give Baker Street as our next destination. However, upon reaching our rooms he explained that he wanted to examine the items that he had taken from Stamford’s desk, before presenting his findings to Inspector Daley.
He poured out a substantial Cognac for us both and offered me a cigar from the coal scuttle, before spreading the papers out on the table under the illumination of a small oil lamp.
‘Let us study these in silence for a moment, before voicing our conclusions.’ Holmes suggested. I nodded my agreement and was most careful in placing my cigar in a large glass ashtray, well away from the papers.
The book turned out to be Stamford’s diary and the document none other than the patent for the unique spring hinges, employed in ensuring that the aluminium crutch was more comfortable than any other of its type. We had hoped that the diary would reveal some of Stamford’s innermost thoughts and thereby furnish us with a clue as to the motive behind his horrendous demise. However, this proved to be a purely professional journal, providing brief notes as to his day-to-day activities. My disappointment at making this discovery was tempered somewhat by Holmes’s excitement. He hurriedly removed the note that I had received from Stamford and laid it out next to the page in the diary that had so excited him.
‘See here, Watson!’ he said, breaking our silence while pointing at the note.
I compared the two and immediately understood the implications of Holmes’s discovery.
‘Again, there is no similarity between the two. I say!’ I suddenly exclaimed. ‘Whoever did send the note used his knowledge of my association with Stamford as a means to camouflage his crime. This is intolerable!’
‘Calm yourself, Watson, there are graver implications here than your personal indignation. Read some of Stamford’s diary entries. Here, on the fourth of last month:
‘Now read this entry of but a week later.
‘Certainly it does. Yet how did this Paulsen have access to Stamford’s diary? How did he know of my friendship with Stamford and our penchant for the Holborn?’
Holmes suddenly got up from the table and lit his cigar, using an ember with the tongs from the fireplace.
‘For the answers to your questions I would suggest that you need to look no further than to the foot of the final page of these patent papers and to the very last entry in the diary,’ Holmes replied gravely.
I followed Holmes’s instructions and then, having done so, laid the documents on to the table again.
‘Phew! So this fellow Paulsen was none other than Stamford’s partner in the invention of the aluminium crutch. As is often the case, greed has proved to be the motive for the taking of a life.’
‘Quite so, old fellow. Too often I fear that the satisfaction I receive from my chosen profession is tempered by the humility born of witnessing the good being extinguished by the evil. Now call for Mrs Hudson. We must send a wire with all speed to Daley at the Holborn. Instruct him to arrest the footman at once and inform him that I will provide him with the details of the case early tomorrow morning. I think that we have delayed the remainder of the staff there for long enough.
‘Oh, and be so kind as to suggest that he might search through the footman’s belongings, or should I now refer to him as Paulsen? For that is surely his masquerade. I would not be a bit surprised if Daley were to discover that Paulsen possesses a “Gladstone” full of the pellets from some shotgun shells!’
Holmes now abandoned his cigar in favour of his cherrywood and retreated to the windowsill looking out over the street below. I issued his instructions to Mrs Hudson, who went about the business immediately. During the protracted silence that followed I was able to read again the very last entry that Stamford ever wrote.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABOMINABLE WIFE
(
Aparticularly pleasant spring afternoon in 1890, just a few months prior to Holmes’s supposedly calamitous confrontation with Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls, found my friend sitting on the windowsill overlooking Baker Street, toiling over Bruch’s Violin Concerto.
I use the word toiling for that is the only way that I can describe the horrendous, discordant screeching that was being emitted from Holmes’s normally sublime instrument. It is worth mentioning here that the last few months had seen his workload of noteworthy cases reach an unprecedentedly high level. The affairs of the ‘Enigmatic Talisman’ and the ‘Venetian Mandolin’ are at least two of those that will undoubtedly, one day, be included in my ever-growing compilation.
However, the last few weeks had seen a certain slackening off and, as a consequence, I had noticed certain signs of frustration returning once more to Holmes’s behaviour as his nature rebelled against the stagnation of his faculties. His inept rendering of the Bruch was indicative of this. Surprisingly, though, and in an instant Holmes’s bow on string became true again and the strands of the concerto became sweet and coherent once more.
I could not perceive a reason for this sudden change until I decided to employ Holmes’s own methods. There was a smile of satisfaction on his face and I stole stealthily over to the window. Sure enough I saw our old friend Inspector Lestrade, having just vacated a departing cab, staring up at our rooms standing next to a most singular- looking companion.
‘So you perceive a case in the offing?’ I asked.
‘Certainly the potential, Watson, although, as you know, I am loath to make assumptions without being in possession of the facts.’ Holmes smiled whilst carefully replacing the violin into its case. Reluctantly I put down the book that I had been engrossed in, Lord Lynton’s veritable tome
Once our guests had entered the room, Holmes sized them up for a moment before reciprocating their greeting.
‘Tea for four if you would be so kind, Mrs Hudson. Please take a seat, Mr Clarke!’
The look of astonishment on the stranger’s face was certainly mirrored by that on both Lestrade’s and my own.
‘I was not aware that I had previously made your acquaintance, sir,’ said the man identified as Mr Clarke.
‘I can assure you that you have not.’ Holmes replied.
‘Then in heaven’s name, what magic have you used to identify me?’
‘I can assure you that there is nothing magical in anything that I do.’ Before explaining himself and, I am certain, in order to create the maximum dramatic effect, Holmes turned deliberately away to prepare, slowly, his old clay pipe.
This most singular-looking gentleman presenting himself before us stood at just below average height and his build was certainly more than a little portly. He sported a most lively-coloured waistcoat; a checked tweed jacket fashioned from a cloth of deepest maroon and a bowler hat to match. He appeared to be in his early fifties and when he spoke it was with a deep, rich baritone voice. He used his arms to a most dramatic effect.
As I was making these observations Mrs Hudson returned with a tray of tea. Holmes waved our guests towards the spare chairs.
After we had each had a sip of tea Clarke repeated his question. Holmes hesitated, as if he had forgotten it.
‘Mr Clarke, your somewhat exuberant attire, your extravagant affectations together with such a well-trained resonant voice indicates employment in a branch of the performing arts. When I observe a strand or two of straw still clinging to the base of your left heel and a light dusting of sawdust nestling within the folds of your trouser
