Attentive readers may recall that we hung a lantern on the chilling conclusion of “The Jollification at Butterscotch Lane,” so I have delved into my files for another short case.
I find it recorded in my notebook that Sherlock Holmes spent one November day in 1888 cross-referencing the number 27 whilst I enjoyed a good scrub at the Turkish baths. That evening, we talked about the East End atrocities. In doing so, we smoked fifty-three packets of cigarettes between us and were so damn sick we put the problem aside, went to bed early, and slept all through the next day. Holmes had to postpone his monograph on balloon animals, which put him in rather a nastier temper than usual.
“I have important work to do, not just scraping corns off old ladies' feet, leaving you time for those beastly sea sagas you claim to read, though I know you're just daydreaming as usual.”
Now my hackles were really up. “Listen, mate, that remark makes me not half eager to stay home instead of joining you on our annual retreat tomorrow to the Reichenbach Falls.”
Keen adventurers, Holmes and I travelled often. The latest junket had been our biennial trip to the Lake Country, when I’d given my friend a gentle yet forceful nudge, toppling him into Lake Windemere, but he emerged, sodden and howling mad, with a vow to get even on the next journey. Little wonder I had no desire to accompany him to a potentially fatal cataract.
I looked out the window, and through the heavy yellow fog, I saw a brougham stationed outside our residence. There ensued a vigorous buffeting of the door, which Mrs. Hudson was quick to answer. The steps of a none-too-diminutive frame pounded up the stairs, and then we found ourselves in the presence of Robert Gascoyne-Cecil, 3rd Marquess of Salisbury, Prime Minister of Britain.
“Mr. Holmes! I have come on a matter of the greatest import!”
The detective ushered Lord Salisbury, as I bristled inwardly, to my accustomed armchair.
“A secret treaty, a cryptic missive from some foreign potentate, or…”
“Not Her Majesty’s bloomers, surely!” I interposed, stealthily planting myself in Holmes’s armchair. “Perhaps it is the question of Irish Home Rule, the reaction of aristocrats to the Local Government Act, or the latest, most ghastly Ripper murder in the East End.”
“No! My favorite umbrella has gone missing! Mr. Holmes, please help me!”
The great detective sat down among the exposed springs of the sofa and steepled his fingers. “It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. What color is the umbrella, Lord Salisbury?”
“Black, of course!”
“And its canopy fabric?”
“Surely you are making sport of me, Holmes! Of what material other than silk would a gentleman’s umbrella be constructed?”
“Just so,” Holmes replied. “Well, well, no doubt its frame boasts of steel ribs. It has a Malacca shaft, and its handle is cream-colored ivory, carved into an elegant taper, flourished with a silver collar that displays an engraving of your family crest.”
Lord Salisbury sat back in astonishment. “Bless my buttons, Mr. Holmes, I believe you are a wizard!”
My friend chuckled. “It is my business to know what kind of umbrella a peer of the realm might carry.”
“But where is the missing umbrella? That certainly is the puzzle His Lordship wishes to solve,” I prompted.
“I’ve checked Westminster, the Foreign Office, the Home Office, the Horse Guards Building, and even Buckingham Palace, all to no avail!”
Holmes shook his head. “It is indeed unfortunate that this great city of ours contains reprobates wicked enough to steal His Lordship’s valuables.”
I pondered Holmes’s remark. Was this umbrella the objet de tous les désirs of London’s criminal classes?
“Hul-loo,” I remarked. “Observe the splattered clay on Lord Salisbury’s trouser leg. “Certainly it is evidence of a recent visit to Hatfield House, His Lordship’s ancestral seat in Hertfordshire. Perhaps the umbrella is there.”
“Hmm,” said Holmes. “Possibly. Remember my axiom: When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. However, my aching joints inform me that it is drizzling outside, yet His Lordship is not at all wet. Perhaps he has…”
“…carried his umbrella here and left it in the hall downstairs!” I interjected.
Holmes glared at me. “I'm sure the doctor is right,” he conceded through clenched teeth.
I beamed with pride.
We all three thundered down the stairs, upsetting the tea tray Mrs. Hudson was bringing us, to see Lord Salisbury’s weatherbeaten umbrella in the hallway umbrella stand.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes,” His Lordship said with relief, though it had been I who solved the mystery.
“Pshaw,” my friend replied. “That I was able to tease out the threads of this riddle is thanks enough for me. Now, pray join us for a cold supper. Pork pie, Stilton cheese, rolls, cold tongue, and a decanter of claret, eh, Mrs. Hudson?”
The good lady sighed in exasperation, nodded, and disappeared into the kitchen.
“You are too kind,” said the Prime Minister, “but I must decline. I have a barber’s appointment with Aaron Kosminski on Greenfield Street in Whitechapel. He cancelled our engagement on the 9th of this month and rescheduled for today. No one has seen him since the latest Ripper tragedy, and I only hope he is not too torn up about it.”
“Tut tut,” Holmes said, patting him on the shoulder as I handed him his umbrella, which he had neglected to pick up himself. “Perhaps we will hear no more of the Whitechapel fiend. Do stay dry, Your Lordship.”
By the time Holmes and I settled back by the fire, Mrs. Hudson had brought us our supper. I spent the evening perusing Clark Russell’s fine sea stories, and so ended another eventful day with the great Sherlock Holmes.
I find it recorded in my notebook that Sherlock Holmes spent one November day in 1888 cross-referencing the number 27 whilst I enjoyed a good scrub at the Turkish baths. That evening, we talked about the East End atrocities. In doing so, we smoked fifty-three packets of cigarettes between us and were so damn sick we put the problem aside, went to bed early, and slept all through the next day. Holmes had to postpone his monograph on balloon animals, which put him in rather a nastier temper than usual.
“I have important work to do, not just scraping corns off old ladies' feet, leaving you time for those beastly sea sagas you claim to read, though I know you're just daydreaming as usual.”
Now my hackles were really up. “Listen, mate, that remark makes me not half eager to stay home instead of joining you on our annual retreat tomorrow to the Reichenbach Falls.”
Keen adventurers, Holmes and I travelled often. The latest junket had been our biennial trip to the Lake Country, when I’d given my friend a gentle yet forceful nudge, toppling him into Lake Windemere, but he emerged, sodden and howling mad, with a vow to get even on the next journey. Little wonder I had no desire to accompany him to a potentially fatal cataract.
I looked out the window, and through the heavy yellow fog, I saw a brougham stationed outside our residence. There ensued a vigorous buffeting of the door, which Mrs. Hudson was quick to answer. The steps of a none-too-diminutive frame pounded up the stairs, and then we found ourselves in the presence of Robert Gascoyne-Cecil, 3rd Marquess of Salisbury, Prime Minister of Britain.
“Mr. Holmes! I have come on a matter of the greatest import!”
The detective ushered Lord Salisbury, as I bristled inwardly, to my accustomed armchair.
“A secret treaty, a cryptic missive from some foreign potentate, or…”
“Not Her Majesty’s bloomers, surely!” I interposed, stealthily planting myself in Holmes’s armchair. “Perhaps it is the question of Irish Home Rule, the reaction of aristocrats to the Local Government Act, or the latest, most ghastly Ripper murder in the East End.”
“No! My favorite umbrella has gone missing! Mr. Holmes, please help me!”
The great detective sat down among the exposed springs of the sofa and steepled his fingers. “It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. What color is the umbrella, Lord Salisbury?”
“Black, of course!”
“And its canopy fabric?”
“Surely you are making sport of me, Holmes! Of what material other than silk would a gentleman’s umbrella be constructed?”
“Just so,” Holmes replied. “Well, well, no doubt its frame boasts of steel ribs. It has a Malacca shaft, and its handle is cream-colored ivory, carved into an elegant taper, flourished with a silver collar that displays an engraving of your family crest.”
Lord Salisbury sat back in astonishment. “Bless my buttons, Mr. Holmes, I believe you are a wizard!”
My friend chuckled. “It is my business to know what kind of umbrella a peer of the realm might carry.”
“But where is the missing umbrella? That certainly is the puzzle His Lordship wishes to solve,” I prompted.
“I’ve checked Westminster, the Foreign Office, the Home Office, the Horse Guards Building, and even Buckingham Palace, all to no avail!”
Holmes shook his head. “It is indeed unfortunate that this great city of ours contains reprobates wicked enough to steal His Lordship’s valuables.”
I pondered Holmes’s remark. Was this umbrella the objet de tous les désirs of London’s criminal classes?
“Hul-loo,” I remarked. “Observe the splattered clay on Lord Salisbury’s trouser leg. “Certainly it is evidence of a recent visit to Hatfield House, His Lordship’s ancestral seat in Hertfordshire. Perhaps the umbrella is there.”
“Hmm,” said Holmes. “Possibly. Remember my axiom: When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. However, my aching joints inform me that it is drizzling outside, yet His Lordship is not at all wet. Perhaps he has…”
“…carried his umbrella here and left it in the hall downstairs!” I interjected.
Holmes glared at me. “I'm sure the doctor is right,” he conceded through clenched teeth.
I beamed with pride.
We all three thundered down the stairs, upsetting the tea tray Mrs. Hudson was bringing us, to see Lord Salisbury’s weatherbeaten umbrella in the hallway umbrella stand.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes,” His Lordship said with relief, though it had been I who solved the mystery.
“Pshaw,” my friend replied. “That I was able to tease out the threads of this riddle is thanks enough for me. Now, pray join us for a cold supper. Pork pie, Stilton cheese, rolls, cold tongue, and a decanter of claret, eh, Mrs. Hudson?”
The good lady sighed in exasperation, nodded, and disappeared into the kitchen.
“You are too kind,” said the Prime Minister, “but I must decline. I have a barber’s appointment with Aaron Kosminski on Greenfield Street in Whitechapel. He cancelled our engagement on the 9th of this month and rescheduled for today. No one has seen him since the latest Ripper tragedy, and I only hope he is not too torn up about it.”
“Tut tut,” Holmes said, patting him on the shoulder as I handed him his umbrella, which he had neglected to pick up himself. “Perhaps we will hear no more of the Whitechapel fiend. Do stay dry, Your Lordship.”
By the time Holmes and I settled back by the fire, Mrs. Hudson had brought us our supper. I spent the evening perusing Clark Russell’s fine sea stories, and so ended another eventful day with the great Sherlock Holmes.