The Adventure of the Widow’s Weeds

Two cases of exceptional interest occupied the time and talents of my friend Mr. Schlock Homes during the middle months of the year ’63. The first, which I find recorded in my case-book under the heading of Inland Revenue vs. S.H., deals with a personage of such stature that revelation of his identity could only be embarrassing and would serve no good purpose. The second, however, which I find in my notes entitled The Adventure of the Widow’s Weeds, cogently demonstrates, I believe, the devious paths of Homes’s ingenuity when applied to his famed analytical method of reasoning.

It began one pleasant Friday morning in early June when I came into the breakfast room of our quarters at 221B Bagel Street to find Homes rubbing his hands with ghlee, an Indian ointment he found efficacious for the treatment of his recurrent attacks of itching. At the sight of me he wiped his hands carefully on the draperies and beckoned me to join him at the window, where he pointed interestedly to the street below.

“There, Watney,” said he with a twinkle in his eye; “let us test your powers of observation. What do you make of that poor creature?”

I stared downwards, following the direction indicated by his finger. On the sidewalk, shuffling along in an uncertain manner and pausing every few moments to peer hesitatingly at the house numerals, was a small figure who, from her braided hair, I correctly deduced to be a woman. I looked up at Homes queryingly.

“I’m afraid I am not at my best before breakfast, Homes,” I said, temporizing. His expression of expectation did not change in the least. With a shrug of defeat I returned my gaze to the figure below.

“I suppose,” I said after more fruitless study, “that you have deduced she is searching out our number and is coming here to visit you. Although,” I added in complete honesty, “if this be the case, I must confess to complete ignorance as to how you reached your conclusion.”

Homes laughed delightedly and placed an arm about my shoulders.

“Really, Watney,” he said with pretended regret, “I’m rather ashamed of my failure as a teacher. Take another look below. Here is a woman who shuffles along on feet far shorter than normal for her height, who wears trousers instead of the customary skirt, who carries her hands across her body and inserts them into the opposite sleeves of her jacket, whose complexion is almond-colored, and whose eyes are slanted. Certainly there is but one conclusion that can be drawn from these observations.”

“I am sorry, Homes,” I said contritely, “but I really do need breakfast before tackling this sort of thing. What conclusion should I be drawing that I am not?”

“Obviously, that it is you she is seeking, and not myself. The pain of those poor truncated feet is evident from her shuffling gait; her tendency to try to warm her hands, even on a day that promises such heat as this one, is a common symptom of anemia. The almond complexion—as I am sure you will recall once you have had your first kipper—is a sure indication of liver ailment; while the slanted eyes, obviously caused by prolonged squinting, comes from poor eyesight and undoubtedly results in painful headaches.” He shook his head. “No, Watney, this woman is seeking medical aid, not the aid of a detective.”

I stared at my friend, open-mouthed with admiration. “It all becomes so clear and simple once you have explained it, Homes,” I said in amazement, and then paused, frowning. “But, then, how do you explain the trousers?”

“Ah, Watney,” he exclaimed, “that is the final proof! Any woman who dresses in such a hurry as to inadvertently put on her husband’s trousers, and then having discovered the fact, does not take the time to correct the error, can only be driven by a need for haste more common to those seeking medical aid than to those soliciting advice.”

He looked down to the street again and then smiled at me triumphantly, for the woman was, indeed, turning in at our street door. A few moments later, our page had opened the door of our quarters and was ushering in an attractive Chinese woman of middle age who bent her head politely in my direction.

“Mr. Homes?” she inquired.

“I’m Mr. Homes,” I said, stepping forward. “I mean, I am Dr. Homes—or rather, I am Dr. Watney. If you will just wait until I get my medical kit, I shall be happy to attend to you.”

She paid no further attention to me, turning instead to my friend.

“Mr. Homes? I have a problem which is of such an odd and unusual nature that I believe only a man of your extraordinary talents can solve it.”

Her English, to my surprise, was quite adequate and even made more charming by the slight accent. Homes acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod, then with a languid wave of his hand he indicated that she make herself more comfortable. She seated herself gingerly on the edge of a chair while Homes dropped into one opposite and continued to study her through half-closed lids.

“Pray continue,” said he. “If I can be of assistance, be assured I shall be. What is the nature of this odd and unusual problem?”

“Mr. Homes,” she said earnestly, leaning forward a bit without removing her hands from her jacket sleeves, “I am a widow. Until recently my husband and myself ran a small tobacco-shop in Limehouse where we catered in the main to the upper-form students at the nearby academies, plus a few sailors who dropped in from the docks from time to time. We even furnished a small room on the premises where the students could smoke, since of course it is against the regulations for them to do so in their dormitories.

“And then, Mr. Homes, about a month ago my husband died. Needless to say, it was a terrible blow, but the philosophy of my race is that life must go on. I therefore arranged for the services of a fellow Chinese to help me in the shop. He has proven more than worth his wage and keep, even adding a new cigarette to our line which he makes himself at night in order to keep our costs at a minimum, and the sale of which has surpassed our greatest expectations. Nor is he lacking in commercial instinct; he advises our clientele that his new cigarette is ‘Mary-Juana,’ two feminine names undoubtedly selected to appeal not only to the British, but also to the many Spanish-speaking Lascars who frequent the docks. And to appeal further to the sailing trade, he has named them—”

She paused and frowned in an embarrassed manner. “But I digress—please forgive me.” She leaned forward again. “Mr. Homes, with our increased custom one would think my problems at an end, but in truth they are just beginning. For the past two weeks—ever since I employed this man—there has been nothing but trouble.”

Homes raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Trouble?”

“Yes.” She nodded her head sadly. “The students, who have always been most tractable in the past, are now quite the opposite, singing or fighting at the slightest excuse, and even becoming destructive, scratching their initials on the walls of the smoking-room with whatever instrument is available. One even attempted the feat with a banana and became quite belligerent when he failed to obtain legible results.”

I could not help but interrupt.

“It appears to me, Madame,” I said a bit stiffly, “that you require the services of the official police, rather than those of a private investigator.”

She raised her eyes to mine. “At one time,” she said softly, “not fully recognizing the problem, I thought the same, and even mentioned it to my helper. But he was quite horrified at the suggestion and insisted that Mr. Homes would be more suitable to our problem.” She turned her head to my friend once again. “You see, Mr. Homes, he has heard of you.”

Homes disregarded the flattery, continuing to stare at her over his tented fingers. “You state that at one time you did not recognize the problem fully. I assume, therefore, that you do now.”

“I do, but it is difficult to put into proper words. To me there can be no doubt but that my late husband’s spirit is causing this havoc, that he is expressing his disfavor because I did not carry on his enterprise alone.” She withdrew a petite hand from her jacket sleeve and raised it to forestall disagreement. “I know you English do not believe in ancient superstitions, but it is an integral part of our honorable doctrines. I am convinced that it is my late husband’s spirit which is inflaming the students in their present ways. Obviously, the police would be of no help in this matter.”

She hesitated a moment and then forced herself to continue, her eyes boring into those of my friend.

“Mr. Homes, I know that what I am about to ask is not easily understood, but I am desperate. Will you attempt to placate the spirit of my dead husband and persuade it to leave us in peace?”

I stared at her in amazement, fully expecting Homes to terminate the interview quickly and send the poor woman on her way; but to my surprise he failed to do so. Instead, he sprang to his feet and began to pace the floor rapidly, his hands locked behind him and a fierce look of concentration on his hawk-like features. At last he paused, turned, and nodded his head.

“I shall give the matter my undivided attention, Madame,” he said. “If you will leave the address of your shop with Dr. Watney here, I promise you an answer in the very near future.”

She rose, smiling tremulously at her unexpected good fortune, and pressed an already prepared slip of paper into my hand. Before I had a chance to suggest that my medical services were now available, she had closed the door behind her and disappeared down the steps. I shook my head at my friend in disappointment.

“Really, Homes,” I said chidingly, “I am ashamed of you! Why do you promise such nonsense as placating the spirit of a dead man? Your failure can only lead to further disillusionment for that poor suffering soul!”

Homes stared at me calmly. “You noted that, despite her obvious infirmities, she still insisted upon discussing her problem?”

“Of course I noticed it,” I said a bit warmly.

“Then they must play a role of such importance that we are forced to respect her desires.”

“But still, Homes,” I said, “to promise to placate a dead man’s spirit!”

“I promised her an answer to her problem, Watney, nothing more. Tell me, do you believe in superstition?”

“Of course not,” I replied disdainfully.

“Nor do I. The fact that the trouble started with the advent of this excellent assistant, therefore, must only be coincidental, and the answer must therefore lie elsewhere.” He withdrew his time-piece and glanced at it. “A trip to the tobacco-shop after lunch is indicated, I think. A pity, though—I had hoped to hear that program of religious music at Albert Hall this afternoon.”

“Religious music, Homes?” I asked curiously.

“Yes. The Suite Sistine is being sung there to-day. By the Beadles, of course.” He shrugged. “Ah, well, duty before pleasure …”

I was quite busy that afternoon myself, having scheduled a trepanning operation to relieve a hemorrhage—a bloody bore, I might mention—and it was therefore quite late when I returned to Bagel Street and let myself into our rooms.

To my surprise Homes had not yet returned, but thinking it quite possible that he had managed to finish in time for the concert, I turned up the lamp and prepared to await his return with a bit of research. No sooner had I taken down the proper volume and opened it to the section on malpractice, however, than I heard the sound of feet coming wearily up the staircase, and a moment later Homes had come into the room and dropped heavily into an easy chair.

One look at his drawn face and I moved to the sideboard and began to prepare a drink.

“No luck, Homes?” I said.

“Nothing of any importance,” he replied in a discouraged tone of voice. “I did manage to have a fast walk-around of the two main academies in the area, Twitchly and St. Pothers, and I also, of course, visited the tobacco-shop. Oddly enough, none of the students was present, which was equally surprising to our client, and I was therefore unable to interview any of the little—” He leaned over, accepted the proffered drink, then leaned back once again. “However, I did see the damage they had wrought in the smoking-room, and I must say the British schoolboy has improved greatly in imagination since my days at Wreeking.”

“Improved, Homes?” I asked, mystified.

He chuckled. “Have you ever attempted to write your initials using a banana as a stylograph, Watney?” he inquired.

I shook my head. “I’m afraid it is scarcely an improvement to brag about,” I said tartly. “In my days at Barbour College it would not have been considered cricket to destroy the property of others.”

“Destroy? I thought it rather an improvement. The original wallpaper—”

“Still,” I insisted, “I’m afraid in my day we would not have considered it cricket. Or at least not very cricket.”

“You may be right,” Homes admitted lazily, eyeing his drink. “But times change, Watney. To-day—”

He paused abruptly, and then sat up so suddenly that for a moment I thought his libation would be spilled in my lap. “Watney!” he cried. “You have it! Of course! Of course!”

“I have what, Homes?” I asked in bewilderment.

“The answer! The answer to it all!” He sprang to his feet, setting his drink impatiently to one side. “The evening journal, Watney! Where is it?”

“On the table,” I replied, completely puzzled. “But I do not understand, Homes. I have the answer to what?”

But Homes was paying small heed to my query. In two strides he had reached the table and turned on the gas-lamp high above it. His hands found the journal, and he began turning the pages rapidly. Having at last found the section he wanted, he spread it open and began to run his hand rapidly down one of the columns. And then his rigid finger froze against a printed line and he turned to me triumphantly.

“Of course! I was a fool—and a forgetful fool at that. Particularly in view of the date!”

“The date?” I asked, now completely confused. “What has the date got to do with it?”

“As much as the reason why there were no students in the tobacco-shop to-day!” he replied cryptically. “Come, Watney! Explanations can wait! At the moment the most important thing is to relieve the poor woman’s mind without delay.”

With no further word he sprang for the door and was down the stairway in moments, rushing out to the kerb to wave wildly at a passing hansom cab. By the time I had managed to recover my wits sufficiently to follow, he had a jehu drawn up to the kerb and was bounding into his vehicle. His hand reached backwards, dragging me along, pulling me into the swaying carriage. As I recovered my balance, he fell back against the leather seat, his eyes gleaming excitedly.

“I only pray that we are not too late, Watney!” he exclaimed. “She must close that smoking-room at once, and hereafter keep it closed.”

“But why, Homes?” I cried.

“Because all the trouble up to now was only leading to the culmination to-night! And why? Because we have been concerning ourselves with the wrong coincidence!”

I grasped his arm angrily. “Enough of these enigmatic statements, Homes,” I said. “Pray explain yourself at once.”

He disengaged himself from my grip and smiled at me faintly.

“Since the source of my enlightenment was a statement you made yourself, Watney, I should think explanations are unnecessary,” he said, and then laughed aloud at the fierce expression on my face. “All right, then, you shall know all.” His face became serious once again.

“To begin with, as a result of investigating the wrong coincidence, we were attempting to correlate the arrival of the new assistant at the shop with the troubles encountered there, whereas we should have attempted to correlate the troubles with the date.”

“The date?” I asked, still mystified.

“Precisely. When you mentioned the word ‘cricket,’ and then were so kind as to repeat it, I suddenly realized that in all probability there was a serious rivalry between the students of the two schools, and a check of the journal indicated that to-morrow St. Pothers and Twitchly play for the Limehouse championship. And if the championship game is to-morrow, Watney, what has preceded it?”

“Examination week!” I exclaimed.

“Exactly. Well do I remember my own undergraduate days and the tensions that build up prior to final examination day. Combine this with the rivalry of the two top teams in the league, then put students from each of the two schools together in a small room at this particular time, and serious altercation is bound to ensue.”

“But if examination day has passed,” I objected, “why is it essential that the room be closed to-night?”

“Because of the game to-morrow! With the students freed of scholastic worries and intent upon building up spirit for the contest, the danger is even greater than before. No, Watney, the room must be closed at once. I only hope that we arrive at the shop before the students finish their supper and converge upon it.”

“True,” I admitted, and then frowned. “But why, then, should she keep the room closed after to-night? Surely the danger will pass once this evening is over, and besides, the students will be leaving for their holidays immediately following the game.”

“They will, but within a few brief months they will return, and the ending of each half-term would only see a repetition of these unpleasant incidents. No, I shall tell her that her husband’s spirit will only be placated by the permanent closing of the smoking-room. I shall tell her that her husband’s untoward interference was not owing to her having acquired a new assistant, but because in his new state he has become convinced that academy students are too young to indulge in tobacco. In this fashion I shall resolve her immediate problem, and at the same time satisfy her superstitions.”

I stared at my friend with admiration. “An excellent solution, Homes!” I exclaimed, and then paused. “But will not the loss of custom cause her to suffer financially?”

He shook his head. “If what the lady said is true, their new cigarette should develop sufficient trade with the sailors to compensate her for the loss of the students.”

“I am proud of you, Homes,” I said sincerely. “Never have I seen a case resolved with results so beneficial to so many.”

“Thanks to you, Watney, and your inspired use of the word ‘cricket.’ I only hope we arrive in time, and that I have not overlooked anything.”

The following morning, having finished my breakfast, I drew the morning journal to me and lit up one of the new cigarettes which our Chinese friend had been kind enough to present to us in gratitude for Homes’s solution to the case. However, I found the taste far too acrid for my palate, and I was in the process of crushing it out when Homes entered the room. He noted my uneconomical gesture with raised eyebrows and seated himself across from me with a faint smile.

“The new cigarette is not to your liking, Watney?” he inquired.

“I’m afraid not,” I replied, and proffered him the packet. “Possibly you might care for them.”

He shook his head as he idly took the packet from my hand. “No, I’m too accustomed to my Mesopotamians,” he replied, studying the outer wrapping. Then suddenly his eyes narrowed and he stared at me with a fierce frown.

“Watney! Is there any report in the journal of trouble in Limehouse last night?”

I hurriedly turned the pages of the journal and then stopped as my eye caught the heading of an article. “Why, yes, Homes,” I said, marvelling as always at his uncanny ability to anticipate these things. “A riot at the docks, actually.”

He slammed one hand down against the table-top. “I am a fool! She began to tell us the name of these new cigarettes and then stopped. I should have insisted upon knowing!”

I reached over and picked up the packet, staring at it. “But I do not understand, Homes,” I said, puzzled.

He leaned over the table, his eyes burning with excitement.

“No? Do you not realize, Watney, that this name is an insult to every nautical man operating under steam, since it indicates that he is only fit to handle sail?”

Comprehension dawned on me. “Of course! And it is also a word commonly used to denote a midshipman, the bane of every honest sailor’s existence.”

“Precisely. We must telegraph her at once.”

With a nod of agreement I reached for my pad of telegram forms, and under Homes’s dictation I hastily scribbled the vital message. It read:

“Madame: You must immediately cease to call your new cigarettes Reefers.”