The Adventure of the Briary School

I had thought these memoirs to be ended for all time, for although my notebooks contained many as-yet-untold adventures which I had been fortunate enough to share with my good friend Mr. Schlock Homes, the fact was that after Homes’s retirement to the Upson Downs for the purpose of bee-farming, he forbade me to release any further details of his many cases so long as he was no longer in the profession. It would bring him too much publicity, he feared, and would not permit him the seclusion he desired so fervently.

I was therefore quite surprised, one fine summer morning in the year ’72, to hear a ring at the door and moments later to have my page usher in none other than Mr. Schlock Homes himself! I had retained our old rooms at 221B Bagel Street, and at first I thought Homes had merely dropped in for a brief nostalgic visit while in town; but before I could even offer him a cold curry from the sideboard, he had called loudly down below and two large navvies came lumbering up the steps bearing his two trunks, his portmanteau, and a welter of boxes.

“Homes!” I cried in delight, coming to my feet, curry in hand. “You have come out of retirement!”

He put off answering until his gear had been placed down to his satisfaction, and then paying off the men, he closed the door behind them and fell into a chair.

“Would you mind, Watney,” he inquired, “sharing your solitude after all these years?”

“Homes!” I exclaimed. “You must know better than that! It is a pleasure. But what happened to the bee-farming?”

He shook his head, a slightly puzzled frown upon his lean features.

“This bee-farming,” said he, pinching his lip, “is far more difficult than one might imagine. Year after year I planted the little devils at exactly the proper depth according to my calculations, inserted what I still feel was the correct amount of fertilizer, tamped each little hill down securely, and watered them daily. Yet not one single crop did I get!”

“Possibly you used old bees?” I asked helpfully.

“No,” said he, shaking his head, “nor could it have been the soil. My carrots were more than satisfactory, and my neighbor—with whom I have a slight altercation regarding boundaries—was decent enough to say that my cucumbers, which he claims are growing on his property, will end up giving me a fine pickle. Or something on that order.” He sighed heavily. “No, Watney; I fear I was meant to be a private investigator and nothing more. It is a pity there is no case awaiting me. I may have merely exchanged the frustration of bee-farming for the ennui of the city.”

“I doubt that, Homes,” I said with a smile. “Only this morning a telegram arrived addressed to you. I was about to send the page around to return it to sender, as I have the many others, when you arrived. Here it is now.”

He accepted the form from me with eager fingers, tore open the envelope, and perused its contents with his old concentration. I sat back, pleased to be once more back in harness with Homes, and watched his nostrils dilate in that fashion I recognized from the old days as indicating his allergy to cold curry.

“Ah,” said he at last, a faint smile upon his face, “nothing of great merit, but still a welcome start after my years of inaction. It appears that a certain Mr. Silas Cornbuckle—a name, you note, of uncertain national origin—has asked for an appointment at ten, and”—he glanced at the mantel clock just as the bell rang—“I shall be greatly surprised if this is not our Mr. Cornbuckle now!”

He leaned back comfortably as our page ushered in a stout young man of florid complexion, dressed in an atrociously striped garment, wearing a flaxen drooping moustache, and sporting a large chain across his weskit from which dangled a huge curved ornament. Homes nodded politely, but even before he could properly greet his visitor, I interrupted, a bit smugly, perhaps.

“Come, Homes,” said I, smiling. “Let us see if your years of bee-farming have or have not dulled your talents. At one time you used to brag of your ability to discern a person’s nationality or occupation from his mere appearance. What say you of this gentleman?”

Homes’s eyes twinkled as he readily accepted the challenge. Our guest stood frowning in puzzlement at our exchange as Homes considered the figure before him critically.

“You will note, Watney,” he said at last, almost as if the years had not passed, or as if our guest were not in the room, “the clothing of our visitor is colored in red and white stripes. Since only a patriot would wear such a garment, we can only conclude our guest is from Canada. A further proof of his nationality, if further proof were needed, is the ornament on his watch-chain, which I recognize as being an elk’s tooth, since elk are native to Canada.

“As for his occupation, we must consider the fact that the elk is known for its ferocity when facing dentistry of any sort, so anyone removing a tooth must be someone familiar with the ways of the beast. When we add to this the sagging shoulders, the typical stance of one trained to follow a spoor, we can state with confidence that our guest is a professional—and obviously intrepid—hunter!”

The large man stared at Homes in amazement.

“I cannot fathom how you do it, Mr. Homes!” he exclaimed, his jaw agape. “You are absolutely right in stating that I am a patriot, and I truly meant to wear my blue weskit, but I seem to have misplaced it. Actually, I am from the Colony of New Jersey, although I have often visited Canada. I am also pleased that you recognize the courage of a member of the B.P.O.E. On the name, though, you were truly remarkable. Professional Hunter is my brother-in-law; I married his sister, Intrepid. As for the sagging shoulders, they come from carrying the luggage of ten young whippersnappers, and it is in connection with them that I find myself here.”

Homes nodded genially and waved a hand.

“Have the basket chair, pray,” he said, “and tell me your story. I shall be happy to assist you in any manner within my power.”

Our guest sank gratefully into the indicated chair and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a bit of paper. He contemplated it in frowning silence for a moment or two and then looked up, speaking earnestly.

“Mr. Homes, I am the professor of spelling at the exclusive Briary School in Woodbine, New Jersey. Each year the staff draws straws, and the loser must accompany a group of students on the Grand Tour. This year I was the unfortunate one. I will not bore you with tales of my experiences to date, but will get directly to the point.

“This morning, Mr. Homes, I found the boys passing this note among them. Since in the past I have known to my sorrow that their boisterous spirits can become excessive at times, and since I could make neither head nor tail of the contents of the note, I hastened to make inquiries as to the best advice possible, and am now here.”

He reached out and presented the paper to Homes. My friend took it and studied it intently as I came to stand behind him, reading it over his shoulder. As Mr. Cornbuckle had so truthfully stated, it seemed to be pure gibberish. It was scrawled in a childish copperplate and read as follows:

“LSD party Savoy room 715. There will be lots of grass around as well, but NO heroin! We’ll ship Papa Bear to the flicks.”

There was no signature to this odd bit of nonsense. Mr. Silas Cornbuckle looked at Homes anxiously.

“I do pray, Mr. Homes,” said he, “that you will be able to decipher this note and prove it merely to be the basis for some boyish prank and not, as I fear, something more serious.”

Homes frowned at the small bit of paper in a manner which I knew indicated he had seen something in the weird phrases which had escaped both Mr. Cornbuckle and myself. When at last he raised his head his face was expressionless, but there was a fierce light hidden in his eye.

“I would hesitate to make judgement at first reading,” said he, “but I fear you were quite right in seeking help in this matter. I seriously doubt if one might call this a boyish prank! May I ask a few questions?”

“Of course!”

“These boys—they were not chosen for this trip on the basis of scholastic merit, I gather?”

“I do not know how you do it, Mr. Homes!” Silas Cornbuckle exclaimed. “But the fact is they are far from our best students. However, since their parents were the only ones who could afford the voyage, they were chosen.”

“Still,” Homes said, his voice deceptively soft, “even though they are not particularly studious, and even though they tend towards pranks, at times they do show gentlemanly traits, do they not?”

“It is true.”

“And to finish my questioning, the next stop on your Grand Tour, I imagine, would be France?”

“Amazing!” Cornbuckle murmured, his eyes wide. “But, yes. It is. We leave with the morning tide.”

Homes paid no attention to the adulation in the man’s eyes but nodded at him a bit abruptly.

“I suggest you remain in your quarters all day, for I hope to have an answer for you before the day is out. If you will leave your address with our page, I shall devote my entire efforts to a rapid solution of the problem!”

Once our visitor had left, Homes sprang to his feet, striding up and down the room in his old manner, his hands clasped behind his back, the note waving there from his long fingers. At last he fell into a chair, staring at the words fiercely, wriggling about in his chair in a manner I knew meant Mrs. Essex had put too much starch in his underwear.

“Homes,” I asked, “can it be a code?”

“No, no!” said he, shaking his head impatiently. “It is far more intricate than that! It is quite obvious that the plan to kidnap the Chancellor is well advanced. The only problem is how to foil the dastardly plot!”

“Homes!” I exclaimed reproachfully. “Surely after all these years of absence you have not returned merely to pull my leg!”

He considered me for several moments coldly, and then answered my question with one of his own, an irritating habit he knew infuriated me.

“Have you nothing to do, Watney? Visit Albert Hall, or the British Museum? Enjoy the pleasant scenery of Putney? Or even see a patient?”

The years had not lessened my ability to read meaning into the slightest nuance in my friend’s tone. I came instantly to my feet.

“As a matter of fact,” I said coolly, “I have a cepillectomy scheduled, and should have been there before now.”

But Homes had already forgotten my presence, and as I left the room he was reaching for a Vulgarian and a vespa, the paper still clutched fiercely in his fingers.

When I returned some two hours later, brushing hair from my lapel, it was to find the room full of smoke and Homes smiling quite genially at me from his chair. I recognized that he had discovered the solution to the problem.

“You must forgive me, Watney,” he said, waving languidly towards the sideboard and the libation he had prepared there. “But by now you should be familiar with my humors, and time was of the essence. After all, the ides of July are almost upon us, and it would not do to allow this crime to be perpetrated without raising a finger!”

I poured myself a drink and turned to face him.

“Come, Homes,” I said. “You cannot possibly mean you read some intelligent meaning into those few confused scrawls! After all, I saw the note as well as you, and I swear there was nothing there that lent itself to understanding!”

Homes shook his head in disappointment.

“Really, Watney! There was everything there. The meaning was quite clear. These young lads fully intend to kidnap one of Britain’s leading statesmen and hold him, obviously for ransom, in the countryside of France, confident in their ignorance that they can fool the French police. The fact that they planned this wicked deed without involving young ladies is, of course, to their credit, but it still does not mitigate the seriousness of their intent.”

I stared at Homes. He read the meaning in my frown and smiled.

“No, Watney,” said he with a chuckle. “I am not mad, nor am I pulling your leg.” His face straightened into seriousness as he reached over, taking up the note. “I have sent our page for Mr. Silas Cornbuckle, and until he arrives there should be ample time to explain this business to you.”

He leaned over, placing the note on a table where we both might peruse it at the same time.

“It was really quite simple, Watney,” he began. “Let us consider this note. It reads: ‘LSD party Savoy room 715. There will be lots of grass around as well, but NO heroin! We’ll ship Papa Bear to the flicks.’ As I had previously deduced from reading this, the boy writing these words was obviously a poor student. While I was too polite to mention the fact to Mr. Cornbuckle, since he is their professor, the spelling is atrocious.”

His thin finger came out, pointing.

“For example, take the word ‘Savvy,’ a common colonial slang expression. And the word ‘room’ used as the abbreviation of the word Roman. Or ‘flicks,’ which is never spelled with a ‘k.’ Not to mention omitting the final ‘e’ from the word ‘heroin.’ “He shook his head. “Shocking!”

“But, Homes,” I exclaimed a bit plaintively, “I still do not understand!”

Homes shook his head sadly at my ignorance.

“Really, Watney!” he said, and sighed. “Ah, well, let us start at the beginning, then. ‘LSD’ is obviously ‘Pounds, Shillings, Pence.’ Therefore the ‘LSD party’ can be nobody but the Chancellor of the Exchequer. The ‘room 715’—or, more properly spelled, ‘Rom. 715’—refers to the Roman calendar for the seventh month, the fifteenth day, or—as you may know—tomorrow’s date. This afternoon I verified, as I had suspected, that the Chancellor travels to-night by the channel steamer for a conference in Paris.”

“But what made you suspect France in the first place?” I asked, amazed as always at the constant proof of Homes’s brilliance.

“Note the last line, Watney.” Homes pointed to the paper. “‘We’ll ship Papa Bear to the flicks.’ In the colonies they have a mascot known as Smokey; it can only be he to whom ‘Papa Bear’ can refer. When we consider that the French police are know as ‘flics,’ the entire message becomes clear.”

He leaned back, considering me gravely. “On the basis of our analysis, let us now re-read the note. It says: The Chancellor of the Exchequer, understand? To-morrow July 15th. (We’ll hide him) in the countryside—the reference to grass, of course. No girls will be allowed to participate. We’ll put down a smokescreen for the French police.”

I brought my dazed eyes up from the slip of paper.

“Marvellous, Homes,” I breathed worshipfully. Then I saw a problem. “But, Homes!” I cried. “At this late hour, how can this foul scheme be scotched?”

“Easily—” he began, and then paused as the sound of footsteps on our stairs could be heard. A moment later Mr. Silas Cornbuckle burst into our quarters.

“Mr. Homes!” he cried. “I pray you have the answer! What did the message intend to convey?”

“I cannot reveal that,” Homes replied quietly. “It could do nothing but damage the already tenuous ties between the American colony and the mother country. However, I can tell you how to avoid any unpleasant consequences from your charges’ intended deed.”

“Of course, Mr. Homes,” said Silas Cornbuckle. “What can I do?”

“You must cancel France from your tour,” Homes said. “There is no other solution.”

Mr. Silas Cornbuckle stared at my friend. “But the boys—”

“—will doubtless be disappointed,” Homes said, concluding the other’s sentence. “I am sure,” he added dryly, and shrugged. “Well, one cannot have everything. However, if you wish a suggestion, you might consider giving the lads a special treat as compensation.”

Mr. Cornbuckle grasped the recommendation eagerly. “Such as?”

“Well,” Homes said, considering the matter, “I imagine an evening at one of our local hostelries might help them get over their disappointment. In fact,” he added, “it might even be better if you left them to their own devices, thus indicating your faith in their ability to entertain themselves properly.” He smiled at our guest genially. “To while away the hours while the lads are occupied, you might go to the cinema. I have never seen the Nickelodeon, but I understand it interests many.”

“It shall be as you say,” Mr. Cornbuckle said, and turned to the door. He paused and bowed. “Nor can I thank you enough, Mr. Homes.”

“A pleasure,” Homes said, and returned the bow, as we watched Homes’s first client stumble through the doorway, overcome with gratitude.

The following morning I came into the dining-room to find Homes already before me, replacing the remnants of curry with stuffed chutneys, his own favorite. As he served himself and took his place at the table, I seated myself and opened the morning journal. Homes drew his napkin into his lap, speared his first chutney, and looked at me questioningly.

“Do you find anything in the paper to interest an up-coming, ambitious, and newly-investitured private investigator this morning?” he inquired in a tone that was only half-joking.

“I am not sure, Homes,” I said slowly, reading further into the article which had caught my attention. “There is this, if you might be interested. It seems there was a narcotics raid at a local hotel last night, but it appears the miscreants all managed to escape. The police are seeking whatever help they can obtain.”

Homes sat erect.

“As you know, Watney,” said he, “at one time I myself was the victim of the foul habit. There is no traffic I consider more reprehensible! A telegram to the authorities, offering my services, if you would!” He leaned back. “Although,” he added thoughtfully, “once the criminals hear that Schlock Homes is on the case, I should be gravely dubious if they do not flee the country by the first packet.”