There have been times in my long association with Sherlock Holmes when I have seen my friend perform great service to a wide variety of individuals and organisations. Lords, ladies, servants, members of parliament, kitchen maids, draymen, theatrical entertainers, heirs and heiresses number amongst those he has pulled from the brink of ruin and disaster. From the darkest recesses of the London underbelly to the highest authority in the land, Sherlock Holmes is blind to the boundaries of status. If he deems a problem worthy of his singular attention, he will apply himself with vigour and fortitude.
I have always remained fiercely protective of my association with Holmes; not through selfish reasons, of course, but to sway those acquaintances that would seek to make currency from that association for personal gain. It therefore pains me that I have, on but one occasion, availed myself of his services as a personal favour to others. But not once did he falter from the path in the same diligent manner as he would in service to any other caller to 221b Baker Street; and blast it if he didn’t approach the whole sorry affair with some amusement, mostly at my own expense.
“No, no, Watson, you must go!” said Sherlock Holmes. His long legs were stretched out before him, feet placed on the breakfast table in a manner that would surely bring forth the wrath of Mrs Hudson. The tie of his open silk dressing gown trailed on the floor and he was wreathed in a blue fug of cigarette smoke.
“Are you sure you won’t accompany me?” I asked.
“Ha!” exclaimed Holmes, throwing his head back and taking a long draw on his cigarette. It was the answer I had expected, and was an unequivocal no. The invitation to which Holmes was declining to attend was a weekend gathering at the stately home of Cunningham Hall on the Kent border. It would no doubt be a tiresome business. Politely stiff small talk over drinks, an attempt to throw oneself into the evening’s social activities, and apparently on Saturday afternoon there was to be some cricket. A visiting team of some repute would be going into battle against a local side.
I was only going for Mary’s sake; if only she could know it, I thought with a sad smile. James and Elizabeth Cunningham had been acquaintances of my late wife, who we had seen together once or twice prior to her passing. Since my inevitable return to the Baker Street rooms I invariably shared with Sherlock Holmes, they had continuously attempted to coax me to one of their frequent weekend gatherings. I was at the juncture where to decline yet another kindly invitation would border on impudence.
“But Watson,” said Holmes, removing his feet from amongst the remains of breakfast, “you simply must go. The country air will do you the power of good.” He rose and moved towards a bookcase, eyes darting keenly in the search for a particular volume. I didn’t think for a moment that my friend had given any thought whatsoever to the restorative powers of a country climate, but it was to his credit that he was trying.
“If you’re sure...” I began, but my half-hearted plea was waved away without a backward glance, cigarette smoke wafting around him in languorous curls.
I puffed out my cheeks and made towards the door. A triumphant “Ah!” from the vicinity of the bookcase indicated success in locating the errant volume and Holmes began his return orbit to the table. He absently extinguished the cigarette into a plate of cold kedgeree and glanced up.
“You off?”
“Ah, yes,” I replied, feeling a little awkward at this parting. “Till Sunday, then.”
“Hmm.” He nodded, returning to his reclined position at the table, book already open, my presence seemingly forgotten. There would be no further words that morning, so I made a swift exit, not at all looking forward to the social ordeal ahead.
I retrieved my baggage from the hallway, bade Mrs Hudson farewell and stepped out onto the bustle of Baker Street. Here it was an easy matter to hail a hansom cab for the jaunt down past Hyde Park to Victoria station. Within the hour I was pulling away from the foetid press of London and was soon speeding on towards the Kent countryside.
It was a bright May morning and my mood started to lift the further from the metropolis the train carried me. Perhaps Holmes had been right about the country air after all.
I must have dozed off, as it felt that just minutes later the train shuddered and steamed to a halt aside the platform at Cunningham Halt station. These small country branch halts were such a curiosity to me, and I had seen many in my travels with Sherlock Holmes. I stepped onto the platform, blinking into the sunlight, and with my weekend valise, made my way out front.
Five carriages were awaiting the train’s arrival. Several other guests destined for the Cunninghams had been on the train and I was thankful we hadn’t happened to be sharing carriages. There would be enough awkward conversation to come over the next few days; it was a relief to postpone them for a while longer. But that moment was now upon me. As baggage was placed atop the carriage with the driver, I found myself sitting opposite a perfectly affable married couple who were keen to tell me about their modest property in Eaton Place. I vowed at that moment, as one must from time to time, to make the best of it as we clattered our way on to the hall.
Cunningham Hall was modest by the standards of country houses of the time. James had inherited the estate in the way these things happen, taking his responsibilities to the family seriously. The frittering away of vast sums, as seemed to be the modern vogue, was not for him. Mary had come to know James when he was making his way in the world, independent from his father, and he had learnt valuable lessons along the way. The family fortune—such as it was— was invested sensibly, and James was proving a popular master with staff and tenants alike.
The five carriages perambulated their way up the main drive to the house, which nestled against an attractive backdrop of undulating green. As their guests alighted and baggage was whisked away by efficient and smartly dressed staff, James and Elizabeth greeted their new arrivals.
“John,” declared James warmly, taking my hand, “delighted you could come!” I returned the greeting. He retained the same tanned, handsome features that defied the passing years, but he was perhaps filling out the well-tailored waistcoat a little more snugly than before.
Elizabeth, as pretty as ever, kissed me gently on the cheek. “John.” She glanced at James and then, curiously, peered around me to the carriage I had just stepped from. “Is... is Mr Holmes not with you?”
I rankled at this. “I’m afraid Holmes was indisposed in London.” It was a terser statement than I’d meant.
Elizabeth’s face fell. “The invitation was intended for both of you.”
“I realise that, but Sherlock Holmes is never well disposed at being summoned to a particular time or place, unless on the most urgent business.”
“But—” Elizabeth began, stopping short as James stepped between us.
“Elizabeth, leave the poor man alone. We’re just delighted to see you, old boy.” He looked pointedly at his wife. “Aren’t we, darling?”
Elizabeth’s face softened, any trace of disappointment fading. “Yes—” she smiled “—of course. You’ve been a stranger too long. We do miss Mary so terribly.”
“As do I.”
James ushered me skilfully towards the main door of the house. “Of course. So, tell me, how have you been?”
With that, I was whisked into the comfort of Cunningham Hall, any trace of unpleasantness extinguished in a trice.
* * *
One of the many reasons I tended to avoid gatherings of this nature was the seemingly long periods with nothing to do. Friday afternoons seemed to go on forever as others arrived and settled in, took in the lie of the land and scoped out their fellow guests. There was something of the military operation about these affairs, master tacticians preparing to go into social battle.
I chose to see out the afternoon in my comfortable guest room, taking the opportunity to enjoy the respite from the usual rhythms of life. I looked out from a window bordered on either side by trailing ivy onto the grounds that swept away from the rear of the house, where well-tended lawns dropped down to a small lake. In the distance, through the trees, I spied the pristine white lines of a marquee, where I guessed the cricket match was to take place tomorrow.
I sighed wistfully, wishing for half a moment that Mary were here. She always made occasions such as this more bearable. But the words of Sherlock Holmes came rushing back to me, as they frequently did: “Watson, there is little virtue in wishing for things that cannot be.” Those words had made me angry at first, but I eventually came to realise they were as close to an expression of sympathy and understanding as Holmes was ever likely to give.
I turned from the window and dismissed the black mood as quickly as it was upon me. I had already decided to avoid afternoon tea. Instead, I settled down in an armchair to enjoy an hour or so lost in the pages of a book.
* * *
Bathed and dressed for dinner, I emerged from my room just as the pre-dinner gong sounded. I took a deep breath, relieved that I could still comfortably fit into my seldom-worn formal dinner wear, and descended the wide staircase. There was already a hubbub of conversation as other guests gathered for drinks in the sumptuously appointed reception room. I suddenly realised I was famished and eagerly looking forward to dinner.
“John, I thought we’d lost you,” said Elizabeth as she took my arm as soon as I entered, guiding me into the social melee with the grace of an experienced hostess.
“Not at all, just enjoying the peace and quiet. You look beautiful.” And she did. “The tiara sets everything off perfectly.”
“This?” She raised a hand to gently touch the diamond-studded piece that adorned her hair. It was elegant, but understated. “A birthday gift from James’s father shortly before his death.”
“Well, it’s quite delightful.”
“Thank you, John,” replied Elizabeth conspiratorially, instantly making me the centre of her world for those few moments. “Let’s get you a drink and then I can introduce you around.”
A few minutes later I was holding a glass of sherry, being ushered from one gaggle of guests to another. It was futile to resist—and to her credit Elizabeth did not once introduce me as the associate of Sherlock Holmes, as I had feared she would. Across the room I spied James holding court. He glanced over and gave me an encouraging smile.
It would be naïve to think that at least a handful of guests wouldn’t know my name and of my connection to the well-known consulting detective, but for once I seemed able to enjoy being just plain old John H. Watson, MD.
I felt the press of Elizabeth’s hand on my arm once more, pulling me inexorably deeper into the room. “John, there’s somebody who’s simply dying to meet you.” My heart sank. I had thought too soon. “Arthur...”
At this, a gentleman standing with his back to me turned nimbly away from the knot of party guests he was talking to.
“Please,” this newcomer said, breaking into a smile as he took my hand and began to pump it up and down. “Call me Raffles.”
This Raffles had the easy, confident manner of one used to social graces. It did not take Sherlock Holmes’ powers of deduction to see a public school upbringing behind the handsome, chiselled features, neatly parted dark hair, tall frame and formal white-tie evening wear. Elizabeth stood between us, glancing from one to the other with an expression of great expectation lighting up her face.
“Pleased to meet you.” I returned the greeting. “I’m John —”
“Dr Watson!” declared Raffles, attracting curious glances from around the room. “I know exactly who you are. Can’t get enough of your writings.”
There it was. “Oh. You’ve read my work,” I managed stiffly
“Every word. Fascinating stuff!”
“Well,” I began, somewhat defensively, “I understand they are popular in certain quarters.”
“You are too modest, Dr Watson.” The fellow’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “But I can see I have embarrassed you. My apologies.”
“Oh, well. I... There’s no need, really,” I blustered, disarmed.
“Oh, Arthur, I cannot trust you, can I?’ said Elizabeth good-naturedly.
“Probably wise,” said Raffles.
“Arthur is with the Gentlemen,” said Elizabeth.
“I’m sorry,” I asked, “the who?”
“The Gentlemen of England,” continued our hostess, as if no further explanation was required.
“I sense you’re more of a rugger man, Dr Watson?” enquired Raffles, and realisation dawned.
“Ah, the cricket match.”
“Arthur is quite the star spin bowler,” explained Elizabeth. “The Gentlemen have come down to give the local side a bit of a thrashing.”
Raffles grinned. “Let’s not be too hasty.” He looked around the room. “Bunny,” he called out, waving. A fellow dressed in similar attire to Raffles wandered over from where he seemed to be staring in rapt fascination at a portrait of one of James’s ancestors. There was something of the hangdog about him as he sauntered over and smiled weakly. He was marginally shorter than Raffles, his hair parted in an approximation of his friend’s groomed style, but thinner and unkempt.
“Hullo,” he said, nodding.
Raffles made the introductions. “Bunny Manders, John Watson.”
“Pleasure,” I said, shaking hands with the newcomer.
“Bunny tends to knock around with me, old school pal and all that.”
“Hmm,” was all Manders seemed able to muster.
For a moment, it seemed an awful, awkward silence was about to expand around us, none of us knowing quite what to say. I saw Manders positively breathe a sigh of relief when the gong for dinner finally sounded.
“Well, there we are,” said Raffles.
“Indeed,” I joined.
“Yes, I’m famished,” said Manders, immediately placing a hand to his mouth. “Oh, sorry. That was...”
“Shall we?” suggested Elizabeth, expertly covering the chap’s social misdemeanour and guiding us through to the dining hall along with the other guests.
* * *
Dinner was a convivial affair, and with the fortification of a glass of excellent red, I began to relax and enjoy the company of those around me. I was seated up with James, and found myself next to a charming young lady whose father was something in the overseas trade business.
Elizabeth held court further down the table, Mr Raffles seated to one side, Bunny Manders opposite. Every so often, Raffles would glance in my direction, nodding amiably in acknowledgement. I smiled awkwardly back, and continued my conversation.
Dinner over and done with in painless fashion, there were the usual post-repast rituals to be observed, and I am loath to admit I did enjoy a rare cigar and glass of brandy. However out of practice I was within the social milieu, I like to think I judged a juncture to retire that was neither too early to be considered rude, nor too late to outstay one’s welcome when the host simply wants to go to their own bed.
* * *
I awoke feeling surprisingly refreshed, sunshine bisecting the room through a chink in the heavy curtains, bringing with it the promise of a fine day. Even the prospect of an afternoon of cricket couldn’t dampen my spirits, and I must confess at this point to a curiosity over this Raffles fellow. He seemed a thoroughly decent sort and I was hoping to talk some more with him over the course of the weekend.
At breakfast I found Raffles’s associate, Manders, casting a lone figure as he picked unenthusiastically at some kippers. I joined him. At this he seemed to perk up. Where last night I had dismissed him as a harmless buffoon, I divined he was possessed of a sharp wit, albeit with an outlook on life that leant towards the bleak. But he was affable company, and we found we held some common interest—he had taken to writing himself, and we fell into discussing craft and technique, such as we both possessed.
* * *
I found myself rubbing along well enough with Manders for most of the day, and he was happy to accompany me on a turn or two around the cricket pitch that afternoon.
“Oh, he’s very good,” he said of Raffles, who I spied for the first time that day leading the Gentlemen out onto the field for the first of the afternoon’s play. Manders entered into a garbled explanation of the status of the Gentleman as first-class amateurs in the game, in relation to the more professional standings of the so-called Players, but it was lost on me, as I suspect it was him. My dislike of cricket came not from ignorance of the rules—I understood them perfectly well—but from the interminable length of time each match took to play out. With a smile I recalled Holmes’ succinct essay on the subject, of few words and strictly not for print, and determined to enjoy this brief exposure to the game.
On the basis of the afternoon’s play, the reputation of Raffles as a spin bowler was quite correct. He took six wickets in quick succession, keeping the enthusiastic local side to a minimum of runs, which were then matched in short order as the Gentleman went in to bat. Raffles himself added a hefty number to the total.
“That was quite the performance,” I begrudgingly told him over refreshing lemonade in the marquee following the end of play.
“Too kind, Dr Watson,” said Raffles, as relaxed as ever. “Cricket is as much founded on luck as it is skill. There are more worthy challenges in life.”
“You’re staying for this evening’s festivities?”
“Oh yes, wouldn’t miss James and Elizabeth’s shindig for anything. Would we, Bunny?”
“What?” said Manders, who had reverted to the ill-at-ease fellow I had met last night in the presence of his friend. “Oh yes. Wouldn’t miss it.”
“I’m afraid, Dr Watson, I shan’t be able to let you off the hook much longer,” said Raffles, a sly glint in his eyes.
“Whatever do you mean?” I replied warily.
“I will be demanding to know at least a little of your adventures with Mr Sherlock Holmes before the weekend is out.”
I sighed, relenting with a weak smile. “Very well, I am at your disposal this evening.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed Raffles. “One’s life is so dull. We all need vicarious pleasure from time to time. Eh, Bunny?” At that, he slapped his companion on the back, causing him to cough and splutter into his lemonade.
* * *
And discuss we did.
Much of that Saturday evening has been lost to the more pressing events that would soon overtake them in my memory. However, the more informal evening of entertainment provided by James and Elizabeth was punctuated by a not-unpleasant conversation with Mr Raffles on my activities alongside Sherlock Holmes. He quizzed me at length on the case of “The Sign of Four”, which he declared a favourite and had reread many times, and was in awe to hear first hand the tale concerning the giant rat of Sumatra. It still chilled me to this day, but I was happy to recount it with little coaxing.
Raffles maintained his unflinching admiration for Holmes and myself. “I am but a malingerer, a tedious man of leisure who would give much to experience even a little of the danger you have found yourself in.”
“I believe Holmes would have it that my colourful style makes too much currency from that aspect of his investigations.”
The evening was soon over, a pleasant soiree of good company and good food, and I now felt foolish for any apprehension preceding my arrival. Raffles excused himself surprisingly early, with a promise to renew our acquaintance in London, and it was only then I realised the unfortunate Manders had been absent for much of the evening.
I spent something short of an hour in the company of James and Elizabeth, who had been such excellent hosts, and I vowed to myself I would make more effort in the future to see them. Then I, too, took my leave, making my way up the wide staircase.
Within a few minutes I was nestled once more in the comfortably apportioned bed, sleeping the sleep of the innocent.
* * *
“John.”
I felt a hand shaking me awake and an urgent voice hissing in my ear. “John, wake up!”
I opened my eyes to find James standing at the side of the bed, holding a lamp above his head, although pale dawn light was creeping in around the curtain edges. “James?” I mumbled, disorientated. It felt just minutes since I had fallen asleep. “What is it?” And then I was bolt upright in bed, fearing the worst. “Elizabeth?”
“Lizzie’s fine.” His face was grim. “You’d better come.”
I wrapped my robe about myself and, bleary-eyed, followed James from the room, down the main staircase and into the drawing room. I was not quite prepared for the scene before me.
Elizabeth sat, her entire frame devoid of the usual vigour. She looked up as I entered, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, then looked away to the rear wall which was lined with books. Except a small square of books had seemingly been removed—or rather slid aside, and then it became clear. It was a hidden panel, released by a catch or some such, revealing a safe—the heavy door of which was wide open.
“It’s gone, John,” said Elizabeth in a quiet voice. “My tiara. Taken.”
I didn’t know what to say James went to Elizabeth’s side as tears shone in her eyes. “There,” he soothed, “don’t upset yourself.”
“Dr Watson, is it?’ A uniformed police sergeant had been peering into the safe as I entered the room. He now turned towards me.
“Yes,” was the only acknowledgement one could give to such a question.
“Sergeant Cope is with the local constabulary,” explained James helpfully.
“Bad business, this. And early, too,” he added, a touch indignantly, perhaps at the injustice of being wrenched from his bed at such an ungodly hour.
I stepped forward to get a closer look into the safe. “Was it just the tiara that was taken?” Elizabeth nodded. Both her and James were looking to me expectantly.
“What are your thoughts, Sergeant?” I enquired.
“Well, I don’t rightly know, sir.” With that, Cope lapsed into silence and continued to peer ineffectually into the safe.
“James,” I heard Elizabeth whisper.
“Yes, all right, Lizzie,” he said placatingly, squeezing her shoulder. “Ah, John, old man...” He ushered me from the drawing room and out into the main hall. “This has all been a bit of a blow, Lizzie’s devastated.”
“Yes, I can see,” I said, affecting an air of sympathy.
“Aside from some cove creeping around the house of a night, that tiara was a gift from my late father. Money aside, there’s the sentimental value. We were wondering...”
That sense of expectation I had felt a minute earlier blossomed further.
“The chances of getting a detective up from London before Monday are zero,” James continued, “and the trail will be stone cold by then. These local bobbies are not the brightest of buttons...”
“James,” I started, suddenly conscious of where the discussion was headed, but he cut me off with a pleading look.
“I hate to ask, we both do, but...”
* * *
“Watson!” said Sherlock Holmes as he stood framed in the doorway of Cunningham Hall, the brightness of the Kent sunshine contrasting starkly with the neat dark suit he wore.
“Holmes,” I managed to mumble in greeting through a sudden yawn.
“You look terrible. I thought you’d come down here to relax.”
We were several hours on from the moment James had wrenched me awake; since then there had been urgent conversations, excursions to the local post office to rouse postmistresses from beds, special telegrams to London and hasty breakfasts, all finished off with anxious hours of waiting.
“I feel dreadful at having dragged you down here, and as a personal favour, too,” I said, feeling the need to apologise, but Holmes waved me away with a raised cane.
“Think nothing of it. There was a certain difficulty in arranging a train down to Kent at such an early hour, and on a Sunday, but a minor inconvenience at most.”
I was woefully embarrassed that I had acquiesced to James’s request that I summon Holmes immediately to tackle the matter of the theft. I had expected intransigence. But it was nearly noon on Sunday, and here he was. Pristine and, I noted with apprehension, bristling with enthusiasm.
“It’s a terrible business,” I said as we entered the house, my voice echoing in the hallway. A strange hush had descended on the house, despite the fact the local constabulary had not yet permitted any guest to leave.
“Yes, yes,” said Holmes. “Let us get straight to the matter in hand.”
A small welcome delegation awaited our entrance into the drawing room. James rose immediately from Elizabeth’s side, who I was pleased to see more composed after the earlier shock. “Mr Holmes,” he began, “please accept our apologies for dragging you all the way down here. And please, don’t blame John, we did rather put upon...”
Holmes smiled thinly. “I only blame Watson for anything in the most trying of circumstances,” he murmured, glancing at me with the conspiratorial look I had witnessed so many times throughout our friendship.
Introductions were made, but Holmes’ eyes were already darting to every inch of the room, the personalities before him secondary to this new game he had been presented with. He affected a modicum of charm and sympathy towards Elizabeth, but Sergeant Cope was dismissed with nary a look. Curiously, Bunny Manders was present, sitting unobtrusively in a chair to the side. I nodded in his direction and he smiled back, with his usual hangdog, out-of-place expression.
“Mr Holmes.” A clear voice rang out from the back of the room, breaking through the hush. I was taken aback to realise that AJ. Raffles was also present, his tall, lean frame emerging from a patch of shadow. He must have been standing stock-still for me not to notice his presence. “It is a rare honour to finally meet you.”
“I’m sure it is,” replied Holmes, eyes focused on the safe rather than the newcomer.
“Ah, Holmes,” I said, “this is Mr Raffles.”
“AJ. Raffles at your service.” Raffles positively beamed at Sherlock Holmes.
Then I saw something that would have eluded even the sharpest observer in the room; I only did so as a result of many hours spent observing Sherlock Holmes at work. A flash of the eyes, a split second moment, but Holmes looked at Raffles. His eyes darted from the safe, fixed on Raffles, then his attention was singled back to the safe. It was a scant moment, but for a mind like Sherlock Holmes’, that glance would have provided a lifetime of opportunity.
“Now,” he said, taking a further step towards the safe, eyes narrowed. “I think it’s time you told me everything.”
Holmes listened intently as the story of the tiara’s theft was related in detail, starting with the arrival of the weekend guests and finishing with the discovery of the open safe by an early-rising maid that very morning. James and Elizabeth were exhaustive in their detail, but Holmes thrived on facts. I punctuated events with salient information, while Raffles and Manders stayed supportively silent throughout.
“I will do what I can, though I fear this may not be much. I should not wish to raise expectations unduly.” Holmes’ words seemed to cut both James and Elizabeth. They said nothing, but I could feel Elizabeth’s disappointed eyes on me, silent accusation radiating out from her.
Blithely unaware of the disquiet his last statement had caused in my hosts, Holmes got down to work. He examined the safe in great detail. He gently nudged the small, yet heavy, door back into place with his cane, scrutinising the combination and lock. He sniffed once, then began to walk backwards, placing his feet carefully down as his eyes swept over the polished wooden floorboards.
With his back almost at the door, he rose up to his full height and gave the room one final look. Those present gazed back, seemingly incapable of taking a breath. Raffles was leaning forward over the back of the chair that his associate reclined in, watching events unfold with rapt fascination.
“Watson,” declared Holmes, whirling round like some dervish and exiting the room. I shot an apologetic glance to those assembled, and followed—as I had on many occasions.
Holmes was already halfway up the wide staircase, stooped low and holding his cane in hands clasped behind his back, when I emerged into the hallway. We proceeded up the staircase, along a hallway and up yet another staircase. All the while, Holmes was hunched, taking in every detail, every errant thread or scuff. I sympathised with the staff going about their business, forced to leap aside as the inexorable force of Sherlock Holmes swept down a corridor; or the guests, detained by the inconvenience of theft, jumping back in alarm as they emerged from their room — it certainly wasn’t every day that the world’s greatest consulting detective glided by your bedroom door.
By and by, I found myself following Holmes out into the fresh air through a convenient side door; and so our perambulations continued around the side of the house. He paused briefly at the rear of the property and peered up towards a window framed by trailing ivy, glanced down at the ground, then continued on his way. Soon we had come full circle.
“Well?” I asked hopefully as we stepped back into the house, but Holmes remained silent on our way back to the drawing room.
The group awaiting our return had seemingly not moved in the time we had been absent; eager looks awaited us on our entry to the room. I remained standing while Holmes eased his thin body into a chair. He steepled his fingers before his face and looked at each person in turn. Eventually he spoke.
“I fear,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that I have nothing encouraging to report.”
Expectation deflated from the room like a child’s balloon, the colour draining from Elizabeth’s face.
“I can find no evidence to suggest forced entry,” continued Holmes. “Either the thief is possessed of such skill that they leave no trace of their insertion into the house—highly unlikely—or the thief is still amongst you.”
James was on his feet. “Are you suggesting that one of our guests is responsible for the crime? Preposterous!”
“I never suggest. I merely present facts.”
“The staff,” said Elizabeth, fighting back tears. “It must have been one of the staff!”
“Do you have any reason to suspect any member of your household staff?” enquired Holmes.
“No, but...”
“Then you should not.” Holmes spread his hands wide. “It is a common malpractice of the upper classes to rely on cliché when presented with absolutely no evidence.”
I saw James’s face colour with anger, his hands balling into fists. “How dare you!” I thought he was going to hit Holmes and I tensed, preparing to step in between, but Raffles beat me to it.
“Come now, James. You asked for Mr Holmes’ assistance, and he is giving it willingly. Nobody is at fault because the facts are not as you would wish them to be.” Raffles’ even words had a calming effect.
“Yes, yes of course. You’re right, Arthur. My apologies, Mr Holmes.”
I attempted to break through the hot, tense atmosphere that now pervaded the room. “What do you suggest, Holmes?”
“There is only one course of action open to us, I fear.”
“Which is?” asked James. Holmes looked directly at him.
“You must search the belongings of all your guests.”
A stunned silence replaced the tension. “What?” blurted Elizabeth, now rising in shock to stand side by side with her husband.
“That’s quite impossible,” maintained James.
“Quite clearly it is not impossible. Your guests have belongings. They can be searched.”
“I agree with Mr Holmes, I’m afraid,” joined in Raffles, causing a startled Manders to sit up.
“I say, Raffles, steady on,” he exclaimed.
“No, no, Bunny. It’s quite correct, and the only way to be sure. Isn’t that, so, Mr Holmes?”
Holmes inclined his head in agreement.
“You see? I will happily subject myself to a search, and so will Bunny.” Raffles smiled amiably.
“We will?” asked a confused Manders. “Yes. Yes, I suppose we will.” He sank back into the chair, crushed.
“But our guests, the explanations...” pleaded Elizabeth, the prospect of social embarrassment seemingly more devastating than the theft of her tiara.
“I have no personal connections to any of your guests, bar one, so kindly lay the blame for this intrusion at my feet,” said Holmes, still reclining in the chair.
James sighed and with a look to Elizabeth, capitulated. “Very well.”
Holmes jumped easily to his feet, clapping his hands together with a sudden injection of energy. “Sergeant Cope?” The representative of the local constabulary looked surprised to be called upon. “If you could rouse your men, we should be able to have this taken care of with the minimum of fuss.”
“Yes, sir,” said the portly police officer, almost standing to attention before bustling off, clearly happy to have something of import to attend to.
* * *
As Holmes had alluded, the process of searching the belongings of the houseguests was a simple and quick affair. They were, for the most part, already packed, having had several hours of indolence in which to assemble their possessions into an array of valises and weekend bags.
“If they have nothing to hide, they will not object,” Holmes said in an aside to me, and he was quite correct. As the guests had effectively been under house arrest that morning, they were more than happy to cooperate with the search if it hastened their departure. All apologies from James and Elizabeth were waved away with good grace and humour as they lined up outside the dining room to present their various items of luggage for appraisal.
I stood side by side with Holmes, watching as the sergeant carried out the search, opening each case and dismissing the owner when each new bag failed to bring forth the stolen tiara. James held Elizabeth’s hand, his wife growing more anxious with each new bag.
Raffles and Manders came in together, both dressed for the off. “Here we are,” said Raffles breezily, “all ready for inspection. You first, Bunny.”
Manders’ voice trembled with nervous energy. “Um, yes. Of course.” He placed his modest valise on the table before the sergeant, his eyes twitching as he watched the policeman rummage through his belongings. He breathed a sigh of relief when the sergeant shook his head, but then looked even more distressed when Raffles presented his own baggage with a friendly grin.
“I do apologise for the state of my clothes, I’m terrible at packing. Elizabeth tells me I just need the love of a good woman to take care of that stuff.” This coaxed a smile from Elizabeth. But standing beside him, Manders looked positively ill as the latches were released on the case.
Holmes had remained still throughout, but as the sergeant’s pudgy hands worked their way through the case, he lent forward. Manders looked to be barely breathing, and I thought he would faint clean away as the policeman opened Raffles’s washbag and peeped within. The sergeant closed the bag, turning to Holmes and shaking his head. Manders breathed out heavily, all tension leaving his body. Holmes nodded once at the sergeant, and if I didn’t know better I’d say the ghost of a smile played on his lips.
His case secured once more, Raffles proceeded on an enthusiastic promenade of the room, giving out fond farewells and all his hopes for a happy outcome to the present situation. He stopped before Holmes, the two men facing each other. Raffles smiled. “Mr Holmes.”
“Mr Raffles,” said Holmes, simply
“And Dr Watson,” said Raffles, moving to me, taking my hand. “Yours has been a rare pleasure, and I shall hope to renew our acquaintance quite soon.”
“Yes, I should like that,” I replied. And I meant it. I liked the chap immensely, and Mr Manders, despite his awkwardness, had a certain charm.
Then the two men were gone, off back to London by whatever means was available to them.
* * *
I would like to say at this juncture that the matter of the stolen tiara was resolved quickly and satisfactorily. That was not to be the case.
There were still a few guests whose baggage was yet to be searched, but as each of them arrived in the dining room to lay bare their belongings, it was becoming increasingly doubtful the item in question would be miraculously brought forth. And so it was with a great lack of enthusiasm that Sergeant Cope hunted through the final item of luggage, then shook his head to indicate the negative outcome.
Elizabeth sat immediately, retaining her composure, but clearly shaken by the outcome.
“I am so terribly sorry,” I soothed, but it felt an empty gesture. Why I felt the need to apologise I wasn’t quite sure, but it was offered nonetheless.
“It’s not your fault, John. Thank you. And thank you, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes appeared unperturbed by the outcome, as if it were expected. “My sincere apologies. The facts, in this case, have done a disservice and I am afraid I have nothing further to offer.”
Holmes appeared remarkably sanguine about his lack of success. “I suggest at this point you place yourself in the hands of Sergeant Cope and the local constabulary. I am sure their policing skills are beyond reproach and this unpleasant matter will be resolved very soon.”
At this the sergeant puffed out his chest in pride, missing any sense of irony laced into my friend’s words.
I offered to stay down in Kent for a further evening, but James and Elizabeth would hear nothing of it, insisting they’d like to put the whole thing behind them and get back to normal. If we didn’t delay, there would be a train back to London that we had a chance of catching.
Holmes accompanied me to my room to retrieve my luggage. “Watson, I fear I have done you an injustice before your friends,” he said, arms placed wide against the window frame as he peered out onto the grounds.
“No,” I replied quickly, “I have done you the injustice. Calling you down here on a personal whim. Quite unacceptable.”
“You have rendered unswerving personal service over many years of friendship. It speaks highly of your character that you feel embarrassed to have called on my services for personal reasons.”
I put my jacket on and hefted my valise from the bed. “Shall we?” I asked.
“Indeed,” said Sherlock Holmes, turning from the window.
* * *
There was a hurried and awkward farewell in front of the house. James and Elizabeth were somewhat deflated, as would I have been, but clearly the disappointment stemmed from the failure of Sherlock Holmes to conjure forth the stolen item. They were simply too polite to say. I was keen not to sully our relationship for the sake of Mary’s memory, and promised a return visit to Cunningham Hall later in the summer.
The carriage delivered Holmes and I just as the train was heaving into the station, and we were soon comfortably appointed in a compartment and chugging back towards London. I caught myself dozing, and suddenly realised how tired I was. I let sleep take me, leaving Sherlock Holmes gazing out at the passing countryside, that ghost of a smile still playing on his lips.
* * *
It was a pleasure to arrive back at Baker Street—it usually was— especially as there was soon a fortifying cup of tea provided by Mrs Hudson to restore jaded spirits. I let myself sit a while and enjoy a moment of calm. Even Holmes seemed content to just idle in his chair; it was also possible he was deep in thought. One never could tell. He gazed straight ahead, a cigarette in one hand, the other hanging limp to the side of his chair.
Feeling refreshed, I left Holmes to his thoughts and decided to unpack. Placing the valise on the bed in my room, I stooped forward to release the catches. As I opened the bag, I cried out and almost jumped back in horror.
Perched atop my washbag was a diamond tiara.
Elizabeth Cunningham’s diamond tiara.
A laugh caused my head to snap round. Holmes stood leaning with casual grace against the doorframe, smoke curling away from the cigarette held up to his mouth. He laughed again, a deep, joyous laugh, before turning about to walk into the sitting room.
“Holmes!” I shouted, stalking after him. “What is the meaning of this?” And damn it to hell if he didn’t just keep on laughing. He threw his head back and laughed long and hard. Incensed, I strode back to my room, returning with the tiara clutched in my hand.
“This is no laughing matter, Holmes! This,” I said, holding the tiara up high, “is a stolen item! And it is in my valise!”
Holmes managed to bring his laughter under control. “Forgive me, Watson, but somebody has played a marvellous practical joke, and it has quite tickled me.”
“I am glad you find it so funny,” I said with some indignation.
“There was serious intent behind this. Somebody set out to steal the item, but it has been executed with a certain amount of style and wit. Completely transparent from the start, but humorous nonetheless.”
“Explain!” I cried.
Holmes leant back, fixing me with a steady gaze. “It all hinges on the irreproachable reputation of John H. Watson, MD.”
“Me?” Now I was thoroughly perplexed. I sat on my own chair, gently placing the tiara on the table, afraid it could to shatter into a thousand pieces.
“A robbery has taken place. A criminal act, but the details of how that occurred are sideplay. The thief is clever and experienced. I imagine it was the matter of a moment to gain access to the safe and purloin the item. Barely worth my attention.”
“Go on.”
“The style of the act is inherent in what happens next. The thief could have simply vanished into thin air, but their absence, as I am convinced it was one of the houseguests, would have aroused suspicion. The theft of the item was bound to be discovered sooner rather than later, leaving the problem of couriering it from the house.”
“But every bag was searched.”
“Every bag, except yours.”
I opened my mouth to speak, then paused to consider. Holmes was quite right. At no point in proceedings had any suggestion been made to place my own baggage under scrutiny. I looked at Holmes, agog.
“Who would dare suggest the baggage of Dr Watson, the famed and trusted associate of Sherlock Holmes, be searched in pursuit of a thief? Your honour and integrity are beyond question.”
I coughed back sudden embarrassment at these words, unsure of what to say. “But that’s...”
“Quite brilliant,” breathed Holmes with rare admiration. “And our thief in the night would have been counting on that, planning their enterprise around that very reputation. There was risk, it may not have worked, but every thief must factor in a certain amount of random chance and uncertainty in their schemes.”
“But who would do such a thing?” I spluttered, indignation getting the better of me again.
“We shall know the answer to that quite soon, I should think. But there is more to this than meets the eye.”
“We must return to Kent,” I insisted. “Return the tiara, or at least telegram to let the Cunninghams know we have it.”
“No, no, Watson. For then we would be prevented from learning the identity of the culprit. And I should so like to meet them.”
“You mean, they’ll be coming here? To retrieve it?”
“Why go to the trouble of stealing such a trinket if the ultimate aim is not to possess it?”
“But that would be madness!” I said, pacing from my chair to the table and back again. “Breaking into 221b, of all the—”
“Watson, calm yourself. It is a further mark of the audaciousness —or arrogance—of our thief. The dividing line between the two is a thin one.”
“Then what must we do?”
Holmes rose and walked across the sitting room to claim another cigarette. He turned as he struck a match to light it. “We have some dinner. And then we wait.”
* * *
The sitting room at 221b was wreathed in darkness, the only illumination coming from the pale moonlight falling in a slanted shaft through the windows. Sinister shadows choked the familiar room, transforming it into a nightmarish landscape as the paraphernalia of Holmes’ various pursuits were pulled out of shape.
My friend was seated in his armchair, as still as a statue. The only signal he was even awake was the glassy, cat-like sheen of his eyes.
I had been sat in the comfort of my own chair in such a fashion for some time, and it was now the early hours. My mind and body yearned for sleep, but Holmes insisted there was yet a game to be played out before the sun rose once more over London.
On the dining table sat the tiara, the cause of all the weekend’s trials. I sighed and returned my thoughts exclusively to the vigil at hand.
Scant minutes later I was sure I had heard a movement to my left and behind Holmes: the door to my own room. Yes! There it was, the scrape of wood on wood. At that very second I would have gone crashing through the door to tackle the blackguard before they could even place one foot down, but Holmes raised a hand in a placating manner. I forced myself to sit back, subjecting the arms of the chair to unnecessary force.
A floorboard creaked within; the intruder was now firmly inside the walls of 221b. How Holmes could remain so calm was beyond me. Seconds later the door to my room eased silently open, and I sensed rather than saw the shape of a figure creeping into the sitting room. I remained as still as possible, awaiting the signal from Holmes. But when?
The dark silhouette padded stealthily behind the armchair in which Sherlock Holmes was seated. The figure paused, then after a second, made straight towards the table. A gloved hand reached out towards the waiting tiara.
“Now, Watson!”
At that I launched myself from the chair, diving bodily towards the intruder, knocking their legs from beneath them in a neat tackle. With an anguished squawk, the figure went down like a sack of coal. They writhed terribly, but I was able to wrench an arm round behind them. “Ow!” screamed the figure as the threat of dislocation persuaded them that any movement was to be discouraged.
A match rasped; a moment later the room was bathed in light as Holmes lit one of the gas lamps ranged around the walls. “All right, you have me,” a muffled voice protested. “You have me, I shan’t give you any more trouble.” I hauled the interloper to their feet and turned them roughly to face me.
“Manders?”
I had to look twice, but there was no mistaking it. Standing before me, blinking sheepishly in the sudden light, was Bunny Manders! I have to say, he was the last person I had been expecting!
“Mr Manders, a pleasure to renew our acquaintance,” said Holmes cheerfully. “Can we offer you anything? A tiara, perhaps?”
“Oh, very funny,” frowned the unfortunate cove.
“What have you got to say for yourself?” I demanded, pushing the fellow down onto my chair.
“Absolutely nothing,” he said, affecting a petulant defiance that had not been present before.
“I imagine the police will have a few things to ask you,” I said.
“I imagine they will.”
“A brilliant plan, Mr Manders, quite brilliant. And it nearly succeeded.” Manders looked sullenly back at Holmes and stayed silent.
“What are we to do with him, Holmes?”
“It is perhaps a touch early to be bothering those tireless bastions of law enforcement. For now, we should restrain Mr Manders until such time as we can avail ourselves of the services of the nearest police station.” Holmes moved to light another gaslamp. “There are handcuffs on the window ledge, Watson, if you would be so good?”
“With pleasure.” As Holmes watched our guest, I moved quickly to the window to retrieve the shackles. A movement outside caught my eye and I glanced out onto the darkened Baker Street to see a uniformed police constable perambulating his way along the road. A beat bobby walking fearlessly through the night, lamp held aloft to light his way.
“Holmes, there’s a bobby out there. That’s a stroke of luck.”
“Indeed it is. Quickly, Watson, before they have passed from sight.”
I positively ran from the room and charged down the staircase, safe in the knowledge that Mrs Hudson was so acclimatised to the comings and goings of her gentleman charges that she could have slept through the Boer War. I unlocked the door and stepped out onto the street.
“Constable,” I called out, jogging towards his receding form. The cloaked officer turned at my voice, pointing the glow of his lamp in my direction and peering at me as I approached.
“Is there a problem, sir?” he asked, the guttural voice matching the heavily whiskered features and corpulent frame.
“Yes, Officer, if you can come please, there has been a break-in at 221b Baker Street.”
“Very well, sir,” he said, scratching at an impressive sideburn, “lead on.”
The officer didn’t seem in much of a hurry as I led the way back to 221b. I desperately wanted to urge him along, but sometimes you just couldn’t hurry the law. Eventually we emerged back into the now fully lit sitting room, the heavy breathing of the officer marking his progress up the stairs.
“Officer, and just in the nick of time,” declared Holmes enthusiastically on our arrival.
“Indeed, sir,” responded the officer. “Mr Holmes, is it?” Holmes nodded. “Pleasure, sir. Dr Watson ’ere has just been explaining what has occurred.” He turned to Manders, still seated, but now cuffed. “This the intruder?”
“Indeed it is, Constable,” I confirmed.
“Oh dear, oh dear, we are in trouble, aren’t we, sir?” said the constable, looking down at Manders disapprovingly.
“Yes,” replied the villain quietly. “I suppose I am.”
The officer pursed chapped lips. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I should take this gentleman off your hands and get him safely locked up in the nearest station.”
Holmes nodded in ready agreement. “I do think that would be wise, Constable.”
“I’d be grateful if you two gentlemen could come along to the station first thing in the morning, and we can take down particulars at the appropriate hour.”
“Of course, anything we can do to help.”
“Right you, on yer feet,” the officer said to Manders, who, with his hands cuffed, was forced to wriggle this way and that until he eventually struggled to his feet. It would have been comical in different circumstances.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” I felt compelled to say as the officer placed a firm hand on Manders’ shoulder and led him towards the door. He looked at me with sad, weary eyes as he passed.
“Watson, could you get the door?” asked Holmes.
Happy to oblige, I stepped ahead of the officer and opened the sitting-room door.
“Much appreciated, sir,” said the constable.
“Oh, Officer?” Holmes called out just before he reached the door. The constable turned to Holmes.
“Sir?”
“I do think it would be safer if you took the tiara,” said Holmes, picking it up from the table and holding it out to the policeman. “For safe keeping until it can be returned to its owners. I’m sure it will be more secure in a police station than in my sitting room.”
The officer paused, looking at the tiara as it glinted in the light of the lamps, before taking it from Holmes. “Right you are, sir.”
The matter seemingly concluded until morning, the constable began to push Manders towards the door once more.
“Tell me, Officer,” said Holmes airily, “how is Inspector Leach?”
“Inspector Leach, sir?” the officer replied, still moving towards the door. “Very well, as I understand it. Very well.”
“I am glad. Do pass on the regards of Sherlock Holmes.”
“Of course, sir.”
The officer was almost at the door, the silent Manders ahead of him, when I saw Sherlock Holmes’ posture change, his whole body tensing for action. “Watson, quickly, the door!”
I had learnt over the years to seldom question the requests of Sherlock Holmes, and as the constable shoved Manders ahead of him as he himself leapt for the door, I slammed it in their faces and stood firmly in their way.
Manders turned to the constable. “What are we going to do?” he demanded.
The officer looked left and right, his cape flapping; then, with an exhaled breath, he stopped and smiled through his whiskers. He turned to face Holmes. As he did, he seemed to grow by two feet. “When did you know?” he asked in a smooth voice, devoid of the guttural London tone of the bobby.
“Almost as soon as I arrived in Kent,” conceded Holmes, which did nothing to alleviate this confusing turn of events.
“There is no Inspector Leach, is there?”
“Only up here.” Holmes smiled, tapping his temple.
“Will somebody please explain what is going on!” I demanded with raised voice.
“Apologies, Dr Watson,” said the policeman amiably. “The last thing I’d want to do is cause you any further distress.”
The constable removed his helmet and placed it, along with the tiara, on the table. “Stole this from a policeman up in Cambridge years ago,” he went on, “back when those kinds of japes were all the rage.”
The policeman began to pull at the whiskers on his face. Astoundingly, they came away in his hands, and seconds later I was astonished to find myself standing before AJ. Raffles. “I told you we’d be renewing our acquaintance very soon.” He smiled.
“You blackguard!” I said. “You thief and blackguard!”
“Guilty as charged,” said Raffles as, without invitation, he dropped down into an armchair. Manders remained standing, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.
“I must congratulate you, Mr Raffles. An audacious scheme. Doomed to failure, but audacious all the same.”
“From you, Mr Holmes, I take that as a compliment.”
“Not a compliment. Just facts.”
Raffles nodded graciously to this.
“How could you?” I asked, my rage threatening to bubble over. “Poor James and Elizabeth. You were their guest!”
“Elizabeth will have her trinket back, no real harm done. And you must admit, it livened up a rather tedious weekend.”
The impudence of the miscreant quite stunned me into silence.
“Besides,” continued Raffles, sitting forward and eyeing the tiara, “this was not the prize.”
“Then what was?” I demanded, as confusion continued to reign in the sitting room.
“I was,” said Holmes, who seemed to be enjoying himself immensely as he sat opposite Raffles in his own armchair.
“I suppose my scheme was somewhat transparent.”
“Yes. But most amusing.”
“Aren’t you interested in how I did it?”
“I fear an honest answer to that question may cause offence,” said Holmes. At a look from Raffles, he waved a hand dismissively. “A fragment of ivy leaf cut by the heel of a boot below Watson’s window was as a flaming beacon. I have little interest in the sordid creeping around of a country house at night, but I’m sure your Mr Manders could turn the events into some form of entertaining prose.”
I glanced over at Manders, who was still cuffed. He gave me a wan smile, and I couldn’t help but hold some kindred feeling for him as Holmes and Raffles continued their conversation.
“One question,” began Holmes.
“Anything.”
“If you were so desperate to make my acquaintance, why not just make an appointment?”
Raffles smiled that easy, relaxed smile. “Where would the fun be in that?”
Holmes sat back, considering, as if the notion of doing something for fun had rarely occurred to him. “Hmm,” he mused. “And now you have engineered a meeting, what, may I ask, are your conclusions?”
“It’s been most illuminating. You do not disappoint.”
Holmes rose. “Cigarette?” he asked, but Raffles declined. “Forgive me if I indulge, won’t you?”
“Go ahead,” said Raffles amiably. I couldn’t credit this. They were talking like two fellows in a gentlemen’s club. “What happens now?”
“Now?” countered Holmes. He considered, then shrugged. “You are free to go.”
“What?” I exploded.
“What?” exclaimed Manders.
“To mirror the sentiments of our associates,” said Raffles, “do explain. Please.”
“I know of you, Mr Raffles. You are a thief, but you have a reputation. A reputation that interests me. You do not always steal for personal gain.”
“But Holmes, you can’t!” I was on the verge of apoplexy.
“In this case,” Holmes continued, “I do not see that much harm has been done. Certainly no more a misdemeanour than stealing a policeman’s helmet.” At this I snorted. Manders stood with mouth agape as he listened to the conversation.
“This is unexpected,” said Raffles, rising to his feet. “You are a fascinating and complex individual, Mr Holmes.” Mr AJ. Raffles faced my friend Sherlock Holmes. “Tell me, are you a Gentleman or a Player?”
“Neither. I find subscribing to forced metaphors a tedious pursuit. Especially when they relate to cricket.”
“Just the answer I was expecting.”
“Holmes, I beg you...” I blurted. “He is a criminal.”
“Yes I am, Dr Watson. And one day I shall be brought to book. But for now, I sincerely apologise for any inconvenience and distress I have caused you. I do hope we will meet again.”
Raffles turned, this strange contradiction in a policeman’s uniform, and made once more for the door, and, on this occasion, freedom. I felt quite powerless to prevent his departure, as if in the grip of some wider narrative of which I was but a small part.
“Come along, Bunny,” he said to his associate as he opened the door. “We’ll see ourselves out.” With a brief nod to Holmes, he vanished.
Manders held out his still-cuffed hands in supplication to Holmes. “Could you...”
“I do apologise,” said Holmes dismissively, “I appear to have mislaid the keys.”
I almost laughed out loud as the poor fellow’s face fell yet again. “Bunny!” Raffles shouted from the stairway. Manders shrugged apologetically, then shuffled out through the door after his companion.
A minute of silence passed in the sitting room, neither Holmes nor myself speaking. I wandered over and closed the door, standing with my back to my friend. I could stand it no longer. “Holmes, you are quite impossible,” I shouted, wheeling round to find him looking expectantly at me. “Tonight, you have let a common criminal and his accomplice go. They have committed a crime!”
“Sometimes a crime goes unpunished for good reason, Watson.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means,” said Holmes, after some consideration, “that there is more to Mr Raffles than a mere common burglar. There are, I feel, further games to be played.”
“But what about the tiara? How do I explain to James and Elizabeth...”
“Fabricate something. Your writing is testament to your skills in that discipline. Investigations continued in London, you were on the trail of the master criminal, a thrilling rooftop chase to their lair. They escaped in a death-defying leap into the Thames, but you were able to retrieve the tiara at great personal danger.”
“A lie,” I said, my heart sinking as I sat at the table, looking gloomily down on the tiara where Raffles had left it.
“Exaggeration, Watson, exaggeration!”
“What would Mary say?” I wondered, aloud.
My friend struck a match and it flared, illuminating his features in momentary sharp relief. His cigarette lit, he extinguished the match. “Mary was always a pragmatist, and would have seen that you did your level best to save your friend’s embarrassment, and above all, tried to help them.”
“By summoning you from London on a mission of personal service to prevent their property falling into the clutches of a thief.”
As the dawn light began to creep through the windows of 221b Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes drew thoughtfully on the cigarette, blowing smoke high into the air. “Ah, Watson. Sooner or later, everything becomes the property of a thief.”