The Tranquility of the Morning
By Mike Hogan
This story first appeared in The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Volume VII.
Mike Hogan studied English literature and spent many years in business. He writes novels, plays and screenplays, and is a Sherlock Holmes, Monty Python and Frasier fan. He divides his time between the UK and Asia, rides the Amtrak rails in America at least twice a year, and somehow always ends up in New Orleans.
www.kaleidoscopeproductions.co.uk
Haitian-American artist Tracy Guiteau headed for Providence Rhode Island to attend the renowned Rhode Island School Design where she received a BFA degree in Fashion Design in 2007. During her training at RISD, she traveled internationally to learn and broaden her artistic experience at the University of Westminster in London. At an early age, Guiteau had made a discovery that takes most of us all our lives to stumble on. She had found her purpose. Constantly putting the hours into her craft and her dreams with a positive sense of exuberance, her presence is undoubtedly heavy on the scene. Exhibiting internationally, all over the country and scoring countless mentions and write-ups from publications. There are five words hidden in the art. Can you find them?
Artwork size: 40” × 30”
Medium: Acrylic on canvas
I stood at the open window of our sitting room in Baker Street one crisp, clear Sunday morning, smoking a fine cigar and sipping an excellent cup of pre-breakfast coffee. The street below me was busy in the dry, chill weather that had followed days of rain, and pedestrians strolled under streetlamps that were still draped with the remains of the victor’s laurels that had honoured the exploits of our victorious Army. Even in the wan sunlight, Baker Street presented a busy, festive appearance. The strains of a military band playing martial airs wafted from the Park in the intervals between sprightly music hall tunes played by a hugely bearded hurdy-gurdy man who had made his pitch outside our door. A flock of children in their Sunday clothes surrounded him, petting his monkey companion and clamouring for their favourite tunes.
I leaned out of the window, called for “Abdul Abulbul Amir”, and threw down a penny, which the monkey caught with an athletic leap in the air.
The door of Holmes’s bedroom opened, and he strode across the room, reached past me and slammed the window shut.
“Do have a care, my dear fellow. The sash pulleys are original,” I said, somewhat sharply.
Holmes grabbed his Times from the table, slumped into his chair before the fireplace, wrapped himself in his disreputable shawl, and jabbed tobacco into his morning cherry-wood pipe with his thumb. “How can I think with this cacophony?”
I went to the door and called down to Billy, skulking in the hall as usual, for fresh coffee. I turned back to Holmes. “Shall I order breakfast now, or do you want your coffee first?”
Holmes flapped his newspaper and grunted a reply which long exposure to early-morning under-employed Holmes allowed me to interpret, and I called again to Billy to bring breakfast immediately.
“I will be glad when this ridiculous fuss is over and we can settle down to pleasant, quiet mornings again,” Holmes remarked from behind his paper. “Our so-called war with the Kingdom of Burma was a purely commercial venture, a military excess akin to a rampaging elephant stamping on a delicate flower. It was accompanied by assurances of Burmese independence that were outright lies.”
My companion had been cranky and argumentative during the Christmas and New Year festivities, doubtless due to the paucity of clients over the holidays and what he considered the vacant, simple-minded merriment of the populace, and I had no intention of provoking another row over the Army’s victories in Upper Burma. I changed the subject. “Celebrations in the street are less noisy, and far less destructive than riots,” I suggested. “I am astonished at reports that the agitator, John Burns, has been acquitted.”
Holmes flicked down a corner of his paper and frowned a quizzical frown.
“The man who led the mob along Pall Mall, smashing the windows of the gentlemen’s clubs, attacking members and passers-by, and shouting Socialist slogans. Disgraceful behaviour.”
“He with the red flag? I did not know his name.” Holmes went back to his newspaper, and I threw a shovelful of coal into the grate, poking our recalcitrant fire into a semblance of flickering life. “The chimney’s still blocked. We’ll have to get the sweeps in, like it or lump it. We could spend a day and night at my club to avoid the mess, or better yet, have a refreshing week-end in Torquay.”
Holmes did not deign to answer my suggestion. Our chimney had long been due for a cleaning, but Holmes detestation of the inevitable disruption—tidying of papers, covering furniture, soot everywhere—was so profound that in his tetchy mood he had refused to countenance the sweep. My holiday cheer had been dampened by the chill and sooty atmosphere, and as my bedroom fireplace connected to the same blocked flue, I had been obliged to sleep under a mound of blankets, shivering in my dressing gown, balaclava, and mittens.
The arrival of the second post and breakfast coincided, and Holmes and I set to our kippers and bacon and eggs in silence as we read our mail, in my case a wad of end-of-year bills, club and magazine subscription demands, and reminders from tradesmen of essential services that might be provided to a discerning customer at a discount and with payment spread across the calendar. I tipped most of my post into our kindling box.
Holmes shared the last of the coffee between our cups, then he waved a telegram flimsy at me.
“Not a client, Holmes,” I said, wearily. “Not on a Sunday. I had hoped for a quiet day catching up on my reading. I have the last two weeks’ Lancets yet unread.”
“He will be here at eleven: A gentlemanly hour to start the business of the day.” Holmes passed me the telegram.
“Beg leave report strange phenomenon stop 11 a.m. stop Coulteney.” I raised my eyebrows.
“Short and sweet,” said Holmes. ‘A military gentleman, I suggest, with his ‘beg leave report’ and admirably succinct style. Note the carefully chosen term, ‘phenomenon’.” Holmes stood and felt along the mantel for his pipe while I anticipated his request and took down the ‘C’ volume of his scrapbook index. I flicked through it to no avail.
“‘Coulteney, Admiral Sir Arthur, retired, and Lady Alice of Coulteney Hall, Berkshire and Curzon Street in London’,” Holmes said, consulting Who’s Who. “He commanded the China station in the sixties. Interests include china (with a small ‘c’), fishing etc., etc. The admiral sired a son, Major Albert Coulteney, Indian Army, unmarried.” Holmes dropped the volume on his desk.
“Your client could be the admiral or the major,” I said.
“Undoubtedly the son.”
I frowned at the telegram. “Is there some clue in the phrasing that I have missed?”
The doorbell rang downstairs, and Billy showed our visitor up to our sitting room. Major Coulteney, as Holmes had somehow deduced, proved to be a handsome, tanned, square-faced man in his mid-forties in a plain black frock-coat and matching top hat. His only adornments were a gold watch chain across his waistcoat and a very fine gold cravat-pin in the shape of an elongated ‘S’, set with a two gleaming, green gems. He wore wide mourning bands around his hat and sleeve.
Having introduced himself and shaken my hand, the major laid his gloves, hat, and stick on our sideboard, and after a few preparatory remarks about the weather, sat on the sofa I indicated. Holmes had busied himself with his newspaper and pipe as our guest arrived, but at last he laid his paper aside, steepled his fingers in a characteristic gesture, and regarded our visitor with the intensity of a mongoose glaring at a python, or perhaps the other way around. Major Coulteney did not appear disconcerted by my friend’s unsociable behaviour.
“Do I have the honour of addressing Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he asked mildly.
“Oh, I do apologise,” I said. “May I introduce Mr. Holmes? Holmes, this is Major Coulteney.”
“I see from the newspapers that the erstwhile Kingdom of Burma has been annexed by the British Crown,” Holmes said in an admonishing tone, “despite assurances that the current king would be replaced by a dynastic successor. I predict arid years of thuggery and warlordism. The Burmese are a pugnacious race, when aroused.”
I readied myself for a most inhospitable row, but fortuitously the sitting-room door opened and Mrs. Hudson entered with a tray of coffee. I stood. “Perhaps Major Coulteney would prefer a whisky?”
He shook his head. “Coffee would be most acceptable. It is a little early for me. I have an occasional twinge of gout that I supress by daytime abstinence.”
Mrs. Hudson smiled an approving smile, handed cups of coffee, and offered seed cake. She accepted the major’s thanks, suggesting that nothing was too good for our heroes of the Burma campaign.
The door closed behind her, and Major Coulteney smiled at me. “I wonder how that lady knew I soldiered in Burma.”
“Mrs. Hudson has been our landlady for several years, and I have no doubt that she, like me, has picked up one or two of Mr. Holmes’s sleuthhound tricks.”
“Tricks?” snarled Holmes.
I ignored him. “You did not achieve such a deep suntan any time recently in this country, Major. It has been a dark and dismal winter. Your bearing is military, of course, suggesting that you are an officer recently returned from a long posting, probably in India or the North-West frontier. A senior officer in a line regiment, I might suggest. And, according to the papers, our troops in Burma are mostly drawn from the Indian Army.” I turned to Holmes and raised my eyebrows, willing him to be civil, but he merely smiled his Buddha smile.
“You have suffered a recent bereavement,” I continued, indicating the mourning band around the major’s arm. “Was your regiment closely engaged in the fighting?”
“We suffered several casualties, but I wear these mourning favours for my father, Admiral Coulteney. You may have seen the notice in The Times last month.”
I gave Holmes a disdainful look. So much for sleuthhounding, I thought. He had seen the admiral’s death notice in the paper.
“I am adjutant of the Third Madras Light Infantry,” Major Coulteney continued. “The regiment was heavily engaged on the Irrawaddy, and then took part in an expedition up-country from Toungou.”
“I read of that,” I exclaimed. “A very creditable operation, particularly with regard to the difficult terrain and your lack of cavalry support.”
Major Coulteney bowed. “After King Thibaw’s surrender, I was released to return home on leave. Word of my father’s death was cabled to the regimental barracks in India while I was aboard a steamer heading for home, and I did not receive the sad news until I had settled into my club, the Travellers.”
“You did not stay at your townhouse in Curzon Street?” I asked.
He smiled. “I see you have done your homework, Doctor. No, I had booked rooms at the Travellers by cable, and when I disembarked I did not yet know of my father’s death. He and I did not see eye-to-eye on a number of matters, and I had thought it prudent to make my London base in Pall Mall. We always observed an informal truce while my mother was present, but we could rarely get through a day, and certainly not a dinner, without an argument erupting.”
“You are now in residence in Curzon Street with your mother?”
“I stay there, but Lady Coulteney, who is in poor health, is in Lourdes, where she hopes to recover her vitality at the shrine of Saint Bernadette. We are a Catholic family.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Her maid de chambre recently resigned, and the shock brought on a migraine. She was extremely fortunate in acquiring a replacement at very short notice.”
I blinked at Holmes, willing him to make a contribution to our conversation, and at last he stirred himself out of his sulk. “Might I know the matter?” he asked, yawning and stretching. “What can I do for you, Major?”
Major Coulteney seemed to gird himself before he replied. “You must understand, Mr. Holmes, that I am a military man, a gunner by training, and thus steeped in the empirical: Trajectories, windage, rifled bores, and ballistics are my creed, and apart from a residual adherence to the tenets of the Roman Catholic Church, I have no truck with spirits, demons, and the like.”
Holmes flicked his eyes to me then back to our visitor. “But?”
“I am embarrassed to admit that our house on Curzon Street is infested by at least one, and perhaps several ghosts.” Major Coulteney shook his head. “If I might trespass on your time and indulgence, it might be simpler if were to show you the phenomenon rather than attempt a description?” He stood and handed me a pair of calling cards. “If you gentlemen would be so kind as to visit me in Curzon Street, perhaps this afternoon if that is not too inconvenient, then I need trespass on Mr. Holmes’s valuable time no further.”
I avoided my friend’s eyes as I saw the major to the door.
“Major Coulteney,” Holmes called from his place by our smoky fire, “you were last home on leave about eight years ago, is that correct?”
The major blinked at Holmes. “That is so.”
“You wear a most interesting tiepin. Jade of course, and depicting a letter of the Burmese alphabet.”
Major Coulteney fingered the jewel. “The letter ‘N’.”
Holmes bowed farewell, and the major turned to me with a quizzical look, but I could offer no gloss on Holmes’s questions. I saw him to out to his cab.
“Oh, dear,” I said as I returned to the sitting room. “I thought we were done with ghosts and ghouls. We are approaching the end of a rational century.” I frowned at Holmes. “Was it necessary to be quite so insufferable? I know we disagree on the Burma question, and you are one of your moods, but—”
“What do you make of Major Coulteney?” Holmes asked, stretching up to the mantel and scrabbling for his pipe.
I filled my own morning pipe as I considered. “He told his tale in a straightforward manner, admitting his poor relationship with his papa. That accords with his long spell of duty abroad. I am sure he would have been allowed home leave earlier, had he applied.”
“His clothes have obviously been in storage for some time. His jacket was full around the shoulders: He has lost some weight. And there was the smell.”
I frowned.
“Mothballs.”
“Is that how you knew that he had been away for eight years?” I asked.
“No, no, surely you noticed his cravat? That lamentable style of bright paisley came into fashion for a mercifully brief period about nine years ago. No valet who knows his business would let his master out in public wearing it now. The rage is all for plain, dark hues. The major’s cravat also clashed violently with his jade tiepin. I imagine his soldier servant knows only red, white, and blue.”
“Major Coulteney talked of the loss of his mother’s maid as having more effect on her than her husband’s death!” I said.
“To lose a husband is unfortunate; to lose a femme de chambre may be a far more climacteric event for a woman of mature years, dependent on Beatrice or Sofia as the only person who understands her hair, and perhaps as a confidant. If the maid dies (the Queen is notoriously wearing on hers, and they expire with inevitable frequency) that is inconvenient. If the girl is so disloyal as to give notice and obtain employment in another house, taking her mistress’s secrets with her—that is a catastrophe.”
“You sound like one of those clever, epigrammatic writers, Holmes.”
“Thank you.”
“I intended the comparison as a criticism.” I stood. “I’ll inform Mrs. Hudson that we may be late for dinner.”
“Liver and bacon,” Holmes replied, and I stiffened.
“Pagani’s?” I suggested sotto voce, glancing towards the closed sitting-room door, “although our funds are much depleted after the holiday season. Or the public house opposite the station does veal pie, boiled potato, and a pudding at eightpence farthing.”
Holmes smiled a reptilian smile.
Our cab stopped outside an imposing mansion in Curzon Street with a black front door, reached by a flight of gleaming stone steps and adorned with a silver lion’s head doorknocker. The door opened wide as I paid the cabby, revealing an upper servant dressed in a pale blue robe, bound with a gold sash, and wearing a strange hat, something between a military forage cap and a fez, surmounted by a huge deep-yellow blossom—an orchid. He bowed deeply, introduced himself as the butler, and welcomed Holmes and me by name in unaccented English as footmen took our coats, hats, and canes.
The butler led us across a marble-floored hall from which a magnificent double staircase led to upper floors and into a drawing room in which a very welcome fire blazed. We were offered cigars and cigarettes before he left us to inform his master of our arrival, trailing a faint scent of patchouli.
I warmed my coattails at the fire and gave Holmes a reproachful look. “We must do something about our chimney—”
“Ming Chenghua,” Holmes said, lifting a blue-and-white Chinese vase from the mantel. “A very fine example.”
Major Coulteney strode in, beaming, with the butler behind him. “I can’t thank you gentlemen enough for coming. I am at my wits’ end.” He offered drinks, which the oddly-dressed butler dispensed with impeccable grace, leaving Holmes and me settled in chairs in front of the fire.
“I see you noticed the china,” Major Coulteney continued as the door closed behind the servant. “In his later years, my father was an invalid, hardly going out except occasionally to his club to dine. He amused himself with his china collection, and that is part of the problem. It is my understanding that the collection includes pieces of great antiquity and value. The vase on the mantel is one, according to Cheng.”
“Cheng is an expert in chinaware? A dealer?” Holmes asked.
“Cheng is our butler.”
Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands together. “How very interesting.” He turned to me. “You will have noticed Cheng’s slightly slanted eyes, the mark of the Oriental.”
“He has strong, forward projecting zygomatic arches and relatively large epicanthic folds,” I answered, “but his nasal bridge is not particularly low-rooted.” I sipped my whisky, not without a certain inner satisfaction, as Holmes and the major digested my remarks.
“Cheng was a boy of mixed parentage,” Major Coulteney continued, “who ran from an orphanage and sneaked aboard my father’s ship when it was docked in Kowloon, China, oh, forty or more years ago. The sailors hid him from the authorities and he became a kind of ship’s mascot. Father took the boy under his wing and put him in the care of the ship’s schoolmaster with the midshipmen and cadets. He evidently thrived. Father often commented that, had he been able to regularise Cheng’ position in the Navy, he would have risen through the ranks and retired as an admiral.”
The major pursed his lips. “As it was, Cheng sailed with my father for a number of years, first as his cabin boy, then as confidential secretary. When the admiral retired, he took over the running of this London house and our country estate. I returned home last month, and I found that he had acquired certain airs above his station, as servants with indulgent masters are wont to do over time.” Major Coulteney fingered his paisley cravat. “Even having the presumption to proffer unwelcome advice on matters of gentlemanly attire.”
I stifled a smile. “Is Cheng connected with your problem?”
“Yes. Well, no, not exactly. With certain exceptions, Cheng is an admirable butler. The house runs like clockwork. My mother’s friends, who spend much of their time exchanging anecdotes on the iniquity of servants, look upon him as the very model of perfection, despite his sartorial proclivities (which my father and mother found charming) and his pretentions.”
Major Coulteney sniffed. “As my father’s health declined, he relied more and more on Cheng to help him prepare a catalogue of the china collection that was his obsession. When his sight began to fade, Cheng read to him from the large collection of reference books my father had amassed, thus acquiring a considerable knowledge of Chinese pottery. He was allowed to bid for my father at auctions.”
“Close to, your tiepin is very fine,” Holmes remarked. The major and I frowned at him in confusion.
“Thank you.” Major Coulteney fingered the gleaming jewel at his neck. “I was with my regiment in India for a few months when the British Resident at Mandalay requested an augmentation to his military guard and I transferred there. The jewel was a gift from a friend.”
“Mandalay!” I exclaimed. “A city of golden temples and yellow-clad monks—”
“Gamboge-clad,” Holmes corrected.
I took an irritated gulp of my whisky as the major continued his story.
“On my return home after my father’s death, I proposed to my mother that we sell the china and give Cheng his notice, but she is convinced that Cheng is indispensable. My mother is somewhat delicate, and I fear that any disturbance in her domestic arrangements (coming so soon after the replacement of her femme de chambre) would have a profound effect on her well-being.”
“And her husband’s death,” I suggested.
“Yes, that too, of course. The hurt of my father’s recent death is upon her, and she will suffer no change whatever in the house. And that brings us to the problem.” Major Coulteney stood. “Perhaps you gentlemen would follow me?”
The major led us outside into the hall, where Cheng waited with a footman, and ushered us past the grand staircase and into a room opposite.
“I believe I know your butler from somewhere,” I murmured as we entered a dim reception room. “Could I have seen his image in the papers?”
Major Coulteney answered me with a significant look, which I interpreted as a request not to pursue that topic.
We found ourselves in a charming, bow-windowed room with a row of three crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and numerous crystal and gold wall sconces, but lit only by the flickering flames of the fire in the grate. Glass-fronted cabinets alternated with mirrors along the walls. Cheng manipulated a device by the door and the gloom of winter late-afternoon was dispersed by a blaze of light that revealed rows of Chinese blue-and-white porcelain on glass shelves in the cabinets, gleaming in the bright lights, and more tall vases on the mantel shelf on either side of a glittering jade ornament.
“My father had electric lights installed as his sight began to fade, but our parlour maids refuse to enter this room even in daylight. Luckily, another maid—” Major Coulteney frowned and turned to Cheng.
“Maggie, sir.”
“Just so, Maggie is unperturbed by the phenomenon.”
“Our skivvy is Irish, but entirely pragmatical,” Cheng explained. He offered a drinks tray, but Holmes ignored him, loped across the room to the fireplace, and snatched a blue-and-white vase from the mantel.
“Do you mind if my colleague examines the china a little more closely?” I asked superfluously as Holmes held the vase to an electric wall sconce, muttering to himself. He turned to Major Coulteney. “This is a magnificent example of Ming Xuande from the fifteenth century—pity you do not have the pair.”
“Actually, we do.” Major Coulteney said in a light tone. He nodded to Cheng, who went through a green-baize-covered side-door and returned with an elderly maid in a grey uniform holding a brush and pan. She grinned a gap-toothed grin at us and displayed the contents of the pan, a heap of broken blue-and-white china. She mimed a sort-of sliding wiggle and a crash to the floor, and grinned again. I stifled a chuckle, and Holmes grabbed the dustpan from her and sifted through the shards.
“A hundred guineas the pair,” the major said.
“And with one vase gone, the balance of the room is even more disturbed,” said Cheng.
I frowned. “Balance?”
“Qi,” said Holmes. “Cheng is referring to the feng shui of the room: Its orientation according to the principles of celestial harmony.”
Cheng bowed. “Precisely, sir. The room tilts to the East, and naturally, things slide with it.”
“Thank you, Cheng,” Major Coulteney said coldly.
The butler bowed again and led the other servants from the room. Major Coulteney ushered Holmes and me to over-stuffed sofas. Holmes sat with the dustpan on his knees, stirring the shards.
“Our housekeeper, Mrs. Mason, swears that she and the maids have seen vases and even the candlesticks on the mantel jerk and dance on many occasions recently.” Major Coulteney took a gulp of whisky and turned to me, his fierce eyes belying his previous equanimity. “You see what I am beset with, Doctor? A kitchen skivvy is dusting the parlour, with a king’s ransom in blue-and-white china on display that I cannot dispose of. What next? The boot boy answering the door to visitors and Cook polishing the silver?”
“Heaven forfend,” I said sympathetically.
“The phenomenon manifests itself only in this room?” Holmes asked.
“It does.”
“In which direction do the objects dance?”
“East to west,” the major answered, “towards the windows.” He stood and took a palm-sized jade ornament from the collection of objets d’art on the mantel. “According to Cheng, this green dragon guards the east, and he is the key to the problem.”
Holmes took the dragon and peered at through his magnifying glass. “Carved from a single piece of jadeite of the very finest quality. He is a new addition to the collection? I see no other jade items.”
“My father collected only porcelain. I bought the dragon in the Burmese capital, brought it home, and placed it on the mantel a fortnight or so ago. The manifestation began the following day.”
Holmes leapt up, crossed to the windows, and scanned the frames. “No signs of forced entry.” He turned to Major Coulteney. “You saw this latest incident?”
“I did. As I have said, I am no spiritualist, but what I saw was uncanny. The vase wobbled along the shelf past the candlestick and crashed to the floor.”
“Cheng was present?”
“He came instantly at my call.” The major frowned. “You have a theory, Mr. Holmes? A solution to the problem?”
Holmes tapped his finger to his lip as he considered, then he shrugged. “The affair may be perfectly simple, or it may be exquisitely convoluted.”
“I am afraid my companion is a connoisseur of convolution,” I admitted.
“As for solutions,” Holmes said with a smile, “I am sure Cheng could find you a feng shui master who would re-orient the room. He might only require that the dragon be placed elsewhere, and tranquillity may be re-established.”
Major Coulteney stiffened. “I hardly think that would suit, Mr. Holmes. It is a question of authority, of who is master and who is man. With my father passed on, I am the head of this household.” He fingered the jade ornament at his throat. “I intend to marry shortly, and I have no intention of bringing my wife into a household in which she might feel the slightest awkwardness with the staff.” The major’s tone hardened further. “Cheng made his objection to my placing the jade dragon on the mantel abundantly clear, but I will not allow my authority to be gainsaid by him or any shaman or witch doctor he may set against me.”
Major Coulteney looked from Holmes to me, breathing heavily, his expression betraying his embarrassment as he continued. “I am sorry, gentlemen, I spoke a little intemperately. The thing is, my mother is due to return from Lourdes tomorrow, and it is imperative that this matter be resolved before then.” He blinked at Holmes. “I know it is an awful imposition, but would you gentlemen be prepared to stay a little longer and give the phenomenon a chance to expose itself? I can offer you a fair dinner, a curry, if that suits? Cook has mastered the art of the real Madras curry. Cheng obtains the proper ingredients from a ships’ chandler in Limehouse.”
Holmes took out his watch and regarded it with a doubtful expression.
“We did not think to bring evening clothes,” I said.
“We are not fashionable,” the major answered. “My father kept naval hours and dined at three in his afternoon attire. I follow Army ways and dine at seven in my undress uniform or even a frock coat.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows at me, and, thinking of the liver and bacon that awaited us at home, I instantly nodded agreement. “Very well, Major. Doctor Watson and I are at your disposal,” Holmes answered.
We were assigned a large and well-appointed bedroom in which to perform our ablutions, with a lavatory at the end of the hall. A footman saw to our needs in the matter of towels, soap, and hot water with admirable efficiency.
“Mr. Cheng’s rooms are on the top floor, I imagine?” Holmes asked him.
“Yes, sir. First on the left.”
Dinner was excellent, a choice of a joint of beef or the chicken curry Major Coulteney had promised. I accepted both with a little urging from our host. The wines too were of the very best quality. Cheng stood behind his new master making sure we were well served. He wore a dark blue, sari-like garment, and his cap was adorned with a matching, deep blue orchid.
Although I had served in Afghanistan and India, I knew very little of farther east, and I requested Major Coulteney to give me a succinct account of the recent war with the Burmese, which he did, sketching the line of the Irrawaddy in wine on the table after the cloth was drawn and positioning condiment dispensers and fruit from the bowl to represent our gunboats and the Burmese forts.
He explained that, after King Thibaw had exhibited disdain for our mercantile interests in Burma and threatened British property, Naval gunboats besieged his capital, Ava. Seeing the strength of the forces arrayed against him, the king had soon surrendered. The war was over within a fortnight.
“The palace was looted,” Major Coulteney said with a slight moue of distaste. “Jewels, silks, china, and gold were shipped to Britain and presented to the royal family and other notables. A Prize Committee was instituted at Mandalay to auction off the lesser items, mostly to Army and Navy officers and civil servants. Objects of high religious importance, including eleven gold idols of Lord Buddha, were shipped to Calcutta to be distributed to museums.”
“Is that where you acquired your jade dragon?” I asked.
The major shifted in his seat in obvious discomfort. “I bought it at an informal auction in King Thibaw’s bedroom in Ava. One of my sepoys had liberated it from a heathen shrine. I got him to show me the place he’d found it—a most magnificent altar with a scroll in Chinese script hanging beside it. The altar itself was jade-and-gold encrusted, depicting dragons in flight, and of such a weight that a Naval party with a hoist was required to remove it.”
“The Jade Dragon Disturbs the Tranquillity of the Morning,” Cheng said from his place behind the major.
“It is a fine piece,” said Holmes.
“From the reign of the Qianlong Emperor of China,” Cheng continued. “The jade is a representation of Ao Guang, the Dragon King of the Eastern Sea, who brought chaos to the world by creating droughts, storms, and other disasters. The dragon’s baneful influence, particularly during the full moon period, may be mitigated by surrounding the beast with images of the other eight dragons, or placing a cloth-of-gold cover over the image.”
“Like a tea cosy?” I suggested, “or a cloth over a budgie cage?”
“Thank you, Cheng, that will be all,” Major Coulteney said sharply
“I know I have seen Cheng somewhere before,” I said softly as the door closed behind the butler.
“He is something of a hero, I suppose,” the major said slowly, swirling his port in the light from a candelabrum. “He was at the Travellers picking up my sea trunks for transport here last month when a mob filled the street outside shouting Democratic slogans and calling for the downfall of the rich. They’d been pushed out of Trafalgar Square by the police, and a man with a red flag was leading them down Pall Mall. Members from the Travellers and several other clubs along Pall Mall returned their taunts with interest, and there was some violence—stone throwing and fisticuffs for the most part. The mob surged forward, intending to invade the Travellers, but they were stopped cold by Cheng at the head of a phalanx of Club footmen. Cheng planted himself in the doorway and held the pass wielding a Zulu knobkerrie from a display on the wall of the Smoking Room.
“He might have been overwhelmed, but a determined charge by members of the Diogenes Club cleared a path for a file of police constables to reach the doors and set up a defensive line. The man with the red flag—”
“John Burns,” I said.
“—led the mob on towards the Park and they vandalized the windows of the Carlton Club on the way. I am astonished that the wretch has been released uncharged. Various newspapers featured sketches of Cheng facing down the mob, some showing him as a Roman centurion chastising barbarians. The Daily Mail likened him to General Gordon of Khartoum confronting the mad Mahdists.”
“Good Lord,” I exclaimed. “He does not strike one as such a feisty fellow.”
Major Coulteney shrugged. “The press obviously sensationalised the incident.” The major regarded the glowing end of his cigar for a moment before he continued. “It is of no relevance to the matter in hand, but I should not like you to have the impression that Cheng is some sort of warrior saint. I know for a fact that he has had at least two assignations in Rupert Street with an unknown woman, heavily veiled.”
“You had him dogged?” Holmes asked.
“Of course not,” Major Coulteney answered, reddening. “The boot boy happened to be passing.”
The port circled the table for the last time, untouched, and Major Coulteney looked down at the table, still ill at ease. “I am happy that our dinner was undisturbed, but might I prevail on you gentlemen to stay the night? I’m sure Cheng has made the necessary arrangements—he is a mind reader. We might yet have a manifestation, and I should not like you to miss it.”
Holmes nodded acquiescence and, having thanked the major for a fine dinner, we smoked final cigars and said our goodnights. As his master had intimated, Cheng had made the necessary provisions for our comfort, and he led us up to our room with a pair of nightlights.
I stopped at a display case at the top of the stairs that I had not noticed on the way down. “I say, what splendid fishing flies.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You made these?”
“Indeed, sir, from instructions in an angling magazine and a little imagination. The author of the article suggested that it was essential to think like a trout while assembling the fly. Admiral Coulteney was pleased with the results, as were the trout.”
“I see,” I answered doubtfully.
“The final piece of the jigsaw,” Holmes murmured.
I slept very well. The sheets had been well-aired, the fire burned merrily, and I had curled my feet around a welcome hot water bottle. I woke up refreshed, and after our toilette, Holmes and I made our way downstairs to the breakfast room. He stopped on the landing, tapped his pocket and, having forgotten his magnifying glass, bid me go on as he darted back upstairs.
We breakfasted together in a pleasant room looking out over a lawn bordered by evergreens, both of us with our heads in our newspapers. Cheng supervised the service, wearing a bright yellow garment and with a matching pale yellow flower entwined in his hair. Our host joined us as the table was cleared, explaining that he had breakfasted earlier and just returned from a brisk walk. “I hope you slept well?” he enquired.
“Magnificently,” I answered.
“We are done,” said Holmes.
Major Coulteney and I gaped at him. “You’ve solved the case?” the major asked.
“At five-fifty-three yesterday afternoon,” Holmes replied. “Since then I have been tidying up, assembling the shards as it were. We might continue our discussion in the lair of the Jade Dragon.” He turned to Cheng. “I would be grateful if you would join us.”
Cheng bowed and led the way out and across the hall.
Holmes stopped. “I left my magnifying glass on the dresser in our room. Excuse me.” I frowned at him, and he winked back before he again loped upstairs!
He joined the major, Cheng, and me in the China room. “Have there been any recent changes in the household,” he asked. “You mentioned a new femme de chambre.”
“Ethel, but I hardly think she has a hand in this affair. She is with my mother in Lourdes.”
“The previous maid?”
“Carried off by the postman and wed at Gretna Green. My mother made strong representations to the postal authorities, but they will admit no responsibility.”
I heard a faint scraping sound and my head snapped around. One of the Chinese vases on the mantelpiece seemed to jiggle, then it flew through the air and crashed onto the parquet floor by the window, shattering into shards.
Cheng staggered to the wall, his face ashen as Holmes strode across the room, pulled out his magnifying glass and closely examined the floor, window frames, and the shards of porcelain. He stood. “Would you allow me to deal with this, Major? I believe that I will be able to rid you of this expensive nuisance in short order, given a free hand and with the help of Doctor Watson and Cheng.”
Major Coulteney coloured and he seemed about to remonstrate, but Holmes pre-empted him. “I must ask you to remain outside and whatever noises you may hear, however strange, you must not open the door. That is of the first importance. The Qi must not be allowed to dissipate until I have mastered the Jade Dragon.”
“Very well,” The major answered in a stiff tone. He talked out, closing the door behind him.
I blinked at Holmes. “I say, old man, should we not ask for a Bible?”
He rubbed his hands together, “Let us begin.”
“I think Cheng had better take a seat,” I suggested. “He is in shock.”
I settled the butler on a sofa and turned to face Holmes. He stood before the fireplace looking very much like a magician at the Alhambra about to pull a rabbit from an unlikely place.
“Would you mind passing me that Chinese vase?” he requested, directing me to one of the display cases. I gently removed a foot-tall, blue-and-white vase from its glass shelf and handed it carefully to Holmes. Cheng watched us white-faced and wide-eyed. “Do have a care, sir, that is an Imperial vase of Emperor Kangxi of the Qing Dynasty! It is priceless.”
Holmes lifted the blue-and-white vase above his head. “The solution to our problem is simple enough. We must convince the wraith to depart by showing our indifference to its destructive conduct.”
“Noooo!” Cheng cried, darting up from his seat, arms outstretched.
Holmes dashed the vase onto the grate where it shattered into a thousand pieces. “There, that might get the attention of the Jade Dragon.”
Cheng hands flew to his mouth. “Oh, sir, how could you!” He collapsed back onto the sofa with his head in his hands.
Holmes smiled at him. “The game—”
“Is afoot?” I suggested.
Holmes sighed. “I was about to say to Cheng that the game is up. I think he could do with a reviving glass of brandy.”
“I was distressed beyond words by my master’s death,” Cheng said, holding a glass of brandy in both hands as if deriving warmth from it. Holmes and I sat on the sofa opposite him. “The admiral was, if I may be excused the liberty, like a father to me. When he died, and I heard that the young master was returning home, I was doubly distraught. I made an attempt at madness, gentlemen. For several days, I fancied myself a Ming Dynasty tea caddy, then a police constable on patrol, and finally a Mandalay river steamer: Toot, toot! But nobody seemed to notice.”
Holmes sniffed. “Might I suggest that your somewhat outlandish dress and manner made it difficult for your master and colleagues to give sufficient weight to any further peculiarities you accumulated?”
“Just so, sir. Then I attempted to convince myself that the very ideas I was coming up with—the poltergeist, the constable, tea caddy, and so on—were in themselves evidence of derangement. But I am a hard person to convince.” Cheng shook his head. “I had a rough childhood, but a varied and full life since, by grace of Admiral Coulteney. I owed him life, gentlemen, for his Lordship picked me up from the gutters of Kowloon and made a man of me, and I had promised him that I would never abandon the family. No, I could not in conscience leave Her Ladyship, but how could I stay? What was I to do?”
“And Ethel’s role in the matter,” Holmes asked.
“I see you know it all, sir. Ethel and I met at the Upper Servant’s Christmas Ball in Blackfriars last November, and a mutual understanding was reached between us. She agreed to leave her employment with Lady Kennedy and replace my mistress’s maid, who’d run off with the postman.”
I frowned. “I must admit that I am confused. Was your relationship with Major Coulteney so uncomfortable that you could not endure continuing in employment with his family after the admiral’s death?”
Cheng nodded. “We never got on, Doctor. Nor did he and his father, which was a cause of sadness for my mistress, his mother. I formed the impression that (forgive my forwardness, gentlemen) that young Master Albert blamed me for the coldness between him and his father.”
“He considered that you had replaced him in his father’s affections?” I asked.
“I hardly like to speculate, Doctor. Young Albert did not excel at school, and he was unable to follow in the admiral’s footsteps into the Navy due to the new scholastic provisions. He did not meet the requirements for Sandhurst, and it was only through a connection on Lady Alice’s side of the family that he found a place in the Indian Army.”
“He evidently did not share his father’s interest in porcelain,” I suggested.
“Nor angling,” Cheng added. “There were few topics on which father and son could converse, and those inevitably led to a row.” A malevolent gleam appeared in Cheng’s eyes for a moment, before he resumed his usual benign expression. “And then the cable came from Mandalay. Albert was coming home and bringing with him a wife.” Cheng’s lips curled, “And such a wife! I was at my wits’ end. The news sped the admiral to his grave, and nearly killed Her Ladyship.”
I frowned, utterly at a loss. “Not Ethel, surely!”
“A Burmese lady whose name begins with ‘N’,” Holmes said, smiling at me.
Cheng crossed himself. “Nanda, a heathen princess, so we are told. She is staying at Benson’s Private Hotel, in the ladies’ wing. She is a witch. She has entranced Lord Albert with the power of the Jade Dragon.”
Holmes beamed at me. “Cherchez la femme.”
“If I may, Holmes.” I turned to Cheng. “You must forget this nonsense of tea caddies and vases and poltergeists. And dragon ornaments and witches, for that matter. I say nothing of any Roman Catholic beliefs and observances, except to offer a medical opinion that excess in spiritual matters can have unfortunate consequences similar to abuse of drugs or alcohol. You must think of your sanity, old chap. Many a stout fellow has gone East and returned a mental wreck. Think on that. And you were born out there, which must be a heavy burden. Do not subject your mental faculties to excessive strain. You might consider transferring your allegiance to a religious body with a less effusive doctrine, one not quite so cluttered with saints and devils and so on—”
“The Salvation Army?” Holmes suggested.
“I was thinking of the Church of England, Holmes, and speaking only as a medical man.”
“I take no offence, Doctor,” Cheng said.
“And I would advise you to resign your position here. If the antagonism between you and your new master is to be augmented by his marriage, you will do your new mistress and Her Ladyship no good by remaining. Is there nobody on His Lordship’s staff who might take your place?”
Cheng considered. “A hard question, sir. William (his real name is Kenneth, but the admiral always insisted that his senior footman was a William) is competent. He could be trained. I could nurture him farther along the road to adequacy in a year or so. Yes, a year might be possible; I believe I could bring William up in that time, or a little more.”
“What will you do after you leave the family?”
“I have a sum put away, sir, and I had thought to take the lease on a public house in a pleasant village, Devon perhaps.”
“Very well.” I frowned at Cheng. “The poltergeist or whatever. That was your work?”
He blanched. “The wiggling of objects on the mantel sir, yes, and I must admit to the destruction of the first vase.” He gazed in melancholy at the heap of broken porcelain by the window. “But the second vase was the dragon, and then Mr. Holmes—” He sobbed into his cupped hands.
I turned to Holmes. “No one could fault your bravura, old man, but it was a rather expensive way to make a point.”
Holmes smiled. “Was it? You saw the debris of the first broken vase brought to us by the skivvy. Have you no observations to make?”
I sniffed. “I expect I saw, but I did not observe.”
“Exactly. You did not notice that the chips were granular in texture and far too thick to be fine Chinese porcelain, totally unlike the traditional hard-paste translucence of the true Ming Chenghua. It was plaster of Paris.”
“A fake!”
“The vase, together with five other blanks, was the product of the Gelder and Co., of Stepney, as indicated by the name branded into the wooden crate under Cheng’s bed upstairs.”
I glared at Cheng, who hung his head even further. “I had blank replicas made of some of the finer pieces, so that I could practice painting them, sir. I wanted to put myself in the mind of their creator to further understand the process.”
“As you did with the trout flies,” I said, and instantly a lamp was lit in my mind. I turned to Holmes. “I have it! You said yesterday that the fishing flies were the last piece of the jigsaw! I have it! Fishing line!”
Holmes smiled. “The rod room is at the back of the house, directly behind us. It was there that I stationed Maggie with one of Admiral Coulteney’s split bamboo rods, the line running outside the house, in through the window pulley, and attached to a handle of the vase on the mantle.” He held up a shard of blue-and-white. “Plaster of Paris,” and tossed it to the floor. “I hope she hasn’t damaged the rod. As you saw, the gentle, teasing pull I had suborned her with a sixpence to make on the line at exactly ten this morning was more of fearful yank. Cheng played his vase along the mantel like a trout in a pond. The skivvy’s previous experience of fishing may have been from a coracle, but what she lacked in finesse was made up for in raw power.”
Holmes ushered me to the window by the fireplace, pulled a curtain aside and indicated the window pulley in the sash frame. “You see? There is very slightly more wear on the inner side of the pulley, where the fishing line ran.”
“Or perhaps the Coulteneys do not take as much care with their sash windows as we do,” I said. “All three vases were fakes? The Jade Dragon and Qi and so on were so much nonsense?”
“The originals are in Cheng’s wardrobe, wrapped in tissue.” Holmes turned to Cheng. “You suggested that Major Coulteney contact me and request that I investigate the phenomenon. Why?”
“I thought your presence might bring matters to a head, Mr. Holmes. Your name is well-known among the higher servants, in the best houses of course, and well respected.”
Holmes rubbed his hands together. “Let us report our successful vanquishing of the baleful dragon to our client.
Major Coulteney shook Holmes’s hand. “I say, old man, I owe you a thankee.”
“Not at all. Cheng is quite back to his old self, and as long as the dragon is moved to a new home, it will be de-fused, as it were, and you will have no more visitations.”
“Not the faintest taint of negative Qi remains,” I suggested, giving Holmes an admonishing look. “And as you can see, the vases have miraculously reassembled themselves.”
The major took the jade dragon from the mantel and held it out to Holmes. “Then you won’t mind if I give you this. Do with it what you will. I think it’s best out of this house before my mother returns.”
Holmes slipped the figurine into his coat pocket. “You mentioned your impending marriage, Major. Has a date been set?”
Major Coulteney flushed, and his hand went to his tiepin. “Not yet. Arrangements in such cases take a very long time. The embroidery alone might take months.”
“Just so. Then might I suggest that you make an agreement with your butler for him to give a year’s notice? That would enable him to train a successor, and give time for your mother to become used to the new circumstances.”
Holmes and I said our goodbyes and left Major Coulteney to ponder on Holmes suggestion.
Cheng showed us to the door. “You do not credit the Jade Dragon with any role in the affair, Mr. Holmes?” he murmured. “Despite his facing west and off the line of Qi? You do not think he disturbed the tranquillity of the morning?”
“I do not. And since he is now in my custody, a more congenial member of the Kowloon may take his place.”
Cheng nodded. “If you have a mind to put the Dragon to auction, gentlemen, I should advise a reserve of not less than twenty guineas.”
Holmes took the ornament from his pocket and smiled. “Really? I would have thought a jade of this excellence might fetch substantially more. I thought fifty at the very least.”
“Dragons are a drug on the market, sir. I doubt you would find a buyer at more than thirty.”
Holmes held out the figurine. “Thirty-five.”
Cheng bowed, took the figurine and slipped it into a fold in his robes. He took an envelope from his cuff, passed it to Holmes, bowed again and showed us out to a waiting hansom. “A very good day to you, gentlemen.”
I frowned at Holmes as we settled on the bench.
“The envelope contains a cheque on the London and Counties bank for thirty-five guineas. Cheng has an account with them with more than two hundred pounds on deposit, and he will receive a further five hundred from Admiral Coulteney’s will. He intends to make an offer, through intermediaries, for his master’s china, proposing to sell the items over a period of years and thus fund his ambition to own a public house. He will call it the Kowloon, the Nine Dragons Inn.” Holmes tapped on the roof of the cab and gave him a further instruction, and we stopped at a townhouse a hundred yards or so along Curzon Street.
Holmes indicated that I should accompany him, and we stepped down into the street. “Follow my lead,” he said. “And gird your loins. Her Ladyship is an American.”
The front door was opened by a footman, who on learning who we had come to see, ushered us into an ornately furnished drawing room where we waited, warming our coattails in front of a splendid fire. The door opened and a fine-featured lady of a certain age swept in wearing an afternoon dress.
She peered through gold pinz-nes at the calling card Holmes had given the servant. “You wish to see me, Mr. Holmes?” she said in a cold tone faintly tinged with an American accent.
“Lady Kennedy, it will not do,” said Holmes. “I understand your irritation at the loss of Ethel, who I am sure is the only person on earth who understood your hair, but consider, my dear madam, a butler is not a maid de chamber. They are entirely different orders of creation. It is as though Lady Coulteney pinched your comb, and you demanded her first-born in reparation. Ladies’ maids may be trained. A competent butler is born, not made, and a butler of Cheng’s excellence is a gift from a benevolent deity.”
Lady Kennedy pouted and made to turn away.
“You should also know that he intends to tender his resignation from the household of Lady Coulteney and take the lease on a public house in Torquay.”
“Torquay!” Lady Kennedy’s hands flew to her face in horror.
“I am afraid so. And not one of the more salubrious parts of the town.”
The footman showed us out, and we climbed back aboard the hansom.
“Lady Kennedy tried to suborn Cheng in retaliation for the loss of her maid, Ethel,” I said as we set off for Baker Street.”
Holmes nodded. “She stalked the poor man in the street, entreating him to defect. She pressed money on him, threatening to denounce him to Lady Coulteney unless he took it.”
“An odd form of blackmail,” I suggested. “No wonder he was so worn down, poor chap.”
Holmes took out the envelope and waved it. “Pagani’s tonight. Or would you prefer a roast at the Criterion?”
I considered. “The roast.” We sat in silence for a while as the cab jogged by the Park.
“A Burmese princess,” Holmes said with a smile. “They are accounted fetching by those who appreciate the glories of Oriental womanhood. Lady Nanda Coulteney has a nice ring to it.”
“A Catholic family, Holmes,” I reminded him. “Cheng advised his new master to call you in, expecting you to find him a way out of his dilemma. I believe we have been played, old man.”
“Do you?” Holmes answered, “Oh, by the way, before we left home yesterday afternoon, I instructed Mrs. Hudson to get the chimney sweep in, so all should be spick and span for our return to Baker Street after a most comfortable night away.” He yawned. “I must ask Cheng to send us the recipe for that curry.”