The Adventure of the Handsome Ogre

by Matthew J. Elliott

While I have long been of the opinion that this particular incident occurred late in 1901, I see from my records that it was, in fact, in the December of 1902 that Sherlock Holmes received a telegram summoning us to the chambers of the legal firm of Austin, Freeman, and Redfern. My friend was far from enthusiastic, having only recently accepted a case from Scotland, where Lord Drumforth had somehow managed to misplace the valuable Star of Rhodesia. However, the message assured us that the present matter was an urgent one, and so, somewhat reluctantly, we ventured out.

Holmes refused to be drawn into speculation as to what might await us at Temple Gardens, and thus our cab drive was spent in uncompanionable silence, which at least enabled me to give some thought to the forthcoming festivities at Sir Boris Wyngarde’s home, to which we had both been invited. Holmes had churlishly thrown his own invitation into the fire, and I wondered if he was in danger of taking on the characteristics of the famous misanthrope Ebeneezer Scrooge, but he showed some sign of cheer upon sighting the familiar bony frame of Inspector Alec MacDonald, awaiting us in the doorway.

“I’m aware that Cornelius Redfern summoned you, of course, gentlemen,” said the Scotsman, as he attempted to light his pipe in a bitterly cold wind. “Believe me, I’m always glad of your assistance, but honestly, I’m not sure that there’s much for either of you to do.”

“Whyso, Mr. Mac?” Holmes enquired.

“Simply because it shouldn’t be too difficult to lay our hands on the fellow who did this.”

This was an assurance we had both heard from police officers on many previous occasions, and even though it came from the lips of one of the capital’s most competent police agents, I found it difficult to conceal a grin.

“Surely it’s fairly easy for a criminal to disappear among this city’s teeming millions,” I suggested.

“Not this criminal, Doctor. All three witnesses are agreed, he was some sort of beast - an ogre, Miss Arundell called him.”

In my many years of association with Sherlock Holmes, I could not ever recall hearing the term “ogre” before, but it was as music to the ears of my colleague.

“Perhaps this case will be worthy of my attention after all,” he murmured. “A fitting Christmas gift from the Yard to its most reliable helpmate.”

“The body’s upstairs, sir,” MacDonald told us, “in the anteroom.”

In all my musings as to the nature of our enquiry, I had not considered that it might involve a murder - Redfern’s telegram had certainly not indicated anything of that sort. I asked the inspector whose body we would be examining, and was informed that the unfortunate fellow was Mr. Redfern’s junior, a young gentleman by the name of Wellesley Cobb.

At the head of the stairs we found our way into the plain anteroom, blocked by a tall bluff fellow with a broad, clean-shaven face.

“Inspector, this is extremely inconvenient,” he complained, and his unexpectedly high-pitched voice grated on my ear.

“Inconvenient for the dead man as much as anyone, Mr. Ratchett,” MacDonald replied, unruffled.

“I’m not concerned for myself so much as for my cousin,” Ratchett went on, although I sensed that it was indeed his own inconvenience that he was concerned about.

“You can tell the young lady that the body will be removed from the premises as soon as Mr. Sherlock Holmes here has had a look at it.”

Moon-eyed with astonishment, Ratchett examined both of us before settling his gaze upon my companion. Holmes gave a slight, stiff bow.

“Your servant, sir.”

Emitting a series of incomplete, partially comprehensible exculpations, Ratchett backed away, eventually disappearing into a room to the right, which I imagined contained the office of the gentleman who had summoned us, Mr. Cornelius Redfern. I was struck by Ratchett’s unusual gait as he backed away, and wondered aloud whether the gentleman, while a little young for the condition, might not be suffering from a touch of gout.

With his absence, my attention shifted to the corpse of Wellesley Cobb, splayed out before us on the rug. A young man, not quite thirty the inspector told us, but his chubby features giving the impression that he was younger still. His arms were stretched out as though, in his final moments of life, he had been desperately attempting to reach something above or behind him. My first thought was strangulation, but when I loosened Cobb’s collar, I saw no indications of violence inflicted upon his throat.

“He was killed by the robber before he entered Redfern’s office,” MacDonald observed. “Probably didn’t want him summoning the police. The only thing that’s unclear to me is just how he died. He wasn’t shot, or stabbed. He doesn’t appear to have been struck on the head.”

“Injection, perhaps?” I mused, though an examination of Cobb’s exposed skin did not reveal evidence of any punctures, simply a silvery mark on his wrist.

“You have been very thorough, Inspector,” said Holmes. “But if you don’t mind me saying so, not quite thorough enough. Did you, for example, take a good look at his nose?”

MacDonald and I both frowned at this suggestion. Holmes did not elaborate, but simply handed me his magnifying glass. How he had seen them from such a distance I cannot say, but with the aid of the lens the presence of tiny fibres inside each nostril became clear.

“What does it signify?” MacDonald asked, when I had related my discovery.

“It signifies that the intruder smothered Cobb,” Holmes explained, “probably with his cap, if he wore one.”

“All three witnesses say he did.”

Holmes strode up and down as he spoke, re-enacting the actions of Cobbs’ killer, I imagined.

“He came in, found Mr. Cobb in the anteroom. The briefest of struggles ensued - as you see from his frame, Cobb was far from athletic. I wonder if the intruder even meant to kill him, or simply to render him unconscious. Mr. Mac, I take it you noticed the ginger hairs beneath the victim’s fingernails?”

The Scot nodded. “I left them there for you to see, Mr. Holmes.”

“Really, Inspector, the Scottish variety of policeman is far more cooperative than our home-grown variety. Well, you’re quite welcome to give Mr. Wellesley Cobb the attention he deserves.”

I sighed loudly. “A death at any time is tragic, but right on top of Christmas, it seems particularly sad,” I observed.

“Especially as he had just become a father,” Holmes added.

The inspector started. “That’s what Mr. Redfern says, sir, but how on Earth did you know?”

“Note the cigar in his breast-pocket. And yet I see no case or any other smoking paraphernalia - it was clearly acquired for a special occasion.”

“I wish I could applaud your deduction, Holmes,” I told him.

“It’s not always gratifying to be correct. Now, if the inspector has no further need of us, we shall be in Mr. Redfern’s office.”

We entered as Ratchett was again protesting his enforced confinement. He twisted his body awkwardly to acknowledge us as we entered, as though he feared to move his legs.

“Our apologies, Mr. Ratchett,” said Holmes. “Please continue.”

“Oh, I was just remarking that I was becoming a little restless,” he explained, before introducing us to his cousin, Helen Arundell, a young woman with a clear-cut, sensitive face and an air of self-assurance I might have described as noble.

“Gentlemen, I’ve read a good deal about you, of course,” she said, betraying none of the alarm exhibited by her relative, or even by our client, Cornelius Redfern, a bow-backed gentleman of sixty or so, with an impressive and well-groomed moustache. On the desk before him lay a large, empty wooden box. Similarly empty was the heavy metal safe which stood ajar in one corner of the office. I observed little festive ornamentation, and perhaps it was just as well, considering the grim sight that had greeted us upon our arrival.

“I have absolute confidence in the ability of Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes,” Redfern began, “but I have asked you here to recover the items stolen by this - this thing.”

“I believe Miss Arundell used the term ‘ogre’,” I said.

“And an ogre he was, Dr. Watson,” she replied. “I’ve never seen such a mis-shapen face.”

I wondered whether she might be referring to an injury or a physical deformity, but realising that the young woman was undoubtedly unqualified to make such a distinction, I decided against asking her that particular question.

“What concerns us is the recovery of Miss Arundell’s property,” Redfern said. “Five thousand pounds in golden sovereigns.”

“This was not, I take it, a normal legal transaction,” Holmes remarked. “A small fortune in gold sovereigns is certainly a rather unconventional Christmas gift.”

“An inheritance, Mr. Holmes,” Miss Arundell explained. “My inheritance. You have perhaps heard of Major Harold Beaton?”

I could not speak for Holmes, but I was certainly familiar with the name of one of the heroes of the Siege of Ladysmith. Ratchett interrupted her to state that they were his only surviving relatives.

“And he left the coins to you both?” I asked.

“To Helen,” Ratchett said, with ill-concealed irritation. “I inherit his country home - Barwick Hall. Rather a dilapidated old place - it might fall down before I get a chance to tear it down. We are here for the official reading of the will, and for Miss Arundell to take delivery of the coins stored in Mr. Redfern’s safe. Hence my presence - to carry the box of coins. Well, drag it, anyway. Fearfully heavy thing.”

“And empty now, as is Mr. Redfern’s safe,” Holmes noted.

“The brute-man wasn’t too choosy about what he took,” said Redfern, his moustache twitching with annoyance. “The contents of my safe, and the coins, all went into his Gladstone bag.”

I was growing ever more curious about this intruder, whom the young lady referred to as an ogre, while her solicitor called him a brute. I could not help but picture the illustrations I had seen of the unfortunate named Merrick.

Holmes asked if the thief might not have been sporting some sort of gutta-percha mask.

“I think we would all have spotted a mask, Mr. Holmes,” Miss Arundell replied. “I tell you the robber was some sort of hideous thing - a ginger-haired ogre! He burst into the room, waving a gun about, demanding that we all raise our hands, as though we were characters in a melodrama. And the way he spoke - as though he hardly knew how to move his own mouth. Even the way he stood seemed out-of-the-ordinary.”

Ratchett gave his cousin a condescending pat on the shoulder. “Helen, my dear, I don’t think these gentlemen are interested in ‘feminine intuition’.”

“It wasn’t feminine intuition, Gilbert, it was observation.”

Knowing that to be one of the few things with which Holmes had any patience, I saw that the lovely young woman had his complete attention. He encouraged her to proceed with her recollections.

“Well, he seemed to hold his right shoulder higher than the other, perhaps another symptom of his deformity.”

“And the hand in which he held the gun?” Holmes asked.

“The right. And there was one other thing I noticed, though I couldn’t say if it is of any significance whatever, but after he fled, I watched him from the window. I saw him cross the road, and disappear round the corner. But just before he crossed, he did a rather odd thing. He looked in the wrong direction.”

This did indeed seem rather odd, but I could not see that it could be of any importance either. Holmes, however, found her remark of considerable interest.

“Miss Arundell,” he said, taking her hand as though about to bid her farewell, “were it not for the fact that I am obligated to work with Watson here, I would consider you an excellent help-mate. I have no doubt we will be able to restore your gold sovereigns to you before the Christmas festivities are over.”

The head of Alec MacDonald appeared at the door, and he informed us that the body of the unfortunate Mr. Wellesley Cobb had now been removed.

“Thank heavens!” Ratchett exclaimed. “I must say, this has been quite an ordeal! Come along, Helen.”

I have previously mentioned the gentleman’s unusual gait which caught my attention as we conversed in the anteroom. Now, as he made his way rapidly to the door, I was aware of a peculiar jangling noise. Holmes stretched out a long, thin arm to bar Ratchett’s way.

“Just a moment, sir,” he said. “I can’t help but notice that there seems to be something amiss with your trousers.”

Ratchett was aghast. “Really, gentlemen! If you’re simply going to resort to personal abuse, I must insist upon leaving!”

Holmes withdrew his arm, but before anyone had a chance to move, he dropped down to his knees and withdrew a gold sovereign from the turn-ups of Ratchett’s trousers. “And there are several more in here to match it.”

“Good Lord!” Ratchett cried, in the most annoyingly false display of astonishment I have witnessed. “How - however did they get in there?”

“However indeed?” Helen Arundell wondered, and I knew from her withering tone that she was in no doubt that her cousin had seen them fall from the thief’s Gladstone bag and picked them up before anyone else in the office had noticed.

In spite of the fact that he had yet to be accused of anything, the bounder insisted on protesting his innocence. “It’s clear to the meanest intelligence what must have happened! Some of the coins must have missed the bag as that creature was attempting to fill it, and - and - bounced into my turn-ups. Without me noticing.”

“I suppose it’s possible, if not exactly probable,” observed the lawyer.

“The very maxim by which I live, Mr. Redfern,” said Holmes.

Feebly, and while attempting pathetically to smile, Ratchett restored the coins to his unamused relation. “Thank-you, dear cousin,” she said through pursed lips. “I think it would be for the best if we took separate cabs. Gentlemen, the compliments of the season to you.”

“And to you also, Miss Arundell,” I responded.

With Ratchett begging for a few shillings for the fare, the two departed. Holmes and I shared a wry grin. Would that every element of this case could be resolved so amusingly.

Redfern thrust his thumbs into the pockets of this waistcoat, a gesture clearly meant to indicate that he wished to expound.

“Gentlemen, you would be justified in imagining that the theft of my client’s property and the murder of poor Cobb would be sufficient cause for concern, and yet I must own that there is something else troubling me, a personal issue. You see, this terrible beast didn’t just help himself to Miss Arundell’s gold sovereigns. You observe that the door to my safe is open? He cleaned it out. A few papers of negligible value... and a parcel.”

Holmes’s eyes brightened with barely-contained excitement. “I wish to be able to assist you, sir, but I can hardly do so unless you are completely forthcoming.”

“It was a Christmas gift. Intended for a married lady whose name, I’m sure you would understand, I would prefer not to mention. The package in question contained a cameo of the lady’s likeness. If the thief should, by some remote chance, identify her, then not only might I become a target for blackmail, but there is also the matter of how the woman’s husband might react. I freely confess that I am not a brave man when it comes to physical disputes.”

I have made no secret of my own colourful romantic history, but not once have I ever become entangled with a married woman, and it troubled me that in assisting Redfern, we might be giving a man license to conduct an illicit affair. I expressed my concerns to him.

“Oh, you need have no fear over that, Dr. Watson,” the lawyer replied. “You see, after the theft, I came to realize - well, what a silly old fool I’d been, to be flattered by a pretty young female. I thought I was immune to such things. But if you are able to put the cameo back in my hands, I’ll gladly smash it into a thousand pieces and thank my good fortune.”

“And the efforts of a consulting detective,” Holmes pointed out. “I can certainly lay my hand upon the man who took it, and do so without the knowledge of the police. I hold Inspector MacDonald in the highest esteem, but he’s on the wrong track entirely if he expects to find the thief based entirely upon his singular appearance. Mr. Redfern, it is very likely that you will hear something from us by end of day.”

“Thank-you, Mr Holmes. I should very much like to spend Christmas Day free of all anxieties. Save, of course, for my grief at the loss of my junior.”

I had expected Holmes to instruct the cab we took from Redfern’s office to return us to Baker Street, but instead he directed the driver to my club, of which Holmes was not a member and had hitherto refused to attend in the role of guest.

“We progress, Watson,” he announced.

It was my considered belief, his promises to Cornelius Redfern notwithstanding, that we were as much in the dark as ever. I said as much to Holmes.

“Not while the one person who can shed light on the mystery sits in this cab. No, Watson, I do not mean myself. Rather, I think it exceedingly likely that you might shed some light on the mystery.”

I guffawed. “You’ll forgive my bluntness, old chap, but I cannot possibly imagine how.”

“Nevertheless, it’s clear to me that the man who stole Miss Arundell’s sovereigns and Mr. Redfern’s cameo is a medical man. And, yes, I am well aware that there must be several hundreds in this great city, but the gentleman we seek is quite distinguished, I believe.”

“If you mean distinguished by his horrific appearance,” I said, “then I quite agree, but I cannot think of anyone within our profession who matches that description.”

“Oh, the fellow’s features are entirely irrelevant. And while his possession of a Gladstone bag is suggestive, it is by no means my sole means of determining the man’s vocation. You remember MacDonald remarked upon the silvery stain on the wrist of the unfortunate Mr. Wellesley Cobb?”

Now that Holmes had drawn my attention to it, the inference seemed plain. “Silver nitrate. The killer was taking his pulse.”

“As I suggested, Watson, it was never his intention to murder Cobb. And Miss Arundell observed his peculiar stance - one shoulder higher than the other. It’s a common condition in those who teach; it comes from reaching up to write upon a blackboard. So our murderous thief is not simply a doctor, but one sufficiently skilled to be in a position to pass that knowledge onto others. I would add that he is a man of exceptional physical strength - five thousand pounds in gold sovereigns is, as Mr. Ratchett pointed out, rather heavy. And there is one final point - when he crossed the road as he fled, he looked in the wrong direction. Now why should he do that? Because he was expecting the traffic to be coming the other way. Ergo, a foreign doctor who teaches. Now, should we be able to locate an individual who meets those exact criteria?”

“I can think of someone instantly,” I told him, “Ronald Hatton. He’s an American - well, born in this country, but raised in America. He’s recently begun teaching physiology at the University of London. But this won’t do at all, Holmes.”

Holmes said that he was inclined to agree.

“Cobb tore several hairs from his attacker’s head did he not? Ginger hairs. Well, Hatton’s hair is blonde.”

My colleague nodded. “I observed traces of glue on the ends of the strands. He wore a wig for his criminal endeavours.”

“Even so, Hatton can’t be the ogre. His good looks are much remarked upon.”

Holmes was not to be put off by this, and enquired whether there might be a record of his address at the Hippocratic Club, which - as the name suggests - takes its membership almost exclusively from the medical profession. I said that I thought it exceedingly likely.

“Then you now understand my directions to our driver.”

It is probably true to say that, had he not been deemed a foreigner by the club’s secretary, obtaining Hatton’s address might have been a more torturous affair. As it turned out, I experienced no objection, even receiving the felicitations of the season as I departed, and within the hour, we found ourselves on Elmhurst Avenue, discussing the difficulties that still remained in this case, specifically how a handsome man like Ronald Hatton could have appeared to three people as a hideous beast. Believing him capable of some sort of transformation in the manner of Stevenson’s Henry Jekyll was a rather fantastical notion.

Hatton’s house, Number 37, had already caught my attention before we had even ascertained that it was indeed the correct address. It had begun to snow quite heavily half-an-hour before, but I could see that condensation had collected on the windows, suggesting that the temperature inside must be ridiculously high, even to combat the cold without.

“Is Hatton maintaining a Turkish bath?” I wondered aloud.

“I believe this might explain the one element of this case that still puzzles you, Watson,” Holmes replied, opening the gate.

I made my way to the window and attempted to see what might be occurring inside. Through the beads of liquid running down the glass, I could make out a desk, on which sat a large bowl of steaming liquid - clearly the source of condensation, then - and an open Gladstone bag. My heart sank at the sight of it, and I grew positively alarmed upon realising that lying face down upon the floor before the desk was not, as I had first imagined, a rug fashioned from the skin of some wild animal, but the prone figure of Ronald Hatton. I reported to Holmes what I had seen. I have rarely managed to surprise my friend, and I take no satisfaction in this being one such moment. This was clearly not what he had expected to discover. I prepared to break down the door by putting my shoulder to it, but discovered it instead to be slightly ajar. Holmes indicated the path, and I observed a set of small footsteps in the snow. Someone had been here very recently.

“Proceed with caution, Doctor,” Holmes advised as we stepped inside.

I withdrew my service revolver from my pocket, and we entered the room in which Hatton’s body lay. He did not move when I called out his name, and a brief examination confirmed that he was, indeed, dead. As with the unfortunate Wellesley Cobb, I detected no signs of injury, and no indication of fibres within his nostrils.

Holmes picked glass of brandy from Hatton’s desk and handed it to me. “Sniff, but for heaven’s sake, don’t taste!”

My friend’s senses are considerably more acute than my own, but I could just make out the faint odour of wood alcohol. One good gulp would result in either blindness or death. In the case of Ronald Hatton, it had been the latter. The day was beginning to take on the quality of a nightmare.

Holmes was more displeased with his failure to foresee Hatton’s death than his inability to prevent it. “Of course, that man was no career criminal,” he said. “He must have been acting under someone else’s instructions. Whoever they were, they were not in the least interested in the gold sovereigns.” He picked a handful of coins from the Gladstone bag and allowed them to tumble through his fingers. They were of less moment to him also than the present puzzle.

“Holmes,” I protested, “in spite of your deductions, in spite of the money, I just don’t see how Ronald Hatton could have been the hideous intruder Redfern and his clients described.”

“Paraffin, Watson,” he responded, by way of explanation. “Heated and injected into the face, it can alter the contours, turning well-regarded features into those of an abomination. One has to admire the ingenuity, if not the use to which it was put.”

I looked once again at Hatton. He appeared to me the same as ever.

“I should add that when subjected to hot water and steam, the paraffin oozes from the pores. Hence the state of the windows. I have heard of something similar being done in America, but-”

His attention was diverted by the creak of a floorboard. The sound had not been made by Holmes or myself, and most certainly not by Hatton. There was, therefore, a fourth person in the house. I drew my revolver, and instructed the intruder to make himself known to us.

“You wouldn’t shoot a lady, would you, Dr. Watson?” There appeared in the doorway a plump, diminutive woman of thoroughly unappealing aspect, her hands raised in the air. I sensed not fear in her tone, but rather mockery.

“If it should turn out that you provided Dr. Hatton with this glass, my friend may not have to shoot,” Holmes informed her. “A noose around your neck will do the job just as well.”

She regarded the body on the floor before her. “Poor Ronald didn’t know his own strength. Of course, I had to kill him for that.”

I was frankly startled by the lady’s brazen attitude and her willingness to admit responsibility for the terrible crime.

“I recognise you from the illustrated crime news,” she went on. “You’re Mr. Know-It-All Sherlock Holmes. But you don’t know it all this time.”

“The man responsible for killing Wellesley Cobb lies here,” I pointed out, “and you have just confessed to the murder of this man. I respectfully suggest that you might supply everything that is presently unknown.”

“Not I, sir. My name is Mrs. Eliza Bradley, and I am simply what you might term a ‘facilitator’. But I know that you have some sway with the police, sir. If you were to speak to them on my behalf, I’m certain I can lead you to the gentleman with more sins to his name than I can count.”

I have never before visited the sort of establishment run by Eliza Bradley, but I was well aware that, during my time in the army, many of my fellow officers frequented similar houses in search of entertainment while on leave. Often, they returned with more than they bargained for, despite my insistence that their free time could be spent more profitably with either a hand of cards or an improving book.

The lady led us to a cramped, bare room with a large window upon one wall, displaying the interior of the room beside it, decorated in the most appalling taste, and presumably intended to reflect someone’s notion of what a maharajah’s palace might look like. As such, no concessions to Christmas were on display. There was little light to see by, save for what emanated from that other room, in which Mrs. Bradley now sat upon a divan, sipping tea from a delicate embroidered cup. Holmes drew my attention to four regularly spaced gaps in the dust at our feet.

“A camera has been placed here until very recently, in order to photograph the goings-on in the next room. Evidently, some sort of trickery is involved here: a mirror on one side, and plain glass on this. It’s still possible that out voices may be heard, so try to remain as quiet as possible, Watson.”

I did as I was instructed, hoping silently that we would not be forced to wait for very much longer. As it turned out, less than five minutes passed before an attractive young lady entered Mrs. Bradley’s room and informed her that she had a visitor.

“Show the gentlemen in, please, Gwendolyn.”

Despite the fact that, during a conversation with Mrs. Bradley on the journey from Scotland Yard to her place of business, I had been apprised of what had occurred, I was still surprised to see Mr. Cornelius Redfern, the solicitor, enter the room.

He refused to sit, and pooh-poohed the notion of a cup of tea.

“I received your letter, Mrs. Bradley,” he said, “though I cannot imagine what business you imagine you and I might have. I am aware of the nature of this house, and I wish you to know I find it quite disgusting. How you and your clientèle have avoided imprisonment is beyond me.”

Mrs. Bradley set down her cup. “Many gentlemen come here, to indulge their... tendencies. And sometimes when they’re here, they talk. They’re not always careful what they say around my employees. I’m very generous to those employees who bring me any information that might make me some money. So when a visitor mentions a London solicitor who regularly deals in stolen goods, and who happens to have one item of particular value in his safe at the moment, of course I’m thinking of the best way to extract it. Not that I would ever do it myself.”

Redfern smiled, but it was evident from his tone that he was far from amused. “Naturally,” he said. “That would be quite unladylike.”

“Couldn’t have put it better myself, sir. But another of my regulars happens to be a doctor - an American, clever sort, important. Open to persuasion. And he says that yes, on reflection, there is a way he could do the job and no-one would ever know it was him. He even plans to steal a few other items to make it look like an unplanned robbery. But then he goes and kills someone, this Wellesley Cobb. My commiserations, Mr. Redfern, I hope he wasn’t a close friend.”

“Simply an employee, but in a very different line of work from your own staff.”

Mrs. Bradley’s smile was, unlike that of her guest, quite genuine. “I wonder if he knew about your little secrets, sir. I mean, the number of valuable items that pass from one person to another in your offices! I’ve never heard the like!”

Redfern turned as though to leave. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And our conversation is concluded. Good day.”

From behind a cushion, Mrs. Bradley produced a cameo, the very one Redfern had earlier described to us. “You won’t want this, then. Don’t recognize the lady, don’t suppose she even exists. But the funny thing is... when I shake it, it rattles, as though there’s something inside it. Now, I wouldn’t know what to do with something like this, but I expect you have someone waiting for it already. I’m not greedy woman, Mr. Redfern - a quarter of what you expect to make will do me very nicely. I need to buy presents for my girls, you see.”

Redfern was evidently prepared for the demand, for he produced a sheaf of notes from his pocket, and tossed them into Mrs. Bradley’s lap, snatching the cameo from her grasp as she regarded the money.

“Now, Watson!” hissed Holmes. Without waiting for me, he was through the door of our hidey-hole. I followed, and saw that he had already positioned himself outside Mrs. Bradley’s room. The door opened slightly, and I heard Redfern say, “We shall not meet again, madam.”

The door opened fully, and the solicitor barged into my friend. The look upon his face was a mixture of surprise and horror. “Holmes!” he cried.

“A very good evening to you, Mr. Redfern,” my friend replied. “May I ask what you have there?”

“My - ? It’s nothing! Nothing at all!”

Holmes plucked the cameo from Redfern’s hand. “It appears to be the stolen cameo. Watson! And it rattles. How peculiar.”

“It seems there’s something inside, Holmes,” I suggested, mischievously. “Perhaps if you were to give it a twist...”

Ignoring Redfern’s protestations, Holmes did as I suggested. The cameo split in two, revealing that it was nothing more than an ornate container. And within, a beautifully-cut jewel that could hardly be unfamiliar to anyone with a daily newspaper within arm’s reach - the missing Star of Rhodesia.

“Mr. Redfern, how do you account for this?” asked Holmes.

“This cameo is... it’s not the one I lost,” he replied, entirely unconvincingly. “This lady here asked me to look after it for her.”

“I suspect that is not entirely true, is it? Everything you have said in this room has been overheard. Inspector MacDonald is awaiting your pleasure outside. Perhaps by the time you gentlemen have been reintroduced, you will have devised a more convincing explanation. My apologies, sir; it seems that your Christmas Day will not be free from all anxieties.”

It seems that the inspector’s assurance that, in return for assisting in the capture of Cornelius Redfern, Mrs. Bradley would spend the rest of her days behind bars was not a particularly compelling bargain. She evaded capture, fleeing through a hidden exit in her establishment, doubtless used by her most prominent clients. When last heard of, she had resumed her unwholesome activities in Marseilles. It would seem that both Scotland Yard and Mr. Sherlock Holmes are content that she should remain there.