Mrs. Forrester’s Complication

by Roger Riccard

Chapter I

The events of this case took place in the spring of 1881, shortly after I had taken up lodgings with the consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, in our new Baker Street digs. I was not privy to the details at the time, as I was not sharing in many his adventures as of yet. However, it was this case that would be the catalyst for the happiest years of my life.

It was only years later that a celebratory dinner party for my engagement to Miss Mary Morstan brought Sherlock Holmes and his former client, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, into the same circle again. As we sat around the table at Simpson’s in the Strand, the subject of that old case came up. Because it was this event that caused Mrs. Forrester to recommend Holmes to her young governess, now my fiancée, we implored him to tell us the details.

The detective attempted to demur, but with Mary seated on one side of him and Mrs. Forrester on the other, he was surrounded. Add in myself and Mrs. Hudson rounding out the table, and he was at quite the disadvantage, as four eager faces entreated, prodded, cajoled, and pleaded.

“Doctor, ladies,” he objected. “Do you really expect me to recall the details of a case from seven years ago?”

“Yes!” came the simultaneous answer from Mrs. Hudson and myself, who had spent those seven years in his daily presence and knew exactly what his capabilities were as to memory of even the most trivial data when it concerned a case.

Taken aback by this immediate onslaught of denial of his excuse, he acquiesced and began to tell the story.

“If you remember, Doctor, my practice was not quite so lively then. Other than occasional tasks for my brother, Mycroft, in his government capacity, the majority of my work came from assistance offered to Lestrade and Bradstreet at the Yard. Fortunately, they would steer clients my way whose puzzles were inappropriate for police resources, and the rewards they offered allowed me enough to pay my share of the rent,” he said, nodding to our landlady, Mrs. Hudson.

“It was in this way that my practice began to grow, as word of mouth spread my reputation,” he continued, then looked at me pointedly. “Unlike today, when I have to worry that any of my adventures might end up being published, as was the Jefferson Hope business last year.”

I lifted my wineglass in his direction and merely replied, “You’re welcome.”

Not having gotten a rise out of me, he went on. “As I recall, Mrs. Forrester, you were referred by a cousin who lived here in London and was an acquaintance of Lestrade.”

Mrs. Forrester, now in her mid-forties, with chestnut hair which curled down her cheeks and across her shoulders, nodded her winsome face. “Yes, Mr. Holmes. My cousin, Bruce McNab, was the one who thought you might be the man to solve the mystery of my missing husband.”

We all started at that statement. We had only heard it referred to in the past as “a little domestic complication”.

This immediately caused my Mary some concern and she looked apologetically at her employer and said, “Oh, Mrs. Forrester, I had no idea. If this is too painful for you, I insist we stop now.”

Mrs. Forrester smiled and shook her head, “Not necessary, my dear. I have put the incident behind me long ago. I am just as anxious to hear how Mr. Holmes solved the case as any of you, since, when he did so, he only shared the results and not the methods.”

She waved her dainty hand in Holmes’s direction, bidding him to continue, and the detective did so.

“At the time of the incident, my client was living in Leith, on the north shore of Edinburgh. Her husband, Cecil, was a solicitor with a modest practice. When McNab came to me on her behalf, it was in regards to the fact that her husband had disappeared without a trace and the local police were stymied. This left her in a precarious position financially, as her brother-in-law was determined to have her husband declared dead and claim the inheritance, which included her assets under the old laws.”

I spoke up and asked, “Wasn’t 1881 the year the Married Women’s Property Act went into effect in Scotland? Shouldn’t that have protected her?”

Holmes shook his head at my interruption, like a schoolmaster correcting a pupil.

“This was late June, Doctor. The Act did not go into effect until mid-July.”

I bowed my head, held my palms up from the table top in supplication, and he resumed.

“McNab came to me at the recommendation of Inspector Lestrade. I doubt you’d remember him, Watson, as he only visited Baker Street once and you merely passed through our sitting rooms at the time on your way to perform rounds at St. Barts. He was an ordinary looking fellow, whom I discerned as being a divinity student by the creases in his shoes, the wear pattern of his trouser knees, and the ink-stained fingers common to those who take copious notes.

“He told me of his cousin, Morna Forrester, her precarious position, and how the brother-in-law, Barclay Forrester, was attempting to use it to his advantage.

“As I had no pressing matters in London at the time, I agreed to travel up to Edinburgh and conduct a private investigation. Thus, with a letter of introduction from Lestrade in hand, I made my way north and met with the Edinburgh police.

“I was pleased to find that an old schoolmate of mine, Ewan Gibson,[1] was working the case, and he took me through all the facts. Cecil Forrester was a hard-working solicitor of a sound legal mind with a fair reputation for success in the courts. He was a sole practitioner with no partners, though he did have a clerk who handled the more mundane tasks of the office, a fellow named Donald Duncan.

“The main facts were that Solicitor Forrester had left on a Friday afternoon to meet with a client in Eyemouth. As rail travel was not convenient, he took passage on a cutter bound for London which would drop him off at that coastal village, where he would meet his client the following morning. He was then planning to seek out a passing vessel to return home on Saturday afternoon or Sunday.

“The weekend came and went with no word. On Monday, a telegram arrived at his office from his client asking his whereabouts, stating he had not kept his appointment and the client wished to re-schedule.

“Duncan sought out Mrs. Forrester, who had not seen nor heard from her husband since lunchtime on Friday, and was concerned at the lack of communication. His disappearance was reported to the police and Her Majesty’s Coast Guard.

“The cutter was a forty footer called Harmonique, owned by one Alick Lusk. Lusk was a young man who had taken over his father’s small shipping business, ferrying goods and people back and forth between Edinburgh and London. Being a coastal vessel, he generally sailed alone, though occasionally he’d sign on a crewman or two if the weather called for rough seas, or if he had a heavy load. He had a reputation as a hard worker, but was also owing to a handful of creditors.

“The ship set sail on calm seas on Friday at one o’clock with just Lusk and Forrester on board and was expected to dock in Eyemouth that evening. According to the Harbor Master there, no vessel of that name or description arrived at any time on either Friday or Saturday. On Sunday morning, a life preserver with the name Harmonique was found by a fisherman just a few hundred yards off the coast. A search party was organized, and the waters around Eyemouth were searched all that day with no sign of the ship. Some few wooden planks that appeared to be from a ship’s hull were retrieved from the sea about a mile out and a quarter-mile south from where the life preserver was found.”

We all looked at Mrs. Forrester with sympathy at the obvious conclusion, which Holmes now stated in a most matter-of-fact tone.

“Until ports farther south could be contacted and searched, the Harmonique was presumed lost at sea with all hands.”

“How horrible for you!” cried Mrs. Hudson, reaching out to place her hand on Mrs. Forrester’s arm as it lay on the table, fingers loosely wrapped around the stem of her wineglass.

The employer of my fiancée patted my landlord’s hand and replied.

“It’s quite all right, dear. There’s much more to the story, thanks to Mr. Holmes investigations.”

Chapter II

I shall now endeavor to continue my friend’s adventure in the manner to which my readers are accustomed.

Having read all the reports that Gibson had compiled, Holmes decided his next step would be a physical examination of evidence. Learning that the life preserver and hull planks were still in Eyemouth, it was decided that the first investigation would take place at Forrester’s office. He and Constable Gibson arrived to find a harried Duncan with multiple papers and folders sorted into seemingly haphazard piles.

Duncan was a young man, still attending classes toward his final examinations to receive his law degree while he apprenticed with Forrester. His spare frame was just under six feet in height, and his youthful face sported a scraggly brown moustache of a military style, so common among young men of that era. His waistcoat was unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he sat, feverishly attempting to bring about some order to the apparent chaos of the room.

Upon the entrance of Holmes and Gibson, he looked up in surprise, then resignation that he could not excuse the messy appearance of the office.

“Constable, I was not expecting anyone,” he said, running his long thin fingers through his unkempt hair. Then he looked around and added, “Obviously.”

The policeman waved his hand and replied in his Scots brogue, “Quite all right, Mr. Duncan. This is Sherlock Holmes from London. He has been engaged to look into the disappearance of yer employer.”

The fellow stood up and came around the desk to shake the detective’s hand, “Oh, thank you, sir! It would be a godsend if Mr. Forrester could be found alive.”

Holmes took the proffered hand firmly and looked the young man over. His assessment complete, he expressed his opinion.

“I’m no miracle worker, Mr. Duncan. I shall investigate without prejudice to determine the true facts of the case, no matter where they lead. But your statement intrigues me. Do you have reason to believe that Forrester is still alive?”

The clerk went back behind the desk and sat before answering. “I suppose it’s more wishful thinking. I know the evidence is against it, but Mr. Forrester was willing to take me on when a lot of law firms wouldn’t because of my left-handedness.”

Constable Gibson spoke up, “Why would that matter?”

Holmes replied for the young man, “Remember our old classmate, Colin Slattery? He always had to have a certain seat so he wouldn’t be bumping his writing arm into his desk mate because of his left-handedness. His gyrations to avoid his hand smearing the words of what he had just written were painful to behold.”

“Aye,” replied the policeman. “I do recall that.” Turning back to Duncan he continued, “I imagine, with all the documents ye must have to write, being left-handed would make for some difficulty.”[2]

“A difficulty Mr. Forrester was willing to let me work around,” replied the clerk. “Just tell me what you need, Mr. Holmes. I am at your disposal.”

Holmes wanted to examine the room, and he asked some few questions of Duncan as he did so. After about twenty minutes of this, he gave the man a list of what he desired.

“If you can have those for me by four o’clock this afternoon, I should be grateful.”

Duncan agreed that he would be ready upon Holmes’s return, and the detective and constable went off to their next stop, the home of Mrs. Cecil Forrester.

At that time, Mrs. Forrester was a mother of two young children, both under the age of four. As such she had her hands full, keeping up the modest row house and looking after the little ones. When Holmes and Gibson arrived, she had just put them down for naps and was fixing herself a late lunch. Answering the door, she was accompanied by a black Labrador Retriever who stood warily on guard at the sight of two strangers. Emitting a low woof, he received a pat on the head from the plump young lady with the cherubic face. “It’s all right, Pepper,” she said in a soothing tone. “You remember Constable Gibson.”

Gibson knelt down and scratched the dog behind the ears, speaking softly to it. He could see through to the kitchen and, noting the preparations, insisted that Mrs. Forrester not forestall her meal on their account. He then introduced Holmes as the detective that her cousin had sought on her behalf.

“I am so grateful that you have come, Mr. Holmes,” she said, after inviting them to sit at her dining table. “Bruce said you were highly recommended by Inspector Lestrade as a very promising detective.”

The young version of Holmes chuckled at that, “How kind of him. I have been able to steer the inspector in the right direction on some of his more puzzling cases. But your situation arouses my curiosity, Mrs. Forrester. The evidence, if you’ll forgive me, seems fairly conclusive. What are your expectations of me?”

She set down the teacup, from which she had just taken a sip, and folded her hands above the table. “Something about the whole situation does not ring true. My brother-in-law’s eagerness to claim the inheritance is highly suspicious. He has very heavy debts, and the timing of this incident appears too coincidental to my taste.”

She paused, pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, and held it at the ready against her cheek. “It would be no great surprise to me if Barclay had something to do with my husband’s disappearance.”

She reached out and placed her hand upon Holmes’s forearm. “I need the truth, Mr. Holmes. Even if it means Cecil is... dead. The pain of not knowing is more than I can bear.”

The detective looked into those pleading brown eyes and patted the hand that lay upon his sleeve. “I shall do what I can, Mrs. Forrester. I must ask some questions that may be painful, or even seem inconsequential to you, but please trust me that your truthful answers are essential to my investigation.”

The beleaguered woman dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, then refolded her hands, sat up straight, and bid Holmes to proceed.

The detective questioned her about her husband’s clients, any cases that had proven difficult lately, or that he had lost. Also, about his recent behavior. Did he appear worried or secretive or distracted? How was their financial situation? Were there any overdue bills or significant payments coming due? Then, those of a more personal nature as to the state of their marriage, and how did he feel about fatherhood? Finally, he came around to Cecil’s relationship with Barclay. Did they get along, were they close or estranged, etcetera.

Other than admitting that her husband seemed distracted recently, and ensuring Holmes that such was not unusual when his caseload was heavy, none of her answers caused any great concern to the detective.

At last, Holmes asked if he might examine two areas of the house: The bedroom, and the study or desk where her husband might have done work at home.

In the bedroom, he examined those sections of the closet and dresser drawers where clothes and jewelry were kept. The desk in the parlor where the solicitor sometimes did his work was bereft of any current case documents.

Gibson and Holmes bid Mrs. Forrester, “Good day,” with a promise to keep her up to date on any new developments.

In the cab on the way back to Forrester’s office, the constable questioned his old school mate.

“Did ye learn anything significant, Holmes?”

“Quite possibly, old friend. But it is all still in the realm of speculation. I need more data. If what I suspect comes to pass among the requests I made of Mr. Duncan, then I will have a working hypothesis to test.”

“Can ye at least tell me if there’s been foul play?” queried the concerned constable.

Holmes laid his elbow upon the cab window and looked out at the passing scenery, almost as if the answer would spring out from one of the shops they drove past. Finally he spoke, barely loud enough for his friend to hear. “Too soon. My mind still reels with possibilities.”

Chapter III

It was just before four o’clock when the detective and the constable arrived back at Forrester’s office. As they ascended the stairs, the sound of raised voices echoed down the stairwell. The high pitched tenor of young Duncan was easily discerned. The other voice was deeper, raspy, and certainly louder in its demands.

Upon their entrance, they found Duncan, standing behind his employer’s desk, looking down upon a stout, middle-aged man of perhaps five feet and seven inches, with a receding brown hairline streaked with grey at the temples. The older fellow did not seem intimidated by Duncan’s height and was, in fact, raising his walking stick in a threatening fashion, the lamplight flashing off a ruby ring on the hand that held it. Gibson rushed forward and yanked it from his grasp.

“There’ll be none of that, Barclay Forrester!” ordered the constable who, at six-and-one-half feet and two-hundred-fifty pounds, was most intimidating. “What’s yer business here?”

The older man turned with a huff. “That’s the whole point, Officer. It is my business, and I need to see my brother’s papers!”

“Ye know better than that!’ declared Gibson. “The court hasn’t declared your brother dead, and isn’t likely to for some time. Until then, ye need to stay away from yer brother’s property, both here and at his home. If ye bother Morna Forrester, I’ll lock ye away for sure!”

“What more proof could you want?” cried the brother. “His ship was wrecked with no survivors! Bodies could float around out there for days without being found, or become waterlogged and sink.”

“A fine way to talk of yer own brother! Have you no feelings at all?” denounced Gibson as he tossed the walking stick back at the smaller man, who attempted to snatch it out of the air but dropped it to the floor. He had to stoop to pick it up, much to his chagrin.

“My feelings are my own. But the police will hear them loud and clear if they keep dragging their feet on this!”

Holmes at last spoke up, “I assure you, sir, this matter could well be settled in just a few days. Interference on your part at this stage would serve no purpose, and could possibly even delay proceedings.”

Forrester turned with a fury and voiced his displeasure. “Who the blazes are you to be telling me my business? What’s this man doing here anyway, Gibson?”

Holmes, calm as could be, answered for himself, “My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am here from London on behalf of Mrs. Forrester to investigate her husband’s disappearance.”

Forrester looked at him sideways and asked, “What are you, some Scotland Yard Inspector?”

The detective smiled to himself and merely replied, “I have been known to work for the Yard, and I am currently here at the recommendation of Inspector Lestrade. I assure you that, once my investigation is complete, the courts will ensure that you will be receiving exactly what you are due.”

Having swallowed the impression that Scotland Yard was now involved, the little man backed off slightly, but parted with a demand on his lips. “Then get on with it man and be quick about it!”

He pivoted on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” piped up Duncan, now that all was quiet. As his fingers habitually found their way to run through his hair, he let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. “That man has been pestering and threatening both poor Mrs. Forrester and me with his demands. I’m glad you showed up before things got violent.”

“I’ll see that ye’re not disturbed again,” offered the big constable.

Holmes turned his attention to the young clerk and asked, “Were you able to assemble the documents I requested?”

“Aye, Mr. Holmes,” he responded. “Everything you asked for is on that table.” He pointed to a worktable on the opposite side of the room from the desk. There, in neat stacks, were the most recent cases of Cecil Forrester, as well as his account books. Holmes rubbed his hands together, removed his coat, and sat down, informing Gibson that he would likely be working well into the night and would report to him in the morning.

The constable left, Duncan stoked the heat stove, and the world’s first consulting detective began sorting the puzzle pieces to solve his case.

Early the next morning, Holmes had Gibson meet him at the dockyards to catch the next steamer scheduled to stop at Eyemouth. En route, his old schoolmate enquired, “Did ye learn anything from those papers?”

The detective adjusted his scarf against the morning chill and replied, “Some of them were of moderate interest. The most telling fact lies in the ones that were missing. I’ve left a note for Duncan to make a further search and carry out certain enquiries on our behalf. Of course, it all may prove moot, based on what we discover regarding the apparent wreckage of the Harmonique.”

Upon arrival at Eyemouth, the two investigators immediately sought out the Harbor Master, a heavy-set, older fellow named Angus Brodie, who showed them the evidence of the life preserver and hull planks.

Holmes used his lens to examine the items closely. As he studied the wooden planks, he asked Brodie, “Were these found by a fisherman or the Coast Guard?”

“A fisherman found the preserver. A Coast Guard Lieutenant Commander Niven and his crew on board the HMS Darrow, retrieved the planks.”

“Hmm,” answered the detective as he continued to examine both sides of the wooden boards. “I’d like to see the current charts and the location where these were found. Then I need to speak with Niven.”

“Aye, Mr. Holmes,” answered Brodie, his thick Scots burr filtered by a heavy grey beard and moustache and winding its way around the short stub of a pipe in his teeth. “I’ve charts marked out for ye. The Darrow is out on patrol, but should be coming in within the hour.”

Gibson, unable to contain his curiosity, asked his old friend, “What do ye see, Holmes? Is there any evidence one way or the other?”

In response, Holmes handed the magnifying glass to the constable and said, “Look for yourself. Note especially the edges and what would have been the inner surface of the hull. Tell me what you observe.”

Peering carefully through the powerful lens, Gibson worked his way along the edges and reverse side of the longest plank, which was about four feet in length. He spoke as he inspected the wood.

“One end is sawn clean and straight, obviously in its original condition. The other end is broken and jagged. The outer surface is painted yellow and the Harmonique was known to be yellow and white. The edges are smooth and straight, such as is common for hull planks.”

Turning it over and peering along the inner surface, especially the jagged end, Gibson finished his examination and declared, “There doesn’t seem to be anything remarkable along this side. Just plain unpainted wood.”

Holmes, now seated in a chair across from Brodie’s desk with his elbows propped on the arms, pointed at the constable with his long fingers steepled in front of his chest and spoke.

“You see what you expect to see, old friend. But you do not observe. Examining the edges, I note no less than seven places where the yellow paint has interceded. A watertight hull would not allow paint to drip through like that. You will also note that there are no holes for fastening screws. Finally, how did this piece, or any of them for that matter, break away from the boat? There is no damage to the outside from being struck by some external force and there are no signs of indentation, nor the charring of an explosion on the inside.”

Chastened, Gibson handed the lens back to Holmes and asked, “So, what are ye saying? This is not from the Harmonique?”

“Certainly not from her hull, though I do believe the Harmonique left it behind, along with the life preserver, which you will note is quite old with faded letters and checked surface. Hardly in the condition one would keep for emergencies.”

“So ye’re thinkin’ these were left on purpose?” enquired the constable.

“That is my belief,” stated the detective.

Brodie spoke up and offered, “If ye be expecting some shenanigans or foul play, Mr. Holmes, ye may be on to something. Alick Lusk is suspected as a man who can be bought to run contraband or criminals to various ports o’ call. He’s never been caught, but circumstantial evidence has often pointed in his direction.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brodie, that is helpful. May I see those charts now?”

The three men gathered round a chart table where Brodie explained the tides and currents of the day that Forrester should have been arriving.

Gibson asked a question, “I believe Holmes is on the right track, but if someone should ask, is there any possibility of an iceberg strike?”

Brodie stroked his beard in thought, then pulled the pipe from his mouth and pointed to the chart with its stem. “T’is certainly not unheard of, though they be more common to the North Atlantic rather than the North Sea. But if ye look at where they be calved and the various currents, t’is more likely they would flow closer to Europe than Scotland. It’s also late in the year and water temperatures would be bound to melt anything afore it reached this far south.”

Satisfied, the constable looked to his friend, “Well, Holmes, if Forrester is on the run, where do you think he would go? All English ports to the south have been notified to be on the lookout for the Harmonique or its wreckage, and we’ve heard nothing.”

The detective peered at the charts for a long time and finally replied, “The possibilities narrow, Gibson. I should like to finish our business with Niven and return to Edinburgh on the next boat to review the missing man’s papers one more time.”

“The next boat north won’t be ‘til the morning tide, Mr. Holmes,” offered the Harbor Master. “I can recommend a hotel for the night if ye wish.”

Disappointed, but unable to overcome the reality of circumstance, Holmes agreed, and he and the constable set off to arrange rooms before proceeding to meet the Darrow when she came in.

Lt. Commander Niven proved to a young man, just slightly older than Holmes, and of a lean, sinewy build with light brown hair and clean-shaven face. His pea-coat was soaked with the mist of the day’s patrol as he welcomed Gibson and Holmes aboard. Once in his cabin, he stoked the stove, shucked out of his coat, and sat behind his desk, while his visitors took the two guest chairs, merely unbuttoning their own overcoats in deference to the stove’s heat.

The interview was short. Holmes ascertained the Darrow’s search pattern and asked what Gibson took to be an odd question, but found himself surprised at the Coast Guard officer’s reply.

“When the fisherman reported finding the life preserver, did he note if the boat’s name was face up or down?”

Niven replied promptly, “Face up. He was familiar with the Harmonique and was surprised when he saw the name.”

“And the planks your own crew found - were they yellow side up?”

“Why, yes, Mr. Holmes. I noted that in my log as it seemed unusual that all of them were face up like that.”

Holmes smiled at this confirmation of his supposition, then enquired, “One final point, sir. What was the weather like off to the east on the day the Harmonique was due?”

Niven grabbed his logbook and flipped to the appropriate page, “Wind out of the northwest at twelve knots, waters calm, skies clear, temperature at fifty-seven degrees.”

Holmes rose, thanked the officer, and led Gibson back to the hotel. As they walked, Gibson remarked, “So, the weather was perfect for sailing. There’s no indication she was struck, or blown up by unstable cargo. What about pirates?”

Holmes shook his head as he continued his long strides, then suddenly turned into a telegraph office. As he wrote out a message, he answered his companion. “While modern day pirates still exist, preying on small, unescorted cargo ships, their presence is unlikely in this case. That scenario does not explain the planted life preserver and counterfeit planks. No, my friend. Forrester has either been abducted, or fled the country on his own.”

Chapter IV

After the telegram was sent, Holmes and Gibson returned to their hotel. That evening, as they dined, a message arrived in response to Holmes’s earlier enquiry. He tore open the form as Gibson tore into his halibut steak.

A brief glimpse of a smile crossed the detective’s lips and the Edinburgh constable questioned his friend.

“Is it what ye expected, Holmes?”

Folding the paper and placing it in his inner breast pocket, Holmes proceeded to delve into his own meal as he answered, “It is a piece that fits nicely into the puzzle we face. I now have some direction which I can use to point to further enquiries.”

He checked his watch, “I have a good half-an-hour before my next telegram can reach its recipient. I suggest we enjoy our meal, since there will be little time for breakfast before we sail on the morning tide.”

Afterward, the two gentlemen proceeded once again to the post office to send Holmes’s telegram.

“Who are ye sending these messages off to?” asked Holmes’s old school chum as they left the telegrapher to walk back to their hotel.

“The earlier one was to friend Duncan who, in spite of appearances, is a well-organized fellow. Much more so than his employer. His answer has given me what I need to make a request of a contact I have in the government, who can make discreet enquiries in certain foreign countries.”

”Ye suspect Forrester’s on the Continent?”

Holmes stopped to light a cigarette before replying. “With near certainty. Whether by choice or by force, I have not yet ascertained. But an answer to my latest telegram should at least tell us where our search should continue, for I am convinced that the Harmonique did not sink as we were supposed to believe.”

The next morning found a page knocking on Constable Gibson’s hotel room door to deliver a telegram at a quarter-to-six. As he had already arisen and was dressing to catch the early boat north, he answered immediately. Upon reading the message, he stepped across to Holmes’s door and found his knock immediately answered by the fully dressed detective.

“Look here, Holmes,” he cried, holding the form out for his friend to read. “Someone broke into Forrester’s home last night!”

Holmes quickly perused the telegram and declared, “The game is afoot, Gibson! I suggest you put the Forrester home and office under guard. I will telegraph Mrs. Forrester and request her to take leave to stay with her cousin in London until this case concludes.”

Messages being sent, the two boarded ship and by late afternoon were again in Edinburgh. Holmes suggested that Gibson report in to his superiors while he made enquiries at various locations near the docks. They agreed to meet in one hour at the Forrester home.

At the scheduled time, they were at the place of the foiled burglary, sitting with Morna Forrester to learn the particulars.

“Mrs. Forrester,” enquired Holmes, “we have the police report, but please tell us what happened in your own words and pray, be precise as to details.”

The lady described how she was awakened by the dog barking just after three a.m. From her upstairs bedroom, she could hear a man’s voice cry out in pain, and she rushed out to the landing with the thought of bolting herself into her children’s room to protect them. She had snatched up her jewelry box and her husband’s pistol case on the way. Seeing the dog with its teeth sunk into the intruder’s arm, prone on the floor by the open front door, she took courage and kneeled to set down her jewelry box and retrieve the gun from its case. To her great surprise, it was empty, and she dropped it and ran with her jewels to her original destination. She told her children to hide in the closet while she kept a lookout through the crack in the door, which she held ajar. Though she could no longer see the entryway, the dog’s growling and the intruder’s cries of pain carried on for about a half-a-minute. Then she heard the dog yip in pain and a door slam.

“Pepper continued barking and was scratching at the door, trying to give chase,” she recalled. “I called her off and she limped over to me and lay at my feet. I felt around her, looking for wounds and discovered a spot on her ribs that was sensitive. The brute must have kicked or kneed her hard enough to make her lose her grip so he could get away.”

“Did you get a look at his face?” enquired the detective.

“No, sir. He was dressed all in black and was wearing one of those head masks. You know, like fishermen wear in the winter.”

“A balaclava?” suggested Gibson.

“Yes, one of those.”

“Could you judge his height or weight? Did he say anything that would let you describe his voice?” continued the detective.

“It was hard to tell his size in the dark, with him curled up on the floor fighting Pepper like that. Only a small wall lamp near the top of the stairs was still lit for the night. He wasn’t tall and thin like you, Mr. Holmes. Just an average-size fellow. He didn’t say anything other than his cries of pain. I would say they were more tenor than bass, if a musical reference would help.”

“Does the dog usually stay in the house?” asked Holmes.

“This time of year she stays in her doghouse in the back yard at night. Unless my husband is out of town. Then she stays in here with us.”

“A fact unlikely to be known by anyone outside the family,” commented the detective.

“I should think so, Mr. Holmes. Who advertises the sleeping patterns of their pets?”

“What do ye think happened to yer husband’s gun?” asked Gibson.

The beleaguered woman played with the handkerchief in her hands, trying unsuccessfully to stop them from shaking. Finally she replied, “I don’t know. It’s his old service revolver. He hasn’t shot it in years. Not since he showed me how to use it shortly after we got married, in case of emergencies.”

“Was he feeling threatened lately? Perhaps by a former client?” asked Holmes.

“He never said anything. He seemed perfectly normal up until the time he disappeared. Oh, Mr. Holmes, where could he be?”

Holmes tilted his head, then took the woman’s shaking hands into his own.

“I’ve only theories at this point, madam. But I am hoping to have an answer soon. Did you make arrangements to stay with your cousin in London?”

“Yes. We go down on the morning train.”

Gibson, chimed in, “The guards will remain posted outside until you leave and escort ye to the station. Have no fear, Mrs. Forrester.”

“Thank you, Constable. But what if it was a burglar? If he finds us gone, he’ll be back, won’t he?”

“With your permission, I’ll have Mr. Duncan spend his nights here while you’re away. Does he get along with Pepper?” Holmes asked, as an afterthought.

“Oh, yes, yes, that’s a fine idea. Pepper is quite used to Donald. He’s been here often.”

“Then the two of them, with police patrolling outside, should be quite sufficient to keep the house safe. I will send word as soon as I can to you at your cousin’s.”

The next stop for the detective and the constable was the office of Cecil Forrester, where Holmes explained his plan to Duncan. The young fellow was quite eager to be of service and readily agreed to the arrangement.

Then Holmes and the apprentice went over the information, about which the detective had telegraphed the day before. Reviewing the papers and receipts, Holmes suddenly stood and cried, “I have you!”

Donning his hat and coat, he swore Duncan to secrecy and bustled Gibson off to the nearest telegrapher and sent another wire to London.

“We’ve one more stop, old friend,” declared Holmes. “Have you the address of Barclay Forrester?”

Arriving at the home of the solicitor’s brother, the door was answered by the housekeeper, a dour old woman with her grey hair pulled back into a severe bun. It gave her a face a sour countenance, which was complemented by a raspy voice.

“The master’s not home.” she declared upon Gibson’s inquiry. “Gone off to Glasgow on business.”

She started to close the door, but Holmes’s hand grabbed the handle and he stepped inside, his foot now braced against the bottom edge. “Excuse me, madam, but we are quite concerned for Mr. Forrester’s safety. It is our belief he was the victim of an altercation last night and suffered injuries. We have the culprit in custody and should like him to make an identification for us.”

The housekeeper’s features softened slightly and she opened the door to allow the men to enter. “Now that you mention it, he didn’t seem quite himself this morning. Had to use his left hand to carry his luggage and was walking with a bit of a limp.”

“That sounds like the type of injuries our witness described,” piped up Gibson, playing along with the detective’s game.

Holmes eyes wandered about the room, taking in all the information he could glean about the man, and then asked, “Where does he stay when in Glasgow?”

“He’s at the Mackintosh Station Hotel,” replied the spinster.

“May we see his room? We’d like to see if his clothes of last evening have any evidence we can use against his attacker.”

“Well, I suppose that’ll be all right, if it’ll help you convict the brute. Follow me.”

She led the investigators upstairs to Forrester’s bedroom where they found bloody bandages and a gentleman’s shirt, torn at the forearm, stuffed into the heat stove, where it had not yet been fully consumed.

Holmes made one more request of the old woman, “Where is the lumber room, madam? I should like to find a bag of some sort to transport this evidence.”

The housekeeper led them down the hall and pointed a room at the end. Holmes entered and soon returned with a suitable canvas bag for their purpose. He assured the woman that the evidence collected would “surely convict the culprit,” and the men left her, advising her that they would contact Forrester themselves in Glasgow.

Returning finally to the Edinburgh police building, the two investigators settled into chairs at Gibson’s desk, where the constable questioned his old friend.

“What made you suspect Barclay when Mrs. Forrester said the culprit had a tenor voice? Barclay’s more of a bass.”

Holmes responded in the lecturing voice that I’d grown accustomed to over the years, “The panic of the moment generally causes the human voice to rise by an octave or two. A true tenor would have sounded more like an alto or even a soprano under those conditions. Thus, it was more likely to be the brother, rather than, say, Duncan.”

Gibson nodded, wrote out a warrant for the arrest of Barclay Forrester, and had it dispatched to his counterparts at the Glasgow police headquarters.

Chapter V

“Well, Holmes, we’ve solved the attempted burglary of last night, but what of our larger case?” asked Constable Gibson as he leaned forward, his large hands folded on the desk before him.

In response, Holmes took his briarwood pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket. Once he had it going strong, with a sweet aroma permeating the area about Gibson’s desk, he then pulled another item from the canvas bag and tossed it in his friend’s direction as he sat back in his chair, his long legs stretched to their fullest and languidly voiced his thoughts.

Gibson snatched the object out of the air and examined it briefly. “A knot from a thick board, probably oak. So what?”

“Look closely, man. There are yellow flecks of paint that match those found on the planks in Eyemouth. In addition, I found speckles of that paint on the floor of Barclay Forrester’s lumber room. The brother must be in on the scheme. As to motive, I am as yet uncertain,” he said. “But the facts suggest that Cecil Forrester wished to start a new life under a new name and cut all ties to his practice and his family. When we searched his rooms, it appeared that his most valuable possessions were missing. His closet was bereft of more clothes that would be needed for a weekend trip, as was his jewelry box of several pairs of cufflinks and tie pins. Not to mention his taking of his pistol.

“The paperwork missing from his office, along with mentions of persons and accounts without corresponding documents to attach them to any particular case, also gave rise to the specter of a secret client, or more likely, a secret identity. In particular, there are references to Rotterdam for no apparent case-related reason.

“Then there is the questionable Alick Lusk. As Lt. Commander Niven informed us, he is a shady character whom someone could buy off to take a detour or make an unscheduled stop. After dumping the so-called evidence of wreckage near Eyemouth, he could easily have changed course for the Netherlands, as Rotterdam is the largest port along Europe’s western coast. An easy place to blend in and hide.

“Finally, during my enquiries among the boatyard shops, I found that a gentleman of Cecil Forrester’s description had ordered a new life preserver. He told the maker it was for a boat he was buying. I believe it was to substitute for the one he would fling overboard where he had calculated the tide would take it into Eyemouth harbor.”

Gibson whistled softly, “That’s quite a tale, Holmes. If ye’re right, how will we track down Cecil Forrester? Will he even stay in Rotterdam, or use it as a jumping off point to somewhere else on the Continent? And how does his brother fit in?”

Holmes sat up straighter, then crossed his right ankle over his left knee as he leaned on Gibson’s desk with a sharp elbow, “I believe Cecil enlisted his brother’s help with the promise that he would inherit what was left behind, including the income from Mrs. Forrester’s own inheritance, which was divided between her and her cousin as separate sources of income from the McNab family estate. Somehow, Barclay Forrester realized he hadn’t received all the papers necessary from his brother in order to cash in and pay off some immediate debts. Unwilling to wait until an official death notice released the inheritance, he broke into his brother’s home in hopes that they would be there, since young Duncan was putting up quite a resistance at the office.

“I doubt the man had ever been to his brother’s house when his brother wasn’t at home. Thus, he assumed the doghouse in the backyard was the sleeping quarters of the retriever, not knowing that she slept indoors when her master was out of town.”

“Well,” pronounced the big Scot, “with the evidence we’ve got, Barclay will go to prison for sure. Perhaps he can be persuaded to give us the facts of his brother’s scheme in return for some consideration.”

Holmes tapped out his pipe and grumbled, “Barclay Forrester is a rogue without conscience. I’ve no doubt he would have turned his sister-in-law and her children out without a second thought. I should prefer to exhaust all our other avenues before making any sort of deal with the man.”

“Can we prove a crime on Cecil Forrester’s part?” countered Gibson.

“Not yet,” murmured the detective. “But let us see what the morrow brings.”

The next day saw the arrest and transfer of Barclay Forrester back to Edinburgh Gaol to await trial. Mrs. Forrester and her children were off to her cousin’s home in London and Sherlock Holmes waited impatiently for answers to his previous telegrams. His hotel room was layered in a blue-tinged haze from the many pipes he had smoked, as his mind considered and discarded several scenarios which might explain Cecil Forrester’s behavior.

At just after three in the afternoon, an answer from London arrived at last.

Agents report subject at Bilderberg Hotel, Rotterdam, under name Henry Boswachter. Boat anchored and set to stay in port for one week. Need evidence of crime to detain and extradite.

Taking up this verification, Holmes immediately left for Forrester’s office to consult with Duncan. The young man expressed even more shock than he would have had his employer’s body been found washed up on some deserted shore.

“This is incredible, Mr. Holmes!” he cried upon hearing the news. “Granted, business is only marginal at the moment, but how could he leave his family behind? Mrs. Forrester is a charming woman, and the children are well-behaved and healthy. What could he be thinking?”

“His motives are not my concern at the moment,” answered the detective. “I need to know if there is some law which can be invoked to force his return.”

Duncan, running his fingers through his hair, began thinking out loud in a desultory tone.

“Hmm, he’s not been gone long enough to be charged with family abandonment, and there’s no proof he wasn’t planning to come back... Perhaps I can go through our current cases and see if he has progressed according to the contracted timetables. If not, we may be able to charge him with breach of contract, but that’s only civil. You probably need a criminal charge to force an extradition.”

Holmes nodded and placed his hand on the apprentice’s shoulder. “See what you can find. I’ll be at police headquarters.”

Joining Gibson, Holmes and the constable continued discussing options for bringing Forrester home.

“I’ve dispatched a telegram to the Rotterdam police, informing them of the situation and giving them both Forrester’s name and alias, as well as the hotel,” recounted the big Scotsman.

“But unless he commits a crime there that makes him persona non grata, I’m not sure there’s much we can do without getting his brother to implicate him.”

Holmes mulled over their predicament as he and Gibson drank coffee at the constable’s desk. Finally he put down his cup and said to his old school mate, “It’s time to confront Barclay Forrester. But I believe our best tactic is to threaten rather than to bargain.”

The two men stood to walk back to the cells when a messenger arrived with a telegram, which he handed to the constable. Breaking the seal on the form, Gibson read aloud for Holmes’s benefit:

“It’s from the Koninklijke Marechaussee, the Rotterdam police.” He read:

Henry Boswachter found dead in hotel room. No foul play suspected but Lusk held for questioning. No other identification found. Autopsy to follow.

Captain Jan Jensen, KMar

“Well, that’s an unexpected turn of events,” continued the constable. “Any suggestions as to what we do now, Holmes?”

The detective pondered this new development for several moments before replying, “I believe we still need to confront the brother. Only now, I’ve a new tactic to use. Please follow my lead and do not mention that Cecil is dead.”

The two men walked back to the cells with purposeful strides and had the guard let them in to Barclay Forrester’s cell, where he lay on his bed.

Upon their entrance, he sat up and demanded, “This is false imprisonment! You have no cause to hold me here!”

Holmes leaned back against the bars, his long arms folded across his chest, and cocked his head at little man.

“We have proof you attempted to burgle your brother’s house,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“Impossible!” cried Forrester, “I wasn’t there!”

“The dog, Pepper, would quite disagree,” answered the detective. “She tore enough of your clothing off to match up with the garments you attempted to burn.”

“Bah! One piece of cloth looks just like another.”

“Not when you compare the dog’s teeth marks. Besides, we have an eyewitness.”

“That’s ridiculous! If the dog attacked a prowler, it would have been in the front hall. My sister-in-law sleeps upstairs. She would have gone to the children at the sound of any intrusion.”

Holmes smiled, “You are assuming that all were upstairs at the time. Being a bachelor, you are likely not aware of the irritating habits of young children who leave their rooms in the middle of the night in search of a drink of water or a need to use the loo.”

“You’d take the word of a child over me?”

Gibson spoke up. “A child who would certainly know his uncle by sight.”

“In the dark?” asked their prisoner, skeptically.

Holmes added, “You are also likely unaware that the light at the top of the stairs is perfectly position to reflect off the mirror downstairs. You believe your masked face protected you, but both your nephew and your sister-in-law recognized the distinctive ruby ring as the light reflected red on your left hand.”

Barclay Forrester looked down at his empty hand, from which all jewelry had been confiscated. He said nothing, but the sag to his countenance revealed the sting of defeat he felt.

Holmes pounced upon this chink in the man’s armour. “There is also the matter of your attempted fraud at trying to collect your brother’s inheritance.”

This new attack caught the culprit off guard. “Wha... what are you talking about? My brother’s dead. The inheritance is mine.”

The London detective shook his head and announced, “Your brother is currently in the Netherlands, being held by the Rotterdam police. He will soon be extradited back here, and I am sure he will spin whatever tale is most favorable to him, no matter where that leaves you.”

The little man stood up in defiance at that scenario. “No! It was all Cecil’s idea. He’s been acting strange lately, though he puts up a good front for his wife. He kept saying ‘they’ were after him, and it wasn’t safe for him to stay in Edinburgh.”

Gibson demanded, “Just who are ‘they’?”

“That’s just it. He wouldn’t tell me. He just kept insisting that the only way he and his family would ever be safe was to fake his death and move to another country. When he thought he was in the clear, he would send for Morna and the children, but until then they were to know nothing about it, for their own safety.”

“There is nothing in his papers to indicate that anyone was after him,” countered Holmes.

“All I know is what he told me,” replied Barclay with pleading in his eyes.

Gibson was not satisfied, however. “Then why all the fuss at the office, and why did ye break into your brother’s house?”

Forrester wrung his hands and looked at his captors. “Cecil wanted me to send him money to live on, but he forgot to give me the letter of authorization and his bank account number before he left. I tell you, he hasn’t been thinking clearly. I had hoped I would find it amongst his papers.”

“I’ve been through all his papers,” replied Holmes. “There is no such document.”

The brother raised his fists in the air in exasperation and cried, “I tell you it was his plan! I cannot explain it. I only agreed to go along with it because he felt so much in danger.”

“Sit down!” ordered Gibson, looking down upon the smaller man. Slowly, Forrester obeyed.

Holmes added, thoughtfully, “We’ll attempt to verify your story, Forrester. But rest assured, the truth will be revealed.”

“Then I shall soon be free, Mr. Holmes, for that is what I’ve told you.”

Chapter VI

Back at Gibson’s desk, the constable turned to his friend and asked, “When did ye find out about Mrs. Forrester and the laddie seeing Barclay’s ring?”

Holmes took out a cigarette and lit it, replying “They did not. It was a calculated bluff on my part, and Forrester took the bait.”

The big man slapped his desk and let out a loud guffaw, “I suppose that bit about the dog’s teeth marks was a lie also?”

“That,” replied Holmes, “can actually be proven scientifically. I just haven’t had the opportunity yet to make those comparisons. Remember, Gibson, when dealing with the criminal class you must be more clever than they. If that includes using their methods of prevarication, then so be it.”

Gibson folded his hands and leaned forward on his desk. “How will we prove his story, what with Cecil being dead?”

“I have a thought, but it requires more research. The autopsy results will be critical.” Suddenly, Holmes stood and announced, “I shall be at the university library. If you hear any more, you can reach me there. If not, I shall meet you for dinner at my hotel.”

That evening, Constable Gibson found Sherlock Holmes sitting at a corner table with papers and telegrams next to his coffee cup.

“I see ye’ve been busy, Holmes.”

“Testing theories, my friend,” answered the detective. “Have you any news from Rotterdam?”

“No. I suspect the autopsy may take a day or two. No word on what they’ve done with Lusk. Do ye believe he’s involved in Forrester’s death?”

Holmes shook his head, “If my suspicions prove correct, Lusk may only be guilty of accepting an unusual commission. It’s possible he may have even been unaware of Forrester’s activities in throwing the life preserver and planks overboard, if he were busy at the helm.”

“I don’t know,” pondered the constable as he accepted a menu from the waiter. “The timing seems awfully convenient.”

Holmes lay his long fingers upon the stack of papers in front of him, “The timing may have been entirely up to Forrester, likely without Lusk even knowing it.”

“Ye be talkin’ in riddles, Holmes. What have ye found?” queried his old friend.

“Enough to make a special request of the Rotterdam coroner. The results may tell us all,” was all the detective would say on the matter.

Frustrated, Holmes’s fellow alumnus tucked his napkin into his collar and prepared to delve into his dinner. As he was cutting his meat, he asked one more question, “What of the paper ye found at Cecil’s office? How does that fit in?”

Holmes smiled, “Again, a little prevarication on my part, just to judge his reaction. That paper was indeed an authorization letter signed by Cecil to allow Barclay temporary access to his brother’s funds. However, until this cloud of suspicion dissipates, I think it is in the best interest of my client not to permit any such thing.”

Gibson smiled, “Aye and the law would take a dim view of a suspected murderer being able to use ill-gotten gains for his defense. I think we can safely declare that letter as evidence until the investigation is complete.”

Holmes raised his wineglass in appreciation of Gibson’s grasp of the situation and the two drank a toast of silent agreement.

By the next afternoon, Holmes had pieced together an extraordinary and most unique hypothesis while sitting in Forrester’s office with young Duncan. Armed with a myriad of facts derived from a new interpretation of certain papers and verification from Duncan of his employer’s skills in certain areas, the detective now proceeded to Edinburgh police headquarters.

Finding Gibson at his desk, he started to announce his discoveries when the big Scotsman held up a new telegram.

“The autopsy results are in, Holmes,” he declared. “Forrester died of a brain tumor.”

“Located in the frontal lobe, no doubt,” replied Holmes.

‘Why, yes. How could possibly know that?”

Holmes sat at the side chair of Gibson’s desk and proceeded with his findings. “As I told you, my new roommate is a doctor. As such, he leaves medical journals lying about, which I occasionally take up to read when the London press is lacking in anything pertinent to my profession. Remembering a recent article about brain tumors and their effect on personality, I researched the topic further at the University of Edinburgh’s most excellent library yesterday.

“In my wire to the Rotterdam coroner, I suggested such a condition may have been a cause of death. I am gratified that my suspicions have proven correct.”

“But what does it mean, Holmes?”

“Cecil Forrester was not responsible for his actions. The tumor affected certain cognitive areas of his brain and, while suppressing some, it also caused paranoia. He truly believed that he was in danger. The brother’s story is very likely true. I found papers establishing multiple identities, and Duncan has confirmed that his employer was fluent in Dutch and German. No doubt, he would have left Rotterdam for Germany, leaving Lusk to tell anyone who asked that he was still in the Netherlands.”

“Where does that leave our case, then?” asked Gibson.

Holmes leaned forward with his sharp elbows on his knees and fingers steepled in front of his lips. His countenance was almost prayer-like. But instead of supplicating to a higher power, his brain was calculating a variety of possible scenarios. Finally he focused on a singular outcome and sat up.

“Morna Forrester is my client. Barclay committed a crime against her, and I’ve no doubt would have committed even more reprehensible, if not illegal, acts, should he have gotten his hands on the inheritance. He needs to remain jailed for the time being, as his guilt for burglary is in no doubt.

“I presume the Rotterdam police will need an official identification of Cecil Forrester before they will return the body and issue a death certificate in that name?”

The constable nodded his head. “Yes. Either a relative or a British government official will be required to make a positive identification, I’m sure.”

“Then I suggest we can use government ‘red tape’ to our advantage for once. With Barclay in gaol, Mrs. Forrester is the only next of kin who can identify her husband. I believe that I can persuade her to not be in any hurry to do so.”

Gibson looked askance at his friend, “Why on earth would she not want to bring him home immediately for burial?”

Chapter VII

Back at Simpson’s restaurant, Holmes looked across the table at Mrs. Forrester, and with one of those flashing smirks of his that one would miss if one blinked, he continued, “Because it was in her best interest to do so.”

She nodded and he turned to me and declared, “You brought up the ‘Married Women’s Property Act’, Doctor. Section 5 deals with the Husband’s consent, dispensed with in certain cases. It goes something to the effect of:

Where a wife is deserted by her husband, a judge of the Court of Session may dispense, with the husband’s consent, to any deed relating to her estate.

“By delaying Mrs. Forrester’s identification and having brother Mycroft tie up the government’s expediency for three weeks, the Act went into effect. Her estate, and that of her deceased husband, remained in her control.”

“What of Barclay Forrester?” asked my fiancée. “I’ve never heard of him before this.”

Mrs. Forrester answered. “Brother Barclay agreed to sign a contract releasing any claims upon Cecil’s estate in return for my dropping the burglary complaint against him. I gave him one-hundred pounds to assist with his debts, and demanded that he never contact me or my children again.”

“What of that young Duncan fellow?” asked Mrs. Hudson, ever the mother hen.

Holmes replied, “Donald Duncan managed to keep Forrester’s clients satisfied with his work, and is now a successful solicitor in his own right.”

Mrs. Forrester picked up the conversation from there.

“And you know the rest. I moved to England to be near my cousin in Vauxhall, and hired Miss Morstan as governess for my children.”

She looked at Mary, took her hands in both of hers and said, “The children and I are very sorry to lose you, my dear. But I could not be happier in your choice of husband.”

They both turned and gazed upon me, with such love, admiration, and respect as I have ever had thrust in my direction. I’m sure my face was coloring when I was rescued by the voice of my friend as he stood with wineglass in hand.

“Friends, all, may I propose a toast?” said Sherlock Holmes in his most gracious tone. “To the future John and Mary Watson. Here’s to the groom with a bride so fair, and here is to the bride with a groom so rare. Congratulations, my dear friend, whom I shall sorely miss. Miss Morstan, I do hope you will let me borrow your husband from time to time, for I am lost without my Boswell.”

Such praise from my usually taciturn friend did not help my embarrassment. Then Mary replied, “I should not be so selfish as to deprive you of his talents, Mr. Holmes, so long as you promise to keep him safe during these ‘interesting little problems’ that come your way.”

Holmes saluted her with his wineglass, replied, “My word of honor,” and we all drank to the future, blissfully unaware of the joys, heartaches, and adventures that would come our way.

“I have come to you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, “because you once enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic complication. She was much impressed by your kindness and skill.”

“Mrs. Cecil Forrester,” he repeated thoughtfully. “I believe that I was of some slight service to her. The case, however, as I remember it, was a very simple one.

“She did not think so...”

The Sign of the Four

1 Watson will meet Gibson years later when he is Chief Constable for Edinburgh and requests Holmes’s help in a case that is written up by the Doctor as “The Eleven Pipe Problem “, found in Sherlock Holmes Adventures for the Twelve Days of Christmas by Roger Riccard (Baker Street Studios, 2015).

2 The typewriter, invented in 1874, would go a long way toward alleviating this issue. However, its commercial use did not become widespread until the mid-1880’s.