The Adventure at Bellingbeck Park

by Deanna Baran

My friend Watson, upon his bereavement, had returned to the familiar lodgings at Baker Street which we had formerly shared prior to his marriage. But while some grieving men self-medicate with the bottle, or find solace in any other number of personal crutches, Watson went through a period where he buried himself in work, departing before the rising of the sun and returning long after its setting, which is no insignificant undertaking during the long days of summer.

That deliberate distraction is the only excuse I have as to why I must needs chronicle my own doings. For anyone familiar with the newspapers, August of 1888 had no lack of lurid and sensational goings-on splashed across the headlines, bold black type upon yellow paper, and those goings-on quite overshadowed anything else. But whilst the outré is most certainly within my purview, I do not have a penchant for sensationalism for its own sake. Rather, I look upon the strange and the singular of crime much as a medical man may find himself observing a peculiar series of symptoms. It is not the symptoms themselves that are of interest, but rather, they provide clues as to what to expect in a given series of circumstances, all the better to treat the disease underneath. But like most physicians, the overwhelming majority of my cases take place in private, dealing with the secret misdeeds of anonymous men, far from the scrutiny of the public. And lacking the company of my most valued ally, my isolation was felt; and lacking the company of my most enthusiastic chronicler, so many of my cases disappeared without a ripple into the shadows of the past.

And thus I take the time to jot down some facts of one such case during that August - not the sensational, but the surreptitious.

It began in Baker Street, as most of my cases do. I had finished a solitary tea, and was working in fits and starts upon a monograph regarding the microscope and its relation to crime. The bell heralded the arrival of a visitor. I had received his letter in the morning mail, and Mr. Thomas Deering was shown in.

“Pray seat yourself,” I said, indicating the chair nearby. He set a large leather bag by the door - solid, well-made, straps, a brass lock - and sat, somewhat nervously smoothing his hands across his trouser knees in an unconscious fidget. A monogrammed signet ring glinted on his hand, but he was moving too erratically to get a good glimpse of the letters. By way of putting him at ease, I inquired, “You appear to have come straight from your cricket match. Did you win?”

“Quite! Er, rather!” he said, brightening up. “We won by a run. The jacket told you, I suppose? Or the bag of sports equipment? I haven’t been back to my rooms to drop them off properly. I came straight here.”

“I would be sadly ignorant if I did not recognize the colours of the Burleson Cricket Club,” I said, gesturing to his summer suit, which he had not yet changed. The jacket with its bold sky blue and navy stripes and matching cap would have been acceptable either upon the stage or upon the turf, but in few other places. “But even had you come hatless and clad merely in white, your shoes are too sturdy for tennis, and golf does not require pads strapped to one’s legs. Their presence has left behind distinctive creases in your trousers.” It was unnecessary to allude to however one may discern a man who has spent the better part of the day outdoors in the August sun. Instead, I continued, “I am pleased that, whatever troubles you, it has not interfered with your ability to enjoy a healthy day of sport. This morning’s letter was very vague. Many people are disinclined to put down in writing the specifics of their fears or suspicions. Now that we are in private, pray feel at ease, and elucidate.”

“I need a cracksman to break into my grandfather’s safe,” said Deering abruptly.

“You’re in the wrong neighbourhood to hire a task like that. Baker Street is hardly the equivalent of Grosvenor Square, but it is also hardly the equivalent of the Old Nichol. Wouldn’t it be easier to politely ask your grandfather to open it?”

“He won’t see reason, and will be robbed this week-end because he ignores my warnings. There’s a grouse shooting party at his country house, Bellingbeck Park. Except the grouse shoot is merely a pretext. What’s really about to happen is the field testing of a secret miniature camera.”

I inclined my head slightly to encourage him to develop this point a little more thoroughly in his narration.

“It takes photographs, you see. From the air. It’s a miniature camera, strapped to the breast of a pigeon. The pigeon is released. The pigeon flies home to its roost, with the clockwork automatically snapping an exposure every half-minute or so along the way until it runs out of film. The pigeon lands, the recipient removes the roll of paper film, and develops it. And you develop them in a dark room with a jolly old set of chemicals, and have a jolly old series of photographs of the terrain the pigeon flew over on its journey.”

“A clever device,” I said, with an approving nod. “I can see how it would be a valuable resource in wartime reconnaissance or aerial surveys of difficult terrain.”

“Exactly,” said Deering, sitting on the edge of his chair. His hands were now still. The monogram looked as though it read TAD. “My father is something of an inventor, having nothing else to do, being a younger son. He ought to race horses, or collect incunabula, or play cricket, or something. But no. He putters about, inventing tiny cameras to buckle on to birds.”

“And so...” I said, steering him back on course.

“Oh. Yes. And so this weekend’s grouse shoot is actually a field testing of this secret camera. There will be about ten guests in attendance, most of them from the Ministry of Defence. But I suspect that one of them isn’t Whitehall. One of the guests on the list is a certain Mr. Walter Rowland-Powell, which I don’t believe is his real name, either. But I must say, wherever he goes, something goes wrong behind him. A fire breaks out in a library. A gun misfires. Things go missing - not plate or things of that sort, but things you can’t tell the police about. People talk, yet he still gets the most plummy invitations. I haven’t figured how he does it. And I’m afraid that my father’s plans for his miniature pigeon-camera, kept in my grandfather’s safe, are going to go missing. I thought it would be a great idea to break into the safe and secretly bear away the plans. Of course, it would be obvious if they just vanished. Rowland-Powell wouldn’t find that satisfactory at all. Instead, what if they could be replaced with a false copy, something with a few subtle mistakes on it. Nothing noticeable, but something that would be utterly useless to a Foreign Power weeks later when knowledgeable people finally start studying the thing. But in between, after Rowland-Powell bears it away and everyone’s left in his dust scratching their heads, I can say, ‘Ha-ha! I knew this would happen. Here it is, safe and sound after all.’ And then reunite them with the genuine article, drop the curtain, exit stage left, et cetera.”

“It certainly sounds tidy, the way you put it,” I said dryly. “It sounds as though all you’re missing, in addition to your cracksman, is a draughtsman. Surely drawings of the sort you refer to could not possibly be copied in less than an afternoon - possibly longer, if neatness and accuracy are to be taken into account.”

“I managed to waylay one of his later drafts before it was committed to the fire,” said Deering carelessly. “It was the easiest thing in the world to change a few lines, alter a few figures. And the best part is, it’s in the old man’s own handwriting, so of course, no one would suspect. Because it’s the genuine thing. Except it isn’t.”

“So you know what is to happen, and you know who is going to do it, and you know approximately when, and you have devised a plan to prevent this misfortune from occurring. And what you require is someone to physically undertake this adventure. I suppose you’ve thought that through, as well.” I kept my voice as neutral as possible.

“In fact, I have,” said Deering, leaning forward. “It would draw too much attention if I were to show up and say, ‘Hello, all, here is my jolly old friend from school that I just happened to pick up and invite for a jolly old round of grouse-shooting, I hope you don’t mind.’ That wouldn’t work, of course. We wouldn’t have been likely to have met at school.”

“No, I suspect I may have been a few years ahead of your time.”

“Contemporaries. That’s the word I’m looking for. No, that story wouldn’t do. But. Who is invisible at a house-party? Why, you could be disguised as my valet. That would give you a pretext, and everyone would treat you as the most natural person in the world. Or like furniture, depending.”

“Except for all those who are acquainted with your true valet, seeing that this is your grandfather’s estate, at which you both have presumably spent significant amounts of time in the past,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but I can concoct a story to explain his temporary absence,” said Deering. “An ill mother. An aunt’s funeral. Nothing that anyone will think twice about, because no one really cares about other people’s relations. They just make the appropriate noises and get on with life. They’ll accept you all right, and you just act as though you belong, and hey presto! You take a few minutes of your time in Wolverly’s library, and if anyone catches you, explain that you got lost, but that won’t happen, because all the guests will be shooting grouse, or playing with pigeons, and all the house staff has something better to do than standing around waiting to catch people meddling with Wolverly’s safe.”

“Has anyone told you what a reckless nature you have?” I asked.

“I’m a younger son as well,” said Deering. “There are three men between me and the title, so I’d better learn to live by my wits! Too bad I can’t make a career out of playing cricket. Or inventing tiny cameras for birds, for that matter.”

“I may very well do it, just for the amusement,” I mused aloud. “I pride myself on my acting ability. It would be a personal challenge to see if I could pass for a valet at close quarters amongst the natives. Your case has several points of interest. And it would only be for the week-end.”

“We arrive Friday, around five o’clock, and leave Monday,” said Deering. “My valet’s name is Adams. I expect it would be easiest if they called you Adams for the duration of our visit. No use in your coming up with an alias, for you can’t use your own name, and it will make your acceptance smoother.” He scribbled an address on the back of an envelope from his pocket, and handed it to me. “If you’ll come ‘round my rooms at the Charing Cross Hotel, we can do this. You’re a jolly sport. I’ll pay you ten pounds for your effort, up front. I pay my man twenty-five-per-year - not bad for a weekend’s work, eh!”

“I’m intrigued by this Rowland-Powell,” I said thoughtfully. “I wonder if he’s as much a rascal as you suspect. I’ve always wondered what makes men tick. Selling secret mechanisms to Unnamed Foreign Powers! I say, Mr. Deering. If you were to do such a thing, how would you go about doing it?”

Mr. Deering stared blankly at me for a full minute before responding, “I... I really have no idea.”

“Not to worry,” I reassured him. “It was merely a hypothetical question.”

We arrived Friday by carriage. Bellingbeck Park was the estate of the Viscount Wolverly, Deering’s grandfather. The title had been created somewhat more than a century ago, under King George III, who seems to have been prolific in creating viscountcies, most of which had gone extinct due to a lack of male heirs, according to what I could glean from my Burke’s and Debrett’s. Bellingbeck Park was a manor house which would have done a far more ancient lineage credit as a family seat. The second Viscount had been responsible for the illuminated fountains. The third Viscount had ambitiously introduced a Doric colonnade, two extra wings, and a Palladian façade. Wolverly, the fourth Viscount, seemed to maintain the manor in a workmanlike fashion, neither spending extravagantly to further develop its aesthetics, nor scrimping and allowing it to fall into disrepair.

I arranged with a pair of footmen to bring Deering’s luggage up to his room through a back entrance, whilst he went to the front door to greet whomever was responsible for the welcoming of guests. I knew from my abovementioned references that there was no Lady Wolverly, nor any daughters. Deering was my client’s mother’s maiden name. I found it a point of interest that he should deliberately wish to obscure his true surname, when it could be found easily enough in print.

Wolverly, the current Viscount, had had two sons. His heir was in a regiment stationed somewhere along the Gold Coast, busily building the Empire in Africa rather than securing the family bloodline. His given name was Edward and his nickname was “Diver”. An odd name for an Army man! His second son was Deering’s father, with the given name of Ruford (and who went by the familiar moniker of “Rufftum” when amongst friends and family, I was advised). He would naturally be present at this display of his own ingenuity. Deering’s own elder brother (Fitzgerald, called “Fitzy” by his inner circle) had been stationed somewhere in India since 1881. I had asked Deering was his sobriquet was when dealing with people on a first name basis, and he looked blankly at me and said, “My father calls me Thomas.” But I was pleased that I had a rough sketch of the family tree and the relationships of those I was and was not likely to meet.

I unpacked his things as tidily as I could, and he shortly arrived, whereby I dutifully removed all travel stains from his person and made him presentable for tea.

“We’re in luck,” he said, as I brushed the dust from his coat. “Rowland-Powell isn’t scheduled to arrive until luncheon to-morrow. We have a bit of time yet, although most of the other guests are arriving to-day.”

Whilst he enjoyed tea with the guests in the shade of the Doric colonnade (courtesy of the third Viscount) (the colonnade, not the tea), I made my way belowstairs to the kitchen, where I doffed my coat, donned one of the men’s aprons, and took up wiping dishes for the pantry-maid, much to her gratitude.

“You’re a far sight more of a gentleman than Mr. Adams ever was, Mr. Adams,” she said approvingly. It took no effort at all to get her to discuss the house party, but unfortunately, she had little information about Rowland-Powell, except for the fact that this was his fifth or sixth visit, he never brought his own man with him, and one of the footmen always valeted him instead. Everyone else had also been here before, at least once - neither Wolverly nor Deering’s father were strangers to the higher circles of the Ministry of Defence. His last invention of interest to them had been two years ago, when he had created a patent camera disguised as a pocket-watch. Due to the small size and precise measurements, the plates were difficult to manipulate, and he had never attempted to commercialize his invention, but she had no doubt it was in frequent use in foreign capitals. It seemed that our Rufftum was in the habit of turning out intriguing knickknacks every year or two, usually involving optics in some fashion.

We made our way through the washing-up of cooking for the tea things, and then the dishes from the tea things. I helped the footmen put away the glass and plate, and determined which of them usually stood in to valet for Mr. Rowland-Powell on the occasions of his visits. I mentioned that I had heard gossip about how odd happenings followed where he went. The first footman recalled a wastebasket fire in his room, (fortunately contained), and the second football reminded him of the shooting accident when they had gathered to hunt hare. (No one died.)

I went up to help Deering dress for dinner, and then came back down to help wash the pots and pans for dinner preparation. During this period, the servants had their own dinner about an hour before the family and guests ate theirs. The butler and housekeeper presided at table. There were two other guests’ valets, in addition to Viscount Wolverly’s man, and it was amusing to see them referred to by the names of their masters. I had to conceal a smile when I asked Viscount Wolverly to pass the salt. Precedence was very strictly observed, again according to the hierarchy of one’s master. There was some debate as to whether a General outranked a fourth-in-line for a viscountcy who was merely a Mister, but I humbly ceded the higher place to him. At the end of our meal, as one of the upper servants, I was permitted to retire with the butler and the other valets to the housekeeper’s parlour for pudding and coffee and conversation.

One of the valets, referred to as General Rocker, mentioned that he was looking forward to tomorrow’s shoot, with the prospect of grouse for dinner. He then proceeded to relay a humorous anecdote about something that had happened while loading General Rocker’s shotgun for him while hunting partridge last February. Another valet, called Lord Robert White, brought up the hare shooting episode. “Mr. Rowland-Powell said Mr. Adams had bumped him and the shotgun went off,” he mentioned in passing, and it took me a few moments to realize that the Mr. Adams to which he referred was my Mr. Deering, not Mr. Deering’s usual valet.

The signal came, and we made our way upstairs to resume duties. I stood behind Deering’s chair at dinner and waited on him patiently. I timed it - two hours for the gentlemen to make their way through dinner, before they finally retired for cigars and brandy in another room. I helped with the washing-up once more, and then went up to Deering’s room to help him undress for bed.

“You realize, of course, what neither of us considered. I’m expected to stand with you while you hunt and load your gun for you,” I said, reflecting on how it was possible to discard too much from one’s mental attic. That I, the descendant of how many generations of country squires, should make such an oversight!

“Surely we can make a story to cover that, too,” said Deering optimistically. “Perhaps you were in the Army, and had a bad battle someplace, and are suffering from nerves. Can’t stand to be around explosions. Kandahar, perhaps. Or Maiwand. Can you pretend to have been in Afghanistan?”

“Can we fool the Ministry of Defence into believing I served in the Army?” I asked sardonically. “I haven’t, you see, and military men of the sort you’ve collected here this weekend have a great nose for spotting civilian imposters. They’re not as credulous as pantry maids. If one marches a valet in front of a pantry maid and says, ‘This is my valet’, why would she doubt? But if one marches a valet in front of a General and says, ‘This man fought at Arzu,’ he’ll immediately ask for regiments, and commanders, and comrades-in-arms, and did I know so-and-so. That sort of charade would be quite impossible to sustain without significant research.”

“Then perhaps you ought to come down with a cold,” he suggested.

“In August?” I hung his suit. “Will you prefer a hot bath? A cold bath? Or a cool bath?”

“I’ll save it for tomorrow,” Deering replied. “We’ll figure something out.”

It was midnight before I retired to my third floor bedroom, where visiting valets were hidden away. Although I had originally approved of this scheme due to the brevity of its duration, I found myself wishing for an extra few days to observe the habits and the schedules of the manor’s inmates. If the grouse shoot were to occur in the morning, and the field testing sometime after luncheon, that left precious little time to effect the substitution. However, there was nothing that said Rowland-Powell would strike on Saturday evening. Perhaps he would wait until Sunday, when the family, guests, and servants were at church. Or perhaps Sunday night would provide opportunity, as the week-end drew to a close, and anything gone missing would not be noted until it was too late.

I preferred to leave nothing to chance.

The plans were rolled into a short, tidy tube and tied with red tape, secreted at the bottom of my satchel. Deering had reluctantly given it to me as we had left London, although I would have preferred extra time before our house party to examine them myself. He would have kept them up until the moment of substitution, if he had had his way, but I explained that I worked alone, and my luggage was safer. Although a valet unpacks his master’s wardrobe, there was always the chance an officious maid or footman would interfere, and stumble across the plans by accident. I waited until the house settled, then slipped from my room down to the ground floor, where Wolverly’s library was located. Deering had described where to find the safe. It was hidden behind a large portrait of the first Viscount and his family.

Unrolling my case of instruments, I set to work.

There are two schools of thought in this line of work. The swiftest, easiest, and most straightforward method is to drill holes and punch tumblers. Obviously, when embracing this method, the miscreant does not care to disguise the fact of his presence. This is the method used when the thief has no intention of returning to the scene, such as in stealing piles of currency or bags of coin.

The alternate method involves tremendously more finesse. One must attempt to break into the safe, not through brute force, but as though one is the ordinary safe-owner opening his safe under ordinary circumstances. This is the preferred method in the pursuit of information, and when one wishes to disguise for as long as possible the fact that information kept in a secure location has been compromised.

It was this second method that I turned to as I began my work. My clamps, my drills, my punches, my augurs - these tools I ignored, as I set to work with the delicacy of a surgeon performing a critical operation. I looked the part as well, armed with a stethoscope, the better to magnify the clickings and movements of the tumblers.

There was no hurry, only infinite patience and tremendous concentration. All that existed was myself and the invisible tumblers, rolling here, clicking there. The combination dial twirled smoothly under my fingers at one point, and met with more resistance at another point. It took a combination of subtle internal sounds, the feel of friction, and the guidance of instinct and experience. The quarter-hours chimed distantly away in another part of the house, one after another, but I did not allow myself to heed them or be rushed.

With a gratifying sound of sliding steel bolts, the door swung open. I noted clear glass ampoules mounted in a bracket attached to the inside of the door. If I had forced my way in through the door, I would have triggered a cloud of gas, most likely phosgene.

Wolverly’s safe was not as impenetrable as he would have liked, but his security measures were solid. I did not realize I had been holding my breath so long. I exhaled quietly, slowed my heartbeat to its normal pace, and willed my hands to be steady. I sorted through the papers in the safe, taking care to disarrange nothing. The small roll of plans for the camera was easy to find.

I unrolled the two plans, side-by-side, and examined them by the light of my shaded lantern. Deering was correct: They were nearly indistinguishable, yet were different enough that, with both copies present for a comparison, it was clear that the copy Deering had provided was an earlier, imperfect version in need of significant refinement.

Before I left, I took a jar of kitchen ashes I had slipped into my pocket earlier, and sprinkled them delicately around the front of the safe. Not enough to draw attention, due to the pattern of the carpet, but enough to notice if someone stood before the safe and tracked them round the room.

I made it back to my bed unchallenged.

The next morning, I presume I functioned as smoothly as normal, but my nerves were taut. Would anyone suspect the safe had been tampered with? It was not the first time I had done such a thing - there had been the case of the Buffini diamonds and retrieval of the compromising letters stolen from the Countess of Redmond - but I preferred a quick, anonymous escape once my purpose was achieved, bolting to my Baker Street burrow, rather than this foolishness of loitering about the premises for another three days and waiting for something to go wrong.

However, the whole household was excited enough about the grouse and about the trials that any missteps I may have made would have been attributed to my inexperience as a substitute valet. Although some gentlemen’s gentlemen are noble creatures, the majority of them combine the two distasteful extremes of servility combined with foppishness. It is not the sort of career a man with ambition would embrace, and not the sort of role I would voluntarily assume for any extended period of time. I attended Deering as dutifully as a nursemaid. Servants do not wait table for breakfast, so I was free to proceed downstairs to listen to the servants’ idle chatter and help where I was needed. When the house was full, all hands were appreciated, but it was not long before I was called away to the field to wrangle gun and ammunition for my temporary master.

Neither of us made reference to any nervous conditions resulting from previous war experiences, and the grouse shoot was a success in that grouse were shot, and the guests were all pleased in consequence.

Mr. Rowland-Powell arrived towards the tail end of the shooting. He stood around with his hands in his pockets and told news in an amusing way, and laughed at the stories of others. I observed him without appearing to pay much attention to anyone. There was nothing striking or alarming about him. His tailoring did not indicate especial wealth, his features gave no hints as to extremes of personality. He seemed more of the type of country squire who preferred to fish than to ride or hunt or shoot, and the sort of man who was moderate in his food and his drink. Perhaps it was the fact that he was such an ordinary individual that made him such a potentially perilous foe. One is not likely to hand over secrets to French anarchists or Dutch socialists or Italian adventuresses, but such secrets may indeed pass freely into the possession of ‘one of us’!

There was only one exchange of any note during the shooting. Rowland-Powell, hands still in pockets, came sauntering around to see what I was doing with a basket of freshly killed grouse. “You’re not his usual man, are you?” he asked in a friendly tone.

“I’m only temporarily engaged, sir, while his regular valet is indisposed.”

“What do you do when you’re not a valet?” he inquired.

“I write novels, sir,” I said. “I’m writing one now, but I’m stuck on a bit. I have a character who I think is selling secret technology to Unnamed Foreign Powers. Things like submarine plans, or a new kind of rifle. I haven’t decided. I say, Mr. Rowland-Powell. If you were to do such a thing, how would you go about doing it?”

He looked at me, then tilted his head back and roared with laughter. “What a question!” He raised his voice a bit to widen the conversation. “This valet’s writing a book and needs help with his character.” He proceeded to repeat the scenario to a few of his friends, who had stepped closer out of curiosity, while the others maintained their shoot. “If it were myself, I would probably wrangle an invitation to a gathering such as this, and then steal one of the cameras off the pigeon when no one’s looking. Harness and all. Maybe even take the whole pigeon and not mess with straps and buckles. Shove it in a basket or something. I’d take it to German scientists - the Germans are good at that sort of thing - and let them deconstruct the mechanism to reveal its designs. Its inner workings. That sort of thing. Then they’d know how to make it themselves - and they would.”

“That would be hard to do if it were a submarine, though,” objected General Rocker. “You can’t shove a submarine in a basket. Might be possible to wander off with a new kind of rifle. Depends on the security, and whether everyone standing around is a blithering idiot enough to allow you to do it.”

“Oh? What would you do?” he countered.

“If I wished to betray my country’s secrets,” mused General Rocker, “I wouldn’t worry about doo-dads. They’re only good for the one time. I’d probably focus on code books. Get a nice tidy sum per page, and codes are always changing anyways. I suppose Foreign Powers can intercept telegraphs. There must be a way of listening in to the wires, though I couldn’t explain how. But that’s why we use the codes. It wouldn’t be one big thing all at once - that’s unnecessarily risky. But a slow, casual trickle of information any number of men might possess - that would be hard to trace to the source.”

“If it were me,” put in Deering’s father, “I would take photographs. I wouldn’t risk trying to mess with the real thing. I’d probably develop the plates of whatever was interesting, and send ‘em through the post. Maybe stuck between the pages of a Bible. Or perhaps a good thick almanac, with squares cut out of its inner pages, to form a recess. Perhaps I wouldn’t trust it to the post at all - you remember Richelieu’s Cabinet Noir. I wouldn’t expect good solid Englishmen to investigate the post of other good solid Englishmen, but you never know, with all the socialists and anarchists running about these days. Perhaps I would have a designated shop, like a bookstore, or a tobacconist’s. And my contact would come in and deliver a key phrase, asking for something peculiar. Uncommon. ‘Have you a history of the Seljuk Empire?’ And that would be the signal, and the shopkeeper would give the countersignal, such as, ‘No, but have you read about the Anatolian beyliks?’ and they’d both know it was all right, and the shopkeeper would give him whatever object the photographs were parceled up into.”

“Of course, that would mean taking the shopkeeper into your confidence,” said Wolverly. “You don’t want that at all. You don’t want to be blackmailed once he starts wondering about mysterious packages he’s supposed to pass. I would run an advertisement in the agony column, and leave it at that. Sign it ‘Shuttlecock’ or ‘Cheops’ or something. No one would waste their time following up with all those nonsense assignations that already clutter the paper. I’d drop it off in a remote location, like in a particular hollow tree somewhere, and when the advertisement appeared, my foreign contact would know to visit the hollow tree and claim what I had cached, and deliver it to his handlers. My money, of course, would be paid directly to my bank.”

“Is there a way of tracing unusual bank deposits?” wondered Deering’s father. “One would think there was, but I’m not sure if I’ve heard of such a thing.”

“One would have to be sly about it, so as not to draw attention,” said Wolverly. “That’s the thing about greed. It makes one take risks one wouldn’t otherwise. Not just having inexplicable sums deposited to one’s account, but also not be rolling in wealth when everyone knows one’s living on an Army pension and a handful of investments.”

“Which is exactly why I was thinking of doing it by the page,” agreed General Rocker. “Don’t want to kill the golden goose with the golden eggs, or what-not. Just a slow, steady trickle of just a little extra. An extra ten, twenty, fifty here and there makes all the difference in the world. Especially if it came once, maybe twice a month.”

“But there’s also the ratio of risk-to-reward,” argued Rowland-Powell. “If one is going to risk one’s neck for treason, it isn’t going to be for a five-pound note.”

“Men have been killed for less,” pointed out Wolverly.

The subject drifted into anecdotes of men who had met untimely demises in foreign quarters over trivial incidents. I glanced at Deering, who was standing unhappily in a knot of the other men who had continued shooting grouse throughout our discussion, but had kept shooting glances in my direction. Perhaps he was unhappy because he had not been able to give a sufficiently imaginative answer. Or perhaps he was unhappy because I had not reloaded his gun for him in the last ten minutes.

I got back to work, and was aware of Rowland-Powell’s eyes upon me.

I, and the other valets on duty, were dismissed to pursue our own devices after luncheon. No one said so, but all knew they were going to test the miniature cameras. I spent an hour plucking feathers from birds for the cook, and got as much information as I could from her, which wasn’t very useful. Afterwards, I excused myself, and vanished for a few hours inside Wolverly’s library, hidden behind the drapery. It was not the best hiding place, as the summer drapes were hung, but no one entered the library at all, and I eventually was compelled to give up my vigilance as the party began returning to the house exhibiting all signs of high spirits.

I resumed my watch that evening, between the hours of one and four in the morning, but the library remained deserted apart from my presence. The ashes had remained undisturbed.

Sunday, the family, guests, and servants made their way to the village church. All were accounted for. No one left the service early or in a suspicious manner.

Each time we were together in private, as I helped him with his change of clothes or tidied his appearance, Deering repeatedly asked if I had been successful, and I repeatedly dissembled, never giving a straight answer or reassuring facts.

“The thing is to catch Rowland-Powell in the act,” I explained to him. “If you allow him to run off with false information, he’ll only do it again and again.”

“Yes, but I’m more interested with protecting my father’s invention, not in justice. You’re a fool to think you’ll actually catch him at it. He’s far too clever for that.” Deering had obviously grown irritable with my evasiveness. All signs of the fatuous man-about-town had been long since absent from his demeanour. He had not used the word “jolly” in my presence once since arriving at Bellingbeck Park. How true that a valet sees a man’s character in a way an acquaintance cannot, I thought!

“Don’t shout so, unless you wish to alert the entire house to your motivations,” I said. “To-night is our last night. Surely he must make a move.”

“Surely you must make a move,” grumbled Deering. “I hired you to act, not to think.”

“If you wished for a slave, you should have kept your genuine valet,” I said. “But if you wish to protect your father’s invention, I have the situation under control. You hired me to work in a way only I can, so you must permit me to work in the way only I can.”

“My genuine valet didn’t go to a school that taught how to force one’s way into a safe!” he said. “I’m beginning to think you didn’t, either!”

“What if you’re wrong about this whole situation? What if Rowland-Powell never breaks into the safe?” I countered. “What fools we’d look then, having to explain to your grandfather why the plans in his safe were fakes, and how you ended up with the real ones!”

“I never said he was giving the plans to the Ministry of Defence this week-end,” said Deering. “These were only trials this weekend. I expect the plans to be refined a bit here and there. I can easily put my father’s originals back in his workshop, and he’ll just think he was absent-minded and put the wrong set in Wolverly’s safe. But I couldn’t keep Rowland-Powell from stealing the real plans, which was why I paid ten pounds for you to help me with that part. Ten pounds!”

When we left Bellingbeck Park early after breakfast, Deering sat coldly ignoring me. He was deeply grieved at my inability to act, and perhaps moreso grieved at the thought of the loss of his ten pounds. He had wasted all of his harrangues and abuse whilst action was still an option. Now all that was left to him was sullen reproachful disappointment.

The trip back to town was conducted in similarly stony silence. We shared the carriage with four fellow passengers, whose presence constricted any possible conversation.

It was not until the train drew up to Charing Cross and we stepped upon the platform that I reached into my satchel and passed him the tube of paper, tied with red tape. “I was able to open the safe on Friday night,” I said, handing it over to him. “Pray forgive my secrecy, but it was necessary to the way I operate. I may add, I noticed someone had stood before the safe sometime before two in the morning this morning, which is when I slipped down to the library. A man’s shoe, I would say. Not a boot. I made sure to be with the footman when he cleaned all the boots this morning, but of course, since the second footman collected them last night prior to bed, it was unlikely to find any with ashes in the treads, as footwear collected at nine in the evening is hardly likely to stand in the library at midnight.”

“I have no doubt it was Rowland-Powell,” said Deering, his lighthearted nature settling over his features once more as he clasped the plans to him. “Either way, I’ll be sure to find out what happened, and make sure these stay in the right hands. Bad of you to make me worry so, but jolly good of you! I ought to have had more confidence in your capabilities.”

“This was rather a complicated adventure,” I said. “Either way, I trust you to do the right thing. Will you be able to manage to get your luggage home?”

“Oh, yes. I’m sure Adams is around here somewhere, and he and the porter will organize it all. And I’ll be sure to write and tell you all the jolly details. About the safe, not about my luggage,” Deering assured me. With a jaunty wave, he disappeared into the crowd at Charing Cross.

I stood looking after him for a few moments, and then went to go retrieve my own bag.

Inspector Lestrade stopped by for tea two days later. “We caught them both yesterday, right as he was attempting to pass the information to his contact. A bench in Hyde Park, watching the swans. Very casual, but we caught them. The contact tried to run, but we had surrounded them and he couldn’t get away. Thank you for the tip.”

“I wouldn’t have touched the thing, if he hadn’t thought I was such a fool. My pride told me to show him otherwise. I suppose we all waste a lot of time on our pride - but it would have been a pity if the wrong people had access to such an invention.”

“Once the idea behind it is known, I’m sure their own inventors would be able to make their own version, but it would take a year or two,” agreed Lestrade. “At least we have protected our start. Amazing what some people will do.”

“Money, was it?” I asked.

“Of course. He has no desire to apply himself in the service of Her Majesty’s Army,” said Lestrade. “He was comfortable with his lifestyle, which would be fine, as long as one possesses the income to maintain it. And debt drives a man to do things sane men wouldn’t dream of.”

Lestrade rose, thanked me again, and took his leave.

I looked at Watson’s empty chair - he was busy attending a patient, of course - and I wondered if he had been home enough to remark upon my own absence. This was the part that I enjoyed the most, the casual dénouement and fitting together of all the pieces. His reactions were always thoroughly satisfying as I pointed out the twists and turns of the clues of my latest adventure. But one cannot explain things to an empty chair, and it is tedious to spell it out, for it is the antithesis of adventure and action. I chide Watson on his sensationalism, but it is better than the dullness I fear my own efforts approach. I have no doubt I will give him these notes when his grief is not so sharp, and he’ll organize them into a more thrilling narrative.

The first issue, of course, had been Deering himself. His signet ring, however, had proclaimed another identity: It had been monogrammed TAD, with the central initial, of course, representing the surname. It had taken very little research to discover that Adams, the supposed surname of the valet, was actually my client’s surname. This was borne out by the servants’ hall referring to both him and myself as Mr. Adams, as servants are referred to by their master’s titles and surnames. He expected me to be referred to as such, by people who did not know me, but knew, as a member of the family in such familiar circumstances, that he was unlikely to be addressed formally, and as a mere hovering hanger-on of the weekend’s activities, he was unlikely to be addressed by the other guests, who were there for official business, not for pleasure. What he had hoped to gain by this bit of obscurity, I could not begin to guess. However, it was compounded by the fact that a gentleman, even one fresh from a day of cricket, would have no card on him to give his address, and that he would have to scribble on the back of an envelope to disclose his address. And when such an address was not the Burleson Cricket Club, of which he was a member, or any other club of which he may have been a member, but a railway hotel! It was clear he wanted to make it as labyrinthine as possible to track him down in the future. There were too many layers of obfuscation to take him at his word, and useless lies at that, as it turned out he truly was the grandson of the Viscount Wolverly, and the thing could have been done, albeit with some amount of effort.

From the first, I saw it as it was: Deering, or Adams, was trying to use me as a pawn. He knew his father had invented something of much value to any number of governments, but was unable to obtain a final draft prior to its being committed to a secure location. Rather than attempting to sell imperfect plans, he hit upon a plan by which he would enter upon an elaborate charade. He would allow me to steal the plans and substitute an inferior version, so that the substitution would not be noticed for some amount of time. When the substitution was remarked upon, as it invariably would be, suspicion would not fall upon Deering, but upon the stranger who had valeted him that one weekend. There would be no way to trace my identity, of course, as I had no identity separate from that of my master. Just as no one really cares about other people’s relatives, as Deering was jaded enough to opine, I suspected no one really cares about the antecedents of other people’s servants!

I had broken into the safe, but did not effect my promised substitution. I merely reassured myself on one or two points, primarily as to how easily the two copies could be told apart without having both copies together, and whether there were any obvious distinguishing characteristics which differentiated the two. Thus it was that I held off until the last moment to give Deering his own copy back, to minimize the amount of time he would have to examine it closely, as well as to minimize any chance of the true final draft being removed from the safe during the course of the visit.

The shoes that had trod upon the ashes had been Deering’s slippers. The traces still upon the soles in the morning had not been hard to notice! He had paced in front of the safe, and perhaps tried the handle, but it had been of no use, and he had not wasted his time for too long.

The only variable I had left was the identity of Mr. Rowland-Powell. Inquiries had verified that Deering had told the truth on that point, as far as the number of odd goings-on happening when he was around. But a few discreet inquiries in certain channels had reassured me on that point, and some highly placed individuals had ordered me not to compromise his identity, or interfere with any work he might be undertaking, should our paths cross. It was no coincidence that he was at the trials at Bellingbeck Park, but he was authorized, approved, and vouched for at the highest levels.

I was particularly pleased by my hypothetical question, which everyone had answered very readily, almost as an intellectual exercise. But the guilty party, with something to hide! His brain had frozen and his glibness had deserted him when faced with a question he was not prepared to answer - yet not an accusation he would have no hesitation in denying.

It is not often that a criminal and a traitor not only invites me to become involved in his work, but pays me ten pounds to do so. But I had suspected Thomas Deering Adams was a fool from the moment he walked in my door.

“By the way, Sherlock, I expected to see you round last week, to consult me over that Manor House case. I thought you might be a little out of your depth.”

“No, I solved it,” said my friend, smiling.

“It was Adams, of course.”

“Yes, it was Adams.”

“I was sure of it from the first.”

“The Greek Interpreter”