The Tea Merchant’s Dilemma

I came down to breakfast that morning, aware that the weather had turned cold overnight. The distance between my room upstairs, warmed by its own little fireplace, and the sitting room on the first floor seemed longer when traversing the chilly stairs. Holmes’s bedroom door leading from the sitting room was open, and I assumed, correctly as it turned out, that he had left early.

Just as I moved to ring for Mrs. Hudson, I heard the front door open and slam, and then my friend’s unmistakable voice calling to our landlady. Hoping that he was arranging for breakfast, I went ahead and signaled my presence as well.

In moments Holmes had joined me, two red spots from the cold upon his pale cheeks and a gleam in his eyes as he shed his Inverness and fore-and-aft cap. He hung them up and stepped to the fireplace, where the blaze had already been started, rubbing his hands briskly.

“Have you been out all night?” I asked.

“Not at all,” he said. “But a great deal of it. I popped awake with a flash of clarity at about four a.m., when I understood Reverend Mirehouse’s secret agenda.”

“Rather than the obvious one, I suppose.”

“Indeed. It has been commonly thought that he had mailed the stillborn infant to the Home Secretary in order to protest the proposed closure of a cemetery, but he had another agenda, related to a housemaid under his nominal care – a position of trust that was sorely abused. When I understood what we had been told the other day by the cryptic groom, I dressed and made my way to Somerset House, where I was able to verify a few familial connections.”

“You accomplished this in the middle of the night?”

“I have a connection who owed me a favor.”

I shook my head. The matter of “The Home Office Baby” had been in the newspapers for a few days, another of those nine days’ wonders that regularly filled the London press. “Will you notify the proper authorities?”

“I stopped on my way back to send a wire,” was Holmes’s reply. “Thus, our planned trip to Colsterworth later this morning is unnecessary – allowing us time to see Mr. Twickening after all.”

I nodded, recalling the short note that Holmes had received the day before, requesting his guidance. Seeing the train of my thoughts, Holmes smiled and said, “I sent a second wire to Mr. Twickening, arranging to keep this morning’s appointment.”

Conversation turned to other topics, such as how young Vryland, who had visited the previous day, was faring since our dramatic meeting during the Colchester earthquake six months earlier, and the curious matter of the Cudham Dagger which, it will be recalled, was found on the altar of the village church, covered in what appeared to be blood. That already sinister aspect was found to be much worse when Holmes determined, at the outset of the investigation, that it wasn’t blood at all.

With that grim conversation in progress, Mrs. Hudson brought our breakfast, and then the morning progressed. During that time, Holmes saw several of his “bread-and-butter” clients, as he liked to call them – individuals who made their steady way to Baker Street like supplicants upon a pilgrimage, trustingly laying their problems before my friend with faith that he would be able, by way of an incisive question or two applied with surgeon’s skill, to steer them in the direction of a solution. These cases, while not dramatic, made up a goodly portion of Holmes’s time in those early days, and were very much of the same sort that had occupied him when we first began sharing rooms. Only in later years did his practice – and the scope of his investigations – grow to the point that he was unable to advise clients from his armchair as he once did.

By the time the bell rang at eleven, I had returned to Baker Street, having been in and out several times throughout the morning on errands of my own. I was in the sitting room when we heard footsteps, and Holmes said softly, “Mrs. Hudson, and a man – our client, certainly. And someone else. A woman.”

This was confirmed when our landlady introduced us to Mr. James Twickening and his companion, Miss Jane Tate, a lovely young lady in her mid-twenties. As we made pleasantries, his hand stole toward hers and gave a slight squeeze. She smiled toward him, and then they separated and found seats in front of our fire. Twickening placed a cloth satchel by his feet.

“Miss Tate is my fiancée,” explained Twickening. “It was her idea that I consult you, and I thought that she should join us.” He looked back and forth between us. “She is a clerk in the shop, where we met.”

I did not raise an eyebrow, but I was a bit surprised. The Twickenings, while not royalty, had certainly risen over the last couple of centuries to be a highly respected family, based upon their holding of a Royal Warrant to sell tea. They were quite wealthy, and regularly mixed with the nation’s rich and powerful.

I was certain that neither myself nor Holmes, who cared nothing for society’s conventions, had given any acknowledgement by our expressions of the unusualness of Twickening’s marital plans, but the man, a solid and dependable looking fellow who must be around forty, added, “I knew from the moment that I met Jane – that is, Miss Tate – that she was unique, and that I would need her in my life for the rest of it, or I would regret it for all my days.” The young lady smiled again, and I could understand his affection for her. I indicated for Twickening to continue, as I knew that Holmes had no interest in these details if they had no bearing upon the case.

“Right,” said Twickening. “Well, as you know, our family have been tea merchants since the very early 1700’s, having been located in the same establishment in the Strand the entire time.”

I nodded, as I was quite familiar with the place. Just east of St. Mary-le-Strand, and across from the Royal Courts near the beginning of Fleet Street, the narrow shop, seemingly built as an afterthought in an alley between two greater buildings, was a Temple to Tea, and I had made a number of purchases there, both when I was in London receiving medical training, and then after my return from Afghanistan, always seeking new blends in the same way that a tobacco fiend looks for unusual combinations, hoping to hit on that exact and most-pleasing mixture.

“I had never thought to be involved in the family business,” continued Twickening. “Having no interest in a life of leisure like my older brother, I trained in the law. However, having found a position with a firm in the Temple, very close to the tea shop, I discovered that the day-to-day activities there, producing endless documents to be filed away in teetering stacks of the same, was nothing much different than factory work – albeit under much better circumstances, of course,” he hastened to add. “Then, when my uncle had a stroke nearly fifteen years ago, I was called back, so to speak, and I found myself running the family business.

“It was the best thing that could have happened to me. I found that I had a knack for it. And more recently, being there has allowed me to meet Jane, who came to work there last summer.” He again turned his eyes toward the young lady. She lowered her head with a small smile.

Holmes cleared his throat and frowned. “Your note said you wished to consult me regarding a possible criminal matter.”

“Ah, yes. Yes, indeed. I believe that Twickening’s is being involved in something terrible.”

“How so?”

“Last evening, I was in the shop, taking care of some paperwork. I’m often away, at our warehouses. You understand that the shop in the Strand is much too small to carry out the actual shipping and receiving, as well as preparation of the different teas in bulk after they arrive in England. It is used for public sales only, and I’m only able to visit there a few days each week.”

“Excuse me,” said Holmes. “I have been to your shop, and I’m aware of its Lilliputian size when compared with its neighbors. How many people regularly work on the premises?”

“Four, usually. A manager, old Mr. Bell, and three girls to serve the customers. Often, one of these will work at a separate counter, constantly preparing a fresh pot of tea in order to provide samples to the customers. Although the premises started simply as a tea room in the early 1700’s, it had been quite a while since hot tea was truly served there. Serving samples to the customers was one of my own innovations. I’ve found that it often leads to additional purchases, as people who try something new will then take some home.”

Holmes nodded and waved a hand for Twickening to continue. “Yesterday was the first chance I’d had to visit in nearly two weeks, as other matters have kept me at the warehouse. Since you know the building, you will realize that there is no first floor, but it does have a small basement, accessed from the back of the ground floor. Downstairs is some storage, as well as an area set aside as an office – a desk used by either the manager, Mr. Bell, or by me, when needed.

“Occasionally, correspondence for me arrives at the shop, and Mr. Bell sets it aside on one corner of the desk. Yesterday, I sat down and reached for the usual letters, only to find a box sitting on top of them.” He nodded toward the satchel beside him. “This box. It wasn’t addressed to me, but rather to my brother, Roger.”

“And his position with the firm?” asked Holmes.

“He has none,” said Twickening shortly. “He is my older brother, and should have taken over the business. However, he was involved in several matters in his early twenties that embarrassed the family a great deal, and there was a falling out. We have had no contact with him since – which makes it all the more puzzling as to why a package for him would be delivered to the shop.”

“What was in it?”

Twickening glanced at Miss Tate, as if to see if she were agreeable to him revealing it. She nodded, and Twickening turned back to us while reaching for the satchel. “I was hesitant to force Miss Tate to view this again – she observed it yesterday afternoon, just after I opened it, and as shocking as it was for me, it must have been much worse for a lady.”

“I am fine, James,” she said. Her voice was firm, and had hints of the East End in her pronunciation, something that she had apparently taken pains to improve. Hearing her speak, I could believe that, indeed, whatever was in the box would likely not shake her as much as it seemed to have done to Twickening.

He lifted the satchel and removed a cardboard box, about nine inches square. It was unsealed at the top, and I could see shredded wood fibers, apparently used as packing material, peeking from the opening.

“It is – ” said Twickening, but Holmes held up a finger and stopped him from speaking.

“I will see soon enough,” he explained. “Let me discover it as you did.”

Holmes reached for the box and then proceeded to examine it minutely. He lifted his lens from the small octagonal table beside his chair and held it this way and that, leaning forward, paying particular attention to the label. At one point, he brought the box closer to his face and sniffed. Knowing Holmes’s methods, and how he would spend a great deal of time examining the box before moving on to the object – I had once seen him spend an hour-and-a-quarter on an envelope from a blackmailed Duke before reading the letter inside – I was not surprised.

Finally looking up, Holmes asked, “Did you save the string?”

Twickening nodded and reached into the satchel, pulling out a tangle of still-knotted twine. I saw with satisfaction that it had been cut and not untied. I knew that Holmes preferred to see whole knots.

Setting the box on his lap, Holmes then turned the string this way and that. He held up the cut ends and said, “You might want to sharpen your penknife, Mr. Twickening.” Our client’s hand stole halfway toward his waistcoat before he smiled and dropped it back to the arm of the chair.

Holmes tossed the string onto his table. “Sometimes a knot is simply a knot,” he muttered. Then he took a pinch of the protruding fiber from the box and held it up. Apparently it, too, was just wood, for he dropped it onto the floor beside him, and then reached in to pull out whatever object the box contained, spilling more wood fiber onto his lap, the chair, and elsewhere. I leaned forward, eager to see what had moved Twickening to seek the detective’s help.

With a further cascade of packing material onto his lap and the surrounding floor, Holmes pulled out a skull. I was surprised, both at the unexpectedness, and also because it did not seem as serious as I had been led to believe. Then, I recalled that seeing such an object, after our own varied and adventurous backgrounds and experiences, would be no shock to either Holmes or me. But to a tea merchant, opening such a box in a dark basement with no idea of what he was about to find, would likely be quite shocking – especially when associated with a prodigal brother.

Twickening and Miss Tate were silent while Holmes turned the collection of fused bones this way and that, using his lens upon occasion. Then, without comment, he handed it across to me.

It was clearly old, and severely damaged. It was a discolored and dingy brown, ironically looking as if it had been steeping in tea. The mandible was missing entirely, as was the left zygomatic bone and arch. The supraorbital margin above the right eye was broken and gone. There were no teeth.

Most peculiar was the shape of the thing. It was clearly that of an adult, but it seemed rather small and elongated toward the back, with hints that resembled animal rather more than human, and the maxilla protruded forward somewhat more than was usual.

I withheld comment, and handed it back to Holmes, who had thankfully been picking up the wood fiber and stuffing it back into the box. He replaced the skull there as well, and set it on the floor beside him. “I take it that you are concerned that your brother is involved in something questionable.”

Twickening looked surprised. “I would think that it’s obvious, Mr. Holmes – something of an understatement, as a matter of fact. Why else would a skull be sent to the tea shop? We’ve had no contact with Roger for years, and then such a package addressed to him shows up from out of the blue.”

“What caused his exile from the family?”

“Gambling. Temper. Drunkenness. Living the life of a wastrel. A refusal to straighten out and assume his responsibilities. The same old story, I’m afraid.”

“Do you know where he lives now? Where he works?”

“I had heard that he is in London, although that’s really all that I know. We were very close once, but when I was chosen by the family to run the business instead of him, our paths diverged. Some terrible things were said, on both sides I’ll admit, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Do you have any idea why this object was mailed to the shop, instead of to wherever he now lives or works?”

“None whatsoever. I opened the box and was in shock. Jane came in just then and found me, and she saw the skull before I could cover it.”

“James,” interrupted Miss Tate, “I’m not as breakable as you believe.”

“Nevertheless,” said Twickening, “it isn’t a sight for a lady.” He cleared his throat and spoke to Holmes. “I put it back in the box, we discussed it. With no idea what it could mean, Jane suggested seeking your guidance.”

“You were of assistance to my mother, once,” interjected the young lady. “She was Helen Downs. The year before she died, you found her missing brooch.”

“Ah, yes. She lived ‘round the corner from me when I was in Montague Street. I’m sorry to hear of her passing.” Back to Twickening, Holmes said, “I take it you want me to determine the facts behind this delivery.”

“Indeed. I thought I didn’t care what Roger was up to – he couldn’t have embarrassed us any more than he did fifteen years ago – but if he’s involved in something so… so seamy as grave-robbing, I need to know, in order to take steps to protect the business. Our competition, those fellows over in Piccadilly, would do anything to bring us down.”

“It may not be as bad as you think,” Holmes said. “After you put the skull back in the box, did you do any other work in the basement office?”

Twickening looked puzzled at this odd question, but answered, “No. We left, taking the box with us, and I haven’t been back since.”

“Excellent. And do you now return to the shop?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said, glancing toward Miss Tate. “I have business at the warehouse in Hampshire.”

“Will you be at the shop this afternoon, Miss Tate?”

“Yes. I plan to return immediately.”

“Then Dr. Watson and I will call upon you there in a few hours.” Holmes glanced toward the cardboard box and its unusual contents. “I will borrow this for a bit, if you don’t mind.”

Twickening nodded, and after a few pleasantries upon my part – as Holmes was already pinching his lip and staring into the fire – the tea merchant and his fiancée were shown out. After we heard the front door close, Holmes turned to me. “Grave robbing?”

I shook my head. “You know that it isn’t.” I sat back down. “Technically not, anyway.”

He nodded and moved around and behind me to his shelf of scrapbooks. Selecting one, he carried it to the dining table and threw it open. “Bring the box over here, would you, Watson?”

Carrying it over, I placed it upon the table where indicated, beside the massive volume that was so much more than a mere scrapbook, with its pages stuffed with loose papers, clippings, and a hundred other things of curious interest. Holmes flipped until he found a series of pages with labels pasted upon them. “These,” he explained, “are shipping labels from various companies. These particular pages contain labels provided by hotels, mostly within London, but some from the suburbs.” He looked back and forth between the label on the box and those in the scrapbook, running a finger here and there while muttering to himself.

I leaned closer to look at the label in question. It was written in a distinctive style, sloping in a way to indicate left-handedness. It was simply addressed to Roger Twickening, 216 Strand, London.

“Charing Cross,” said Holmes, placing a finger on one of the pasted labels in his book.

“The hotel, I presume.”

“Exactly. It is their label. What do you make of the writing?”

“Distinctive. While the left-handedness accounts for the slope and also the ink stains as the writer pulled his hand across it, it also has a flamboyant style that will make it easily found upon the hotel register.”

“My thoughts exactly. We shall visit there this afternoon, if you are free, after making a search of the tea shop’s basement office.”

“You expect to find something else, possibly hidden there, along the same lines?”

“Not necessarily.”

He would say no more, and we proceeded to ring Mrs. Hudson for lunch. Soon after, Holmes picked up the nail scissors that had been found in the eye of Baron Trent’s cold corpse, apparently intending to cut the label from the cardboard. Instead, he decided to remove it entirely and set up a steam kettle in his chemical corner, where he proceeded to steam the label from the box. Then, by one o’clock, we were in the Strand and entering the tea shop.

It was unchanged from my last visit several weeks earlier – indeed, as it likely was for nearly two centuries. It was extremely narrow, no more than eight or ten feet wide, although quite deep when viewed from the street door. On our right were various displays of tea, and a couple of young women were helping customers make purchases. We made our way to the back, where Miss Tate was talking with a wizened old man. They became quiet when we approached, and then the lady introduced us to Mr. Bell, the manager.

“I don’t know what is going on,” he said, rather peevishly, “but I know that Mr. Twickening is upset. Whatever I can do to help…” His voice drifted off, as if hoping we would provide an explanation. We did not, and Miss Tate, standing behind the old man, smiled fondly at him. Rather than engage in idle conversation, Holmes immediately asked to see the basement office. Miss Tate led us deeper into the shop, where we found a very narrow and steep stairway leading down to a rather unpleasant little chamber, barely lit by gaslight.

There were numerous shelves around the wall, all loaded with tins, and the whole room had a curious smell, a combination of mustiness and tea. “I would imagine you cannot leave the stock down here for very long, or it might take on unpleasant odors,” said Holmes. Miss Tate agreed, explaining that there was a quick turnover due to the always brisk sales upstairs. She watched Holmes as he glanced around the room, paying scant attention to the shelves, and then settling himself at the desk, where he began to shuffle through the papers, particularly what seemed to be the pile of correspondence described by Twickening.

Clearly Miss Tate was torn, wondering if Holmes had any right to be doing such a thing. To distract her, I directed her attention toward the steep stairs and speculated that moving the tea up and down them so often must be unpleasant and dangerous. She nodded, and related several instances where near and actual accidents had occurred. She was recalling another when Holmes abruptly stood up and thanked her, indicating that he was finished. She seemed puzzled. “I thought that perhaps you wished to search the shelves, or even the rest of the premises, to see if any other bones had been delivered or secreted here, unnoticed before now. Do you think that any of the tea tins might contain something… dodgy?”

“Do not fear, Miss Tate,” said Holmes in that comforting manner he used upon occasion. “All will soon be resolved.”

Outside, we began to walk west, in silent agreement that the day was too fine to make the short journey in a hansom. Truth be told, hopping into a hansom was not an option that we always automatically considered in those early days when funds were not as plentiful.

Our next stop was at the far end of the Strand. Holmes had done several professional favors for the manager of the Charing Cross Hotel, and it presented no difficulty at all to be allowed to examine the hotel register. Even I, with my limited experience, quickly saw that the handwriting on the label matched that of Professor Otto Krueg of Paris. The manager did not recall him, and called over a man named Leiter who was working the front desk.

“Small fellow,” said the desk clerk. “German. Had several trunks. Yes, I did help him make up a package like you describe – about nine inches all around, and filled with wood shavings. No, I didn’t see what was in it. He had the materials sent to his room, and then brought it down to the desk to ask for some twine and a label. I tied it myself. No, I don’t recall who it was addressed to, but I did glue on the label. Oh, thank you sir. Thank you very much indeed.”

The manager then confirmed that Professor Krueg had checked out over a week earlier, indicating that any mail received for him at the hotel should be forward back to his Paris address. Holmes copied this into his small notebook, and we walked outside.

“You might as well go back to Baker Street, Watson,” he said. “I have some research to do at the Museum and the Reading Room, and you will find it tedious. Tell Mrs. Hudson I shall be home this evening.”

And with that, he set off down the Strand, while I went the opposite way to carry out some of my own business.

That night, over a bit of left-over mutton, Holmes refused to be drawn, simply indicating that matters should be resolved one way or another in a few days. As I left the sitting room later that night to ascend to my own bedroom, I observed Holmes move to his chemical corner, where he lit the gas jet and lifted the steam kettle, used earlier that day to steam off the label. While I pulled the door shut, he was shaking it to see if it still held water.

No mention was made of the matter until three days later, when Holmes asked if I would be at home the following morning. I assured him that I would be, and asked why. “I believe that you will be interested in the resolution of the matter of the tea merchant.” I agreed with his assessment, and made do with the knowledge that the matter would be explained on the morrow, as I knew full well that Holmes wouldn’t provide any additional information before then.

At ten the next morning, the bell rang, and within moments James Twickening and Miss Tate were shown into our presence. “You have news?” said the merchant, but Holmes simply invited them to sit. Two more chairs than had been present during the couple’s initial visit had been arranged before the fire. Before either of them could find their places, the bell rang again. Holmes went out, returning momentarily with a short man who was introduced as Professor Otto Krueg. I was curious to see the fellow, but Twickening and Miss Porter were clearly puzzled, and no immediate explanation was forthcoming.

While I helped Krueg remove his coat, the bell rang a third time. Again Holmes dashed downstairs. I heard low conversation, and at one point, Holmes’s voice rose, saying, “Really, sir, you must!” Then, he and the other climbed the stairs to the sitting room.

Holmes came in first, followed by a tall thin man with a worried expression and sharp, intelligent eyes. Although he was physically quite different from James Twickening, there was a great resemblance about the structure of their faces, and it was no great leap to determine that this was brother Roger, separated from his family for a decade-and-a-half.

James Twickening took a step forward. I was concerned that he might erupt in anger, but instead he sounded like a small boy. “Roger?” As if forgetting any issues that had stood between them, a small smile danced around his lips. “Roger?” he repeated, and then, “You look… wonderful!”

Clearly Roger Twickening was no longer a wastrel. He was in a very fine suit, covered by a finer topcoat. He started to move toward his brother James, and then stopped himself, falling back on some inner reserve. “As do you, James.” He glanced toward Miss Tate. “I was told by Mr. Holmes that you are to be married. Is this your fiancée?”

James started to introduce them, but Miss Tate had a peculiar expression on her face. “You’ve been in the shop before.”

Roger smiled. “A few times. When I knew that old Bell… or James, or any of the others, weren’t likely to be there. I… I wanted to look around.”

James’s expression darkened then. “Were you there to retrieve more of those boxes? What are you up to?”

Roger raised his hands. “It’s not what you think. I was unaware that the skull had been sent there. I didn’t know a thing about it until Mr. Holmes explained everything to me yesterday afternoon.”

James turned to Holmes, rather coldly. “I think that I deserve an explanation as well.”

“Certainly, but until Professor Krueg and your brother were both back in London, there was no point. If all of you will find a seat…”

When we were all facing one another around the fire, Holmes pulled an envelope from his pocket. “This was on your desk in the basement, Mr. Twickening, in the pile of unopened correspondence. I found it the other day when Watson and I went to the shop and searched. As you explained, after you discovered the box with the skull, you left and hadn’t been back. It occurred to me that there might have been a separate explanatory letter, also delivered to the shop, but unopened because you didn’t bother going through the rest of the accumulated mail.”

“That’s true,” replied James. “After I opened the box, and then tried to prevent Jane from seeing the contents, we left the basement, and I didn’t finish catching up on my business there.”

“So you took that letter with you following your visit the other day,” said Miss Tate to Holmes, but with amusement rather than accusation.

“I did. Would you care to explain it, Professor Krueg?” And he handed it across to the German.

“Certainly.” He glanced at the envelope. “Yes, this is the letter that I sent. I wrote it to explain the skull, and I mailed both from my hotel. I was in London on business, and had hoped to reach Dr. Twickening while I was here. I was called home unexpectedly, and didn’t have time to determine how best to reach him. Not knowing that he was no longer associated with his family tea business, I sent the box and the letter there.”

“And would you care to let Dr. Twickening read it?”

While the professor passed across the envelope to Roger Twickening, James said, “Doctor? I… I don’t understand…”

Roger tore open the envelope, starting to answer James, but then instead pulling out the letter and casting his eyes quickly across it.

Holmes spoke. “The separation between your brother and the rest of you has been more complete than you realized. After the events that led to him being ostracized, he picked himself up, went off to the Continent, and studied anthropology. He is now one of the world’s leading experts on fossilized bones, particularly those of ancient human beings.”

“Roger,” said James. “I had no idea…”

The older brother cleared his throat. “It didn’t matter. What I did before really was reprehensible, and there was no excuse… and no forgiveness possible. But in a way, it was fortunate for both of us. You have made a real success of yourself here, and found your calling – I know you were dying a little inside every day while working for those lawyers – and I… well, I have found my own bliss as well.”

“Be that as it may,” said Miss Tate, “things won’t be right until you’ve made up.”

James’s eyes widened, as if he had lived for so long without the presence of his older brother that he could not imagine him again a part of his life. Holmes, however, never one for sentimentality, interrupted with, “The letter, Dr. Twickening?”

Roger looked at the unfolded sheet in his hand. “Ah yes. From Professor Krueg. He wanted my opinion on a skull discovered a few years ago in Castenedolo. In Italy.” He looked around. “I believe you said that it’s still here, Mr. Holmes?”

“It is.” He waved toward the dining table, where the cardboard box had been placed. “I shall deliver it into your hands momentarily. I believe that everything is clear now?”

“No,” said James, rubbing his forehead. “No, it isn’t. Not yet. How did you make these connections?”

“There was no real difficulty,” replied Holmes. “Watson and I knew from our first glance at the skull that it was no modern bone, and certainly not related to grave-robbing – at least not in the sense that you meant it, Mr. Twickening.” Both Roger Twickening and Professor Krueg seemed ready to take some offense at that statement, but with a placating gesture and a smile, Holmes urged them to relax.

“As I said, I suspected that there must be a separate letter. You, Mr. Twickening, indicated that you hadn’t been to the basement office for several weeks, so the letter and the box could have been there the entire time. A search showed this to be true. The label on the box was easily traced to the correct hotel, whereupon Professor Krueg was identified, and a visit to the British Museum and the Reading Room confirmed his academic specialty. Further conversation with members of the staff there indicated the reason that such an object was sent to Dr. Twickening. I sent word to Professor Krueg, who agreed to return to London, and located Dr. Twickening’s residence, only to find that he was away from home, but that he planned to return yesterday. I notified Professor Krueg that today would be best, and then made an appointment to see Dr. Twickening, explaining the situation as I understood it, and convincing him to come here this morning.

“And now,” said Holmes, standing up, “the rest is up to you. As Miss Tate has indicated, it’s time to make things up properly.”

A silence stretched, and then James rose, his hand extended in front of him. He walked toward his brother, who stood as well. And then, just as Roger was about to grasp his brother’s hand, James reached out and pulled the taller man into an embrace. Miss Tate smiled, Professor Krueg beamed, and Holmes looked faintly irritated before turning and retrieving the cardboard box.

Later, after they had departed, I was moved to comment. “The letter you handed to Professor Krueg was sealed.”

“Hmm…” He was involved in pasting clippings into a scrapbook.

“As it would have been when you found it, still unopened on the basement desk, from when it was sent through the mail.”

“That is correct.”

I smiled. “I feel that there is one aspect of the matter that you neglected to mention when recounting the steps that you took.”

“And that would be?” he said, placing the glue brush back into the pot and giving me his full attention.

“The additional scientific examination that you carried out the other night, using the kettle that was still on your chemical table from earlier in the day, when you had steamed off the box’s label.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “You agree that, according to the procedure that you saw for yourself and then heard described, the matter was already settled by that point, in terms of the who’s and the why’s?”

“I do. You had identified the principals by then, and had found a reasonable explanation as to the presence of the skull in the basement of the tea shop.”

“Then confirming or denying your implied hypothesis that I stooped to steaming open a letter in order to verify my own theory is quite unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary, perhaps. But understandable.”

“Nevertheless, I admit to nothing. You are welcome to draw your own conclusions, Doctor.”

And with that, he returned to his task, while I smiled, rose, and walked to the sideboard to pour us both a bit of whisky – although I felt that upon this occasion, Twickening’s Tea might have been more appropriate.