The Adventure of the Improbable Intruder

by Peter K. Andersson

“Although I am a man of reason, I cannot conceive of any theory that would account for the appearance of the strange little man in Dr. Whittington’s library, and the curious turn of events that followed.”

Holmes and I leaned forward to make sure we would not miss a word of our visitor’s narrative. He was a tall and thin man in his late thirties, sporting a pince-nez and a pencil moustache. His bony hands played nervously with the lower buttons on his waistcoat as he laid his case before us.

“My name is Christopher Petty, and I have been engaged as Dr. Whittington’s private secretary for five years. Dr. Whittington is an unsociable and reclusive gentleman who has enjoyed a long and distinguished career as an anthropologist, but who has chosen to spend his retirement away from the public gaze, allowing him to pursue his research according to his own instincts and inclinations. While I have been in his employ, we have together embarked on a highly innovative and original research into the medicinal qualities of certain types of weed native to the Home Counties of England, which Dr. Whittington believes to have played a formative role in the folklore and customs of that region. The work has been quite consuming, forcing us both to neglect our social lives, but earlier this year we made a breakthrough which meant that we found a reason to decelerate the intensity of our work. Dr. Whittington is a widower and has a grown-up daughter who is married and lives in India, so his social life is understandably limited, whereas I am engaged to be married with my childhood sweetheart, Dorothy, in the spring.

“To celebrate our successes, Dr. Whittington kindly invited us both to spend Christmas with him at Cumbersome House, his estate in Buckinghamshire, together with a few of his old colleagues and some local neighbours. The festivities were truly enjoyable, and I was delighted to see Dorothy befriending my noble employer. Dorothy and I were spending a few nights at the house, and as the guests of the Christmas dinner withdrew to their nearby homes, the only people who were left in the house, apart from the servants, were Dorothy and me, Dr. Whittington, and an old collaborator from his days at Oxford, Professor Seemly. Seemly is a frivolous and kindhearted gentleman, but he is quite old - I have not found out quite how old he is - and as a result somewhat forgetful, and suffering of an extreme crookedness in his back. I consider him an eccentric, which is expressed above all in his singular partiality to hazelnuts, a bowl of which he requires each night before going to bed. As we all retired for the night to our respective quarters, the large house was enshrouded in a drowsy slumber, and all was silence and darkness as the snow covered the valley.

“It was nearly two o’clock when I relit my bedside lamp and admitted to myself that I could not sleep. I suffer intermittently from violent bouts of insomnia, and when I am under its spell, there is nothing for it but to rise from the bed and find something suitable to read. Said and done, I impaled the bedroom slippers with my frozen feet and descended the staircase en route to the library. The library of Cumbersome House is vast and ancient, containing a complete collection dating back to the seventeenth century. Over the years, it has been added to by the various owners of the house, however, and I knew it to contain a number of quite current travelogues that I was fond of skimming through. However, stepping across the threshold, I immediately sensed that something was wrong. The room is a long and narrow gallery with windows on one side, and I could see in the moonlight that was filtered through the curtains a small figure moving in the shadows at the far side of the room. I hurried across to turn up the gas, and as I did so, I was perplexed to see the smallest person I have ever encountered, standing upright on top of the large table in the middle of the room. He could not have been more than a foot high, but his body was quite proportionate. He was dressed in a long grey robe and a curious headdress, and when the light was turned on, he turned to me with a vicious stare, made a sound like a snake hissing, and then quickly went down on all fours and scurried across the table, onto the floor, and out through a back-door, faster than a bolt of lightning.

“For a brief moment, I was completely paralysed, but after a few seconds, I ran after him to the door where he had disappeared. I then found the door to be bolted, and the only means of exit was a hole in the wainscoting beside it, where he must have made his escape. I returned to my bedroom, trying to banish the thought of having witnessed something supernatural from my head, but now of course sleep was even more difficult to find, and I laid awake in my bed until the first stream of light came in through my bedroom window, whereupon I ran to Dr. Whittington’s bedroom and knocked on his door. Fortunately, he was already awake, and I explained to him my experience as clearly and as soberly as I could. His reaction was naturally one of disbelief, but I saw in his face that he made an effort to take me seriously. He decided that we should make a complete search of the house for any traces of the character I had seen. My next instinct was to go and make sure that Dorothy was unharmed, and I was relieved to find that she had slept peacefully the entire night, as had our other guest, Professor Seemly.

“Our subsequent search produced no results, and as we all sat down to breakfast, I told the others my story again. We began to speculate how we might explain the incident, but no theory managed to encompass all of its strange aspects, until Dr. Whittington started to speak of the local traditions concerning brownies and elves.

“‘The old people of the area believe that every house is home to a brownie, a small fairy creature who lives under the hearth and helps out with the chores of the house. He is small of stature, usually dressed in grey, and has quite a temper. If you enrage him or fail to bring little gifts of food to him every now and then, he will punish you. This is a tradition that can be found among the simple people of many different nations, sometimes associating the brownie with elves and fairies, and, of course, leprechauns, all of which are mythical beings of short stature.’

“‘Oh, I have heard of this,’ replied Dorothy. ‘Are they not supposed to come out on Christmas night?’

“Dr. Whittington smiled amiably. ‘According to some traditions, yes, but one must not confuse the ancient traditions of brownies and elves with the quite recent fictions that mix elves with Father Christmas.’

“‘As in that American poem,’ I retorted. ‘“The Night Before Christmas”. Father Christmas there is described, if memory serves, as “a jolly old elf “.

“Dorothy giggled. ‘Was that who you saw, Christopher? Was it Father Christmas?’

“‘Now, don’t make fun of Mr. Petty,’ mumbled Professor Seemly. ‘I remember seeing fairies and all manner of things when I was a boy. I grew up in the country, you see, and if you live long enough in the country, sooner or later you will see one of them, in a barn or a meadow. Quite funny little things they are, too. Nothing to be afraid of. Now, where are my nuts?’

“As you might understand, I did not know quite what to think when faced with these eventualities. Had I been a witness of something supernatural? Was this an event that would prove to be epoch-making, constituting the first encounter with a brownie by a man of science? Or had my time in that part of the country caused me to fall under the same spell as the natives that made them believe in old superstitions? The whole matter made me exceedingly pensive, and pondering over it in the following days, I started to become used to the idea that I had actually seen a fairy. I have now practically accepted that these beings are among us, and I find the thought a gratifying one. The thought of them, even when unseen, will add a charm to every brook and valley and give romantic interest to every country walk. The recognition of their existence will jolt the material twentieth-century mind out of its heavy ruts in the mud, and will make it admit that there is a glamour and a mystery to life. However, there is still in my mind a kernel of doubt, and the consistently sceptical attitude of my mentor, Dr. Whittington, has induced me to consult you, only to hear your opinion on the matter.”

Mr. Petty leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, looking at the two of us with an expectant gaze. I glanced at Holmes, almost fearing that he would bolt from his chair and turn the poor man into the street. His face did betray incredulity, no doubt, but he evidently held back his innermost thoughts.

“Watson,” he said, “will you consult the good old index and see what we have on the matter of fairies and brownies?”

I made my way to the shelf and promptly extracted the correct volumes. Holmes received them and placed them in his lap.

“Now then, let us see. Hmm! This is a motley assortment of incidences if ever there was one. ‘The Dun Cow of Dunsmore’, ‘the Vicious Black Mask of the Simpsons’, ‘the Cotswolds werewolf’... Every one of these occurrences proved in the end to have quite natural explanations, as I am sure will be the case in this instance as well.”

“Oh, come now, Holmes,” I protested. “You cannot be certain of that. Mr. Petty’s experience was quite clear and sober. It is only reasonable that there are things in this world that we have not yet explained or discovered. Why, it is only a few decades ago that Chaillu confirmed the existence of the gorilla! Before that, the creature was as mythical as the unicorn.”

“I admire your broadminded stance, my dear Watson, but there are some points in this case that need clarification, comprehensible though Mr. Petty’s narrative is. I suggest we both accompany Mr. Petty to Buckinghamshire to investigate the matter. I trust you have no objection?”

“I am only too delighted to see that you take my matter seriously,” replied Petty.

“Splendid!” Holmes ejaculated. “You will come, Watson?”

Regrettably, I had a prior engagement which prevented me from accompanying my friend on this particular adventure. My announcement appeared to annoy Holmes slightly, as I am sure he had assumed I would take part in the case, but I explained that I was dining with my wife’s parents that evening, whereupon he smiled and declared that he quite understood.

“We must not forget our loved ones this time of year! Well, I shall miss your assistance, my friend, but I hope I will have an opportunity to report my findings to you shortly.”

Happily, I had a chance to visit my good friend on the following afternoon. I found him hard at work by his chemistry table, from which he looked up briefly to greet me, before resuming his experiment. I sat down with the morning paper and waited patiently for him to finish. Within ten minutes, he was sitting in his easychair in front of me.

“I trust your experiment has some bearing upon the Buckinghamshire case,” I said.

“The Buckinghamshire case? Oh that! No, no, I was engaged only this morning by the Earl of Pembroke in a most promising case of extortion. If all goes well, this will keep me occupied through the holidays and save me from having to indulge in plum puddings and mulled wine.”

“Do you really abhor Christmas that much, Holmes?”

“I do. Now then, I suspect you came here to learn the conclusion to the mystery of the brownie in the library? A most stimulating little problem. Completely elementary of course, but not without its points of interest.”

“Do not leave anything out,” I said eagerly.

“There is not much to tell. When we came to the house, it was already dark, but the people who had been in the house on Christmas night were still there. I spoke briefly to the doctor, the professor, and the future Mrs. Petty, and was given a full tour of the house by its owner. It was a spacious and imposing Georgian house with many nooks and corners and places to hide, but it was hardly the type of place that a fairy creature would choose for his home. Dr. Whittington interested me greatly. He was a broad-shouldered and burly man with a winning manner, despite his reclusive habits. As he stepped forward and greeted me upon my arrival, I was provided with a clue that allowed me to form a preliminary hypothesis. He first took me to the library, which I examined without any notable results. The lack of rewarding traces led me to require that I be taken to the upstairs bedrooms immediately. Here, I uncovered the first relevant piece of information, namely that Mr. Petty’s and Dr. Whittington’s bedrooms were next to each other. I found this worthy of note, especially since there is a ventilator connecting the two rooms.”

“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “This is that business of the Speckled Band all over again.”

“Ha! Not quite, Watson, but I see how your mind’s working.”

“But I don’t understand. What was the clue you acquired when you were greeted by Dr. Whittington?”

“His breath.”

“His breath?”

“Yes. He had a particularly bad breath.”

“That is hardly a thing that incriminates a man. Many men have problems with bad breath.”

“Yes, but Dr. Whittington’s bad breath was caused by himself, and I found the evidence by his bedside. A small ashtray that contained the remnants of cigar ash.”

“Nothing strange there. Apart from the foolishness of smoking in bed. But you do that yourself, don’t you?”

“This was not the ashes of an ordinary cigar. I only needed to examine them briefly to conclude that Dr. Whittington had been smoking the weeds that are the subject of his researches.”

“I see. But what does that mean?”

“His research - as he himself explained to me - concerns the plant known as Goat’s Horn, which grows in many parts of Buckinghamshire, and which has well-documented hallucinogenic qualities.”

“Good God! Do you mean he willingly drugs himself with that foul plant?”

“When I confronted him with it, he readily confessed, and said it helped him to relax from his work.”

“Outrageous. But I fail to see how this has bearing on the case.”

“Quite simple. When Dr. Whittington smokes in bed, the smoke comes into Mr. Petty’s bedroom through the ventilator in the wall, affecting him as much as it does the doctor.”

“So you mean to say that what Petty saw was all a hallucination?”

“That is only part of the picture. I realised when smelling the breath of the doctor that a hallucinogenic fitted into this somehow, but Petty’s experience was so distinct and his narrative so convinced, even when he was in a sober state, that I refused to think that the whole matter could be explained this way. He had definitely seen something in the library.”

“That was my thought as well. He seemed so certain of it when he told us his story.”

“Quite so. I proceeded to tour the house, but despite my exertions I found nothing. It was most disheartening, and to enliven my spirits, Dr. Whittington gracefully invited me to dine at the house. Over dinner, I made the acquaintance both of Petty’s delightful fiancée and of Dr. Whittington, who - in spite of his weaknesses - struck me as an intelligent and wise man. But it was also during dinner that I found the piece of the puzzle that was missing.”

“What was it?”

“Hazelnuts.”

“Hazelnuts?”

“Yes. You remember, don’t you, that Petty told us about Professor Seemly and his curious liking for hazelnuts?”

“Oh yes. I thought that was strange from the outset.”

“Yes, and Professor Seemly is a strange man, a true eccentric. I did not wish to cause him any embarrassment, so I waited until after dinner, when I followed him up to his room. I gave him time to disappear into his bedroom with his usual bowl of nuts, and after a few minutes I threw open the door. There they were. Professor Seemly, sitting by his desk, with his pet squirrel sitting before him, eating hazelnuts from his bowl.”

“A squirrel?”

“Yes. Pondering the professor’s nut obsession over dinner, I recalled Petty’s description of the brownie, how it had squeaked and how it had leapt across the table, and I thought: Might not a man under the influence of a drug, seeing some small animal from a distance of a few yards, mistake it for something that his hallucinations changed? I was right. Professor Seemly confessed immediately, and he was more than happy to confess it to the other guests, having all the while been unsure of whether his squirrel - who had escaped from his cage on Christmas night - was actually the culprit. Dr. Whittington also confessed his undue use of the weed in his bedroom, and there was a confusing moment of surprise and anger, but after some minutes of explanation and excuses, the spirit of the season was restored, and everyone at Cumbersome House was happy and content again. Mr. Petty was at first reluctant to admit that my explanation was possible, but this was only a brief outburst of pride, which was quickly superseded by recognition when the professor introduced him to his little friend.”

“Unbelievable, Holmes. What a stupid and simple solution. A squirrel at large in a country house!”

“Sometimes, my boy, Occam’s Razor is not nearly enough. There are times when Occam’s Hatchet is more appropriate.”

“Quite right, Holmes.” I glanced at the clock. “Dear God, is that the time? We had better hurry. Be a sport and go dress for dinner.”

“For dinner? What on earth for, Watson?”

“Because you are dining with me and my wife tonight. Come on, the hansom’s waiting downstairs.”

Holmes sniggered. “I truly abhor Christmas,” he said, and bolted from his chair.