The Pihdarus Papers

I took the stairs of our rooms in Baker Street two at a time and threw my Gladstone bag into a corner of the sitting room. Sherlock Holmes was sitting with the cold remains of a belated breakfast, the pages of the morning papers strewn in careless confusion beside his chair and a look of boredom on his hawk-like face. As I entered he gave me a sardonic look, accompanied by a twitch of the lips.

“Ah, the traveller returns!” he observed. “I trust your sojourn in the Midlands was a pleasant one?”

“Holmes!” I cried. “You have been spying on me!”

“Really, Watson, that is most unkind of you. I must confess to a certain concern when three weeks elapsed with no word from you, but you are not accountable to me for your actions.”

“How did you know I had been in the Midlands?” I demanded.

“I had no idea where you were until you bounced – yes, positively bounced – into the room not two minutes ago. Look out of the window,” he went on before I could speak. “The sun is shining, as is its duty in mid-April, and has done so unfailingly over most of the country these ten days past. Yet I read in the morning papers that on yesterday evening the counties of Warwickshire and Staffordshire suffered a freak storm of tropical intensity. The mud splashes on your boots and trouser-legs are from soil common to the Birmingham area, so I deduce that you travelled from that city by the early milk train, and from the ebullience of your entry, it follows that your absence was a source of pleasure and gratification to you. Ah, your face confirms my reasoning.”

“As usual, you are quite correct, and as I made such an early start, I shall be obliged if you will have Mrs. Hudson prepare breakfast while I have a wash.”

I picked up my bag, but before going up to my room, I thought to give Holmes another chance to exercise his deductive powers.

“Here, see what you make of this.” I laid a charred and battered brier on the table. “I found it on our doorstep as I came in.” When I rejoined him, Mrs. Hudson was tut-tutting as she set about reducing the chaos of the table and placing a large plate of ham and eggs out for me, the aroma of which served further to whet my already-sharp appetite. I fell to with alacrity, stealing the occasional glance at Holmes, who had retired to a chair by the window to examine the trophy with which I had presented him.

He peered at it closely through his lens, turning it this way and that before raising to his nose. Then he removed the stem to give it a separate scrutiny.

“You say this was lying on our doorstep?” he asked as I mopped the last vestiges from my plate with a piece of bread.

“Yes, as if it had been dropped by a caller or else some lounger who had chosen our doorway for his loitering. What do you make of it?”

“Very little,” he replied, shrugging his thin shoulders, “It belonged to a young to middle-aged man in good health who in recent years has gained some affluence, but still holds to the tastes of his less-prosperous days.”

He fell silent and, although I knew he was teasing me to prompt him, I ignored him. As I poured my second cup of tea, I looked up and found him eying me with amusement.

“Come, Holmes,” I chaffed. “Surely you can say more than that. Was he right or left-handed, and what colour were his boots?”

“Oh, right-handed, of course, but not being clairvoyant, his boots must remain his secret.”

“And the rest of it?” My curiosity got the better of me.

He smiled thinly and held up the subject of discussion.

“Observe, my dear Doctor, the bowl of the pipe is of some age and a cheap reject. See where the blemishes have been filled with some kind of putty? The thing would have cost coppers rather than shillings, yet the mounting is hall-marked silver and the stem of the finest amber and has been carefully machined to make it a perfect fit. It therefore follows that the pipe was originally purchased when he was in straitened circumstances, but is held in so much affection as to justify such expensive repairs. How often it was done I cannot say, but the last time was probably within seven days.”

I nodded to indicate that I followed his reasoning and he continued:

“That he is young to middle-aged is likely, as the indentations already on the stem point to a strong jaw and a near-perfect set of teeth. The dottle is a Virginia shag similar to that favoured by myself, which leads me to suppose him faithful to the tastes of his youth.”

He laid the pipe down as though dismissing the matter and gazed pensively out of the window.

“Of course,” I put in, not to be outdone, “that he is right-handed is shown by the charring on the right of the bowl where he held a match to it, but how far your reading is correct we shall never know.”

“You think not?” He was leaning forward to peer out of the window, his former attitude of lethargy gone. “We shall see.”

The words had scarcely passed his lips before the jangle of the doorbell came faintly from below, followed by the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s voice as she ascended the stairs.

“A gentleman to see Mr. Holmes,” she announced on my answering her knock.

“Send him in,” Holmes called from behind me.

I stood back to let the caller enter. He was a well-set individual of some thirty-five years, soberly attired, and with a frank open countenance. Holmes waved him to the basket chair and took his place facing him, his long legs stretched out across the rug.

“Now, sir,” said Holmes encouragingly, “how may I be of assistance?”

“Perhaps you cannot, Mr. Holmes,” our visitor replied. “But if not you, then to whom can I turn?”

My friend remained silent and began to fill his pipe which he drew from the pocket of the old blue dressing-gown he was still wearing, then offered the jar across.

“Are you a pipe smoker, Mr. – ?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. Ellis is my name, Hubert Ellis, and yes, I do favour a pipe.”

“Then if your taste runs to my particular brand please take some, or if you prefer Dr. Watson’s Arcadia Mixture he will not begrudge you.”

“I shall accept yours if I may. It looks very similar to my usual choice.”

Ellis took out a shiny new brier which he looked at with no great pleasure as he reached out for the jar. Instead of handing it over, Holmes put out his hand and removed the pipe from the other’s astonished grasp.

“Perhaps, Mr Ellis, you would rather have your old friend back. Ah, I see that you would. It lies on the table behind you, and you may thank the good Doctor for its retrieval.”

“Good Heavens, sir!” cried our visitor as he twisted round, “I never thought to see my old faithful again!” He picked it up and caressed it lovingly. “It was given to me by my late wife in the early days of our courtship when I was struggling to find the wherewithal to marry. If she had but been spared to enjoy my present prosperity, how happy we would have been.” He looked gratefully at me. “I owe you a great debt, Doctor. How came you to find it? How did Mr. Holmes know it to be mine?”

“I found it on our step when I came in about an hour ago,” I said. “I assume you called earlier and dropped it then. As for Mr. Holmes knowing it to be yours – well, he has his methods.”

We soon settled down to our pipes, and Holmes eyed our client sharply.

“Now, Mr. Ellis,” he prompted, “pray lay your problem before me, for it cannot have been a missing pipe that sent you up our stairs, however attached you may be to it.”

“Indeed, sir, it is of more moment than that,” began Hubert Ellis. “I am a dealer in second-hand furniture. Not the rickety old stuff found in junk shops, but good quality period pieces that have survived the years and have received loving care and attention. Do not think I look down on the junk men, for I am not ashamed to admit that I started in that way myself. However, I have a love of beautiful things and took a deal of trouble to learn the basics of cabinet-making and joinery, and I have some small repute as a restorer of antique furniture.

“Last week, I attended an auction at Peckham where the only item to take my fancy was an exquisite Georgian bureau or writing desk. It was from the effects of a widow who was disposing of her furniture after the recent death of her husband, one Edwin Clarke, and it was so out of character with the other articles that it was hard to believe it part of the same menage. My first modest bid went unchallenged and I congratulated myself on acquiring such a fine specimen. Once it was in my workshop, I spent some time in inspecting the piece in order to determine what might be needed in the way of restoration. As is my wont, I took internal and external measurements and quickly found a discrepancy that hinted at the possibility of a concealed or secret compartment, a thing of which I have often read but never had the fortune to find.

“It took me about twenty minutes to locate a catch that released a small compartment, some six-inches-square and two-inches-deep, and in this hiding place was a small packet wrapped in American cloth. Imagine my elation, gentlemen, as I speculated on what mysteries were about to be revealed, but on opening the package I found it to contain nothing but a half-dozen letters which at first sight appeared to be of recent origin.” Ellis paused to relight his pipe while I, sitting unobtrusively behind him, endeavoured to keep pace with his narrative, my pencil flying over the pages of my notebook.

“I had to look at them, of course,” our visitor resumed, “I hoped I might obtain some clue as to the owner or, if not that, at least find if they were important.” He looked at us with hot, angry eyes. “Gentlemen,” he went on fiercely, “I like to think I am broad-minded and I am certainly no prude, but on reading those letters I felt physically sick that such obscenity could be written to a man by one of the so-called fair sex. Such they undoubtedly had been, although the phrasing clearly showed it to be a two-way traffic and each missive answered another obviously couched in a like vein.”

He stopped to mop his forehead with a hand that trembled with indignation and outrage while we waited for him to recover.

“I rewrapped them,” he continued, “determined to destroy them at the first opportunity, but other matters took precedence and I forgot them. Then, last Friday afternoon, I had a caller at my shop in New Cross, a man who exhibited signs of considerable agitation.

“‘Mr. Ellis?’ says he, to which I answered I was. ‘I understand that on Wednesday you bought a desk at the sale of Edwin Clarke’s effects.’

“‘Why, yes,’ I said. ‘It stands in my workshop this very minute waiting attention.’

“Now I am not a devious man, Mr. Holmes, but I felt no urge to confide the results of my examination to this person, but he seemed immensely relieved at my answer and assumed a confidential manner. ‘Well, Mr. Ellis,’ he said, ‘Ned Clarke was my brother-in-law and I’d like to have it for old times’ sake. You’ll not be against selling it to me as it is and making a handsome profit into the bargain? I’ll give you half-again what you paid for it, and a bit more for your trouble, if I can have it right away.’

“This I considered, weighing the advantages of an immediate sale against the amount of work entailed before I could hope for a better price. As I hesitated, the man pulled out a purse and spilled some coins on to the counter. ‘Come, sir, ten pounds and you’ll never make a better deal. I’ll make it guineas, then.’

“Even if I spent a whole week working on the thing I would not do better than that, so without more ado the deal was struck. I took him round to my workshop and helped him load the desk on to the cart he had optimistically brought with him, and that was the last I expected to hear of the thing.”

“But it was not?” Holmes leaned forward, a gleam of interest in his eyes.

“Indeed not, for early on Saturday morning as I was taking down my shutters, I had a second visit from this same man. This time his agitation was replaced by truculence as he demanded to know what game I was playing. Taken aback, I asked his meaning, and accompanied by a torrent of abuse he said I had stolen a package from a secret drawer of the desk. Much incensed, I refused to discuss the matter, telling him he had bought and paid for a Georgian bureau which he had seen and taken. He adopted a threatening attitude and, as his manner became more menacing, I offered to send for the police. At that he retreated hurriedly, slamming the door with such violence that I feared for the glass.”

“Does this person have a name?” Holmes asked.

“I insisted on giving him a bill of sale when he paid for the bureau and the name he gave me was Dibden, although from the hesitation in his manner, I would be surprised if it was the one he was used to.

“But that still not end the matter, for that night as I was closing the shop for the weekend I had a further inquiry about the wretched desk. Frankly, gentlemen, I was beginning to wish I had never clapped eyes on it, despite the profit I had made. This time the approach was from a shifty individual who barged in and asked if I had a packet of letters taken from a desk I had purchased last Wednesday. I retorted that it was none of his affair, but he set me back on my heels by saying he was a Scotland Yard man in pursuit of a gang of criminals.”

At this Holmes straightened up and interrupted sharply. “Did he identify himself to you?”

“Only by saying he was Inspector Gregson. I asked him for proof, but he said he had come from Scotland Yard in a hurry and had left his warrant card on his desk. I have had little to do with the police, but although he seemed assured, I was not easy with him and played for time.”

“One moment, Mr, Ellis – what manner of person was this inspector?”

“Oh, shorter than I am. Plump, with a dark oily skin and black hair. I noticed too that his teeth were in need of attention,”

“Good Lord!” I gasped, “That – ” But Holmes waved me to silence.

“Pray proceed, Mr. Ellis. I am intrigued,”

“I told the inspector that I had posted the packet off to my bank that very morning to await my instructions. I added that I was not aware of the contents, thinking this would make me less blameworthy if the matter was pursued. At this he became angry, demanding that I get it at once, which was ridiculous. I pointed out that there was no way I could lay my hands on it before Monday, which is today.”

“And where in fact are these letters that have aroused such interest?”

“Why, I have them here.” Ellis fished in his pocket and took out a small American-cloth package which he handed to Holmes, who gave it a cursory glance before stuffing it into the pocket of his dressing-gown.

“What followed from that?” he prompted our caller.

“Inspector Gregson seemed baffled but accepted what I said. He told me I must get the packet first thing today and hand it over. After various objections on my part, it was eventually agreed that I would meet him at one-thirty today to pass it over. At first I suggested that I could take it to a police station, but this he flatly refused to countenance, insisting the whole business must be between the two of us. This made me think, but to be rid of him I consented to meet him in a public house, the Black Boy at Catford, at the time agreed. I thought furiously about it over the weekend and decided the whole business smelt fishy, so knowing your interest in bizarre events, I took the liberty of approaching you in the hope of you being able to untangle it.”

“You should have come earlier, Mr. Ellis,” said Holmes petulantly. “Valuable time has been wasted.”

“I had no wish to intrude on your Sunday, and I was on your doorstep before eight o’clock this morning, but feared you would find the matter too trivial to contemplate. It must have been then that I lost my pipe, and it was only after purchasing a replacement that I plucked up the courage to return.”

Holmes sprang to his feet, his earlier lethargy gone as he rubbed his hands briskly together.

“We must lose no time,” he snapped. “Watson, I need you to make an exact replica of this package.” He tossed it to me. “We have a piece of American cloth somewhere about the place and a few sheets of folded newspaper will suffice as padding. Then you and Mr. Ellis will make your way to Catford so that he may keep his appointment at the Black Boy, but not in company. Unless he appears to be in physical danger, you will be as complete strangers. Do you follow?”

I nodded as I began to tear newspapers to make the dummy package,

“What will you be doing in the meantime, Holmes?” I looked up just in time to see his back before his bedroom door closed on him, and with a resigned shrug continued my task. I remembered that somewhere in our rooms I had seen an old American cloth shopping-bag and began to search for it. I had completed the package when Holmes reappeared, freshly shaven and dressed for the street. He took the parcel from me and weighed it in his hand then compared it with the original.

“Excellent, Watson, excellent. Here, Mr. Ellis, do you take this while I retain yours for the time being. Catford is about twenty-five minutes from London Bridge, so I suggest that you depart from the station at about a quarter-to one. Time your departure to allow you ample time, but not so much as to attract attention by loitering around. Under no circumstances must you and Watson be seen together. Keep your appointment, but not one second before one-thirty, as I need all the time available to me. You will leave here first with Watson after, but I repeat, give no sign that you are in company. Do you understand?”

Not awaiting a reply, he seized his hat and stick and bounded from the room, leaving Ellis and me to stare at one another.

“He seems to think there is some urgency in the matter,” our client remarked with a puzzled frown. “What is he about?”

I was as much in the dark as was he, but with no wish to admit it, I contented myself with a vague generality and checked my watch against the one on the mantelpiece. It was a trifle past eleven-thirty and our Bradshaw told me that the twelve-forty-six would have us at Catford in comfortable time.

As I replaced the volume something struck a chord in my memory, and with a muttered apology to Ellis I leafed through Holmes’s collection of common-place books until I found what I sought. It led me to other references and I marked them all with slips of paper before indicating to Ellis that it was time to leave.

A passing growler stooped at my hail, and bundling Ellis into it I told him to wait by Euston Station for ten minutes and then have the driver proceed at a leisurely pace to London Bridge. Soon after I procured a hansom and dawdled sufficiently to allow him his ten minutes start, so that by the time we had Euston in sight I could make out the four-wheeler moving off. Luckily my jarvey was given to minding his own business, so when I told him to follow the other cab but to get no closer than fifty yards he contented himself with a laconic, “Right-ho, Guv’nor,” and no more.

At London Bridge Station, I saw Ellis entering the booking hall and, giving him time to get clear, I followed suit, buying myself a first-class ticket to Catford. I sauntered casually along the platform, seeing my man seated in a second-class compartment and passing him without a glance. I was satisfied that neither of us had been followed and I settled back in my seat to savour the memories of my all-too-short holiday in the Midlands,

My day-dreaming almost caused me to miss my station, and I scrambled out just as the train began to move. Ellis was already at the ticket barrier, but once out in the street he stopped to ask a patrolling constable for directions and I overtook him. Pretending interest in the window of a gentlemen’s outfitters, I saw his reflection pass me, and I fell in behind him for the seven or eight minutes that brought us in sight of the sign of The Black Boy.

It still needed a few minutes to the half-hour and, remembering Holmes’s decree that he should not keep his appointment until the last possible moment, he continued walking and was lost to sight round the next corner. My friend’s strictures did not apply to me, and I turned into the only bar of the tavern and ordered a pint of the best bitter.

It was not a very cheerful place, but it was clean and the beer was cool and frothy. The landlord was a taciturn fellow so, carrying my pot to a table by the window, I picked up a copy of The Pink’un let by a previous patron.

From behind its cover I surreptitiously studied the only other customer. He was a dark-visaged plump individual with thinning black hair, tallying well with Ellis’s description of the man who called himself Inspector Gregson, and as I watched him he began to evince signs of impatience, his eyes darting from the door to the fly-spotted clock over the bar and every so often hauling out a watch which he compared with the time shown by the clock.

It was after twenty-five minutes to the hour when Ellis put in an appearance, casually buying himself a drink before going to sit down with the other man. By straining my ears I could just catch their low-voiced conversation, urgent and angry on the one part while Ellis remained calm and unruffled.

“You’re late,” growled the dark man.

“A little. I had to find the place and I spent a long time in the bank. I also have a business to run.” Ellis was acting handsomely.

“Have you got it?”

Ellis gave the other a long cool look before replying.

“I assume,” he said, “that as you had no wish for me to take it to the police station, you are pursuing the matter in a private capacity?”

“What is it to you?” asked the man sharply.

Ellis spread his hands and smiled ingratiatingly. “I thought there might be a little recompense for my trouble. After all, my business is at a standstill and I’ve had the expense of coming all this way.”

“Oh, I see,” sneered the other. “Well, there’s a sovereign in it once I have the packet in my hand, but hurry up with it.”

Ellis took the package from his pocket but made no move to hand it over. Instead he leaned back in his chair, tapping the parcel against the fingers of his other hand. Impatiently the man threw a coin on to the table, and unable to delay any longer Ellis put out his hand to deliver the object under discussion.

However, his procrastination was repaid, for as the man reached out to grasp the packet, the door opened to admit Sherlock Holmes, and hard on his heels a tall pallid man with wisps of yellow hair escaping from beneath the bowler he wore set squarely on his narrow head.

Ignoring my presence, Holmes gave a simulated exclamation of surprise, at the same time going across to clap Ellis on the shoulder.

“Why, Mr. Ellis!” he cried. “Fancy running into you in this quiet suburb. You remember me, I hope? John Verner, who bought that magnificent sideboard from you at Easter.”

Ellis played his part as if born to the stage, grasping Holmes by the hand and shaking it vigorously.

“Why, of course, sir, and I hope you are well satisfied with it.”

“Indeed I am, Mr. Ellis. Will you not introduce your friend?”

“Just an acquaintance, actually. This is Inspector Gregson, a detective policeman from Scotland Yard who has been good enough to take me into his confidence.”

Holmes affected astonishment as he looked at Ellis’s companion who was edging nervously towards the end of his chair.

“Now there’s a coincidence,” he remarked, smiling broadly. “It so happens that this gentleman with me is also Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard – Ah, no you don’t!” He lunged forward to grasp the bogus inspector by the collar as the table went over with a crash, glasses smashing on the floor.

In a split second Gregson produced a set of handcuffs which he clapped smartly on the impostor’s wrists, whereupon the latter slumped back into his chair with a defiant snarl.

“You can’t touch me. I’ve done nothing against the law,” he spat. Gregson shook his head sadly as he surveyed his captive. “How about impersonating a police officer for a start?” he suggested. “No doubt we can think up a few other charges if we try hard enough. Unless, of course, you think your pals are not worth protecting – then we might make things a little easier for you.”

“I’ve nothing to say except that I’ve done nothing.” The man clamped his mouth shut and shot a venomous glare at Ellis, who wisely ignored him.

Holmes collected the packet from where it had fallen to the floor in the scuffle and the prisoner’s eyes grew fearful as Holmes turned it over speculatively before addressing himself to Gregson.

“I think we should see what all the fuss is about, Inspector, don’t you?”

Not waiting for a reply, he took out his pocket-knife to cut the binding, then unwrapped it to reveal a neatly folded selection of pages from The Daily Post, scattering them on the table which had been set back on its legs. The handcuffed man’s mouth fell open at the sight and a stream of vile curses issued from his lips, while Gregson looked on, perplexity written all over his pasty features.

“Is that all?” he said in a tone of disappointment. “Are you trying to make a fool of me, Mr. Holmes?”

The prisoner gave a start at the mention of my friend’s name, then he leered at the inspector who was scowling angrily.

“Make a fool of you, Gregson?” murmured Holmes with a hint of irony. “Certainly not. All I said was that a well-known criminal was making use of your name and threatening one of my clients. That is exactly what has happened. The fact that he was trying to get hold of a lot of old newspapers is neither here nor there. Watson.” He acknowledged my presence for the first time. “Tell Gregson how all this came about.”

I joined the group to give a carefully edited version of events, with no mention of the letters and our substitution of the fake package, and by the end Gregson was looking completely at sea.

“Why all the fuss over this rubbish?” He waved a contemptuous hand at the heap on the table.

Holmes shrugged and began to stuff the pieces of paper into his pocket. “Probably they thought it was a bundle of money. This, in case you have not recognized him, is George Bentley, a known associate of Charlie Dickson and the late Ned – or ‘Nobby’ – Clarke. I’m sure there are a few things he can tell you if he puts his mind to it.”

“We shall see.” Gregson turned to Ellis who was sitting quietly in his chair. “You will be needed to give evidence, sir, but I see no charges that you can press. You have lost nothing over this matter?”

“Only my time, and it was worth that to see Mr. Holmes at work.” I hid a smile as Gregson’s neck took on a reddish hue, but he contented himself with a grunt before hauling the sullen Bentley none too gently to his feet and took him off in search of a conveyance.

Holmes turned to Ellis and clapped him on the back. “A superb performance, my dear sir.”

“I’ve not enjoyed myself so much in years,” Ellis confessed with a chuckle. “Let me buy you a drink, gentlemen. It’s an excellent brew, and I am a sovereign to the good by dealing in old newspapers.”

“I was afraid Gregson would spoil our story by spotting those scraps were all from today’s paper,” Holmes remarked. “You should have thought of that, Watson.”

“Did you, Holmes?” I replied, but he affected not to hear me.

With the incurious landlord compensated for the commotion and with drinks before us, Holmes related how he had caught Gregson about to leave his office, and on hearing that his name was being used, had willingly accompanied Holmes to lay the transgressor by the heels.

“I cannot recall when Gregson was more keen to follow me,” said Holmes, “but I fancy he thinks there is more to it than we have told him. My one fear was that our bird might have flown before we arrived, but thanks to you, Mr. Ellis, all was well.”

“I gather there was nothing said of the genuine package?” I put in.

“I thought it better not to confuse Gregson by introducing too many complications. I have them in my pocket, Mr. Ellis, so you may carry out your first impulse to destroy them.”

Ellis shook his head emphatically. “No! If it is all the same to you, Mr. Holmes, I never want to see them again. Burn them. Throw them in the river if you will, but I want nothing to do with them,”

Holmes drained his glass and set it down on the table. “Tell me this then,” he said gravely. “Do you know to whom they were written, or by whom?”

“No. There was nothing in them that revealed the name of the writer or the recipient. I can say that they were in an educated hand, although Heaven help us if that is the result of education.”

“Then, Mr. Ellis, I shall attempt to find the rightful owner and hand them over. It is clear that someone is being kept in a state of fear that they will be made public, and whatever our personal views on the character of the writer, I hold blackmail to be a despicable crime, second only to treason against our country. Destroy these letters and the unhappy victim will still be living in fear, so with your approval, I shall do my best to return them to the person who wrote them and set her mind at rest.”

“The matter is in your hands, Mr. Holmes, but let me hear no more of it, I beg you. Now, as one professional man to another, there remains the matter of your fee to be discussed.”

Holmes gave a shrug and mentioned a small sum which was paid over with a will. Soon afterwards we went our separate ways, Ellis to take an omnibus to New Cross and vanish forever from our lives, while Holmes and I strolled slowly towards the station.

“I suppose,” Holmes said gloomily, “I must peruse these letters to see what may be gleaned from them, but if they are indeed as friend Ellis describes them, I have no taste for doing so.”

“Perhaps I can help you there,” I said casually enough.

He gave me a sour look and his lips compressed into a thin line. “I knew you to be a man of the world, Doctor,” he said in a frosty tone, “but I never counted prurience as one of your weaknesses.”

I found myself shocked and angry at his words, hurt that my old friend could have so low an opinion of me.

“Neither is it,” I snapped. “I am no more desirous of reading that filthy muck than are you. I had another string to my bow.”

He stopped in his tracks and stared at me, a contrite expression on his face as he laid a hand on my arm.

“My dear fellow. I do most humbly apologise. I withdraw my words absolutely and abjectly. I should have more faith in your probity.”

“That’s all very well,” I said furiously. “That was the most hurtful thing you have said in the nine years of our association.” I fell back on a sulky silence and stalked on ahead of him.

Once seated in our compartment, Holmes, with the unfailing charm that he could produce on occasion, soon restored my humour, so that by the time we arrived at London Bridge, a normal relationship prevailed.

However, it was not until we sat at the tea-table that the matter was again raised.

“Now I that am forgiven, Watson,” said Holmes, “enlighten me as to how we may trace the owner of this property we have come by.”

I sat back smugly. It was so seldom that I managed to be one step ahead of Holmes that I meant to extract the maximum enjoyment from it.

“If you recall,” I commenced, “Ellis bought the desk at an auction of the effects of one Edwin Clarke, and you identified that scoundrel Bentley as an associate of Ned or Nobby Clarke – presumably the same man. Is that not so?”

“Yes, yes, Watson, of that I am aware. Pray get on with it.”

I refused to be ruffled and continued at my own pace, “After you left to find Gregson – not seeing fit to advise me of your movements – I had a stirring of memory and spent what time I had in looking through our collection of scrap-books. I came across an entry pertaining to an Edwin Clarke.”

Here I paused to light my pipe and was gratified to see a light dawning in my companion’s eyes as he assessed the import of my words,

“By Jove!” he cried. “That was brilliant work, and I think I begin to see what you are driving at, but please proceed.”

“As you can verify,” I went on, “Edwin Clarke was employed until five years ago as valet to Count Mikhail Pindarus, a diplomat in the service of one of those Central European states that no one can ever find on the map. Clarke was arrested on a charge of demanding money with menaces from his master and collected four years in prison for his sins.

“Bear in mind,” I added, “I had little time to delve into your journals, but I did ascertain that the Count is a bachelor and something of a ladies man, although no scandal has ever attached to his name. He lives in his Embassy in Belgrave Square, but seems to incline more to the social round than to diplomatic business. As Clarke, a proven blackmailer, was once his servant, I suggest it might pay to put an ear to the ground in that direction. What say you?”

“I say Watson is a jewel!” he cried, springing to his feet. “Never underestimate yourself, nor permit me to do so.”

He swept the remnants of the meal to one end of the table and shouted for Mrs. Hudson to clear the debris. Tossing his jacket on to the sofa, he urged me to bring down the volumes that had provided my information, and I laid them before him open at the relevant pages.

For upwards of an hour he sat at the table scribbling on sheets of paper, every so often curtly demanding I fetch another scrap-book but otherwise not saying a word.

Eventually he collected his notes together and, leaving the books in wry confusion, he retired to his armchair. Filling his old clay pipe with the rank black shag so beloved of him, he sat puffing furiously with his chin sunk on his chest.

Recognizing the signs, I quietly replaced the books on the shelves, and the evening being still young, took myself off for a walk in the park, knowing full well that I would get nothing from him until his deliberations were concluded. I returned as dusk was falling to find him still in the same attitude, and as I put a match to the gaslight he looked at me ruefully.

“A three-pipe problem, Watson, and although partly unravelled, we are not yet home and dry.”

I waited for him to go on and, after a glance at the bundle of notes in his hand, he did so.

“It has become clear to me that the letters in our package were written by one of two ladies, but turn things around as I may, it remains no more than an even choice. As much as I shun the idea, there is nothing left but to

approach one or the other and invite a confidence, hoping that the first will prove to be the one.”

I stared at him in amazement, for never had I known him act in such a haphazard manner, and at the risk of offending him I said as much.

“Then perhaps you have an alternative?” he said waspishly. I shook my head regretfully, and as a sop to his pride, observed that if a brain as keen as his could not resolve the dilemma, then who else in London was there to turn to? For a long minute he stared at me, and then a smile of pure joy spread across his lean features as he smacked one fist into the palm of the other.

“That’s it, Watson!” he cried. “That is the answer I need!”

With no word of explanation he dashed into his room, to emerge twenty minutes later in full evening dress, an opera cloak over his arm, and silk hat in his hand.

“Bless you, Watson!” he threw over his shoulder as he made for the door. “Wait up for me. This is your case and all credit is yours.”

The door slammed, leaving me to stare at the blank woodwork, wondering what I had said to trigger this sudden activity. Picking up a yellow-backed novel, I tried to interest myself in the banal story, but my mind refused to concentrate and I found myself looking constantly at the creeping hands of the clock and reading the same passage without taking in in a single word. I suppose I must have dozed, for all at once the time seemed to have jumped forward two hours and stood at almost half-past midnight. I stood up to stretch my cramped limbs and almost at once heard the street door open and close, followed by Holmes’s familiar tread on the stairs.

I looked at him expectantly as he entered, but with infuriating casualness he removed his hat and cloak and, settling himself in the basket chair, took two cigars from the coal-scuttle and handed me one.

He smiled cheerfully at me, but on my pressing him for the details of his expedition, he ignored my plea completely.

“Be a good fellow, Watson,” he said. “Go down to the kitchen and make a pot of tea. I think Mrs. Hudson has retired and my throat is absolutely parched.”

I gave him an exasperated scowl, but knew that if I was to get satisfaction, the quickest way was to indulge his whim, so putting the best face I could on it, I did as he requested.

When I returned he had removed his tie and shirt-front with the evident intention of making himself comfortable while he talked, and with a steaming cup in his hand he began.

“Well, my dear Doctor, where do you think I have been?”

“As you did not see fit to confide in me, Holmes, anything I said would be merely surmise, and I know how you abhor that,”

“Oh, don’t be so stuffy, man. It ill becomes you, but as it was you who sent me off, I thought you might have put two-and-two together.”

I shook my head impatiently and said nothing, until taking pity on me he unfolded the steps he had taken.

“It was your remark, Watson, that gave my brain the necessary jolt to get it working again. If I remember rightly, you said that if a brain as keen as mine could not resolve the matter, then who in London could. A piece of blatant flattery, but it served its purpose. Whom do I acknowledge as my peer in the realms of deduction and analytical reasoning?”

I began to get his drift and it showed on my face as he went on,

“Yes, my brother Mycroft, who you will recall meeting in the affair of Mr. Melas, the Greek gentleman who sought our aid last year.

“In the hope that Mycroft would see what I had failed to see, I took myself off to the Diogenes Club and laid the problem before him. With his involvement with so many odd people, I hoped that he might be able to tell me something of Count Pindarus that might help. I trust him implicitly and had no qualms when it came to taking him step by step through the whole case up to the point where I had reasoned that these letters must be returned to one of two ladies. But which?”

“‘What do you want of me, Sherlock?’ he asked when I had finished.

‘“Why,’ I said, ‘your considered opinion as to a way out of my dilemma. It is far too delicate a matter to be left to pure chance, but I freely admit to being stumped.’

“He thought this over before answering, and when he did his manner was grave and portentous. ‘Sherlock,’ he said, ‘if I aid you in this, I must have your solemn word that the Count’s name will never appear in any way whatsoever. If through your involvement any scandal attaches to him, you will be answerable to the very highest authority. Do I have that assurance?’

“I gave my word as the only way of getting what was required and he gave me two slips of paper, bidding me write one of my two names on each. Much puzzled, I did so and handed them back, at which he looked briefly at them before putting a match to one and handing me the other. Then without another word he stalked from the room.”

“Good Lord!” I exclaimed. “Do you mean to say that your brother knew of this matter all along?”

“So,” Holmes replied emphatically, “I had deduced it to be one or the other, and when I told him the story, he knew instantly which one it could not be. How, I neither know nor care, but it has raised the curtain on the final act of the drama. On my way home, I sent a telegram from the all-night office at Charing Cross, and I expect our mysterious young lady to come here as early as young ladies can ever do.”

“Lady!” I muttered. “If all Ellis said of those letters is true, lady is the last word I would apply to her.”

“And the man who debauched her? Is he not as culpable, or do different standards of morality apply to our sex?” I was lost for an answer and took myself off to bed, leaving Holmes to linger while he considered his attitude to our expected visitor.

We breakfasted unusually early, and by ten o’clock Holmes was pacing restlessly back and forth across the room like a caged tiger. I was accustomed to his nervous tension as a case approached its climax, but I was thankful when the sound of carriage wheels sent him to the window and I saw an expression of satisfaction on his face.

“Quickly!” he rapped. “Seat yourself as unobtrusively as possible, and on no account utter a word until I give you leave.”

He arranged the chairs to his liking, sitting himself down with his back to the window in the pose he was wont to adopt when conducting one of his searching inquisitions. No sooner was he seated than Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door and announced that a lady had an appointment with Mr. Holmes. Then she ushered in a heavily veiled woman.

She entered hesitantly as if fearing a trap and advanced to the centre of the room where she stood like a frightened animal, ready to run at the first hostile move.

“Pray be seated, Miss Lawler,” said Holmes in a gentle tone. “I am Sherlock Holmes. The other gentleman is Dr. Watson, my friend and colleague from whom I have no secrets.”

She sat on the only available chair, so placed that the light fell on her face, and then raised her veil to reveal the features of one of the most truly beautiful women it has been my fortune to see. Her face was pale and drawn, but this only served to enhance her beauty. I judged her to be no more than twenty-two years of age, and I marvelled that, if the account of the letters given by Ellis was to be credited, so lovely a face could hide a soul as depraved as any trollop to be found in the houses of ill-repute that abounded in both the West and East Ends of London.

“Well, Mr. Holmes?” Her voice was low and well-modulated. “Your summons has brought me, but had I not been aware of your reputation and status, I would not have allowed your hint of ‘urgent and private matters’ to induce me to come. Please be good enough to enlighten me at once.”

“I shall do so, Madam,” said Holmes. “I shall be brief and factual, one might almost say brutal, but I see no merit in false delicacy in the situation in which you find yourself. No, do not interrupt, I pray you. A few years ago as a very young girl, you were on terms of the utmost intimacy with Count Mikhail Pindarus, were you not?”

At the mention of the Count’s name her eyes widened, her already pale face turned a chalky white, and she swayed in her chair as though on the point of swooning. Recovering herself with an effort, she spoke in a haughty voice, albeit with a slight tremor of anxiety.

“Mr. Holmes, I fail to see why you should be prying into my private life, and I am not answerable to you for my conduct in the past.”

“Do not think to play the grand lady with me, Miss. I am trying to help you, and your private conduct, as you put it, has for some time been in jeopardy of being made public, as we both well know. In short, Miss Lawler, there are in existence certain letters written by you to the Count that, if published, would blast your reputation for all time. Am I right?”

She looked at him defiantly for some seconds before all resistance crumbled and she broke down into a piteous sobbing that was heart-rending to hear and see, I made to go to her, but a look from Holmes pinned me to my seat, and I was compelled to watch her distress with a sorrowful heart. Despite my earlier strictures, no man worthy of the name could fail to be unmoved by her pitiful state – except Sherlock Holmes, who waited impassively for her to compose herself.

Presently she became calmer and, taking a wisp of lace from her reticule, dabbed her eyes dry before raising them to my companion to await whatever blow was to fall.

He spoke with a gentleness totally unlike his usually cold manner, and a faint smile of sympathy touched his thin lips for a brief moment.

“There, my dear young lady. Now it has been said, let me set your mind at rest.” He held out the packet containing the letters. “These, I believe, are the cause of your anxiety and are for you to dispose of as you will. Take them, do,”

She sat in dumbfound amazement until the packet was thrust into her hands, when she turned it over and over as though unable to take in the meaning. She turned her gaze back to Holmes and spoke in a shaky voice.

“Have you read them, Mr. Holmes?”

He shook his head. “I give you my solemn oath that neither I nor the good Doctor has opened the package. It came into my possession just as you see it. We were asked to take whatever steps we deemed proper for the disposal of it by a person who has, for honourable reasons, no desire to be identified. As we have had no sight of the contents, I suggest you examine it to satisfy yourself that all is well. Dr. Watson and I will retire while you do so, and when you have verified the contents, please tap on the door to the left of the fireplace. Come, Watson,” and so saying, he led the way into his bedroom and closed the door firmly.

Once inside I turned to him with a look of disbelief. “I say, Holmes, what a stunner! I find it hard to credit that she should be the author of the sort of thing attributed to her.”

He gave me one of his sardonic grins and clapped me on the back.

“Good old Watson! Ever an eye for beauty – but let me remind you that some of the world’s most evil women have been renowned for their beauty. Not that I think her evil, but if we can induce her to tell her story, we may be better able to form an opinion.”

We passed the next ten minutes in desultory talk before a light tap on the door recalled us to the other room.

Miss Lawler stood with flushed cheeks, her bonnet discarded carelessly while in the grate a blackened pile of smouldering ash gave testimony to the disposal of the package and its contents. Approaching Holmes and much to his confusion, she seized his hands and squeezed them fervently.

“However can I thank you for what you have done, Mr. Holmes? I was at my wits end with worry and shame, but now I can look forward to a new life, thanks to you.”

“Please, Madam, do not over-estimate my part.” He gently disengaged himself. “Dr. Watson played an important role. If you want to show your appreciation, may I suggest that you give us an account of how you came to this predicament. Watson is my amanuensis and keeps a meticulous chronicle of all our cases, and he alters names and places to ensure no one is identified.”

She looked at me questioningly and I added my assurances.

“Very well,” she said at last. “I know you both for men of honour, and if by speaking I can make you think more kindly of me, then I will do so.”

She settled herself down and began her story in a low voice, avoiding our eyes as she began her unhappy tale.

“I will be completely frank, gentlemen, and you must judge me according to your lights, but I vow it will not be a crueller condemnation than I have made on myself. As you must know, my father is highly placed and we move in the topmost diplomatic circles. I was but sixteen when I first met Count Pindarus and, at that impressionable time of life, I found him exercising an incredible fascination over me. In spite of his well-known reputation as a philanderer, I threw myself at him, and he is not the man to refuse that which is offered to him gratuitously. To my everlasting shame, long before my seventeenth birthday, I became his paramour, or as I found out later, one of them. Such was the intensity of my passion that all sense of decency was thrown to the winds and for some months, I became the most abandoned creature imaginable.”

She paused, and in her downcast eyes was written all the agony and shame that she now felt, then pulling herself together she continued.

“Like all bright flames, my obsession died as quickly as it had flared, and I became sensible of the depths of depravity to which I had sunk.

“My conduct had inevitably become the subject of gossip, although its full extent was fortunately never known. My father, scandalized by my behaviour, took me off to the Continent for three years and we both believed that the whole matter to be forgotten.

“Whilst in Italy I met a young man in our diplomatic service, and a mutual attraction made us constant companions. It became accepted that he would ask for my hand in marriage, to which I was by no means averse. He approached my father, and it was arranged that when he returned to England after his time in Rome, our engagement would be announced. I came home in January to await his coming, and that is when the agony began.”

Again she stopped, the strain of confessing her fall from grace beginning to show, and at a sign from Holmes, I went to request Mrs. Hudson to bring a tray of tea. Miss Lawler remained silent until it arrived, then somewhat recovered she went on with her narrative.

“Whatever my past sins, I have prayed for forgiveness, and my remorse has surely earned me that, but it was not to be. I had not been back in London above three weeks when I was approached in the street by a man I knew as Edwin Clarke, formerly valet to Count Pindarus during our association. He told a story of having fallen on hard times and solicited my aid, so out of charity I offered him a couple of half-sovereigns. He rejected them contemptuously and said that if I really wanted to help him, I could buy some letters from him – letters written by me to the Count which I might like to have returned. At first I affected indifference, but when he quoted some passages from them, I knew how deeply I was compromised, and if any folly was discovered, I would be an outcast forever.

“The amount he demanded was quite beyond my means, and I was afraid that if I paid, it would not be the end of it. To gain time, I arranged a meeting with him and, in desperation, I went to Miki – Count Pindarus – and poured out the whole story. Whatever you may think of him, he is not without finer feelings, and he was angry and concerned on my behalf, although for his own reputation he cares not a jot. I learned that the man Clarke had tried to blackmail the Count some years previously but without success. The Count had handed him over to the police and the last he had heard of him he was serving a stiff prison sentence.

“Miki persuaded me to accept a sum of money to keep the scoundrel quiet while machinery was set in motion to lay him by the heels with the recovery of the letters the prime consideration.

“I kept my appointment with Clarke, paying fifty pounds without receiving the letters, and this happened twice more until I despaired of ever being free of his clutches, Then early last week, he failed to turn up for another appointment. Whatever relief I may have felt was dispelled when the following morning a letter was delivered to me saying that Clarke was dead, but the writer as his business associate expected the same arrangements to continue, and told me to meet him on Thursday.”

Holmes interrupted her story for the first time. “Tell me, Miss Lawler, where were these meetings?”

“Once in a tea-room off the Strand, once in St. James’s Park, and the third at Victoria Station. The one that was not kept was to be on the Embankment by Cleopatra’s Needle. Last Thursday’s, which again was not kept, was to have been in Trafalgar Square.”

“And what was the Count doing all this time?” asked Holmes.

“I went to see him on Thursday after my fruitless wait and he knew Clarke was dead, but he was perturbed that the threats continued, not having anticipated that others would be privy to the matter. After all, blackmail is not as any other crime, is it?”

Holmes remained silent, and after a moment Miss Lawler continued.

“As I said, he was already aware that Clarke was dead, but how he came into possession of the knowledge he did not reveal. He did his best to reassure me, promising that the matter would be resolved with no involvement on my part, but believe me, gentlemen, I have spent the intervening days in deepest despair, my mind becoming almost unhinged. Castigate me as you will, but no words can describe the degradation I have brought on myself through my own abandoned behaviour.”

“No one here will condemn you, Miss Lawler,” said my companion. “To commit folly is one thing, but to recognize and regret it requires more character than many have. You may be of easy mind and tell the Count that neither you nor he has anything further to fear. Now go and put all this behind you, and we both wish you a happy future.”

He bowed and turned away, plainly no longer interested now that the matter was concluded. I escorted the lady downstairs and saw her into a cab, ascending back to our rooms to find Holmes standing before the fireplace with his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

“By Jove!” I exclaimed. “Who would have guessed that that angel-faced woman would be capable of committing to paper the words that so shocked Mr. Ellis? It was a stroke of luck that the letters came into the possession of an honourable man after Clarke’s fortuitous death.”

“Fortuitous?” said Holmes quizzically. “Do you see it so?”

“Was it not? Of course, he must have had Dickson and Bentley in his confidence – ” I stopped, suddenly grasping the meaning of my friend’s last words. “Holmes!” I cried. “What are you suggesting?”

“My dear Watson, do you seriously think that a man like Pindarus would let matters take their own course?”

“Do you mean to say that Clarke’s death was deliberately contrived by the Count?” I stuttered.

Holmes gave a dismissive shrug and turned away impatiently. “One can only surmise,” he said. “Quite frankly, I care neither one way nor the other what becomes of these leeches as long as they are not free to ply their evil trade. Now, I have a feeling that Lestrade will put in an appearance before the day is out. He is completely at sea over that little matter of the Brieland abduction and he will swallow his pride and come to me to throw him a hint.”

He drew the bow across the violin strings, and after a moment of hesitation, I beat a retreat up to my bedroom before he got down in earnest to his caterwauling, shutting the door firmly behind me.