The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

With or without Holmes – for I make bold to say that the final steps can, if necessary, be entrusted to me – this excursion will

bring home guilt to the person in question; until then however it cannot be positively asserted. The reader will forgive me if I obey the dictates of discretion by declining to specify the exact date on which these anticipatory words are penned.

It was in the spring of 1901, while Holmes and I were investigating the disappearance of the Priory School student and the murder of his bicycling German master in the north of England, that we learned of the death of Reginald Musgrave. The newspaper's account was terse: Sir Reginald, member of parliament for Hurlstone, West Sussex and squire of its Manor House and estates, had been tragically killed in a shooting mishap on Monday May 13th. A verdict of accidental death had been returned at the inquest; a memorial service was to be held at the village church and the estates were to be maintained by the deceased's next of kin, his cousin Nathaniel Musgrave.

'Is it not an irony,' said Holmes, his distress obvious as we surveyed this brief announcement, 'that we learn of the death of Musgrave, who inherited his estates from his father but died a bachelor, just as we make clear that the Holdernesse family has one son too many? The sibling Saltire is lured away, like young Copperfield to Dover, on the promise of a maternal affection which is not to be found at home, by a treacherous elder brother whose only aim is his destruction. Which is the better, to father two sons and such a misery or, like Musgrave, none at all?'

'That must be decided by each man for himself, Holmes. Opportunity travels always with risk as its companion.'

'Just so, Watson, but I regret that Musgrave's sudden end has denied him the chance of an heir,' replied Holmes thoughtfully 'and also the pleasure of taking his own son through the family ritual. And what means 'shooting mishap'? One would expect from the press less reticence and more clarity. The coroner however has evidently found nothing amiss so, unless the fates decree that I am consulted in the matter, nothing appears to be done save to bid a silent ave atque vale to my erstwhile university friend and early client.'

The fates were so to decree but, perversely, they stayed their hand for nearly two months; it was then their sister Atropos they sent. She came to us in the thin disguise of our landlady, bearing the morning's tray of correspondence and requests for appointments, medical for me, criminal and otherwise for

Holmes. Her rap at our door, thus effected, was so gentle, and her tap so faint, that we were unaware she had entered our chamber. She gave no warning of the remarkable train of events, of the brazen attempt at an audacious new crime – and delayed retribution for a hideous old one – that would ensue; nor was I prepared for the demonstrations of my friend's amazing powers of observation, deduction and inference, of the quick workings of his intellect and of his astonishing ability to create and test hypotheses until the truth was revealed as clearly as are the pure golden tailings and nuggets in the pan of the prospector.

Thus it was that ten days ago Sherlock Holmes and I were visited by the eminent London publisher Garrison Bolt. He wished, he had said in his letter requesting the appointment, to consult Holmes about a matter arising from his business. On the grounds that this might involve my role of chronicler Holmes had asked me, despite a period of considerable activity in my medical practice, to be present. The shrewd, scholarly face of the bookman was known to us, although we had not met for some years. It was with the house of Bolt that I had negotiated publication of my account of one of our earliest cases. I remembered very well the hard bargain he had struck and admit to harbouring some resentment as a result, a resentment heightened by the contrasting generosity of the public, whose approval of my later efforts stood in such sharp contrast to Mr Bolt's parsimony. Despite the numerous reprints of my work, from which Mr Bolt's firm reaped a considerable income, nary a penny was paid over the modest sum agreed, a circumstance which directed me to other, more generous publishers. But a bargain is a bargain and neither Holmes nor I had ever allowed ourselves the indulgence of bearing any grudge or ill will towards Garrison Bolt save that, on the occasions when he had requested my contribution of short introductions to later editions, my dislike of his business ethics always caused me to respond with a positive 'No!'. We greeted him cordially as he entered our Baker Street rooms and seated him as comfortably as our quarters permitted.

'I am delighted to see you again, Mr Holmes – Dr Watson,' said our visitor, settling himself into an armchair.

'And we, you', replied my friend cheerfully. 'It was only last evening that we were speculating on the effects, beneficial

or otherwise, of the new Literary Supplement on the fortunes of publishing houses such as yours, and on those who, like Dr Watson, supply the grist for your mills.'

'It certainly introduces a new element into the novelist's equation,' commented Garrison Bolt, with a wry smile, 'the effects of which will be felt throughout the world. Indeed, there is an international aspect to this singular and tantalizing matter that has come up in our offices, which I believe will be of interest to you.' Holmes and I leaned forward. Both paused, as though seeking the words that would best secure our attention. 'It appears to me that the matter already does relate to you!'

'How so?' asked Holmes, laying aside his pipe.

'I have had in my employment, head of one of our departments, a Mr Musgrave,' the publisher explained. 'Some years ago he died.'

'How?'

'Of natural causes.'

'What type of man was he?'

'A hard-working person, of a religious bent but with no other special feature in his character. I have had no occasion to think of Newman Musgrave since – until a month ago, when we received a letter addressed to him care of ourselves. I have it with me now.' Garrison Bolt handed an envelope to Sherlock Holmes. It appeared thus:

'As you see, the letter has been addressed not to Newman, but to Norman, Musgrave. We have had no other Musgraves in our employ so I feel sure that the letter was intended for Newman. It has been registered, carries Canadian postage and has the note `CONFL FILMS' upon the outside of the envelope, with the words 'REPORT SY' in the top left hand corner, in the position where the sender's return address is usually given. No such return address, or any indication as to the sender, however, appears.The postman, after some demur, agreed to leave the envelope with us.

'As we had no note of the dead man's relatives we naturally opened it. To our surprise we found inside only these two blank pieces of paper.' He handed these to me. I passed them to Holmes, who glanced at them cursorily and returned them to our visitor.

'Thinking that the sheets might have some connection with 'films', or perhaps 'confidential films' ', he continued, 'and not trusting them only to my own examinations, I employed the best expert advice I could secure by submitting them to Scotland Yard for analysis by every possible chemical and heat test – all without any result.'

'Tut, man,' cried Holmes, glancing at the envelope. 'You surely received the letter at least a month ago. Have you not been tardy in submitting it for testing?'

'I fear so, sir. I had not read any emergency into the matter. It was only when the police laboratory failed me that I realized that if the mystery was to be solved more specialized advice was needed. It was then that I thought of you, Mr Holmes. Like all Londoners I am aware of your extraordinary ability to solve the insoluble, and to bring light into darkness. You will recall that our house had the pleasure of publishing one of Dr Watson's first accounts of a tour de force in your astonishing career. I was struck, too, by the postmark 'Baskerville' on the envelope, mindful that the name is associated with another of your recent adventures. The name of my employee, Musgrave, of course is to be found in yet another of Dr Watson's accounts.

I interjected, 'How the correspondent could have something so secret to say to Mr Musgrave and yet not be aware that this person had been dead for several years is very hard to understand – or why blank sheets should be so carefully registered through the mail.'

'Quite so.To a man like me the matter is an insoluble mystery.' He turned to Holmes. 'Well, Mr Holmes, you are not a man like me, and there is my hope! May I leave this conundrum in your hands? I cannot see that even you will be able to find the key to it, and the matter may perhaps be of no importance but I,