prince knew that Cinderella was the one. He looked into her eyes. He did not see the cinders in her hair or the ashes on her face.

“I have found you!” he said.

“And I have found you,” said Cinderella.

And so Cinderella and the Prince were married, and they lived happily ever after.

A MOST FORTUITOUS MEETING

By Sherlock Holmes as told to Karen Olson

(Inspired by "Doctor Know-all")

Although my trusted companion and loyal biographer usually writes of our exploits, his literary agent, Arthur Conan Doyle has asked me to pen a short tale regarding the beginning of our association, so in deference to my old friend, I have taken a break from my daily duties of bee keeping to relate a few previously unknown facts, in the hope that this telling will refresh me from the boredom of retirement and the temporary confinement imposed by the raging storm currently buffeting my humble cottage, causing a certain nostalgia for 221B Baker Street, my dear Watson, and a pot of tea prepared by a patient Mrs. Hudson.

In the Spring of 1881, I was pursuing my self-imposed crime detection studies at Bart's and looking for suitable and affordable lodgings in London.

I had already deduced that I might have to take on someone to share the rent, though this prospect vexed me severely. I could not stand the thought of sharing domestic proximity with some dapper young fool or some loquacious and inquisitive lodger.

An associate at Bart's, Stamford, had asked about my requirements some days before and I may have mentioned a preference for maturity, a deadly shot, and a high degree of intelligence. Also, I required someone who was not squeamish about blood and possessed stronger than average courage.

Upon meeting Dr. John Watson, I immediately recognized a mature, decorated, and courageous veteran of the wars with a ready pension, who was also a trained marksman as well as an experienced battlefield surgeon.

He was obviously recovering from an egregious wound and was no stranger to pain and suffering which he bore with dignity and stoicism without complaint.

He seemed to view me with a quiet, thoughtful puzzlement as though examining a new patient who presented with a rare and interesting disease.

All that remained was to determine if he possessed the extraordinary intelligence I required. Over the course of several days I eavesdropped on conversations between Watson and his fellow medical practitioners at the hospital.

The conversations seemed routine and nothing that reflected either brilliance or stupidity. We had three days left before we had to put down a deposit on the digs in Baker Street or else let it pass.

Earlier, I had a visit from Lord Cavendish, the Third Earl of Tor Side. He asked my help to identify the thieves who had stolen twelve thousand pounds which he had buried in his garden under a heavy iron plate.

He had reasoned that more than one or two would have been required to lift the iron which protected the money. He promised a healthy reward if I would search out the culprits and an even larger bonus if I recovered the money.

He also invited me to dine with him and his wife that very evening and to bring a friend as he lived at the terminus of a rather boring train trip. If I brought a friend, he said, perhaps it would make the trip time seem to pass more quickly.

I invited Watson and assured him that our host was one of the wealthiest men in England and his wife presided over one of the best kitchens this side of The Continent. Our meal is sure to include multiple courses of high quality. "I will wager ten bob that we will feast upon no fewer than six courses," I teased Watson whom I knew to crave a fine meal which he could not possibly afford to purchase if he were to meet his portion of the Baker Street rent. So, he happily accompanied me to Lone Grove Manor for dinner with Lord and Lady Cavendish.

I had been honing my detection skills and this commission would, no doubt, launch my new career as the world's first (and only) consulting detective. It would also give me the opportunity to show my skills and methods to Dr. Watson, while at the same time earning my half of the rent deposit and then some.

Lord Cavendish had not exaggerated the barren landscape passing outside our shabby train compartment, but eventually we arrived at a small station in the tiny village of Lone Grove where we were met by Lord Cavendish's carriage for a rough and dusty ride to the manor house. The ancient manor house was undistinguished on the outside but richly furnished. Lady Cavendish was a beautiful and charming hostess.

Dr. Watson seemed to have quite the eye for the attractive woman. I can appreciate good horseflesh when I see it but I have never owned a steed nor do I plan to.

Lord Cavendish was an amiable and gracious host and the table setting was lavish and expensive. I felt sure I would have Watson's ten bob in my pocket before the evening ended.

The dinner conversation centered around the impressive history of the manor and the Lord's ancestors. An excellent wine was poured and then the first course arrived, Russian eggs in aspic. As the waiter served him, Watson nodded to me and whispered, "That's One", meaning the first course. At this, the server turned pale and hastened back to the kitchen as soon as he had served us all. I thought this a little strange but said nothing.

Lady Cavendish regaled us with a description of the origins of the tapestries hanging in the dining room. Then a different server began to serve a light lobster bisque soup with a most agreeable flavor.

Again, Watson nodded to me and whispered, "That's Two", meaning the second course. This new server, although younger than the first, began to look somewhat ill, and scurried back to the kitchen when his duty was done. Lord and Lady Cavendish did not seem to notice anything amiss.

I asked a few questions about the excellent portraits in the hall and another server appeared bearing a fine mixture of greens with sliced raw vegetables in a vinegar and wine sauce.

Smiling, Watson whispered to me, "That's Three". I was sure he imagined that the main course would be followed by dessert and the dinner would end at five courses and he would win my ten bob. I noticed this server appeared very nervous and almost tipped the salad onto the floor. Lord Cavendish continued to outline his illustrious relations and their contributions to the nation.

Coming through the door from the kitchen, I spotted a server carrying a large pottery plate filled with a fully dressed roasted pheasant with a brown sauce. The aroma was enough to produce “ooos” and “ahhhs” from the diners. The server, however, appeared highly nervous, with dark eyes darting quickly between Watson and myself. As he began to serve Watson, his hand began to shake, and Watson said, "Was the plate too heavy?" The server squeaked, "No, Sir!" and quickly fled through the door.

As we complimented our hostess on the fine meal, which ended with coffee and a rich buttery cake with cherries atop, followed by a cheese tray with a wonderful assortment of imported cheeses and yet another delicious wine. The Sixth Course had insured that the ten bob would be mine. We retired to the library for brandy and cigars with our host after our hostess excused herself. We made an appointment to meet with Lord Cavendish the next morning, and took our leave.

As we waited on the front walk for the carriage to be brought round, the four servers, all in a panic, confessed that they had stolen the money from Lord Cavendish and although they did not understand how Dr. Watson had managed to identify them as the thieves, they promised to return all the money and to refrain from this lapse into crime. They gave us the key to a locked box at the train station and I brought the money to the meeting next morning. The servants had departed during the night.

Watson never figured out that when he counted the courses, the servers thought he was identifying them as the thieves. I sheepishly took credit for recovery of the money and used the reward to pay both my share and Watson's share of the rent for the first year.

My evaluation of Watson's intelligence did not focus so much on his native intellect as it did on his ability to cause things to happen, to encourage action in others, including myself.

Years later, when I told Dr. Watson that I had been bested four times in my career, three times by men and once by a woman, I neglected to say that one of the men was him.

DR. KNOW-ALL

There was once on a time a poor peasant called Crabb, who drove with two oxen a load of wood to the town, and sold it to a doctor for two thalers. When the money was being counted out to him, it so happened that the doctor was sitting at table, and when the peasant saw how daintily he ate and drank, his heart desired what he saw, and he would willingly have been a doctor too.

So, he remained standing a while, and at length inquired if he too could not be a doctor.

"Oh, yes," said the doctor, "that is soon managed."

"What must I do?" asked the peasant.

"In the first place, buy thyself an A B C book of the kind which has a cock on the frontispiece; in the second, turn thy cart and thy two oxen into money, and get thyself some clothes, and whatsoever else pertains to medicine; thirdly, have a sign painted for thyself with the words, ‘I am Doctor Know-all,’ and have that nailed up above thy house-door."

The peasant did everything that he had been told to do. When he had doctored people awhile, but not long, a rich and great lord had some money stolen. Then he was told about Doctor Know-all who lived in such and such a village, and must know what had become of the money.

So, the lord had the horses put in his carriage, drove out to the village, and asked Crabb if he were Doctor Know-all?

Yes, he was, he said. Then he was to go with him and bring back the stolen money.

"Oh, yes, but Grethe, my wife, must go too."

The lord was willing and let both of them have a seat in the carriage, and they all drove away together. When they came to the nobleman's castle, the table was spread, and Crabb was told to sit down and eat.

"Yes, but my wife, Grethe, too," said he, and he seated himself with her at the table.

And when the first servant came with a dish of delicate fare, the peasant nudged his wife, and said, "Grethe, that was the first, “meaning that was the servant who brought the first dish. The servant, however, thought he intended by that to say, "That is the first thief, “and as he actually was so, he was terrified, and said to his comrade outside, “The doctor knows all: we shall fare ill, he said I was the first. “The second did not want to go in at all, but was forced. So, when he went in with his dish, the peasant nudged his wife, and said, "Grethe, that is the second." This servant was just as much alarmed, and he got out. The third did not fare better, for the peasant again said, "Grethe, that is the third." The fourth had to carry in a dish that was covered, and the lord told the doctor that he was to show his skill, and guess what was beneath the cover. The doctor looked at the dish, had no idea what to say, and cried, "Ah, poor Crabb." When the lord heard that, he cried, "There! he knows it, he knows who has the money!"

On this the servants looked terribly uneasy, and made a sign to the doctor that they wished him to step outside fora moment. When therefore he went out, all four of them confessed to him that they had stolen the money, and said that they would willingly restore it and give him a heavy sum into the bargain, if he would not denounce them, for if he did they would be hanged. They led him to the spot where the money was concealed.

With this the doctor was satisfied, and returned to the hall, sat down to the table, and said, "My lord, now will I search in my book where the gold is hidden." The fifth servant, however, crept into the stove to hear if the doctor knew still more.

The Doctor, however, sat still and opened his A B C book, turned the pages backwards and forwards, and looked for the cock. As he could not find it immediately he said, "I know you are there, so you had better show yourself."

Then the fellow in the stove thought that the doctor meant him, and full of terror, sprang out, crying, "That man knows everything!" Then Dr. Know-all showed the count where the money was, but did not say who had stolen it, and received from both sides much money in reward, and became a renowned man.

THE ADVENTURE OF LITTLE RED CAP

By Walter Pieper

(Based on “The Little Red Cap”)

During the autumn of 1897, Holmes and I were visited by a very distressed young woman. Mrs. Hudson ushered her into our sitting room at 221B Baker Street. She was very attractive, dressed in clothing commonly worn by people who live in the country.

“Please have a seat madam and give only the essential facts,” stated Holmes as he sat back, closed his eyes, putting his fingers together.

“My name is Violet Chatsworth. I live in the village of Hedgecrest in Sussex. I am coming to see you, Mr. Holmes, because I am at wits end and don’t know what else to do,” she sobbed. “You are the only one who can help me. Please, please, Mr. Holmes help me!”

“Madam, please start at the beginning and tell me every detail.”

“Well, you see sir, I have a little girl, Clarissa, who I lovingly call “Little Miss Red Cap” since she often wears a red cap and red cape whenever she leaves the house. She left two days ago to visit her grandmum at her cottage but never returned home. She has never done this before and I am scared that somethin’ has happened to my little girl!” she cried.

“Have you notified the local constabulary?” Holmes asked as he opened his eyes and leaned forward in his chair.

“I have and they searched everywhere but have not found my little girl.”

“Have they searched her grandmother’s cottage?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, but the cottage was locked and dark and it appeared that no one was there. Will you help me?” she implored.

“Mrs. Chatsworth, this matter is of singular interest to me and I will take your case. Dr. Watson and I will investigate this matter. No need to worry. You are in good hands,” said Holmes as he tried to reassure her.

Before she left, she gave the particulars as to where the cottage was located and the direction the little girl took.

When we were alone, Holmes looked very grave as he said, “These are very deep waters Watson. I fear that we may be too late in finding this poor little girl.”

“Holmes, we should never give up hope. Is that not what you have always told me?” I said.

“Yes, I have, Watson, yes I have. If you would be so kind, find out when the next train leaves Victoria Station for Sussex. Also, please bring your service revolver. We shall probably need it.”

We packed hurriedly, left 221b and hailed a hansom to take us to Victoria Station. We just boarded the train in time and headed out to Sussex arriving several hours later in Hedgecrest.

We were able to obtain a dogcart and headed out in the direction the girl’s mother had given us.

Fortunately, it had not rained for several days so we were still able to see the little girl’s footsteps. It looked like she had occasionally veered off the path to pick flowers but then resumed her journey. However, a little way down the road, we noticed something very disturbing and terrifying. In addition to the girl’s footsteps, there seemed to be another set that were not human but those of an animal. It appeared to be the footprints of a gigantic hound or wolf!

“What do you make of it Holmes,” I asked.

“It seems to be canine but the footprints appear to be in pairs indicating the animal is upright in nature. This is very peculiar and singular to say the least. Let us continue and see where this leads,” stated my friend.

We moved slowly in the dogcart and continued to follow the two sets of prints. We were passing through a heavily wooded area and although it was the beginning of autumn, leaves had begun to fall covering the path. However, we remained steadfast in our pursuit. A biting cold autumn wind was stinging our faces as we continued onward. It seemed like two hours or more since we began our journey, when suddenly we came upon a clearing.

A light fog began to descend upon us but we were able to make out a small cottage in the distance. The cottage seemed like something you would see in the Cotswold. We were able to make out a dim light in the window and smoke rising from the chimney.

“From my calculations, this appears to be the cottage we have been looking for. It now appears to be occupied. Silence Watson! We must maintain the element of surprise if we are to be successful in our endeavor,” Holmes said as he put his finger to his lips.

We descended from the dogcart a short distance from the cottage. Slowly approaching making certain that we would not be observed from the window.

The fog helped to obscure the vision of anyone who would be looking. We approached the window and gazed inside. To our horror, we saw a large wolf standing upright. He was boiling water in a huge kettle in the fireplace. In the far corner of the room we could discern the grandmother and little red cap tied to chairs. We heard the wolf exclaim, “The water is about ready. Then I shall put each of you in the kettle. I will cook you and have a delicious meal.”

“Holmes, we must stop him. He is about to kill those people.”

“Exactly Watson! There is not a moment to loose. Thank the heavens that we are not too late. Get out your revolver.”

With that we raced to the door which was locked. Holmes kicked the door but it would not budge being made of old thick oak. He tried to kick it again but the door would not give.

“Quick, Watson! Use your revolver to shoot the lock.”

I aimed and fired. The locked exploded and part of the door splintered. We ran in confronting the wolf.

The creature turned to us. His eyes were blood red and his mouth had a menacing snarl. “Who are you?” he sneered.

“I am Sherlock Holmes and I am here to rescue your captives from certain death.”

“We will see about that,” the wolf replied.

With that the wolf charged both of us. His mouth was open baring his fangs and his claws were extended intending to kill us.

Holmes grabbed both arms and used his bartitsu training which he used many years ago to overpower Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls. The wolf was on the floor and I fired my revolver wounding him where he lay.

“Watson, let us dispose of this creature in the same manner he intended for his captives. It is only fitting that he meets the same fate.”

We carried him across the room and dropped him in the boiling cauldron. We could hear screams of agony and then silence. His fate was sealed.

We ran over and untied the two captives. I examined both of them and found them in be unarmed although a bit shaken.

We drove them back to Hedgecrest and they ran into the arms of Mrs. Chatsworth. She was ecstatic with joy when she saw them back home safe.

Holmes said, “Well Watson, all’s well that ends well. Our job here is done. Let’s return to Baker Street and wire Mrs. Hudson to have dinner ready when we arrive.”

With that we boarded our train back to London. Might I add that they all lived happily ever after.

LITTLE RED CAP

Once upon a time there was a sweet little girl. Everyone who saw her liked her, but most of all her grandmother, who did not know what to give the child next. Once she gave her a little cap made of red velvet.

Because it suited her so well, and she wanted to wear it all the time, she came to be known as 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 sick and weak, and they will do her well. Mind your manners and give her my greetings. Behave yourself on the way, and do not leave the path, or you might fall down and break the glass, and then there will be nothing for your grandmother. And when you enter her parlor, don't forget to say, 'Good morning,' and don't peer into all the corners first."

“I'll do everything just right," said Little Red Cap, shaking her mother's hand.

The grandmother lived out in the woods, a half hour from the village. When Little Red Cap entered the woods, a wolf came up to her. She did not know what a wicked animal he was, and was not afraid of him.

"Good day to you, Little Red Cap."

"Thank you, wolf."

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

"To grandmother's."

"And what are you carrying under your apron?"

"Grandmother is sick and weak, and I am taking her some cake and wine. We baked yesterday, and they should be good for her and give her strength."

"Little Red Cap, just where does your grandmother live?"

"Her house is good quarter hour from here in the woods, under the three large oak trees. There's a hedge of hazel bushes there. You must know the place," said Little Red Cap.

The wolf thought to himself, "Now that sweet young thing is a tasty bite for me. She will taste even better than the old woman. You must be sly, and you can catch them both."

He walked along a little while with Little Red Cap, then he said, "Little Red Cap, just look at the beautiful flowers that are all around us. Why don't you go and take a look? And I don't believe you can hear how beautifully the birds are singing. You are walking along as though you were on your way to school. It is very beautiful in the woods."

Little Red Cap opened her eyes and when she saw the sunbeams dancing to and fro through the trees and how the ground was covered with beautiful flowers, she thought, "If a take a fresh bouquet to grandmother, she will be very pleased. Anyway, it is still early, and I'll be home on time."

And she ran off the path into the woods looking for flowers. Each time she picked one she thought that she could see an even more beautiful one a little way off, and she ran after it, going further and further into the woods.

But the wolf ran straight to the grandmother's house and knocked on the door.

"Who's there?"

"Little Red Cap. I'm bringing you some cake and wine. Open the door."

"Just press the latch," called out the grandmother. "I'm too weak to get up."

The wolf pressed the latch, and the door opened. He stepped inside, went straight to the grandmother's bed, and ate her up.

Then he put on her clothes, put her cap on his head, got into her bed, and pulled the curtains shut.

Little Red Cap had run after the flowers. After she had gathered so many that she could not carry any more, she remembered her grandmother, and then continued on her way to her house.

She found, to her surprise, that the door was open. She walked into the parlor, and everything looked so strange that she thought, "Oh, my God, why am I so afraid? I usually like it at grandmother's."

She called out, "Good morning!" but received no answer.

Then she went to the bed and pulled back the curtains. Grandmother was lying there with her cap pulled down over her face and looking very strange.

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

"All the better to hear you with."

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

"All the better to see you with."

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

"All the better to grab you with!"

"Oh, grandmother, what a horribly big mouth you have!"

"All the better to eat you with!"

The wolf had scarcely finished speaking when he jumped from the bed with a single leap and ate up poor Little Red Cap.

As soon as the wolf had satisfied his desires, he climbed back into bed, fell asleep, and began to snore very loudly.

A huntsman was just passing by. He thought, "The old woman is snoring so loudly. You had better see if something is wrong with her."

He stepped into the parlor, and when he approached the bed, he saw the wolf lying there. "So here I find you, you old sinner," he said. "I have been hunting for you a long time."

He was about to aim his rifle when it occurred to him that the wolf might have eaten the grandmother, and that she still might be rescued.

So instead of shooting, he took a pair of scissors and began to cut open the wolf's belly. After a few cuts he saw the red cap shining through., and after a few more cuts the girl jumped out, crying, "Oh, I was so frightened! It was so dark inside the wolf's body!"

And then the grandmother came out as well, alive but hardly able to breathe. Then Little Red Cap fetched some large stones. She filled the wolf's body with them, and when he woke up and tried to run away, the stones were so heavy that he immediately fell down dead.

The three of them were happy. The huntsman skinned the wolf and went home with the pelt. The grandmother ate the cake and drank the wine that Little Red Cap had brought. And Little Red Cap thought, "As long as I live, I will never leave the path and run off into the woods by myself if mother tells me not to."

They also tell how Little Red Cap was taking some baked things to her grandmother another time, when another wolf spoke to her and wanted her to leave the path.

But Little Red Cap took care and went straight to grandmother's. She told her that she had seen the wolf, and that he had wished her a good day, but had stared at her in a wicked manner.

"If we hadn't been on a public road, he would have eaten me up," she said.

"Come," said the grandmother. "Let's lock the door, so he can't get in."

Soon afterward the wolf knocked on the door and called out, "Open up, grandmother. It's Little Red Cap, and I'm bringing you some baked things."

They remained silent, and did not open the door. Gray-Head crept around the house several times, and finally jumped onto the roof.

He wanted to wait until Little Red Cap went home that evening, then follow her and eat her up in the darkness. But the grandmother saw what he was up to. There was a large stone trough in front of the house.

"Fetch a bucket, Little Red Cap," she said to the child. "Yesterday I cooked some sausage. Carry the water that I boiled them with to the trough." Little Red Cap carried water until the large, large trough was clear full. The smell of sausage arose into the wolf's nose. He sniffed and looked down, stretching his neck so long that he could no longer hold himself, and he began to slide. He slid off the roof, fell into the trough, and drowned. And Little Red Cap returned home happily, and no one harmed her.

THE CASE OF THE LOUD LIBRARIANS

By Gayle Lange Puhl

(See if you can the Inspiration)

The two women burst out onto the sidewalk, their faces alight with excitement. They were both Americans, young, dressed in long floating summer dresses, with blonde hair framing sparking eyes and smiles. It was their first time in London and they had reserved an afternoon to visit Baker Street, the home of their favorite literary characters, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.

“Did you see the tiles inside the station?”

“See them, Amy? I want them for my bathroom, if I ever buy a house!”

The shorter woman pointed to the left. “Look! There is the statue! C'mon, Sheila!”

They ran up the sun-lit pavement to the out-sized bronze of the Great Detective, who was togged out in Inverness cape and deerstalker, a curved pipe in one hand, as the face stared thoughtfully out over the thick traffic of Marylebone Road.

The women circled it, chattering to each other and taking many selfies. After a few minutes they strolled back to the corner, where the sign “Baker Street” saw them facing right into the famous artery.

Again, the road was choked with cars and buses. Finally, the lights changed and they made their way to a modest building on the west side of the street. A man dressed in an outdated police uniform and helmet stood next to a painted sign hanging on some iron rails. Beyond it was a door that led into a gift shop. The sign included a profile of Sherlock Holmes and the words “Sherlock Holmes Museum”.

* * *

“Make a long arm, if you would, Watson,” drawled Sherlock Holmes, “and hand me that book on the shelf next to you.”

Watson turned from the window in their shared sitting room and gave Holmes the red-backed volume. Then he went back to his post. It was foggy outside, the facing buildings across Baker Street barely visible, and even with the window pane raised a few inches the sounds of the bustle below were muted.

“What are you working on, Holmes?” he asked casually. The doctor wasn't really interested but it was the middle of the afternoon and nothing had happened all day. No clients, no visits from Lestrade...even Mrs. Hudson's lunch had been sandwiches made from leftovers.

His friend had spent that day, and the two days before it, crouched over his chemical table, working on an obscure experiment that involved a lot of smells and dirty glassware. Each time something went wrong, or his efforts resulted in a visible failure, the detective would sigh, clean up the mess, and begin again.

“Mycroft has asked me to analyze this powder found in the man-made caves under the ancient city of Wanduck near the Khybur Pass. I have ruled out it being an herbicide, a glue, a fertilizer, a clothing dye, or a paint pigment. The next possibility is that it is an additive for gunpowder.”

“I need new gloves!” Watson said and stood up hastily. “I think I will go down to Oxford Street and see what Truman's have in stock.” He grabbed his hat and was out the door in an instant.

* * *

Clutching their museum tickets, purchased at the gift shop, Amy and Sheila climbed the seventeen steps up to the door of the sitting room. Both were having the time of their lives, taking in the vintage wallpaper and counting each step. Suddenly they were conscience of a man on the stair. He was of medium height but very handsome, about thirty years old, with a carefully-groomed mustache. He was dressed in an odd looking three-piece suit, complete with wing collar, bow tie and a bowler hat. He noticed them too, raised his hat, and politely moved to the side to allow them to pass him.

The stranger smiled in return to their smiles and glanced appreciatively at their thin maxi-dresses and their exposed ankles. The ladies looked at each other and giggled. In an instant they were past him and climbing the last few steps to the sitting room door. They turned to look at him again but he wasn't there.

“Why, where did he go? He was so cute!” exclaimed Sheila.

“I didn't hear the door close,” said Amy. “Dressed like that, with the collar and tie, he must work here. Maybe he's a guide.”

“Yes, that's possible, but where did he go? The door is the only way out. The stairs go straight to the threshold.”

It was true. In the museum reconstruction, the downstairs had been closed off and turned into the gift shop. The stairs had been set up to include seventeen steps to the first floor and offered no access to the gift shop space. The door to the street was the only exit.

“That is odd,” Amy murmured. The two librarians went into the sitting room and soon the stranger was forgotten as they oohed and aahed over the contents of Sherlock Holmes's sitting room and bedroom. They climbed the steps to every level of the exhibit, including the surprising bathroom under the eaves, and only while coming down the last length of stairs did they remember the handsome man they had seen there.

He wasn't there now. They re-entered the gift shop and inquired but the salesgirl, dressed like Mrs. Hudson, knew nothing of a guide dressed in the description they gave. Finally, Amy and Sheila let the subject drop and concentrated on buying souvenirs, including matching deerstalkers of real English tweed.

“Oh, my gosh, look at the time! We have to catch the Underground to Trafalgar Square and find the Sherlock Holmes Pub and Restaurant!” With that the two young women ran out of the shop and dashed for the Baker Street Station.

* * *

Dr. Watson returned to 221b to find the room still intact but Holmes cleaning up from another experiment failure.

“So, you did not purchase your new gloves, Watson?” Holmes asked...

“No. I met Thurston on the street and we got a drink at the Stephenson Rest. How did you know?”

“You just took off your old gloves and you did not bring a package marked Truman's back with you. You came directly in here with no stop at your room. Therefore, no new gloves.”

“Amazing, Holmes. Did you take the case of those two ladies I met going out?”

“What two ladies?”

Watson was surprised. “I passed two young ladies on the stairs on my way down. I thought they were coming to see you.”

Holmes dumped the last of the broken glass in the wastebasket and looked at Watson. His brows knitted and he looked thoughtful.

“Can you describe them?”

“Two young women, both blonde, wearing thin floral dresses, hems rather high, both with well-turned ankles and unusual shoes.”

“No, I have had no visitors today.”

“How odd. I could have sworn they were coming to see you.”

“Perhaps they changed their minds.”

“Yes, that must have been it.”

That mystery solved, Sherlock Holmes turned back to his research.

ANTIGONISH

(THE LITTLE MAN WHO WASN’T THERE)

By William Hughes Mearns

As I was going up the stair

I met a man who wasn't there!

He wasn't there again today,

Oh, how I wish he'd go away!

When I came home last night at three,

The man was waiting there for me

But when I looked around the hall,

I couldn't see him there at all!

Go away, go away, don't you come back anymore!

Go away, go away, and please don't slam the door...

Last night I saw upon the stair,

A little man who wasn't there,

He wasn't there again today

Oh, how I wish he'd go away...

THE ADVENTURE OF THE COUNTERFEIT SQUIRE

By Liese Sherwood-Fabre

(Based on Rumpelstiltskin)

A scream alerted me to the intruder’s presence. I caught up to and passed the swarm of bees heading in the cry’s direction, only to stop when I reached the woman and wave her backwards.

Between pants from the exertion, I shouted at her. “Get behind that rock wall.”

She turned and rushed around to the road side of vine-covered enclosure. The honeysuckle and peppermint covering its stones deterred the insects from crossing over into the lane.

No longer sensing her presence, they returned to the hives I’d been tending and freed me to meet my unexpected visitor at my cottage’s border.

I quickly understood the bees’ interest. Her jasmine scent penetrated my hat’s protective veil as well as the smoke still drifting from the cannister in my left hand. She wore one of those straight, loose garments that had come into fashion with the end of the Great War. Forest green. And a large-brimmed straw hat with a velvet ribbon. She raised her head slightly to peer at me from under its shadow.

“Sorry about that,” I said, lifting my veil to get a better look at her. “I’m—”

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” she said, holding out her hand. “Mrs. Heather Miller. I need you to find my husband.”

I studied her for a moment. Her face presented a tension, a marked anxiety telling me this was no ordinary missing person case. All that aside...

“I’m retired,” I said “There were more than one hundred and sixty thousand soldiers missing at the end of the war. The army would be a better place to start.”

“How did you know my husband was in the war?”

“The poppy pin you’re wearing.”

Her lips, painted the same color as the small brooch fixed above her right breast, formed an o. “What if I were to tell you the army won’t help me because they believe he has come home?”

As if having developed a will of their own, my eyebrows rose, then dropped into a v. My interest piqued, I decided no harm existed in hearing her out.

“Why don’t you explain your problem over a cup of tea?”

I gestured to my home, and a smile flitted across those poppy lips. We both knew she’d played out her bait and lured me in.

She settled into one of the two wing-backed chairs in front of the parlor fireplace. The early afternoon sun had shifted toward the windows facing inland, and the small fire in the grate provided a welcomed warmth to the sea breeze flowing in.

Following a generous spoonful of my bees’ product into my cup, I asked, “Why does the army think your husband is alive?”

She stared into her tea, as if trying to divine an answer in its contents. With a sigh, she raised her gaze. Tears glistened in her eyes. “Ours was a wartime romance. Gerald was home on leave, visiting his family. I was a volunteer for the Red Cross, and his family had opened their home, Goldenspin Manor, for convalescents.”

“He was a member of the Miller family? Of Eurwen?”

“The younger son,” she said with a nod. “We met, married, and he returned to the war all in the matter of weeks. Before our first anniversary, our son, Raymond, was born.”

Here she paused and swiped her cheeks with her finger tips.

“And your son is now…?”

“A year and a half old. Already you can see the family resemblance. I suppose the red hair is the most obvious. Gerald never even saw him.” A heavy sigh. “As the younger son, Gerald should have never inherited the family estate, but shortly before the end of the war, his brother was killed. The same day we received notice of Albert’s death, we learned of Gerald’s status as ‘Missing in Action, presumed killed.’ The news was too much for their father. He took to his bed and passed a few days later.”

“Your husband, however, did return.”

“I said the army thinks he did. A man claiming to be Gerald came home. He was badly burned, but he does have red hair. And according to the authorities, he was clearly identified as Gerald Miller.” I leaned forward. She now had me thoroughly intrigued. “But he’s not. We may have been married only a short time, but I know—or knew, I’m not sure which—my husband. There are similarities, but he is not Gerald.”

I settled back onto my chair’s back. “I’m afraid I don’t know how I can assist you. I’m too old for fisticuffs. I may be able to help you find some ruffian who could throw this man out—”

“You don’t understand. I’ve made that threat. Even talked to a solicitor. This imposter’s got the government convinced, and there’s no one who will say for certain he’s not Gerald. With everyone else satisfied, I appear to be either unhinged or an opportunist trying to seize the Miller estate for myself through his son. He’s made his own threats back. To have me thrown out and raise Raymond alone. I can’t leave my son in the hands of that…that…mountebank.”

At this point, the woman burst into a deluge of tears. I reached out to her but withdrew my hand. I’d never been particularly successful in responding to such excessive emotional displays. Where was Watson when I needed him?

Watson.

At that moment a plan formed—or at least the beginning of one.

Standing, I pulled a clean handkerchief from my pocket and handed it to the woman, whose sobs subsided into a more quiet weeping.

“Dry your eyes, my dear lady,” I said. “I will take your case. Don’t mention this visit to your ‘husband’ or try and contact me. No sense raising any alarms. Pretend as if you have accepted his conditions. I’ll be in touch with you once I have made some preliminary preparations.”

The woman fairly leapt from her seat and pulled me to her. For such a slight frame, she had a quite powerful embrace. Any stronger, and she would have cracked my ribs. I remained rigid in her grasp, waiting for her to release before I suffered permanent damage.

When she did, she clasped her hand over her chest. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

“We will get to the bottom of this. Fear not.” I gave her shoulder a pat.

After she left, I dressed for a trip into town to send two telegrams.

* * *

“Really, Holmes,” Watson said when he flopped into the same chair Mrs. Miller had used only the day before, “would it hurt you to provide a little more information than ‘come at once’ in your telegrams?”

With great effort, I suppressed the broad smile threatening to spread across my face at my old friend’s feigned indignation. Regardless of his protests, I knew he’d come when I sent it. Just as Mrs. Miller’s statement about her dead husband being considered alive had fascinated me, “come at once” was enough to excite the good doctor’s curiosity.

This was the second time I’d seen him since his return from the war, and I found him in much better condition than at our previous meeting. True, he’d lost weight during his service and his hair was almost completely white, but the pallor and furtiveness of a man too close to ever-present danger and destruction had lessened. All the same, he seemed unable to remain completely still, as if on watch for anything out of the ordinary.

A slight tremor in his hand appeared when he took the tea cup from me and forced me to wonder if I’d made a mistake contacting him. Was he up to assisting me? I took my time taking a seat to allow me to reconsider what I was about to ask. My internal debate ended when I reminded myself he was still capable to assessing his own abilities and the decision should rest with him.

He stared at me, tapping his foot. When I stared back at him, he raised his eyebrows—a signal to get on with explaining my telegram. Again, a smile threatened my contemplative expression. His impatience never ceased to amaze me. How one could be so methodical when determining the cause and treatment of a disease and so quick to jump ahead of the facts to an unfounded conclusion continued to confound me.

With a sigh, I said, “I need your medical expertise, Watson.”

“Great Scott, Holmes, what ails you?”

“It’s not about me,” I said with a sigh. “I have a new client. And I need to learn more about blood.”

“I’ve seen you squirt it, drop it, sling it from a knife,” he said. “What could I possibly know that you don’t?”

“It’s all fine to know what happens when it leaves the body through violence. I need to know about this ‘typing’ that has been developed for transfusions. You have to be familiar with it from its use during the war.”

“You mean the different groups? Well, there’s A, B—”

As much I care for my old friend, I found his assumption that my retirement meant I was no longer up-to-date on certain medical advances as bothering as his jumping to conclusions. “I read the medical treatises. What I’m concerned about is whether you are skilled in doing this typing and how much blood is required to do so.”

My friend gave a slight harrumph but answered me all the same. “Just a few drops. I don’t have the testing equipment itself. Haven’t needed it in a general practice such as mine. Mostly needed in surgery and the like, but it’s easily obtained.”

And that was why he was my friend. He accepted my moods without becoming offended. I needed to show him how grateful I was for his tolerance. In a softer voice, I said, “I’m sorry, old friend, for my impatience. I’m concerned some evil is about to fall to a young widow and her son. And soon.”

With that introduction, I summarized the visit from Mrs. Miller, concluding with, “We need to determine if this man is who he says he is—and quickly. He already knows Mrs. Miller is certain he is an imposter, and there’s always a possibility someone might actually believe her. I’m convinced his goal is to take over the Miller fortune. Getting rid of his wife and child will secure it all for him.”

“Why blood? Why not fingerprints or some such?”

“He was burned and could make the argument his fingerprints were altered. No, I believe the most direct route would be through blood type. Of course, it all depends on the child. We’ll need his blood and his mother’s first. That is where I need your help. We must determine their types.”

“And if we can show he could not possibly be the father….”

“We’ll have the charlatan.”

“Then, we must help her. I’ll obtain the appropriate testing equipment right away.”

This time I allowed the smile. Forever the gentleman, he couldn’t turn away a lady in peril. For me, the ability of a man to so thoroughly perpetrate a deception made the case much more attractive than even the quite pretty Mrs. Miller.

“And while you work on that, I’m going to visit Eurwen. Learn what I can about the squire and his habits and determine how best to obtain the samples needed for testing. Shall we meet back here in a week’s time?”

* * *

While my image no longer appeared on a regular basis in newspapers or magazines, a large portion of the population still knew my profile. I felt a disguise was in order to avoid raising suspicions regarding my presence in the town.

Posing as a traveling salesman representing a thread company, I would visit one of the local pubs each evening, setting my thread case next to me on the bar. As I conversed with the publican and other patrons, I would gently lead the conversation around to the return of Gerald Miller.

After a week in Eurwen, I returned to my cottage to find Watson had arrived before me. He had been waiting long enough to have arranged for supper and consume his portion.

“Good news,” I said, taking my seat at the table and helping myself to the still lukewarm meal. “I believe I have several possibilities for obtaining the blood we need for our work.”

“I am now fully versed in typing it,” he said. “And with the most up-to-date equipment. My good news is the test only requires only a small amount blood. When will we be traveling to Eurwen?”

“I’m afraid there is no we on this trip to Eurwen,” I said, enjoying a bite of sausage. After a week of the various pubs’ limited fare prepared by those with even more limited skills, I allowed the spices and consistency of a well-made kielbasa settle on my tongue for a moment before elaborating and easing the doubts displayed on my friend’s face. “I’ll be going on a separate train from you as an itinerant book collector.”

“I assume Goldenspin Manor holds some books that might be of interest to a collector?”

“Ah, Watson, you do know my methods. Yes, I will use the pretense of examining some rare editions which the previous squire had obtained. The local paper carried a small piece about their purchase before the war. If the man is as much a grifter as Mrs. Miller suggested, he might very well be interested in selling them for the cash.”

“I don’t see the need for all this subterfuge. Why doesn’t she just bring the child to us for testing?”

“Because he’ll not let the child out of the house. I learned from the locals the boy’s nurses don’t leave him alone for a moment. With good reason. I’m certain his mother would whisk him away, given half a chance.”

“I’m surprised she was able to visit you.”

“Another interesting fact. He has placed no restrictions on her. I think he believes that as long as the child is under his control, she’ll do nothing to place him in danger. And he’s right. She cares too deeply for her son.”

“You’re aware we’ll need both adults and the child to support or rule out parentage. Have you considered the child’s blood type might indicate the current squire could be the father?”

“Thus, a second portion to my plan to be shared later. For this first part, you play quite a prominent role. I’ll need you to follow him when he leaves the house.” He pulled his chin back and muttered something about being a war veteran and too old for such shenanigans, but I knew he was pleased—both to be back in the game as well as to still be of service. “Posing as an amateur botanist should allow you to observe the house with an appropriate excuse for being in the area. You would simply have to examine some plant or other if someone observes your presence. Now, shall we prepare for our trips to Eurwen?”

After Watson provided me with a tutorial on obtaining and typing blood samples, I saw him off at the train station in my disguise as the old book collector. On my own train trip, I had a chance to review Bradshaw’s history of Eurwen and its ties to the Miller family. Their gold refining business dated back centuries, and the village could truly be considered paved by the metal. The family had always been generous to the villagers, and my time in the pubs made it clear the inhabitants were of one mind the new squire’s tightfisted habits were out of character for the family and not a welcomed change.

Once settled at my hotel, I went to the nearest pub and struck up a conversation with the publican to test my change in appearance.

When I enquired about the existence of any rare books in the area, the pub’s proprietor put me in touch with one of the locals who said he might be able make arrangements for me to examine the squire’s book collection, and after leaving my contact information, I returned to my room to await my meeting with Watson.

At the appointed hour, I took my seat on a park bench behind some bushes and soon heard the crunch of leaves under foot. A moment later, the footsteps turned a corner, and Watson whispered, “Holmes, is that you?”

I stood and spoke in a heavy public-school accent, “How do you do, sir. Professor Alexander Hopkins, at your service. My card.”

“Is it really necessary to keep up this ruse?”

Gorblimey! Watson has no sense of humor at times.

“No, I simply wanted to make certain you’d know my full name,” I said in my normal voice. “I don’t have a lot to report but am assuming I’ll be able to get into the house in the next day or so. Once I do, we’ll be able to learn more about how we might be able to get the blood samples. I’ll meet you here tomorrow night at this time.”

After my friend left, I spent a moment contemplating the quiet surrounding me, away from the drone of my bees and the whoosh of the ocean. The sounds had become as familiar to me as had sounds rising from Baker Street once been. Watson’s departure had made me a little nostalgic for the comradery we shared during that time. All the same, I knew I had only to telegraph my friend and he’d be there—just as I for him.

We had three more clandestine meetings before any true change occurred in the situation. We did confirm that Squire Miller—we referred to him as such because we had no other identity for him—rarely left the house but did make regular visits to a Turkish bath to massage and stretch his burned limbs.

On the fourth visit, I was finally able to share some news with Watson. “I have an invitation to meet with the squire and appraise his collection tomorrow. I’ll show up shortly before his usual visit to the bath, to avoid his scrutiny of my contact with his wife and child. My plan is to collect Mrs. Miller’s blood during the visit and work with her to do the same with the boy.”

“And the squire’s?”

“I’m hoping to discover some means while he’s at the Turkish bath. Given that my disguise might not remain intact in the heat, I propose you take a day off from your flower gazing and enjoy the benefits of a good cleansing. You must become familiar with the design and routine of this particular establishment.”

Watson studied me, and I met his gaze without faltering. I had learned long ago Watson could not accept any doubt on my part, and I was, almost always, quite as assured as I appeared to be. There were, however, times that my bravado was not met internally as it appeared on the exterior.

And this was one of those times.

While I was quite familiar with Turkish baths, for I had been an aficionado along with Watson back on Baker Street, I couldn’t be confident we would have an opportunity to find a way to get the blood we needed.

And, unfortunately, the other part of my plan for exposing the fraudulent squire, set in motion with a telegram, had yet to bear any fruit.

“I could use a good massage, I suppose,” my companion said with a sigh. “My bones aren’t what they used to be.”

“Enjoy, old friend. I believe things may move very quickly in the next few days.”

As I had planned, Squire Miller was leaving just as I arrived. A footman was assisting his descent from the manor’s entrance to a waiting motor car. I introduced myself to him, and he sent the footman to alert the butler.

While we were alone, I used the opportunity to study the man up close. I pulled out a handkerchief on the pretext of stifling a sneeze and dropped it at his feet. The two of us reached down to retrieve it, and I gave him as careful a scrutiny as I dared. His face was badly scarred from burns that traveled from his crown—where a short shock of red hair still grew—to his neck, passing below his collar. Scars also crisscrossed his face and his lips, but oddly leaving his neck (now with a two-day stubble of red hair) un-marked. When he handed the linen cloth to me, I also observed the slick pink of healed flesh covering his fingers. His gait indicated some damage to his legs. Given my expertise in disguise, I ascertained this man had been genuinely injured.

After the butler showed me into the library, Mrs. Miller joined me, and I continued my ruse until I was certain we were alone. In a whisper I said in my usual voice, “We must act quickly, my dear.”

Perhaps it was because she expected my visit, or her practiced deceit with her “husband,” but her own reaction to the realization that the book collector was actually Sherlock Holmes involved another silent o with her poppy-red lips.

“I need to collect some blood from you and your son. I can take yours now, but how do we get his?”

“His nurse is always with him,” she said with a frown. “If she does step away, there is another woman she will call in.”

“Is there a way you might be able to slip something in her tea or other drink? I could see about a sleeping draught…”

She tilted her head as if in deep thought. “That might be possible… I usually try and have tea with Raymond in the afternoons. She takes hers in the same room to always keep her eyes on me.”

“Let me see how I might assist her in losing that hawkish eye of hers. In the meantime, if you will allow me to collect your sample…”

I opened a heavy book I’d carried with me. The hollowed-out center contained the equipment to take the blood. After a brief discussion about where to best to collect it, we settled on her lower leg, hidden by her skirt.

She lifted her hem without hesitation to allow me to perform the task. Such bravado took me aback for a moment. When I was as young as Mrs. Miller, a woman would have never been so brazen as to show her ankle, let alone her calf. I found the whole situation uncomfortable and was glad when she covered her leg once again.

Once the blood had been drawn, I said, “Now leave me to my ‘work,’ with a little information about your husband’s schedule so that I might share the results of my endeavors.”

With a nod, she glided to the door, and opened it. “As you can see,” she said as she slipped back into the act of the squire’s wife, “it’s quite an extensive book collection. Do you have an estimate for the time needed to complete your task?”

Returning to my public-school voice, I said, “At least a week. I’ll have preliminary results in a few days. I’ll make a cursory review today, but it will take several days for me to complete the needed inventory.”

“I’ll have some tea sent in. Please let me know when you leave today so that I can have a report on your progress for my husband.”

To put up an act, I did review the contents of the bookcases lining the four walls. They held a number of true masterpieces, some in almost pristine condition. The Millers appeared to be one of those elite who collected the accoutrements of intellectuality rather than actually practicing it.

After two hours, I passed word to Mrs. Miller that I would be leaving for the day and shared with her my preliminary results.

“You have quite a range of classics, Mrs. Miller.”

“My husband’s collection, professor. The Millers have always pursued the arts.”

“There are several complete collections here. I’m sure I would be able to find a buyer for most of them. What time might I come tomorrow?”

“How about two or so? I’ll arrange for the motor car to take you home and pick you up tomorrow.”

Upon returning to the hotel, the clerk passed a telegram that had arrived after my departure. In my room, a smile spread across my face. Mycroft had been able to gather the information I required. I had a new assignment to share with Watson at our next meeting.

As my bees had done with Mrs. Miller, I detected Watson’s arrival prior to seeing or hearing him. The scent of talc (always a favorite of his when visiting a Turkish bath) preceded him. After exchanging pleasantries, we went straight to business.

“I found a very accommodating shampooer while at the bath,” Watson said when I asked about Miller’s time at the bath. “I simply asked him about the poor gentleman I saw entering in front of me, and he quite obliged my curiosity. This particular man has treated Miller several times. The squire always requests an extra massage to manipulate his legs and arms in an effort to stretch the muscles and skin. After relaxing, he visits the barber for a shave.”

Watson’s smile told me he was pleased with himself and his report, but I couldn’t let him off too easily. He always had much to learn, and if I let him think he had done a good job, he might cease to improve.

“A good start.” Watson’s smile faded. “Tell me more about this shampooer. Or the barber. What do they look like? Would I be able to possibly replace one for a bit as a way of collecting the squire’s blood?”

My good friend coughed and scuffed the ground with the toe of his newly shined boot. “I’m afraid I didn’t get a good look at the shampooer. I was lying down, you know, while he scrubbed my back and such. The barber, well, I didn’t see him at all. I could go back, have another look around and a shave…”

“No need. You must go to London.”

“Now see here, I might not have collected all you think I should, but to dismiss me like a naughty schoolboy—”

“This relates to the second part of my plan. Mycroft has pulled together some information, and I need you to collect it for me.” Watson perked up a little. I felt a little contrite in having scolded him, but I also knew he could take it, and in the end, would work harder at doing better as a result. Shifting subjects to show I wasn’t too upset, I said, “I have also completed the analysis of Mrs. Miller’s blood. She has type O.”

“Interesting,” the good doctor said, “Depending on her son’s type, we might be able to show whether Miller is the father. If the boy is O as well, the man must also be O.”

“But to get the boy’s blood, I will need a sleeping draught.”

“I hesitate giving such a young child something without having examined him to determine his weight and health.”

“It’s for his nurse. We need her to be indisposed for a moment to avoid her interference.”

“I can mix up something. How will I get it to you?”

“Bring it with you to the train station in the morning. I’ll be using a different character. I’ll also investigate the bath more thoroughly while you’re gone.”

He nodded but remained reticent. I found his pouting, a reaction to my chastisement, overly exaggerated. He had to know there were few people I could trust to bring such important and delicate information back to me.

His response when we took leave of each other was curt as well. No matter, I had other more pressing problems.

That night, I found myself restless, as was common during a case. I longed for my violin. Playing it allowed me to concentrate on the music rather than my thoughts. I had to settle for a stroll in the night air to avoid disturbing the other guests by pacing in my room.

Once outside, my thoughts calmed a bit and soon I found myself standing outside the Turkish bath Watson had visited earlier in the day. Despite the late hour, a few lights still shone in the windows—probably from the charwomen preparing the facilities for tomorrow.

As if in answer to my thoughts, the giggles and laughter of several women drifted toward me from a side door. I wandered in that direction.

“See ya’ tomorrow, luvs,” one of the younger women said and waved to the group as they broke off in different paths.

The woman headed toward me, and I stepped into the circle of a gaslight so as not to startle her. Despite my effort, she still jumped when I addressed her. “Excuse me, miss.”

“What are you doing up so late, Grandpa?” she asked, taking in my book scholar’s disguise.

Truly, this younger generation was far too cheeky. I feared for the safety of our country’s morals when I watched the blatant forwardness of such women. She restored my faith somewhat, however, with her next remark.

“Are you all right? Do you need me to help you home?”

“I was wondering about the bath.” I pointed to the structure she’d just left. “What sort of services do they offer?”

“It’s quite a nice place,” she said, a hint of pride showing. “Very clean. It’s gots its pools, of course. And a nice place for restin’ afterwards. You can also gets a sort of rubbin’ down and all the groomin’ mens likes.”

“Excellent. What do you know of the barber? Is he careful?”

“There’s two. Barney, he’s the older gent, is quite careful. I’ve heard a few complain about Arthur.”

“Nicked a few, has he?”

“The laundress gripes all the time about havin’ to get all the blood out of his towels.”

“Sounds like I’ll be requesting Barney then. Thank you for the advice.”

I turned to go.

“You sure you don’t want some company home?”

At this point, I realized her concern was not for my safety, but an offer of a far more intimate nature. Once again, my fear for our country’s future returned. Rather than reject her completely, I said, “Not tonight, but perhaps I can presume to meet you tomorrow evening? About this time? Miss…?”

“You can call me Suzy. See you then, Grandpa,” she said with a wink and a slight kick of her exposed ankle before heading on her way.

While my first instinct was to rebuke her in much harsher terms than those I kept for Watson’s peccadilloes, I responded with a wink of my own, with the hopes of ensuring her presence tomorrow evening.

I chose another character to meet my colleague at the train station in the morning—a traveling brush salesman. When I first approached him, he turned down my offer to consider my wares, but on my insistence he accept a free sample comb, he peered at me and asked, “Is that you?”

When I gave him a surreptitious nod, he said in a louder voice, “Why yes, I suppose I could use a new clothing brush. What do you have there?”

In a moment, we exchanged a brush for the sleeping draught, and Watson was off on his trip to London.

At first, everything appeared to go well at the Millers. The squire wanted a report of my first day’s review of his library, and I shared with him a brief list of what I considered some of the most important collections, concluding with “I believe I have some parties who would be interested in various ones.”

“Think there’d be someone who go for the whole lot?” he asked with a downturn of his lipless mouth.

His statement only confirmed my earlier assesments. He’d shown himself greedy with a total lack of breeding. No squire sold his heritage and left nothing for future generations.

In the hope of discouraging the man from devastating the son’s inheritance, I said, “I might be able to locate such a buyer, but he would offer a very low price.” His mouth made an even deeper crescent. “But I can make some enquiries. Allow me to finish this preliminary inventory, and I’ll feel out some contacts.”

He gave me a curt nod and left me to continue studying the volumes.

When the clock struck four, Mrs. Miller entered. “Good afternoon, Professor. I was wondering if you would be interested in afternoon tea. My husband has retired for a nap. I’m afraid his injuries have left him in rather fragile health. I doubt he will be up before you leave.”

“Thank you. I could use some refreshment.”

“I hope you don’t mind if our son joins us. We usually have tea together, and I don’t want to break the habit.”

“I would be delighted.”

She led me to a small garden at the back of the house where a table had been set with the tea service under the shade of a large tree. The child and his nurse were already there. The actual process of slipping the sleeping draught into the nurse’s tea was less troublesome than expected, and she was soon snoring away in her chair.

Once assured we were not being observed, I whispered to his mother, “Let him wander to the rose bushes. We need to be able to account for the prick I will need to collect the blood.” Her brow furrowed slightly—I’m sure out of concern as any mother had for her child. “Just a scratch or two to cover the one I will make.”

She carried the boy to a far rose hedge and let him reach out and grab a stem. He howled, and I rushed to their side. He’d stabbed himself deeply enough I didn’t need to prick him again. Under the guise of wrapping his hand with my handkerchief, I collected the blood and palmed the vial until I could deposit it in my pocket.

Unfortunately, the boy’s squeals revived the nurse as well as alerted those in the house of his distress. We were soon surrounded by a number of servants, and the boy was whisked from his mother’s arms. The squire also appeared an upstairs bedroom window (his, I deduced). I could see his glare even from my distance.

He shouted down to his wife, “What were you doing? Allowing the boy to wander back there?” He shifted then, his ire to the nurse. “And you. Sleeping? You’re dismissed. Pack your bags and be out within the hour.”

The woman burst into tears, but I spent not a moment of regret for ridding the boy of the squire’s spy. I could only hope we would be able to expose the squire before he could hire another nurse.

That night in my room, I completed identifying the boy’s blood type and spent a rather fruitless hour waiting for Watson. While annoyed that he had apparently not been able to catch the last train back from London, I was not concerned. Perhaps the information Mycroft provided was more complete than I had hoped. While I would have wanted to start my analysis immediately, I wouldn’t have been able. I had a rendezvous with Suzy, the cheeky charwoman.

She was actually waiting for me across the street from the bath when I turned the corner. “I didn’t want to miss you, Grandpa; so, I thought I’d get here a little early.”

“Do you think I might take a look inside? To make sure it’s what I want?”

“I suppose it’d be all right,” she said after she glanced about, as if someone might be listening. “As long as you stay with me.”

I nodded and showed her a few shillings. “Yours at the end. For your troubles.”

From her tour, I identified the attendants’ entrance and learned about the simple white tunic and pants they were required to wear. Based what I observed, as well as the information Watson provided, I determined my own visit to the baths was possible.

While she seemed a bit disappointed I again refused her offer to an evening’s company, she was more than satisfied with the compensation for her tour.

Back at the hotel, I arranged for a message to be sent to Goldenspin Manor indicating I was indisposed and not to send transportation for me the next day.

Between the night air and plans now in place, I turned in, hoping Watson’s trip had proved as fruitful as his delay indicated.

I chose another persona for my trip to the bath, dropping my old book collector’s suit and spectacles and coloring my hair dark. After donning an outfit similar to the bath’s attendants, I watched from a side street for Squire Miller’s arrival. Shortly after he entered, three attendants exited from the employees’ entrance and clustered by a back wall. I joined their circle, offering each a cigarette from a packet of French imports.

While the hand holding my own cheroot remained steady, my heart thrummed faster in my chest. My confidence in my ability to play this role and accomplish my task had diminished in the light of day. Bluffing my way into the bath seemed less possible than it had been last night while on tour with Suzy.

“You new?” the first one to accept my gift asked. He took a long drag on the cigarette and held it a moment as if savoring the taste of the imported tobacco before blowing the smoke out through his nostrils. My heart slowed a bit with the knowledge I’d paved my way with this group.

“Just started today,” I said. “I got here late. Don’t tell ‘em. I don’t want to be let go on my first day.”

“You seem an all right chap,” a second said. “We’ll vouch for you.”

“Yeah,” the third said. “You keep sharin’ these fancies, and I’ll say you was here last week, too.”

That gave them all a chuckle. After a few more puffs before crushing the butts into the pavement, they invited me to follow them into the facility.

Once inside, they headed off to their various stations. As I passed a table stacked high with towels, I took two in my arms and wandered off in search of the barber station and Squire Miller. Even without Suzy’s description, I would have been able to identify Arthur, the butcher barber. He’d already tossed a few crimson-spotted towels into a corner. I placed the clean ones I brought with me on a side table and retrieved the soiled ones. With my presence now established as just another employee, I stuffed the blood-stained towels inside a cabinet, and went in search of the squire.

I approached one alcove and peered through the curtain concealing those inside and found him face-down in the middle of his shampooing. An attendant was vigorously scrubbing the man’s battle-scarred legs with a pair of rough gloves. Despite what had to be some considerable discomfort to the squire (patches of his sensitive skin glowed scarlet), his only response to the man’s scouring was a muffled grunt. Were it not for the man’s deceit, I would have admired his mettle to undergo such a rigorous therapy on a regular basis.

Given that the squire still needed his joints manipulated and a period of rest before rotating to the barber station, I had time to ensure only Arthur the butcher was available.

As soon as the more skilled barber had finished with his current client, I slipped into his area. In my best imitation of the attendants with whom I’d shared the cigarettes, I asked, “Are you Barney?”

“Who are you?” he asked without glancing up from the strap where he was sharpening his razor.

“I’m Danny. Just started today. They sent me back here to say you have a message from your neighbor.”

Once again, my heart picked up its pace at my gamble. While most people had neighbors, the man could possibly have no personal connection with those around him. My breathing slowed when he asked, “Walter? Why he’s bothering me here?”

“Said there’s an emergency. Something about a leak. You should go home immediately.”

“What kind of leak?” he asked, continuing to sharpen the razor. “I still have clients—”

“He said to hurry. A real emergency.”

With a sigh, he passed the razor to me. “Clean up, then, and tell my—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll let them know you had to leave, sudden like. Hope you get there in time.”

My last remark seemed to spur the man. I followed him into the hallway, and after he exited through the back door, I went to the cooling off room where the squire now reposed with closed eyes.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said. “The barber is ready for you.”

The man cracked one eye open and squinted at me. “Already? Bring me my clothes.”

After he dressed, I shared with him that Barney had been called away, but that Arthur was available. Without any hesitation, he moved to the younger barber’s station. Once he entered, I retrieved a few additional towels and stood nearby in the hallway, fingering the vial I’d brought with me to collect the blood I hoped the barber would draw.

I didn’t have to wait long. The squire’s yelp and the barber’s apology drifted through the door shortly after I heard the chair squeak with his weight. I rushed in, towels and vial in hand.

“Here, sir,” I said, fairly inserting myself between him and the barber. “Let me take care of that nick.”

Leaning over his neck with my arm and back blocking both men’s views, I held the vial under the cut—slightly above a round, pink, burn scar on his upper chest.

The first drops had just flowed in when I heard shouting in the hallway.

“Where is he? Where’s Danny, that new attendant?”

Only a few more minutes, and I would have been gone without anyone being the wiser. Instead, Barney burst into the room, and I palmed the open vial still with only a bit inside, covering it with a towel before spinning around.

“You.” The red-faced older barber pointed at me. “I go rushing home. Halfway there, I remember Walter left yesterday to visit his sister. I don’t know the purpose of your lie, but I checked with the front desk. There’s no new attendant. And no one here by the name of Danny.” Two attendants joined him in the room. “They’re here to see you out.”

I recognized them as two of the three who had enjoyed my imports, but now they were glaring at me with crossed arms. So much for the good will I’d established earlier. With a nod, I followed the men into the hallway.

“Just a minute,” Barney said as I passed him. He grabbed the towel. “I’ll take that.”

The vial flew out of the towel and shattered on the floor. My heart sank to the pit of my stomach. All my efforts, undermined by the barber’s neighbor’s sister.

Totally defeated at that moment, I marched between the two attendants without a sound. Once outside, however, they dropped their harsh countenance.

“I’m not sure why you wanted to work here, but you’re an all-right bloke,” one said. “We’re supposed to call the police, but we’ll wait a bit to give you time to make yourself scarce.”

“We’ll say we had a hard time findin’ one,” the other said with a nod.

I thanked them, left them the pack of cigarettes, and slipped up the backway to my hotel. The rest of the day, I spent in my room, puffing on my pipe while considering different scenarios to collect the squire’s blood. None, however, seemed feasible now with him aware of my scrutiny. My pipe bowl grew cold as I rejected one after another.

A knock and shout at my door pulled me out of my thoughts, if not my melancholy.

Watson stood in the doorway, a deep valley between his bushy eyebrows. “Holmes, I—”

Grabbing his arm, I pulled him inside and shut the door firmly behind him. “Have you lost your senses? We’re traveling incognito.”

“If you hadn’t sent the bellboy away—more than once—you’d know we’ve already been found out,” he said, the line between his eyes deepening. “Apparently, someone at the bath recognized you.”

The dark gloom over me deepened. “I’ve become a doddering old fool, Watson. I bungled my chance to get his blood. I had it. In my hand. And let it slip away. I’ve tried to develop a new plan, but I’m afraid none seems feasible.”

He placed a hand on my arm and led me to a chair, forcing me to sit. “I’m afraid it gets worse. Miller has followed through on his threat. He’s sent his wife packing. She fears the squire will leave town with the boy. Once away from Goldenspin Manor…”

He dropped his gaze and shook his head.

My lungs squeezed tight, and I was grateful Watson had forced me to sit.

Had I signed the poor boy’s death warrant?

A part of me wanted to batter my head against a wall. I should have never taken the case. The matter of blood types seemed the most logical and expedient means of proving parentage, but I had underestimated the difficulties of collecting the blood. I had chosen it over more tried and true approaches. Had I not been so convinced on this new technique, I would have—

“Watson, what did my brother share with you?”

He startled slightly. “Oh. The records. They’re in this satchel. Haven’t had chance to go through them. Mycroft took longer to gather them than he had anticipated when he sent the telegram. There were so many…”

I pulled a stack of papers from the briefcase and put them on a small table. They formed a foot-high tower.

Stepping to him, I placed a hand his shoulder. “Please go to Mrs. Miller. You’re much better at this than I. Let her know I will do everything possible to save the boy and his inheritance. Don’t…don’t tell her how I lost his blood.”

“I have faith in you, old boy.” He shuffled his feet and met my gaze. “You’ll find a way to identify this man. I’m sure of it.”

“I wish I had such faith. But you know I will do my best. While my deception has been exposed, yours has not. Please go before our connection becomes common knowledge here in Eurwen. It is best, in case I’m unable to prove the man’s identity, you are not connected to Sherlock Holmes’s failure to assist the widow of a Great War hero.”

With Watson dispatched, I sorted the papers, making piles on the floor. I found lists of wounded, lists of soldiers who died in battle, another set of lists of those who had died later of their wounds, of those with whom Miller served, and those who would have been with him during the campaign when he’d been wounded. I also found some basic information on those in the lists along with those who had spent time with him where he’d been treated following the attack. Finally, I found some field reports covering the attack and the transport of the wounded to the field hospital.

I then rearranged these in a sort of timeline, using the field reports to determine who was where when. Despite some confusion and contradicting information, I was able to trace Squire Miller’s last days and those of his comrades-in-arms.

Having worked through the night, two things happened almost simultaneously shortly after dawn: someone knocked on my door and a shaft of early sunshine broke through a slit in the curtains and illuminated a line on a piece of paper I held in my hand. Had an angelic chorus accompanied the events, I wouldn’t have been surprised. The bright dawn highlighted the key I needed to support Mrs. Miller’s claim and give her the peace she sought.

I rushed to the door and pulled it open to reveal my most startled friend on the other side.

“Come along, Watson,” I said, pushing past him into the hallway. “We haven’t a moment to lose. I fear our dear squire might have some evil designs we must thwart as soon as possible.”

He called me back to put on shoes and a coat, but soon we headed out again. As we exited the hotel, I stopped at the front desk to have them send an urgent note to Mrs. Miller, requesting she meet us at Goldenspin Manor as soon as possible.

The ride to the manor seemed interminable. I had to fight an urge to leap from the car and run to the manor house. Now that I had the information, I wanted only to present it to the imposter and reinstate Raymond to Mrs. Miller’s care.

By the time we reached the squire’s residence, my agitation was such that I left the car before it had even pulled to a halt, bounded up the stairs, and pounded on the door, leaving Watson to deal with the driver.

“Tell him to wait,” I said over my shoulder. “While we might not need a return trip, I will be glad to send the man inside to the train station at once.”

When the butler opened the door, I pushed past him and into the hallway. Glancing about me, I asked, “Where is he? Where’s the squire?”

My demands must have taken him by surprise because he answered without even questioning my identity or reasons.

“He’s still in bed, awaiting his breakfast—”

Taking the stairs two at a time, I again shouted at Watson. “Find the boy and make certain he’s all right before joining me.”

At the top of the stairs, I recalled how he’d stood in the window when the little boy had pricked himself on the roses the other day and strode to the back of the house. The squire was still in bed, propped up against a tower of pillows. At the foot of his bed stood an open trunk. Clearly, the man was planning to leave.

“You,” he said, pointing at me. “You’re that-that bath attendant.”

The butler entered the room along with two footmen. “I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t able to—”

“Don’t call him ‘sir,’” I said, stopping the man in mid-apology. “If you must, refer to him as Mr. Rumpel St. Iltsken.”

The false squire’s eyes rounded for a brief moment before he scowled at me. That first, minute reaction, however, confirmed what I had discovered in Mycroft’s papers.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The man fairly sputtered his words. While most would assume his problems with enunciation resulted from his outrage, I recognized it as the bluster of one caught in a lie. “Remove this man from my room and house.”

The three servants, however, hesitated. Perhaps they had held their own suspicions, which up until this moment they had kept to themselves. Whatever the reason, the man repeated the order before they even moved in my direction.

Watson entered with the child and Mrs. Miller a moment later.

“The boy’s fine, Holmes,” he said, handing the boy to his mother. “It appears, however, they were packing—. Oh, I see the squire is doing the same.”

“As I just informed these gentlemen, this is no squire.” I turned to my friend. “Watson, you’ve been in war. What do those at the front lines do when they are not in the heat of battle?”

“Well…” He glanced at Mrs. Miller and slowly formed his answer, as if considering how best to share the subject delicately. “We talk a lot about home. Our sweethearts or wives, family, that sort of things.”

“You learn a great deal about those in your company?”

“Of course. I remember one fellow—Wilson’s the name—traced his family back to—”

“Imagine, if you will, you resembled this Wilson character closely enough that, if sufficiently disfigured—from burns, for example—you could return to his family and take his place because you’d know all about its members.”

“I suppose….but who’d want to be a sheep farmer?”

“What if Wilson were a squire?”

Watson’s attention, as well as the others’ in the room, shifted to the man in the bed.

Not yet willing to confess, the man redoubled his protests. “I have no idea what you are talking about. I am Squire Gerald Miller. Have been. Always will be. And a war hero. You have only to look at my record—”

“I have studied it. I don’t doubt you were horribly burned during the same attack that killed the real Squire Miller. According to this report,” I said, pulling the paper I had brought with me from the hotel, “Squire Miller had an aide. A red-headed aide. During the attack in question, the squire and his aide were both burned. The squire carried his aide back behind the lines for treatment. While their asbestos identity tags had survived, the cords holding them around their necks had not, and they had fallen off. Only a small religious medal bearing the inscription ‘To Gerald, with love, Heather’ survived. The chain had broken, but the medal was stuck in the squire’s chest, branding him. That is how they distinguished the squire from his aide.”

“That proves it,” said the man, opening his night shirt slightly to show the mark at the base of his neck. “I still carry the scar.”

“I noticed it when I assisted the barber the other day. Only I noticed something not recorded elsewhere. The chain looped through the medal also seared your skin. And it clearly shows a twist. The inscription, which should have been on the back of the medal had turned about and branded the chest of the man the squire carried. The aide. A Mr. Rumpel St. Iltsken.”

When an accused is presented with evidence convicting him, one of two reactions occurs—either anger and further denial, or a collapse into defeat. Despite his argumentative nature to this point, this imposter chose the second. His shoulders rounded, and his head dropped to his chest as if all the air had gone from him. When he raised his gaze, tears welled in his eyes.

“Do you know how much I tired of hearing how he had it all. A beautiful wife. A son. Land. Money.” He sighed. “I had nothing. And now, I was going to have to go through life like this. I thought if I could just—. But it didn’t work out as I planned. She knew from the start. So, the only way to make sure she didn’t tell anyone was to hold the child for insurance.” With a sigh, he asked, “What are you going to do now?”

“It’s not my decision,” I said, glancing at Mrs. Miller. “I was hired to prove you were not the squire.”

The woman shifted the babe in her arms to see Raymond’s face more fully. He reached up and touched her tear-stained cheek. The tenderness passing between the two told me her answer before she even pronounced it.

After considering each man in the room, she kept her gaze on the imposter and said, “I-I can’t forgive you for trying to deceive everyone. And even more for threatening Raymond. But you have been through enough already. If you will go to the authorities, tell them the truth about what happened to my husband, I will not insist on any punishment. Mr. Holmes, I would appreciate it if you would accompany Mr. Rumpel St. Iltsken to see the record is set straight.”

“I will take him to London immediately,” I said, giving a slight bow. “I believe my brother will be quite helpful in resolving this situation. Shall we go downstairs while Mr. St. Iltsken dresses?”

A day later, Watson and I were once again in Goldenspin Manor. Mrs. Miller’s current demeanor contrasted sharply with that of the woman who’d come to my cottage only a few weeks before. She had a tranquility missing in our previous encounters. I was glad to report Mycroft had assisted in getting Mr. St. Iltsken into a veterans’ home, and while not on the scale of Goldenspin Manor, it did offer some comforts and certainly rose well above what he would have found in prison.

“Thank you for agreeing to help me,” Mrs. Miller said, setting her teacup and saucer on a small table near her elbow. “I had harbored some hope that if this Mr. Rumpel St. Iltsken had been mistaken for Gerald, that he, too, might have been….”

Her voice trailed off, and my heart went out to her. While I’d harbored similar hopes, the report from the field hospital confirmed there was no chance of finding him alive. As much as I wanted to express these thoughts, I wasn’t certain how to best state them without seeming harsh. Watson, as usual, came to my rescue, using that air of compassion and caring so characteristic of the physician.

“The loss of a loved one is difficult,” Watson said in a quiet tone, “and you, my dear, have suffered it twice. Give yourself time to grieve. Again.”

She turned her moist gaze to him and said, “A very wise observation, doctor.”

My attention focused on my old friend as well—with the same admiration she had expressed. He was wise. Whatever he might lack in such powers as I possessed for taking facts and observations to the appropriate conclusion, he compensated for with an intuition resting in his heart. In some ways, he knew more than I, and I had been all the richer for his presence in my life.

RUMPELSTILTSKIN

Once upon a time there was a miller who was poor, but who had a beautiful daughter. Now it happened that he got into a conversation with the king, and to make an impression on him he said, "I have a daughter who can spin straw into gold."

The king said to the miller, "That is an art that I really like. If your daughter is as skillful as you say, then bring her to my castle tomorrow, and I will put her to the test."

When the girl was brought to him he led her into a room that was entirely filled with straw. Giving her a spinning wheel and a reel, he said, "Get to work now. Spin all night, and if by morning you have not spun this straw into gold, then you will have to die." Then he himself locked the room, and she was there all alone.

The poor miller's daughter sat there, and for her life she did not know what to do. She had no idea how to spin straw into gold. She became more and more afraid, and finally began to cry.

Then suddenly the door opened. A little man stepped inside and said, "Good evening, Mistress Miller, why are you crying so?"

"Oh," answered the girl, "I am supposed to spin straw into gold, and I do not know how to do it." The little man said, "What will you give me if I spin it for you?" "My necklace," said the girl.

The little man took the necklace, sat down before the spinning wheel, and whir, whir, whir, three times pulled, and the spool was full. Then he put another one on, and whir, whir, whir, three times pulled, and the second one was full as well. So it went until morning, and then all the straw was spun, and all the spools were filled with gold.

At sunrise the king came, and when he saw the gold he was surprised and happy, but his heart became even more greedy for gold. He had the miller's daughter taken to another room filled with straw. It was even larger, and he ordered her to spin it in one night, if she valued her life.

The girl did not know what to do, and she cried. Once again the door opened, and the little man appeared. He said, "What will you give me if I spin the straw into gold for you?"

"The ring from my finger," answered the girl.

The little man took the ring, and began once again to whir with the spinning wheel. By morning he had spun all the straw into glistening gold. The king was happy beyond measure when he saw it, but he still did not have his fill of gold. He had the miller's daughter taken to a still larger room filled with straw, and said, "Tonight you must spin this too. If you succeed you shall become my wife." He thought, "Even if she is only a miller's daughter, I will not find a richer wife in all the world."

When the girl was alone the little man returned for a third time. He said, "What will you give me if I spin the straw this time?"

"I have nothing more that I could give you," answered the girl.

"Then promise me, after you are queen, your first child."

"Who knows what will happen," thought the miller's daughter, and not knowing what else to do, she promised the little man what he demanded. In return the little man once again spun the straw into gold.

When in the morning the king came and found everything just as he desired, he married her, and the beautiful miller's daughter became queen.

A year later she brought a beautiful child to the world. She thought no more about the little man, but suddenly he appeared in her room and said, "Now give me that which you promised."

The queen took fright and offered the little man all the wealth of the kingdom if he would let her keep the child, but the little man said, "No. Something living is dearer to me than all the treasures of the world."

Then the queen began lamenting and crying so much that the little man took pity on her and said, "I will give you three days' time. If by then you know my name, then you shall keep your child."

The queen spent the entire night thinking of all the names she had ever heard. Then she sent a messenger into the country to inquire far and wide what other names there were. When the little man returned the next day she began with Kaspar, Melchior, Balzer, and said in order all the names she knew. After each one the little man said, "That is not my name."

The second day she sent inquiries into the neighborhood as to what names people had. She recited the most unusual and most curious names to the little man: "Is your name perhaps Beastrib? Or Muttoncalf? Or Legstring?"

But he always answered, "That is not my name."

On the third day the messenger returned and said, "I have not been able to find a single new name, but when I was approaching a high mountain in the corner of the woods, there where the fox and the hare say good-night, I saw a little house. A fire was burning in front of the house, and an altogether comical little man was jumping around the fire, hopping on one leg and calling out:

‘Today I'll bake; tomorrow I'll brew,

Then I'll fetch the queen's new child,

It is good that no one knows,

Rumpelstiltskin is my name.’”

You can imagine how happy the queen was when she heard that name. Soon afterward the little man came in and asked, "Now, Madame Queen, what is my name?"

She first asked, "Is your name Kunz?"

"No."

"Is your name Heinz?"

"No."

"Is your name perhaps Rumpelstiltskin?"

"The devil told you that! The devil told you that!" shouted the little man, and with anger he stomped his right foot so hard into the ground that he fell in up to his waist. Then with both hands he took hold of his left foot and ripped himself up the middle in two.

THE RAVEN

By Dr. Jim Webb

(Inspired by “The Raven”)

London was gasping for air.

Sherlock Holmes rose from his writing desk to peer out of one of two broad windows to the street below. The scene was filled with the trappings of the unusual cold that had embraced the city and caused the coal driven fireplaces to work overtime. The result was London being covered by a sickly yellow fog that mixed with the ever-churning forest of chimneys and industrial smokestacks that continually pumped more and more soot into the air. With no breeze to be found, the yellow soup continued to rise and reeked of rotten eggs. Boat traffic on the Thames ground almost to a halt as navigating the river became ever more hazardous. Hansom cabs trickled along through the streets at a snail’s pace least they crash into that which they could not see. Some trains were cancelled.

Holmes glanced over at the corner his mantlepiece and the ever-present bottle. I looked up briefly from my paper and asked, “morphine of cocaine?”

“I am fixed upon a seven percent solution of cocaine these days.” Holmes pivoted toward his questioner. “I need problems, Watson. My mind rebels at the stagnation of mere existence. The artificial stimulant is a welcome reprieve from boredom.”

Holmes fondled the neat Moroccan case that contained the hypodermic syringe that would soon deliver his bliss. He rolled up his sleeve to reveal a puncture laden forearm. “Stand by the window and see the dull and dreary revealed. London is at a standstill among the biting cold and the sickly yellow background that frames it. Even criminals are at a loss to ply their trade.”

Gazing between the parted blinds to the dullness of the London street, Holmes fixed his piercing eyes upon a large woman on the pavement opposite sporting a large coat with a fur collar and a broad-brimmed hat adjusted at an angle that temporarily covered her face. She gave a hesitant glance at our window and fidgeted with the tips of her gloves. A look of resolve embraced her as she darted across the street with the resultant clang of the bell.

Holmes placed the Moroccan case back into depths of the drawer from which it came, adjusted his cuffs, and began to doff his coat. “I do believe, Watson, that we may find some interest in the woman who will soon grace our doorstep. Only a serious problem would drive someone to travel in such adversarial elements.” As he spoke, young Billy rapped at the door subsequently announced Mrs. Mary Scrivner as she entered the room. Holmes became his usual graceful self when welcoming a new guest into his sitting area and guided her into an armchair after taking her hat and coat.

“You must had had quite a time traveling all the way here from Brixton in this weather?”

“Yes, it was quite an ordeal,” she answered. “But I was quite determined, and the new Chatham Main Line provides some convenience, albeit very slowly on a day like today.” She then realized what had been asked. “I do not believe we have met before, Mr. Holmes. How could you have known that?”

Holmes gave a mischievous smile. “It is my business to know such things. I suspect it is why you have chosen to consult me with your problem.”

“Mrs. Etheridge and Miss Mary Sutherland both speak very highly of your abilities. Mr. Holmes. Although I do not see how anyone could see their way clear through my current dilemma.” She lowered her head and slumped in obvious dismay. “I have lost my little Rachel, Mr. Holmes, she seems to have literally up and flown away.”

“Up and flown away,” repeated Holmes.

“I am afraid so.” Her voice broke and her lip began to quiver.

“Pray, please start at the beginning. I am all attention.” Holmes gave me a glance. “You may speak freely in front of Dr. Watson. He has been a great help in many of my cases.”

“As you may know, Brixton is going through many changes. We live comfortably and have enjoyed watching the streets around us slowly shift to being lit by electricity rather than gas lamp. The difference has been astonishing. As the same time, many of my neighbors have moved on as they converted their homes into flats and boarding houses for the workers that have chosen Brixton as their home. Unfortunately, that has included some of the families that have been good neighbors over the years, and were especially important to Rachel as her group of close friends. Since they relocated, Rachel has become increasingly distraught and has found more than one reason to blame her lack of friendships on me.”

“And, she has flown the coup, as it were?” Holmes shifted his body slightly forward.

“More right than you may know.” Her voice was again one of great sorrow. “First, you must know, Mr. Holmes, that I am not one who believes in mysticism and the supernatural. I have always been a good Christian woman.”

“Pray, continue.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, one day last week Rachel was being especially belligerent. She said some horrible things to me. Even blamed me for the death of my husband, God rest his soul.” She took a deep breath. “He worked hard to provide for us and it has not been easy to get by since his passing. He was a good man and doted on Rachel to no end. She took his death especially hard and we have had to sacrifice things as of late. I must confess that I could have done better to reach out to her during our time of grief, but was too busy trying to make do and come to grips with my own loss.”

Holmes remained quiet while she gathered her thoughts. “It was two days ago when everything came to a head. I asked her to clean up one of the rooms where one of our boarders had left without tidying up and she grew impatient toward me. The loss of her father, the loss of her friends, and having to work much harder than before. It all erupted from her in one vindictive rant.”

“I was angry, Mr. Holmes.” She looked down. “I spat out that I wished for the peace that I could only have without her constant complaining.” Her eyes welled with tears. “Oh, how I wished I could take those words back, Mr. Holmes. You could see the hatred in her eyes come to a full blossom as she ran upstairs to her room. Moments later she reappeared, shot me a look of distain while doffing her overcoat, and ran out the back-kitchen door.”

“It was only seconds, Mr. Holmes, only seconds. I stepped through the doorway and could not see her in the alleyway. All I could feast my eyes upon was that thing.”

Holmes gave her a piercing look. “That thing?”

“A raven. A black raven. That was the only creature to be found in the alleyway.” A look of fear overcame her as she shuddered.

“A raven. I see.” Holmes pondered for a moment. “And exactly how long is this alleyway?”

“Too long for my dear Rachel to have scampered away by the time I got to the door.”

“You seem insistent on that point.” Holmes leaned back in his chair. “And to what do you ascribe the sudden vanishing of your daughter.”

“It may sound crazy, Mr. Holmes.” She gave me a cursory glance hoping for some encouragement. She received none. “But it is well known in the neighborhood that a certain Ms. Matilda Briggs does the work of the devil. She has never liked Rachel since she teased her son about his strange ways. Children can be so cruel at that age, Mr. Holmes. But my Rachel did not deserve this.” She threw herself forward sobbing. “I feel so ashamed for cursing her like I did. I did not mean it. It was a fit of anger. Oh, how I want her back.”

Holmes cast me a glance. “Perhaps some brandy for our guest, Dr. Watson?”

I noticed Holmes used the word guest, and not client. There were still further questions to be asked.

Several moments passed and with it half a glass of brandy. Mrs. Scrivner seemed to be regaining some semblance of composure. Holmes finally broke the silence. “Back to the question I asked earlier. To what to you ascribe the sudden vanishing of your daughter?”

Mrs. Scrivner took another, rather large, gulp of the brandy and stared into the replenishing liquid. “I do not know what else to think, Mr. Holmes. I ran into the alleyway to find only a Raven.”

“Unusual.” Holmes pondered. “Ravens has not been found in the wild in London for over fifty years. And even then, mostly in Hyde Park. People became fascinated with the bird after Edgar Allen Poe wrote his famous poem. People loved them as they kept the streets clean, but some thought they were a threat to livestock and they were hunted down.”

“Cannot say I have seen one in years. At least around London.” I was remembering a few in the countryside.

“Well, perhaps Brixton is far enough from the center of the city?” Holmes was searching for an explanation of the strange sighting. “And your explanation?”

Mrs. Scrivner was tentative but, at the same time, forthright. “The devil’s apprentice turned my poor baby into a raven. What else could it possibly be?”

A quick smile invaded Holmes’ lips but was quickly quashed. “I am not a big believer in such things, Mrs. Scrivner. I shall take your case. We shall find out the true cause of your daughter’s disappearance.”

Our guest, or should I say new client, burst into tears at the news. “Here is what you shall do. Go back to your home this evening and notify us if there has been any additional news of your daughters’ whereabouts. If not, we shall be upon your doorstop in the early morning.”

We bid farewell to our hopeful new acquaintance with promises to travel early tomorrow. “What is it about the raven, Watson, that seems to capture the imagination? After all, the bird is merely a scavenger that preys upon everything from the nestlings of other birds to human garbage.”

“Well,” I pondered. “There is the poem by the American that seems to be popular.”

“Yes, nevermore and all that. But before that even Charles II found the birds fascinating.”

“How, so?”

“Flamsteed told Charles II that killing all of the ravens would be a bad omen after the Great Fire of London in 1666. Charles II ordered six of them to be kept at the Tower of London least he lose his kingdom. They have been there ever since.” Despite rattling off this interesting fact, Holmes was deep in thought. His eyes were turned to the red glow of the fire as the embers continued to give off their warmth. He placed his elbows on the arms of the chair and brought his fingertips together in a most precise manner. He then lit his pipe as he leaned back in his chair to watch the blue smoke-rings chase each other to the ceiling. “There is reason here if we can find that singular fact upon which all other results derive.” More smoke rings lofted. “We shall find that insight tomorrow, I am sure of it.”

The Brixton and South Stockwell railway station was still somewhat well-appointed given its original design to serve the affluent Victorian suburb area of South London. Travelers now represented a curious mix of wealth and the working class cobbled together awaiting their appointments in the city. The recent bankruptcy of the London, Chatham and Dover railway company had not deterred their ability to operate, given their vital role in Greater London commuter network. While the trains were not always on time, they were deemed necessary to the overall good. However, recent weather conditions did not serve to improve the timeliness of their schedules.

A hansom cab was readily available to transport us to our destination on Brixton Water Lane near Brockwell Park. Fortunately, being somewhat out of the congested part of London, the weather may have held its chill, but the air was more conducive to both seeing and breathing without an occasional hacking cough.

Mrs. Scrivner’s residence was a classic early Victorian villa, featuring a mostly white front and a blue door that made it stand out from those on the remainder of the street. A waist high wrought iron fence served to divide the small front yard front the street and what was most-likely a well-kept garden in warmer times.

Our host looked the worse for wear as the stress of the situation shown upon her aging complexion. Whereas the gray in her hair might have shown some level of distinction only a few days prior, now they only served to frame the worry in her face. “I trust you have not heard of anything which may shed light upon the situation?” Holmes already knew the answer to his question, but it needed to be asked.

“Mr. Holmes, I continue to probe the recesses of my memory for any telltale sign of some wrongness that should have pointed to the coming disaster. Something I could have done to avert such what has happened. Nothing has been amiss. No atypical behavior. Nothing except the evil ways of my neighbor. But I cannot imagine why she would have done such a thing as, while we are not friends, neither are we enemies.” She took a breath and gave a slight shudder. Holmes stood silent as she searched for words. “I am scrounging for every last scrap of courage just to get through the day, Mr. Holmes. Knowing that my Rachel is suffering in another world or, worse yet, has had some stroke of evil thrust upon her in this one.”

“Oh, forgive my manners. Let me put on the kettle.” And with that, Holmes and I made our way into the plainly furnished first floor living area. As we did, a younger man descended upon the stairwell dressed in a worn heavy coat. “Mr. Holmes, this is one of our guests, Mr. Budd.”

“Pleasure, Mr. Budd. This is my colleague, Dr. Watson.” Holmes wasted no time. “Tell me, how long have you resided here?”

“Going on about a year now, I would say.”

“I trust you are aware of the recent disappearance of Mrs. Scrivner’s daughter.”

The man nodded. “Terrible tragedy. One hopes it will all be resolved soon.”

Mrs. Scrivner hurried off to the kitchen to make tea. “So, you think there is a resolution to be found?”

“I do not believe the raven story, if that is what you mean. She has to have gone somewhere.”

“I see. What do you know of Ms. Matilda Briggs?”

“What? Oh, the old lady across the way. She is no witch, if that is what you are asking. She is good with chemicals and other such things. Her son, Scott, seems equally so. He was gone for a while but is back now. People go to her for treatments for different ailments, although I am pretty sure she is not formally trained in medicine. But, she seems to have a constant pace of visitors that could not otherwise afford a doctor’s care.”

“Can you tell me anything about young Rachel?”

“Sweet young girl. Attractive. She seems to resent being tethered to this place to help her mother. Full time job, you know. Always something to fix, something to clean, food to prepare. She does not get out much. Seems like she could attract a proper suitor if she did.”

“I see. Well, thank you Mr. Budd. Please do not let us keep you from your morning commute.”

As tea was served, Holmes eyes were probing about the house to create a clear picture. The home was well cared for, although there were some signs of recent neglect, something to be expected given the state of affairs. “I imagine that there is quite a lot of work that goes into running the household. How many guests do you have?”

“We have rooms for three. You met Mr. Budd. There is also a Mr. Sommerlad, a German chap who has been here for several months. He works in the city and is up and out early every morning. He is somewhat dark and mysterious but seems to be doing well and pays on time. We currently have one room that was recently vacated. Mr. Campbell did not have much luck with finding work here and returned to Scotland. Left somewhat of a mess in his wake. Perhaps that was for the best.”

“I see. Given the location, finding those in need of a room must not be too difficult?”

“Not at all. We have already had inquiries on that room, but no takers, as of yet.”

“Thank you for the tea. Perhaps it is time to see the alleyway into which Rachel fled?”

Mrs. Scrivner was clearly not wanting to revisit the scene where she last laid eyes upon her only daughter. Her eyes began to water and she put a handkerchief to her cheek to absorb the tear. “Very, well,” she resigned herself to the inevitable. “This way.”

We walked through a small hallway that was made up mostly of shelves for dry storage to find a door. As our guest hesitated, Holmes moved forward and yanked it open with a jerk as the cold weather had caused some sticking. Oblivious to the cold, Holmes immediately moved out into the alleyway to observe all that it held. The usual old barrels and planks of wood were found there, each examined by Holmes in his predictably meticulous manner. Some scattered garbage in the darker recesses. Visibility to the end of the alleyway was hampered by the yellow fog that engulfed most of London and the surrounding areas. There was another door a few yards down the way.

“And where does that door lead?” Holmes was pointing to the door on the building across the alleyway.

Mrs. Scrivner stiffened. “That leads to her!”

“Her?”

“That evil woman. That wicked woman who may have taken my Rachel from me.”

“Ah, Mrs. Matilda Briggs. Watson, perhaps we should call on Mrs. Briggs to see if she has anything to reveal?” And with that we donned our coats, bid our farewell to the seething Mrs. Scrivner with assurances we would do everything in our power to find her missing daughter, and left by the front door to walk the circumference of the block and arrive on the other side.

The house had a similar white front with five windows looking down upon us from the upper level and three larger windows on the ground floor. The fence protecting the front was made of stone and the garden hidden behind it yielded more herbs than other varieties of plants. We swung the iron gate open, quickly walked the stone path, and proceeded to ring the bell. A young man answered the door. He was shabbily dressed with stains covering various parts of his clothing and exuding a feint chemical smell. His sharp blue eyes quickly scanned us and with some hesitation, he asked “How may I help you?”

“Sherlock Holmes to see Mrs. Briggs.”

“And what is the nature of your business with Mrs. Briggs?”

“Simply to ask a few questions regarding the disappearance of a young lady that is a neighbor of hers.”

“Wait here.” Holmes and I gave each other a questioning glance as we were not invited in and remained standing in the cold.

“Curious. Perhaps we should have been less forthcoming with our introduction.”

Hushed voices from further back in the house preceded the door opening once again to reveal a matronly woman with her greying hair pulled back into a tight bun and an apron covering her well-worn dress than reflected tiny splatters of different chemicals. She gave Holmes and me a most unwelcoming look as she asked, “So, what brings you gentlemen to our doorstep?”

“Perhaps if we came inside . . .” Holmes was immediately cut off by Mrs. Briggs.

“I am afraid we do not have time for visitors, at the moment. Please state your business.”

“I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague Dr. Watson. We have been asked to look into the matter of the disappearance of Rachel Scrivner. Perhaps you have heard some of the details of this terrible tragedy?”

“I have heard what I have heard, Mr. Holmes.”

“Well, we were hoping someone in the neighborhood would be able to shed some light upon what had happened that day. Any information you could share would be most helpful.”

“I know what is being said about me, Mr. Holmes. I suspect your doctor friend here disapproves of what I do, but that does not mean I cannot help people who cannot afford to see people such as him. But, I have never turned anyone into a bird. Now, if you will excuse me.” And with that, the door was slammed into our faces.

“Well,” said I. “That did not appear to have accomplished very much.”

“On the contrary. A seed has been planted.” Holmes glanced around. “That public-house provides us with a view to be able to keep watch on her front door. With any luck, we shall be able to warm up a bit and have a hasty lunch.”

“Watch for what?” I pondered.

“We shall see what we shall see.”

Set before us was a large cup of tea, a couple of pieces of buttered bread and a slice of meat. I was grateful to be out of the cold and the hot tea was graciously accepted for the warmth it provided. There was no difficulty in sitting by the window looking over the street as the stove was found further inside the establishment and was surrounded by most patrons looking to keep the chill away.

As luck would have it, we were just finishing up when the young man from the Briggs house started to make his way down the street in our direction. “They are moving forward more quickly than I anticipated. Quick, Watson, we must make haste.” Quickly throwing on our outer garments, we moved into the street in pursuit of the young man. Rather than the more shabbily dressed version of him earlier, his dress and his demeanor had now taken on a very different personality.

He walked at a rapid pace and quickly rounded a corner as we quickened our pace such as not to lose him. As we rounded the corner, there he stood with the face of a determined opponent. “What do you hope to gain by following me, Mr. Holmes?”

“Ah, Mr. Briggs. To find out whether or not you have followed up on your plan.” Holmes gave the young man a piercing look. “Have you done the deed?”

“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”

“Have you followed through on your plans with Rachel Scrivner?”

The young man took a step back and was at a complete loss for words. After a few moments he blurted “I am sure I do not know what you mean.” He turned to go but could not take his eyes off his questioner.

Holmes continued his icy stare. “The chemicals that are being prepared in your home are of a most advanced nature.” He let that comment sink in. “Where did you study?”

“What? How could you possibly know?”

“I have written several monographs on experiments and compounds with which you are working. Their smell is quite unique, as were their stains upon your laboratory working clothes.”

“I took a first at Oxford.”

“I see. So, your family is better off than you are willing to let on.”

“Not quite, Mr. Holmes. My mother worked very hard to support me through university. But, now that I am back, things are quite a bit more comfortable.”

“And now you are in a position to move forward with your plans with Miss Scrivner.”

He seemed relieved that he could now share the secret with someone else, yet remained silent. Holmes asked, “How long have you two been planning this?”

“Rachel and I have been very close friends for some time. On my visits back from Oxford, our relationship blossomed into something else altogether. We tried to tell her mother a few times, but she would hear none of it. Wildly proclaiming her hatred of my family and that Rachel could not possibly be ready to have a suitor, much less something more.”

“Her showing up at your back door with no notice must have come as somewhat of a shock.”

“An understatement, Mr. Holmes. But, I more than most, know that Rachel can be somewhat impulsive. And the strains upon her relationship with her mother were growing every day.”

“Back to my earlier question. When do you plan to follow through on your plan?

“I was on my way to see the local priest. He knows of our intent but we had not set a formal date. We were really wondering about the best way to go about it given the situation. The priest has ever fewer answers than we do.”

A half of an hour later we found ourselves in the church with a priest who was willing to conduct the ceremony that very afternoon if everything could be arranged. A hansom cab brought us back to the home of Mrs. Matilda Briggs. Mrs. Briggs was astonished to see Holmes and I arrive through the front door with her son. “Scott, what have you done?”

“Somehow Mr. Holmes knew everything. I am still not sure how. But as of now, he is willing to help us see our plans come to fruition.”

Mrs. Briggs gave us a suspicious look. “And why would that be, Mr. Holmes?”

“Very simple. Mrs. Scrivner has engaged us to find her daughter. We have found her. And not only that, we have found that she has secured for herself a reasonable future. I believe that is what every mother wants for her only child.”

I interjected, “there is a question as to who breaks the news to Mrs. Scrivner of the marriage?”

Holmes answered, “I would suggest that it might be best to announce it to her after the ceremony. But, that is not my decision.”

And so, it was that the marriage of Scott Griggs and Rachel Scrivner was conducted that very afternoon. It took quite some time for Mrs. Scrivner to get over her daughter’s elopement, but eventually came to realize that her neighbor was not a member of Satan’s crew and that her daughter was now married to an Oxford graduate, something she could only have hoped for in other circumstances.

THE RAVEN

By Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!

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