The Problem of the Holy Oil

“Really, Sherlock, it’s time to put aside your petty puzzles from the police-court and turn your attention to more urgent matters.”

My friend smiled tolerantly toward his brother Mycroft, who was awkwardly readjusting his position in the massive red leather chair. During the many occasions wherein I had visited the Stranger’s Room of the Diogenes Club, that chair had always seemed to be exclusively reserved for the use of the stout man. In fact, I could not credit that any other member of the club, in the unlikely event that they would entertain a visitor in this room, would have the temerity to trespass upon that particular piece of furniture.

We had received a summons early that morning to Pall Mall, with the usual urgency and assumed compliance that all such communications from Mr. Mycroft Holmes contained. I had no doubt that the matter would be important – the man sometimes described as being the British government would be involved in nothing less. And I was also certain that, in spite of the festive atmosphere gripping the rest of the capital, we would find nothing like that frivolity within the reserved Diogenes. King Edward’s Coronation was just days away, and I had my suspicions that we were about to find ourselves involved in some behind-the-scenes machinations, rather as we had done in years past during both of our late Queen’s Jubilee ceremonies.

Still, my own attention was distracted, as I had recently become engaged to marry for the third time, a fact that Holmes viewed with some wry amusement. I was in negotiations to purchase a practice in Queen Anne Street, thankful to have received a great inflow of funds the year before, in the amount of my share of £12,000 from the Duke of Holdernesse upon the recovery of his son. Following our return from Yorkshire, Holmes had generously – over my vociferous objections – insisted on splitting the amount with me, an act which was now making itself most useful.

Watching Mycroft Holmes twist his bulk uncomfortably in the chair was a unique experience. I suspected that it had been specifically constructed for him, and his restlessness seemed to indicate something related to the nature of our summons. As he winced in displeasure, I was reminded of my own recent injury, a bullet wound from the American confidence man Evans, just a little over a month earlier. I consciously made an effort not to acknowledge the healing twinges, other than possibly allowing a slight tightening of my eyes before the pain faded. I have overcome worse wounds than this.

Even as Mycroft settled, Holmes glanced at me, missing nothing of course, not even my temporary ache. Then he replied to his brother. “Surely you cannot be serious. Make some more of it. Use something else. No one will know.”

“Personally, I might tend to agree,” grumbled Mycroft, “but word will get out – it always does, somehow. The legitimization of the coronation could well come into question. The King’s recent surgery has already caused too much disruption. And besides, there are some who believe in all this magical folderol.”

“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to catch this train.” Both brothers smiled. “Up until now, I’ve only been vaguely aware of ‘holy oil’. After all, there hasn’t been a British coronation in any of our lifetimes.”

“1837,” murmured Mycroft.

Sherlock Holmes picked up the small brandy resting on the table to his side – although the sun wasn’t quite over the yardarm just yet – and gestured toward his brother to elaborate. “I would know more of this enlightening oil as well, brother.”

Mycroft gathered his thoughts for a moment. “The idea of a regent being anointed goes back to Old Testament times, as you will recall if you learned your Sunday lessons. Moses is given instructions as to how to prepare such oil. Samuel anointed David the shepherd with oil to indicate that he was the chosen king. Subsequent Hebrew kings of old were anointed by the priests, and early Christian baptisms were sometimes carried out with oil as well, instead of water.

“In 493, Clovis of the Franks was anointed with the Holy Ampulla, a vial of oil supposedly sent from heaven, upon his conversion to Christianity. The act of anointing was referred to in Shakespeare’s Richard II. On several occasions—”

“I think we understand, Mycroft,” interrupted Holmes. “It is a part of the ceremony.”

“It is more than that,” replied Mycroft. “In addition to being symbolic, the application of oil is held to change the anointed one. It elevates them, giving them special knowledge and understanding. Something conferred from God above, establishing their divine right to rule.”

“And we British have bought and paid for this superstition as well?” scoffed Holmes.

“Indeed. And since the coronation of King Charles I in 1626, the oil has become much more entrenched in both its necessity and tradition for the ceremony.”

“I take it, then, that one cannot use simple salad oil for expediency’s sake.”

“Heaven forfend,” said Mycroft, the turn of a smile about his lips. “The Bible describes several ways in which the oil must be prepared, and it contains a variety of ingredients. With variations, the anointing oil is still prepared according to these and other ancient, secret recipes to this very day. Like the transubstantiated wine, it supposedly changes through the process, becoming something more than its parts. And the gravity and ceremony that go with the preparation only add to the mystery of it all.”

“And thus we move one step closer to last night’s crime.”

“Indeed. The theft of the oil.”

“Specially prepared for the King’s upcoming coronation. I ask again: Why not just make a new batch?”

“It is possible, I suppose. The chemist who prepared it is from the same company that made the oil for Queen Victoria’s coronation in ‘37. It supposedly contains elements from the previous batches, possibly stretching back into antiquity. Following its composition, according to a strict and traditional formula, it is then blessed by the Bishop of Gloucester at a ceremony held in the Chapel of Edward the Confessor at Westminster Abbey. Afterwards, it’s usually stored in the Deanery of the church. However, when the King’s coronation was delayed due to his appendicitis, it was felt for some reason or other that the oil, now consecrated and considered holy, would best be removed back to Squire and Sons, where it had been originally mixed.”

“And it was there that the robbery occurred.”

“Correct. Very prosaic, from what I understand. The back door was open, and nothing was taken but the urn with the oil. Sir Peter Squire, the appointed Chemist in Ordinary to the Court Pharmacy, is beside himself. He rightly notified the Palace instead of the police, understanding that word of the oil’s theft could not be made public. We could not even take a chance that the police might accidentally reveal the secret.”

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand,” said Holmes. “It is just oil, for heaven’s sake.”

“Exactly. For some people, it is ‘for heaven’s sake’.

“I stated it that way intentionally.”

“I’m aware of that fact. But don’t take this too lightly. Objects take on power, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have to remind you of that. You recall, for instance, the search for The Eye of Heka, and what would have been done if that ugly sculpture had been returned to those who sought it.”

Holmes nodded, and I recalled it as well. I was still relieved that Holmes’s deception had not been uncovered in the years since.

“Whom do you suspect?” he asked.

“The obvious candidate, one that has been put forth by Sir Peter, is a Russian reporter for Iskra who was lurking around there yesterday.”

“Doing what?”

“Ostensibly, reporting. He claimed to have questions about the holy oil. Somehow during the conversation, before they could chase him away, he apparently learned that the oil was being stored on the premises. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, the oil is gone. It’s hard to argue against some sort of connection.”

“Hmm. Anyone else?”

“I suppose that the usual agents could be involved. Hugo Oberstein is now out of prison, unfortunately, and La Rothiere has been up to his old tricks.”

“This isn’t their style.”

“Agreed. But just now the capital is buzzing like a hive with espionage agents of every stripe. The coronation is just days away. It’s like a gathering of the clans for some of them.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. “These are all the current known agents – including the fellow from Iskra who visited Squire’s yesterday.”

My friend glanced over the sheet. “But you don’t think any of them are involved,” asked Holmes cannily.

“No, and neither do you,” replied his brother.

“Why?” I interrupted. “You said that this could call the legitimacy and validity of the coronation into question. Wouldn’t that suit an enemy agent down to the ground?”

“Possibly,” answered Mycroft. “But to cause such unrest, there would be no need to actually steal the oil. Simple rumors that it was stolen, or perhaps not blessed or prepared properly, would be enough to discredit it. But the experienced agent understands that there is the danger of a quid pro quo. We are not the only nation to make use of such a ritual, and the same tactic used against us could be used by us at some point in the future. It is a can of worms that a professional agent would not want to open. They would comprehend the resulting moves and countermoves, and this Pandora’s Box, to change my metaphors midstream, would cause problems for their own masters as well as for us. No, mark my words, this is the work of a non-professional. Do you agree, Sherlock?”

“Perhaps. Possibly it was someone who read of the oil in the Russian newspaper, some anarchist or anti-Royalist.”

“But here’s the rub – we obtained today’s copy of Iskra, and there is no story in it whatsoever about the oil.”

“Nevertheless. Say the reporter took it for some reason, or mentioned it to an anarchistic acquaintance who involved himself. There are certainly enough of those crawling out of the woodwork of late. As you know, we are also growing them at home now, those who complain – rightly so – about the expense of a coronation event when there are starving people within a mile of the Palace.”

Mycroft frowned. “That is a tangent that I wish to table for the present. Back to the matter at hand. Will you go to Squire’s in Oxford Street to continue the investigation?”

“First, I would rather speak to the man who is organizing the coronation, and was responsible for setting into motion the preparation of the new oil in the first place.”

“Sir Grayling Beade,” responded Mycroft. “A man grown old in the service. Rather a civil servant, I’m afraid, when compared to how one normally imagines a knight. His father lost the family fortune when Sir Grayling was just a young fellow – he inherited the title and the good will of the Royal Family, but little else. It is unfortunate that his labors have not been more rewarded. Just bad luck all the way around.”

“Could he, then, not be the thief?” I asked. “To sell the oil in order to obtain lacking funds?”

“Nonsense,” assured Mycroft.

“But—”

“Doctor, I assure you that Sir Grayling can be removed from your consideration. He has already been investigated in regard to another matter that need not concern the two of you – without his knowledge, unfortunately. He has a complete bill of health.”

“If Mycroft says so, Watson, then we can cross him off. In any case, even if he were the one to steal it, how would it help him? Who would buy this holy oil?” Holmes smiled. “I’m aware of no fence that traffics in illicit anointing fluids. Although perhaps our thief could get a few pence by repackaging it as scented lamp oil.”

“Enough!” said Mycroft, waving a flipper-like hand toward the door. “Let me know if I can help.” And with that, it seemed that we were dismissed.

Outside, Holmes adjusted his fore-and-aft and questioned whether we would need a cab. “Not at all,” I replied. “The walk will do me good.” In answering, I had neglected to take into account the convoluted plans of my friend, incorrectly predicting that we would stroll west, making our way down through Marlborough Gate, Cleveland Row, or one of the other streets by St. James’s Palace before reaching The Mall. Instead, Holmes turned east, toward Piccadilly Circus, and I hurried to catch up.

His reasoning soon became apparent when we turned at Waterloo Place, pausing halfway down the Duke of York’s steps below the column to look at the building squatting nearby, 9 Carlton House Terrace, responsible for so much mischief in recent years.

“One has to wonder,” Holmes said softly, “whether we’ll find that this theft was instigated by someone inside that edifice, perhaps watching us right now, even as we watch them.”

“The Kaiser would certainly like to disrupt his uncle’s coronation in any way that he can.”

“No doubt. And yet, this doesn’t have the feel of one of his typical little pranks.”

I laughed. “Pranks indeed! If he’s not careful, he’s going to throw us all into a war.” Then I saw the look that crossed Holmes’s face, and my laughter stopped.

“Oh, it will be war, Watson, rest assured. It’s not a question of if, but when. Mycroft has been singing that song for quite some time, and has long since converted me to his way of thinking as well.”

“I fully recall all the times that you – and I to some lesser degree – have been involved in preventing this or that plot, as instigated by the Kaiser and his advisors. But surely, Holmes, it’s all a piece of some grand game, a chess move here or there, a treaty or a whisper to gain influence that will give one side or the other a temporary advantage. Who benefits from such a war?”

“You know that as well as I. The military industrialists on both sides of the conflict. Surely you recall that shadowy game played by Professor Moriarty, in which he tried very much to advance this sort of agenda.”

“I do. But the politicians will figure it out.”

“As they figured out Afghanistan? Or more recently, our affairs with Brother Boer? Do not believe it. The Kaiser’s ambitions, while appearing rather silly to us on the surface, are quite a serious matter to the Germans, I assure you. And with the death of the Queen, followed by the ever-increasing web of alliances, entanglements, treaties, marriages, and very real demands for raw materials and respect, it’s just a matter of time until a spark starts a wildfire.”

“I am horrified.”

“And you should be. But you should not be surprised. It will be a withering east wind, my friend. We are doing all that we can, Mycroft and I, and you as well, to prevent it, or at least mitigate the effects. As you know, Mycroft is pressuring me more and more to abandon my Baker Street practice and devote my full energies completely toward his cause. I must admit that I’m considering it, although the best way in which to do so is still being determined.”

His gaze focused far away for a moment before he pulled himself back. “But sufficient unto the day is the labor before us. Faces west, then, and quick march!”

And so saying, he turned from the base of the steps where we had tarried, finally making our way along The Mall, St. James’s Park to our left and the Palace wavering before us in the distant late-morning haze, coming into focus as we progressed.

Eventually we reached the confluence of the Palace gate, St. James’s, and Green Park, where we presented ourselves for entry. We were apparently expected, and I realized that a telephone call had most likely been made from within the Diogenes Club, announcing our impending arrival. I realized that I was mildly surprised, but shouldn’t have been. Unlikely as it might initially seem, considering the façade that the Diogenes labors to present as simply a haven for unclubable men, and also what is secretly controlled from there by Mycroft Holmes, the presence and necessity of a telephone should really be no surprise at all.

Passing inside the grounds, we were led to a side door away from all the ostentatious bulk, and thence along less traveled hallways to mean little rooms where the real business of managing the Royal Family took place. Soon we were seated in the modest chambers of Sir Grayling Beade. He seemed pained to be serving in such restricted conditions, and to have us observe it. He offered us tea, which Holmes waved away, but I moved to accept a cup to counter the unexpected damp chill within the bowels of the building, even on this warming August day.

“What can I tell you?” asked Sir Grayling.

“My brother informed us that the coronation oil is missing, along with some of the history and mumbo-jumbo superstition behind it—” I winced, as did Sir Grayling, but Holmes continued, “—and I need more specifics about the Royal Perfumer, or whomever it is that decants the stuff into the bottle, and how it came to be stolen.”

“Surely you should simply go to the chemist where it’s made. That’s where the robbery occurred.”

“I could, but I’d rather collect some data beforehand instead of marching in half-prepared.”

The tea arrived just then, along with some plain biscuits. I took two, noting that the fine china was apparently reserved for the upper levels of the building. However, these weathered but solid plates and mugs did the job.

Sir Grayling, who had also requested a cup, took a sip and said cautiously, “I don’t suppose you’ll need to speak to the King?” He said it as a question, but with a wary aspect to it as well.

Holmes looked surprised. “Why on Earth would I need to do that? Can he tell us anything about the theft?”

“Of course not. But you would be surprised how much of my job begins and ends – and it isn’t even a part of my duties, you understand! – with fencing off requests for access to the Sovereign for one reason or another. A request. A favor. Or simply for the pleasure of bragging that one has met him. Naturally, I thought—”

“You were mistaken,” said Holmes. “I really do want to ask you some questions. In any event, I have met the King. I don’t believe that he feels the need to renew our acquaintance, and I certainly reciprocate the sentiment. Watson!” he barked suddenly, making me start and spill some tea.

“What?”

“Do you need to see the King?”

“Hmm. Oh, not today, I suppose. Not this time.”

“Very well then.” He turned back to Sir Grayling. “About this oil.”

The older man nodded, set down his teacup, and laced his fingers before him. “Right. The oil. Well, it’s made up by Sir Peter Squire, of Squire and Son in Oxford Street. This is the first batch that he personally has made, you understand. He wasn’t even born when Queen Victoria was crowned. It was his father, also Peter Squire, but never knighted, who mixed it on that occasion. The Queen already knew him, you see. Peter, the father, I mean. He had been her chemist when she was still a princess.

“Old Peter – who wasn’t so old then, I suppose, at least not as old as I am now – mixed up some of the oil in ‘37, and it was blessed by the Bishop and used, and the excess was stored away. It was assumed, I understand, that it would be good for a long time indeed, and could be used for this coronation as well. It was still blessed from the first time, and that doesn’t go bad, you know. But the oil itself did go bad. Coagulated, I’m told. Rancid. Solid as a rock.

“So Sir Peter, the son of the original Peter, located the recipe, still in his shop. He has a copy, and obviously they keep it all written down at the British Museum as well. Sir Peter will have to tell you what’s in it. I’ve only heard of half of the things that were mentioned. In any case, it was mixed and delivered to the church back in June, taken straight to the Abbey and blessed, and then the King became ill. Everything was put on hold, and if the surgery had failed – well, I hate to think about it. Someone thought of the oil, and it was assumed by us that it would remain stored at the Abbey, but suddenly for some reason they got their backs up, worrying about it and insisting that it be returned to Squire’s. They had some idea that the chemist had a secret method for keeping it fresh, I suppose. And so it was delivered back there. What we didn’t realize was that the chemist shop is apparently even less secure than the Deanery at Westminster.”

“I assume,” said Holmes, turning on a new course, “that Sir Peter is a man above reproach.”

“Oh, absolutely. He isn’t part of the King’s crowd, if you know what I mean.”

I nodded, and Holmes said, “We understand.”

Sir Grayling’s eyes narrowed at some memory, as if he were a man with a toothache. I was sure that he could tell us stories of our sovereign – but then, we could tell a few to him, too.

“We’ll be visiting Squire’s next, but what do you know about the robbery?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. Sir Peter called me this morning when it was discovered that the oil was missing. Thank goodness he didn’t involve the police. Apparently the thieves ignored everything else, and simply took the urn of oil.”

“How much of it is there?”

“Oh, a pint or two, I suppose. I’ve never seen it. With only a few drops to be wiped on the King here and there, it certainly isn’t as if we needed gallons of the stuff.”

“Do you know where it was kept? In a safe perhaps?”

“I don’t believe so. You can ask Sir Peter when you visit. In any case, the fact that it wasn’t kept in a safe is just another way that it made no sense for the Abbey to insist that it be returned there. Certainly, no one would have ever expected that it would be stolen, either. After all, who would benefit from stealing it?”

“Oh, I can imagine that one or two reasons might be found.”

“I bow to your greater experience in the matter. I gather that those one or two uses you imagine are just what your brother is afraid of – somehow discrediting the legitimacy of the coronation, or worse. Personally, I simply need to have it back, or a new batch made up, within the next couple of days so that the ceremony can proceed. These other earth-shaking fears are beyond my concern at present, and I have no more time to devote to it, I’m afraid.”

He rose, unlacing his fingers for the first time since the discussion began. Spreading them on his desk, he leaned closer and asked, “If you’re going to Squire’s next, may I offer you the use of a royal carriage?”

With ready acceptance, we found ourselves a short while later riding up New Bond Street, approaching Oxford Street. I couldn’t help but notice that the occasional pedestrian would pause and look at the royal equipage and try to see who was riding within. Holmes was indifferent; I tried to look the part, with limited success.

The carriage soon stopped in front of 413 Oxford Street, the sanctum of Sir Peter Squire. We stepped to the pavement and our transport pulled around the corner into Duke Street, waiting for us off the main thoroughfare until our business was complete. Holmes propped on his stick before him and looked up at the four-story brick building, restrained in its quiet elegance, and labeled eloquently as Squire and Sons – Chemists and Druggists Upon the Establishment in Ordinary.

Smiling, Holmes said, “How much extra, Doctor, are some of our fellow citizens willing to pay for the simple privilege of having that label on their medications?”

“Likely too much,” I said. “If Sir Peter were dishonest, he could probably give them expensive sugar pills instead of actual medications, and the bragging rights of doing business with the Queen’s chemist would still serve as a most effective placebo.”

“If he were dishonest. The assumption is that he is an upright fellow. I have heard nothing but good things about him over the years.” He raised his stick and gestured me forward. “Let us see, then, what we shall see.”

We entered the shop, one of three in that building, to be met with that faint astringent odor that I had come to recognize over the years. The Squires may have developed and maintained a relationship with the Crown, but their day-to-day bread-and-butter still came from providing to those who toiled for their bread. A friendly looking fellow behind the counter acknowledged us, and even as he was asking if there was any assistance that he could provide, the sound of hurried footsteps approached from the back of the building. The source soon revealed itself to be a tall man, quite formally dressed for an encounter in such a shop. Clearly, this was Sir Peter Squire.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. Thank you for coming. This way please.”

He made no offer to shake our hands, a courtesy clearly forgotten as he wrung his own. The friendly fellow behind the counter allowed a worried frown to pass across his face before nodding to us and returning to his post.

As earlier at Buckingham Palace, we were quickly led away from the public face to where things happened behind the scenes – to elaborate upon a thought by Bismarck, where the sausages are made. I looked around at the plain and functional rooms, with no extra expense wasted on paint or decoration. That was saved for the front of the shop. Here were men, as well as a few women, carrying out the routine tasks that they had done the day before, and would do tomorrow and so on. Mixing medications, forming tablets, pills, and pellets, measuring liquids and then diluting them with others, and affixing those ornate square labels to the front of each bottle and packet, proclaiming that this medicine was good enough for royalty, and thus everyone else would be lucky to have it.

We went past several areas of workers, each intent on their tasks, but all glancing toward us beneath lowered brows or cutting their eyes in our direction before turning away. We were only amongst them for a few seconds, just long enough to reach a larger room at the back of the building, poorly lit by the southern sun feebly streaming through a window and door, both opening onto some kind of court.

In the room was a small man, resembling some medieval alchemist, seated at a worktable. No one else was about, and I wondered why he rated his own separate area. He was an odd-looking fellow, hunched forward, apparently from years of carrying out the same sorts of repetitive tasks. He had several bottles and jars spread before him, all at different clock points around a centrally located mortar and pestle. He had been looking at something in a book beside him, the forefinger of his left hand pressing down upon a page to mark his place. He finished his reading as we entered, looked up, and scowled.

“This is Earnshaw,” said Sir Peter, without another word of introduction. Clearly, we were workmen there to repair a problem, and he was treating us the same as if we were plumbers fixing a pesky leak. “He discovered that the oil was missing this morning. Tell them, Earnshaw.”

The small man remained sitting, straightening as best he could on the stool. As the light shifted on his face, I could see that he was older than I had first thought. He rested his hands loosely on the workbench while he talked, but the right would roll this way and that as if emphasizing some point. I quickly saw, however, that his motions weren’t timed to coincide with any particular statement. Rather, it almost seemed to be some sort of palsy.

“I arrived this morning and found the door broken open,” he said in a rough voice. “I’m the first one here.”

“Earnshaw is our oldest employee,” said Sir Peter. “Worked for my father. He’s the one who made up the oil.”

“I see,” said Holmes, speaking for the first time since we’d entered. “And you noticed that it was gone.”

“That’s right. I kept it there.” He nodded his head toward a set of nearby shelves, along the wall behind the workbench. “I noticed it first thing.”

“They left this,” said Sir Peter, handing an envelope to Holmes. He looked at it a moment, making one of those little Hmm’s when he saw something of interest. Then he passed it to me. It was plain and cheap, yellowed with age, but otherwise in good condition. There was no writing on the front. Inside, folded neatly, was a worn five-pound note.

“Curious,” said Holmes. “You have a rather honest thief, at any rate. Not counting the inconvenience, does this just about cover the cost of the materials used in the oil?”

“Why, yes, I would think so, and Earnshaw’s time as well.”

“And you make the oil, then, Mr. Earnshaw? Not Sir Peter?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Holmes. Not me,” answered our host. “I learned my craft at my father’s knee, and at Earnshaw’s here, too, but I’m past that sort of thing. Earnshaw is the master. He takes on all our special projects, and does research besides. He has a gift.”

“And you say the five pounds would pay for the oil?”

“I suppose so, if it was simply a matter of measuring and mixing the raw oil and spices. Isn’t that right, Earnshaw?”

The older man seated behind the bench nodded. “So I would calculate. Mixing it up was not a problem. It was more a matter of comparing the recipes, the one that we kept here, and the one from the Museum.”

“I’m something of a chemist myself,” said Holmes. “What exactly is the mixture?”

Earnshaw seemed to puff up, reaching for a book that was squared against the back corner of the work bench. He began to flip through the leaves while speaking. “Anointing oil is a holy effort, as instructed by God. Here it is, Exodus 30, Verses 22 through 33.” And he read aloud:

22 Then the Lord said to Moses, 23 “Take the following fine spices: 500 shekel of liquid myrrh, half as much (that is, 250 shekels) of fragrant cinnamon, 250 shekels of fragrant calamus, 24 500 shekels of cassia—all according to the sanctuary shekel—and a hint of olive oil. 25 Make these into a sacred anointing oil, a fragrant blend, the work of a perfumer. It will be the sacred anointing oil.

He closed the book and laid it back on the bench where it had previously rested. Holmes asked, “And do you follow this biblical formula precisely?”

Earnshaw shook his head. “I would, but we must use what has come down to us from Charles’s coronation. Oils of orange flowers, neroli, roses, and jasmine. Cinnamon, musk of civet, and ambergris. All mixed in Oil of Ben.”

“Ah, yes. Pressed from the seeds of the Horseradish, or Ben Oil Tree, and found at the base of the Himalayas in northwest India. Not a likely place for an oil that ends up being used in such a western Christian ceremony.”

Earnshaw scowled. “So I thought, too. But it’s the traditional way, and it’s the blessing of the Bishop that makes the difference.”

“You certainly are knowledgeable, Mr. Holmes,” added Sir Peter. “Something of a chemist, you say?”

“Yes. A grasp of chemistry has been useful in my line of work. Along the way, I’ve made a little study of oils. Oil of Ben is named for the Behenic Acid contained therein, although it is only one of several: Behenic, Palmitic, Stearic, and Oleic Acids. Actually, the Oleic Acid makes up the majority of the acidic content, more than double all the other acids combined. And yet, it is oddly called Oil of Ben. Did you know that many cultures in other parts of the world use Oil of Ben for cooking? But here we find it, being specified to crown English Kings. How curious!”

He smiled, but Sir Peter and Earnshaw seemingly had no response to this chatter, although they both appeared to be impressed. “Do you mind?” asked Holmes and, without waiting for a response, he stepped nimbly around the table and to the shelves. He leaned in with his lens, giving me a chance to glance around the room. It was immaculately kept, as much as such a room could be, with neatly labeled bottles in precise rows. The floor was well swept, and even the light coming through the glass in the window and door revealed no streaks or grime.

But what stood out most were the various religious artifacts spaced about Earnshaw’s workspace. Crucifixes of varying sizes hung along the walls. Upon one of the shelves, placed beside a couple of green-glassed jars, was a stack of religious tracts, showing what seemed to be a stylized drawing of Jesus and the woman at the well.

“You have been very careful with the oil,” said Holmes. “There must have been none on the outside of the urn, as there is no corresponding ring upon the woodwork of the shelf.”

“I wiped it carefully after I filled it last June,” said Earnshaw. “I don’t suppose the church had any reason to open it during the time they had it.” Then the older man fell silent, his right hand continuing to move irregularly, as he seemingly waited for us to leave so that he could return to his task.

After examining the shelves, Holmes made his way without comment over to the back door, which he opened and closed several times before bending to look more closely at the lock. I realized that the room was quite stuffy, and wondered why no one had opened a window or ventilated the place better. Perhaps air currents played havoc when trying to mix powders.

“Where do you go to church, Mr. Earnshaw?” I asked to break the silence.

“St. Mary’s, off York Street. I live near there.”

“I know it well. Holmes and I share rooms nearby in Baker Street.” I waited for him to return this conversational lob, but he let it fly by and fall unanswered.

“After you entered this morning, Mr. Earnshaw,” interrupted Holmes, “and you noticed that the oil was missing, what did you do next?”

“I made sure that nothing else was taken or broken – we fear vandals here, don’t we, sir?”

“We do, Earnshaw,” replied Sir Peter.

“I was about to call the police, but the master arrived and stopped me.”

“I knew that this had no business being revealed in the press. It was talking to the press that got us into this mess.”

“You refer,” I said, “to the reporter yesterday from Iskra.”

“Yes. Foul revolutionary rag. The reporter, a Jacob Richter, came into the front of the shop, and was first thought to be a customer, despite his appearance. However, he asked for me, and when Allardt, the man up front, came in the back to find me, Richter followed him, into this very room. He identified himself and said he was writing an article about the coronation. He somehow already knew of the oil, and our old association with its manufacture. He started to ask questions about how it was made, and why such a thing was even necessary in this day and age—”

“It was clear,” interrupted Earnshaw gruffly, “that he didn’t believe.” He said it in such a way that his condemnation for the reporter was clear and final.

“And you think that the Russian came back last night, broke in, and stole the oil?” queried Holmes.

“Yes,” interrupted Sir Peter. “Obviously. That it should be stolen on the very night that he was here asking about it? Of course it was him.”

“Why would he leave the five pound note?”

“Who knows what is in the mind of these Godless Bolsheviks,” said Earnshaw.

“I’ll tell you another thing,” added Sir Peter. “He knew where we kept the oil. When he first asked about it, before we could get him to leave, I’m afraid that Earnshaw gave away the game by looking right over at the shelf where the urn was standing. That reporter followed his gaze and knew immediately what he was seeing. He wanted us to open it for him, let him look at it, perhaps even touch it.”

“Over my dead body!” muttered Earnshaw.

“And you hustled him out at that point?”

“We did. I summoned help, and soon he was on the street.”

“Was he angry? Did he make any threats?”

“No. More than anything, he seemed amused. Thanked us for our time and wandered away down Oxford Street.”

Holmes glanced at the materials spread out before Earnshaw. “Are you making more oil, just in case we cannot locate the stolen batch?”

Sir Peter gave a groan and placed a hand over his eyes. Earnshaw merely looked down at his hands, resting before the mortar, the right regularly turning this way and that. Holmes glanced at me, a smile dancing around the corners of his lips as he waited for the next twist to reveal itself. I was glad to see that he could enjoy himself. It indicated that he had a clear idea what had happened and how to resolve it, thus allowing me to smile just a bit myself.

“We can’t make any more,” Sir Peter finally explained. “Just before you arrived, when I suggested to Earnshaw that he get started doing that very thing, he checked, and it turns out that the receipt has been stolen as well!”

“This is really quite satisfactory,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands together. “So your earlier belief that nothing else had been taken was incorrect.”

“Yes, it was. And frankly, Mr. Holmes, I don’t understand your attitude. This is catastrophic – not even in terms of my own business and reputation, but for the monarchy as well. Surely you were told of the importance of the holy oil? Without it, there can be no legitimate coronation.”

“Did I not hear,” I tried again, “that a duplicate of the receipt was also kept at the British Museum? Why not consult their copy?”

“Because, Doctor,” snapped Sir Peter, “we had already consulted it, having borrowed the volume back in June to compare with our own. It was still here. And now, it too has been taken, along with our copy.”

“What about the old oil, used to anoint the Queen?” asked Holmes. “Can it not be salvaged at all?”

“Show him, Earnshaw.”

Reaching behind to a lower shelf, Earnshaw retrieved a small container, something like a highly decorated jewel case, about two by three inches in area, and a couple of inches deep. Framed in gold, it stood on four little feet with a hinged lid. He set it on the bench and flipped it open. A wash of foulness immediately filled the room. The oil, indeed, had turned.

Sir Peter waved a hand toward it. “It has hardened beyond recovery. We used some scrapings from this into the new oil, in order to provide continuity going back to Queen Victoria, and beyond, but there is no way that this solidified brick can be revitalized.” He reached over and flipped the lid closed.

“What about simply adding some of this to a mixture that is close to the original recipe?” I asked. “After all, this has already been blessed. That should carry it over from the part to the whole.”

“No,” mumbled Earnshaw. “It doesn’t work that way. It must be the traditional recipe, entirely blessed, or the King cannot be crowned. When the people learn of it, they will not stand for it.”

“I’m afraid he’s right,” added Sir Peter. “Without the recipe, we cannot make new oil for the ceremony. And even if we do, we cannot successfully address the government’s concern that the theft could cast a shadow of doubt on the coronation.”

Holmes had clearly seen enough. With a last glance around, he abruptly thanked Sir Peter and Earnshaw, then turned to return toward the front of the shop.

“Mr. Holmes… ?” called Sir Peter.

“We go to speak to the Russian reporter,” the detective replied. “Matters look grim. We can but try.” And with that, he was off, while I followed, glancing back in time to see Sir Peter and Earnshaw exchanging puzzled glances.

Outside, Holmes waved over our carriage. “I suppose we have to go ahead and speak with the Russian reporter,” I sighed.

My friend smiled. “Nice to see that you’re caught up. Yes, if only for the sake of completeness, in case someone should ask why we didn’t. I take it we are in agreement?”

“Provisionally. I’m sure that you saw more than I did, but I think that I saw enough.”

“Observed, rather. You have been at this for some time now. Don’t discount your abilities. It’s nice to see that you’re less timid in reaching your conclusions than in the past.”

He glanced at the sheet given to him by Mycroft. “37a Clerkenwell Green,” he told our driver as we found our seats.

“Clerkenwell,” I sighed. “Couldn’t it have been in Bloomsbury?” Holmes simply laughed.

We proceeded east down Oxford Street, only varying our route once, to steer into New Oxford Street approaching High Holborn, based on Holmes’s impulsive instruction to our driver. At No. 199 High Holborn, he jumped down and went into a corner shop. Through the window, I could see him speaking to the man and woman behind the counter. I realized what he was asking, and their enthusiastic cooperation was no surprise. In a moment, the man called forth a boy of about ten from the back. He received instructions, and then Holmes wrote a short note, which he folded and handed to the little fellow. The lad then shot out the door, nodding to me with a smile as he passed back the way we had just traveled. One of the Irregulars, young Alf Peake, was now clearly on a mission.

Resuming our journey, we turned north along Red Lion Square and into Theobalds Road, and thence into Clerkenwell Road before finally reaching our destination, a plain little confluence of streets and dark-bricked buildings.

The less said of that unpleasant visit, the better, but it must be addressed for completeness’ sake. Along the way, Holmes and I had discussed the best way to question the reporter, Jacob Richter. It was barely possible that he was the thief. If not, the last thing we wanted to do was let him know about the theft if he had no knowledge already.

We entered to find the man alone, writing feverishly at a rough deal table. No efforts had been made to make the place presentable. This, then, was the office of Iskra, one of the many Russian revolutionary newspapers that sprung up around London. The stench was quite ripe, and as Richter stood and walked toward us, pushing it in front of him, I realized that he personally was responsible.

He was an odd fellow, with a high forehead. His receding hairline was so prominent, in fact, that it resembled some sort of full-face wax mask pressed back over his true visage. His eyes had a stretched and Mongol-like appearance, reflecting his peasant origins. His skull was like an inverted teardrop, bulbous at the top, and narrowing toward his chin, which sported an asymmetrical and untidy goatee. But perhaps the most striking feature about him were the angry red patches upon his cheeks that I identified as Erysipelas, no doubt exacerbated by his dissolute and unwashed lifestyle.

An unpleasant smile lit the man’s face, and he said (in a thick accent which I will not attempt to reproduce,) “Mr. Sherlock Holmes! And his lick-spittle dog, Watson.”

Holmes glanced at Mycroft’s list. “You are Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, currently and illegally masquerading as Jacob Richter?”

The smile was wiped from the man’s face. “I am Jacob Richter.”

“Do not take us for fools, Mr. Ulyanov. You are the reporter for this… newspaper?”

“I am a founder and editor.”

“And you have been here in London since April, I see, associating since that time with a number of revolutionaries, including Leon Bronstein, also known as Leon Trotsky. Do you deny it?”

“I have nothing to deny. I have done nothing wrong.”

“Why are you interested in the upcoming coronation?”

“Ah, I understand.” He presented a most unpleasant grin. “My visit to the chemist’s shop has come back to haunt me. And why should I not be interested? Am I not responsible for gathering news? The former Tsarina was the sister to your King’s wife. The current Tsarina is your Queen’s granddaughter. Your King’s son and the Tsar, along with the Kaiser, are all first cousins. They all claim to rule by divine right, legitimatized by your God. I am interested in the process. I shall never be able to find out specifics about the coronation of a Tsar. But your country is much less secretive. All the parts of the whole are available for inspection, to those who are willing to do a little work and ask a few questions. I read in one of your newspapers about the use of the oil, an aspect that is common to many royal coronations. I decided to investigate.”

“And thus you barged in to Squire’s uninvited in order to do so.”

“So I scared the brave knight? Very sorry,” he sneered. “But there was no need for him to worry, and especially to call out the hounds.” He paused, looking us up and down. “Or in this case, the curs.”

I started to take a step forward, but Holmes placed a restraining hand upon my arm. “No need for that, Doctor,” mocked the Russian. “You have nothing to fear concerning my interest in your king. The revolution I care about must start in my own homeland first. Only when we succeed there will its truth spread here, to all of your oppressed. In the meantime, England makes a most wonderful place to carry out our work until the time is right.”

“You would do well to avoid taking any interest in British affairs, Mr. Ulyanov,” said Holmes. Lowering his voice, he added, “I’m sure that you understand.”

I wasn’t sure exactly what specific threat that Holmes was implying, but his reputation seemed to be enough to educate the Russian. “You have nothing to fear from me, Englishman,” he said, the defiance in his voice substantially reduced. “I have more important work to do.”

“Then we shall bid you farewell.” He started to turn, and then stopped to add, “It might be time for you to consider returning to the Continent, Mr. Ulyanov.”

“My name is Jacob Richter.”

“Indeed. You have been warned, Mr. Ulyanov.”

Back outside, I inhaled deeply, regretting that the man’s stench would be hanging upon my clothing for a considerable while longer. “Where to now?” as I located the royal carriage, waiting just up the street. I glanced back and saw Ulyanov, as I now knew him to be, glaring out of the window toward us, where our driver was now approaching. He saw me observe him, and with a snarl, he turned and vanished back into the shop.

“I believe that some lunch is in order. Then, we should retrieve the oil.”

We made our way down to the Strand, and so to Simpson’s, a favorite of both of us. We each had the famous roast beef, and there was something of a celebratory feeling about the meal, carried through to our cigars and brandy. Outside, we resumed our seats, and Holmes gave the driver instructions to drive to York Street. The afternoon sun, following the filling repast, was quickly making me drowsy, and I sat up straighter to counteract it. Holmes himself was deep in thought, and appeared to be quite alert nonetheless.

We pulled up in front of our destination. If not for the various stained glass windows, the plain tan bricks wouldn’t have given any indication that St. Mary’s was indeed a church. I understood that Holmes had arranged for the meeting here when I saw Alf Peake walking toward us, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder. “After I delivered your note, we went to his rooms, and then here, like you told him. He’s inside.”

Holmes fished out a few coins. “Thank you, Alf. We will take care of things from here.”

The boy saw how much that Holmes had given him and his eyes widened. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes!” He turned to scamper away, and then looked back, touching a finger to his forehead. “Doctor!” Then he was gone.

Inside, we removed our hats, and it took only a moment for my eyes to adjust before I saw Earnshaw, slumped in a front pew, eyes cast upward toward a modest crucifix mounted upon the wall. He heard us approach, and turned with a haunted look in his lightly tear-rimmed eyes. Beside him was an urn, the urn, not quite a foot tall.

“I had your message,” he said. “I told Sir Peter that I was ill. He didn’t see your lad deliver the note. He thinks that I’m upset because of worry. Thank you for giving me a chance to return it here, in the church, and not at Sir Peter’s shop. I couldn’t have born the shame.” His right hand twitched on the seat at his side. He sighed and asked simply, “How did you know it was me?”

Holmes sat down beside him, and I moved up to the pew in front, sitting as well, and turning so that my arm rested along the back, in order that I might see and hear. Near the front of the church, a man was making some sort of repair to one of the high-backed chairs. He noticed us, but paid no other attention and continued with his work. Our voices remained soft throughout, and there was no danger that anyone would overhear our conversation.

“It was really rather obvious,” said Holmes. “You stated that someone had broken in. Yet, there was no sign of damage to the door, or indications on the floor of intruders. You get there first in the morning – thus you have a key. You are a conscientious enough employee that you couldn’t even damage the door in order to falsify a burglary. You returned last night and carried away the oil. When you returned this morning, you unlocked the door.

“Then, it turned out that both recipes for preparing the oil were taken. While a thief could easily find the oil, locating those documents would be more difficult. Their theft betrayed inside knowledge.

“But more than that,” he continued, “your other action betrayed you.”

“The money,” he sighed.

“Exactly. A man who showed an unwillingness to damage his employer’s property, along with such signs of religious fervor, couldn’t simply steal something that didn’t belong to him without making some effort toward recompense.”

“Why, Mr. Earnshaw?” I asked. “What would cause you to violate your own beliefs and steal from Sir Peter? From the Crown?”

“It was for the greater good,” he said, a hardness coming into his voice. “I suddenly saw that I had a chance to prevent that man from becoming king. When I made the oil last June, I considered doing it then, and how to do it, but there was no way. I followed the recipe, and they were watching every step of the way – Sir Peter, a few of the other employees, a man from the Palace. They took it away to be blessed, and it was out of my hands. But then the King had appendicitis, and they thought he was going to die. I believed it was God’s hand at work, His decision to prevent that man from being crowned. Yet, he was saved. And so my despair grew.

“For some reason, the Abbey decided that they would feel safer to leave the oil at Squire’s. There it was, in my hands again, day after day, and I knew that without it, they couldn’t crown him. Even so, I couldn’t quite bring myself to take it.”

“Until yesterday, when the Russian reporter so handily presented himself.”

“That’s it exactly. He pushed his way into the back of the shop, asking about the oil. He even noticed where it was kept. Sir Peter saw him do it. I realized that God had given me a perfect way to hide the oil and prevent the crowning.”

“Hide it?” asked Holmes. “You couldn’t just pour it out?”

“It has been blessed. It can’t be wasted.”

“Did it not matter,” I wondered, “that, in allowing the Russian reporter to be blamed, you were casting false witness upon him?”

Earnshaw scowled. “He is a Godless revolutionary. He was sent by the Lord to fulfill the purpose – the purpose that you have now prevented.”

“And not only did you take the oil,” said Holmes, ignoring the accusation, “but you also took the recipes as well, both that from the shop and the copy from the British Museum, so that more couldn’t easily be made.”

The old man reached into his coat, pulling out a folded sheet of aged paper and a small black book. Placing them into Holmes’s hands, he said, “That’s right.”

Holmes put them into his own pocket. “You stated that, when the oil’s theft was discovered, you wanted to call the police,” added Holmes, “but you were prevented by Sir Peter. This, no doubt, was intended, before you were stopped, to bring the situation to the public’s attention quickly, in order that the coronation would have to be delayed once again.”

“That’s right.”

“But surely,” I said, “it would only be a delay. Some solution would have been found. You can’t imagine that because this one urn of blessed anointing oil was missing that more wouldn’t eventually be made?”

“I trust in the Lord. I thought that if the matter was delayed again, as it was from last June, there would be time for a more permanent solution, for people to realize that this man has no business being king. God arranged the situation that allowed me to take the oil. Now you’ve prevented it. But God will certainly do something else to spare us – provided that doctors and detectives and the like don’t step in and save him again!”

I was astonished at the man’s beliefs. “Why do you object so much to King Edward?” I asked.

Earnshaw straightened abruptly. “He is a sinner! It’s no secret. The adultery, the gambling. The mistresses and the brothels that he frequents. His mother the Queen blamed him for the death of his own father. And his children are just as bad.”

Holmes glanced at me, and I could see we shared the same thoughts. The notes in my tin dispatch box, where these will go as well, were filled with various cases involving scandals and worse in which the man who would shortly be crowned was involved. “Still,” I said, “who are you to decide the fate of a king?”

He didn’t answer. Rather, his lips simply tightened into a grim smile, and his eyes drifted up toward the crucifix which he had been pondering when we arrived.

Holmes reached for the urn and stood. “Go back to work, Mr. Earnshaw.”

The old man lost the smile and refocused his eyes upon my friend. “What? I’m not under arrest?”

“I am not a policeman,” said Holmes. “I have no authority to arrest anyone. I will simply explain that the oil has been recovered. My reputation will preclude any further questions, should I wish it that way.

“I understand your concerns about the King – in fact, I share many of them. But what you attempted, which was no doubt a sore temptation, given the unique set of circumstances that were presented to you, was not the correct way. Although I myself do not credit divine intervention in this case, you might console yourself that the King was saved from his appendicitis two months ago, and that in itself might be taken as something of a comforting sign.”

Earnshaw shook his head. “No, Mr. Holmes, I don’t believe so. I don’t believe so at all. There’s a withering east wind coming.”

I was surprised to hear Earnshaw parrot Holmes’s earlier pronouncement. And while his reasoning for predicting grim tidings was very different, I knew that in the end, one way or another, both he and Holmes were likely to be correct.

Without any other conversation, we left the old man slumped in the pew and returned to the sunshine outside. I should have felt pleased that the matter was resolved so easily. However, I seemed to have absorbed some of Earnshaw’s concern over the fact that we were preparing to crown a man of such questionable moral integrity.

“One can only hope,” interrupted Holmes.

“What?” I asked, already realizing that he had interpreted my thoughts yet again.

“One can only hope that the position will shape the man, rather than the opposite.” He shook the urn. I could hear the liquid roll inside it. “Perhaps a dab or two of this on him will be enough to do the trick after all. Let’s get it back to Mycroft.”

We boarded our carriage and set off for the Diogenes Club. I noted that the wind was in the east.