The Adventure of the Knighted Watchmaker

by Derrick Belanger

As I sit in my heated room and watch the wonderful winter rains envelope the streets of London through my window, see automobiles splash through the puddles, and hear the weathermen on the radio warn that the storm will not abate for another twenty-four hours, I am reminded of my first winter with Sherlock Holmes at our rooms on the first floor of 221b Baker Street over forty years ago.

Of course, that year the rain was much fiercer and caused terrible damage around all of England. It was in late December, 1881. Harsh gale winds pummeled the country from the coast to the hills. The Thames rose and nearly overflowed into the streets, and with the wretched weather came a lack of business for Holmes and myself. Indeed, for most of December, Holmes found himself without a case. London’s citizens were not yet familiar with the name Sherlock Holmes nor his intellectual skills. The police, however, had already grown tired of Holmes’s smug attitude towards them. Though he was correct in all the cases he worked alongside the Yard, most of the force, besides inspectors such as Lestrade and Gregson, who were able to put aside their pride and recognize my dear friend’s superior skills, kept their distance from the consulting detective, preferring to use their own methods of deduction, as bumbling and incompetent as those methods were at the time.

With the foul weather, my few patients had dwindled as well. No one wanted to brave the wretched rains, preferring to stay home sick rather than to pay a call to the office where, at the time, I was filling in as a locum. So it was that Holmes and I found ourselves penniless just a few days before Christmas. While I assisted Mrs. Hudson with decorating our Baker Street residence, hanging garlands of mistletoe and holly throughout the house, adding candles in the windows, and a wreath with a red velvet bow upon the front door, the detective had been turning more and more within himself to assuage his boredom.

On December 23rd, I was able to pull Holmes out of his melancholic slump to assist me in standing the spruce, which Mrs. Hudson had ordered cut and delivered in order to be her Christmas tree.

“In my opinion, this is a waste of a perfectly proper tree,” Holmes lamented as he stood it upright in the tin bucket while I poured in the sand that would hold the spruce in place. Mrs. Hudson directed us, noting if we were off by a quarter-inch in keeping the tree perfectly upright.

“Come now, Holmes. It gives us something to do to occupy our time,” I said, putting my best foot forward. “It may be wretched weather outside, but Mrs. Hudson has kept it jolly and warm in here.”

Holmes muttered, “There is nothing comforting about following modern customs. Just a few years ago, Christmas was a raucous time for drinking and merriment, not for exchanging gifts and singing out-of-tune carols. We’ll see how joyful Mrs. Hudson is when we turn out our pockets come time to pay our rent.”

“What was that, Mr. Holmes?” Mrs. Hudson asked, still eyeing the very tip top of the tree and ensuring there was no slant.

“I was only noting how you’ve picked a particularly lovely tree for Christmas this year. Do you always get a seven footer?”

“I always try to get a tree to fill the front room,” Mrs. Hudson answered. Fortunately, she had not heard Holmes’s concerns over money.

As we finished setting up the tree, there came a sharp rapping at the front door. “Now who could that be?” wondered Mrs. Hudson aloud.

She went to get the door and returned with a squat, elderly woman wearing a dark blue mantelet and carrying a matching fringed parasol. Mrs. Hudson asked the woman about the flooding.

“Weather is still damp out there, but I hasten to say that the worst of the storm is over. Bags of sand are holding up the Thames and most of the water has drained away. If you do not need to leave your domicile, then I would stay inside with the warmth and leave the soggy streets for tomorrow. I am certain the streets will be dried out by then,” she answered in a sharp, cold tone of voice reminiscent of the commanding officers of the Fusiliers.

Mrs. Hudson took the woman’s hat, mantelet, and parasol, and I noted that our visitor was well-dressed despite the dreary weather. She wore gold rimmed pince-nez glasses which gave her face an owl-like feature. Her hair was short, white, and curled. Her attire was a long-sleeved gray chiffon dress which was supported by a whale bone corset, so popular with the ladies of the time.

“Yet you did leave the comforts of your own home and brave the streets of our fair city to come visit me. The matter concerning your husband must be one of great urgency,” stated Holmes, who had moved away from the Christmas Tree to introduce himself to the visitor.

“Ah, so you must be Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes, and though I do not know your name, I do know that you are the wife of a watchmaker, that you work alongside your husband assisting and creating time-telling devices, and that some information you have received in the post has greatly disturbed you.”

The woman’s expression did not show the slightest sign of surprise at Holmes’s observations. She merely gave a slight nod and introduced herself as if Holmes did nothing more than welcome her into his study.

“My name is Mrs. Nicholas Ehrly. I understand you solve problems which people cannot puzzle out themselves. My friend, Mrs. Greta Taylor, says you were able to tell her of her husband’s indiscretions and to whom he was having his indiscretions with, without ever leaving your flat in Montague Street.”

“Miss Greta’s problem was a rather simple one, Mrs. Ehrly, and one where all the evidence was before her, yet she lacked the will to see the conclusion until the obviousness of the answer was explained to her. I believe your problem will not be quite so simple, but please, let us go upstairs to the comforts of my sitting room. We will give Mrs. Hudson the space she needs to decorate her home for the upcoming holiday.” Then, my flat mate turned to me. “Dr. Watson, will you also accompany us? It helps to have your opinion on difficult problems.”

I asked Mrs. Hudson if she could spare my assistance for a time, and she shooed me away with Holmes and Mrs. Ehrly. I had noticed that when a member of the fairer sex appeared at her door and wished for Holmes’s assistance, Mrs. Hudson always made sure Holmes and I had time to hear their case. When a man, or worse, a member of the Yard appeared, Mrs. Hudson always muttered about the time she had to take out of her daily chores to show riff-raff up to Holmes’s rooms.

We ascended the stairs to our sitting room. All the time I wondered how Holmes could have determined so much about Mrs. Ehrly’s situation from such a brief introduction. Since I had only known Holmes for not quite a year at the time of this case, I still had yet to fully realize my dear friend’s powers of observation.

After we entered into the sitting room, Holmes offered Mrs. Ehrly a seat at the settee, and Holmes and I took to our chairs. Before Mrs. Ehrly began her tale, I ventured to ask Holmes how he came to know so much about the woman.

I expected Holmes to answer, but he nodded towards Mrs. Ehrly, who answered the questions for him. “It is quite obvious to me how Mr. Holmes knew about my work and my husband. I am wearing a wristlet, yet my dress also has a side pocket which I use to hold a pocket watch.”

“Oh, yes, now I see you do have a pocket on your dress. That is quite unusual for a lady. But why would you need two watches?” I asked, a little flustered.

“Why, Watson,” Holmes answered, “Mrs. Ehrly needs to make certain that her watches are keeping accurate time. By having the pocket for her larger watches and wearing one upon her wrist, she can make certain that they both strike five at the exact same moment.”

“You are correct, Mr. Holmes,” the lady answered. “I have my tailor add a pocket to all of my outer garments to ensure that I have space for at least two watches upon my body at all times. I’m sure you noted the oil on my gloves when I entered your domicile, and when I removed my gloves, you most likely saw the slight nicks on my fingers from the tiny gears I insert into the devices.”

“And what of the worry about your husband?” I asked Mrs. Ehrly, for she seemed just as knowledgeable as my friend about how he drew his conclusions.

“Mr. Holmes knew that from this.” Here, Mrs. Ehrly took a wrinkled letter from her pocket. The envelope had been crumpled up and then smoothed out again. “I kept my hand over my pocket when I entered the room. Mr. Holmes could tell I had the watch in my pocket, but from where I was holding my hand and double checking, it was easy to determine that there was something else in my pocket, something thin; a letter made the most sense. As to the concerns with my husband, I’m sure if a lady comes to see Mr. Holmes, it most likely concerns either a husband or a lover.”

Holmes burst into applause. “Bravo, Mrs. Ehrly! You have the eye of an observer and the mental skills of a logician. I am glad that you have found a way to use your powers, even if it is towards solving problems which are mechanical and not criminal.

“Now,” Holmes said while leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers before his silver eyes, “please tell us of your case. I am most intrigued as to how someone as knowledgeable as you can have a problem worthy of skills beyond your own.”

Mrs. Ehrly removed her pince-nez for a moment, rubbed her eyes, put the spectacles back on and started her tale. I was surprised at how blunt the woman was, never once acknowledging the high praise which my detective friend had bestowed upon her. I was also relieved to see the warmth and intensity return to Holmes’s visage. With his hawkish features and Mrs. Ehrly’s owl-like face, I felt as if two birds of prey were in the room, sizing each other up, and pleased to find they were equals who were not rivals.

“About ten years ago, I met my husband, Nicholas, at his shoppe in First Avenue. A family heirloom which had been bestowed to me by my grandfather was his gold hunter. The watch had stopped working, and while I tried my best to fix the duplex escapement, I could not get the balance wheel to swing properly. Hence, I found Mr. Ehrly.”

I gave Holmes a quick side glance to let him know I did not understand much of what Mrs. Ehrly had just said.

“Just a moment, Mrs. Ehrly,” Holmes said with a flick of his wrist to stop the woman’s tale. Then he said to me, “A duplex escapement is used in many pocket watches to keep time, Watson. They use two sets of teeth, locking teeth and impulse teeth, which move the pallet and balance wheel to keep accurate time. They are going out of fashion now, being replaced by the more accurate lever escapements.

“But Mrs. Ehrly, you are telling us of events which occurred nearly a decade ago.” Here Holmes paused and covered up a long yawn from his mouth probably to emphasize his boredom.

“I am not one to tell a meandering tale, Mr. Holmes. I only wish to allow you to see the relationship between my husband and me.

“When I brought the watch to Mr. Ehrly, I explained the trouble and my own attempt to repair it. Rather than dismissing me as a member of the fairer sex meddling in mechanics, he talked to me as an equal. He was impressed with my knowledge and pointed out that one of the locking teeth had worn away just enough as to make the watch unworkable. When he showed me the problem, I felt ridiculous for not catching it myself. He then showed me a wristlet he was designing and asked for my advice about the watch. I strapped the device to my wrist and found it to be too heavy for most women.

“We tinkered with several watches that afternoon, and by the time I left his shoppe, we had already made plans for a dinner engagement. Not a month passed before we were married.”

“How romantic,” Holmes stated with an obvious air of sarcasm.

Mrs. Ehrly ignored my friend. “It was romantic, Mr. Holmes, and for two widows so much in tune to find each other later in life was miraculous. Since that time, I have worked by the side of my husband in his shoppe, and we have grown the business together. All was fine until the summer of last year.

“During that August, a change came over my husband. Where he had been open and communicative with me, I found him suddenly reticent. My husband, who always talked warmly with me, was now cold and taciturn.”

“Did he give you any indication as to why he so suddenly changed his temperament?” I asked. With my own involvement with women, I knew men often became uninterested in a relationship if it continued for many years. There were many happy marriages in the world, but some were due to wives turning a blind eye to their husbands’ indiscretions.

“His rationale for his behavior, Dr. Watson, was that he was performing poorly in his chess club.”

Holmes suddenly sprang up in his seat, his spine stiffened like a sitting soldier at attention. “Ehrly...of course! The great Nick Ehrly of the Paddington Chess Players. I knew your husband’s name sounded familiar. Watson, Mr. Ehrly is a bit of a celebrity in chess circles, holding his own in a match against the great Wilhelm Steinitz. He also was a key player when the London Chess Club defeated the Vienna Chess Club in a telegraph match which lasted well over a year. Your story has just become much more intriguing,” admitted the detective.

“I’m glad you think so, Mr. Holmes,” answered Mrs. Ehrly, and I wondered if I detected a note of derision in her statement. “I thought perhaps my husband just needed some time to work through whatever problems were running through his mind, so I did not press him beyond his ridiculous answer about poor chess games.

“We remained that way for about a month, working and living quietly together. Then, the first odd turn of events occurred.”

“The first?” I inquired. Holmes raised up his lanky left arm and with his hand motioned me to be silent.

“Yes, the first, Doctor. One day while working on the latest incarnation of his own wristlet, my husband became frustrated while inserting a wheel into the device. His face turned beet red, his hands shook, and he tossed down his tools. I thought he just needed a moment to compose himself. Instead, he broke down into loud sobs. I inquired as to what was the matter, and he told me that his son had recently passed away.”

“And you had no indication that this son existed?” questioned Holmes.

“None at all, Mr. Holmes. He had mentioned no kin beyond his deceased parents, certainly no offspring. After my husband had calmed down and I served him a cup of Darjeeling, he explained to me that his son had been a major fighting in the Afghan war. He was killed in late July from wounds incurred at a battle at Maiwand.”

Here I started and gripped my shoulder which still gave me trouble from being hit by a Jezail bullet. “Madame, I also was in that bloody battle. It grieves me to hear of your step-son’s demise on so great and terrible a battlefield.”

“Thank you, Dr. Watson. Did you know of any Ehrlys?”

“I did not. There were many regiments there, but there was no Ehrly in my own, the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“I understand. It would be nice to meet someone who saw my step-son on the battlefield. My husband shared with me the one photograph he had of the boy, a profile featuring him in his uniform, a strapping lad yet with much more brooding features than my husband. The Major clearly resembled more of his mother’s side of the family.

“Nicholas told me that his son’s name was Marcus and that he was buried just a few blocks from the shoppe in the Anglican section at Kensal Green. We walked there after closing up for the day, and my husband explained that he and Marcus had become estranged from each other. There had been no funeral for the boy, and my husband was devastated that he never had the opportunity to say goodbye to his son.

“Having learned what truly ailed my husband, I knew how to attempt a remedy. When my husband needed distance, I provided it. When he needed warmth, I provided that as well. Over the next few months as I nursed Nicholas, he slowly began to return to his normal self. I thought time and my love were all he needed to heal from this open wound.”

“Then you received the letter in the post,” stated Holmes, accurately predicting the next part of Mrs. Ehrly’s tale.

“Yes, a week before Christmas last year, my husband received a strange letter in the post. The letter was addressed to Sir Nicholas Ehrly, KCB. There was no other address, no post mark, or indication as to whom the letter was from. Just my husband’s name and supposed honorary title.

“I brought the letter to my husband and assumed someone he knew was having a lark. Maybe one of his chess friends.

“When Nicholas saw the letter, his face turned ashen. He snatched the letter from my hand, ripped it open, and removed a single sheet of paper. On the paper was a rather crude pencil drawing of two girls sitting at a table, drinking tea. The art looked to be created by a child no older than five or six years of age.

“My husband tore the paper and envelope asunder and tossed the paper pieces into the fireplace, where they were set aflame.

“I asked my husband what it was all about, but he just shook his head and muttered a queer word. It sounded like he said Dirgleby.”

“Dirgleby?” I inquired.

“Yes, that’s what it sounded like, and I heard it enough. For the next few weeks, my husband refused to talk about the letter, and would constantly be muttering the word Dirgleby under his breath.

“Again, I gave my husband distance, and after about a month or so, he again began returning to his normal self, though if I mentioned the letter to him, he would have a black day.

“After several months, my husband had improved. He talked more to me, and I felt that I had my old Nicholas back. I did not refer to the letter, and I began to forget about it.”

“Until your husband recently received another letter in the post,” said Holmes.

“Yes, five days ago, I returned home from the grocer to find my husband in a dark and foul mood. He was sitting in his favorite arm chair, brooding. On the parlour table, I saw an open letter and a picture, both were identical to the ones sent a year before.

“I asked my husband what the letter could mean, why it ailed him so. He simply muttered Dirgleby in response, and he then rose from his seat and left our home to go for a walk. This time, he did not destroy the letter.”

Here, Mrs. Ehrly paused and removed the crinkled envelope containing the letter from her dress pocket. She handed it to Holmes, who eyed the writing, sniffed the envelope, and turned the paper between his hands.

“It is a plain envelope, Mr. Holmes. It is the content inside which you will find of interest,” Mrs. Ehrly said, clearly wanting the detective to see the crude drawing.

“This plain letter has many details to tell, Mrs. Ehrly. While you are correct that the envelope has no obvious information, such as the letter’s place of origin, I can tell you that the letter was not delivered by the man who wrote your husband’s address, that the man who delivered the letter is left-handed, possibly working as a cab driver, and residing here in London.

“Now, let us look at the message itself.” Holmes removed the paper from the envelope. Inside was a most childish illustration of two girls sitting for tea. The primitive figures were a mix of blob heads and bodies with triangle shaped dresses, stick hands, stringy hair, dot eyes, and curved line smiles. The table was a block with four straight rectangle legs, and the tea cups rested in the air above it. The cups were half circles and the pot a blob with a curved shaft next to it representing the spout.

Holmes rose, went to his desk, and returned with his magnifying glass in hand. He inspected the lines in the drawing, the smudge marks around the edges, and studied the picture up close and at a distance.

“This is certainly a unique case you have brought to me, Mrs. Ehrly,” Holmes said with a clear sense of joy in his tone. “Now, let us discuss my fee.”

After Mrs. Ehrly left the premises, Holmes sent a message to a Mr. Ignatius Cobbleton, a member of the Paddington Chess Players, who resided in one of the newer stucco homes in Tyburnia.

“Ah, excellent news, Watson,” Holmes said after receiving a telegraph response. “Mr. Cobbleton will see us at his residence late this afternoon. That gives us time to visit the gravesite of Marcus Ehrly beforehand.”

We had a light lunch of an assortment of breads and cheeses, plus a fine bottle of merlot between us. Holmes had persuaded Mrs. Ehrly to pay him half of his fee in advance, so while not wealthy, we now did not want for money. Holmes paid Mrs. Hudson the rent owed, and we then hailed a cab and were on our way to Kensal Green.

During the ride, Holmes kept inspecting the envelope and crude drawing of the letter.

“Whatever does it mean, Holmes?” I asked my friend.

“I am not certain as of yet. I need more time to evaluate all of the possibilities. I can assure you, Watson that this drawing is more than a drawing. It contains a message. Whether the message is symbolized by the drawing or hidden as a code within the crude lines of the pictures, I am not certain.”

“And is the message ‘Dirgleby’?” I inquired.

“Again, Watson, I do not know.” And here Holmes actually grinned. “It is a puzzle which will take time to piece together. Yet, I will piece it together. Perhaps in time for Christmas, perhaps by the New Year. I believe that once I have deduced the message of the picture, the other parts of this problem will fall into place, and all will be revealed. Ah, we are at our destination.”

We exited the four-wheeler, and Holmes asked the driver to stay, in order to bring us next to the residence of Mr. Cobbleton. The driver agreed with a shrug of his shoulders, and Holmes and I wandered off through the cemetery entryway. The pathway was still damp, and cloudy brown pools of water were all around us as we trudged along the path, our boots sinking slightly into the mud. “This way,” Holmes told me. “She said that he is buried in the Anglican portion of the cemetery.”

As we wandered along, I noted the ornate stone mausoleums, the intricate designs of angels on headstones, hand carved crosses, and Latin etched in stone. It made me feel that the dead here were honoured, and I was proud that a fellow fighter at Maiwand was buried in such a place as Kensal Green.

We weaved our way through the headstones and then came to a tiny gravesite with a stone laid in the ground. In Latin, the engraving roughly said, Here lies Marcus Ehrly. May his memory live on.

I lowered my head at the site and said a prayer for my fallen comrade. I started thinking of all of my friends whom I lost that day, the horrors of the infirmary where limbs were lopped off and stacked like logs. I shuddered as the battle began replaying in my mind, and I would have probably stood there reliving my memories for many moons, had I not heard a harsh cough somewhere behind me.

I turned and was shocked to see Holmes a good distance away, amidst a conversation with one of the working grave diggers. How long had I been lost in my memories? I wondered. I saw Holmes tip his deerstalker and hand the man a sovereign. “Bless ya, sir,” said the grave digger, and he sauntered off, carrying his rusty steel shovel and pickaxe with great effort.

“I apologize, Holmes. Standing at this gravesite brought back many unpleasantries from my military career,” I said as the gaunt form of my companion rejoined me, his Inverness cape billowing softly in the light wind.

“No need to apologize, Watson. I could tell you needed a moment of solitude, and I had a very interesting conversation with Mr. Lory, there.”

“You gleaned some useful information about Marcus Ehrly?”

“Perhaps. I noted how small this gravesite appeared compared to the others around it, and noting its close proximity to the other gravesites, determined that the grave could be no more than a length of five feet.”

“Five feet?” I stammered. “Why, he must have been rather short for a major, or else he was severely injured in the war. Perhaps,” and here I choked on my own words, “perhaps not all of his body made it back to England.”

“A dark possibility, Watson. Mr. Lory said he buried a rather small casket, more like the size of a dispatch box.”

“Why, that’s absurd. Isn’t it? I’ve never heard of such a thing. Even with the man’s remains severely reduced, they would have the common courtesy to, at the very least, bury him in a child-sized coffin.”

“Ah, Mr. Lory believes that young Mr. Ehrly may have been cremated.”

“Cremated?” I snapped, derision now rising in my voice. “Holmes, that isn’t even legal. I’ve heard of such things in the Far East, but in London? Why, that’s not Christian.”

“Oh, come now, Watson. It is a common burial method in Italy, and it has been gaining its supporters in London. I’ve even heard that the Queen’s physician, Sir Henry Thompson, is a promoter of this form of burial.”

“Ridiculous, Holmes. We are a far more civilized society than to allow for such barbarism. Why, if we are to sanction such treatment of our bodily remains, we will soon be living like savages and returning to the Dark Ages.” I stilled my tongue, for I had worked myself into a tirade, and seeing the amused expression upon my friend’s visage made me stop. If I hadn’t regained my composure, I may have raged at him. Finally, after huffing for a moment, I asked sharply, “Besides, what bearing would this have on the case?”

“An excellent question, Watson, and I am happy to report that I do not know the answer as of yet.”

“Happy to report? Why, Holmes, I believe that you are enjoying yourself.”

“I am, Watson. This is the first time in over two months where a case hasn’t supplied an obvious answer. Though I do believe that once I have enough information, the veil will clear, and the answer will reveal itself as rather elementary. For now though, I will enjoy this mental exercise. Come now, for we should away to see Mr. Cobbleton.”

During our brief travel from Kensal Green to Tyburnia, I asked Holmes about the letter and drawing that Mr. Nicholas Ehrly had received, and how Holmes had concluded that the deliverer of the letter was a possibly a cabbie who was not the artist of the contained drawing.

“Ah, those were rather basic deductions. I’m sure you noted that there were a few smudges on the back of the envelope. They were not very large, but they indicated that the letter was carried between the left thumb and index finger. Who, but a left-handed man, carries a letter in such a way?

“Contrasting this is the slight slant of the words on the envelope’s address. It is easy enough to conclude that the writer of the address was a right-handed man.”

“Remarkable, Holmes. You make it seem as simple as a rudimentary problem for a schoolboy. How about the occupation of the messenger?”

“It is quite clear that the letter was not sent in the post. There is no label stating the letter’s place of origin. This means that someone slipped it in with other letters on both occasions. There are several people and occupations who would have the opportunity to deliver such a letter undetected. In fact, I may have had to leave it at fifteen different possibilities, such as a commissionaire, or even a post officer. However, I noted two thin strands of hair stuck in the envelope’s glue. On close examination, I could see that these were hairs from cob horses. It was very easy to determine who, other than a cabbie, would have cob horse hairs on his body. Since the message was delivered from a cab driver, it is easy to ascertain that the letter originated in London.”

“Fascinating, Holmes. I’d say it was incredible, even inhuman, but when you explain your reasoning, it seems like all of London should be able to see as you do.”

“All can, Watson. It just takes mental training to not just see, but to observe. Ah, we are at Mr. Cobbleton’s residence. Let us find out if he can add any information to our endeavor.”

We exited the taxi, and Holmes again requested that our driver remain. After a quick talk, Holmes was by my side, and we left the horse-drawn carriage and approached the elegant stucco home of Mr. Cobbleton. Holmes rapped on the door, and we were greeted by a young manservant who ushered us into the waiting room.

The servant supplied each of us with a glass of brandy and then left to fetch his master.

“How do you know Mr. Cobbleton?” I asked Holmes.

“Last year, I helped clear the name of one of his maids. Several pieces of jewelry had gone missing from his home, and the maid had been accused of the crime. She was the only known person with access to the room besides Cobbleton’s wife and mother. In the end, I revealed that the mother, in her old age, was becoming frightful and forgetful. She was the first to accuse the maid of the crime. I was able to show the matriarch had moved the jewelry to a safe location, or what she thought was a safe location, due to her suspicion of the maid and really the entire staff. Her safe spot was an old mouse hole in the back of her room behind a sofa.

“Mr. Cobbleton was very grateful, and ended up getting his mother her own home with staff to watch over her. Ironically, the maid was hired at increased wages to help care for Mrs. Cobbleton.”

“That worked out nicely,” I said and added, “You know, that would make for a good book, the type like Dickens writes. A grand mystery, a smart detective - maybe just add in a romance.”

Holmes looked aghast at my suggestion. “This is the real world, Watson, not some cheap romance one can have for a penny. Besides, we must be careful with Cobbleton.”

“Why is that Holmes?”

“Because he is a chess player, and there is no one so cunning or scheming as a master of that game. I hear footsteps, Watson. Please let me do the talking. I have not been completely honest with Mr. Cobbleton as to the nature of our visit.”

Before I had a chance to ask my friend what he meant about his honesty, the young manservant ushered in a charming man of excessive height. He must have been well over six-and-a-half feet tall, with broad shoulders, well-groomed cropped white hair, and a thick and bushy mustache. He wore a fluffy red bow tie which added expression to his dour looking black suit. The man exuded the power of his class, and his form seemed to symbolize the strength of his station in life.

“The great Sherlock Holmes! Welcome! Welcome!” boomed the gentleman. He first grabbed Holmes’s hand and shook it, then with a vice-like grip, he grabbed my own and shook vigorously.

“I’m Mr. Ignatius Cobbleton, but please call me Iggy. That’s what my friends do. And to whom do I have the pleasure?”

“My name is Dr. Watson.” I answered.

“Doctor, aye. Good show! How do you come to know Mr. Holmes?”

I told him of our status as flat mates.

“Splendid,” Iggy said. “Not a bad idea, a detective and a doctor living together. You must have some of the safest rooms in all of London. Now, tell me, what do you need to know about Sir Nick?”

Holmes and I jumped at this statement and gave each other knowing looks.

“Thank you, Iggy,” said Holmes, with a look of dissatisfaction at calling Mr. Cobbleton by his nickname. “As you know, we are here representing an elite club that is interested in offering membership to Mr. Ehrly. The club has requested that its name be withheld throughout this process.”

“Secrets, aye?” said Iggy. “Oh, you boys made a good choice then in offering a spot to Sir Nick. The man’s a master of secrets.”

Again, Holmes and I looked at each other with surprise. Mr. Cobbleton, I thought, might provide Holmes with everything he needed to know.

“We just have some routine questions for you, Iggy, and then we shall be on our way. We have dinner plans for this evening, and so cannot dawdle.”

“Understand, Mr. Holmes. Completely understand. What would you like to know about Sir Nick? I can vouch for the man’s character. Excellent! All around a good man. He is the least well-to-do member of the Paddington Players, but please do not hold that against him. He’s a good lad and an excellent craftsman. Plus, he’s smart. One of the best chess players I’ve met. That’s why we call him ‘Sir Nick’.”

“Why is that?” asked Holmes.

“Because the man is a genius on the chessboard. During his match against Wilhelm Steinitz, he beat the man twice. The second time in a rather routine move using his rook, but in the first game, he was able to use both his knights to corner Steinitz’s king in a checkmate. After that game, he was always known as ‘Sir Nick’.”

Holmes then asked a few routine questions on Mr. Ehrly’s character. The answers were straightforward and unremarkable. After about a half-of-an-hour, Holmes thanked Iggy for his time.

“Always a pleasure, detective. Anymore questions for me?”

“Just one. Can you tell me anything about Mr. Ehrly’s son?”

Here Iggy grumbled and shook his head a bit. “Now, Mr. Holmes, remember you are looking to invite Sir Nick into your club, not his relations.”

“So you’ve met his son, Marcus.”

“I have, Mr. Holmes, and the fruit could not have fallen further from the tree. It must have been twelve or more years ago that Nick brought his son to the chess club. He only brought him along a few times. He said his son rivaled him in his capabilities, and that he was an exceedingly shrewd player.”

“Then, what was the problem?” I asked.

“Dr. Watson, it was not his ability to play the game, but his attitude towards others. When he would win, he would gloat over his opponent. When he would lose, he would rage, using his arm to fling all the pieces off of the chess board. Ridiculous behavior! After a few showings like that, Sir Nick never brought his son back. Maybe he took him over to his other club.”

“Mr. Ehrly belongs to another chess club?” Holmes inquired.

“Not a chess club exactly. A smaller group called the Paddington Puzzlers. They solve all sorts of codes and puzzles. I don’t have much interest in that sort of thing, but a few members of the chess club belong. I can give you some names if that would be helpful.”

“Most helpful,” answered Holmes.

The next morning, while breakfasting, I inquired as to whether Holmes was going to spend the day interviewing members of the Paddington Puzzlers.

“First, my dear Watson, I am going to finish my cup of Oolong, read The Times, and enjoy my breakfast.” Mrs. Hudson had provided a delightful light meal of tea, porridge, and pastries. “After that, I’m going to pay a visit to Inspector Gregson at the Yard.”

“I see. Then, will you interview the Puzzlers?” I asked, assuming that would be the logical next step in this case.

“Only if need be. I do think this case is almost closed.”

“Why, Holmes, I am just as baffled as ever. Please enlighten me as to how our work yesterday has led you to this conclusion.”

“Ah, not quite yet Watson,” Holmes said, and took a sip of his tea. “There is still the possibility that Gregson might provide information which will lead me to a different conclusion. Though, I feel fairly certain that this puzzle will be solved by early this afternoon.”

“My word, Holmes,” I ejaculated. “And all I’ve been able to figure is that Mr. Ehrly is not an actual knight.”

Holmes had a mischievous expression on his face, and he let out one of his odd, silent laughs.

“You mean,” I stammered, “that the man is a real knight.”

“While Mr. Ehrly may be called ‘Sir Nick’ by his chess playing comrades, he is an actual knight, for the envelope was not only addressed to Sir Nicholas Ehrly but was followed by the letters KCB. This means that Sir Nicholas is a Knight Commander in the Most Honourable Order of the Bath.”

I was startled by this news, for I had forgotten about the letters upon the envelope, but I did remember some information about the Order of Bath. “But Holmes, isn’t that order strictly for members of the military?”

“Not anymore, Watson. Queen Victoria has allowed for civilian appointments for over a decade now. For some reason, which I intend to learn, Mr. Ehrly was knighted. Now, Watson, how is your patient schedule today?”

“I have a full morning ahead of me, Holmes, but as of now, a light afternoon.”

“Very good. I shall send you a telegram early this afternoon. If all goes as I believe that it will, then I will ask you to meet me at Mr. Ehrly’s shoppe. At that point in time, all will be revealed. If I am wrong, then we shall have a fine dinner at home, and I shall give you a full update.”

“I look forward to hearing from you.”

The telegram arrived at precisely one o’clock in the afternoon. Holmes said all had gone as he expected, and he requested my presence at Mr. Ehrly’s shoppe at four. This was a perfect time, as my schedule for the day had filled - which was auspicious, for it meant that my coffers had filled as well. My last appointment was to end at three. With it being Christmas Eve, I believed that those who wanted to see me, but had delayed because of the flood, made it a priority to visit me before I closed for the holiday. After treating an unexpected late patient with a debilitating cough, I hailed a hansom and was on my way to rendezvous with Holmes.

On my way to the watchmaker’s shoppe, I kept running the events of the last two days through my mind. According to Holmes, Sir Nick was a true knight, but what could have caused him to earn such an honor? Could it have something to do with the Paddington Puzzlers or, more likely, the death and cremation of his son? Perhaps he was knighted for allowing his son to be the first man to be officially cremated. Could it be that the Crown, church, and government were going to announce new burial expectations? With the millions of people living in London, we could be running out of cemetery space. Here, I shook my head and scoffed. I could not believe that our leaders would take such a horrid course of action, and yet, I had seen many horrors in my day. Changes in the battlefield, changes in social customs... Well, I for one, I decided, was not going to change with these strange times. I would hold steady to my traditional decorum, no matter the social pressures.

By the time I arrived at Sir Nick’s shoppe, I was quite agitated and upset with the possible solutions I had concocted for this case. As my carriage dropped me on First, I saw Holmes strolling along the sidewalk. He must have walked a good deal of the way.

“Ah, Watson, your timing is impeccable,” my friend told me as he met up with me and vigorously shook my hand.

“Did Gregson have all the answers you needed?” I asked gruffly. My mind was still imagining all of Britain’s headstones being replaced with urns of ashes.

“He did, my dear fellow, but that was only at the start of my morning. The man who was most helpful was not a Yarder, but a warden at Newgate Prison. It was through his influence that I was able to ascertain the conclusion to this mystery. After spending half of a day in that dreadful, dark pit on the corner of Old Bailey, I felt a good walk in the air was necessary. But let us not dally.” Holmes opened the door to the watchmaker’s shoppe and a little bell jingled. He ushered me inside. “After you, Watson.”

The establishment was a small yet tidy business. Mr. Ehrly was a squat man with bushy sideburns, standing at the counter, winding a large copper pocket watch. There were several glass display cases showing off his wares, and I made a mental note that if I ever needed a watch, this would be a good place to purchase one.

“Hello, gentlemen. We are closing up soon, what with it being Christmas Eve and all.” Mr. Ehrly looked up at us and he had a warm smile. “Is there anything in particular you gentlemen are seeking, or perhaps you are here for a repair?”

“Indeed, there is something which we are seeking.” Here, Holmes paused and took a bow. He then glared at me. “Watson, you are forgetting your manners. Please give a little bow to Sir Nicholas. It is not often one finds themselves in the company of a Knight Commander from the Order of Bath.”

Sir Nicholas stumbled backwards a few steps, clearly shocked by Holmes’s statement. “Whoa! What do you want?” he asked, his bottom lip quivering, and his face a ghostly white.

“Actually,” Holmes smiled. “I’ve come to collect my fee.”

The color quickly returned to Ehrly’s features as his fists clenched and his cheeks turned a bright crimson of rage. “I’ll have none of that! None of that! You get out of my shoppe! Get out this instant!!” he shouted.

“What’s all this about?” came a call from a back room. Through a doorway behind the counter entered Mrs. Ehrly, who looked confused at hearing her husband’s shouts and at seeing Holmes and me before him. “Why Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson. Whatever are you doing here?”

“You are familiar with these scoundrels, Marigold?” Mr. Ehrly asked his wife.

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Ehrly told her husband and put her hand on his back to comfort him. “Mr. Holmes is a detective.”

“Detective?” Sir Nicholas asked. His face was a flurry of confusion and emotions.

“Please, let me explain,” said Holmes. “As your wife said, my name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am a detective. Mrs. Ehrly hired me to discover who was sending you anonymous letters, containing what appeared to be crude children’s drawings.”

“Nothing crude about them,” Sir Nicholas grumbled.

“No, there is not,” stated Holmes, and he removed from his coat pocket a folded piece of paper which he handed to Sir Nicholas Ehrly.

Ehrly unfolded the paper revealing a different crude drawing, one in the same style as the two girls at tea, but this one was of a boy and a girl standing in a meadow. Mr. Ehrly’s eyes ate up the drawing, looking over every square inch of the paper.

Finally, the man let out a long sigh. “Very well, Mr. Holmes, you have my attention. What is this about?”

“Like I said, your wife hired me to discover the author of the letters. I have done so. I have also spoken with the man.”

“He’s no man,” spat Sir Nicholas. “He’s the Devil.”

“Your son has committed many wrongs in his lifetime, but he is certainly not the Devil.”

“Son?” both Mrs. Ehrly and I said in a shocked tone.

“But he’s dead, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Ehrly explained.

“Yes, at Maiwand,” I said, again thinking of the atrocities committed there.

“He is not dead. At least, he is still made out of living breathing flesh and blood, though he is officially declared dead,” Holmes said, looking squarely at Sir Nicholas Ehrly. “Should I explain all, or should you?”

Sir Nicholas looked ill, his anger turned to worry. Beads of sweat coated his face. He swallowed hard, turned to his wife, turned back to Holmes, nodded, and said, “Please go on.”

“Very well,” Holmes began. “When Mrs. Ehrly brought this case to me yesterday, I was most intrigued by the picture. I could tell that there was something hidden in it, whether it was a coded message, or the picture itself represented the message. I was not certain. I needed more data.

“Dr. Watson accompanied me, and then we went to pay a visit to your son’s grave. Interesting gravesite, that. The grave was small, the size of a child’s. Whether you are aware of this or not, it is far too small to be one for a full-bodied adult. Then, I spoke with one of the gravediggers at the site who was certain that he had buried cremated ashes and not a man’s body.

“Knowing that ashes are not often buried in a grave, they are more often kept in an urn or scattered, and the fact that cremation remains illegal in England, I surmised that the gravesite contained not a body, but materials representing a symbolic death.”

“That it does, sir. That it does,” admitted Sir Nicholas.

“Now, at this point, there were two logical possibilities. The first, that Marcus Ehrly was alive, and for some reason his death had been faked. Second, that Marcus Ehrly had perished in the battle at Maiwand as reported, and that his remains had never been recovered - hence the need for a symbolic burial.

“I concluded the former reason was the solution after Dr. Watson and I paid a visit to Mr. Ignatius Cobbleton.”

“You saw Iggy,” groaned Sir Nicholas.

“He knows nothing. We explained that we were inquiring about you for membership to a private club. Iggy spoke highly of your character, but much less so about the character of your son. He also spoke of the Paddington Puzzlers, and that is when I began to see the full picture of your son’s crimes.

“I remembered that during a criminal surveillance with some Yarders in which I was a participant, two inspectors spoke in harsh whispers about a bungled conspiracy against the Crown in which the villains were caught due to their secret code being broken.

“This morning, I went to see Inspector Gregson of the Yard with your son’s drawing. He instantly recognized it and asked how it came into my possession. As usual, I told him very little, and he told me quite a lot. It appears, Mrs. Ehrly, that there was a conspiracy to murder the Queen of England and destroy the House of Commons in a move reminiscent of the Gunpowder Plot.

“The plot was suspected when two of the conspirators were seen exchanging crude drawings. A rather impressive guard thought there was something suspicious in the way the two men kept exchanging the pictures, and the guard was able to confiscate several of the illustrations.

“Gregson explained to me that the secret code within the drawings was cracked and the conspirators apprehended before they could do any damage. All of the thirteen men involved were sentenced to death and hanged in July of last year.”

“Not all of them,” stated Sir Nicholas with a deep frown.

“No, not all of them,” agreed Holmes. “After speaking with Inspector Gregson, I was able to conclude that you, Sir Nicholas, were crucial in breaking the conspirators’ code, that you were knighted for your efforts. Yet you kept this honor a secret. It led me to the conclusion that your son was involved in the conspiracy and that you were granted the request of having your son’s life spared. If he was spared, he certainly was not allowed to go free. No, he would spend the remainder of his years in prison. Which one? Newgate was the logical choice, as it is the most secure to hold such a prisoner.

“I tested my theory by going to the delivery drivers who frequented the prison. It did not take me long to ascertain that there was only one left-handed driver, a milkman, who entered the prison regularly.

“I approached the delivery man and gave him one of my crude drawings. He was cautious in talking with me, but using my knowledge of the conspirators as well as my deductions, I was able to gain his trust. I explained I was an outside man working against the Queen, and just recently learned of Marcus still being alive. We struck up a conversation, and the driver explained he was also an outside man, that he did not know too much beyond his role as a messenger of notes. He did inform me that Marcus was in prison under the name Bartholomew Huggins, and that his father was responsible for this turn of events. The man was very nervous upon meeting me, and even more so as I continued asking him questions. I asked him to keep silent about our meeting. The man gave me his assurances and then took off on his route.

“So, I knew that Marcus was inside Newgate Prison and that he was incarcerated under the name Bartholomew Higgins. Fortunately, I know the warden at Newgate, and I soon found myself in a private meeting with Marcus, now Bartholomew.”

“And I’m sure upon meeting him, you saw a scoundrel the likes of which you’ve never laid eyes upon before. He is a horrible man, a wretched human being whose actions would have caused a reaction that could have destroyed the Commonwealth. He’s been a wretch for years, Mr. Holmes. It’s why he was estranged from me since before I met my dear wife. He has been in the criminal world for many years and has worked along the most insidious scoundrels ever to walk the earth. He deserved to be executed along with his miserable lot, Mr. Holmes.”

“Yet,” my friend said gently, “you could not bring yourself to allow him to die.”

“No, sir, and I now realize it was weakness on my part. The Queen was kind enough to grant my request to have my son’s execution commuted and sentenced to life in prison. Many years ago, before I took Marcus to the Paddington Players, he had been dismissed from the service on account of his fighting. Because of his military career, though brief and disorderly, his history was rewritten to state that he was killed at Maiwand.

“I wanted him dead to the world, wanted the son I knew who was a good boy to rest in peace. I took all the memories I had of that boy, the childhood letters and photographs, and had them buried at Kensal Green. This new person, this horror he grew into - he deserved Newgate. It is better that he rots there.”

“Sir Nicholas, your son has done treasonous acts and deserves his punishment. When I met with him, he knew of your work in destroying the conspiracy. He is also aware that you were behind his life imprisonment, but he did not know that your actions spared his life. He was taken aback by this information, and by the time I left, I had gained his assurances that he will no longer send you an annual letter.”

“If only that were true, Mr. Holmes.”

“I believe that it is, Sir Nicholas. Your son has done a very bad deed, probably many of them, but he is a human being, and I could see the remorse in his manners over what he had done. Your son will spend the remainder of his life behind bars, of that I am certain; however, he does not need to do it alone.”

“What are you saying, Mr. Holmes? You want me to visit that traitor! He is dead to me!” bellowed Sir Nicholas.

“No, Nicholas,” Mrs. Ehrly interjected. “Your son is alive. Perhaps with time...”

“Perhaps nothing!” Sir Nicholas raged.

“I believe your wife is correct, Sir Nicholas, though you do not see it now. With time, eventually, I feel that you should visit your son. He is not dead, and the good son you remember is still alive inside of him.”

Sir Nicholas fumed, but he let out a long sigh. With a tone of utter sadness and regret, he whispered. “Perhaps, there is hope.”

“Of course there is hope, Sir Nicholas,” explained Holmes, and he had a warm smile when saying this. “After all, it is Christmas Eve. ‘Tis the season of hope.”

The next morning, Christmas morning, Holmes answered some last few questions I had about the case, mainly what was meant by the term Dirgleby.

“The code, Watson, is a rather difficult one. If I had not known the word ‘Dirgleby’, then I probably could not have cracked it. After we met with Iggy, I knew that the drawing must contain a secret message. I stayed awake most of the night determining how the lines met to represent letters. Once I was able to determine the code, I read within the tea party drawing the word ‘Dirgleby’, but it was actually broken in two as Dir Gilby with Dir representing yer or you’re, and Gilby representing guilty. So, each year, Marcus planned on sending his father a message saying ‘You’re Guilty’, that he was guilty of sending his son to prison for life. I do believe that the letters will stop, and with the aid of Mrs. Ehrly, the two men will reconcile over time. An appropriate start to Christmas. Aye, Watson, which reminds me...”

Holmes paused and pulled out a box from beneath the dining table, which he handed over to me.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Please, open it Watson. It is the quickest way to find out.”

I did as he asked and was shocked to find a cleaning kit for my Webley. “Why, Holmes, thank you. I did not expect...”

“I believe that is the point, Watson. A Happy Christmas to you!”

“But,” here I was embarrassed, “I fear that I did not get you a gift. I never really have done a gift exchange at Christmas.”

“Actually, Watson, there is something I would like from you.”

“Name it.”

“I find that on my cases, when you are an active participant, my mind moves in directions which do not come naturally to my thinking process. Sometimes it is an expression upon your face or a muttering under your breath. You may not have known it, Watson, but I believe your role in solving this case, of getting my mind to the right path, was crucial.”

“Thank you, Holmes, though you are correct. I do not see what help I was to you.”

“That is fine, my dear Watson. You do not need to see, though I believe over time you will. You will begin to have some of my gifts with practice, and that’s what I would like from you for Christmas.

“What is that?”

“I would like for you to continue to be my companion on cases, Watson. What say you?”

“Holmes,” I chuckled. “That is a Christmas present that I am more than happy to provide.”