I have the singular pleasure of sharing with my readers the only mystery that I solved alone during my acquaintance with the esteemed detective, Sherlock Holmes, my best and most honored of friends. The alert reader may be expecting the resolution of “The Jollification at Butterscotch Lane,” but let us hang a lantern on that for now and continue with this most interesting tale.
Toward the end of December 1895, I was ensconced by the fire in our Baker Street apartments and enmeshed in another one of Clark Russell’s fine sea stories as rain pelted the sitting room window. On the nearby sofa, Holmes was sound asleep, shagged out after an all-night stag do at the Imperial Order of the Golden Scarabs, his club on Piccadilly Street.
I happened to glance out the window and saw a brougham at our door. Who could be inside, other than a prospective client for Sherlock Holmes?
Out stepped a tall, full-bearded gentleman in a black wool Chesterfield and a silk top hat.
It soon emerged that our visitor was a prominent figure in Her Majesty’s Cabinet whose name must be withheld from this account—my readers undoubtedly recognize the necessity of shielding the identity of Prime Minister Robert Gascoyne-Cecil, 3rd Marquess of Salisbury—especially because he stood as a leader of no little consequence.
I invited him to sit and wordlessly offered to take his overcoat and hat. He relinquished the coat, but not the (rather shabby) headpiece.
“You will forgive this most precipitate interview,” he began. “I have much on my mind lately. Those weasels, Grover Cleveland and Richard Olney, have had the effrontery to meddle in a boundary dispute between British Guiana and Venezuela. The misadventures of two nitwits, Rhodes and Jameson, in the Transvaal occupy both my waking thoughts and prevailing nightmares. But nothing, Mr. Holmes, nothing has plagued me more than the disappearance of a priceless item, worth more than all the Crown Jewels combined. There’s devilry in it, of that I am certain.”
Before I could interject that I was not Sherlock Holmes, as Lord Salisbury apprehended, I recalled two pertinent facts: one, that the prime minister suffered from face blindness, and two, that Holmes had threatened to poleax me should I waken him. I therefore seized a sheet of foolscap so that I might take notes.
“My lord,” I questioned, “May we take it as a working hypothesis that this missing item is essential to the well-being of the Empire?”
“Essential, nay, indispensable, Mr. Holmes!” The large dignitary exploded in sobs.
“Not Her Majesty’s knickers, surely!” I remonstrated.
“No, my good sir— it is my hat, my headgear, my topper that has inexplicably disappeared!”
I shrewdly deduced that the article of millinery referenced by the unhappy gentleman sat at that very moment atop his head.
“Perhaps, amid the troubles your lordship has suggested, you have simply forgotten to remove this badge of dignity?”
His lordship’s fingers rose tentatively to the hat in question. The delight on his face bespoke an enormous relief.
“You have solved the mystery, Holmes,” a thankful Salisbury affirmed. “I am much in your debt.”
Across the room, Holmes snorted as he napped and turned over against the back of our sofa. Chuffed at my success in solving the mystery of the missing top hat, I tiptoed past the recumbent detective as I escorted Lord Salisbury from the premises. No longer would Holmes hold the title of solitary investigator at 221B Baker Street.
Toward the end of December 1895, I was ensconced by the fire in our Baker Street apartments and enmeshed in another one of Clark Russell’s fine sea stories as rain pelted the sitting room window. On the nearby sofa, Holmes was sound asleep, shagged out after an all-night stag do at the Imperial Order of the Golden Scarabs, his club on Piccadilly Street.
I happened to glance out the window and saw a brougham at our door. Who could be inside, other than a prospective client for Sherlock Holmes?
Out stepped a tall, full-bearded gentleman in a black wool Chesterfield and a silk top hat.
It soon emerged that our visitor was a prominent figure in Her Majesty’s Cabinet whose name must be withheld from this account—my readers undoubtedly recognize the necessity of shielding the identity of Prime Minister Robert Gascoyne-Cecil, 3rd Marquess of Salisbury—especially because he stood as a leader of no little consequence.
I invited him to sit and wordlessly offered to take his overcoat and hat. He relinquished the coat, but not the (rather shabby) headpiece.
“You will forgive this most precipitate interview,” he began. “I have much on my mind lately. Those weasels, Grover Cleveland and Richard Olney, have had the effrontery to meddle in a boundary dispute between British Guiana and Venezuela. The misadventures of two nitwits, Rhodes and Jameson, in the Transvaal occupy both my waking thoughts and prevailing nightmares. But nothing, Mr. Holmes, nothing has plagued me more than the disappearance of a priceless item, worth more than all the Crown Jewels combined. There’s devilry in it, of that I am certain.”
Before I could interject that I was not Sherlock Holmes, as Lord Salisbury apprehended, I recalled two pertinent facts: one, that the prime minister suffered from face blindness, and two, that Holmes had threatened to poleax me should I waken him. I therefore seized a sheet of foolscap so that I might take notes.
“My lord,” I questioned, “May we take it as a working hypothesis that this missing item is essential to the well-being of the Empire?”
“Essential, nay, indispensable, Mr. Holmes!” The large dignitary exploded in sobs.
“Not Her Majesty’s knickers, surely!” I remonstrated.
“No, my good sir— it is my hat, my headgear, my topper that has inexplicably disappeared!”
I shrewdly deduced that the article of millinery referenced by the unhappy gentleman sat at that very moment atop his head.
“Perhaps, amid the troubles your lordship has suggested, you have simply forgotten to remove this badge of dignity?”
His lordship’s fingers rose tentatively to the hat in question. The delight on his face bespoke an enormous relief.
“You have solved the mystery, Holmes,” a thankful Salisbury affirmed. “I am much in your debt.”
Across the room, Holmes snorted as he napped and turned over against the back of our sofa. Chuffed at my success in solving the mystery of the missing top hat, I tiptoed past the recumbent detective as I escorted Lord Salisbury from the premises. No longer would Holmes hold the title of solitary investigator at 221B Baker Street.