The Onion Vendor’s Secret

by Marcia Wilson

“I suppose,” said Sherlock Holmes, “you may as well write it up. It will keep you occupied for a few days. More, if you persist in supporting the sentimentalism that is infecting the common taste.”

This prickly observation was finalised with a loud cough, and the Great Detective once again reclined upon his sick-bed, with his wrist over his eyes in the very picture of ailing petulance against the backdrop of his bedroom window and its view of his bees devouring a stand of blue tansy.

“My dear Holmes!” I exclaimed. “I was not even asking for such a thing - and my thoughts are more upon your health, which you have severely neglected.”

“Neglect - what of it? The war is over, Watson and to that end I have funneled my energies. Now I rest as the world muses - give them something to celebrate over and perhaps they will leave me in peace!” He sniffed and added, “If you keep to the facts and not the window-dressing, you ought to finish before our guest arrives with Tuesday’s milk-cart.”

Although his tone and wording was strident, I understood the warmth of his feelings. The Great Game, which he had played so well, had cumulated with the Great War, and now he and the world were equally spent. They had both shared the miserable truth that large emergencies do not remove the smaller ones. That he was still alive was a wonderment to me, I who have felt this astonishment far too much in my life.

As I write with my pen in the past and my eyes upon the future, it occurs to me what an extraordinary life it has been to share it with such a friend as Sherlock Holmes. Long gone are the days when I was a shattered veteran of the desert, and he a young consultant on the verge of becoming an active force for justice. I have no regrets save in general: that of each case my readers saw, there were at least twenty left silent and unseen. Some patiently await their day in the vaults of Cox; some were remarkable for only a day - and became un-remarkable just as quickly. These “Mayfly Cases”, as Holmes once described them, were important for the intellectual exercise, and he viewed them with the absent respect a master musician gave to the importance of his warm-up scales. The most beloved of these must surely be that of the gentleman’s hat, which led to the discovery of a precious stone within a goose.

But some cases fall into a category where they have taken on veritable lives of their own in the imagination of the public. These are what may arguably be termed “the immortal ones” for their continued attention and fascination. They remain as talked-about as they were upon the day they were emergent news. Most are our shorter adventures, such as the matter with the repulsive Roylott, and I have it on good authority that not a single British jeweler can pass the year without someone asking for a stone to emulate the aforementioned Blue Carbuncle. If Holmes bemoans my florid style, I admit that I am equally baffled by the never-ending pleas from my publisher, his wife, and even the random acquaintance upon the street, for these immortal tales.

By now my reader has suspected my intention: I am permitted at long last to break silence and offer them what they have so often begged to read - A return to Dartmoor.

I apologise now, for I will not satisfy the countless pleas for the impossible return of Jack Stapleton from a watery grave, or the marriage of his widow to Sir Henry, and it is certainly not about a return of a devilish hound. But I beg the reader’s pardon one last time, and suspend judgment until they have read the tale through. Crime has been the livelihood of Sherlock Holmes with all the necessity of a knot into a skein, and some knots need time to untangle.

“Halloa!” exclaimed Sherlock Holmes, his interest sharp and his enunciation perfectly clear as he held his favoured cherrywood between his teeth. I looked up from my breakfast in time to see him leap from the table to the window to peer down his nose at the street below. “Now this is no light thing,” he observed to me without looking away. “Onion Johnny is about to pay us a visit.”

My old wounds were paining me, but I threw down my napkin and went to see this marvel for myself. This time of day, the city was choked with early news-chaunters, messenger boys, and rented cabs as the public strove to move between train stations. Against the swarm of obstreperous humanity, a little Frenchman stumbled with an exaggerated, uneven stride we knew well. Like all of his kind, he stood out by the unmistakable costume of his profession as an oignon vendeur: A short coat over his striped shirt matched a navy beret upon his dark head. Like a tiny fisherman’s float in a great sea, he bobbed in and out of the confusion. He was hardly a prepossessing size to manage for himself, but he held a stout stick upon his shoulders, and upon that stick depended heavy braids of French onion, which slowly swung back and forth and encouraged others to make way.

“I believe this is a first, Holmes. I’ve never seen him at Baker Street before the end of his work-day.”

“To be sure he has from time to time, but he is not unlike a pony in a coal-mine. If he deviates from his schedule we may blame the path, for he lacks the imagination to wander off it himself. His world is shaped by clocks and blinkers.”

I studied the heavy weight of his cargo again, and attempted to use Holmes’s methods. “He must have stopped selling his wares to come here.” For it was clear that he was desperately making his way to us; his face kept turning up to reassure himself that our rooms had not vanished in the curling fog, and I was certain it was relief in his dark little face to glimpse our forms behind the glass. For all his efforts, he was stymied by the slow march of brick-carters that blocked his crossing. Despite the anxiety of his situation, we had to smile as he stamped his foot.

“And which of my methods have you used to determine this, Watson?” Holmes smiled around his pipe-stem and puffed cold vapours.

“It is the meagrest of observations, I fear. I remember he told you once that his bundles weigh up to two-hundred-and-twenty pounds, and it would seem he has nearly that much to carry.”

“A simple observation is often the correct one, Watson. Bravo! And bravo, Johnny!” For the little man had abruptly nipped down the street in order to get around the parade faster. “He shows initiative today! Well, Watson! At the very least we can say our breakfast-time has proven diverting.”

Before long, our guest was gasping by our low fire. His wares had been abandoned for safe-keeping in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, and he strode in with his sun-darkened face flushed from exertion. A chapelet of the pink two-pound Roscoff onions swayed easily in his hand. Not for the first time I marvelled at how of a type he was. With his sharp-chiselled face and sable hair with piercing dark eyes, he could have been any man from the coast of France, all the way to the south of England.

Unlike the usual vendeur, ours was well-versed in the English tongue, and he often used it to good effect.

“I am aware that I am hours too early, Messieurs,” he began with his beret twisting in his hands. “But a sorry matter has come to my attention and I have in turn come to you on behalf of my brothers in trade.”

“Come, come.” Holmes proclaimed generously. “The onions will keep. We are always glad to see you, regardless of the circumstances.” He lifted his pipe to the mantle. “There is a bit of tobacco which you may enjoy if it helps your blood cool from your travels.”

“Ah, and I thank you both, but my duties keep and must be on my way. There are many Captain’s Heads that need their crew and I am to supervise the fleet.” Johnny flashed a quick grin of teeth and tapped his rope of onions. “I promised to make a matter known to you, and I must keep my word.”

“By all means, Johnny.” Holmes smiled and leaned back, pressing his fingertips together. I have witnessed his management of the many different guests to his office, but Onion Johnny was a guarantee to put him in good cheer.

“Sir Henry Baskerville is paying penance for the lost soul that was his relative.”

“That is hardly news, Johnny.” Holmes said mildly. “It has coloured the papers and the gossip-halls since he returned from his constitutional.”

“I know, Messieurs,” he nodded to us both, “and we have heard how he has given a new well to that Boys’ School, and money to the Madame Beryl’s family. I am speaking of the four burglaries of your West Country, where my brothers sell their onions.”

“Hum.” Holmes opened his eyes and tapped his fingers. “As I recall from the news, Sir Henry prudently hired a detective for each of the burglaries to prove the culpability of the unlamented late Stapleton. All of them men of the law who can be trusted with such cases.”

“It is Folkestone Court that concerns us.” Johnny lifted his heavy weight of onions in his agitation. “And Sir Henry has hired that Lestrade to solve this one. But the damages, sir, and the damages are only for the loss of property, and no one is thinking of the little page coldly pistoled by the thief.”

Holmes exclaimed in surprise. “Well, this is most unusual. Surely a loss of life would be part and parcel of the damages incurred!”

“The conversation was heard clearly by my kinfolk.” Our guest insisted.

“Do continue.”

“I cannot explain but if you were to go and see, we will pay you.” Before anyone could protest, the little man had a purse out and slapped it upon the table with his rope of onion, cheeks bright with high colour in his Gallic fervor.

“You needn’t worry about the fee, Johnny. My rates are fixed, and you have given Mrs. Hudson as well as the Irregulars your excellent onions on credit,” Holmes murmured. “If you say I ought to go speak with Friend Lestrade, then I certainly can find the time.”

“You must speak soon!” Johnny persisted. His urgency had not been appeased by this peace-making. He turned to go, and then stopped to wag a scolding finger upon my friend.

“And do not again use my onions for your mischief! The Roscoff is a sweet onion. The next time you make a plaster, use one of those rude Spanish friars!”

When we were alone we burst out laughing. “Rude Spanish onions!” I wiped my eyes. “So he reads Dickens?”

“Many do, even the French.” Holmes had recovered his breath and was lifting the chapelet to test its weight. “Thirty pounds! This may be diverting. Crime has been very un-imaginative of late, and while this promises to be no different, at least we can be in the open air.” He chuckled. “Perhaps I owe our little friend recompense for offending his vegetables. Never argue onions with a Continental, Watson. Their proverbs centre on peeling away problems even as they weep for them.”

“Anstruther has my practice while I recuperate,” I consulted the Bradshaw. “There is a train at two o’clock.”

“Well, well. We have been cooped up like chickens in a rather dull London. A minor diversion in the open air with the famous Folkestone butter will be to our improvement.” Holmes examined the onion rope in his long fingers. “Not a single blemish. And what a fine head is this captain!” He prodded the crackly bottom bulb, which was markedly larger than the rest. “The captain suits this crew. Remarkable, is it not, Watson? The secret to so much fine British cooking rests within Roscovite soil where Mary, Queen of Scots once set her contrary feet. One can hardly imagine England without these little entrepreneurs, and yet they are a new pigment on the bright canvas of our country.”

Holmes’s loquacity advertised a fine mood, which in turn led me to suspect this case may be more than a seeming plea to Lestrade on behalf of a legal fine-point. In this I wisely bowed to his instincts, for I would not go against the observations of the expert any more than Holmes would deny my diagnosis as a physician.

We soon ticketed ourselves to the west. The London fogs cleared under a blue summer sky, and the city melted to silvery streams trickling across sloping greens by which droves of men and women drove flocks of geese to Leadenhall. I asked myself if Holmes expected the matter to stimulate his intellect in some way, for I knew nothing appealed to my friend so much as a thorny problem. After tucking the onions away to Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, he had fallen into a brief stupor of concentration from which I knew better than to intrude.

I distracted myself from the aches and pains aggravated by the train’s movement by pondering our visit. “I confess I have been puzzled about the news, Holmes. Why did Sir Henry employ Lestrade for one of the cases? It cannot be because they know each other.”

“You are correct. It is because of the current owner of Folkestone Court, Abraham Quantock, wants redress for Stapleton’s burglary.”

“The name means little to me.”

“Did you glean nothing of him in the many newspapers, Watson?”

“Holmes! I have read the exact same articles as yourself, and none have said more than the fact that he is a retired expert in properties from London.”

“The absence of news can be the most illuminating. He originally served the nobility, but greed created too many compromises, and he is retired for the betterment of all to Folkestone Court, owned by his Aunt Oriana Quantock, a sensible dame. Alas, the shock of Stapleton’s attack contributed to her death, and this charming nephew took the estate.

“Hypocritically, he demands the highest conduct from all, as though he were as worthy as his clients. One false step in his presence and vituperative violence is his reaction. I had the delight of the man whilst solving one or two small matters for my brother.” Holmes chuckled. “No doubt he thinks the title of baronet is still a young and upstart one, a purchased billet into the presence of his betters.”

“Is Lestrade a bridge between Sir Henry and this fellow?”

“There is some finesse in the baronet. Quantock must be wondering with every ounce of his ferocious will if Lestrade is secretly conducting business for the Foreign Office - for they are not without their extensive spies, and his former office employed them heavily.”

“You do not paint a rosy picture. I begin to feel sorry for Lestrade.”

“By now Quantock knows why Sir Henry employed Lestrade: Our unimaginative friend has no fear of living man. He will not concede to a title nor flinch at a powerful name. No, Watson, Lestrade is an excellent bridge between the two opposing poles of Baronet and Buffoon. He may trust our assistance if he so needs it. For all his flaws, he is honest enough to admit them.”

“It all seems peculiar. Sir Henry restores the honour of his family name by making restitution for Stapleton’s crimes. Wouldn’t Quantock reciprocate by only asking for the value of his lost property?”

“And that is the question that begs.” In his lap rested his collection of newspaper clippings. “If one relishes irony, here is a feast. You will never see a province so charming and rich with creameries as Folkestone, where it is said the native-born cannot swallow his tea without butter. Quantock is as cold and thin as the lands are fat. He is pure puffery, Watson! Folkestone Court is respectable only by age and history. The family money begat itself in the Navy, but you will find this Quantock’s feet high and dry. He would imply that the house and its holdings has always been his, but in truth he received it in exactly the same way as Sir Henry did Baskerville: there was no-one left to inherit. Here, Watson. What do you think?” He placed the open book in my lap.

On the collected front page rested the proud face of our friend the baronet, standing before seemingly endless rows of winged insects in tight glass frames. By coincidence or design, a small speckled moth matching his necktie sat on the wall behind his shoulder.

SIR HENRY RESCUES RARE COLLECTION FOR SCIENCE

The article itself was dull and rambled to tangents, but the gist was plain: As the owners of Merripit House had suffered for tenants after the scandal of the Stapletons, and Beryl Stapleton wanting nothing from her former life, Sir Henry had purchased the property. His first act was to rescue the collection of insects, for they were fragile in an unheated house.

The article included a quote from MRCS Mortimer, who was pleased that science would benefit. All that was left, he assured the readers, was the appropriate place for the collection.

Almost hidden in the far corner was a tiny legal missive: Sir Henry had successfully applied to have one Jack Stapleton recognised permanently as Jack Stapleton, and not as his former identity of Rodger Baskerville. The law agreed that it was highly unusual to change the name of a dead man, but as he had willfully changed it in life, they saw no reason not to accept Sir Henry’s plea. As easily as that, the line of Rodger Baskerville vanished from the Baskerville records.

“I see nothing more than I did when I first read this.”

“Exactly.”

Holmes pulled back his book and wasted no time in raining copious notes upon the pages. I left him to it and amused myself in the countryside.

Our stops grew further apart as industry dissolved to agriculture. By the time we eased into Folkestone, there was little more to see than lazy slopes of rich green meads and herds of Folkestone’s legendary White Cattle, peppered with small stone shelters freckling the greensward amongst ancient standing stones. The hedgerows were cleverly sculpted of ancient blackberry under bloom as white as the cattle itself. The scene was breathtaking.

Holmes prodded my arm. “That would be Folkestone Court.”

I followed his gaze up the tallest of the gentle rises to see what I had presumed a large standing granite was actually a creaky stone lump of windows and bottle chimneys. Long ago its high rock walls must have been impressive; now it was an ageing dowager refusing to conform to her age, and clutching the pearls at her throat in the form of the strings of white cattle lowing upon the hill.

A herd of these cows browsed behind a lively country market against our stop. Under their placid eyes, two Johnnies laced their onions upon sturdy bicycles and took off, wobbling under the weight of their chaplets. A third held office before a swarm of sharp-eyed country cooks as a boy chalked the transactions on a blade of slate.

Before long we saw Lestrade, smartly dressed with a walking-stick under his arm. His lean face twitched, and his sly dark eyes glittered in amusement.

“Pale as a mushroom, Lestrade.” Holmes scolded. “Of what use is country air if you cannot breathe it?”

The little Yarder drew himself to his full height and looked up at Holmes. “Easy for you to say,” he complained. “I’ve been indoors!” He sighed and glanced about. “I got your wire just in time. Come. I’ve rooms.”

“By all means. We look forward to an illuminating conversation.”

The little professional whistled up a waggonette. “The Candlebat Inn,” Lestrade instructed. To us he muttered: “Abraham Quantock is possibly failing in his senses. He is obsessed with getting full value of damages from the theft that we believe Stapleton committed upon him, but his notion of reparation is...” He glanced about him, though by now there was no one to hear. “It was you who first suspected he was behind the Folkestone Court murder and theft.”

“I still do.”

“Well, Sir Henry agrees, and it should be a simple case of collecting the testimony of the damages incurred by Stapleton. But here Mr. Quantock wants the damages of the page’s death to go to him, not the grieving family! He claims that as the page - Artie Baldwin - was in his employ, thus he is the one with reparations, as he had to do without a page thanks to Stapleton.”

Lestrade rested his chin on his hand and we could see for the first time the hours of sleepless duty upon his face. “He refuses reason, Holmes, and swears if he is not satisfied he will sell and move to London, and the very thought has panicked the people. Quantock is the lifeblood of these people.” Oddly as he said this, his eye fell upon a watching herder and he frowned.

“Does he own the cattle?” I asked.

“He rents the land for the cattle and the land is vital for the milk that makes their famous butter. The dairies need the wild grazing. Everything here is bound to the cows! It is the only reason why the train even stops here on the way to Coombe Tracey.”

“This is indeed a problem. What of the page’s family?”

Lestrade groaned. “The father is Charlie Baldwin, a retired seaman and an outsider, but well-liked for all of that. His mother’s needlework at Court got Artie the post. They relied on his small income as a page, but upon his death the pressure is on to bow to let Quantock have all of the restitution... even though they are close to being evicted for their struggle to pay rent, because it was all on their head to pay for Young Artie’s funeral!”

“Perhaps you could explain Sir Henry’s instructions.”

“The baronet is leery of Quantock. He will pay full value to Folkestone Court all damages proven wrought by that wretched Stapleton, which is estimated at £3,000 and no more. He is content to pay for the glazier’s time in the repair of the cut window used to gain entrance, you see, but not for the glass itself, which Quantock picked up and threw to the floor in his rage. Mr. Mortimer is the one who sewed him up when the shard caught his cheek.”

“Forever charming.” Holmes murmured. Although the news was sensational, I could not understand why he was in deep thought. Clearly there were facets of this case that escaped me, and I could only wait for the outcome. “Is Mortimer available?”

“He is at a dig on Lewis. I could try to contact him for you.”

“Perhaps later. Would it be difficult to see this scene of old crime?”

“Quantock is expecting a final meeting of the scene tomorrow morning. And here we are.”

We could now see the inn. It was a large cube built alongside a skeleton-thin road that by neglect had worn down to little more than ribbons in the grass. A broad man with a wooden peg-leg scattered barley for a flock of hens beneath a large painted sign of white moths before a lantern - the “candlebats” of the Inn.

“It looks pleasant.” I offered.

“Be careful outside it. There are many ears.” Lestrade murmured. His gaze, we saw, had never completely left off from watching the solitary herder in the fields.

Holmes left for a walk. My old wounds had drained me, so I spent the time jotting down my impressions and the facts of the case as I knew them. A stately country dame brought a tea tray, and even the skimmed milk held lumps of butter. Stories of the White Cattle were not exaggerated.

It was a pleasant place, not unlike Coombe Tracy. The thick Dartmoor mists were but weak wisps, easily taken by the fresh sunlight and the touch of the sea-breeze from the south. Instead of wild ponies and crags, I saw tame bovine and stone crosses. I knew Holmes saw the countryside as silent wells of horror, but here it was hard to imagine anything more violent than the inn’s moths flying into the lantern.

Lestrade and Holmes returned and fell upon their portions. Afterwards, Holmes settled back upon the bed with his knees drawn to his chest, unconscious of anything but his pipe and the occasional question. I opened the window, and Lestrade filled me in on pertinent details that I would not have found without weeks of gossip: Quantock’s anxiety over money, he assured me, was rooted in his purse.

“It isn’t cheap to own a monster like the Court,” he said over his own buttery coffee. “All that history means freezing rooms and tons of coal burning nonstop to keep the frost off the floor. It smokes like London year-round! Why, I’m certain he has a full staff just to keep down the mold. The Quantock fortune is bound up in legal knots, and he can’t get at it or raise any rents.”

“We are alone now. What else do you know about the Baldwins?”

“They rent this inn, and they are afraid to be seen talking to anyone,” Lestrade said into his cup. By his actions, my friend had as much proclaimed his loyalty to the Baldwins. “Charlie is joked about as Folkestone’s last Catholic. He met and married Miss Fern Runston when he was reduced from ferrying Onion Johnnies from Brittany into becoming one himself. Artie was their only son, but another has arrived since. Injuries keep Charlie from putting in a full day, but he is clever and makes string bags to sell to the dairies to carry the small tubs of butter. His style of stringing has become part of the signature of the area, and they would all grieve if the family had to leave.”

“Something puzzles me... Mortimer knows Quantock?”

“He knows the Court’s collection.” Lestrade shuddered. “Simply all sorts of dead things on every wall - bones, skulls, feathers, stuffed and mounted beasts. The late Oriana was like most Quantocks and collected. Lichens and insects. Before the murder, her frames took up the entire library wall! The servants say Abraham is not a collector, unless one counts coins.”

“If there are bones, Mortimer would visit. It sounds like a museum.”

“It is! Do you remember when Ellen Terry played Lady Macbeth at the Lyceum back in ‘88?”

I said that was six years ago, but no one who had seen the fire-haired Queen of Theatre could forget her in her glittering green dress of a thousand wings of the Jewel Beetle.

“Miss Oriana was consulted for the dress design because she knew beetles so well. Discreetly of course - her people wouldn’t like any connexion with actresses living arrears.”

“How did you learn this?”

“Miss Oriana was the consultant, but Mrs. Baldwin’s needle made the samples.”

“I see.”

“Miss Oriana hoped to make the Court a private museum. Folkestone approved because it would encourage the sort they like - moneyed temporary visitors who gad about with their nets and jars, breeze in and breeze out. The subscriptions would have modernized the Court and, of course, the butter would be sold on-site without the added expense of shipping it off to the city. But now it is all going to go to waste.” Lestrade morosely toyed with his gloves. “And suddenly... Mr. Quantock has recently claimed the only that thing will satisfy this affair is the deed to Merripit House.”

Sherlock Holmes had been calmly smoking, but at this news he sat bolt upright. “That is very odd, Lestrade!” His grey eyes glittered with a feverish excitement that I did not understand.

“The house is an eyesore, but would improve with a grazier, and the orchard comes with twenty hives of black bees. Lastly, the well has never dried up, and you know how valuable that is. Sir Henry may easily profit after a little work on it.”

“There is something about this that tastes bad.” I ventured. “I cannot quite put my finger on it.”

“I know. Strangest of all is Quantock’s insistence that Sir Henry not improve the House. He wants it as Stapleton had left it, in order not to ‘ask more than his fair share!’” He scowled, and his dark eyes suddenly looked quite angry. “I can’t prove it or provide an explanation to any court of law, Mr. Holmes, but Quantock’s fiddling about was driving us mad. Yet, as soon as Sir Henry received the copy of Merripit’s Deed on his desk... he changes his offer yet again, only instead of half-a-hundred itemised damages, it is just one thing - Merripit House, which is currently valued at less than half of the damages at the Court. For that matter, the rental properties are out of proportion; seven per-cent of all the land is hedge! Wasteful, except here, where it is part of the key to the grazing that maintains the health of the cows. Rent has been fixed at 1.23/acre for fifty years. Quantock can’t even pay his own tailor!”

“You are out of your depth, Lestrade. You should have summoned me.”

“I am being watched.” Lestrade said with grave dignity. “Poor folk, desperate and afraid to see the end of their livelihoods. I hold them no grudge, but I wish for restitution of my own.”

“I daresay you will get your wish. And you will see Quantock tomorrow?”

“Early on.”

“Sir Henry?”

“He said it is a low thing to be predictable to one’s enemies. He has authorized me with full powers of decision if I must.” Lestrade produced the necessary letter from the baronet.

“Sir Henry is a cunning fox.” Holmes admired. “Very well. The three of us will venture out and gird this cave-lion in his draughty den.”

“You should not mention the smuggling, Watson. It would not be in the best interests of the people in your sensationalist writings.”

I set down my pen. “And I will not, I assure you.”

“You practically have, my good Watson. A lantern painted on the Inn-sign! The proximity to Plymouth! The use of Bretons! The stone manse!”

“I did not mention the old shipwreck’s lookout, or the unanswered questions about the root cause of the Quantock’s original wealth, Holmes. I could not mention any of these things without being forced to comment on the local’s surreptitious form of income.”

“We are in agreement.” Holmes riposted pettishly. Being feverish never helped his temper, and I ignored it. It was better to encourage him to health. “And do not put Lestrade in the ending.”

“I would not dream of it.”

“Do not be overly descriptive of Quantock. Put him down as the world’s scrawniest toad and leave it at that.”

“I am not sure that is possible, Holmes. There is no such thing as a lean toad.”

“I was referring to his complexion.”

“Holmes, you may read this for yourself when I am finished.”

“Must I?”

Abraham Quantock allowed us entrance to his private study that was so poorly lit it gave him the impression of a lean toad. His flat, moist blue eyes glimmered at Holmes, who was the only one tall enough to meet his gaze, and he spared Lestrade an icy glare. Myself he dismissed as irrelevant.

Holmes found a corner by the window and puffed on the pipe he had carried with him on our journey to the Court. Every inch of his lanky form exuded the boredom of a man who must be present for the sake of appearances but nothing more. As I watched, Lestrade struggled more and more for calm as Quantock’s ugly amusement grew at Lestrade’s expense.

For my part, I knew Holmes was often unfathomable, but there was no sense in trying to draw him out. He would speak when ready and not before, and Lestrade knew this as well as I. But the little professional was baffled at the seeming loss of his ally.

“My terms are clear.” Quantock said coldly. “Sir Henry cannot disagree that it is against restitution if I am left the poorer from it. I only wish Merripit House.”

“You wish to own it in its original condition,” Lestrade countered doggedly. “That is not to put too fine of a point on it. The house needs work. Stapleton was more interested in netting butterflies than keeping it up. You could have purchased it at any time, but you waited until after Sir Henry bought it.”

“My reasons are my own.”

“And my duty is clear. I will accept your statement and personally deliver it to Sir Henry, but I cannot give you the guarantee that you desire.”

“You shall remind your baronet those are my only terms.”

“I will, but it would go well with you if I had some reason for your decision.”

“No more than it was my Aunt’s dream to open Folkestone to naturalists and collectors like herself. Stapleton damaged her original collection and contributed to her untimely passing; it is fitting that her memory receive the benefit of his residence.” Quantock grew agitated with the force of his own words and rose up. “Merripit is ideal for the scientist with the desire to do more than take a pleasant stroll among the trout-streams. It is close to the wands planted for safe passage and one less burden I would have on my family’s name.”

“Not to mention your soul,” Lestrade said, in one of his rare examples of dry wit. “You would need to maintain the property, Mr. Quantock. Sir Henry would not let you beggar yourself. Can you afford such a thing?”

“I would own Merripit House only long enough to restore it to fine condition, and then offer it free and clear to the Baldwins, on the understanding that they would host any visitors who come to visit the Moor.”

Lestrade was as speechless as myself. He looked at Holmes, who continued smoking with a bored air, as though this were all a trivial affair. He looked back to Quantock and found his voice. “Is this your final word, sir?”

“It is.”

“Then I will explain your position to Sir Henry immediately, but it would help if you also wrote your wishes down on paper, which I and any of these gentlemen would be content to sign.”

“That we would,” I said firmly.

Holmes shrugged. “Oh, I suppose if it pleases you,” he drawled.

Quantock sniffed. “It will do.”

In short time, Quantock drafted a terse statement and we all signed it. Lestrade let no emotions escape his face, but I could tell he was simmering with rage under his calm mask. It was not until we were well outside shouting-distance from the Court that he finally opened his mouth.

“I’ve talked to brick walls with more sense!” he roared. “And if that man ever gave anything to anyone ‘free and clear’ it was a germ!”

Holmes was so overcome with hilarity he was unable to regain his composure for some minutes, during which he clapped the little Yarder on the back and leaned upon his shoulder. I thought it a rare sight, with long and lean Holmes bent over the small police detective.

“Be calm, Lestrade!” he cried. “Rest assured, you have done your duty. You saw my lackadaisical performance and responded beautifully to my rudeness, which delighted Quantock so well he assumed he had the upper hand in the debate. Now we shall make haste and inform Sir Henry of the latest development.”

Sir Henry’s promised electric lights perched like soldiers down the drive of Baskerville Hall, and the ragged greensward was neatened by the thrifty use of white-faced sheep. Small ponds cunningly crafted from the native stone dotted the landscape, shimmering like mirrors and populated by many gossiping birds.

What we took for a gardener proved to be Sir Henry himself, dressed for digging with a large straw hat. He grinned as he waved us over to the edge of a large, shallow circle sliced into the sod, barely more than two inches deep and filled to the brim with clear water.

“Just in time for dinner!” He laughed. “Come and see my dewpond - a real marvel, eh?” The Neolithic collection-pool was a testimony to the skill of Dartmoor’s early forbearers, and the convenience of sweet water lured the wild ponies from an early death in the Mire.

“That, and my new mares,” the baronet told us. “I’ve been improving the bloodstock.” He turned to Lestrade with his hands on his hips. “I expect you have news for me. Come in and let’s talk over a drink.”

Lestrade sadly gave a summary as we walked inside the Hall. Stapleton’s impressive collection of butterflies hung on the walls, but even I could tell Sir Henry planned to move them out as soon as he could.

Sir Henry was startled. “I knew he was contrary, but... Mr. Holmes, can you riddle this?”

“Perhaps. A separate party hired me to facilitate an equitable solution for all involved. Can you add anything?”

The baronet shuddered. “I’ve dealt with enough snakes that I can’t help but respect them for being good at a job no-one else in Creation wants. But this...” He rose to serve a strong rye bourbon. “This out-Herods Herod, by thunder!” With a troubled air, the young baronet turned to Lestrade. “I thought I was giving you a straight job, not a wild goose chase.”

“Lestrade is capable of fulfilling his duty, Sir Henry,” Holmes assured them both. “And the matter can still be resolved cleanly.”

“I’ll believe you, Mr. Holmes, but I wouldn’t believe anyone else.” Lestrade rubbed at his brow.

“No-one need believe. Simply tell Quantock to come here tomorrow to sign the agreement. Watson is a splendid fellow in a pinch, and he can be trusted to add his signature of witness to the agreement, am I correct?”

“Indeed,” I said stoutly. “Although I have no more an idea of what you wish than Lestrade.”

“Or me.” Sir Henry lifted his hand like a boy in a schoolroom. “But I’ll be ready for anything!” He grinned. “And I’ll be glad to see this through!”

“Excellent!” And without further warning, Holmes turned and dashed down the Hall with the speed of a schoolboy, stopping by turns to peer up the walls and skipping down again. The three of us gaped, but at the very end we saw him grab something in the murk and run back with the object under his arm. It was the light-speckled moth next to the baronet’s elbow in the newspaper clipping.

“Your job will be simplicity itself, Lestrade!” Holmes declared. “Merely place this on Sir Henry’s desk like so - there! Right next to where the deed shall rest. A delightful conversation piece, is it not?” He beamed with his hands on his hips and admired his handiwork as we again looked at each other, baffled.

“This is one of your tricks, is it not, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade asked in resignation.

“Not at all, Lestrade. Simply remember,” he lifted his hand, “‘I swear to you that The Merripit House Collection is complete!’ Every specimen that rightfully belonged to Jack Stapleton will be returned to its walls so that Mr. Quantock can accept the deed on his terms. Mr. Quantock agreed before witnesses that he would personally repair Merripit as part of his concession to the plight of the Baldwins.”

“Why am I thinking of a pony and a potato right now?” Sir Henry muttered with smile upon Holmes. “I’ve seen your look in a man’s eye before, friend, and it was always right before someone got their comeuppance.”

“You give me too much credit, Sir Henry.” Holmes pursed his lips. “And now, you spoke of dinner?”

Here my pen falters, for though I have often devoted my thoughts to this crucial scene, I still cannot give full description to how Quantock strode proudly into Baskerville Hall, only for his swagger to crumble like sand under rain as his eye fell upon Sir Henry’s desk. He paled before our eyes, and his greeting quivered in his throat.

“Good morning, Mr. Quantock,” the baronet said. With his fingers laced together upon the blotting-paper, and his large hazel eyes unblinking upon the newcomer, our friend smiled. “I believe you wished to own Merripit House?”

With a shaking hand, Quantock signed his agreement to Sir Henry, and Lestrade, Holmes and I added our witness. Merripit House thus passed from Baskerville Hall to Folkestone Court, and Quantock was promptly beggared in the repairwork that was past his means. He was close to penniless when he passed the house to the Baldwins. That good couple promptly sold it back to Sir Henry for no more than the value of the Candlebat Inn, and reside comfortably there to this day. It was a far better fate than Quantock’s, for he soon was forced by penury to do as he had sworn in revenge, and had to sell what he could and return to London. Allow me to say that the purchaser would have made Miss Oriana proud, for they thought her dream of a Museum a sensible one, and Folkestone breathed fresh relief at a new source of money.

“Sentimentalism, Watson!” Holmes protested. “And of the basest kind. You would have them think it was purchased out of the kindness of the heart!”

“I doubt the Foreign Office would like it if I mentioned their interest in the property, Holmes. They do like to keep their eyes on private entrepreneurs.”

“Bah,” Holmes sneered. “In any case, your tale is missing large chunks. You will have to splice in a build-up of atmosphere with our journey to Folkestone and keep up an over-inflated account of my behavior to unsettle Lestrade.”

“I thought to put that in later. Tuesday is almost upon us.”

“At least there will be fresh milk.”

“All right, Mr. Holmes.” Sir Henry had gathered us all before the fireplace, for even summer in Dartmoor is chilly. He gnawed on the stem of a new pipe in a seeming picture of content. Only the gleam in his eyes and the smile on his lips said otherwise. “You played a long game, and you came out on top again, but it is done and time for the magician to spill his tricks.”

Holmes bowed with a pleased mien to be compared to a magician, and bowed again as Lestrade and I leaned forward.

“Quantock only pretended to be callous of his Aunt’s work. In reality, he was quietly replacing choice specimens and selling the originals. He could do this because of her failing eyesight, and he started with the pieces high up, knowing she would be content with examining her paintings and sketches. But the real plum, the prize specimen, was the Vandeleur Moth, which you so kindly placed on Sir Henry’s desk, Lestrade.”

“What!” Sir Henry stared wildly at the silent moth. “You mean that Moth named after Stapleton back when he was passing as Vandeleur?”

“The same.”

“By thunder!”

“Yes. I asked myself if it was indeed that worthy moth, but although my suspicions were strong, I had no confirmation until Lestrade gave me the proof I needed with the news of Quantock’s sudden desire for Merripit House.

“Stapleton knew from his friendship with Mortimer that the Folkestone Collection was worthy of a visit, and one day he did just that. He must have felt as though his secret days were numbered when he saw the very moth credited with his old name from East Yorkshire was under glass! If its presence became common knowledge, eventually a Yorkshire expert would come to visit, and his disguise would be circumspect. He did not think that his distinct hobby was already a danger to his identity, but we have established his ‘hazy thinking’ in the past. Naturally he had to have the moth, but he could not ask overtly - Miss Quantock’s dream of a museum was public. No, he had to recover this specimen covertly.

“Thieving was on his mind that fateful May, but not just for the silver. The moth was his true goal, though he was already dangerous with his need for money. Little Artie may have seen him take down the case; we will never know. He shot him down in cold blood and fled with silver and moth, leaving behind a wreck of the specimens on the wall.

“What with the loss of her closest confidant’s son, which Miss Oriana felt responsible for by securing the child’s post, and the devastation of her beloved collection, she was not far from the grave. Stapleton must have thought himself safe, for even he had no idea Abraham Quantock was a savvy moth-man, chafing at the believed destruction of the rare moth.

“For this was a very rare moth indeed with reverse-patterned wings. This happens less than three times in five thousand specimens - which Stapleton had estimated but had never been able to personally collect.”

“I still can’t imagine it.” Sir Henry’s expressive face was clouded. “All of this for a little moth.”

“Do you know the root of entomology, Sir Henry? From the Greek entomos, ‘that which is cut in pieces.’ The entomological world is as complex as the creatures they study. The fanciers of moths alone will guarantee you a fair share of rivalries, destroyed careers, and thefts of far more than specimens.

“Sadly for Mrs. Baldwin, in helping restore the room of her son’s murder, she discovered the forgeries within the cases. With Miss Oriana’s failing health, she had taken over for her mistress more than anyone could guess. She knew it could have only been the nephew’s work. But what could she do? The shock of learning her Abraham was a thief would surely reduce the old lady’s life further. In miserable silence, this poor woman kept watch over her friend, but grief is difficult to mask, and Abraham not only learned she had his secret, but that she was very easily bullied into submission. It was the work of a minute to remind her of the slender financial thread upon which their livelihood hung at the Inn. It took only a minute more to force her to swear to silence. And so this sad affair continued through Miss Oriana’s decline into death. Unable to bear the strain, Mrs. Baldwin consciously cut her income by moving back to the Inn, and Quantock’s greedy soul must have thrilled that she had by choice ran away. She had sworn never to speak, and he firmly believed in the superstition of the peasant against breaking their word.

“Alas for his schemes! Stapleton’s perfidy was exposed the moment Quantock saw the newspaper photo of Sir Henry by the rescued Merripit Collection! For there by his arm was his aunt’s Vandeleur Moth, a spectre from the past! In a single stroke, Quantock thus gasped Stapleton’s blow and plotted frantically to get the moth back.

“Quantock hit upon the idea of using Sir Henry’s need to clean Stapleton’s stain from Baskerville honour by ploy of Merripit House. If he had the full collection of Stapleton’s plunder, he would have the precious Vandeleur again, sell it, and easily do as he vowed in repairing Merripit. But he dare not tell Sir Henry his true goal, for his greedy soul could not imagine so much honour in a baronet. His need for the moth and its verified price on the market was twenty times that of Merripit House, and almost equal to that of Folkestone.”

Sir Henry exploded. “I wouldn’t sell him his own family’s moth back to him!”

“Be calm, Sir Henry. It is no slur on you that a morally destitute man viewed you with his own limited lens.” Holmes soothed. “One may very well ask an ant’s opinion of a pine tree.”

“Maybe so, but all this effort to lie when they could have just kept to the truth!” But the baronet quieted, his fists thrust into his pockets as he listened.

Holmes continued his explanation. “His foggy scheme, which is only slightly better contrived than Stapleton’s theft, would have been successful had he remembered Mrs. Baldwin. Her sense of duty was no less as strong as a Ghurka’s, and when she saw the same newspaper article, she recognised the moth for what it was. Suddenly there was a shard of her beloved lady’s legacy - survived! She had to protect, and so she wrote her grief to her husband, circumventing her oath to never talk. Together they hatched a clever plan to avoid Quantock’s spies using the Onion Johnnies.

“The Onion Johnnies are a stout brotherhood, and word passed amongst the ranks in their Breton tongue until they found a rather clever one with the idea of directly appealing to Sherlock Holmes.” Holmes paused for a moment, his grey eyes twinkling, and we saw Lestrade straighten in surprise. “I was soon on my way to Folkestone. The Johnny did not need to know much. He was simply an Onion Seller who happened to know a consultant able enough to go where Sir Henry and Mr. Lestrade could not. It was a moment’s work for the Baldwins to slip a detailed confession to me within the head of the largest onion - the Captain’s Head, as it is called in the vernacular, and according to the proverbs of these folk, the Head keeps all secrets. By these means, I was able to learn of the Baldwins’ plight without anyone else the wiser.”

“I was certainly not the wiser!” I breathed. “I heard a crackle when you lifted the onions up, and thought it was only the papery skins! It was the message, wasn’t it?”

Holmes bowed again.

“All this made possible by an Onion Johnny!” Sir Henry whistled. “Well, I knew I liked the fellows for a reason. Good with delivering mail when you need them to, and honest to a fault.”

“So I’ve heard,” Lestrade agreed evenly, and it was all Holmes and I could do to keep our countenance intact. “Mister Holmes, this is one of your queerest cases yet, but it seems to be what you excel at. Still, solving a case backwards is amazing even for you.”

“Why, thank you, Lestrade.” Holmes glanced at his watch. “But I fear the congratulations must be cut short. We have just enough time to return to the Inn and pack before the next train leaves Folkestone.”

And here I have paused. Holmes is finally asleep. I do not pretend I aided this step to recovery; doing nothing is worse for him than doing too much, and keeping him occupied with my poor writings has served this cause before. He rests when he is busy, and frets when he is not.

But it is my sincere hope that with this sleep he will overcome his illness and rise up, as our equally weary England struggles to rise from her sick-bed. I do not lie when I say my friend is indistinguishable from England.

But I must stop now. I can hear the milk-cart rattling up the shell drive, and with it our long-awaited guest...

“Halloa the house!” A familiar cry makes me smile. As I limp outside with my cane on the uneven earth, the milk-man hurries his cargo to the cool-room for the housekeeper. Our guest is lowering a small bag to the earth, and despite his considerably advanced years compared to mine, he remains as stubbornly spry and active as ever. Only the bright silver wings sweeping from his temples suggest his age, and a jaunty beret perches upon his touseled head.

I cannot but laugh to see an Onion Johnny here in the Sussex Downs, but they seem to be everywhere, now that there has been just barely enough time for the first crops since the War. And the Bretons will not choose in their loyalties of England or France - it is like asking a child to say which parent they love the most.

He limps unevenly to me, and his own stick is no longer for show. A chapelet of Roscoff’s finest droops over his shoulder.

“What is this?” I exclaim. “I thought you had retired!”

“Lestrade has retired, Doctor Watson!” is my response. “But Onion Johnny still works.”

I laugh out loud and take the chapelet. “For himself or for the Foreign Office?”

“They are much the same.” This old friend reassures me. “You are looking better! I take it Holmes finally gave you permission to write about that last mess with the moth? Why else would he ‘put in an order’ for onions?”

And the truth strikes: I had thought I was seeing to Holmes’s health, but all this time he was seeing to mine. He kept me from fretting over him and the wake of the War by concentrating on a long-awaited tale.

“I had thought to hide my health from him, since his was so much worse.”

“Hum.” Lestrade snaps a cigarillo alight between his lips. “Well, anything I can do to help?”

“Only answer how you could turn from browned Johnny in London to pale Inspector in Folkestone so quickly.”

“No great secret. Most stains come right off, but it was a bit close. I took the chance. People were watching a late-napping Inspector Lestrade, not the in-and-out Johnnies at the inn.”

“I am glad.”

“As am I.” We pass the tobacco between us and nod to the departing milk-cart. “Come. Holmes will wake soon, and if he hasn’t improved, I am making him a plaster!”

“Not from my onions, you won’t!”

“Certainly not. There is always a rude friar in the kitchen...”