The Brook Street Mystery

Chapter I

The rains of the previous night had left London washed and clean. The sky was a bright blue that morning as Holmes and I stepped out of 7B Praed Street, our business there successfully concluded. We had visited to hear details related to the death of Captain Brensham, which had a tangential connection to one of Holmes’s own cases. We were just pulling the door shut behind us when a stout fellow stepped our way and seemed to recognize us.

“Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson? As I live and breathe! I was just about to knock at this very door with a problem, but I’d much rather tell you about it. How fortuitous! You, sir, are the very man that I would have sought, but I understood that you had long since retired and no longer lived in London.”

Holmes nodded. “Sir Percy. How do you do?” He turned to me. “Watson, you recall our old acquaintance, Dr. Trevelyan.” I did indeed, although I barely recognized him in the figure before us. Holmes added, “Pray, let us not hinder you. I am, as you indicated, retired, but my Illustrious Successor inside will be completely satisfactory, I’m sure.” And with that, he touched the brim of his fore-and-aft cap, worn city or country, warm weather or cold, and made as if to step around the fellow.

Sir Percy Trevelyan, however, was having none of it. He raised a hand. “Please, Mr. Holmes. I have a bit of a problem, and I believe that you are the very man who can help me, particularly with the insight you gained related to the events in Brook Street so long ago. Might I have a few moments of your time to explain the details?”

My friend’s mouth tightened slightly in irritation, but I’m not sure that someone who hadn’t known him for so long would have been able to spot it. Holmes relented, stating, “Very well. Let us adjourn to the pub up the street.”

Sir Percy seemed as if he might object, possibly wishing to suggest a place of a bit better station, but he apparently realized that if he created extra difficulties, Holmes would slip off his line and be away.

We walked west for several blocks in silence, giving me a chance to observe Sir Percy in greater detail. I have to confess that when Holmes identified him, I was a bit nonplussed, as this man was quite different from the young doctor that I recalled, more than half-a-lifetime ago. He had gained considerable weight since that day nearly forty years before when he had visited our Baker Street rooms, enlisting our aid in the matter of his resident patient, Mr. Blessington. At the time, he was a thin, pale fellow in his mid-thirties, with a vaguely rodent-like face. He had been rather nervous and withdrawn then, but understandably so, and I had put it down to the situation in which he had found himself – namely, acting as a harried physician to the eccentric hypochondriac who bankrolled his medical practice, and whose behavior had been progressively deteriorating for a considerable period before the events which led the doctor to seek Holmes’s assistance.

Now, I was hard-pressed to understand how Holmes had recognized the fellow walking beside us. He was certainly no longer thin or pale, with the features of his face filled out considerably. His rather thick hair had been replaced by a speckled pate, peeking out from underneath his hat, and in the morning July sunshine, I could detect a series of broken capillaries on his nose, as dense as a map of the vile alleys of Limehouse. His clothing was of the finest quality, and as we entered the pub, I could almost read his thoughts when he resigned himself to finding a seat upon one of the commonly used chairs which littered the place.

I knew that he was now in his mid-seventies, a few years older than Holmes and myself. Comparing the drastic changes in Trevelyan with the manner in which Holmes had retained his wiry strength and appearance was startling. I liked to think that I, too, had managed to keep myself somewhat in fighting trim over the years and, when measured against Sir Percy, I felt rather proud of myself.

The pub was quite empty that early in the morning. Holmes and I ordered tea, while the famous doctor asked for brandy. While we waited, he pulled out an antique Obrisset snuffbox and took a pinch, and then another for symmetry.

“I have kept track of your successes over the years,” I said while he returned the box to his pocket. “Your work on nervous lesions has become world famous.”

“And one must not forget your researches during the Boer War,” added Holmes.

Sir Percy nodded graciously, with a humble and practiced and polished lowering of his gaze, belied by a proud little smile tightening his mouth. “I have been fortunate,” he said, quickly raising his eyes. “I must admit that the events surrounding Mr. Blessington’s death, and your brilliant solution, Mr. Holmes, were an opportunity for me.”

“Indeed?” said Holmes with a raised eyebrow. “How so?”

“Why, simply because your explanation not only absolved me of any guilt that might have been associated with the crime, but it also gave me a certain amount of immediate notoriety that I was able to parlay into increasing opportunities. There was an initial curiosity about the affair that led new patients to my door. Word spread of my abilities, and the practice grew. What began as a nine days’ wonder developed into a solid career. And it didn’t hurt that I was no longer beholden to Mr. Blessington for the use of the house in Brook Street, or responsible for paying him a substantial portion of my daily income.”

“Three-quarters of it, as I recall,” said Holmes. “I would imagine that keeping the entirety of your earnings, rather than turning over so much of it to your patron, would help significantly. But I did wonder how you managed to retain the house. 403 Brook Street, was it not?”

Sir Percy looked surprised. “Why yes. I’m impressed, Mr. Holmes. That was a long time ago.”

Holmes waved a hand. “I recalled your little problem for quite a while, whenever I happened to pass by that location, and I was curious when your name continued to remain upon the door.”

“It is simply explained,” said Sir Percy. “I was canny enough, in the original negotiations to reach an agreement with Mr. Blessington, to insist that I also be included on the deed for the house. I knew when I entered into business with him that he was in extremely poor physical condition and, in spite of my daily ministrations and examinations, he might die at any minute. If that were to happen, and if there was no arrangement in place for me to continue in the practice that I was endeavoring to build, I would be worse off than if I had never set up in Brook Street in the first place. After his death, I would be on the street and starting over from scratch. Blessington understood and agreed. Little did I know that, within a year or so, he would die in such a dramatic fashion.”

“I suppose that it’s a good thing that I never thought to question that fact during the investigation,” said Holmes. “Such an arrangement might have been considered a motive for you to murder him.” He glanced at me. “As I recall, Watson and I had some discussion at the time whether you had made up the story of the mysterious patients visiting your office out of whole cloth as a ruse to cover your own actions in the matter.”

Holmes was being charitable – he chose not to mention that it was I who had posited such a theory, while Holmes was able to easily prove that the visitors had in fact existed, and had been in Blessington’s house, and even present at his execution.

Sir Percy’s eyes widened at Holmes’s suggestions, and he appeared to search for words. I could tell that Holmes didn’t like the man, and had simply chosen to rattle him – successfully, as it turned out. But my friend was already tired of this game.

“No matter,” he added. “Clearly the evidence proved that Mr. Blessington was murdered by the men that you said visited the house in the days before his death – his former friends in the Worthingdon bank robbery gang. Tell us, sir, how may we help you today?”

“Ah. Yes.” Sir Percy cleared his throat. “We’ve been visiting and I haven’t yet told you my story. I would never have tolerated that sort of time-wasting while still in practice, and I know, from one professional to another, that you must feel the same way.” He tipped up the remainder of his brandy, signaled for another, and then fished a fine leather wallet from within his coat. Opening it, he pulled forth several papers. From them, he selected a newspaper clipping. He then set the wallet and the other papers upon the table and handed the news article to Holmes. “Perhaps you noticed this a few weeks ago?”

Holmes glanced at it. “June 18th, I believe.” He then handed it to me. Even without Holmes’s special skills, I recognized it as a small item clipped from The Times, although I knew that I hadn’t seen it before. Reading through it, I realized that, if I had noticed it, it would have taken close reading for me to understand its meaning, and by simply glancing at it, there would have been no reason for me to give it a second look – or so I thought.

LOST SHIP DISCOVERED

OPORTO – The ill-fated steamer Norah Creina, lost decades ago with all hands upon the Portuguese coast some leagues to the north of Oporto, has been discovered wrecked along the coast of French Equatorial Africa, south of Libreville.

It will be recalled that the ship sailed from London for Portugal in October 1881, but never made port. At that time, an intensive search was launched, specifically in the area north of Oporto, based upon the report of a local fisherman who had discovered and retrieved a life preserver from the missing ship. This was this sole piece of evidence that convinced authorities that the ship had been lost with all hands, although the witness’s credibility was later put into question. The search was eventually called off, and no insurance claim was ever presented.

On its final fateful voyage, Norah Creina reportedly carried three fugitives from British justice, who were being sought at the time for questioning in relation to a London murder known as “The Brook Street Mystery”, wherein a former member of the Worthingdon bank robbery gang, one Albert Sutton, was killed in his home by the three surviving members, J. Biddle, P. Hayward, and S. Moffat. Following the 1875 crime, in which £7,000 was stolen and never recovered, Sutton had turned informant, causing the other members of the gang to be jailed while the gang’s leader was hanged. Sutton had apparently taken the name Blessington in intervening years, and some time before his murder had set up residence in the home of a Brook Street physician, Sir Percy Trevelyan. It was there that he was located and murdered by his former compatriots following their early release from prison.

Following the crime, the police determined that the men then fled on the Norah Creina, but before the ship could dock in Portugal, where their arrest was planned, the ship was reported lost. Now it has been found upon the western African coast with no explanation as to why or how it came to be there. Local investigators report that it was beached in a small cove, surrounded by heavy jungle. It was discovered by another ship that had stopped there to make temporary repairs following a storm. No bodies were found on board, and the ship appeared to have been intentionally scuttled. The ship’s bottom was partially blown out, apparently caused by an internal explosion from infernal devices found mounted in the lower decks. Some of these had not detonated, providing authorities with evidence that the sinking was intentional. However, the ship apparently grounded after being abandoned but before sinking.

The ship had sailed with an abnormally small crew for a vessel of its size, further indicating that it was planned to be destroyed. None of the crewmen reported to have been on the ship when she sailed have been seen again following the initial supposed sinking. Additionally, there has been no further report of the men wanted by the British police for the murder of Sutton. The Norah Creina, already one of the mysteries of the sea, will remain so, but with another tantalizing chapter in her story.

I handed the clipping back to Holmes, who said, “I do recall seeing this in the newspaper, but I considered it irrelevant, as I doubt if, at this point, anyone feels that it’s worthwhile to chase off to Africa to seek out the trail of any of these men, who must now either be dead, or getting very close. And after all,” he added, “some might consider what Blessington received a form of rough justice.”

Sir Percy nodded. “I would agree, if that’s all there was to it. But you see, this notice in the newspaper seems to have stirred the matter up.”

“How so?”

Sir Percy’s second brandy arrived, and he took a sip. “I should explain. I have recently married,” he said, with seeming irrelevance. “For the first time.”

“I was aware of it,” replied Holmes.

“Really? I should not be surprised, but how did you know? It was not announced in the press.”

“The ring on your finger. It’s fairly new – no recent scratches. Also, it isn’t too loose or too tight. Most wedding rings end up fitting quite snugly as the finger within grows to fill them. While it’s possible you had to buy a new one to replace an old one that became lost or damaged, the more likely explanation is a new marriage.”

Sir Percy glanced at his left hand with a frown, revealing a moment of honest expression that seemed to peel away the puffed-up man before us and almost recalling the harried doctor who had first consulted us. “Well, you’re correct, Mr. Holmes. My finger and I have grown a bit over the years. Which is why I consider myself fortunate to have found a bride at this stage of my life. Last year, I met my Emilie, and since then my prospects have brightened considerably. I feel twenty years younger.” He ducked his eyes. “She is a bit younger than I,” he added in a softer tone.

“Forgive me,” said Holmes with a hint of impatience. “What is the problem that you would like to discuss?”

“Ah. Yes. I still haven’t told you my story.” He tipped up the remainder of his brandy, signaled for a third, and continued. The man behind the bar, now a bit busier than before, waved in acknowledgement.

“Even if you hadn’t followed my career,” continued Sir Percy, “you would likely have noticed long ago that I no longer maintained the practice in Brook Street. As my reputation increased, I became less involved with day-to-day patients, and refocused my attentions toward pure research, my first love. I worked at some of the major hospitals, and you are aware of the results. I’ve had some significant successes. In the meantime, I moved to a larger house, nearby and also in Mayfair, while continuing to retain ownership of the Brook Street building. For a time, it was rented to a middle-aged doctor who continued to maintain a general practice there, much like the one that I’d started. But he died unexpectedly of apoplexy in the nineties, and after that, I began to rent it as a residential property through a leasing agent.

“So my life continued, but at some point in recent years, I became restless. I realized that I was lonely, and to my surprise, I found that I had feelings for the widow of a former colleague. Our courtship progressed to the logical conclusion. My marriage, while very happy since then, has had one sour note. Emilie, through her union with her former husband, produced a son, Edward, now in his early twenties. I’ll be frank with you – he is spoiled and of no account, but he is the apple of his mother’s eye. And he resents me.

“We have quarreled from the beginning, and several months ago, when the situation was becoming intolerable, a solution presented itself. The house on Brook Street, which I still owned, became vacant, at just such a time as tension between Edward and myself reached a boiling point. It occurred to me that he could be moved to that house, which would serve to get him out of mine, while continuing to provide a very protected environment, as required by his mother. The two of them were agreeable, as the location is not so very far from where Emilie and I now live. The situation seems to have improved relations between the two of us, and even though Edward still visits our home regularly, we don’t find ourselves in quite as many of the arguments that occurred so often before.

“It was in mid-June when the report that you just read first appeared in the newspaper. Edward was visiting for breakfast, as he is most mornings, even when he has been out late on the previous night, gambling at his club. He had no interest in joining the conversation, which suited me down to the ground. However, my wife was reading the newspaper – she is quite forward thinking in that and certain other ways – and she saw that my name was mentioned in the article.

“Well, I had already told her something of the matter during our courtship – an interesting anecdote from my youth, you understand – and so she mentioned it to me as a curiosity. But then she wanted me to tell the story to Edward. I was surprised to see that it caught his attention, so I related it in a rather dramatic way. And then I thought nothing more of the matter until a few weeks later. My wife and I were coming in to breakfast – Edward wasn’t with us that morning – when we spied a note, centered in the middle of the table. Picking it up, I read – well, here, you can read it for yourself.”

He delved into the sheets held underneath his wallet, selected one, and pulled it loose, handing it to Holmes. I leaned over and read:

Reckoning is at hand. Sutton kept the £7,000. We have returned, and want what is ours. Leave it on the sundial. Cartwright will be avenged.

It was signed: Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat.

“Curious,” murmured Holmes. “They refer to vengeance for the member of their gang that was caught and hanged at the time of the robbery.” He frowned and fell silent.

“Sundial?” I asked.

“There is an old one in the rear of the Brook Street house.”

Holmes held the note up to the light, and then turned it this way and that. “Cheap note paper,” he said. “Available at any street corner. Nothing obvious about the handwriting. Right-handed. Careful to appear featureless. Blue ink from a worn pen.” He dropped it on the table.

Sir Percy cleared his throat and continued. “While we were still considering the note, Edward arrived with a puzzled expression, carrying a duplicate of the very same sheet that he had discovered the morning, lying upon the floor inside the front door at the Brook Street house.” He pulled out a second note, which we saw was identical to the first.

“I called in the servants and, without revealing the specifics, asked if they could provide an explanation. None was forthcoming, and I believed them. These folk have been with me for many years, and have no reason to lie.”

I glanced at Holmes, but he gave no reaction to this statement. He and I both knew that a new lady in the home could disrupt long-established routines, leading to resentment – and worse.

“A search around our house revealed that a small window on a little used rear door had been broken, allowing someone to reach in, unlock it, and then enter. That must be how they left the note. Subsequent investigation of the Brook Street house revealed something similar – a broken window at one of the lower levels.” Sir Percy smiled. “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Holmes. We should have called you then, so that you could examine the clues. But I assure you that there were no footprints, and the glass was on the inside of the buildings in both instances, meaning that it was broken from the outside.” He nodded my way. “Since that day many years ago when you notified me that you were writing up my experience for The Strand, Doctor, I’ve become a regular reader – not just of your stories about Mr. Holmes, but also some of these other detectives that have sprung up around London. I think I understand how you all work.”

Holmes’s lips tightened in a polite smile. He spoke to me instead of Sir Percy. “Watson, Watson! You have given away all of our secrets! Soon every criminal will know the correct way to break a window or to wipe away his fingermarks or to take care not to leave footprints.” Back to Sir Percy, he said, “Did your stepson’s servants in the Brook Street house hear anything in the night?”

“He doesn’t keep servants at night. There is a cook during the day, and a few who come in to clean, but otherwise, Edward prefers to rough it.”

“Had he been out the evening before?”

“He had, until around two a.m., and he is certain that there was no note when he came inside.”

“And what happened next? I assume you did not leave the money on the sundial.”

“No, I didn’t leave any money anywhere. Emilie was quite upset, both at the thought that our own home had been violated, but also that her son might have been in some sort of danger. She has fretted ever since about what might have happened if he had encountered them in the night while they were leaving the note, and has encouraged me to pay. And it only worsened. A week later, last week, there was another note.”

“Ah,” said Holmes, holding out his hand in expectation. Sir Percy pulled one of two remaining sheets from underneath the wallet.

You must pay the debt. Sutton kept the £7,000. Leave it on the sundial. Cartwright will be avenged!

Again, the signature was Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat.

“This time, avenged is followed by an exclamation point,” commented Holmes. “They are getting irate.”

“That point was not lost on Emilie,” said Sir Percy with a scowl. “If she had been worried before, this was worse. For you see, this time they only left the one note, at Brook Street, which places the threat more toward Edward than me.”

“Surely,” I said, “if these men, returned from wherever they have been for the last forty years, know enough to locate you, and to leave a note for you at your Mayfair home, then they would realize that your stepson in Brook Street is not the person to whom they ought to be focusing their attention.”

“So I reasoned,” said Sir Percy. “It doesn’t make any sense, and I tried to convince Emilie of this, but she sees it from a different perspective – they are threatening Edward now as leverage against me.”

“They apparently gave up threatening you very quickly,” said Holmes, “before making Edward their sole target.” He tapped a finger on the table and nodded towards the slip by Sir Percy’s wallet. “There is a last note. Does it raise the stakes to the point where you decided to seek outside help?”

“It does. This morning, Edward was supposed to arrive for breakfast. He did not. Emilie called Brook Street on the telephone several times. Finally, she was urging me to go there and check on Edward – which I had no intention of doing – when we in turn received a telephone call. It was from one of the day staff at the house. They had just arrived as usual to find Edward gone – or so they thought. It wouldn’t have been unusual for him to have already departed, as he is at our house most mornings for breakfast – although I’m amazed that he can rouse himself that early after the late nights he spends about town.

“The staff, thinking that he had departed, had gone in to make up his bed and found him in his bedroom, unconscious, tied and lying upon the floor. He had a wound on the back of his head, but he awoke when the servants approached him. Emilie and I rushed over there, with Emilie in tears and reminding me that what she had feared had come to pass. Edward had come home at one or two in the morning to discover three men in the act of leaving a note – this note here, found on the floor beside him. They swarmed over him before he had a chance, and that is all that he remembers. He was attacked downstairs in the dining room, so they must have carried him upstairs and tied him.” He handed the sheet to Holmes.

Our patience is at an end. Put the £7,000 on the sundial. Cartwright will have justice!

Once again, the signature, consisting of the three murderers’ names, remained the same as on the previous notes.

“I examined his wound – just a small contusion, and he will be fine. Emilie is not so certain, as you might imagine, and insisted that he be bundled back to our house. Both of them kept urging that I leave £7,000 on the sundial, but I still refuse. I was all for now calling in the police, because this has progressed from housebreaking to outright assault, but they are both afraid that will only increase the danger. Finally, I thought of you, Mr. Holmes, but knowing that you had retired, I decided to settle for the next best thing – your ‘Illustrious Successor’, as you put it, just up the way at 7B Praed Street. I was on my way there when fortune placed you in my path.”

“The second and third times that Brook Street was invaded,” said Holmes, ignoring Sir Percy’s belief in fortune. “Did the gang break in the same way as before?”

“The second time, yes. The same window was broken, after it had only recently been repaired. I didn’t think to check this morning, but I would assume so, since that method has worked so well for them before.”

Holmes nodded. “You say that have no intention of paying the £7,000.”

“Not at all, in spite of the insistence from my wife. I may have been successful in my career, but I do not throw around money so indiscriminately. And I know how this works – if you pay something like this the first time, they will simply keep coming back.”

“I think that you could certainly expect that,” agreed Holmes. He took the notes and the newspaper clipping, folded them, and put them into his own pocket. Then he glanced at his teacup, still full and now cold, and picked it up, drinking it in all at once as if he were very thirsty. Setting the cup down, he said, “May we now visit your wife and stepson?”

Sir Percy nodded, as if he had expected this. With clear satisfaction that Holmes was going to look into the matter, he said, “We can be there in just a few minutes.”

At that moment, the waiter brought our client’s next brandy. Sir Percy looked from one to the other of us, as if to observe whether there was any judgment on our parts. Seeing none, he stood and took it, drank it off quickly, and fished in his pocket for some coins, which he tossed upon the table. By then, Holmes was already halfway to the door.

Chapter II

Outside, the sun was bright on the entrance to St. Mary’s Hospital across the street. We found a cab at nearby Paddington Station, and soon we were rattling down Edgware Road. Along the way, Sir Percy explained how he had transitioned from seeing patients in his practice into a career of pure research. He was describing some of his more notable successes as we turned into the streets of Mayfair. We stopped before a handsome house in Charles Street, just around the corner from Berkeley Square. Holmes asked the cabbie to wait. The front door was opened before we reached it by an alert butler, and inside we were led by the master of the house through a series of well-appointed rooms to a lounge in the rear. There, reclining upon a divan, was a young man with a bandage upon his forehead, while an attractive woman in her mid-forties stood by him, leaning forward in an attentive fashion.

Sir Percy introduced us, and both his wife and stepson seemed surprised. “How did you ever find Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson?” asked the lady. “I understood that you were retired, Mr. Holmes,” she added.

“I am,” replied my friend.

“He was in Praed Street,” explained Sir Percy. “It was good luck on my part. He and Dr. Watson listened to our story and agreed to look into the matter.”

“What’s to look into?” said the young man, with an unpleasant whine in his voice. “These brutes just want money. If you pay them, they’ll go away.”

“Often, it isn’t that simple,” said Holmes. “Those who resort to obtaining funds in this fashion will come back again and again if they are encouraged. £7,000 won’t last very long.” He glanced around, located a chair, and pulled it over near the young man’s feet, so that he could face him comfortably. Seemingly embarrassed that he hadn’t invited us to sit sooner, Sir Percy indicated that we should all join Holmes, who was peering intently the young man.

“Mr. – ?”

“Wilton. Edward Wilton.”

“Thank you. Mr. Wilton, what you can tell us about your attackers?”

Wilton sneered. “Do you mean that you can’t deduce their heights and shoe sizes from just looking at my clothing?”

While Holmes cast his eyes up and down the reclining pup, Mrs. Trevelyan looked aghast. “Edward!” she hissed.

Wilton seemed to recognize the implied rebuke, and he answered in a more direct fashion. “There were three of them. I had been out to my club, the Bagatelle. It was about two a.m. I let myself in the front door, and I suppose they didn’t hear me. They were having a conversation in the dining room. I should have gone back outside and found a constable, but I crept forward instead. They were arguing, something about how to split seven-thousand three ways. They were suddenly silent – possibly they heard me – and then they rushed into the hall where I stood. They pulled me into the dining room, and we struggled for a moment before one of them, a big man, swung his fist at my head.” He raised a hand and gingerly touched the bandage circling his forehead. “That’s all I remember until the girl found me this morning, on the floor of my bedroom.”

“Percy,” interrupted the boy’s mother, turning toward our client. “We must pay! I don’t understand why you’re being so stubborn!”

“Emilie,” responded Sir Percy, “I’ve explained to you that I will not capitulate to these criminals!” He seemed set to continue, but Holmes raised a hand and asked another question of the injured man.

“You said one of them was a big man. Does that mean that the others were not? Or were they all big, and he was bigger?”

“I don’t know!” snapped Edward Wilton. “It was dark – they hadn’t bothered to light a lamp – and it all happened in less than a minute. I didn’t have a chance to grab a piece of a coat, or scratch a face so that my attacker might be identified. They were simply three men in the dark.”

“Were they talking in normal tones, or sotto voce?”

“What? Oh, normal, I suppose. I could understand them from where I stood in the other room.”

“Hmm. That might indicate that they knew from observation that the servants did not stay overnight, and they felt comfortable making a little noise.” He stood. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wilton.” He turned to Sir Percy. “Can you let us examine the Brook Street house?”

Apparently surprised that the interview had been so brief, the famed physician stood. “Of course.” With a nod toward his wife, and no acknowledgement at all to his stepson, he led us from the room. I looked back toward the mother and son in time to see them each glance at one another in a worried way.

North through Berkeley Square and up Davies Street, we had turned into Brook Street in just moments. The home of the former resident patient was still as I remembered it, one of those somber, flat-faced buildings that line that block. Sir Percy pulled out his key, and as soon as we entered, Holmes began his examination. Sir Percy made as if to follow along, but I laid a hand upon his arm, indicating that Holmes would work best alone. We stood for quite a while in the entryway while listening to Holmes move throughout the house, once passing us to go upstairs – those same stairs where Blessington had challenged us with a gun so many years earlier – and then again as he came down and went to the back of the house. In a few moments, we heard a door open as he went outside.

I was to the point of suggesting that we find somewhere to sit, having realized that my admonition to Sir Percy about leaving Holmes alone had likely chastened the man to the point where he was afraid to step any further into the house, lest he destroy some vital clue. However, before I could make the comment, Holmes returned with a look of satisfaction upon his face.

“Will you be available later this afternoon, Sir Percy?” he asked.

“Why, yes. A message to my home will find me.”

“Excellent. I should have some news in a few hours.” He turned toward the door, and we followed him outside. At the street, he offered Sir Percy the use of the waiting cab to return to his home in Charles Street. With a promise again of a report later in the day, we watched the acclaimed physician drive away.

“I must be about some tedious business, Watson, but I thought that you wouldn’t want to spend any more time with our unexpected client, even to the point of sharing a cab for a few minutes.”

“True,” I said. “I trust that you will be about your tasks alone?”

He nodded. “I need to do a bit of research, and speak to a few individuals who might offer additional perspectives. Do you have any questions?”

“Not many. I suppose the details have to be painted in, but I suspect that I’m caught up.”

Holmes smiled. “Indeed. You have learned my methods well over the years, my friend. What tipped you off?”

“Oh, make no mistake, Holmes. I have seen, but undoubtedly I haven’t observed, what you have. But I did notice that you had very few questions for Edward Wilton – your questions were almost perfunctory – and that you surreptitiously examined his shoes particularly while he reclined on the divan. There is one thing that you don’t know.” And I described the anxious look that had passed between mother and son as I was departing the lounge.

He nodded. “That, too, is helpful. Much must be verified, and there are facts that you don’t know, through no fault of your own, that give me a fairly solid understanding of this case. What you’ve just described doesn’t contradict my thinking, and it adds a nuance to be considered.”

“Well,” I said, knowing that he would continue to be cryptic until he was ready to lay out the finished explanation, “I look forward to hearing your report to Sir Percy.”

With that, he nodded and turned toward the east, striding down Brook Street, looking no different than he did when he had retired nearly two decades earlier. I turned the other direction, moving in a more stately manner, befitting my age, and found a cab in Grosvenor Square. Soon I was traveling toward my home in Queen Anne Street, and I passed Holmes as he was nimbly dodging a boy playing on the sidewalk. Then he was lost to sight.

Chapter III

That afternoon, around three o’clock, I received one of those laconic messages that had been one of Holmes’s most annoying habits over the forty years that I had known him:

Stranger’s Room, 4 o’clock. If convenient, bring your journal containing Sir Percy’s original problem. If inconvenient, bring it all the same.

SH

With a smile, I made my way to my study, where some searching and a bit of luck uncovered the journal to which Holmes referred. I flipped through it, a plethora of memories springing forth… The affair of the beleaguered Esquimaux and the singularly half-eaten meal. The dangerous matter of the Red Tincture, and the related ramifications to the very safety of the Capital. The service for Lord E----- and his odious bride of less than a week, whom it will be remembered was later found senseless at the last possible moment, locked in a sinking trunk in the center of the Serpentine.

I paged through the book and located the notes in question, using an old bill to mark my place. Then, somewhat before time, I made myself ready, retrieved my hat and coat, and found a cab, taking neither the first nor the second, but rather the third. The summer day was pleasant, with the wind from the south, bringing that unique and not unpleasant scent with just a hint of spice suggesting the river, along with something possibly imagined from the southern counties, and yet completely reminiscent of London.

As my cab made its way down Pall Mall, I spotted Holmes, waiting in front of the Diogenes Club. He was holding a small bag, similar in shape to a doctor’s medical case. Even as I arrived from the east, a second cab bearing Sir Percy approached from the direction of St. James’s Palace. We each alighted, nodded to one another, and then looked toward Holmes, who turned towards the unassuming doorway of No. 78.

Holmes didn’t speak to the man at the front desk, but rather led us deeper into the building, and then upstairs and through to the Stranger’s Room, the only place within the curious building where conversation was allowed. Sir Percy was looking around with curiosity, and when Holmes shut the door, he said, “I’m pleased to finally see this room. As I mentioned, I’ve followed your stories with great interest over the years, Doctor, and this room has always held special interest. Will Mr. Mycroft Holmes be joining us?”

“I’m afraid not,” replied Holmes. “While my brother continues to spend quite a bit of time here – more, since his retirement following the War – his schedule isn’t quite as rigid as it once was, and he is elsewhere at present. However, I did receive his permission to occupy this room for a bit. While I myself am a member of the Diogenes, and have found it restful upon occasion, it is Mycroft, as one of the founders, who has maintained this room almost as a second office, and therefore has the say-so of when it may be used.”

“And why did you wish to meet here for a discussion?” said Sir Percy. “I must confess that when you suggested the Diogenes, I began to wonder how the problem might involve your brother. I’m relieved that it doesn’t seem to require his participation, but you could have related your conclusions at my home.” He looked around and then proceeded to settle himself into the wide red leather chair so often used by Mycroft Holmes. It dominated the room, as intended, but somehow Sir Percy, for all of his increased girth, failed to fill it in the same way.

Holmes’s mouth tightened in suppressed amusement, and he and I chose the two facing chairs where we had so often found ourselves before. It was here we had met to discuss countless cases – from the first time I was introduced to Mycroft Holmes, during the service for his neighbor, Mr. Melas, to the numerous discussions which soon followed related to the Ripper Affair. Through the years, Holmes and I had regularly visited here, sometimes summoned to assist Mycroft in a bit of work, and at other times to seek information. More than once I had visited this room without Holmes for one reason or another, and of course I would never know how often that Holmes had consulted his brother without telling me. The first time I met Mycroft Holmes, for instance, he mentioned that he’d expected his younger brother around during the previous week regarding the Manor House Case. Surely there were other consultations.

Holmes and I had been here often during the War and the years leading up to it. Our work had delayed – but not prevented – the terrible conflict. I pray that what we accomplished through foresight and planning in that very room helped to negate what could have been much more terrible.

While I reminisced, one of the club’s staff entered to see if refreshments were required. Sir Percy requested a brandy, while Holmes and I had nothing. The servant stepped to a sideboard, sensibly poured a generous amount, delivered it into our client’s hands, and then departed. Then Holmes began to speak.

“I will be blunt, Sir Percy. I did not want to reveal my conclusions at your home, because I wanted to provide you with the opportunity to consider your response away from your wife and stepson. This entire affair has been concocted by them, mostly likely to gain funds from you to pay the young man’s numerous debts – funds which you would not otherwise provide.”

Sir Percy’s eyes widened just a bit, but he remained silent, taking a sip, and then another, before putting the brandy aside on a small table beside the red leather chair. Then he nodded.

“I suppose that I’m not surprised,” he sighed. “After all, both Emilie and Edward wanted to pay the demands, rather than seeking outside help. They were quite insistent. I believe that I must have known the truth, deep down, but I didn’t want to believe it.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and then reopened them. “How did you arrive at your conclusions?”

Holmes reached into the case which he had placed by his feet and pulled out a blue-bound volume. “I purchased this at Hatchards earlier today.” He held it forth so that Sir Percy and I could see it. I was rather surprised to find that it was a copy of The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, collected and published in book form by Newnes in 1893. He flipped it open, searching for a moment before finding the desired page. “Here we are – Watson’s rather fanciful account of ‘The Resident Patient’. If you don’t mind, I’ll quote a few of the lines.” He dropped his eyes and then began to read, changing his voice appropriately to fit each person speaking. His rendering was uncannily authentic, and I felt that I was back in our old rooms in Baker Street, listening to Holmes’s explanation for the first time.

Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but it was a quarter to four before my friend put in an appearance. From his expression as he entered, however, I could see that all had gone well with him.

“Any news, Inspector?”

“We have got the boy, sir.”

“Excellent, and I have got the men.”

“You have got them!” we cried, all three.

“Well, at least I have got their identity. This so-called Blessington is, as I expected, well known at headquarters, and so are his assailants. Their names are Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat.”

“The Worthingdon bank gang,” cried the inspector.

“Precisely,” said Holmes.

“Then Blessington must have been Sutton.”

“Exactly,” said Holmes.

“Why, that makes it as clear as crystal,” said the inspector.

But Trevelyan and I looked at each other in bewilderment.

“You must surely remember the great Worthingdon bank business,” said Holmes. “Five men were in it – these four and a fifth called Cartwright. Tobin, the care-taker, was murdered, and the thieves got away with seven thousand pounds. This was in 1875. They were all five arrested, but the evidence against them was by no means conclusive. This Blessington or Sutton, who was the worst of the gang, turned informer. On his evidence Cartwright was hanged and the other three got fifteen years apiece. When they got out the other day, which was some years before their full term, they set themselves, as you perceive, to hunt down the traitor and to avenge the death of their comrade upon him. Twice they tried to get at him and failed; a third time, you see, it came off. Is there anything further which I can explain, Dr. Trevelyan?”

Holmes looked up, a twinkle in his eye. “Is there anything further which I can explain, Sir Percy?”

The physician’s eyebrows were pulled together in a frown, and I could see that he might become irate if he allowed himself to continue along that path. However, he knew Holmes of old, and was certainly aware that his patience would be rewarded. “You can explain everything, Mr. Holmes. I have no idea how your revelation that my wife and stepson have been attempting to defraud me relates to your identification of Mr. Blessington and the other bank robbers from decades ago.”

“All will be made clear. Watson – did you bring the journal as I requested?”

I nodded and pulled it from my coat pocket. Flipping it open to the correct page, I handed the volume to Holmes. He glanced at the page where my notes for the affair commenced, and a smile crossed his face. I knew what had amused him. Long ago, I had considered calling the narrative “The Brook Street Mystery”, but Holmes had reacted to my chosen title with the look of a cat encountering something inedible, and had suggested instead “The Resident Patient”. I had already written “The Brook Street Mystery” at the top of the commencing page, but as I considered his suggestion, I had crossed it out and wrote “The Brook Street Patient”, seeing if that was more appealing, and testing how it rolled off the tongue. Then, I had seen the sense of his idea and also drawn a line through that as well, writing “The Resident Patient” instead. And that was how it was eventually published.

Now, as Holmes looked down on the three titles at the top of the page, two rejected for the one that he had proposed, each word underlined with a wavy line in faded ink, I knew that he remembered that same afternoon when I had hoped to spend the day writing, only to return home with dismay as I found him practicing a difficult maneuver upon his violin. It seemed as if it were only yesterday.

Sir Percy cleared his throat, and Holmes looked up, the smile still upon his face. “My apologies. I was lost in thought.” He turned his eyes back to the journal and flipped through the pages for a second before handing it to me. “Watson, please read the last paragraph upon the left-hand page.”

I scanned down and saw that it was a part of what he had just read. “You must surely remember the great Worthingdon bank business,” said Holmes. “Five men were in it – these four and a fifth called Cartwright. Tobin, the care-taker, was murdered, and the thieves got away – ”

“That’s enough,” interrupted Holmes. “How is Cartwright spelled?”

“C – A – R –T – W – R – I – G- H – T.”

“Exactly. With a W. And here in the published version?” He handed me the blue book.

I verified. “Also with a W.”

“Exactly.” He reached into his coat and pulled out several folded sheets. “And here, in these messages that we were shown this morning, each from the supposed criminals who had returned to England after all these years to seek the money that they feel is owed to them – how is the name spelled there?”

I took the sheets and looked. In all three written messages, Cartwright was also spelled with a W, and I so informed them.

“Finally,” said Holmes, “will you verify how it’s spelled in this news article from several weeks back, relating how the Norah Creina was discovered, with details about the fugitives and the old Worthingdon bank gang.”

I quickly read through the article twice before replying. “The name Cartwright is not mentioned in the article whatsoever.”

“Exactly.” He sat back with a satisfied smile. However, Sir Percy and I looked at one another with puzzlement and what might have grown into frustration, if we hadn’t both known that an explanation was forthcoming. I, however, was beginning to understand.

“There is,” said Holmes, “one other piece of information that you require, and understandably do not have.” He looked at me. “Watson, when you wrote up your version of the case all those years ago, do you recall referring to any of the official records? Did you do any research into the background of the bank robbery that had led to the arrest and conviction of the criminals Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat, based on the testimony of Blessington – as we shall continue to call him?”

“No, I didn’t. I made notes while the matter was still fresh in my mind, based upon the events and our conversations.”

“And you didn’t ever consult my scrapbooks upon the matter, either then, or later, when you published the story in The Strand in 1893?”

“I did not.”

“If you had done a bit of confirmatory research,” he said, pulling a final piece of paper from his pocket, “you might have come across this.”

He handed it to me. It was folded thrice, rather delicate and fragile-looking, and quite yellow. I opened it carefully and scanned through it, understanding his point immediately. Without comment, I handed it to Sir Percy, who did not reach the same enlightenment that I had obtained.

“What is this?” he asked, rather peevishly.

“An official Order of Execution. It was loaned to me earlier this afternoon from its official keeper, with the promise that I return it safely. Have a care, Sir Percy. It belongs to the Crown, and it’s quite fragile.”

“I don’t understand. It has the name of the man who was hanged for the bank robbery in 1875. What does this have to do with anything?”

“Read his name.”

Sir Percy squinted at the sheet. “Marcus Cartright.”

“Exactly. And how is it spelled?”

“C – A – R – T – R – I – Wait a moment!” He looked up. “There’s no W in this man’s name!”

“Exactly. This is the correct spelling of the fifth member of the Worthingdon bank gang, who was hanged for the murder of the care-taker Tobin during the robbery. When Watson wrote the matter up in his notes, and then later for publication, he had no idea that Cartright was spelled without a W. I suspect that he was influenced by our acquaintance in those days with a lad named Cartwright, spelled with a W, and that he wrote the name accordingly.”

“But… I still don’t understand. How did this lead you to the conclusion that Edward was attempting to defraud me?”

“I believe that Watson comprehends.”

I nodded and spoke. “The notes that were left demanding money each referred to Cartwright with a W. If the actual criminals had returned, they would have most likely spelled the name correctly. However, it was clearly written in the more common, but incorrect, way. Holmes must have immediately noticed the spelling – ?” I looked his way, and he nodded. “He saw the added W, and realized that the notes had been fixed up by someone who somehow knew the names of the other criminals, but not how the name of the hanged man was spelled.”

Holmes continued. “I must confess that when I read Watson’s account of the matter, years after the fact, I noticed that the hanged man’s name was spelled incorrectly, but it was an insignificant and innocent error. However, when I saw it written that way in the notes this morning, I realized that someone was likely working from Watson’s published story when preparing the demands, rather than first-hand knowledge. When relating to us what had happened, Sir Percy, you mentioned how you were prompted by your wife to tell your stepson the story of your involvement with Blessington, after the matter of the discovered ship appeared in the newspaper. Over the next few days, the idea must have occurred to him – or them – to see if they could work things to get some money to cover your stepson’s debts, based upon your association with the very old crime.

“They found and read Watson’s account, with the misspelled name included as part of its permanent record, and then fixed up the notes accordingly with the only data that they had. There was a great deal else that was wrong with their effort, and it should have occurred to them to check a few other facts before committing themselves. Besides getting the name of one of the men wrong, they also didn’t take into account the factor of the ages of the others. When the criminals first came to your practice, Sir Percy, one posed as the son, while another as the cataleptic father. The man who portrayed the father, Hayward, was already elderly in 1881. There is no way he would have survived to the present. Biddle, who portrayed his son, would be feeble at this point as well, were he still alive. And yet your wife and stepson signed the names of all three, as if all three are still alive.”

“And the third?” I asked. “Moffat? I had wondered at the time why he didn’t participate more fully in the affair.”

“He had been injured in his youth, and could not think clearly. Even during his sentencing in 1875, there was some question as to whether Moffat was competent at all, based upon his ravings and very odd ideas. Nevertheless, he was sent to prison along with the others, but it broke him completely by the time that they were released. He had some sort of family relationship to Biddle, which is how he was attached to the original bank robbery.”

“So you knew,” said Sir Percy, getting us back onto the main subject, “that Edward had written the notes, simply from seeing that the spelling must have come from Dr. Watson’s account, rather than someone who would have actually known the correct spelling?”

“Not quite. I knew enough to realize that the notes didn’t come from the original bank robbers. They could have been written by a family member of one of the original criminals. However, I suspected your stepson’s involvement, based on your narrative of how he came to learn of the matter, and the timing of when the first of the notes appeared soon after. When we interviewed him, I still wasn’t sure, but I took care to observe what I would need to know to further my investigation.”

“Yes,” I said. “When you took care to get a look at his shoes.”

“Exactly.”

“What?” asked Sir Percy. “His shoes?”

“Yes. I knew that, from his story, he would likely still wearing the same shoes that he’d worn the previous night, when his supposed attack occurred. He was tied up for the servants to find this morning, and it was very unlikely that he would have changed them upon being found and taken to your home and his mother’s ministrations. I took care to note their size and whatever outstanding features I could see without being too obvious. Then, at the Brook Street house, I examined the house, and particularly the back, where the window had indeed been re-broken to simulate another intrusion.

“Your stepson’s footprints – and only his footprints – were under the window, where he indeed took care to break the glass inward, so as to give the impression that someone had done so from the outside. Then, with slight bits of soil from the area under the window still upon the soles, he walked about downstairs quite a bit, without ever entering the dining room where he said that he was supposedly attacked by the three men, before heading to his room. There, he was tied and left for discovery in the morning. I found no indication of any attackers, but there was one other set of footprints in the bedroom, sometimes overlaying those of your stepson.”

“Someone else was there? But who?”

“The person who hit him over the head, gently enough to cause a wound without truly injuring him. Then he tied him and left him to be found by the staff. Clive Edgerton.”

I raised my eyebrows, for I knew the name. I imagined that most of London did, as he was often mentioned on the periphery of any number of ongoing scandals. Sir Percy shook his head. “He’s a member of the Bagatelle, Edward’s club. I had no idea they were acquainted.”

“I went ‘round there this afternoon,” said Holmes. “Edgerton and your stepson are as thick as thieves – literally, it seems, since Edgerton was willing to involve himself in this scheme. Did you know that your stepson had been asked to absent himself from the Bagatelle in recent weeks, related to his increasing unpaid debts?”

“I did not,” replied Sir Percy.

“In fact, in spite of his statement that he was there last night before returning home, he had been nowhere near the place. Instead, he was drinking with Edgerton in an establishment known as The Bow Bells in D’Arblay Street until nearly five a.m. – one of those places that does not close its doors until the sun starts to rise. That was late enough that, when he returned home to break a window and then be tied after his supposed attack, he wouldn’t have to lie about for too long, feigning unconsciousness.”

Sir Percy seemed to be trying to comprehend the tale. “How did you discover this?”

“The cab companies have become more systematized over the years, and keep records of their travels. While I worked on other aspects of the investigation, a simple telephone call to a man who owes me a favor or two set things in motion, and it wasn’t long before I had the name of the cabbie who took your stepson from The Bow Bells to Brook Street. I spoke to the cabbie, and he described your stepson perfectly, as well as the man with him – clearly Clive Edgerton. I had the same cabbie drive me to the club in D’Arblay Street and verified the rest.”

Sir Percy rubbed his face in a curious washing motion. “And my wife? How do you know that she’s involved? Perhaps… perhaps…”

“Further examination of your stepson’s life has revealed that over the last few months, he has made some small effort to pay a bit here and there on his debts – although not recently, I might add. Since he has no income of his own, he must have been getting the money somewhere. It is most likely that his mother is providing it. Although your wife has very limited funds, she does have the interest from a legacy established by her late husband. An examination of her bank records revealed that she has written small checks to your stepson, never more than a hundred pounds, and some of his debtors confirmed receiving similar payments near those dates. I believe that you’ll agree with me that your stepson is responsible, most likely with the help of your wife.”

Sir Percy raised himself in the chair. “Her bank records? You checked those? My God, Mr. Holmes – what resources do you have at your fingertips, to accomplish so much in a single afternoon?”

One might have thought that Holmes would make some effort to look modest, if one didn’t know him so well. Instead, he simply stated fact. “This sort of inquiry demanded no great effort. I have established a number of contacts through the years. The system functioned smoothly by the time of my supposed retirement, and these men and women continued to serve quite well during the War. I’ve been careful to keep the machinery greased and fully operational in the years since. Through the help of an agent this afternoon, I was able to determine where your wife banks. A small service provided for that bank in the past made them amenable to opening their books.”

Sir Percy nodded with a weary sadness. “I believe that you’re right,” he said. “She probably helped him. He is her darling baby boy. He is spoiled, and she won’t hear a word against him. She seemed far too anxious to pay off the demands for money, rather than seeking help. What you say makes sense.”

He looked at the empty brandy glass, then across the room where a refill was waiting, should he make the effort to get it. But instead, he pushed the glass back on the table and made as if to stand, shifting forward and saying, “I suppose that I should go home and confront them.”

“Wait,” said Holmes, raising a hand. “There is something else that we must discuss.”

With raised eyebrows, Sir Percy settled back, even as Holmes stood. My friend crossed the room, retrieved the brandy decanter, and set it on the table beside Sir Percy’s glass. Without a word, the doctor poured a tall refill and took a sip. “Go ahead.”

“There is the unresolved question of the seven-thousand pounds.”

Sir Percy set down the glass and cocked his head. “Seven-thousand pounds? Whatever do you mean?”

“The amount from the Worthingdon bank business in ‘75. It was never recovered. At least not officially.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

Holmes settled back and crossed his legs. “There was always something rather strange about the original case. Blessington informed on the gang and was allowed to go free. Cartright was hanged, but the other three received fifteen years. Blessington, who had changed his name from Sutton, was allowed to get on with his life, believing that he had a good long time before he would have to worry about facing his former comrades. He probably hoped that they would die in prison. He bought a house. He bought you, Sir Percy, né Dr. Trevelyan, and set you up in practice. The question is – how was he able to afford that?

Sir Percy started to speak, but Holmes continued. “Possibly, in his role of informer, he convinced the authorities that the rest of the gang had the money. I have come to suspect over the years that Blessington had an arrangement with the bank, or at least some official connected with it, so that he could keep some or all of it. That bank wasn’t the most ethical of organizations, and there was always something peculiar about the robbery. In any case, it was rather clear that Blessington had access to funds – substantially more than could be reasonably explained. However, after his body was discovered, his strongbox in his bedroom was examined, as you’ll recall. It was in that big black box at the end of his bed, and it held nothing more than what would be expected from his share of the money that you earned for him from your medical practice.”

Sir Percy took a sip, and then another. “What is your point, Holmes?”

“As I mentioned, part of my investigation today concerned checking bank records, in order to determine how your wife was able to help her son.”

“Yes… ?”

“This afternoon, I also examined your banking records as well.”

The heavy man sat up straighter. “My God, Holmes, this is really too much! What purpose could this invasion of my privacy serve?”

“If for no other reason, it helped me to decide that you were not telling me some complicated untruth as part of a larger scheme. Long ago, Sir Percy, I learned that clients can and do lie as often as anyone else. In this case, I determined there was no evidence that you were involved in some sort of action that required my participation to provide the illusion of legitimacy.

“But while I was looking over the records, I saw that you have banked with that same firm for quite a while. Since the late 1870’s, as a matter of fact, several years before you were plucked by Mr. Blessington and set up in practice as his Resident Doctor. Your deposits throughout were small and predictable, even after you moved to Brook Street and became his employee. But several weeks after Blessington’s death, in the late fall of 1881, you made a deposit – a single and large amount of slightly over £6,000. I’m curious, Sir Percy. Can you account for the provenance of those funds? A legacy, perhaps, from a relative? Unlikely. Perhaps instead it was something like the discovery of a treasure – what was left of the Worthingdon bank loot – minus the original purchase by Blessington of the lease of the Brook Street house, along with the other expenses of setting you up in practice.”

Sir Percy collapsed back into the red leather chair, his legs pushed out in front of him, with a look of bleary sadness washing over his face. Holmes continued.

“When Blessington died, I suspect that you worked out that there was the possibility that the £7,000, or a goodly portion of it, was still in the house, based on your new knowledge about the man. He wouldn’t have been fool enough to keep that amount in his regular strongbox, where it could be carried away in an instant. The strongbox was simply a decoy. And even faced with his executioners, he refused to tell where he’d hidden the money, possibly hoping right to the end that his death would be avoided. Or perhaps he was too frightened to speak. In any case, the money remained in the house, and you found it.

“You were in an enviable position. Through Blessington’s death, you inherited the Brook Street house, a contingency wisely included in the original partnership agreement. You were well on the way to building up a respected practice, and now you also had sudden unexpected and hidden wealth. It allowed you to set yourself up to continue those researches that were your ‘first love’, and which have so benefited mankind in general, and yourself in particular.”

Sir Percy started at the rug for a long silent moment, and then raised his eyes. “You are correct,” he finally answered, his voice soft and sad. “But what does it matter? As you said, there was something odd about the robbery to begin with. The matter was long settled before I ever found the money. If I’d given it back, what would it have accomplished? The bank would have just locked it away. The criminals had been tried, convicted, and punished. One was hanged, and their revenge was carried out upon Blessington. The rest were lost at sea on the Norah Creina. If I’d given back the money, I would have gotten a pat on the back, and could have continued to have a moderately successful life as a general practitioner. But with it I was able to accomplish so much more.”

“That is all true,” agreed Holmes. “But I still feel that there is something unfinished about the whole business.” He shifted in his seat, sitting straighter. “All that you have accomplished so far has been of great benefit to many. And yet, I sense that, even after all these years, you are not comfortable with how these events played out, and the way that you kept the money, rather than returning it.”

“Holmes, what would you have me do?” snapped the doctor. “Return it to the bank? I don’t even think that they’re in business any longer.”

“They aren’t. Their own peculations sank them years ago. But I do have another suggestion.”

Sir Percy simply looked at him, turning his head slightly the way a dog will when hearing a command that he doesn’t understand.

Holmes continued. “You are known for your research, Sir Percy. What you have accomplished in the laboratory will never be forgotten. It has made you quite wealthy. From my perusal of your bank records, £7,000 is likely no longer an amount of money that can cause you to lose sleep. But your wealth is a cold thing, and you have become removed from the humanity which you serve.

Holmes glanced my way, stating, “It is my nature to operate within the realm of the theoretical. In my early years, a client was nothing more than a problem, a factor of no more relevance than X or Y in an algebraic equation. I elevated myself above the humanity of the people who sought my assistance. It was only through my association with Watson, here, that I realized that there was more to what I could offer with my own skills and gifts than simply cold reasoning without compassion.

“I have followed your career, Sir Percy, and have been impressed by it. But I’ve also seen someone who became less and less interested in the business of his fellow man with every passing year spent in a laboratory, considering causes and reactions to be more important than the patients themselves. Now, you are honored across the land, and I was happy to hear today that you had taken a bride. But it seems as if that particular voyage is about to go through some stormy weather.

“When you leave here today, you will need to settle things with your wife and stepson. Unpleasant, but manageable. If your stepson were a few years younger, I might suggest a year or so at sea to strengthen his character – but then again, I’ve seen in another case how that sort of advice can go terribly wrong. I assure you that Watson and I will not reveal that you kept the residue from the bank robbery loot, all those years ago. But you will know that we know, and I wonder if that won’t motivate you, perhaps, to do something to improve our opinion of you, insignificant though that might be. You will know that we know.

“What I suggest is that you use the funds, the amount that you found hidden in the house in Brook Street so long ago, to set up some sort of clinic, to provide immediate patient care for those in need, rather than simply letting your legacy rest upon your research, which in the end will certainly aid many more people, but each of them unknown to you.”

Holmes fell silent, leaving the doctor to consider his words. Then, with a last drink of the club’s expensive brandy, he stood up. Holmes and I followed suit.

“I agree,” said Sir Percy softly. “I’m not sure how to start, but I agree. And thank you, Mr. Holmes. For many things.”

With that, he shook our hands, turned, and walked from the room, pulling the door softly shut behind him.

After a moment, I said, “He seems as if the revelation about the bank money has lifted some sort of burden for him.”

“I think,” agreed Holmes, “that several burdens have lifted – or at least shifted. I believe that his situation at home will be clarified and hopefully improved after this affair brings things to a head. He must have been aware at some level of the problems related to his wife and stepson. Pulling it into the light will undoubtedly provide some cleansing.”

He made to depart, but I held up a hand. “I have another question or two.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow, but nodded. Then he proceeded to fill two glasses from the brandy bottle, retrieved from the table by the red leather chair. We each seated ourselves as before, with Mycroft’s empty place facing us.

I waved at the room around us. “Why here?”

“As I said, I felt that Sir Percy should learn this away from his family, so that he could plan his reaction.” He took a sip. “I considered whether to meet at your home, but I felt that such a discussion would be an intrusion. The Diogenes Club occurred to me.”

“But that leads to the conclusion that you spoke to your brother today. Is that correct? And if so, what would have his involvement been in this affair?”

Holmes smiled. “Good, Watson! You perceive that there is yet another layer to this matter. I wanted to ask Mycroft why the Norah Creina had been found after all this time.”

I had known Sherlock Holmes for too long by this time to be surprised at this answer. I simply nodded for him to continue.

“If you’ll recall the events of the investigation that you transcribed as ‘The Resident Patient’, the three men who executed Blessington in his own bedroom – Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat – all fled on the Norah Creina for Portugal. During the day following the murder, while you waited in Baker Street, I carried out my investigations, which allowed me to identify the gang and come up with an explanation of the events that satisfied me. As part of my efforts, I located the ships preparing to leave London. I quickly ascertained that the three men were attempting to obtain passage on the Norah Creina, which was the only ship departing that day. However, what they did not realize was that that particular vessel was already earmarked for a different purpose – one of Mycroft’s long-range plans.”

A little more light began to be revealed. I had been aware of these “plans”, as Holmes called them, for quite a while. Mycroft Holmes, who sometimes was – and maybe still is, in spite of his retirement – the British Government, a master at taking many different bits of information and seeing an overall relationship. His ability to perceive obscure connections unnoticed by others also gives him an additional advantage: He can see where to drop this or that bit of misdirection into the flow of events to nudge things in a way that he foresees will work out to British advantage.

“So the Norah Creina was one of his ‘plans’. Presumably its disappearance was arranged. How was that of any benefit?”

“Who knows? He has a long history, as you know, of using ships to accomplish his mysterious tasks. The Sophy Anderson. The Alicia, and the Fuwalda. I didn’t ask then, and whatever happened is ancient history now. But the Norah Creina was the next ship departing London, and when I saw some of Mycroft’s agents on board, after I got onto Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat’s trails and followed them to the ship, a quick word with a man I knew allowed them to go ahead and book passage. Then I popped around to see Mycroft – in this very room as a matter of fact – to let him know what was happening. Afterwards, I returned to Baker Street to explain to you, Inspector Lanner, and Sir Percy, what had happened – without telling the whole story. I’m sure you understand.”

I did. In those days, I’d had no idea that Holmes had a brother – I had known him less than a year, and it wasn’t until the early autumn of 1888 that Holmes even mentioned the man’s existence, bringing me around to the Diogenes Club to meet him.

“This morning,” continued Holmes, “I came around to ask Mycroft why the Norah Creina had been found again after all these years. He was reticent, and simply said that it was time, and those who needed to know would understand.”

“And Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat? What happened to them after they sailed off on the ship? Its sinking was faked, and it’s been… somewhere for the last forty years, but surely those men weren’t with it the whole time.”

Holmes shook his head. “After the apparent sinking of the ship was arranged, it continued on to Gibraltar, where it was refitted for its new mission. The three killers, based upon the evidence that I had provided to Mycroft, were tried in a secret court and executed.”

He fell silent, and we each sat with our own thoughts for a moment. Then Holmes spoke. “What I told Sir Percy, about my own situation, was accurate. I owe you a great debt, old friend. Without your influence and insight, I fear that I would have been locked into the belief that the problem was all that mattered, without considering the very real people affected by it. I was reminded of that again this morning, when speaking with Mycroft. He, too, has more of a heart than one might realize, and some of the decisions he has been forced to make over the years will haunt him to his grave. It was he, those many years ago, who came up with the idea of how to handle Blessington’s three killers, while also accomplishing his own business with the Norah Creina. I thought it a bit cold at the time, but I understood the necessity. Seeing how it played out was a valuable lesson in my own education. I hope that, even now, this affair will provide yet another lesson for someone else.”

And it did. Sir Percy began to set his house in order that very day. I saw him socially several times after that, and his personal life seemed to find new levels of contentment after he revealed what he had learned from Holmes. Possibly of greater importance, he established a number of free clinics for the poor and indigent throughout Britain, at an expense far exceeding the original amount of the Worthingdon bank loot. Sir Percy himself became personally involved with the running of these clinics, and if he could have been knighted yet again, he would have been.

Only last week, I read of his sad passing, and was moved to add this account to that growing stack of Holmes’s cases which must remain locked in my tin dispatch box until a point in the distant future. Some of the tales in the box are of great importance – governments might still fall if the contents were to be revealed, and the lives of great men might be shattered. This narrative is of much smaller scale – a matter of but a few hours to Holmes and me, a tying up of a loose end. But it was of great importance to Sir Percy, who apparently felt, on that day nearly five years ago, that Holmes’s and my knowledge of his secret, along with our silent opinions of his character, was enough to send him down a different and far better path. His public accolades are many, but I wanted to record here, in private, his other great triumph.

Dr. John H. Watson

4 May, 1926