The next day passed in a haze of excitement. A telegram from Mr Holmes confirmed that he and Watson would catch the night train and would be in Baker Street the following morning. Mrs Hudson had been planning accordingly and even before that message reached us preparations for the gentlemen’s return had begun. Beds needed to be aired, provisions bought and a veritable banquet of baking, roasting, stuffing and chopping was required before Mrs Hudson was satisfied that the pantry was in a sufficient state of readiness. My day was spent running errands and carrying messages to tradesmen through the slushy streets of a leaden day. In between I was searching the markets for winter vegetables or collecting supplies of pipe tobacco from Mr Hicks, the tobacconist on York Street. There was no time to be cold or to worry about the mud, and when I spotted Scraggs pushing a heavy barrow through Smithfields I barely had time to wave my hand before I was off in the other direction, in search of sausages and silver polish.
Only when the dusk began to close in from the docks and my list of tasks was finally complete did I find an opportunity to ask Mrs Hudson the question that she had somehow evaded the night before. I returned weighed down with packages and weary from head to toe, and found Mrs Hudson lighting the lamps. Outside, the cold of the previous evening had returned and with the fading light there had appeared a strange yellowness in the clouds that threatened snow; but inside, in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen, the fire was burning with a hearty roar and the air was heavy with the scent of cinnamon and cloves. The effect was to send a little shiver of pleasure through me and Mrs Hudson, noticing it, feared it might be a sign of too much time out of doors.
‘Now, Flotsam,’ she ordered, ‘sit yourself down in front of the fire. We’ve done fine work today and I’ve just taken two game pies out of the oven. The gentlemen won’t miss a slice or two of one of them. So get yourself out of that coat and we’ll have a little something by the fire.’
Mrs Hudson’s idea of a little something turned out to be a cup of hot shrub and lemon for me and for herself a glass of the old Madeira. I waited until she had taken a first, contented sip before I dared to begin my questions.
‘Mrs Hudson, ma’am?’
‘Yes, Flotsam?’
‘There’s something I don’t quite understand. Last night, that letter…’
‘Yes, Flotsam?’
Twenty hours’ worth of curiosity came bubbling out. ‘Well, how can you know it’s about the Malabar Rose, ma’am? There was nothing in it about rubies. It could be about anything. And what if Mr Holmes rushes all the way back here and it turns out to be about something else altogether?’
She permitted herself the faintest twitch of a smile and sighed happily.
‘Ah, yes. The Malabar Rose. Very interesting. Wait a moment while I fetch that newspaper…’ She bustled to the back of the kitchen and returned with the item we had read together the previous day. ‘Now, Flottie, there are one or two very noticeable things in this report. For instance, yesterday’s guard of honour was led by Major General Sir John Plaskett. Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘Isn’t he the Hero of Ishtabad, ma’am?’
‘And the safest pair of hands in a British uniform, Flottie. Now he’s hardly the sort of man to be chosen for minor ceremonial duties at a time when there’s so many rumblings abroad. He’d expect to be out on the Irrawaddy, or wintering in Kabul, not leading guards of honour around the streets of London. And then there’s HMS Imperious, the newest ship in the Navy. She was supposed to be in the Indian Ocean, Flotsam, but instead we find her over here, playing the role of glorified cargo ship.’
‘I suppose they want to keep the Malabar Rose very safe, ma’am.’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s right, Flotsam. Somebody is worried. A gift like the Malabar Rose sounds like good news, but until they get it safely into the vaults, it’s a terrible headache for the government. And they can’t just lock it away at once, which is probably what they’d like to do, because the Maharajah, God bless him, insists that his stone is shown off beforehand.’
I paused to consider this while Mrs Hudson took another sip of Madeira. ‘But, ma’am,’ I continued after a moment, ‘you still can’t be sure that last night’s letter was about the Malabar Rose. It could be about anything.’
Mrs Hudson gave a little chuckle. ‘The Home Secretary is hardly likely to require Mr Holmes’ views on the suffrage or on prison welfare, now is he, Flotsam? But who better to turn to when it is feared that plans may be afoot to steal a national treasure?’
Mrs Hudson took another sip of Madeira while I considered the simple logic of her reasoning and found myself looking forward with quickening interest to our impending visit from the Home Office.
‘Mrs Hudson, ma’am?’ I asked timidly. ‘You know that you sent me for some silver polish today?’
‘Yes, Flotsam?’ Her tone could not have been more innocent.
‘I was thinking that we’ll need to get to work on the silver tomorrow, won’t we?’
‘We certainly will, Flotsam.’
‘And we usually work on the silver in the little storeroom by the study, don’t we, ma’am?’
‘That’s what we usually do, yes, Flottie.’
I was about to say more but just then our eyes met and Mrs Hudson nodded gently. So I said nothing, but sipped my drink and wiggled my toes and waited for the morrow.
The return of Mr Holmes and Dr Watson created a great deal of hustle and bustle. They were much later than we had expected them and no sooner was the door open than they stamped up to the study, blowing on their fingers and leaving little frozen lumps of slush in their wake.
‘Really, Mrs Hudson, it was the smallest dusting of snow imaginable!’ Dr Watson’s outrage was almost incandescent.
‘Indeed it was,’ agreed Mr Holmes more calmly. ‘It is difficult to see how such a thin covering of snow would be enough to halt a locomotive of approximately 50 tons. However, as it is the same story every winter, I suppose we should have anticipated some such delay.’
The two men had taken up positions in front of the fire in their study, the main room of the house, where as well as reading and discussing their cases, the two men would smoke, take their meals, interview visitors and enjoy the comfort of Mrs Hudson’s excellent housekeeping. Now, as they allowed the warmth of the room to sweep over them, the flushed, puffing indignation of Dr Watson contrasted quite noticeably with the angular intelligence and rather hawkish features of his friend.
‘Dashed incompetence is what I call it!’ Dr Watson insisted. ‘You’d think our train companies might anticipate a degree of bad weather in December, eh?’
‘Well, my friend, we’re here now with a good fire and a new case to occupy us.’ Mr Holmes looked about him, his features softened by the pleasure of once more being amid familiar surroundings. The study was a large, bright room with two good windows, a table in front of them, and comfortable armchairs arranged around a generous fireplace. Around the walls stood the various cabinets that held his collections. He gave a contented sigh.
‘I see that you have once again created order out of chaos, Mrs Hudson. Your talent for the domestic arts never ceases to impress.’
‘Thank you, sir. We’ve done a little tidying and I believe Flotsam here has done some dusting. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll allow us to take those coats… ?’
But Mr Holmes wasn’t listening. He had advanced to the tall bookcase in the corner of the room and, while I helped Dr Watson out of his overcoat, he appeared to be examining something. As he turned I could see that he was holding in his hand a gentleman’s cigarette case.
‘So!’ he exclaimed. ‘I perceive we have had visitors already this morning, Mrs Hudson.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Mrs Hudson responded, evidently unimpressed by this particular deduction. ‘A gentleman called at noon and waited for a few minutes. He promised to return within the hour.’
‘I see…’ Mr Holmes was studying the cigarette case with the most minute attention and only when he had run his gaze over it four or five times did he pass it over to his companion. ‘Well, Watson, what does this object tell us of our visitor?’
‘Eh, Holmes? What’s that?’ Dr Watson, having escaped from his rather damp coat, had made haste to the tray of whisky and soda water that Mrs Hudson had positioned on the sideboard.
‘Come, Watson, demonstrate for us your powers of deduction!’
‘Very well, Holmes.’ He took up the case and proceeded to observe it rather glumly. ‘Well, it’s a nice piece of work. Silver obviously. Very good quality, I’d say. Had one a bit like it myself once. Lasted me for years until I left it on a train just outside West Wittering. Never saw it again after that.’
‘Indeed?’ Holmes smiled fondly. ‘Now if you could confine your musings to that particular cigarette case…’
‘Oh, yes. Of course… Well, it goes without saying that the silver on the lid is a bit worn, so I should say it’s been well-used. Now this inscription here…’ He peered more closely and rubbed at something with his thumb. ‘It seems to be someone’s initials. They’re quite worn. Is that a G and a D?’
Mr Holmes took the slim case off him with a smile. ‘What if I told you, Watson, that the owner of this case is a grey-haired man of above average height, left-handed, who travelled here from Whitehall this morning by carriage?’
Dr Watson snorted. ‘Why, then I should call you a fraud, Holmes. How could you possibly deduce all that from a simple cigarette case?’
Mr Holmes placed the case upon the mantelpiece and began to divest himself of his coat.
‘You know, Watson, sometimes I despair of you. Everything I have just told you is written there as plain as day. All you need to read it is some basic observation. That is the key, Watson! It is only by being alert to every detail that you can be sure of arriving at the truth.’
‘Really, Holmes,’ grunted Watson, sinking into his seat, then brightening somewhat as Mrs Hudson replenished his glass. ‘It’s only a cigarette case after all.’
‘Well, let’s see…’ Mr Holmes took it up again and sat down opposite his friend. ‘As you yourself point out, this object is of excellent quality, and we can see from the way the silver has worn that it has clearly seen service over a very substantial number of years. Now, it is unusual but not impossible that a gentleman might choose to carry a second-hand cigarette case. But it is much more likely that this item has aged in the service of one owner. And if that is the case, then it would be safe to assume that the gentleman is himself a man of advancing years. And so, of course, it is highly probable that his hair will be grey. And if you recall I found this item on a shelf that is a good twenty inches higher than the mantelpiece. For a fellow to idly place his cigarette case there, in a position awkwardly high for most men, suggests that he is a taller man than most.’
Mr Holmes paused for a moment while he focussed his attention on the lid of the case.
‘This is where there is most to observe, Watson. Note that the silver is worn very decidedly on one side. That would suggest that the owner is in the habit of holding it in a particular way. Now a right-handed man would keep this in a left-hand pocket and would reach for it thus.’ He mimed the action of reaching inside his jacket. ‘Then, still holding it in his right hand, he would release the catch with his left. But look at how the silver is worn. If I hold it in my right hand, the marks are in the wrong place. No, Watson, this case is habitually kept in a right-hand pocket and is retrieved with the left hand, which strongly suggests that the owner is left-handed.’
‘That certainly sounds simple enough, Holmes,’ Dr Watson nodded, apparently greatly restored by a long sip from his glass. ‘But what of the carriage from Whitehall? You can’t tell me that is somehow written on the fellow’s silverware!’
Holmes leaned back and surveyed his audience with an air of profound satisfaction.
‘Not on it, Watson, but in it. Here, look inside. A very rare brand of Turkish cigarette. I know of only two establishments which stock this brand. One is in Edinburgh, the other is Stieglitz & Brothers of Whitehall. Now the case is nearly full – you see that only one cigarette has been removed – so it has only recently been refilled, and refilled in the Whitehall store itself. How am I so sure? See, the tissue beneath is stamped with the Stieglitz name. Had the cigarettes been delivered to the gentleman’s home and the case refilled by one of his servants, the tissue would be plain or – more probably – missing altogether.’
‘Remarkable, Holmes! But the carriage… I simply can’t see…’
The great detective smiled.
‘A gentleman stops in Whitehall to have his cigarette case filled with his favourite brand. Yet he does not smoke the first cigarette until he reaches this room – the evidence is in the ashtray over there. Now it may be that he walked all the way from Whitehall with a full cigarette case, fighting temptation with every step. Yet it is more likely that only a short time elapsed between the filling of the case and the gentleman’s arrival here. And so, Watson, I do not think it is unreasonable to assume a carriage!’
‘I say, Holmes, you make it sound the easiest thing in the world!’
‘A simple thing, Watson, though it would perhaps be ingenuous to call it an easy one. Observation is the key. Observation!’ Mr Holmes had turned his attention to the inscription on the lid of the case. ‘These initials, Watson. You are correct that the first two are ‘G’ and ‘D’, but I believe there is a third. I suspect that our visitor’s surname begins with the letter ‘P’. He passed the object to Mrs Hudson who took it and, after glancing at it in the most cursory way, gave a little cough.
‘If you please, sir, I think you’ll find his name begins with a ‘B’.’
‘You think so, Mrs Hudson? I fear that the script is too faded for any certainty in the matter.’
‘That’s probably true, sir. But of course the gentleman gave me his name when he called. Mr Godwin Branchester, sir.’
I am ashamed to confess that the name of Godwin Branchester meant nothing to me. It was only later that the eminence and influence of the man was explained and I came to understand why, at the mention of his name, a startled silence fell. For although the name of Branchester was never widely known amongst the public at large, amongst the circles of government it was whispered in awe.
Godwin Branchester was at that time a man of seventy eight years, but still a powerful figure in every sense of the word. His family was not remarkable, but his magnificent legal brain, his razor-sharp wits and, most of all, his tremendous personal authority had made him the pre-eminent adviser to the government of the day, regardless of its political hue. For nearly forty years he had maintained that position. He had advised prime ministers, admirals, archbishops, Lord Chancellors and, it was whispered, was the most trusted adviser to the Queen herself. He had long since retired from any official position but it was said that no foreign policy was formed that he had not first commented on, no new measures introduced that had not first been placed before him.
‘Godwin Branchester? Here?’ Dr Watson sounded slightly hoarse, as if the very thought made him nervous.
‘Yes, sir.’ Only Mrs Hudson seemed unmoved. ‘I explained that your train was probably delayed by the snow, and he agreed that was almost certainly the case, there having been so little of it.’
‘Well done, Mrs Hudson.’ Mr Holmes reached into his pocket for his pipe. ‘Watson, we must be on our mettle for such a distinguished visitor. I suggest we spend the time between now and his return in a period of quiet contemplation so that our faculties are rested and our minds prepared.’
Whether a period of calm would have achieved this outcome was never to be tested because as Mr Holmes finished speaking there was a sharp knock at the front door. Dr Watson, who had just returned to the drinks tray, jumped visibly. Mr Holmes raised his eyebrows. And I, crouched in one corner and mopping at a pool of water left by the gentlemen’s boots, decided to crouch a little lower in the hope that my presence would not be noticed.
In the silence that followed the knock, Mr Holmes allowed himself a low laugh that spoke more of anticipation than of amusement.
‘Well, Watson, it seems we are to wrestle with the problem without the benefit of rest. But the great affairs of state will not wait on our convenience. Mrs Hudson, would you be so good as to show our caller straight up? There is no need to announce him. This is one visitor who needs no introduction.’
In the minute or so that followed Mrs Hudson’s departure, a tense and rather awkward silence fell on the study. Mr Holmes remained seated with his eyes closed. Dr Watson, having poured another drink, seemed suddenly unsure what to do with it and finally solved the problem by drinking it off in one gulp. Unnoticed by either, I made haste to make the room ready for our visitor, sweeping the coal dust from the hearth and wiping away further marks of melted snow that the two gentlemen had left on the carpet. Intent on finishing my task, I didn’t look up when I heard footsteps outside the door, nor when Mrs Hudson’s polite cough heralded the new arrival. It seems that neither of the two gentlemen had looked up either because the next words Mrs Hudson spoke took us all by surprise.
‘Mrs Smithers, sir,’ she announced calmly. ‘Mrs Smithers wishes to consult you, sir. It appears her son-in-law has vanished into thin air.’