The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

you, Professor?'

'Yes… well of course, such a mistake might be made… but… good heavens how do you know the man is wearing a pair of my boots?'

Professor Hardcastle, eyes wide with astonishment behind the lenses of the pince-nez, turned to stare out of the window at the gardener, a man of around fifty years, who was scrupulously trimming privet just half a dozen yards beyond the window.

'Your gardener,' continued Holmes, fingers lightly pressed together, 'is recently married to a good woman of a character similar to his own, that is both are hard working and anxious to please. Both love each other dearly. Moreover, the man wears a pair of boots once owned by yourself.'

Hardcastle squinted through his pince-nez at the boots. 'Why?Yes.Yes. Those are – were my old boots. My wife, rather than throwing them out, would have seen that they were offered to Clarkson. And, yes, I found the man very eager to please, indeed anxious to give satisfaction for his wages, but how could you know that?'

Holmes smiled. 'Gardeners don't wear such expensive boots while they work. If he could have afforded such a pair he would have saved them for 'Sunday best.' Also from the way the man hobbles quite painfully, they are far too small for him. Indeed they would, sir, fit someone with your size feet. A size seven.'

'Ah, size eight.'

'I think you'll find a trifle smaller. Nevertheless, the boots you gave him are too small, but rather than appearing ungrateful he makes a point of wearing them when you will notice.'

'That is why he's wearing the boots so near the window?'

'Indeed so, and vigorously trimming a hedge that visibly requires no trimming. But he's keen to create a good impression. I dare say you'll find his more comfortable workboots concealed behind some nearby bush which he will change into once he's demonstrated his gratitude to you.'

'And recently married?'

'Have you seen many a gardener with clothes so clean and trousers so carefully pressed? The wife is eager to please, too. And, he, in love with his wife, is so closely shaven that he has nicked his face four, five times. Now!' Holmes briskly rose from the chair and paced the room. As he did so, he appraised, with those two keen eyes of his, certain areas of the carpet, and paid particular attention to the crystal wine decanters on the table. Holmes continued, 'My example of the gardener and his wearing another man's boots disposes, I believe, with the apparently insoluble problem of Dr Columbine returning from the dead to plague you. Evidently, another man wore his coat and possessed his watch when he unfortunately fell in the Thames. Either stolen or purchased from the Doctor.'

'Then Columbine is alive?'

'Yes.' Holmes picked the aerolite from the table and held it between forefinger and thumb. 'That is, if he were the only man to know that you found The Rye Stone in a patch of thyme?'

'Yes, he was… its place of landing is irrelevant to my experiments. I never once mentioned it to another living soul.'

'But not irrelevant to this case. As you realized, most powerfully, when you saw the sprigs of thyme and the stone together. That little conjunction of herb and stone was nothing less than a message to you, sir, from Dr Columbine, which states plainly: Professor Hardcastle, I am alive. I have not forgotten my threat. I have the ability to come and go into your home at will. Now I am merely biding my time before I strike.'

'My son?'

'Specifically, your son. He will murder your son in his bed within forty-eight hours.'

The man's face turned white as paper. 'Oh, heavens, what a horrible prediction. How can you know that?'

'I will return tomorrow morning whereupon. I will explain everything?'

'But my son is under a sentence of death. What you've told me is unspeakably cruel.'

'But necessary. When I return to tomorrow I will do my utmost to save your son – but we are dealing not just with a madman, but a man who is uncommonly intelligent.'

'Please don't go.'

'I must make some very necessary preparations. But first please pass me the sprig of thyme from the table. Thank you, Professor.'

For a moment we sat there, I upon the sofa, the professor perched unhappily on the edge of the armchair, his wide eyes watching Holmes's every move.

Holmes, took the sprig of herb to the window where the light was brightest. He gazed at the stem, then the leaves of the plant, in the peculiar introspective fashion which was characteristic of him. 'It is Thymus serpyllum, more commonly known as wild thyme, a mat-forming undershrub, prevalent in dry grassy places, particularly heaths; its flowers possessing rounded heads of a reddish-purple.' He lifted the plant to his nostrils. 'Quite aromatic.' He looked closely at the plant's stalk. 'Evidently the plant is Dr Columbine's calling card; he intended it to be so. But let us see if… ah, yes!' said he in a tone suggesting a puzzle solved. 'Let us see if the plant tells us a little more than Columbine intended.' Taking one of his own calling cards from his pocket, Holmes placed it face down on a small table by the window. Then quickly drawing a Swiss Army knife from his trouser pocket he opened a glittering blade and gently scraped one of the plant's small leaves.

'Mr Holmes, what is it?' asked the professor, anxiously. 'What have you found?'

'Just one moment, sir.'

'You mentioned the plant occurs on heathland. Then the madman must have plucked it from Hampstead Heath which is across the road from my home.'

'Ah, not necessarily, Professor. The plant is yielding a clue to as its origins.'

From what I could see, tiny particles had fallen from the leaf when scraped, which peppered the white calling card with black. Holmes peering at these most closely, carefully drew the flat of his penknife blade from left to right across the card.

'In fact,' said Holmes crisply. 'The plant was taken from alongside the railway track that leads into King's Cross station, which is served by The Great Western Railway company.'

'But how… I don't understand.' The professor shook his head bemused.

'Professor, you will of course know that locomotives eject not only soot and smoke from the their funnels, but small fragments of unburnt coal. English coal is hard and does not leave any appreciable mark on paper; Welsh coal, however, is quite different. It is very soft and leaves a rich mark when drawn across paper – as richly dark as an artist's charcoal. Here, I see many grit-like particles of coal adhering to the leaves of this plant. This tells me it was plucked close to a railway line. The coal is indeed Welsh – please note the black marks it has left on my calling card. Therefore, I conclude the plant was picked close to the broad gauge track which serves King's Cross station. The Great Western Railway company being the only company to exclusively use Welsh coal to power its locomotives. I'd conclude, therefore, that the unfortunate Dr Columbine lives the life of a vagrant close by the aforementioned railway track.'

'Yes,' said the professor a trifle dazed. 'But what course of action do we take now? How can we find the man?'

Instead of immediately replying, Holmes held up his hand for a moment, which caused both the Professor and I to lean forward expectantly, sensing Holmes had seen something of great relevance within the room. I tried to follow that razor sharp gaze; however, I discerned nothing amiss. Holmes continued briskly: 'Leave that to me, Professor. I will alert my contacts and they will search every gin shop, ale house and railway arch until the man is found. Dwarfish, you say, with bushy red hair and sideburns?'

'Yes.'

'Come, Watson. There's no time to lose.'

The professor was clearly anguished at being abandoned there to the mercy of the madman for yet another night. 'But what if he returns tonight?'

'He will not?'

'You can be so sure?'

Yes.^'

'How?'

'Explanations must wait until tomorrow.'

I'd begun to rise from the sofa when I witnessed a most peculiar thing.

Holmes advanced to the door, as if eager to make his exit.Yet after opening the door to the hallway he abruptly