while in melancholia the pen is gripped and also pressed very lightly, so the strokes are narrow and light, with numerous interruptions where pen leaves paper.”
Even I, with my knowledge of Holmes’s methods, was surprised by the information he had gleaned from this brief note. But he was not yet done with it; there was more to come.
“The ink,” said Holmes. “Note its unusual color.”
The note was penned in purple ink, not so uncommon from a lady of high rank, and I said so.
“Watson, do you not know it is most irregular for any learned society, even one studying comets, to send an invitation in purple ink? Black, my dear fellow, black is the preferred color. Black, preferably from the ink sac of the octopus. It makes indelible, deep black ink that never fades; black, for emphasis, for severity, for permanence. This note was penned, not in the official Society ink, but in the personal ink of a lady who, though not born to the purple, is nevertheless of high rank, and entitled to employ it. Note the signature.”
“But Holmes,” I protested, “there is no signature”
“Yes there is,” said Holmes. “The initialed signature is L.H. No doubt the signature of Miss Louisa Hotchkiss, secretary of the Theosophical Society. She is the only child and daughter of Sir Alfred Hotchkiss. Though not a Peer of the Realm, Sir Alfred is nevertheless a person who has been knighted. He is a man of considerable social prominence, and of great wealth. He donates generously to his daughter’s Society.”
“Watson, you have probably missed the note’s scent, because it is so faint, faint but unmistakable, the scent of Tea Roses. What we have here is a personal invitation, penned hurriedly by an agitated lady of high station. Obviously she feels it is most important that we attend the Society’s meeting, this very evening, and in an official capacity.”
“Official capacity? How do you know it’s not just a friendly note?”
“Because, my dear fellow, it is addressed to Detective, not Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There is something afoot, Watson, something important is amiss, and it has nothing to do with comets. Watson, we have a case!”
Holmes immediately penned a reply accepting the invitation. I couldn’t help noticing it was written in dark black ink, ink that no doubt would not fade. I could almost see little octopus tentacles emerging from the ink bottle. As to the pen strokes, I did not examine them, but I am sure they were quite normal. Holmes was the one of the less than one in a thousand, whose penmanship was unaffected by his emotional state, now one of obvious agitation. He is truly a remarkable man, as I have seen evidenced many times before, and was about to see again.
The coach and four we arranged for arrived on schedule, and a little before 8:00 P.M. we arrived, and alighted at the Theosophical Society’s doorstep. Holmes had told me that nothing bearing on the case would be discussed until after the meeting.
“Because” Holmes said, “despite her concern, no less can be expected from a lady of good breeding.” And as usual he was right.
We entered a beautifully paneled, spacious and well lit room, with two big doors at the far end, and I immediately noticed a strikingly beautiful young woman, who was personally greeting new arrivals. She was tall and slender, with very fair skin and a mass of natural red hair intricately arranged upon her head. A high brow, well set alert green eyes, a nicely shaped mouth and firm chin completed the picture of an intelligent, well-bred young lady.
Her dress was fashionably but conservatively cut, and Greengage in color, the exact light green of a Greengage plum. It was set off by a magnificent necklace of dark green cut emeralds, set in heavy red gold, while her finger, though not graced by an engagement or wedding ring, bore a single very large emerald in a matching heavy red gold setting.
That, I said to myself, must be Miss Louisa Hotchkiss. Imagine my surprise when I heard Holmes say, “right you are, Watson, right you are.” I must have spoken aloud.
The short greeting line, for that is what we were in, soon brought us to Miss Hotchkiss. She greeted Holmes by name, and extending her greeting to me, expressed her pleasure that we could attend on such short notice. I detected a note of relief in her voice, relief that we had come. After brief pleasantries she asked if we could stay afterwards, there was a matter she wanted to discuss with us. Holmes assured Miss Louisa we would remain afterwards, which promise satisfying her the conversation ended, and we moved on.
Champagne was being served, and I took a glass. To my surprise Holmes, who rarely imbibed, took a glass also. He was in high spirits, no doubt looking forward to an interesting conversation with Miss Louisa, and we drank together. The Champagne was an excellent Moet, chilled to perfection, cold but not too cold. It was very good. I took a second glass, and then a third. The third glass considerably elevated my opinion of the Society. I was just finishing it, when Holmes suddenly turned to me and spoke.
“Well, Watson, what do you think?”
“Rather good Champagne I would say.”
“No, not that Watson, what do you think of it altogether?”
“The Society seems to be rather well off.”
“Yes, Holmes replied, “have you not heard of the Hotchkiss machine gun, the brainchild of Sir Alfred Hotchkiss? He is not famous, like Hiram Maxim, the American who originated the rapid-fire gun, but still Sir Alfred has done noble work in the endeavor of rapid killing guns. Society and Great Britain have not failed to reward him well, for his achievements in that important regard.” Holmes smiled cynically at his last statement, and continued on.
“Sir Alfred was knighted for his work, and is now one of the most wealthy and powerful men in England. He finances the Society through his daughter Louisa, who is its Secretary. Certainly the problem is not money, because they are awash in it. But there is something wrong, and it is important enough to have made her cry, and very thankful that we are here. No doubt you observed her red eyes.”
In fact I had not, but before I could reply Holmes suddenly took hold of my arm, and immediately set off towards the auditorium entrance, with me in tow. I saw the big doors were open wide, and then we moved forward and were carried in on a tide of well-dressed human flesh. We found seats, settled ourselves, and waited.
The speaker was a robust, florid faced man with a loud penetrating voice, like a foghorn. Astronomy was not my strong suit, and it seemed the speaker would go on forever. I vaguely remember his saying that dis-aster meant bad star, and that comets being bad stars were evil omens. After that I must have dozed off, with Holmes poking me in the ribs, none too gently, every time my snooze began to be comfortable, and I assume a little too loud. The next day I had a tenderness of the fifth rib. So much for the study of comets!
Holmes told me later he spent the time mentally working on a refutation of Fermat’s Last Theorem, because, as he said, “only a mathematical abstraction could drown out the utter drivel I was hearing.”
When I first met Holmes his lack of interest in astronomy was exceeded only by his ignorance concerning it. He had no knowledge of the Copernican theory that the Earth revolves around the Sun, rather than vice versa, and on learning about it from me, his response was typical.
“Now that I know about it, I shall do my best to forget it.” Then he told me about his belief in the brain’s absolute limitations.
“Depend upon it, there comes a time when, for every addition of new knowledge, you forget something you knew before. Therefore it is of the greatest importance not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones.”
“But the Solar system!” I protested.
“What the deuce is it to me?” he said impatiently.
“You say we go around the Sun. If we went around the Moon it would not make a pennyworth of difference to me. Or to my work” That ended the discussion.
Finally the lecturer finished, and we retired to the reception area, where some refreshments were served to those remaining. The crowd had thinned out, evidently a good number had already left.
I looked in vain for more of the excellent Moet, but had to settle for an indifferent Moselle. Before I had time to finish just my first glass, Miss. Hotchkiss appeared. She invited us to speak with her on a matter of some delicacy, in complete confidence. We agreed and were led to a well-appointed room, with many old, esoteric books on the walls, obviously the library. Miss Hotchkiss invited us to be seated, closed the door, and seating herself then spoke at once, to the point.
“Mr. Holmes, I must speak with you on a matter of great delicacy. Every thing that is said here must stay here, it cannot leave this room” Holmes nodded his assent. Then she looked doubtfully at me.
