by Rob Nunn
“Very good then. I will see you tonight.” After Clay left, Holmes turned to Watson, “Doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s time we had some play. A meal at Simpson’s, and then off to violin land, where all is sweetness, delicacy, and harmony, and no more talk of red-headed pawnbrokers.”
Holmes and Watson took to the streets and spent the afternoon enjoying a concert at St. James’ Hall. After it ended, Holmes told Watson that he had to deal with the business for another client, Victor Savage, and that he would meet him back at Baker Street at ten.
When they met that night, Holmes said they had only to wait for Clay to show up, which would be sometime after midnight.
“Can you trust him to show up with the gold?” Watson asked.
“As I said earlier, Clay is one of the smartest men in London and his red-headed ploy was quite an inspired one. A criminal who is capable of such a thought is a man whom I should be proud to do business with.” Chuckling, Holmes continued, “He is smart enough to show up. Otherwise a determined Inspector Jones from Scotland Yard will know how to find him in the morning.”
Soon enough, there was a ring at the bell. Clay and his partner appeared loaded down with bags filled with gold bullion. Watson poured whiskey and water for everyone, the men described the night’s activities, Holmes paid the men their share, and congratulations were passed around for what would surely be known as one of the biggest heists in London’s history.
London was abuzz with the news of the bank robbery and suspicion was pointed in every corner for weeks. Holmes had planned in advance to keep a low profile during this time. His employees stayed dormant, he turned away a lucrative case from man named Bert Stevens who was later convicted of murder, and Holmes easily fended off a revenge plot from taking on Victor Savage as a client. But for the most part, the next two months were a quiet time for Holmes’ empire.
But Sherlock Holmes had not planned on the boredom that would set in during this time. Watson often saw him lying about with his violin and books, hardly moving, save from the sofa to the table. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson allowed for many of Holmes’ eccentricities, from the throngs of singular and often undesirable characters to his incredible untidiness. She never dared to interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem. But this period of time proved to be too much for even her. Even though Holmes’ criminal enterprises allowed him to pay princely sums for his rooms, enough to have purchased the rooms outright, Watson returned home to find her in a completely nervous state one afternoon.
“I am afraid for Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” she said imploringly.
“Why so, Mrs. Hudson?”
“After you was gone, he walked and he walked, up and down, and up and down, until I was weary of the sound of his footstep. Then I heard him talking to himself and muttering, and every time the bell rang out he came on the stairhead, with ‘What is that, Mrs. Hudson?’ And the gunfire!”
“Gunfire?” Watson responded.
“Yes. Every now and then I will hear shots fire from his rooms. I’m afraid to go in there, sir. You know how masterful he is. But this is too much of a strain, Dr. Watson. I don’t complain about the music at strange hours or the scientific experiments, and his payments are enough for me to allow the atmosphere of violence and danger that hangs around him, but these past few weeks have been too much!”
“I don’t think that you have any cause to be uneasy, Mrs. Hudson. I have seen him like this before. He is restless, but I will speak to him.”
Watson entered 221B to find Holmes draped in his arm-chair with his hair-trigger pistol resting in his lap and a hundred Boxer cartridges at his feet.
“Ah, Watson, welcome home.”
“Holmes! What have you done to the wall?”
Across the sitting room, Holmes had adorned the opposite wall with VR done in bullet pocks.
“It is my little way to celebrate Her Majesty’s Golden Jubilee. It has done little to assuage my boredom, though.”
“There is nothing of interest in the papers?”
“Bleat, Watson - unmitigated bleat!”
“Why not spend the next few hours making our rooms a little more habitable then? Mrs. Hudson is beside herself with the state of this room.”
Holmes glanced around the sitting room in its disastrous state. Cigars sat in the coal scuttle, and tobacco in the toe end of a Persian slipper. Holmes’ unanswered correspondence was attached by a jack-knife into the very center of the wooden mantelpiece. Chemicals and criminal relics cluttered numerous corners and tables around the room.
“These items are all placed for easy access, doctor. When I am of a mind to respond to the letters, they are accessible where they are. My chemical investigations are numerous, but in different states of completion and I would be remiss to upset them.”
“But the papers, Holmes. Look around. Every corner is stacked with bundles. At the very least, they could be put away.”
“I cannot deny the justice of your request, but first we must tend to Mrs. Hudson. I’m afraid that after the city bank robbery, I am still not at liberty to truly engage my energies, and I cannot promise that my behavior will not try her nerves again. Perhaps we should allow her to take a holiday. Have her set it up with Mrs. Turner to oversee the premises and send her off with my blessing and apologies.”
“Splendid. You know, she does hold you in the highest regard.”
“And I, her. She is a long-suffering woman,” Holmes mused.
“And should I promise her that the rooms will be tidied up upon her return?”
“I suppose,” Holmes sighed with a rueful face. Slowly, a mischievous look came to Holmes’ eyes. “But first, perhaps you would care to hear of some of my early work?”
“Of course,” Watson said, settling into his own chair. “You know that I often love to hear of them.”
“As I’ve told you before, much of my work was premature and halting, but there were some pretty little problems among them. Perhaps I should tell you of Vamberry, the wine merchant?”
Completely forgetting about Mrs. Hudson, and the state of the sitting room now, Watson smiled. “That sounds delightful.”
Holmes chuckled and wriggled into a comfortable position in his chair. “Arminius Vamberry was a Hungarian wine collector renowned for his vintage stock and was spoken of in the highest terms by Westhouse and Marbank, the great claret importers of Fenchurch Street. I had established a small agency by this time and was becoming known in certain circles and quite the stormy petrel of crime. Vamberry was in London and had made it his purpose to acquire bottles from British collectors that had survived the French blight of previous years. He had met with much resistance in France, as the wines from that era were treated as national treasures by their owners and hoped to find a more receptive audience abroad.
“You and I, Watson, may have our occasional glass of port after dinner, but the wines Vamberry was searching for would stagger you if you knew of their value. Let me say that the value was enough to interest the criminal element.
“The associates I had discussed the opportunity and we were of the opinion that we need only to follow Vamberry to where he would purchase the wines and then rob him of his money before he could spend it.”
Watson chuckled at this. “Even before meeting you, I can hardly picture you doing so.”
“Hardly. They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains. It’s a very bad definition, but it does apply to planning. I argued that crime should be treated as a fine art, and recommended my associates read an old article from Blackwood’s Magazine that argued the same. This, of course, fell on deaf ears, but having done so well under my tutelage previously, they were willing to test out my method.
“We met with an unassuming grocer by the name of Cameron, and presented him with an opportunity. If he would allow us to place a forgery
of the French wine in his attic and put him in touch with a connoisseur who would be willing to appraise it as a wine from the era Vamberry was looking for, we would allow him a portion of the sale. The man saw no harm in this, and we then met with a crooked wine connoisseur by the name of Mortimer Maberley who was more than willing to abet our plan, especially as he disliked Vamberry immensely.
“The grocer announced that he had found a dusty box in his attic that contained a few French items, apparently from a previous owner, and asked around what he should do with the bottles of wine that were also in the box. Our connoisseur stepped forward, appraised the wine for him, and announced that one of the bottles was one of the French wines that Vamberry was looking to buy. Vamberry swooped in and bullied the poor grocer for some time before he agreed to sell it to him at a price well below the wine’s actual worth, but still more than Cameron would expect to make in half a year.”
“But didn’t Vamberry check the wine’s authenticity before purchasing it?” Watson asked.
“I expect that he would have, but when his rival announced what Cameron had found and hinted that he would like to buy it from the grocer, Vamberry had to move quickly, and in doing so, acted rashly. I’m sure he soon found out the wine was a forgery, but I had made my profit and did not care to follow up on the matter at the time.”
“While you seem to have always been creative in your methods, I’m glad to see you are more thorough now.” Pacified by Holmes’ story, Watson turned to pick up the latest textbook on pathology.
“Aren’t you forgetting Mrs. Hudson’s holiday?” Holmes asked innocently.
“Of course!” Watson laughed.”I will go down to see her right now. And seeing that it is almost supper time, I think I will step down to my club as not to worry her with preparing a meal. Unless you would care to eat?”
“No, my dear fellow. But when you pass Bradley’s, would you ask him to send up a pound of the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. I expect to be in a better mood in the morning. Good evening.”
While Holmes’ empire had built over the years, he continued his aversion to careless crimes and random street violence. His agents were encouraged to break up such matters when they saw them, creating the idea of a safer London. This philosophy led to an interesting event at the end of December that year.
Returning home from an extended Christmas visit to Murray, his old army orderly, Watson found Holmes lounging on the sofa in his purple dressing gown, studying a seedy and disreputable felt hat.
“You are engaged,” Watson apologized. “I will not interrupt you.”
“Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one,” Holmes said, jerking his thumb towards the old hat, “but there are points in connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest, and even instruction.”
Sitting in his arm-chair, Watson asked, “I suppose that, homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked to it - or that it is the link in one of your upcoming plots?”
“No, no crime of mine. Only one of those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have five million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. The hat was found by my man, Redmond. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look upon it, not as a battered billycock, but as an intellectual problem. And, first as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning, in the company of a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Redmond’s fire. The facts are these. About four o’clock on Christmas morning, Redmond was returning from some small jollification, and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw a tallish man carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street a row broke out between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man’s hat, and he defended himself. Hoping to be commended for breaking up the assault, Redmond rushed forward and scared both parties. They took to their heels; the tall man leaving behind his hat and goose.
“Redmond brought round both hat and goose on Christmas morning, knowing my aversion to street toughs and my interest in small problems, especially these last two months when I have been lying quiet. Its finder carried off the goose to cook today on his wife’s day off, while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner.”
“Did he not advertise?” Watson asked.
“No. The bird’s leg had a small card with ‘For Mrs. Henry Baker’ printed upon it, and the initials H.B. are legible upon the lining of this hat. But, as there are some thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it would not be easy to restore the lost property to any one of them. I am left with only the hat to deduce his identity.”
“But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt?”
“You know my methods. There are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a strong balance of probability. The man was fairly well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days. These flat brims curled at the edge came in fashion three years ago and it is a hat of the very best quality. If this man could afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world.
“He had foresight, but has less now, pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink. He had the foresight to add a hat-securer. They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the elastic, and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof a of a weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavored to conceal some of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect. It is also clear that his wife has ceased to love him,”
“My dear Holmes!” Watson exclaimed.
“This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see a married man with a week’s accumulation of dust upon his hat, and when his wife allows him to go out in such a state, I fear that he has been unfortunate enough to lose his wife’s affection. Other than he is a man who leads a sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last few days which he anoints with lime cream, and that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on his house, there is little that I can tell you about this man.”
Watson had opened his mouth to reply, when a knock interrupted him. When Watson opened the door, Redmond rushed in with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Holmes, but I knew you’d want to hear about this immediately. The goose, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!”
Holmes’ employee held out his hand, and displayed a brilliant blue stone, smaller than a bean, but of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point.
Holmes sat up. “By Jove, Redmond. This is a treasure, indeed! I suppose you know what you have?”
“A gem sir, and a right pretty one!”
“It’s more than that. It’s the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle. Watson, being out of town these past few days, I doubt you’ve heard the news of it.”
“I have missed most of the news as of late,” Watson admitted.
“The Times has had advertisements about it every day lately. It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the reward offered of a thousand pounds is certainly not within a twentieth part of the market price.”
“A thousand pounds!” Redmond stared at t
he two men.
“You have done well to bring it here, Redmond. Putting such a jewel as this out in the market would surely bring us scrutiny that I hope to avoid. But let me make the good doctor aware of the facts before we discuss what to do with such a treasure.”
Turning back to Watson, Holmes continued. “It was lost at the Hotel Cosmopolitan on the twenty-second of December, just five days ago. John Horner, a plumber, was accused of having taken it from the lady’s jewel case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has been referred to the Assizes. The hotel attendant testified that he had shown Horner up to the countess’ dressing-room on the day of the robbery to fix a loose grate. The attendant was called away, leaving Horner in the room alone. When the attendant returned, he found Horner was gone and that the bureau had been forced open. Upon further inspection, the carbuncle was found to be missing.”
Leaning back in his chair, Holmes mused, “The question now is to solve is the sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel case at one end to the crop of a goose in the other. You see, Watson, our little deductions upon this hat have suddenly assumed a much more important and less innocent aspect.”
“But surely, it’s of no consequence, how it got there. You have the carbuncle now, and surely it will net you a fortune,” Watson offered.
“No, we will return this little stone. The officials are still crying for the culprit behind the city bank robbery. If this also goes unsolved, it will bring much more scrutiny upon the criminal class of London than I am comfortable with. Although it is tempting,” Holmes sighed, looking at the glint of the jewel in the light. “No, it will be more valuable for us to turn this back over to its rightful owner.”
Taking up a pencil and paper, Holmes wrote a note. “Now then, ‘Found at the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221B Baker Street.’ Redmond, please take this around to all the papers and have them run it. Also, I will ask you and your wife to not speak a word of your find to anyone. When I have connected to the two ends of our chain, you will return the carbuncle and keep a sizable portion of the reward. But until then, I would like to solve this puzzle. Also, have one of the Irregulars bring me a goose so that we may give it to this gentleman in place of the one which your family is now devouring.”