The Adventure of the Gold-Engraved Box

‘Singular Deduction’

One of the most memorable cases with which my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, was associated during the time I lived with him in our Baker Street flat was a most singular case; brought to him by our landlady, Mrs. Hudson.

It was a cold a dreary morning. Fog had settled once more over the streets of London. All was quiet and had been for weeks. It was one of those long and rare periods of inactivity which I have found to be most dangerous for my friend, Sherlock Holmes. More than once his eye wandered to the drawer of the desk where his vile drug was kept. I hoped and prayed for some form of activity to draw his overactive mind from the fact that there was nothing to do.

I myself was quite enjoying the tranquility. I took advantage of the peace to work on the narratives of my friend’s last case, which I had begun some days before. I was occupied in this when I heard Holmes rise from his armchair and begin to shuffle about the room.

A sense of dread overcame me, and I turned to see Holmes, his forehead pressed against the window, pound his fist against it. I rose, relief flooding through me. He hadn’t been about to use the drug as I had thought.

“Holmes,” I began, but stopped. It would be useless to convince him to calm down. It was better to let him vent his frustration. I resumed my place at the writing desk and retrieved my pen.

Then I heard his pacing once more, and glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.

“This really won’t do, Watson.” Holmes turned and stalked to the other side of the room. I turned to face him as he continued his rant. “This infernal blanket of fog prevents anything out of the ordinary from occurring. The detectives at Scotland Yard retreat to their homes while criminals roam about, eluding even the slightest bit of observance by the common individual. It’s dangerous, Watson, dangerous!”

During this speech Holmes had returned to his armchair and had stretched his feet to the fire. I retrieved the morning paper from the pile on the floor and began scanning the columns in an endeavor to cheer my friend.

“Our friend, Lestrade, seems to have been called in on a case several times this week,” I remarked thoughtfully, noting three or four different mentions of his name. Holmes snorted disapprovingly.

“They were but trifles. The theft of a china plate from Bertram’s Hotel; the theft and return of Miss Emily Cole’s purse; and the death of Mr. Jack Bromsby, who, I have reason to believe, was not murdered but committed suicide,” came the reply.

I turned in amazement to look at my friend, who was smoking a cigarette with his back to me.

“But how did you…” I began in wonderment.

“My dear Watson,” Holmes began, turning to face me. I saw an amused smile playing across the corner of his mouth as he witnessed my puzzlement. “I simply noticed the paper lying on the floor this morning during breakfast, and took the liberty of reading a few columns.” He turned back to the fire and resumed smoking.

I shook my head, grinning. Holmes always enjoyed seeing me puzzle over some obvious detail that I had missed. I chuckled and resumed my reading.

Holmes broke the silence. “I do wonder why Mrs. Hudson is on her way up at this time of the morning.”

I realised that my friend’s keener senses had heard the landlady coming up the stairs long before my own. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” I remarked, turning back to my paper.

A few moments later Mrs. Hudson did indeed enter the room. I rose to greet her and noted that she appeared rather confused.

“Why, Mrs. Hudson!” Holmes began, his gaze never straying from the fire. “It is not custom for you to come to our rooms this time of day. What is it?”

I motioned for the landlady to seat herself facing Holmes’ armchair. Holmes turned and flashed a small smile at her, then resumed his staring at the fire.

Mrs. Hudson began by saying, “I do hope I’m not bothering you…”

Holmes chuckled. “Bothering me? Ha! As if anyone could bother me when life itself is monotonous!” He resumed his serious expression. “Pray tell what is on your mind. You did not sleep well last night. Something is plaguing you.”

The landlady was by now accustomed to Holmes’ quick deductions, and this simple one had no effect on her composure. She held up a small, white piece of paper with large writing on it. Holmes leaned forward, took the paper, and examined it thoroughly. It read:

“Bring the wedding gift you received from Mr. Baylor to Hyde Park to-morrow. The bench near the tallest elm.”

“Interesting message. No signature. Only a fragment of another piece of paper.” He held it up to the light. “No watermark. The message is printed. Does this suggest anything to you, Watson?”

Holmes finished his observations and passed the paper to me.

Looking it over, I replied, “He or she wished to conceal his or her handwriting.”

“Brilliant, Watson! Only notice the colour and thickness of the letters. A man wrote this. A strong man with large hands, as he was pressing hard, but not intentionally. It is his natural way of writing.”

I smiled at Holmes’ praise and returned the note to him. He tossed it aside.

“I do believe we’ve deduced all we can from this note, Watson. Go on, Mrs. Hudson.”

“I am very confused, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson stated, clasping her hands on her lap. “I don’t even have the gift anymore, and I really have no idea who might want such a thing.”

Sherlock Holmes looked rather impatient. “The item in question being…?”

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry,” the landlady stammered. “It is a small box, but it’s not really a box. I never could figure out how to open it.”

“Anything on the outside worth noting?”

Mrs. Hudson thought for a moment. “Not that I can think. There were some gold-colored engravings on it, in the shapes of flowers and leaves. It was very pretty as a decoration, but I pawned it off, along with anything else that was useless to me, over five years ago.”

During this narrative my friend’s eyes began to shine. I knew he sensed something remarkable about the little mystery presented to us by the landlady, though I couldn’t see what. He leaned forward, putting his fingertips together and his elbows on his knees.

“And who is this M. Baylor?”

“Oh, just an old friend of my family, Margaret Baylor. She lived in Derbyshire Street with her large family, but passed on a few years ago.”

Holmes nodded and reached for his pipe. He smoked thoughtfully for a few moments. “Was this box of any value?”

Mrs. Hudson closed her eyes. “I do remember wondering if the box was solid gold, but its weight proved otherwise. I took it to the jeweller on Half Moon Street before I sold it, and he told me it was not worth even a shilling.”

Holmes leaned back in his chair. I was confused.

“But surely it must be of some value? Although it appears that it is not as valuable as the author of this note makes it seem,” I stated.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. “That is why I’ve come to you, Mr. Holmes. I would, if I still had the box, have given it away without a thought. But I’m rather curious as to why anyone would want it, seeming as it is not worth anything.”

Holmes leaned forward thoughtfully. “But that the author of the note should send a message rather than approach you himself. That is of the utmost importance.”

I must admit, I was not following my friend’s chain of thought. Glancing at Mrs. Hudson I could see she wasn’t either. She was watching the detective, who was again smoking and staring at the fire.

“How did you acquire the note?” He inquired, without a glance upward.

Mrs. Hudson didn’t seem to see the significance of the question. The confused look returned to her face. “Why, Billy the page brought it to me last evening.”

Holmes turned to me. “Watson, send for Billy immediately.”

***

Upon my return with the page, I found Holmes, pacing the room in his dressing gown. Mrs. Hudson had gone. Holmes stopped when he noticed the boy, standing in the doorway looking very puzzled.

“Mr. Holmes,” the lad said politely.

Holmes nodded. “Billy, the note you gave Mrs. Hudson; how came it to be in your possession?”

He returned to his armchair and motioned for the lad to sit. The boy shook his head and remained standing in the doorway.

“Sir, the message was attached to the front door yesterday evening. I saw it was addressed to your landlady, so I removed it and knocked on the door. I didn’t think she had seen it so I jus’ gave it straight to her and left.” During this speech Billy had removed his messenger’s cap and was wringing it nervously in his hands. “Am I in some kind of trouble, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes was once again staring into the fire. I assumed he had no intention of answering the boy’s question, if he had even heard it. I put my hand on Billy’s shoulder.

“Of course not, Billy. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

The lad relaxed and placed his cap back on his head. “Will that be all, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes grunted from the chair. I thanked Billy softly and he nodded, then returned to his duties. I closed the door when he had gone.

“We seem to be traveling in confounded circles!” Holmes cried, shaking his pipe at the fireplace.

“What else did you learn from Mrs. Hudson?” I inquired, seating myself in the chair opposite my friend.

“Only the name of the pawn shop to which the box was sold,” said he. Rising, he went into his bedroom. “I’ll be going out, Watson. I suggest you go and examine Hyde Park. Find the bench near the elm that the note refers to.”

I rose, confused. I didn’t understand why my friend was dispatching me on a seemingly pointless errand. I knew it was useless to question him, though. Holmes always had a reason for everything he said or did.

“Anything else I should be looking for?” I asked, removing my coat and hat from the stand.

“You will know when you see it, Watson,” came the reply from behind the closed door.

Shaking my head, I began my long walk to Hyde Park, all the while trying to understand Holmes’ reasoning. When nothing came to mind, I gave up and continued on, paying close attention to everything in my path so as not to become lost in the fog.

Holmes has a reason for everything, I concluded. I’ll trust that he knows what he is doing. My time at Hyde Park was, I had believed, completely wasted. I arrived and located the elm which the note referred to and its corresponding bench; but, finding the area void of all activity, I seated myself on the bench and began my observations. The fog had begun to lift, yet I noted nothing worthy of reporting to my friend. After a time I became quite bored. I decided to stroll on the path leading to the bench where I was seated, but before I could leave, a large, dark-haired fellow approached me. He seated himself opposite me, and began a casual conversation. I was glad for the distraction, seeming as my afternoon had been almost wasted by idleness, and we chatted as if we were old friends.

We talked for quite some time. He was very friendly, and inquired after my friends, including Sherlock Holmes. I kept the information about his current case to myself; however, thinking it was best for everyone involved.

After a while I determined my time would be better spent at Baker Street, and upon bidding my new friend farewell, I left him seated on the bench. By then the fog had gone and the return trip went speedily.

At Baker Street, I found the sitting room empty. I called for Holmes, but determined he was still out. I went to my writing desk and began a new chapter of the narrative that had been consuming so much of my time.

Mrs. Hudson entered the room with my supper a few hours later. I thanked her heartily and began eating. On her way out, she gave a start as a man pushed past her and entered the room.

“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes in?” he inquired.

“Not at the moment,” I answered. “He is expected back at any time, however,” I added, offering to take his coat while he waited.

The man chuckled and twirled his dark moustache between his fingers. “No, thank you, Watson. I will remove it myself, and return it to the trunk in my bedroom.”

I began to laugh. “Yet another clever disguise, Holmes.”

Holmes smiled. “Mrs. Hudson, please bring my dinner up,” he said, as he stepped into his bedroom and closed the door.

A few moments later he emerged in his dressing gown, holding a small, gold-engraved box. The top and bottom appeared to be made of solid gold gold. Each of the four sides had two large and intricately engraved roses, and many long vines and leaves wrapped around the edges. Seating himself in his arm chair, Holmes began a thorough examination of the box.

“Mrs. Hudson’s box!” I exclaimed. “However did you find it?”

“It was not easy. It had been sold three times after the pawn shop.” My friend’s eyes never left the little box.

“But how did you acquire the information as to where it was?” I asked. “Tradesman do not give out clients information to just anyone.”

Holmes chuckled, raising his head to look at me. “I thought of that. I went in disguise, as you know. I hoped to give the impression that I was the original owner of the box and wished to retrieve it. The clerk believed my little act, and after some persuasion, gave me all of the information about it and the woman who bought it.”

Mrs. Hudson entered the room with Holmes’ dinner. The glint of the gold box caught her eye. She stared at it for a few minutes before leaving, never once emitting a sound.

“I do believe she is rather annoyed with the whole business,” I stated, as Holmes moved to the table and began his supper. I seated myself in the chair opposite my friend.

Holmes nodded. “Yes, and I hope to clear up the situation as quickly as possible. Now, what of your time at Hyde Park?”

I began my description of the place at the park where I had spent my morning. I announced that I had noted nothing worthy of his attentions; all the while he acted uninterested. Deciding to keep nothing to myself, I began to describe the friendly man with whom I had talked. This caught his attention, however, and he became alert and stopped eating abruptly.

“His name?”

I was taken aback by the question. I tried to think back to the conversation, but could not recall him ever telling me his name. “I don’t believe he told me,” I admitted.

Holmes shook his head. “You say he had a dark moustache and hair?”

I nodded, puzzled. What was it about the stranger that had sparked his curiosity?

“And he was large?”

“Very muscular. Tall, as well,” I replied.

Holmes’ face had turned grave during this conversation. I became worried as he pushed back his half-eaten dinner.

“This situation grows more and more serious,” said he.

I could get no more of him for another hour. He sat in his chair, smoking his pipe and examining the box by turning it over and over. It was very quiet, so I found a book and settled in my own chair.

“Watson.”

I looked up from my book. “Yes, Holmes?”

After a slight pause, he replied, “Tell Mrs. Hudson to be sure all door and windows are locked and the blinds drawn.”

I was sure she had always done this, but did as he said. Mrs. Hudson was eagerly awaiting developments, but, seeming as my friend had disclosed no information, I had nothing to give.

Returning to our rooms I found Holmes, bent over the box once more. He was running his long fingers over the engravings. I closed the door quietly, so as not to disturb his examination.

“It is the flowers, Watson,” he said.

“The flowers?” I went to my friend’s chair.

He pointed out the delicate little flower on the left side of the panel he had been examining, then turned it over and did the same on the next panel. They were exactly the same, whereas the flowers on the right were all different. He then began to push gently on each tiny petal.

I watched him work for some time in silence, and had finally resolved to taking up my book when Holmes gave a shout.

“Halloa! I’ve got it, Watson!”

Like an excited child Holmes pushed in one of the tiny petals on the bottom of the first rose. He turned the box and repeated the gesture, this time on the top of the rose. On the last rose the box made a clicking sound, and Holmes raised the lid.

Inside the lid was another sort of lock, comprised of three different-sized key holes and a combination lock. Holmes gave a frustrated sigh and set the box aside.

“I do believe a visit to the Baylors of Derbyshire Street is in order for to-morrow,” he stated, leaning back in his chair and running his hand through his dark hair.

“What of Mrs. Hudson? Do you believe there is any danger in leaving her behind, if the man at Hyde Park is behind this?” I asked.

Holmes shook his head. “I’ll be going alone. You will stay behind and keep Mrs. Hudson in the house.” He reached for his pipe again. “However, I do not believe your man is the only one behind this. No, it is much deeper than that.” Lighting his pipe, he added, “He is only one small thread of the web…”

At this I heard no more; the phrase was all too familiar.”You suspect Moriarty?”

Holmes closed his eyes and drew a deep breath through his pipe. “I suspect no one.”

He smoked for some time in silence, his eyes half shut. No matter how hard I pressed him, he would not talk. I bade him good night with no answer, and retired to my room for the night.

***

Morning came soon enough, and by the time I emerged from my room Holmes had already gone. I was relieved to find Mrs. Hudson in good spirits when she arrived with breakfast.

“Any news?” She inquired cheerfully.

I shook my head. “Holmes opened the box only to discover another lock,” I explained. Not wanting to disclose any more information without his permission, I promptly began to eat.

“Do keep me informed, Doctor,” the landlady said before leaving.

I spent the morning tidying my room, and as I worked I tried to contrive a plan to keep the landlady indoors all day. I finally resolved to have Billy run all the errands, and when I dispatched him with his new orders, Mrs. Hudson appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She rushed up to me, looking slightly pale.

“Is Mr. Holmes in yet?” She asked nervously. She held a small paper between her thumb and forefinger.

“No, I’m afraid not,” I answered. “What is bothering you?”

She held up the paper. “I’ve received another note,” she said, turning it over to me. It read:

‘If orders are not followed in twenty-four hours, BEWARE.’

I cast a surprised glance at the landlady, who appeared very worried. “I don’t believe that silly little box is worth such threats!” She exclaimed, her voice full of anxiety.

“I will give it to Holmes when he returns,” I said, placing my hand on her shoulder. She patted it gently.

“Very good, Doctor. I must go back to my duties.”

***

Sherlock Holmes returned shortly after the incident. He had not been gone very long. I went out to greet him. He appeared to be quite annoyed. Upon my inquiring as to our proposed trip, he closed his eyes.

“Miss Baylor, the daughter, will be arriving at six ‘o clock this evening upon my request.”

“Was she not at home?”

Holmes shook his head. “I thought of sending a telegram but assumed it would not reach the Baylor household until this morning. By then it would have been too late; I would have already reached the house…” He removed his coat and hat and shuffled to his armchair. “I trust you have not let Mrs. Hudson outside?”

I told him of my plan to have Billy perform all tasks outside of the house, and he smiled. “I knew you would think of something.”

I smiled at the praise and remembered the note. Handing it over to him, I watched him read it.

“I assumed it would come to this,” he said quietly. “We must keep Mrs. Hudson within our sight at all times.”

He said nothing more about the matter, however, and settled in his chair, taking up the little box. He pulled out a few strange-looking tools that I did not recognize and set at once to picking the locks under the lid. Holmes worked at this for little more than a quarter of an hour before he set the box aside, his task completed. All that was left was the combination lock. When I inquired as to how he would set about discovering the combination, he smiled.

“Hopefully Miss Baylor will bring the answer with her when she arrives.” He pulled his pipe off the mantle and lit it, and smoked in silence for the rest of the afternoon.

At precisely six o’ clock Holmes, who had appeared to be asleep in his chair, startled me by proclaiming he heard the steps of our awaited guest. As I made my way to the door, Mrs. Hudson opened it abruptly.

“A Miss Violet Baylor to see Mr. Holmes,” she announced, then retreated calmly.

Miss Baylor stepped into the sitting room shyly as I motioned for her to enter. She was one of the most beautiful women to set foot in our Baker Street sitting room. Her golden hair hung in long ringlets down her back beneath a scarlet-coloured bonnet. A matching shawl draped about her shoulders, and she clutched a small, leather-bound book in her right hand. Her dark eyes glanced around the room nervously, and then finally came to rest on the figure of my friend as he eyed her from his chair.

Holmes rose from the chair to greet our visitor. He motioned for her to sit in the chair opposite his own – facing the window, as was his custom. I watched as he inspected her while she took her seat.

“Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Sherlock Holmes, or Doctor Watson?” She inquired, appearing a little distressed by Holmes’ piercing gaze.

“I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson,” Holmes replied, finishing his evaluation of our guest and leaning back in his chair. After a slight pause, he inquired casually, “Where is your companion?”

Miss Baylor’s struggled to hide her surprised expression. “I’ve heard of your extraordinary powers, Mr. Holmes, yet I am a bit perplexed as to how you’ve reached that conclusion. Surely you have not seen my companion, who is outside on the street, from your chair!” After regaining her composure, she added, “he is my fiancé, Jonathan Hawkins.”

Holmes chuckled. “I do not possess extraordinary powers as you say, Miss Baylor. I simply have trained myself to notice all that I see.” He pulled his pipe down from the mantle. “You have splatters of mud all over your right arm; mud splatters are customary of the dog-cart. However, you do not have mud-splatters on your left arm. If you had been alone, you would have sat in the middle of the cart; therefore, I concluded that you had a companion while traveling, which could be the only reason a lady of your social standing would be persuaded to sit to the side of the cart and risk soiling your new dress.”

Miss Baylor smiled. “It sounds so simple, now that you have explained it.”

Holmes turned to me. “Watson here has remarked the same more than once.” He then reached for the little gold box. “Miss Baylor, does this have any significance to you?” He held it in the palms of his hands for her inspection.

The young lady leaned forward. “Not that I can recall, sir,” she replied.

Holmes leaned back thoughtfully, eyeing the box. “You may be interested to learn that this box belonged to your grandmother, Margaret Baylor.”

“Then how came it to be in your possession, sir?”

Holmes stood. “That is for another time.” Opening the box, he added, “I was hoping you would supply me with the combination for this lock.”

Miss Baylor emitted a sound I took for a laugh. “I don’t see how I could, Mr. Holmes, seeming as I have never before set eyes on that box.”

Holmes raised a finger. “Ah! But what of the journal?”

Our lady visitor took a deep breath before beginning. “When I was informed that you had called, and on an important matter of family history, I thought of the journal and how it may be of some use to you.”

Holmes nodded. “I see. To whom did it belong?” He walked to the window and looked out of it, waiting for the rest of the story.

“This journal has been in my family for years – well over three-hundred. As far as I know, Mr. Holmes, it has been passed from mother to daughter for many generations. My ancestors originate from Scotland…”

“It is exactly as I expected!” Holmes cried from his post by the window and waving his pipe. Turning to see Miss Baylor’s startled expression; he calmed himself and motioned for her to go on.

She paused for another moment, as if to make sure of the absence of another interruption, and resumed. “The journal has been well kept, though several of the earlier entries signed by a certain… Ailsa Todd, seem to be in some sort of code.”

Holmes turned around so suddenly that Miss Baylor leapt from her chair. I noted that our guest’s nerves were on edge, and sent Holmes an admonishing look. He barely acknowledged it, however, and returned quickly to the chair. Seating himself, he motioned for Miss Baylor to sit. She did, but she still appeared very tense and ready to spring from the room at any moment.

“Please accept my apologies, Miss Baylor. Watson will tell you that I am prone to sudden movements and exclamations -” his voice trailed off slowly. Suddenly resuming his normal tone, he leaned back. “Now. Is anything known about Ailsa Todd, other than the coded entries?”

Miss Baylor looked at me questioningly. “Yes,” she began hesitantly. I nodded, hoping to encourage her, and she continued, a little more at ease. “She was a very trusted maidservant to Mary Stuart, the Queen of Scotland, in 1560.”

“Ah ha!” Holmes nearly leapt out of his chair, but upon seeing the strange, nervous look on the face of our guest he restrained himself and rose slowly, abandoning his pipe on the arm of his chair. Miss Baylor clutched the journal so tightly that her knuckles were white. By then it was apparent that the lady possessed some kind of nervous condition, and that she should not be startled more than necessary. I placed my hand gently over hers in an attempt to loosen her grip on the journal. She calmed almost immediately, and then glanced over at Holmes’ chair, stifling a laugh. A strange smell was coming from the pipe, and I realized that it was burning a hole in the arm of the chair.

Holmes strode around the room, stroking his chin, lost in thought. I leapt to retrieve the pipe, but it was too late: there was a large black hole in the arm of the chair to match several others that had been put there by other. I shook my head, but the incident was enough to make Miss Baylor laugh aloud. Holmes raised his head in confusion, and I myself stifled a laugh. When he shook his head and resumed his pacing, I returned to my own chair, happy that our guest was feeling a bit better.

“Does that mean anything, Mr. Holmes?” Miss Baylor asked after a few moments, apparently fully recovered.

Holmes leaned against the mantle thoughtfully. “Miss Baylor,” he said slowly, turning to our guest, “it means everything.”

***

Miss Baylor and I sat for some moments in perplexed silence while watching Holmes, who remained standing, turn over all of the newly acquired information in his head.

“Miss Baylor,” said I, “I’m afraid Holmes is not going to reveal anything else tonight -”

She nodded understandingly. “I shall leave the journal with you, Doctor, and return to Derbyshire Street then. Please do inform me of how this strange mystery ends,” she stated before I showed her to the door. We exchanged some words, and then I left her to her dog-cart and waiting fiancé.

Holmes was still leaning against the mantle when I returned. He had taken up his pipe again, and blue clouds of smoke floated about the room. I had quietly returned to the settee and took up the journal to read a few pages when Holmes turned to me abruptly, as he had been doing since our guest arrived.

“Watson, find the ‘S’ volume of my index, please.” He returned to his armchair and ran his free hand through his hair as I searched for the volume in question.

“Really, Holmes,” I ventured to say, “you ought to stop that obnoxious habit of jumping out of chairs and shouting so loudly – I’m afraid Miss Baylor has a nervous condition and was on edge the entire time she was in your presence.”

I found the volume and turned around to continue my scolding, but Holmes appeared to have retreated inside himself and was staring vacantly into the fire, the long, thin forefinger of his right hand pulling at the newly acquired burn-hole in the arm of his chair. I sighed and tapped his shoulder, giving up on the scolding all together. He looked at me with a faraway look in his eyes. I waved the book in front of him, a bit annoyed that he had been ignoring me, and he took it quietly and scanned the pages without reply. After a moment he propped the volume open on his knee. I had by then settled in the chair opposite and was reading the first entry of the journal when he called my name.

“Watson,” he said, pointing to a paragraph with his pipe stem, “here it is.”

I went to his chair and read the entry over his shoulder.

‘Stuart, Mary. Queen of Scotland, 1543-1587. Born 1542. Crown jewels discovered missing before flight to England, 1568. Executed 1587, England.’

“The box contains the missing jewels, then?” I ventured.

Holmes laughed. “I do not believe so, Watson. After the queen was executed, many attempts at finding the jewels were made.” He clapped the index shut. “Even Scotland Yard, as you may recall, attempted to recover them a few years ago, but without success. The box, however, may contain a clue as to where the jewels were hidden.” He set the index aside and rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Now, let us have a look at this piece of history,” said he, reaching for the journal.

Holmes occupied himself for over an hour, intently studying the journal. Occasionally he would pause and write something in his notebook. I was naturally curious, yet knew better than to disturb him, so I settled back into my chair to wait. By then I was beginning to feel a bit ill – no doubt due to the large meal I had consumed several hours before. Holmes, as usual when he was on a case, hadn’t eaten anything, and I simply could not waste Mrs. Hudson’s excellent shepherd’s pie.

I must have dozed off, for when I next caught a glimpse of Holmes he was standing near the window, staring out attentively. I rose to join him.

“Any progress?” I inquired, still feeling ill and attempting to suppress a yawn.

Holmes only pointed toward the street. “Your man, leaning against the lamp-post.”

I caught sight of the man near the lamp-post across the street. He appeared to be casually observing those around him, but as I looked closer, I noted he was watching our flat. “How long has he been there?”

Holmes turned to me. “I believe since just before Miss Baylor took leave.”

I could only guess why the man I had met at Hyde Park would be watching the flat. I became a little nervous for Mrs. Hudson. “Shouldn’t we warn Mrs. Hudson?”

Holmes shook his head. “No need to worry her over such a trifle.” He drew the blinds and went back to his arm chair. As I returned to the settee, he reached across and passed the worn, red journal to me. “See what you can make of page 2.”

I could see nothing unusual about the specified page, which read:

‘This day, Queen Mary informed me of her plan to flee Scotland. She is to go to England, in hopes that Queen Elizabeth will show her favour. She wishes for Jinny, Gwen, Blair and I to accompany her. I would be very pleased, but for the fact that dear Gavin and I must call off the wedding until I return. How I shall miss him!’ Ailsa (5)”

I scrutinised the page for a few more moments before commenting, “The only thing out of the ordinary on this page is the number “5” beside the signature. Unless I am mistaken…”

Holmes shook his head. “No, you are correct, Watson. I’ve deduced that the “5” simply means page five.” He smoked thoughtfully, watching my movements intently.

I turned to page five automatically; on it was a very long string of numbers, each separated by a tiny dash. It read:

“2-3-3-5-8-3-12-6-15-2-20-4-25-1-33-1-35-1-40-3-48-3-56-2-66-1”

“Well, Watson?” Holmes questioned. His notebook once again lay open on his knee. “You know my methods; apply them.”

I studied the numbers once more. “It is a cipher, to be sure,” I said, attempting to sound confident in my deduction.

“To be sure,” Holmes echoed.

I waited for more information from my friend, but he said nothing more. He could be incredibly patient when the mood suited him. I resumed the recitation of my deductions. “Every other number becomes increasingly larger… the first being “2,” the third being “3,” the fifth being “8” and so on.”

Holmes smiled. “Precisely, Watson.” He held out his hand for the journal, then leaned back in the arm chair and began to study the page once more, making notes in his notebook.

“The cipher is very simple,” he began. “As you know, I am familiar with most types of ciphers and codes; this one is no exception.” He finished writing in his notebook and passed it to me. “It is solved by coupling the numbers from the beginning.”

I studied the page in Holmes’ notebook, filled with several rows of numbers written in his precise handwriting. I began to follow his chain of thought. “The first number corresponds to one word…”

“In this case, a word in the paragraph,” Holmes said.

“And the second to a letter in that word,” I finished.

Holmes nodded. “See here,” he said, moving to join me on the settee and pointing to one of his notes with the stem of his pipe. “The ‘2’ corresponds to the second word, ‘day,’ whereas the ‘3’ corresponds to the letter ‘y’. Therefore, the first letter of the solution is ‘y.’”

I nodded and began deciphering the code as Holmes moved back to his chair with his notebook. Coming upon the second letter, though, I ran into a problem. Holmes was puffing silently on his pipe, watching me again. “Holmes, the second letter is “n.” Words in English simply do not start with the letters “y” and “n!”” By this time I was quite agitated, not only with the fact that my methods appeared to be failing, but also because, by that time, I was feeling incredibly ill.

“I’ve come to that, Watson.” Holmes took no notice of my flustered mood. Instead, he turned his notebook around to face me. Another collection of letters formed a long string across the page, separated by commas, in this order:

“y, n, r, a, o, e, s, j, b, r, e, a, m”

“Why, it is an anagram,” I remarked.

“Correct again, Watson. Now, to solve the anagram.” Holmes rose and went to his desk, strewn with papers from past cases and current chemical experiments, and set to work solving the puzzle.

I watched, sullenly, for a few moments before copying the letters in my own notebook and attempting to solve the anagram myself. I wasn’t long into it, however, when Holmes startled me by leaping out of the desk chair and hurrying to the table where the abandoned index lay. He strode about the room, scanning the pages quickly. He paused for a moment to place the stem of his pipe on a page, and then returned to the table to retrieve the box.

“What is it, Holmes?” I asked.

A hand-motion served as the reply as he signalled for me to join him. I abandoned my notebook on the settee and went to his side as he stood leaning against the mantle. He lifted the first lid of the box and entered four digits: “1-5-6-6.”

“Holmes,” I said, becoming annoyed at his ignorance. He had included and even taught me a few things that afternoon, and was acting as if I were not even present. I tapped his shoulder. “What was the anagram?”

“‘Year James born,’” He answered, without even a glance in my direction.

“James?” I was thoroughly confused.

“Mary Stuart’s only son,” Holmes said. He pushed the flower petals as he had done the previous evening.

The next moment seemed as if it were an eternity. I realized that I was holding my breath, my illness forgotten, and I glanced at Holmes, whose eyes were glittering with anticipation. His long, thin fingers prodded the edges of the second lid as he lifted it to reveal a small, yellowed piece of parchment tied with a red ribbon lying on a shallow bed of red velvet.

Holmes went to his arm chair, and I followed absentmindedly, my eyes never leaving the parchment. I was enchanted. To think that a piece of history was lying right before our eyes! I must confess, this cheered me, as I stood behind the chair, looking over my friend’s shoulder as he pulled the parchment out of the box and untied the frayed, red ribbon. My hopes were dashed as he unrolled the parchment, only to reveal a series of short scribbles covering the entire page. Holmes, however, was smiling, and he moved the box to the table and went to the desk to retrieve his notebook.

“There must be something more to this than scribbles,” I remarked sourly as I took up the box to examine it.

The red velvet lining covered what appeared to be some kind of thick metal – perhaps solid gold. The distance between the outer edges of the box to the inner edge of the lining was nearly four centimeters, making it impenetrable from the outside. The box itself was nearly twenty centimeters from the lid to the bottom; yet the depth of the inside only measured about six centimeters. Why should the inside of the box be so small and shallow, with such a drastic difference in size in comparison to the outside?

Then I knew the answer. There must have been another compartment underneath the red velvet; yet I could see no way to reach it. Pushing the thoughts of my illness aside, I reached inside and pushed on the bottom of the box. It was solid. I reached across to the table where Holmes kept his strange tools and pulled out a small one that appeared to have some resemblance to a knife. I slid the knife along the edge of the velvet lining near the bottom, from corner to corner, to pull the lining away from the bottom of the box.

Holmes must have caught sight of what I was doing, for he rushed at me so quickly that I became startled and dropped the tool. “Watson, what are you doing?”

I explained to him my thoughts, and he dropped to his knees beside the chair and fingered the piece of velvet I had removed from the box before lifting it out himself. I looked inside, and saw a tiny gold door, which Holmes slid aside to reveal a ring attached to the bottom of the box. He took hold of the ring and pulled upward.

The whole bottom of the box came away to reveal another deeper, red velvet-lined compartment. Inside was a black silk pouch, tied with a drawstring.

Holmes took the pouch by the string and lifted it before our eyes. “Watson,” he began quietly, “you have found the crown jewels of Scotland.”

Suddenly, I felt the most ill I had been since I had awakened, and the last thing I heard as Holmes dissolved into blackness was a metallic clang as the gold-engraved box fell to the floor.

I awoke, feeling as if I had been asleep for some weeks, to the sight of Sherlock Holmes; he hovered over my bed, intently searching my face for some sign of recovery. I felt somewhat better, yet Holmes insisted I stay still while he rang for tea. Holmes had moved me to my bedroom, and situated a chair at my bedside from which he tended to me while I was unconscious (which, as he later confirmed, was precisely twelve minutes).

Holmes returned not five minutes later. “Mrs. Hudson is bringing tea,” he announced as he returned to my bedside. “I trust you are feeling well enough for me to leave you?” I noticed then that he had acquired his walking stick in his absence.

“A little light-headed, but I am sure I will be fine,” I assured him. “You are leaving?”

Holmes nodded. “Mrs. Hudson is accompanying me to Hyde Park. We may not return for some time.”

I nodded my understanding as Mrs. Hudson entered with my tea. She situated it and bade farewell to me as she and Holmes left. Holmes, as usual, remained silent as he followed the landlady out the door.

As I heard the front door close, a strange feeling poured over me. I leaned into my pillows, hoping and praying for my friends’ safety.

***

After a time, I felt well enough to move to the settee in the sitting room. As I settled in with a copy of the Times I heard the door open and the sound of heavy footsteps on the stair. They were very slow and uneven, as if someone were limping.

Before I had time to think, I turned to see Holmes stumble into the room and lean on his desk near the door, breathing heavily. I rose quickly, wondering what was happening. Before I could offer to help, Holmes had somehow made it to his arm chair and collapsed, without even removing his coat. He didn’t utter a sound.

“Holmes! What on earth has happened?” I cried, forgetting about my own recent ailment. Holmes massaged his temples with his fingertips, leaving smudges of dirt and blood on them.

“It’s nothing, Watson; please consider your own condition…”

I would not hear of it, and ran to my room for my medical supplies. I could see, both as a doctor and a friend, that Holmes was in serious pain, and it was my job to relieve him of it. I returned and began examination. His overcoat was torn in several places, some revealing cuts and bruises. He also sported a black eye and several bruises on his face and a large cut on the back of his hand bled profusely.

Despite Holmes’ pleas to consider my health, I cleansed and bound his wounds. I had done it before, and was sure to do it again in the future. I refused to acknowledge his pleas until he had told me what had transpired during his absence, and what had happened to Mrs. Hudson.

“Mrs. Hudson brought the box to the bench in the park,” Holmes said, with a tone of reluctance. “I kept away a safe distance – far enough not to be seen, but close enough to see her and keep her from danger. Then a man appeared, seemingly out of nowhere – your man, Watson.”

Here I interrupted him. “Clearly you know the name of ‘my man,’” I said angrily. “You seem determined to keep it from me. Who is this man?” I demanded.

I had begun to apply ointment to his eye when Holmes grabbed my wrist tightly. I wondered whether it was to emphasize what he was about to tell me, or to keep me from touching his eye. He closed his eyes.

“Watson,” he drew a long breath. “You did not think Miss Baylor’s visit strange, when her fiancé stayed outdoors with the hansom?”

“Oh no,” I exclaimed, guessing at what he was about to tell me.

Holmes’ eyes remained shut. “He knew you would recognise him. Your man,” he opened his eyes and released my wrist, “is Miss Baylor’s fiancé, Jonathan Hawkins.”

My hands fell to my lap unconsciously, as I thought this over. “But why? Is he working for…”

“Moriarty, partially.” Holmes finished my sentence. “He wants the jewels more for himself, I believe.” He took the ointment from me and began applying it himself. “He has been masquerading as Miss Baylor’s lover, now fiancé; because he knew she could give him the key to the box. Not willingly, but unknowingly. She has been nothing more than a pawn in this evil game,” he added. “This plan has been carefully orchestrated – from the timing of the notes to Hawkins’s ‘courtship’ with Miss Baylor – it all bears the mark of a greater mind – Moriarty.” Holmes finished applying the ointment and returned it to me. “I shall explain later. But now,” he rose and removed his torn overcoat, “we are expecting a visitor.”

“A visitor,” I echoed questioningly. Then I realized that, during the chaos of dressing Holmes’ injuries, I had forgotten about Mrs. Hudson. “Wait. Where is Mrs. Hudson?”

Holmes turned to me, his face grave. “Watson,” he said slowly. “You have not realised… no, of course not,” he mumbled, turning away.

“Holmes,” I pressed.

“Mrs. Hudson is being held hostage until Hawkins finds the jewels. He is a greedy man, Watson. He has rushed Moriarty’s plan in such a way that it has begun to crumble.”

I was shocked. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I didn’t arrive to you dead.”

At this I was astounded. I had assumed it was a fight with Hawkins, not a murder conspiracy. “He left you for dead?”

Holmes nodded. “However, Hawkins is consumed by greed. And he is a coward. The two work together wonderfully in making the common criminal predictable. Now,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Our visitor has arrived.”

He rose slowly and limped to the fireplace, removing the bag of jewels from the mantle and giving it to me. “Put them in your dressing gown pocket,” he commanded.

I did as he said as I watched him retreat to his room and close the door, leaving me alone to greet the unknown visitor.

***

I was seated on the settee when Billy burst in. He barely uttered that a Mr. Hawkins was present to see me when the man himself pushed past him into the room. I thanked Billy and sent him off with a wave of my hand.

“Mr. Hawkins, how nice to see you again,” I said, attempting to remain calm and composed. I fingered the bag of jewels in my pocket.

“No need for games, Doctor,” Hawkins announced gruffly.

“Games? I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.” I attempted to stall him, hoping Holmes was nearby and that I understood what I was doing. Holmes obviously had a plan, yet I had no idea what it was.

“You must know where the jewels are,” he said, inching closer to where I sat. “Sherlock Holmes has been on the case. You knew they were not in the box, yet you sent your landlady to deliver it anyway. Where are they?”

I took a deep breath, in attempt to conceal my anxiety. “I do not know,” I said. “Would you care for tea?”

Hawkins reached into his coat-pocket and drew a pistol half way out, just enough for me to see. “I said no games.”

I tried again. “I would prefer not to conduct business while Holmes is out,” I said. “This is his home, you know.”

Hawkins lunged forward and seized my wrist, twisting it hard. Pain shot up my arm and I winced, hoping for Holmes to come to my rescue.

“You must not have heard, John Watson,” he said. “Sherlock Holmes is dead. Got into a street fight, he did.” He smiled cruelly. “Now, hand them over.”

“Dead?” I tried to sound surprised and upset. Apparently he didn’t know that Holmes had returned. I coughed. “Alright,” I said as calmly as possible, my arm aching with pain. “You may have them. As soon as you inform me where Mrs. Hudson is.”

Hawkins growled. “She’s safe, that’s all you need to know.”

Then my assailant unexpectedly loosened his grip on my arm and stumbled backward, a surprised expression on his face. I massaged my arm and turned around to see Holmes in the doorway, his pistol cocked and pointed at the criminal. I breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing my friend, but when I turned around, I stiffened as I watched Hawkins discreetly direct his own pistol at Holmes. He was still shocked by the discovery.

“You should be dead!” He said gruffly. His expression changed from one of surprise to nervousness.

Holmes chuckled. “I was never dead, Hawkins. You knew that. You would never kill a human being so brutally. Beat them up, yes. But not outright murder.”

I winced. Holmes was inviting trouble.

“No. To beat a man until he is nearly dead, and then leave him to die, takes some of the guilt away. Am I correct?”

Hawkins returned this with a momentary look of alarm, before becoming angry. He cocked his pistol, and I sent up a silent prayer for Holmes’s safety.

“You’re a coward Hawkins. A coward. You know that. Joining up with Moriarty gave you an excuse to get what you wanted, because you weren’t brave enough to get it yourself.”

Hawkins pointed his pistol at me. “I’ll shoot your friend if you don’t tell me how you got back here in one piece.”

I realised then that Hawkins was worried; thinking harder, I realised that I didn’t even know how Holmes had come back in his condition. While I was pondering, I felt the cold, clammy metal barrel of the gun on my forehead. I felt sick again, and was afraid of going unconscious in my friend’s time of need. I could still see Holmes from my position in the chair. He was smiling.

“You wouldn’t shoot Watson. You cannot. As I’ve said before, you’re a coward. I myself would have died were it not for the help of one of my… shall we say, acquaintances?”

Hawkins turned pale, but didn’t move or utter a sound.

Holmes turned serious again. “Release Watson,” he commanded.

Hawkins shook his head.

Then Holmes, in a split second, raised his pistol above his head and fired. The shot rang through the little flat. I flinched, but Hawkins didn’t move a muscle.

All was silent for a moment before Hawkins allowed a smile to creep on his face. “You’ve wasted a bullet, Mr. Holmes. Shall I make it even?”

Just then, I heard footsteps on the stairs, and a familiar voice called out. “Jonathan Hawkins, you are under arrest for attempted murder and theft!”

***

Inspector Lestrade and his men burst into the room to arrest Hawkins. I was feeling very ill, and afraid of slipping into unconsciousness again. I leaned into the chair and closed my eyes. Holmes was by my side in a few short moments, but to me it seemed like an eternity.

“Watson,” he said softly as he pressed his good hand against my forehead. “Are you alright? You look quite ill.”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” I murmured.

“I am terribly sorry I had to put you through this, Watson.”

I opened my eyes and looked at him, as he moved his hand to pat my shoulder. I could see his apology was genuine. Holmes never was one for apologising.

Before I could say anything, Holmes limped toward Lestrade. After exchanging a few words, the inspector handed Holmes the pistol. Then he returned to me, while Lestrade, his men, and Hawkins retreated.

Holmes seated himself beside me on the settee and arranged the pistol on his lap. “I hope you aren’t too badly shaken, dear fellow,” he said.

By then I was feeling a little bit better. “I will be fine,” I assured him, as I massaged my bruised wrist.

“Good,” he said quickly. Then, almost as if he were embarrassed by his concern for me, he turned to the pistol. After inspecting it for a moment, he declared, “As I expected.”

Upon my questioning him, he turned the pistol to face me. He had opened the chamber. It was empty.

Relief flooded through me, then anger. “But why carry an empty pistol around? I nearly had a heart attack!”

“As you heard me say, the man is a coward. He only scares people. He has never directly murdered anyone. I never would have hurled those insults at him if I hadn’t known it wasn’t loaded.”

“Yes, but I was still terribly frightened,” I pointed out. Then I remembered Mrs. Hudson, and asked Holmes about her.

He smiled. “She should be arriving any moment. Hawkins is not one for keeping secrets under pressure.”

***

As sure as his word, Mrs. Hudson entered the room shortly after, escorted by a policeman. She appeared shaken, but unharmed. She seated herself on the chair across from Holmes and me.

“Are you two alright?” she asked, composing herself. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost! And Mr. Holmes – what has happened to you? You look terrible!”

I shook my head in wonderment. The kindly landlady had just been returned from a most frightening experience herself, and she was concerned for her tenants’ well being! Holmes shook his head, clearly thinking the same thoughts as I.

Mrs. Hudson wasn’t finished, and hadn’t stopped for an answer. “What is going on? Mr. Holmes, it’s clear you are keeping a secret from me.”

Holmes smiled and held out his hand to me. I pulled the pouch out of my dressing gown pocket and passed it to him. He opened the bag passed it to Mrs. Hudson, who emitted a sound I took to be a gasp.

“Mr. Holmes! However did you find them?”

“That is a story for another day. But now, I must send for Miss Baylor. Hopefully she will be available to arrive on short notice. Watson, send for Billy immediately.”

***

Holmes and I spent the evening in peace, musing over the events of the past days. With Hawkins safe under lock and key, we need not worry over Mrs. Hudson anymore. She was free to go about as she pleased; according to Holmes, Moriarty would not dare to emerge from his hiding places until the scandal had quieted, which could be for some time. Holmes had dispatched Billy with a telegram for Miss Baylor. She responded quickly, stating that she would arrive at tea-time the following day.

I pressed Holmes for an explanation of the case and the events that had transpired since my illness that morning, but he would not respond. He lounged in his arm chair, smoking his pipe and starting at the ceiling most of the night, until I re-dressed his wounds and retired to bed. I was surprised to hear Holmes retire shortly after – he rarely went to bed at regular hours. I pondered the events of the day, running them over and over in my head. I could not see how my intelligent friend had come to solve the case in such a short amount of time, or how he could have been sure that Hawkins’ gun wasn’t loaded. But, I supposed, he would come to that in time. For now, I would have to be content with waiting until tea-time.

***

The following morning was uneventful as well. Holmes was not restless, as he usually was the morning after a successfully concluded case; he lounged around as he had the previous evening, following my strict orders to rest. We enjoyed a lovely breakfast of Mrs. Hudson’s, grateful that she was feeling well enough to cook, and while Holmes read his copy of the Chronicle I began the first draft of our adventure.

Around two o’clock, Mrs. Hudson ushered Miss Baylor into the room.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes, Doctor,” Miss Baylor said. She appeared flustered and tired, though I could see she had noticed my friend’s injuries. I invited her to seat herself across from my friend.

Holmes and I nodded to acknowledge greeting. Mrs. Hudson turned to go, but was interrupted by Holmes.

“Mrs. Hudson, do stay and have some tea,” he invited.

“I daresay I shall,” she replied happily. I ushered her to the place on the settee beside Miss Baylor, but she declined politely and went to pour us our tea.

Holmes cleared his throat. “No doubt you are curious as to why I’ve sent for you, Miss Baylor?”

Miss Baylor folded her hands in her lap. “Yes, sir, I am very curious…”

I could see something was troubling her, and could guess what it was. I decided not to intrude on her privacy, and questioned her instead. “Is something the matter?”

Miss Baylor looked at me, with a tear in her eye. “My fiancé had agreed to come to dinner with my family last evening, but he didn’t arrive. I haven’t heard a word from him since yesterday; it is all very uncharacteristic of him, and I’m worried.” She dabbed at her tears with a lace handkerchief. “No need to trouble you with my worries, though.”

Holmes shook his head. The news hadn’t reached as far as Derbyshire then.

“Miss Baylor,” Holmes said gently. “I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”

Our lady visitor emitted a gasp and blanched. I was by her side in a moment’s notice, ready to help if she fainted. This news would most likely be too much for her to bear with her nervous condition.

Holmes allowed her a moment to recover before resuming. “Jonathan Hawkins has been arrested, for both attempted murder and theft. I’m afraid he is not who he pretended to be. He is a criminal who works with the criminal underworld of London.” He paused to let the words sink in.

Miss Baylor, at the very first words, had begun to sob into her handkerchief. I did all that I could to comfort her, but nothing could help the matter. I turned to Holmes, who was watching our guest with concern in his eyes. He said nothing.

***

Mrs. Hudson returned with the tea a quarter of an hour later. Miss Baylor had by then recovered some, but was still distressed. Holmes was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed. Our landlady did not appear disturbed by the strange sight in our sitting room; she went around, pouring tea as if we were at a tea-party before seating herself beside Miss Baylor. No one spoke for some time. Miss Baylor pulled at the lace on her handkerchief absentmindedly, while Mrs. Hudson continuously added sugar cubes to Holmes’ tea. I kept my eyes on Holmes, who never stirred or made a sound. It was most awkward.

“Holmes,” I began, hoping for some acknowledgement of our company.

Holmes sat upright. “Ah, yes, Watson.” He rubbed his hands together. “Is everyone enjoying their tea?”

This statement was so uncharacteristic of him that Mrs. Hudson and I began to laugh. I could see an amused smile play at the corners of Holmes’ mouth. This lightened the mood somewhat. Then Holmes began to explain the events of the past few days. Everyone, especially Miss Baylor, listened intently.

***

“Three days ago, Mrs. Hudson entered the room at a very uncanny hour. She appeared quite perturbed. This note,” he drew it out of his pocket, “was the cause of her distress.

“After interviewing Billy, I knew that something strange was going on; the commoner would not leave a note such as this one taped to a door. It is very vague, and would require its author to explain the contents in detail.

“The fact that the author of the note had printed it, and then left it attached to the door at such a strange hour, suggested to me that he was attempting remain unidentified. Upon closer examination of the note, it was discovered that the handwriting was heavy, suggesting that the author was, indeed, a man.

“I sent Watson to Hyde Park. He was approached by a strange, unknown man – tall, and of muscular build, with dark hair – who appeared to the commoner as a friendly acquaintance. Caught up in conversation, he forgot to ask the man his name. Watson was able to fully describe him to me. This helped in forming the connections. The man he described precisely fit the description of a certain Jonathan Hawkins, whom I knew to be involved with petty thefts in previous years. I had never acquired enough evidence to convict him, as he would lay low for awhile after each crime before returning to the trade. I decided not to take up the pointless task of trying to find him and his accomplices – there would not be any presentable evidence, which would prevent his arrest. I had previously returned with this box,” he held it up, “after going about the city of London disguised as the original owner, wishing to retrieve it due to some family scandal over it. As you can see, I was able to recover the box. I spent some time examining it, before attempting to open it. According to Mrs. Hudson, the box appraised at worth nothing – not even a shilling.”

I nodded approvingly and Holmes continued.

“Because of this information I was able to tentatively confirm my suspicions – the box, though believed it was worthless, was actually very valuable. I had not yet determined why, but, if Hawkins was after it, there must be something worth pursuing; perhaps inside the box. I was able to open the box after some time. The outside lock was unlike anything I’ve ever seen before; it required pressure on certain petals from each flower. Once opened, another set of locks under the lid prevented me from further investigation. I would have dispatched a telegram to you, Miss Baylor, except it would not have made it to Derbyshire Street until morning. By then I would have arrived. When I arrived at the Baylor’s the butler informed me that the entire family was out, and would not be returning until the afternoon. This was somewhat disheartening, as it slowed down the investigation. I returned to Baker Street to find another note, this time warning Mrs. Hudson of danger if she did not follow the orders. This drew my attention. Mrs. Hudson would have to be kept under close supervision until the end of the investigation. It was then that I remembered an article I had glanced over in the ‘Times’ of a fortnight ago. Scotland Yard had made another attempt at finding the missing Crown Jewels of Scotland.”

At this Miss Baylor and Mrs. Hudson both gasped.

“The crown jewels?” Miss Baylor cried.

Holmes nodded, then resumed. “The attempt was in vain, however. At this point I was beginning to speculate that the mind behind the plan was Moriarty – Hawkins was not intelligent enough to orchestrate the timing of the notes with the article on his own. It was a small article…

I agreed aloud. I had missed the article entirely.

“I wondered if he had somehow involved himself with Miss Baylor. Moriarty would have informed him of the family connections by then.

“Everything was confirmed when you arrived, Miss Baylor, at my orders. Your fiancé remained outdoors, while the interview was conducted.”

My friend paused in his narrative. “Miss Baylor, Hawkins did not return with you to your house that day.”

Miss Baylor confirmed this by shaking her head sadly. “I thought nothing of it. He would not climb back into the cab, insisting that he had some minor business to attend to – he would meet me at Barton’s for dinner, he said.”

Holmes folded his hands. “Of course. His business consisted of watching the flat, to catch Mrs. Hudson on the way out to perform any tasks. Before you left, you informed me of your Scottish heritage. You brought with you a journal, which, upon examination, revealed the combination for the second lock; by decoding a single entry, then solving an anagram, I was able to unlock the box. This, however, only resulted in a yellowed piece of parchment being revealed. I must admit this was slightly disappointing, but refused to become discouraged. I examined the parchment and found the message on it to be written in short hand, of which I know a little. I became distracted for a moment, translating the message. Watson, however, noticed that the proportions of the box were incorrect, and this led to his discovery of the second chamber. We opened it together, and I drew out the pouch, which, I had confirmed, contained the missing crown jewels.”

I was more than pleased that Holmes has seen fit to attribute this discovery to me, especially as I was so rarely the recipient of Holmes’ approbation.

“The pieces were fitting together nicely. A plan began to formulate; this would be the opportune time to catch a villain that has been roaming free for years, thieving and eluding capture. He was after the missing crown jewels, associating with Moriarty, and leaving threatening notes intended for our completely innocent landlady.

Unfortunately, Watson fell ill yesterday upon discovery of the jewels and became unconscious. I was not able to acquire his help to execute my plan. I had to make a few adjustments, and, leaving Watson at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson and I walked to Hyde Park. I followed Mrs. Hudson at a discreet distance – anyone keeping their attention focused on the landlady with the gold-engraved box would not notice Sherlock Holmes strolling the walkways with his cane. I finally settled myself on a park bench several hundred feet away from Mrs. Hudson, in a small grove of willow trees which succeeded in hiding me from view. I watched as Mrs. Hudson placed the box under the bench and began walking back to Baker Street. I remained seated, intending to follow her to the flat to ensure her safety. It was then I noticed a strange man – not Hawkins – lurking in the shadows behind the tall elm tree. I glanced around without discovering any more hidden men, and dashed out of my hiding place, but it was too late; the man had taken Mrs. Hudson while I had diverted my attention. I had no idea where they had gone. I ran to the clearing, hoping for some clue as to which direction they had gone, but found none. As I paused to sort my thoughts, I heard the footfalls of someone approaching from behind. I turned just in time to see Hawkins, who, I must admit, appeared to have been expecting me.”

“We exchanged words, and I, careful not to insult him, began to take leave of him. But he followed me, and when we had just passed the grove of willows he took hold of me and pulled me in. I must say that I am grateful for my previous days of boxing; without my knowledge on the subject I would surely be dead instead of sitting before you now. Hawkins left me in the grove. I was able to pull myself to the edge of the grove before I collapsed; it was rather exhausting to perform such a small task. I lay still for a few moments before Lestrade appeared on the footpath, conversing with a small number of his men. He saw me lying in the grove and came to my aid, helping me to the flat. Thus how I came to be back at Baker Street in the condition you found me, Watson. I informed them that Hawkins would surely arrive at the flat and inquire about the jewels, and that I would have you prepared to meet him. They were to come to the sitting room when they heard the sound of a pistol firing – I could only pray that it was mine that they would hear.”

Before he could continue, I interrupted him. “Holmes, why did you not inform me that the police were here? It would have caused me much less pain if I would have known for sure we were to be rescued!”

Holmes shook his head. “I was afraid that if you knew, Watson, your act wouldn’t be as convincing as it was. Hawkins believed you were alone, and I was therefore able to catch him red-handed trying to take the jewels from you. If your act wasn’t convincing, it would have been much less efficient in catching him – highly improbable, actually. Everything went according to plan. Lestrade responded quickly to my shot, and Hawkins was caught with a gun to Watson’s head – it all lined up perfectly for a convincing case of attempted murder. Mrs. Hudson was returned to us – she had been kept in the abandoned restaurant on Grosvenor Street – although her kidnapper was nowhere to be found.”

Mrs. Hudson looked the most surprised out of the group. “And to think that all of this started with one little wedding-present!”

Holmes smiled. “That is the beauty of the case.”

“Holmes,” I began, “what will we do with the jewels? They are obviously property of the Royal Family.”

“No, Watson, they are not,” Holmes said. At my confused look he added, “The journal states, on page twenty-five I believe, that Queen Mary Stuart gave the jewels to her maid, Ailsa Todd, as a wedding gift before she was executed.”

I understood then. “Then they rightfully belong to…”

Holmes nodded, and I returned the jewels to him.”They rightfully belong to Miss Violet Baylor.”

Miss Baylor covered her mouth with her hand, before reaching out to accept her treasure. “But I cannot…”

Holmes silenced her by putting a finger to his lips.”You shall. They are yours, Miss Baylor. Part of your heritage.”

“But I cannot take all of them! You played the game for me – you performed the dirty tasks, and the hunting and decoding; why, you even came near death in a battle not your own! You deserve to be paid, at least.” She reached into the velvet pouch and removed a small, red ruby, about two centimeters across, and handed it to Holmes. “As payment, and a reminder of what a great service you have done to me and the country of Scotland.”

Holmes hesitated for a moment before he took the ruby gently and held it up to the light, examining it thoroughly. His emotions took over for a moment, and he wasn’t able to speak. He recovered quickly, however, to say, “Thank you, Miss Baylor.”

Then Miss Baylor reached in again and pulled out two small diamonds and passed one to me. I thanked her heartily and put it in my pocket. She also handed one to Mrs. Hudson, but Mrs. Hudson refused.

“No, dear, I won’t take one. I’ve had enough trouble with this box and jewel business as it is. You keep it.”

Miss Baylor then embraced Mrs. Hudson, who appeared much moved. Then she turned to me, and shook my hand gently, whispering a small ‘thank you’ into my ear. I rose to show her out.

Holmes also rose, despite his injuries, and shook Miss Baylor’s hand. “A pleasure to work with you, Miss Baylor,” he said. “And thank you.”

Miss Baylor was surprised. “For what, might I ask?”

We moved toward the door, and Holmes laughed. “For relieving me of my monotonous life,” he said.

Mrs. Hudson showed our guest to the door, and Holmes silently retreated to his bedroom, examining the ruby all the way.

I myself situated myself on the settee, inspecting my own gem. While looking it over, I heard Holmes begin to play one of my favorite violin concertos. I leaned back, listening, all the while silently pondering the adventure of the gold-engraved box.