The Jet Brooch
By Denis O. Smith
This story first appeared in the MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Volume V.
Denis O Smith’s first Sherlock Holmes story, The Purple Hand, was published in 1982. Since then he has written more than forty stories, recording previously unknown cases of the world’s most famous detective. These have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies, and in collections of his own, most recently The Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes, The New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes and The Further Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes. Born in Sheffield, in the north of England, Mr Smith now lives in the rural county of Norfolk. His interests, other than the career of Sherlock Holmes, include old maps, historical mysteries of all kinds, the history of London, and the railways of Britain.
David Teal is a figurative artist whose work emphasizes color, shape, and the use of space to suggest images and ideas. David Teal is a painter who also works in mixed media and three-dimensional forms. David Teal draws inspiration for his paintings from old family photos and reinterprets those images to reflect on today’s world. Street scenes and news footage prompt mixed media and sculptural projects. David Teal’s artistic influences range from contemporary realists Hockney, Katz, and Fischl to the exuberant colors, patterns, and lines of Matisse. Teal’s work has been chosen for exhibitions in the Northeast and in South Florida by curators from prestigious museums and galleries including the Guggenheim, the Whitney, the Museum of Modern Art, Steven Harvey Fine Arts Projects, and the Frederic Snitzer Gallery. During his tenure at the Yale School of Art, Robert Storr chose three of David Teal’s paintings for an exhibit. Dean Storr awarded these works honorable mention. Other influential jurors including Carter Foster, Marshall Price, Paulina Pobocha, Lauren Hinkson, and Rujeko Hockley have selected David Teal’s paintings for various shows. David Teal resides in South Florida, between the beach and the swamp.
Artwork size: 20” × 30”
Medium: Acrylic on Canvas
During the years I shared chambers with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well-known criminal investigator, he handled many cases which involved the intimate private concerns of families whose names would be recognized by most readers of the daily Press. I have included but few of these in this series of records I have laid before the public, for obvious reasons. I would be guilty of gross indiscretion and a very great breach of confidence were I to even hint at the nature of some of these adventures, let alone provide a detailed account. Occasionally, however, when some time has elapsed since the events in question, and when I am able with a few little changes to disguise the identities of those involved, it is possible for me to give an account of one or two of these narratives, if I judge that the facts of the matter are of sufficient interest to warrant it. Such a tale is the one I shall now recount, an odd little tangle with a mysterious package at one end and a well-known song at the other.
It was the week before Christmas. The weather was cold, and I had awoken that morning to the rapid rat-a-tat-tat of hail against my bedroom window. Our breakfast finished, Sherlock Holmes had pulled the sofa a little nearer to the fire, and now lounged there in his old mouse-coloured dressing-gown, examining a small, flat package, about an inch in depth and three or four inches square, which had been delivered that morning.
“I wonder what this can be?” he remarked, turning it over in his hand, as I sat down on the other side of the fireplace. “I was not expecting anything today, so it is probably from a stranger.”
“Why do you not open it and see?” I suggested.
“All in good time,” said he. “I prefer to examine the outside first. It is easier to extract any information that may be there while the package is still intact. What do you make of it, Watson?” he asked, tossing it across to me.
“It is a little lighter than I had expected,” I said, weighing it in my hand. “I thought it might have been a tin of tobacco, but I don’t think it is heavy enough for that. It is wrapped in rather dull brown paper. This is not gummed in any way; it is simply fastened with string. It feels as if there is a small cardboard box inside the wrapping,” I added, as I gave the package a gently squeeze.
“Anything else?”
“Not that I can see.”
“The address?”
I looked again at the address. “Why,” I said in surprise, “the house number has been missed off. It simply says ‘Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Baker Street, London’.”
“Precisely. We benefit from the fact that the postman has delivered so many letters to me in the year we have been living here that he knows where to find me, even when the address is incomplete. Now, I can’t imagine that anyone who knew it would forget to include the house number in the address. It therefore seems likely that it was not known by the sender, who just trusted to luck that the parcel would find me. This supports my initial supposition that it is from a stranger, and someone, moreover, who was not in a position to find out my full address. Are there any more clues in the wrapping?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied after a moment.
“What about the string?”
“It is just a commonplace piece of thin twine,” I said as I examined it.
“Not quite,” said Holmes with a shake of the head. “It is certainly commonplace, but it is not one piece but three, which have been knotted together to make a suitable length.”
“That is true, but is that of any significance?”
“Well, it suggests either someone who is very parsimonious with his string—using short pieces that most people would probably have thrown away—or perhaps a servant or other employee who has used discarded string—perhaps rescued from a waste-paper basket—to avoid being accused of using his employer’s property for his own purposes.”
“It is possible.”
“Next we come to the handwriting itself, which, as you see, is in pencil. It seems to me it is a woman’s hand. Why the handwriting of men and women should differ in so distinctive a way, I do not know—it is a mystery I have not yet solved—but that they do so differ is undeniable. Of course, each hand has its own idiosyncrasies and not all women write in this way, but I have never yet encountered a single man whose hand was like this. Therefore, we are probably justified in saying it is the hand of a woman. It is clear enough, but not very regularly formed, so it may be the hand of a young person, although that inference cannot be drawn with the same degree of confidence. As to what you describe as dull brown paper, I think it is simply ordinary brown paper turned back to front, with the shiny side on the inside and the dull side on the outside. This suggests someone using old paper, and accords with the inferences we drew from the knotted string. Let us now open the package and see what it contains!”
He took a small pen-knife from the little table by his elbow, neatly cut the string, and slipped it from the packet. Then he unwrapped the brown paper and examined it closely for a moment. “This piece has been cut—rather hurriedly to judge from the irregular shape—from a larger sheet. It is indeed a used piece of paper, for on the other side there is another address, written in ink, in a different hand. I rather fancy that my mysterious correspondent has used this ingenious method to indicate where the package has come from.”
He passed me the paper and I saw that the address on the back of it was “Sir George Datchett, 8 Cumberland Gardens, Kensington”, although the name on the first line had been crossed through with a pencil. Holmes, meanwhile, was carefully lifting the lid from the cardboard box which had been wrapped in the paper. As he did so, he let out a cry of surprise, and I saw that the box was full to the brim with some white powder. He licked his finger, pushed it into the powder and tasted it.
“It is flour,” said he, “perfectly ordinary flour. If you would pass me a piece of paper from the desk, Watson, I will tip it out and see if there is anything else beneath the flour.”
I laid the sheet of paper on the hearth-rug and watched as my companion carefully tipped the flour onto it. All at once, a small, dark object fell out onto the little heap of flour. He picked it up, blew off the loose flour, then rubbed it on the sleeve of his dressing-gown. As he held it up, I saw that it was an ornate brooch. In the centre was a circular black disc, the size of a large coin, its surface faceted so that it caught the light with each slight movement, and around the edge was a golden rim in which the metal was teased into fantastic little twirls and curls.
“The stone in the middle looks like jet,” I said.
My friend nodded his head. “Yes, and the setting is gold. It looks quite a valuable piece of jewellery.” He passed me the brooch, and lifted the lid of the box to his nose. “There is a distinctive smell to this box,” he said.
“Of what?”
“Soap. Scented soap. Quite expensive, I should say, as might be used in a fairly well-to-do household. Now, why should anyone send me a jet brooch without explanation, packed in flour in an old soap-box? Ah!”
He leaned over and extracted a tiny scrap of paper from the little heap of flour on the floor. The paper was of a rough, irregular shape and appeared to have been torn from the edge of a sheet of newspaper.
“Perhaps this will make things clearer,” said my companion, but his face remained impassive as he examined it, and, with a frown, he passed it to me.
Upon the scrap of paper, just three words were written in pencil: “Please help me”.
“That does not tell us much,” I remarked.
“No,” said Holmes. “It is written in the same hand as the address, and with the same pencil, but that is no more than one would expect.”
“I wonder why the box has been filled with flour.”
“Presumably to prevent the brooch from rattling about. The use of flour suggests someone who has access to a kitchen, or, to look at it another way, someone who does not have access to any more usual packing material, such as cotton wool. To sum up, then, our mysterious correspondent is probably female, probably young, and probably a domestic servant in a well-to-do household, who has read or heard my name somewhere and believes I may be able to help her. In what way she requires help we cannot say. It may have something to do with this brooch, but that is not certain. The brooch may be simply a deposit to secure my services—although it seems an unlikely piece of jewellery for a young housemaid to have in her possession.”
“I was just thinking the same,” I remarked. “It looks like something an older woman might wear.”
As I was speaking there came a ring at the front-door bell. A few moments later, our landlady appeared in the doorway to inform us that a lady had called to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but had declined to give her name.
“One moment, Mrs. Hudson,” said Holmes, springing to his feet. “I shall just restore a little order, and then you can show her up.” Carefully, he picked up from the floor the sheet of paper on which lay the little heap of flour and carried it over to his desk. I gathered together the brown paper, string and cardboard box and handed them to him. These, together with the brooch and scrap of paper, he also placed on his desk and closed the lid. “Now,” said he, as he pulled the sofa back from the fire, “I think we are ready to receive our visitor.”
The woman who was shown into our room a few moments later was tall and stately in her bearing. Although of middle age, she had retained the figure and posture of a younger woman. She was wearing a very smart dark blue costume with yellow piping on the edges.
“Pray, take a seat,” said Holmes, indicating the chair beside the hearth, “and let us know what we can do for you.”
“No, thank you,” returned our visitor in a firm tone. “I shall not be here for more than a few moments. I have simply called to collect something.”
“Oh?” said Holmes in surprise. “And what might that be?”
“A brooch,” said she. “My brooch. It has been sent here in error. The wrong address was written on the package.”
“Did you address it yourself?”
“No. Someone else did.”
“To whom should it have been sent?”
“To the jeweller. The clasp needs repairing.”
“Well,” said Holmes, “so far as I am aware, we have received no misaddressed parcels here.”
“You must have; it was posted yesterday.”
Holmes shook his head. “It is but a few days to Christmas, madam,” said he, “and you must know what that means for postal deliveries. The sorting-offices have mailbags piled up to the ceiling, and everything takes longer than usual. If you would give me your name and address,” he continued, taking up his note-book and pencil from the table, “I shall let you know if any misaddressed parcel arrives here.”
The woman hesitated. “No,” said she. “I shall call again tomorrow.”
She had turned to leave us, but stopped as Holmes spoke again.
“It seems strange to me,” said he, “that you should have my address at all. Do you—or anyone in your household—wish me to look into some problem for you?”
“Absolutely not,” she returned sharply. “It is no concern of yours how the mistake was made. I simply wish you to return to me the package when I call again. Do you understand?”
“Understanding is not the issue here, madam,” returned Holmes in an urbane tone. “Rather, it is a matter of proof. You will call again and expect me to hand over to you something I have received in the post. But how do I know you have any right to the object in question? For all I know, the brooch may have been stolen—possibly by you. If so, the rightful owner would scarcely thank me for handing it over to someone I have never met before and who refuses to give me her name.”
Our visitor’s face blanched perceptibly. “How dare you make such an impertinent remark!” she cried in a sharp tone. She appeared about to say more, but bit her lip and was silent for a moment, breathing very heavily. “I shall return tomorrow,” she said at length, scarcely able to get the words out as her breast rose and fell with emotion, “and shall bring a pair of ear-rings with me that you will see exactly match the brooch.” With that, she turned on her heel and left the room, slamming the door as she did so.
“What a very entertaining interview!” said Holmes after a moment.
“She appeared to be one used to having her instructions obeyed,” I remarked, “but she also seemed very emotional about something.”
Holmes nodded his head. “More than that,” said he; “she is in a state of extreme anxiety. About what, I do not know—but I intend to find out. Of course, what she told us is a tissue of lies: there is nothing wrong with the clasp on the brooch, as I could see when I examined it.”
“Will you follow her, to see where she goes?” I asked.
Holmes shook his head. “I am confident that the address on the reverse of that brown paper is pertinent to the matter. That is where I shall go.”
He disappeared into his bedroom and did not emerge again for fifteen minutes. I looked up from the newspaper I was reading as he did so and received a shock. In the place of the neatly turned out fellow-lodger I had expected to see, there stood a disreputable-looking figure with a tangled beard, wearing an old, threadbare jacket and cap and a pair of ill-fitting corduroy trousers. The appearance was completed by a bright check muffler that was knotted round his neck.
“Is that you, Holmes?” I queried, not entirely in jest.
“Yes, Watson, it is I,” returned he. “It is not only villains who can adopt disguises in order to pursue their ends. I am off to do a little research, and have adopted the character of Jack Brown, itinerant knife-grinder, which I believe will serve me the best.”
“Knife-grinder?” I cried with a chuckle. “But you haven’t got a grinding-wheel!”
“True, but that is not an insuperable obstacle. I have a small grindstone, at least,” he continued, producing a cylindrically-shaped stone from an inside pocket. “That may suffice for my purposes. Now, I can’t say when I shall be back, but I should be obliged if you would save me a little bread and cheese from your mid-day meal, as I may not have much opportunity to eat while I am out!”
With a little salute he was gone, and I was left to wonder what it was he intended to do. For a time I tried to distract my thoughts with the day’s newspapers, but they contained little of interest and I soon found my thoughts returning once more to the strange business my companion was involved in.
It seemed likely to me that the brooch really did belong to our morning visitor, but as Holmes had remarked, it did not appear to be in need of repair. Why, then, had it been sent anywhere at all, and why, in particular, had it been sent to Holmes? Our visitor did not appear to have sent it herself, but how, then, did she know it had been sent to our address? Who had sent it and why? Did our visitor know who had sent it or not? Why was she so determined to withhold her own name?
One thing that seemed evident was that she did not want Holmes to learn anything of the facts surrounding the brooch, but Holmes, it was clear, was equally determined that he would uncover these facts. He had had a tiny message in the package he had received, pleading for his help, and he needed no further persuasion than that. As I was beginning to learn, it was only rarely that he refused his help when it was sincerely requested. This generosity of spirit put enormous demands upon his constitution, demands that would have quite exhausted another man, but which seemed only to spur my friend on to greater industry.
I should not wish my readers to think that I was excessively self-absorbed, but as I reflected on my fellow-lodger’s intense and energetic activity, I was led inevitably to a consideration of my own contrasting circumstances. Little more than a year had passed since I had been invalided home from the war in Afghanistan, and I had stepped onto the jetty at Portsmouth with my health seemingly ruined forever. That had, in truth, not proved to be the case: I was definitely in somewhat better health now than I had been twelve months previously; but the slightest over-exertion was still likely to reduce me to the state of a limp rag. In these circumstances, I had come to look to Sherlock Holmes and his work to provide the zest and interest in my life which I could not provide for myself. I had begun to keep notes of his cases and had on a few occasions been able to accompany him on his investigations, although that was not always possible. Now, as I pondered the mystery of the jet brooch, I found myself glancing frequently at the clock on the mantelpiece, wondering when my friend would return, and if he would have managed to learn anything of the matter.
It was the middle of the afternoon before I heard Holmes’s characteristically rapid footsteps ascending the stair. I could see at once, from the expression on his face, as he burst into the room like a whirlwind, that he had had some success.
“The bread and cheese is on the table, under the cloth,” I said.
“Good man!” said he. “I am famished! I shall just remove this beard, which has begun to irritate me, and be with you in a moment. Do you know if we have any beer in the house at present?”
“Yes,” I said. “There are some bottles of pale ale in the cupboard. I’ll open one for you.”
A few minutes later, he returned from his bedroom. The beard had gone, along with the grimy jacket and cap, and he had donned his old dressing-gown once more.
“Now,” said he, as he laid into his simple meal with gusto, “I dare say you are wondering what I have discovered.”
“I have been able to think of little else.”
Holmes laughed. “Yes, it is an intriguing little problem, is it not! You will be interested to know, then, that I have learned a great deal—although there are still one or two small points that are not clear to me.
“I made my way to Cumberland Gardens, in Kensington. It is a short, handsome street, with plane trees along the sides. The houses are very smart, all in white stucco, and clearly the homes of the wealthy. I began my investigation by simply loafing about there and striking up a conversation with anyone who seemed likely to respond. I make a grand loafer, Watson, even if I say so myself. It seems to come naturally to me. Gradually, through conversation with some of the ostlers in the nearby mews, a man delivering vegetables from his cart, and numerous other people, I was able to accumulate information about the occupants of Number Eight. Needless to say, I also gathered information about the occupants of Numbers Two, Four, Six and Ten, which I endeavoured to forget as soon as I had heard it.
“Head of the household at Number Eight is Sir George Datchett, who was one of the founders of the Sea Eagle Marine Insurance Company, and who was knighted just two months ago for his services to commerce. His wife is Lady Hilary Datchett, and from the description I was given of her, I am fairly certain it was she who called upon us this morning. The family is completed by a son, Michael, aged about twenty, who is up at Oxford but returned home for the Christmas vacation two weeks ago, and a daughter, Olivia, who is seventeen and in her final year at the Cheltenham Ladies’ College. She returned home last week. The domestic staff at the Datchett household consists of a butler, who organizes the household, a cook, a kitchen-maid, and a chambermaid.
“Having amassed this information, I abandoned my loafing about and called at the tradesman’s entrance of Number Eight, where I offered my services as a knife-grinder. This was rejected, much as I had expected, but I did not give up.
“‘My dear lady,’ I said to the cook, who had answered the door to me. I was about to extol the benefits of having sharpened knives, but she interrupted me.
“‘Don’t you be so bold,’ said she. ‘“Dear lady” indeed!’ But she laughed nonetheless, and I could see that by amusing her I had gained a small foothold. I thereupon offered to sharpen a pair of scissors for her free of charge, ‘to demonstrate the worth of my technique’, as I put it. This she assented to, in grudging fashion, and I had thereby gained a few more minutes of standing in the kitchen doorway, which was of course my aim.
“As I did my best to sharpen the scissors a little, I chatted with her and watched as she and the kitchen-maid—who appeared to be called Lily—bustled about their work. When I’d finished, I declared that it was ‘thirsty work’ and asked if I might have a cup of water, which she brought me. Up to that point, to speak frankly, I hadn’t really learned anything very useful, but all at once things changed. Another girl came into the kitchen in a maid’s uniform. She was there for only a few moments, picked something up and left again, but in that few moments I thought I might have found my way to the heart of the mystery. I was already fairly confident, if you recall, that the brooch and the request for help had been sent to me by someone who was young, female, and a domestic servant. Neither the cook nor the kitchen-maid looked likely to be so imaginative or enterprising, and the butler could surely be ruled out. But in the few moments the other housemaid had been in the kitchen, she had glanced across to where I stood, in the doorway. For half a second, our eyes had met, and in that half-second I had seen an unusual depth and intelligence in her eye. Surely, I thought, this was my mysterious correspondent! I might also add that she was quite exceptionally pretty and attractive.”
“I thought you always said,” I interrupted, “that the appearance of your clients was a matter of complete indifference to you.”
“Yes, of course, that is true when their appearance is irrelevant to the case, as it generally is; but there are odd occasions when a woman’s appearance is not simply an irrelevant, peripheral matter, but a central feature of the case, and I found myself wondering if this might not be one such instance. Sometimes, a pretty face in a household or other group of people can have an effect akin to the tossing of a small pebble into a placid mill-pond: ripples are created which, although sometimes scarcely discernible, can reach a long way.
“‘That girl who was in here just now,’ I said to the cook as I sipped my cup of water, ‘I believe I may know her. Is it not Susan, who used to be in the household of Lady Darlington?’
“‘No, it ain’t,’ said the cook. ‘It’s Jane, who didn’t use to be in anybody’s household.’
“‘Of course,’ I said, ‘but I do know her from somewhere. Is it Jane Robinson?’
“‘No it ain’t. It’s Jane Page—and how would a shabby-looking fellow like you know someone as sweet as Jane?’
“I was saved from having to answer that question by the reappearance of the girl herself.
“‘Here, Jane,’ said the cook. ‘This dirty-looking scoundrel reckons he knows you from somewhere. Do you know him?’
“The girl looked across the kitchen at me, a very dubious expression on her face. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
“I glanced at the cook. She had turned away to put something in the sink, and I took the opportunity to take a card from my pocket and held it out so that the girl could see it.
“She took a step closer. ‘You don’t look like I thought you would,’ she said in a doubtful tone.
“I leaned in at the kitchen door. The cook and the kitchen-maid were still occupied at the other side of the room. I dropped the rough accent I had assumed in my guise as a knife-grinder and, lowering my voice, I said, ‘I’m in disguise. I’ve come in answer to your request for help. Quickly! Tell me what has happened!’
“She came to the kitchen-door and stuck her head out so that she would not be heard by the others. ‘That brooch,’ she began.
“‘Yes? Is it Lady Hilary’s?’
“‘Yes. Someone put it in my box.’
“‘Where was that? At the foot of your bed?’
“‘Yes. And then Lady Hilary found it was missing from her jewellery-case, and asked me if I had seen it anywhere. I said I hadn’t, but it was in my pocket. I was walking round all day with it in there, trying to think what to do with it. I couldn’t tell her where I’d found it—she’d just think I’d stolen it. But I couldn’t just put it back in her room, either, as she told me she’d looked all round there—on the dressing-table and on the floor underneath it. Then I thought of you. Mr. Boardman—’
“‘Is that the butler?’
“‘Yes. He’d read us out a report in the newspaper one evening of how Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street had solved some mysterious burglary when nobody else could, and I thought perhaps you could help me.’
“‘I’ll try. Who do you think might have put the brooch in your box? Are any of the other servants jealous of you?’
“‘Oh, no,’ she returned in surprise. ‘We all get on famously. Hardly ever a cross word.’
“‘Your master and mistress?’ I asked. ‘Do they treat you well? Are you happy here?’
“‘Oh, yes,’ she replied quickly. ‘It’s like Heaven. Sir George is the kindest man I’ve ever known.’
“‘And Lady Hilary?’ I asked as she paused.
“‘She can be a bit sharp sometimes,’ Jane replied, lowering her voice a little more, ‘but I think she’s quite nice underneath.’
“‘The children?’
“‘I never see much of Miss Olivia. She’s been away at school all the autumn and only came home at the end of last week. She seems nice enough.’
“‘And the son?’ I asked as the girl hesitated.
“‘He’s very good looking, and they tell me he’s quite clever.’
“‘But?’
“‘He’s a bit bold sometimes. One night last week, I think he’d had a little too much to drink and got a bit over-familiar with me, if you know what I mean. I told him it was wrong, but he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer, and I had to push him away. I was worried after that that I’d get into trouble.’
“‘When did you find the brooch in your box?’
“‘Just yesterday morning. Then, about tea-time, Sir George gave me some letters to post for him. I put them on the hall table and went downstairs to get my hat and coat. While I was downstairs, I had the idea of sending the brooch to you, so I put it in an old soap-box, filled it up with flour to stop it rattling about, and wrapped it up.’
“‘Could anyone have learned where you sent it? Did anyone see you writing the address?’
“‘No, I’m sure they didn’t.’
“‘Did you perhaps leave it somewhere unattended for a few moments?’
“‘No—wait!—I did! When I got back up to the hall, I realized I’d not got my gloves, so I put the little packet on top of Sir George’s letters and ran back downstairs to get them. It was only for a few seconds, though, and there was nobody about in the hall.’
“‘But someone might have passed through the hall, and seen the packet lying there?’
“‘I suppose so. But I didn’t see anyone.’
“At that moment, the butler, Boardman, entered the kitchen and put an end to our discussion by asking what I wanted. I told him I was a knife-grinder, he said they didn’t need any knives grinding and that was that. I thanked them for the water, gave the cup back to Jane, and wandered off.
“I then loitered near the end of the street for some time, sitting on a low wall, smoking my old clay pipe. I was just deciding what to do next when my mind was made up for me. The front door of the Datchett’s house opened, and out stepped a smart and fashionably-dressed young man who proceeded along the pavement, tapping his cane as he went. I followed him until I judged we were far enough from the house that our encounter would not be visible from there.
“‘Excuse me,’ I said.
“‘No, I haven’t got any small change that I can spare,’ he responded, scarcely glancing in my direction, and evidently taking me for some sort of beggar.
“‘I don’t want any,’ said I.
“‘Then you should be very happy that I’m not going to give you any,’ said he, without breaking stride.
“I could see that the only way I could halt his progress long enough to speak to him would be to surprise him, so I again dropped my rough accent and in my ordinary voice simply said, ‘Michael Datchett?’
“He stopped abruptly and turned to me. ‘Who the devil are you, and how do you know my name?’ he demanded.
“‘It is my business to know things,’ I said, and gave him my card.
“‘Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,’ said he as he handed back my card, ‘what is it you want?’
“‘I am looking into a matter concerning Jane Page.’
“‘What, Jane the housemaid?’ he cried in surprise. ‘What has she done?’
“‘She hasn’t done anything. On the contrary, things have been done to her.’
“‘Such as?’
“‘You have recently forced your unwanted attentions upon her.’
“‘Oh, I see,’ said Datchett. ‘That is what she told you, is it? Well, Mr. Sanctimonious Holmes, you don’t want to believe everything you are told.’
“‘Do you deny it?’
“‘No. Why should I? What I dispute is the term “unwanted”. The whole matter is, in any case, an utter trifle.’
“‘And now someone has stolen something from the house and placed it among Miss Page’s possessions, with the evident intention of getting her accused of theft and thus dismissed, or even charged with the matter in a court of law.’
“‘Surely it is more likely, if anything is stolen, that she has stolen it herself.’
“‘If so, she would hardly have told me about it.’
“‘You might think that, but you can never tell what people might do. Look, if she’s taken a silver tea-spoon from a cutlery drawer in the kitchen, or whatever it is, just tell her to put it back where she found it and no-one will be any the wiser. I certainly won’t mention it to anyone. Now I really must be off.’
“He turned away, but I persisted. ‘It would be natural to wonder if the attempt to incriminate her was a form of revenge, perhaps perpetrated by someone whose advances had been rebuffed.’
“‘“Revenge”?’ he repeated in an incredulous tone, then burst out laughing. ‘Why on earth should I want dear Jane dismissed? Christmas is coming. In two or three days, there will be bunches of mistletoe hanging up, and then she will be obliged to accept a kiss from me. You can’t go against the venerable traditions of antiquity, you know! You’ll see—or, at least, she will!’ With that, he turned away once more, and I was left to ponder the matter further.”
“With any result?” I asked.
My friend shook his head. “There are several possibilities,” he replied, “with little in the way of evidence to indicate which is true.”
“What will you do, then?”
“I really think I shall have to go round to the Datchetts’ house this evening and try to force matters to a conclusion. If I don’t, Lady Hilary will call here again tomorrow morning and I shall have to give her the brooch. She will then take it away with her and the mystery will remain unresolved. For all we know, Miss Page might then be dismissed from her position, and that is not something I can contemplate with equanimity.”
Holmes fell silent then for several minutes, and it was apparent he was considering the matter from every different point of view. “Would you care to accompany me?” he asked abruptly.
I was somewhat taken aback by this sudden and surprising invitation. “I think I should like that,” I replied, “if I would not be in your way.”
“Not at all,” said my friend. “I think it would be interesting for you to see what I hope will be the final act in this little drama. It will be best if we call when the family are all present, but before they sit down to dine, so be ready to leave just after six. Make yourself as neat as possible, Watson, and I will do the same. We must make a favourable initial impression or we may not be seen at all.”
It was starting to snow as we took a cab from Baker Street, and as we rattled along through the dark, raw evening, the street lamps we passed served only to illuminate the whirling and tumbling snowflakes which filled the air. By the time we reached Kensington, just after half-past six, I could see that the snow was beginning to settle.
The front door of the Datchetts’ house was opened to us by a large and imposing-looking butler who took Holmes’s card into a room on the left while we waited in the hall. A moment later, the door opened and the butler re-emerged, followed by a pleasant-faced, grey-haired man of about fifty, who held Holmes’s card in his hand.
“What is this about, gentlemen?” he enquired in a puzzled tone, as he closed the door behind him.
“Something odd has happened to a member of your household,” replied Holmes, “and I have been trying to help. I am here to conclude the matter.”
Datchett frowned. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion in the study,” said he, indicating a door on the opposite side of the hall.
“Excuse me, Sir George, but are your family all in the drawing-room?”
“Yes, they are, as it happens. We were just chatting, and are about to dine shortly. Why do you ask?”
“I think it would be better if I said what I have to say in front of everyone. It will not take very long.”
“Who is principally concerned in the matter?”
“Your maid, Jane Page.”
“Has she done something she shouldn’t have?”
“No.”
“Very well,” said Datchett after a moment’s hesitation, “if you think it best. But be aware that I am only agreeing to this because I have heard something of you, and your reputation is that of a gentleman. I do not want any unpleasantness. My wife detests anything of that sort, and my daughter is still a schoolgirl. Do you understand?”
Holmes nodded his head but did not reply, and, after a moment, Datchett opened the drawing-room door and we followed him into the room.
“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his colleague, Dr. Watson,” said Datchett, as his wife, son, and daughter turned towards us, their features expressing surprise. “They have something to tell us. Go ahead, Mr. Holmes,” he continued as he seated himself on a sofa.
“I will be as brief as possible,” Holmes began. “Your maid, Jane, found a valuable piece of jewellery—a jet brooch—among her own possessions the other day, which she recognized as belonging to her mistress. She had no idea how it got there. Before she could do anything about it, Lady Hilary found that the brooch was missing. Frightened that she would be accused of stealing it, and unable to think what to do with it, Jane, on the spur of the moment, parcelled it up and sent it to me. This removed the immediate danger from her, by getting the brooch out of the house. No doubt she also thought that my involvement might lead to the truth being revealed.
“Unfortunately for her, Lady Hilary learned where she had sent the brooch. I assume, madam,” he continued, addressing Lady Hilary, “that you saw the package lying on the hall table.”
“That is correct. I happened to pass through the hall, and as I did so I glanced at some items on the table that were awaiting posting. Most of them, I could see, were letters my husband had written, but there was also a small package which appeared to have been addressed in a different hand. When I mentioned it to my husband later, he said he knew nothing about it.”
“You then conjectured that it might have contained the brooch?”
“Yes, from the size and shape of the package.”
“When you called at my chambers this morning and gave me some rigmarole about the brooch needing repair, you did not assume I was involved in the theft of the brooch, or consider calling the police?”
“No, of course not. Like others, I have heard of you as one who solves crimes, not commits them.”
“And yet, you presumably felt sure by then that it was Jane who had sent the brooch to me.”
“Yes. What of it?”
“Do you believe that Jane stole the brooch?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t believe it is in her character to do such a thing.”
“Well, if Jane did not place the brooch under her own pillow, then someone else did. She was led, understandably, to the conclusion that someone had deliberately tried to incriminate her, so she would be accused of theft and dismissed, a conclusion with which I entirely concur. If you did not believe that Jane had stolen it, you must surely have reached the same conclusion. There is no other possibility.”
Lady Hilary hesitated a moment, and glanced at her husband as if for support, but the expression on his face was one of complete mystification, and it was evident she could receive no assistance from that quarter.
“I repeat,” Holmes persisted, “if Jane did not remove the brooch from your jewellery-case, then someone else did, and I believe you know who that someone is, which is why you were so keen to hush the matter up, and had no intention of pressing charges against Jane.”
“Oh, all right,” said Lady Hilary abruptly in a sharp tone, rising to her feet. “I took the brooch myself. I was looking for a way of dismissing her. I felt my husband was becoming too fond of her, and that she was almost eclipsing his own children in his eyes.”
“What nonsense!” cried her husband.
“But when I realized she had sent the brooch to you,” Lady Hilary continued, ignoring the interruption, “I decided it had all got out of hand. I just wanted to get the brooch back, brush the whole business under the carpet, and forget about it.”
“So, let us be clear about it,” said Holmes. “You yourself took the brooch from your jewellery-case, and you yourself placed it under the pillow on Jane’s bed?”
“Yes, I did. So now you know everything.”
“Unfortunately, I do not.”
“What do you mean?”
“Madam, you are not speaking the truth.”
“How dare you call me a liar in my own house!”
“The house is irrelevant. I know you are not speaking the truth, madam, because you say it was you that placed the brooch under Jane’s pillow, and I know you did not do so. I know you did not do so because no-one did so: Jane did not find the brooch under her pillow, but in the box at the foot of her bed.”
“It is no good, Mother,” said Olivia Datchett, speaking for the first time since we had entered the room. “He has tricked you.” She rose to her feet. “Mother is trying to protect me,” she said, addressing Holmes, her voice breaking with emotion. “It was I that took the brooch, and I that placed it in Jane’s box.”
“Olivia!” cried her father. “Surely you would not stoop to such a low, mean trick!”
At this, the girl burst into tears. “It’s true,” she said, between sobs. “It was mean of me, and stupid, and I am very, very sorry.”
I took a handkerchief from my pocket and passed it to her, as no-one else seemed to be doing so, and she dabbed her eyes.
“Can this really be true, Hilary?” asked Datchett.
“Yes,” replied his wife. “Olivia came to me and asked if I had seen the jet brooch recently, as she said she had been trying to find it and couldn’t see it anywhere. But there had been an odd expression on her face as she spoke to me, and all the time I was looking for the brooch, I suspected that she herself had had something to do with its disappearance. Eventually, in the evening, I confronted her with my suspicions and she admitted the truth. I then remembered the package I had seen on the hall table, and told her I was fairly certain I knew where the brooch had gone. I said I would try to get it back the next morning, so we could put the matter behind us and forget it had ever happened. Unfortunately, things did not work out so simply as that.”
The room fell silent for a moment then, until, with a bewildered shake of the head, Datchett addressed his daughter. “Whatever can have possessed you, Olivia, to do such a thing? What has Jane ever done to cause you displeasure?”
“Mother told me in a letter that you have arranged for a special tutor to come in to coach Jane in English and arithmetic.”
“And you were jealous of the attention? It is only one afternoon a week, Olivia—I am not sending her to the Cheltenham Ladies’ College! She is an intelligent girl, and works very hard. I thought it was the least I could do. She has great potential, and could make someone a good housekeeper one day—or a good wife.”
“Then, in Mother’s last letter, she said that Jane had been singing so beautifully that it had made you cry.”
“Oh, that!” Lady Hilary interrupted. “I only put that in the letter to amuse you, Olivia. You know what Father is like: he cries when he hears sad songs, he cries when he sees a sad play, and sometimes he even cries when he sees a happy play! It is just his way, and I am sure we would not want him any different!”
“He never cries when I sing,” said Olivia through her sobs.
“Ah! I see!” said her father in a tone of enlightenment. “Now I think I understand! Sit down, sit down, both of you—and you, too, gentlemen—and I will tell you something you do not know. Perhaps then you, too, will understand matters a little better.” He closed his eyes for a few moments, as if gathering his thoughts, before continuing.
“When Jane was just a tiny baby,” he began at length, “she was left at the foundling hospital. Neither she, nor anyone else, has any idea who her mother and father were. She was simply left one morning on the doorstep in a little wicker basket. A few months later, she was adopted by an elderly couple called Page from the East End, who gave her the name of Jane. The man worked as a cobbler, and apparently did all right for himself, but just a few years later, both Mr. and Mrs. Page fell ill and died within a few months of each other. Thus, the only family little Jane had ever known had been taken from her. She was only five years old at the time. Mrs. Page’s sister took her in for a little while, but she herself was elderly and could not cope with the child, and less than a year later she gave her up and she was placed in an orphanage. After a time, she was moved from that orphanage to another, and, later, to a third. In all, she remained in such institutions for nearly ten years.
“Two years ago, when we needed a new chamber-maid, Jane was recommended to me. I agreed to take her almost as soon as we had met, for I could see at once that she showed great promise, and I have not been disappointed. Despite her unfortunate and unhappy childhood—which might have embittered or spoiled the character of some people—she has fitted in to our household very well, and gets along well with everyone.
“Now I come to what occurred two weeks ago. I was in my bedroom early one evening, changing for dinner. My bedroom, as you know, overlooks the back garden, and through the window I could see that it was a dark, cold evening. All at once, as I stood before the mirror, buttoning my shirt, I heard someone singing in the garden below. I looked out, and there, illuminated by a light from the kitchen window, was Jane. She was putting some rubbish in the dustbin—not the most pleasant of jobs at the best of times—and singing softly and sweetly to herself. And do you know what she was singing, this girl who has never had any family, nor anywhere she could ever call her home? She was singing Home, Sweet Home—‘Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam; be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.’
“As I stood there listening, I knew that the home she referred to was our house, that we had, without particularly intending it, given Jane the first real home she had ever had in her life. At that realization, as much as at her voice, I admit I began to weep, but I am not ashamed of it. Your mother came into the room then, and asked me why I was crying. I told her I had been listening to Jane singing, but it was getting late, we had visitors coming, and there wasn’t time for me to explain all the circumstances to her. There,” said Datchett in conclusion. “That is the story of how Jane’s singing brought me to tears, and I hope, Olivia, that you will understand the matter a little better now.”
The room had fallen silent, save for the girl’s quiet sobbing, and remained so for several minutes. Then Sherlock Holmes rose to his feet and took from his pocket the jet brooch, which he handed to Lady Hilary.
“That, I believe, concludes the matter, from my perspective at least,” said he.
“Thank you for unravelling it all for us,” said Sir George Datchett as he stood up and shook my companion by the hand.
We had turned to leave when there came a sharp pull at the front-door bell, and I heard the sound of singing from outside the house. A moment later, the butler entered the room to announce that the carol-singers from St Mary’s had called, collecting for the parish charity.
“Oh!” cried Olivia. “I forgot it was tonight. I wanted to go with them! May I go? Please, Father? I can get a bite to eat later.”
“Of course you may,” said Datchett. “But you must wrap up warm, Olivia. It is a very cold night.”
“And may I take Jane with me?” she asked. “I know from something she said to me this morning that she would dearly love to go carol-singing.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Datchett, “but see that she, too, wraps up well. Now I must speak to the carol-singers.”
With a cry of delight, the girl ran from the room, and I heard her footsteps clattering down the stair to the basement. We followed her father to the front door and stood for several minutes, listening to the carol-singers. Behind them in the cold night air the snow was now falling heavily. As they finished their carol, Datchett spoke to their leader, but I was distracted by the arrival behind me in the hall of two girls in overcoats, hats and mufflers. I turned to see them, but they slipped quickly past us and ran down the steps to join the carol-singers outside.
Presently, as the carol-singers made their way out of the gate and along the street, Sir George Datchett turned to us and thanked my friend again for his help. “Please send me your account for the trouble you have been put to,” he said.
Holmes shook his head with a smile. “That won’t be necessary,” said he. “Sometimes the elucidation of the truth is itself more than adequate recompense.”
As we made our way down the street, we came to where the carol-singers had stopped before another house, and paused a moment to listen. A girl at the back of the group glanced our way and I had an impression of a pair of bright, piercing eyes in a happy face, framed in tight dark curls. Holmes made a little gesture and she left the group and ran over to where we stood.
“I am confident everything will be all right now, Jane,” said he, leaning over to speak closer to her.
“Yes,” she returned in a breathless voice. “Miss Olivia has explained it all to me. It’s all right now.”
“But,” he continued, “if at any time you find yourself in difficulty once more, do not hesitate to write to me again.”
She nodded her head, then, raising herself on her tip-toes, she gave my companion a little peck on the cheek. “You look better without your beard,” said she in a gay tone, and ran back to re-join the carol singers.
“I feel I should point out to you, Watson,” said Holmes in a tone of embarrassment, as we resumed our progress down the street, “that that is not a regular occurrence at the conclusion of my cases.”
I laughed. It amused me greatly to see my logical friend, usually so cold and unemotional, discomfited by a young girl, and I confess that I teased him about it for some time afterwards. Trivial incident though it may have been, I thought it worthy of mention here as being the only occasion in all of my records when my famous friend received payment from his client in the form of a kiss.