The Adventure of the COUNTERFEIT SOVEREIGN

It was a grey, windy day in mid-April of ’51 when I returned from my medical rounds and climbed the stairs to our rooms at 221-B Bagel Street to find my friend Mr. Schlock Homes bending excitedly over an impressive array of test tubes, retorts, and similar chemical apparatus. Knowing his dislike of being disturbed while engaged in his researches, I quietly found myself a seat to one side and watched with interest as his fingers reached for a bit of litmus paper.

“You have arrived at a crucial moment, Watney!” said he, his keen eyes glittering. “If this litmus paper remains blue, all is well. If it turns red—then I am afraid we shall have to depend upon store-bought whiskey for our afternoon libations!”

He turned back to his task and a moment later lifted his head in triumph, the still-azure strip dripping onto the carpet. Rinsing his hands he dried them carefully on his dressing gown and flung himself into a chair.

“And none too soon!” he added in a pleased tone, “for we are to receive a distinguished guest shortly, and I fear that in my preoccupation with my last case I have allowed our liquor stocks to reduce themselves to a bit of Mrs. Essex’s cooking sherry, and nothing more.”

“A distinguished guest, Homes?” I asked, mystified.

In lieu of answering, he handed me a telegraph form and watched me closely as I read it. It was a request for an audience with Homes, and I noted automatically that the hour for the appointment was nearly upon us. The form was signed quite simply: Wilhelm Hans Wolfgang Herman Adolph von Saxe-Homburg, Grand Duke of Kitzle-Farbstein, King of Belgravia.

There was something faintly familiar in the signature and I looked up to see Homes nodding at me, as, in his inexplicable fashion, he answered my unspoken thoughts.

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “It is the same. You may recall that I was fortunate enough to be of service to His Majesty before, in the matter of those incriminating letters I was able to recover from Polly Ad …” He paused. “But no names!”

His eye fell upon the mantel clock and he sprang to his feet. “I must dress!” he exclaimed. “If you would be so kind as to handle the conventions, Watney, I shall be back in a moment!”

He had no more than disappeared when the sound of a four-in-hand drawing up to the kerb could be heard, and a moment later the heavy tread of boots came tramping up the stairs. The door was flung open and I found myself facing a man fully seven feet in height, dressed in regal mink slashed with sable. The rich brocade of his ruffled silk shirt front was pinned at the throat by a large royal crest carved from a single opal, while his astrakhan-trimmed boots were banded by small emeralds embedded in the rich leather. Across the broad chest ran a diagonal swath of marten carrying a veritable host of medals. But the most surprising feature of his appearance was the thin strip of black that hid the upper portion of his face, although it could scarcely conceal the famous Kitzle-Farbstein nose.

“Your Majesty …,” I began, overwhelmed by the royal presence, but before I could continue, he raised a large gloved hand imperiously.

“Please!” he said in a deep, rich voice with but the faintest trace of accent. “I come here incognito! To everyone I must be plain Mr. Kitzle for this brief period.” He paused, peering at me with difficulty through the narrow slits of his mask. “But you are not Homes!”

His hand flew to the jeweled dagger at his hip, but I was saved the embarrassing necessity of defending myself by the drawling voice of my friend from the doorway.

“No, Mr. Kitzle,” said Homes, advancing further into the room. “This is my old friend Dr. Watney, and whatever you have to say may be said freely in his presence, as he is remarkably inattentive.”

The gloved hand fell away from the dagger and I found myself breathing normally once again. Homes waved our guest graciously to a seat and sank into one opposite while I repaired to the retort and began mixing drinks.

“You must forgive me,” said His Majesty apologetically. “I have recently had the strangest adventure, and I still find myself a bit unnerved. It is precisely for this reason, Mr. Homes, that I requested an interview, for I should appreciate your views on the entire matter.”

Homes leaned forward politely. “As always, Mr. Kitzle,” he replied, “I am at your complete service. Please favour us with the details.”

“Well, Mr. Homes,” said our visitor, sitting forward and accepting a drink, “as you know, I am addicted to fox-hunting, not—as so many of your countrymen—for the sport, but because I have found that a good fox-fur makes up into an extraordinarily handsome cravat. In any event, yesterday, as I was riding to the hunt this particular fox disappeared over a low wall of an enclosed estate and I therefore reined my horse and followed on foot. To my amazement the grounds, although quite extensive, were heavily populated with people all dressed in white fencing jackets, and all wandering about quite aimlessly. I might mention that their tailor was extremely careless, for it appeared that the sleeves of all of these garments had all been sewn shut at the cuff … but I digress.

“I stopped several and asked them if they had seen a small brown fox with beady eyes and a general air of fright, but they all merely shook their heads vaguely and continued their wandering about. Not being accustomed to this cavalier treatment, I was about to remonstrate with one of them when there came the distant toll of a bell, and they all turned their footsteps in the direction of a huge house which I then noticed for the first time.

“Determined not to leave without notice of my fox, I followed. At the head of the lawn were a set of steps leading to a portal marked ‘The Sanitarium,’ but as I approached I found my way barred by a large, burly individual who placed his hand roughly on my arm and began to interrogate me thoroughly.

“‘You!’ he said. ‘Why aren’t you in your jacket?’

“‘Unhand me!’ I demanded. ‘I am the King of Belgravia!’

“‘Of course!’ this person agreed, still gripping me tightly. ‘Who said no? But what I want to know is, how did you get out this morning without your white jacket?’

“Well, Mr. Homes, of course it would be quite gauche to wear a white jacket for fox-hunting, and for a moment I was inclined to so advise this uncouth person, but his crudeness led me to feel unobligated to explain. I therefore removed his hand from my sleeve by striking him unconscious, and as I turned away to once again seek my fox, a small person with spiky white hair, a broken nose, and a curious scar running from ear to ear, and also dressed in the same white jacket with sewn sleeves, came up and spoke to me …” He paused, eyeing Homes curiously. “You spoke?”

“No, no!” Homes cried. He was now leaning forward most intently, his eyes gleaming. “Pray continue!”

“In any event, then, this man with the spiky white hair said to me, ‘Pick Windsor; or Napoleon! I am the King of Belgravia!’

“Well, Mr. Homes, naturally I was startled, but before I could clarify the situation, my fox darted out of some bushes where it had been hiding, and streaked down the driveway. I followed at once, but unfortunately the estate on that side borders the Great West Road and I lost the animal—a bit unsportingly, I still think—to a small lad on a bicycle. As I returned to my horse it occurred to me that there was something unusual in my adventure, and I thought at once of seeking your advice.”

Homes’s eyes shone with excitement. He placed his drink to one side with a shudder and leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers in concentration. For several moments he maintained silence, but when he finally spoke it was on a subject so far removed from the matter on hand that even I, used as I am to the peregrinations of his brain, was surprised.

“Mr. Kitzle, who handles the hiring of your kitchen staff?”

The King of Belgravia lifted his eyebrows at this unexpected query, but did not hesitate to answer. “My Prime Minister, Baron Meiterlunk.”

“Ah!” said Homes, nodding his head in satisfaction. He eyed our royal guest keenly. “And would I be wrong in suggesting that of late you and the Baron have not been seeing eye-to-eye on many questions, and that the Baron at this precise moment is in London?”

The King’s jaw fell open, disclosing diamond-studded teeth. “Why, yes!” he exclaimed in utter amazement. “Although how you were able to deduce this I cannot imagine, as these are facts known only to myself!”

Homes smiled faintly but refused to explain, remaining instead in a brown study that lasted for several more minutes. At long last he rose to his feet with a sigh.

“I fear the affair is more complicated than it appears on the surface,” he said thoughtfully. “However, Your Majesty may be assured that I shall tackle the problem at once. If Your Highness would be so kind as to leave the exact location of this estate with Dr. Watney, here.…”

“Of course. And thank you very much for your attention, Mr. Homes.” His Majesty arose and bowed gratefully. “I shall await your reports with great eagerness.”

Once our distinguished guest had taken his leave, Homes flung himself back into his chair and reached for his whiskey glass with a dubious look at the murky contents.

“A dirty business I fear, Watney,” he said, finally returning his eyes to mine. “The outlines of this dastardly plot against His Majesty are fairly easy to perceive, but the exact details remain obscure. And also, the best means of foiling the plot.”

“But, Homes!” I cried, “I do not understand this at all. What plot is this of which you speak?”

“The plot against His Majesty, of course,” Homes returned equably.

“But I heard nothing here today that would indicate any plot against His Highness!”

“You heard, but you failed to properly interpret what you heard,” Homes replied obliquely. “However, it appears to be too late to take any steps today. You have our old fencing jackets? Then if you would be so kind as to bother Mrs. Essex for the loan of her sewing basket, we had best prepare for the morrow!”

“Her sewing basket, Homes?”

He turned back to his retort frowning thoughtfully and paying no heed to my bewildered question. “And, Watney, if you will, while you are up you might hand me a bit of charred oak. I have just noticed that it was not a piece of litmus paper I used this afternoon, after all; but rather a thruppenny-ha’penny return slip for passage on the Hammersmith omnibus!”

The following morning Homes had me up at seven, and after a hurried breakfast of curried kippers led me swiftly down the steps to a trap he had engaged earlier. The chill of the morning was acute, and the fog that was so normal over Whitehall had not as yet burned away, so that our heavy quilted fencing jackets proved a welcome protection against the sharpness of the morning air. Homes gave our destination to the driver, and then leaned back frowning.

The questions that had boiled within me since the previous evening now erupted, but they fell upon deaf ears. “A dastardly affair, Watney,” was my companion’s only comment on the long drive, after which he lapsed into a silence which did not invite interruption. I therefore leaned back and reviewed in detail our conversation of the previous day, but try as I might I could find nothing there to justify the look of introspection that Homes was wearing.

We drew up at the estate at approximately the same place His Majesty had described as the point where he had tethered his horse. Requesting the driver to wait, Homes led the way over the low stone wall and into the cover afforded by a clump of bushes that margined the area. At that hour there were but few other jacketed figures in sight, but our luck was in for one of them was a short man with spiky white hair, a broken nose, and a scar that traversed his face completely. This one was idling his time away by pointing his sewn coat sleeve in various directions and saying “Bang!” At the sight of this strange figure Homes was seized by uncontrollable excitement and drew me deeper into the obscurity of the brush.

“Watney!” he whispered in great agitation. “I feared there was something familiar in the description His Majesty gave yesterday of his impersonator! That ‘Bang!’ has revived my memory! That is none other than Colonel Moron, the finest shot in all Europe, and the second most dangerous man in all of England”

“But, Homes,” I objected, “did you not tell me that Colonel Moron …”

“Exactly! I had thought him safely incarcerated, but it appears that he is free once again! This development must be given considerable thought!” He leaned against a bush in fierce concentration, his strong, thin fingers biting hard on my arm, and once again I was thankful for the protection of the fencing jacket. When at last he straightened up there was a light in his eye that boded ill for some miscreant.

“Of course!” he said, almost to himself, and turned to me. “Colonel Moron must wait. At the moment it is more important that we see the inside of the house. Come!”

We waited until the small man with spiky hair had wandered out of earshot, and then emerged from the bushes and walked quickly across the grass towards the large house that dominated one end of the estate. There seemed to be no one in attendance at the entrance, and without a word Homes swung open the door and stepped within. I followed closely and we found ourselves in a deserted passage, from one end of which came the clatter of pots and pans. Motioning me to maintain silence, Homes led the way down the passage and we peered in at the doorway.

It was a huge kitchen with eight or nine cooks busily preparing food. Homes turned to me, chuckling in pleased satisfaction. “I was sure of it, Watney!” he said. “It is the final proof!” But at that moment a large man wearing a chef’s cap firmly set upon his head turned and noted our presence for the first time.

“You!” he cried fiercely. “Why are you snooping in this kitchen like some Schlock Homes?”

Both the smile on my friend’s face, and his lazy drawl, indicated to me that he had indeed found the solution to the problem, and no longer felt the need for subterfuge. “Because,” he replied coolly, “I am Schlock Homes!”

“Sure you are,” returned the other. “And I am Pierre of the Ritz!” But when we put forward our hands to accept this introduction, the large man turned away abruptly and called over his shoulder, “Come, come, now! It’s still two hours until lunch!”

“You must forgive him,” Homes explained as we left the house and crossed the grounds. “All great chefs are temperamental, and I have heard of this Pierre. However, it is of small importance. I see the entire scheme now, as well as the means of foiling it!”

“But, Homes …,” I began.

“Explanations must wait, Watney. We must return to Bagel Street as quickly as possible, for I must send a message to my brother Criscroft asking him to intercede with the authorities!” He hurried me across the wall and moments later we were clattering over the cobblestones of the Great West Road heading back to the city.

Once in the cab I could contain myself no longer. “Really, Homes!” I cried in exasperation. “This is too much! You speak of plots and solutions; I do not understand any of this! Why do you insist on all this secrecy? Do you not trust me?”

Homes laughed and laid his arm affectionately about my shoulder. When he chose to exert his great charm it was difficult to remain angry with him. “No, no, Watney,” he said, chuckling. “The truth is that only at ‘The Sanitarium’ did I see the plan with all of its ramifications, plus the ideal means of thwarting it. Tell me, what is your opinion of the establishment we have just left?”

“Well,” I said, mollified by this request for my help, “it is obviously the home of a very wealthy man, for the grounds are quite extensive and well cared for.”

“And the large number of persons in evidence?”

“Relatives?” I hazarded.

“But if they were relatives,” Homes pointed out, “how do you account for their clothing?”

“Hand-me-downs?” I suggested.

“No, Watney,” he replied, serious once again. “There can only be one explanation that explains the uniformity of the white jackets and the huge kitchen which we saw.”

“And that is …?”

“The place is obviously a restaurant! As you should know, it is the modern custom to name roadhouses in such a manner as to attract customers, and the name ‘The Sanitarium’ is ideal for this purpose. The name comes from the Latin and suggests cleanliness, which is the prime concern of people eating out. And in line with this same custom, it is also quite common to dress the waiters in keeping with the decor; hence the white jackets, which also suggest cleanliness.”

“But the sewn cuffs, Homes!” I cried. “How do you explain those?”

“Quite simple, Watney! A further extension of the sanitary theme and the final proof of my deduction. Obviously to keep their fingers out of the soup!”

I leaned back, amazed at the way Homes could bring clarity out of confusion. Once it had been explained, of course, it appeared quite simple, but I realized the gifts with which my friend was endowed, to be able to cut so cleanly through the fog of misleading facts. Then another thought struck me.

“But, Homes,” I said. “You spoke of a plot.…”

“Precisely, Watney! As soon as His Majesty described the white jackets I thought of a restaurant. The story of someone impersonating him brought up the possibility of a plot in connexion with this restaurant. It was for this reason that I inquired if Baron Meiterlunk handled the hiring of the servants, and if he were in London. Seeing Colonel Moron in person confirmed my suspicions, for it was then apparent that Meiterlunk planned on smuggling an assassin into the palace in the guise of a waiter!”

I nodded at the certainty of Homes’s theory, but then my face fell. “But how can you stop the plot, Homes?” I asked in discouragement.

Homes leaned forward, his fine eyes fixed seriously upon mine. “It is apparent that Colonel Moron, in the short time since his escape, cannot have completed his training as a waiter,” he said calmly. “Baron Meiterlunk is too much of a realist to attempt to place a person disguised as a servant on the palace staff unless he were completely trained in his duties. If we are able to prevent Colonel Moron from completing his training, the plot is bound to fall through!”

“But might not Meiterlunk find another instrument, then, for his scheme?” I objected. “A buxom upstairs maid, for example?”

Homes shook his head decisively. “You underestimate the Baron, my dear Watney. Once he finds himself foiled he will soon make it his business to discover who was responsible. And once he knows it was Schlock Homes who put an end to his dastardly scheme, he will realize the hopelessness of his position and never try again. No, you may be sure that the Grand Duke of Kitzle-Farbstein, King of Belgravia, is safe. Baron Meiterlunk will return to Belgravia without his assassin, and be content to be Prime Minister and nothing more!”

Our cab rolled up to our door and I managed to pay the driver despite the sewn sleeves of my jacket, and then followed Homes up the stairs. Once within the privacy of our chambers, Homes flung off the restricting jacket and reached for the Iranian wagon-lit^* in which he kept his tobacco.

“And now, Watney,” he said, once his briar was going to his satisfaction, “the wire to Criscroft that shall scotch this nefarious plot once and for all!”

As he dictated to me, my mind reared at the sheer brilliance of his scheme. It was now certain that Colonel Moron would never complete his training as a waiter, for Homes was arranging to have “The Sanitarium” deprived of its food-dispensing license!

It was several days before the fruits of Homes’s efforts on behalf of the King of Belgravia became apparent. I had come in to a late breakfast of kippered curry to find Homes deep in his newspaper, and with a smile of triumph he handed it across to me, the article he had been perusing uppermost.

It detailed an account of the return to Belgravia of its Prime Minister, Baron Meiterlunk, and noted that he returned alone. The King was remaining for a few days for the poule-shooting at Sandringham. Having already praised Homes for his coup several times, I felt it best to give his ego a rest, and for that reason pretended interest in another article, but his keen eyes immediately noted my defection.

“You have noted something of interest to us?” he asked, alert at once.

I could not keep up the pretense. “No, Homes,” I replied, a bit ashamed of my subterfuge. “Actually, it is nothing but a tragic story of a food riot in some insane asylum.”

“Poor souls!” said Homes softly, displaying that humanity that never ceased to surprise me. “I wish I could help!” He looked up, laying aside his pipe.

“Do you know, Watney,” he added, his fine eyes serious, “whenever I read of places of that nature, I cannot help but think: ‘There, but for the grace of God, goes Schlock Homes …!’”

^* Persian sleeper, of course!