Archive of Our Own

During my long acquaintance with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, it rarely came to pass that we lead the investigation of the same case separately. Although my friend had a certain reputation of being a misanthrope, we usually got along magnificently and indulged with goodwill the shortcomings and flaws that Nature so lavishly bestows on every man. Still, in those gloomy days before Christmas of the year 1894, a singular occurrence caused a discord among us, the false note in the harmonious symphony of our friendship – and the situation lead to the dramatic results, which I will now relate to my dear and discreet readers.

You may wonder over the fact that I should remember those dark December days, the beacons of our temporary parting, with such acrimony. Such feelings might appear unseemly for the loyal companion of the greatest detective of our age. But at the time of which I speak, I was in the most peculiar stage of my life and a sympathetic reader will soon discover that I had a serious reason to be perturbed.

Five months had passed since I sold my Kensington practice to doctor Verner, a young and spirited relation of Holmes and returned to share the old quarters of Baker Street with my friend again. We were just back from the sea where we investigated the wretched affair of the Dutch steamship Friesland, an affair, from which we barely emerged with our lives. While the sinister ship was sinking, we managed to take hold of a shallop and to save our existence through it, but in the fight preceding the seizure of a boat Holmes managed to forfeit most of his clothes and his boots either. In order to keep him from freezing to death, I shared my own garments with him, which resulted in two severe cases of hypothermia and in my case, a bad cold.

Holmes, a wildcat that he was, recovered surprisingly quickly. My affliction, on the other hand, was long and tiring and had to be cured at home under the careful care of our landlady, Mrs. Hudson.

While I was bound to my lounge and to my bed, Holmes absorbed himself in another case. The thing required an intensive study of books scribed in dead languages, carrying out of putrid chemical experiments and the heated consultations taking place both at St. Bart´s and The Scotland Yard. I rarely glimpsed the sight of my friend during that period. Energetic steps echoing in the hall, the flicker of movement on the other side of the room, the inaudibly mumbled greeting in passing – that was the entirety of the presence he bestowed upon me at that time.

On 21st of December, it was no different. I was sitting in my chair by the fireplace, carefully mending the narrow brim of my bowler hat, when the long rapid feet clattered up the stairs and in the next moment, Holmes hurried over the threshold, impatiently threw his tophat on top of the table, acknowledged my presence with a nod and disappeared behind the door of his bedroom.

A slight sting of bitterness speared my chest. Dazzling deductions that once adorned every coming and going of Holmes and which were often created for a particular purpose of amusing me, were no longer produced since Holmes re-appeared in London after his long absence. Come to think of it, Holmes didn´t seem to pay much attention to me at all. I did not imagine that I would be treated like a piece of furniture the day I agreed to move back to my old lodgings. Although I was especially asked by Holmes to move back here, I seemed to serve no better purpose as a lackey around him.

Fighting sudden wave or irritation, I stood up, disposed of my hat and removed the ash that amassed in the fire-place energetically with a shovel. I then took a bucket and carried it off outside to blow off some steam.

Dumping the ash out to the dust-heap in the courtyard, I remained there for a few minutes, pacing here-and-there across the hard-packed soil, inhaling the sharp, wintry air.

Upon my return, I glimpsed the lamp flickering in the entrance-hall of the house. I would not pay much attention to it normally since I knew that Mrs. Hudson had a habit of checking whether the doors are properly bolted before retiring to rest. Still, one oddity stopped me dead in my tracks. It was a distinct sound of Mrs. Hudson giggling.

Curiosity got the better of me. No voice of the Sybil was present to warn me from the act which would cause me such distress in the future. Unaware of the fact that I was approaching my doom, I entered the lobby.

It was Mrs. Hudson indeed. She hovered round the coat-rack on which Holmes´ heavy dark cloak was hanging and grinned from ear to ear like a Cheshire Cat.

„What on earth, Mrs. Hudson?“ I wondered loudly. „What are you doing here?“

She silenced me with a shushing sound, seized me by the elbow and pulled me deeper into the entrance-hall.

„It´s a love affair!“ She announced to me happily.

Her assertion was so sudden, so wild, so utterly incomprehensible that it simply refused to register right away. I stupidly stared at her for a moment while she cackled anew.

„What?“ I stammered when I found my voice again.

„I saw them right there, by the hansom cab. She was all the lady, she certainly was – frail, pretty thing, very elegant and noble, dressed entirely in white... and when they parted, she handed him some token of appreciation, which he reciprocated by kissing her hand... it was very romantic! And his coat! Can you smell it, Doctor?“

She practically thrust the sleeve of Holmes´ coat into my face. Still astounded, I inhaled automatically.

There could be no doubt about it. The traces of lady´s perfume were quite faint by now but they were definitely there.

Cold stiffness seized my lips and locked them into something resembling a spasm. The feeling of strange rawness overwhelmed me and clawed at my insides as sharply as a rake. I can´t recall how I parted from our landlady and ascended the stairs with shaking knees that had turned to water or how long did I stand in a dark room illuminated only by a few ambers glowing in the fire-place. I only know that I found myself dawdling in front of Holmes´ bedroom, gloomily, obstinately gazing at the closed door and gnawing at my lips with my teeth.

It was then that I saw it. Little white paper card imprinted with Christmas decorations lay on the carpet. It probably slipped out of Holmes´ pocket unnoticed when he swept across the room in his haste. I picked the little thing up and turned it over.

Columns of outlandish, spidery signs crawled across the page like rows of ants, endowed with small round black heads and hair-thin bodies, written in an unusual angle. I believe the inscriptions would be puzzling to any other common inhabitant of London. But not to me. I was sure I saw plenty of similar letterings in Afghanistan.

Moreover, the hand of my friend made some notes under the singular text. The words, scribbled in pencil on the card, read as follows:

Shab gasht o lik pesh-i aghyar
Ruz-ast shab-i man az rukh-i yar
Gar alam-i jumla khar gir-ad
May-em ze dost gharq-i gul-zar
Gar gasht jahan kharab o mamur
Mast-ast del o kharab-i del-dar

Persian. I did not speak the language but some particular features of the sentences implied to me that I was gazing at the tongue of the Shahs.

If the object of these papers was something else than an absolute honesty with my readers, maybe I would claim now that I put that rather peculiar note aside and casually brought the subject of its existence up while we were seated at breakfast next morning. But I am not a man cut out for pretence. I loath to admit it, but I brought that slip of paper closer to the fire, opened my notebook and carefully copied every sign and every letter to an available blank page. Mindful of the fact that any wrong slip of the pen may bring a change in meaning, I replicated the slightest curve and line of a strange lettering with utmost precision. Only after that did I return the card to its place near the Holmes´ threshold and retired to my bed.

Holmes didn´t emerge out of his room at dawn. Not that I minded much.

I donned the heavy tweed overcoat, turned two warm shawls around my throat and, covering my head with a woolen cap, drifted across the passage into the entrance-hall and into the street outside, despite the many protestations of Mrs. Hudson who was already up and busy sweeping the stairs.

Fresh wind, coming from the direction of the distant sea, managed to slightly lift up the cover of smoke-filled yellow mist hovering over London during the night, filling my chest with energy and determination. My pace was brusque as I strolled through Baker Street and so it took only a few minutes till I reached Manchester Square and entered Hollis Club, placed in the corner of the area.

Lieutenant Edmund Strickland, my old army buddy, sat in his favourite chair by the window, with The Daily Telegraph leisurely spread on the coffee-table in front of him.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise when I approached him and smiled in delight.

„By Jove, it´s John Watson!“ he exclaimed, raising from his place and stretching the hand out to me. „I´ll be damned, if I didn´t think of you just yesterday! I came around the last issue of The Strand Magazine and read your wonderful Adventure of the Empty House. What a happy occurrence to see a renowned author in front of me in person!“

„What a high praise, Strickland.“ I chuckled, while shaking hands with him. „I´m not entirely sure I deserve it.“

„Nonsense, Watson! People are mad about your stories, they are the talk of all London right now! Sit down, my old chap, sit down!“

He rang at the servant and in a minute we were both served a cup of strong tea with a few drops of brandy in it.

Strickland then reclined against the back of his chair and looked at me in expectation.

„So what brings you here, Watson?“ he asked enthusiastically. „Is there some thing in which I can be of assistance to you... or to your celebrated friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?“

„Uhm, yes, I....“ I hesitated and licked my lips in agitation, twisting my fingers around my kneecaps convulsively. „Currently, I am helping Holmes with one of his investigations and... we encountered some difficulties concerning a written document which can prove critical to the solution of the case. I... we believe, the note is written in Persian.“

„Persian? Now, that´s curious!“

„Yes, I agree, it certainly is... it is. My friend obtained a rough transcription of the sign, but we were at the end of our wits speculating about the meaning of the text. That´s where I remembered, Strickland, how you served our regiment as a Tarjuman, an interpreter, before assuming your other duties as an officer. So I hoped... if you could...?“

„Attempt to translate it?“ Strickland leaned forward in excitement. „But with pleasure, old chap! I never deemed it possible to assist the great Sherlock Holmes with a case one day! It would be the greatest honour for me.“

„Well, if that´s so, then...“ I fumbled with the inner pocket of my coat for a moment, producing my notebook from it. „Please, will you look at this?“

Strickland carefully took the open notebook from me, lifted a pince-nez hanging from his waistcoat on a thin silver chain and put it on. He read the short note for a while with the eyebrows drawn together.

He then looked at me somewhat confusedly.

„Did you gather something from it?“ I asked, an uneasy feeling taking a grip of my stomach.

Strickland scratched his ear absentmindedly: „You were right in your assumption, the language is definitely Persian. The elegant calligraphic hand used in the original text is called Nastaleeq and it´s the most popular style used for the recording of Persian couplets. The verses are of quite transparent meaning too... I doubt it would be very useful to your friend, though. The thing seems a bit... trivial.“

„I don´t mind. Holmes often conjures up some sense from the strangest of clues, it may well happen that he would see a significance of the text right away, despite the confusion the same thing raised in our own minds... so pray, tell me, what does the wretched note say?“

Strickland shrugged his shoulders: „From what I gather, the thing is some kind of a love poem. I won´t attempt to reproduce the rhyme in which the verses are composed. But in the roughest sense possible, the Ghazal goes something like this:

It was night, but only for the others.
Like the day is my night, illumined by the face of my Love.
Even if the whole world by thorns should be seized,
I would drown, because of Beloved, in the flood of roses.
Even if the world turns to ruins, to be built again,
Drunk is my heart and ruined by The Ravisher of Hearts.“

Strickland lifted his eyes from the page again: „So, what do you think, Watson?“

I didn´t get as far as the answer to that question. The moment I came to learn the full meaning of the sign I discovered in Holmes´ possession last night, I reached for my cup automatically and took a hefty gulp from the lava-hot tea. In the next second I was seized by a fit of violent coughs and managed to soil my moustache and my jaw with a thrown-up liquid reeking of brandy and of milk.

„Heavens!“ cried Strickland and the small notebook slipped from his fingers, landing on the floor with a gentle thud.

Understandably, what followed was a certain outcry from the other members of the club and a bedlam between servants who accompanied me to a washroom at last and left me there to tend to myself. I splashed cold water from the basin over my face, scrubbing it thoroughly. After that I lifted my head and took a good look into the mirror adorning the wall.

Sadly drooping wet moustache. Hair more silver than golden, tousled and shaggy like a wind-weathered straw. Rugged face still showing the mark of illness and of the night fevers. Bags under the eyes and the eyes themselves weary and reddened. Lips thin and pressed tightly together as in pain.

The ghastly image. I turned away from it in disgust.

Rationally, I was always aware that my interest in Holmes is not appropriate and that it verges on something criminal. I knew that I could not afford feeling cheated or disappointed, being married for several years myself. I had just seen the proof that I could not be described as particularily desirable by the long shot. I was conscious of the fact that I would never dare to utter a word of this to Holmes. And yet I so foolishly believed.... I had such hope that...

I have no idea how I endured the subsequent conversation with Strickland or what exactly I babbled to him. My mouth moved on its own without my mind actually participating in it. Thankfully, it didn´t last too long. I apologised myself from it as soon as I could, claiming that I feel tired and unwell and that I must return to my sick-bed to rest.

The day didn´t turn bright after all. The fresh wind from the morning evolved into a stale, damp cold, the mist descended on the streets again and enveloped the city in its suffocating shroud smelling of coal and of smoke. The cobblestones, covered in light frost, were slippery and uncomfortable to walk upon. I barely waded through puddles of half-thawed dark snow. It took me mere minutes to reach Hollis Club this morning, but my return into the lodgings I shared with Holmes seemed to take forever.

Our door at 221B Baker Street emerged in a distance at last. A small figure was outlined against the background of brick-walls. Coming nearer, I recognised Mrs. Hudson. She stood somewhat impatiently by the wooden crate filled with various green stuff.

„Here you are, Doctor!“ she exclaimed when I reached her and looked upon my haggard countenance with a slight frown. Still, she wisely restrained from any comment and pointed a hand at her strange load.

„A delivery boy unloaded holly and other evergreens from his cart in front of my door just now,“ she explained. „Holly, however, must be carried into the house by a male, it brings bad luck otherwise. If you´d be so kind, Doctor...“
I lifted the crate mechanically and carried it in, leaving it by the door of the pantry on Mrs. Hudson´s orders in an apathetic manner. I then languidly ascended the seventeen steps leading to our flat and entered the sitting room.

Holmes, standing by the fire-place, slowly straightened out, his back rigid and proud.

„So you are finally back, Watson,“ his deep barytone rumbled in the air.

We exchanged glances via the mirror hanging over the mantelpiece. My friend was fully dressed in his dark black frock coat, vest and striped trousers, with a starched „patricide“ collar of the white shirt already attached and adorned with a bow tie. He was nicely groomed and freshly shaved. Only his hair was still wavy, almost curly, as was their natural form.

He looked magnificent. The sight of him stopped me in my tracks for awhile.

He stared at me via the looking glass for a few seconds more, his noble, aquiline features cast into a sharp and striking contrast by the weak light coming into the room through the pair of windows and by the twilight residing within. After that he turned away from the fire-place and entered the adjacent room, currently serving as his laboratory and leading to his bedroom. It surprised me. Originally I thought that he would continue to spread the pomade onto his hair there by the mirror. But now it looked to me that he didn´t loiter about that place for this particular purpose. I flicked my eyes through the mantelpiece again and then I froze.

Right under the mirror, a new object materialised. A jack-knife stuck into the pile of unanswered correspondence, positioned in the very centre of the wooden chimney-piece, had a fellow now. It was one piece of footwear, made of fine saffian, yellow in colour, decorated in delicate embroidery executed in bright red thread. Its toe-end was bent up in a sharp angle. It was a slipper. A Persian slipper.

A token of appreciation he received last night. A gift some woman handed to him which suddenly became the central point of our room by its careful localisation above the hearth.

Glaring at the offensive item, I took a few steps into the room and heavily deposited myself into my chair.

Holmes re-emerged from the bedroom with a telegram in his hand.

„Observation shows me that you had been drinking brandy in the club early this morning,“ he remarked in his sultry voice. „May I presume you are well enough to accompany me on a case? I finished the bogus laundry affair last night and promptly obtained new summons from Lestrade at dawn. He must be at the end of his wits with this one. He would not send for me if this was a mere matter of simple theft.“

He handed me the Inspector´s notice. I growled something under my nose and skimmed through the text with disinterest.

„Who is she?“ I asked, feigning nonchalance.

„Huh?“ My friend inclined towards our coal-scuttle in between, taking one of his pipes out of the smelly thing. „Who is who?“

„The woman who gave you the slipper.“

He paused for a moment, his back and the whole figure perfectly still and motionless. He then turned his head towards me and his sly, bright eyes narrowed a bit, a cute little crease outlined at the base of his nose. He regarded me stridently like that for a minute and I obstinately returned the stare with a frown shrouding my forehead like a cloud. A flicker of irony flashed through his face afterwards, a hint of his usual sardonic smile apparent on his lips.

„Mrs. Hudson was a bit indiscreet, I gather,“ he said with amusement, perched on the armrest of his chair and lit the short pipe with a dramatic flare of the match. He then disposed of the match by throwing it into the hearth and depositing one long leg over the other, he stretched them closer to the fire, taking a strong puff out of his Briar. „As to your question, the young female seen in my presence last night was Inspector Lestrade´s new employee, Lady Molly Robertson-Kirk, currently active under an alias „Lady Molly of Scotland Yard“.“

„A female police-constable?“ I sneered. „Don´t make a fool of me, Holmes!“

„The lady herself prefers to be regarded as a professional consultant, in a manner similar to mine and currently holds an office of the head of Female Department there at the Yard. She is a very educated and well-oriented woman and she was invaluable to me yesterday. But I cease to see the reason why we engage ourselves in conversation about her at this very moment. Aside from our operative connection, she is quite irrelevant to me.“

I huffed silently. Irrelevant indeed! But only in speech, since she was „The Ravisher of Hearts“ on paper last night.

„Therefore excuse me, I have no further interest to occupy myself with trifles,“ continued my friend meanwhile and tossed back his head, covered in those Apollonian curls, in a grand gesture of carelessness. He then shrugged his shoulders: „But of course, if you have an intention to dwell on it and if you aren´t the least interested in the new business offered to me by Lestrade, well, so be it...“

„All right, all right, fine!“ I raised my hands in defeat, baring my teeth in frustration. „Enough of that! I´ll accompany you, just give me a few minutes!“

He smirked, clearly enjoying his triumph. Content with his victory, he gracefully dismissed me: „Good. Go and change now. We´ll take a cab to Kensington when you are finished.“

I nodded irritably and managed to save the last shreds of my dignity by hastily retreating into my own little chamber.

Approximately a quarter of an hour passed till I joined Holmes again, changed into a more formal attire, well-groomed, with the stubble removed and the moustache waxed and curled at both ends. Holmes was not standing idle either during that time and met me with slicked down, straight hair, anointed with the camellia oil he obtained at Harrods. This subtle adjustment changed my friend in an incredible manner, transforming him into a stern, austere figure of a clinical reasoner whose sharp features were instantly recognisable everywhere in our entire country. He donned an elegant tophat, pulled on the dark leather gloves and with a walking-stick in his hand headed out energetically, while I followed suit.

Once seated next to him in the cab, I inquired of Holmes: „Where exactly are we going?“

„I see you didn´t actually pay any attention to the document I displayed to you back in the flat, huh?“ he replied impatiently. „It´s Holland House. The series of thefts occurred there under suspicious and remarkable circumstances.“

„So the victim of this felony was The Fifth Earl of Ilchester?“ I shook my head in disbelief. „The ruffian who perpetrated the act has to be a nerveless fellow, that´s for sure.“

Holmes fixed his eyes at some point far in a distance and frowned slightly: „Watson, I frequently warned you not to form any opinions on the matter before you have all the data available, it heavily distorts any impression you will form about the case later. Therefore, please, restrain from such remarks until we examine the scene of a crime.“

This effectively ended any attempts at conversation from my side. Red-faced and affronted by his condescending, high-brow behaviour, I held my tongue during the rest of the ride, fuming in a badly concealed rage.

In the meantime, our hansom cab turned west, into the direction of Hyde Park and it embarked on a ride through the wide bridle-path separating the lush flora of the park from the dun-coloured build-up area of Paddington and Bayswater. We mingled into a clangorous cluster of cabs, omnibuses, broughams and carts and hurried along the road flanked by stands of sellers and stalls of shoeshines who preyed on unsuspecting passers-by there. It was almost noon and the place was indescribably busy, the constant clang of wheels, neighing of horses and the cries of people as loud as if a battle of Maiwand was being re-enacted on the spot. So I am not even sure if Holmes noticed my ire. Due to a deafening din, it would have been difficult to lead any sort of conversation anyway.

Thankfully, once we entered the streets of Kensington, our surroundings became quieter and much more serene. Well-built storeyed houses exuded an air of respectability and the inhabitants of the district walked their roads leisurely, manifesting their high status and prominence. Since I sold my Kensington practice, I did not find myself often in that part of the town, therefore I was gazing at the assembled gentlemen and ladies with keen interest, which mollified my bad mood somehow. I collected myself a bit, assuming the guise of a decent, composed man again and concealed the wrath that could make me throttle my great detective friend sometimes.

And it was about time. The large enclosure planted with closely set trees and ornamental bushes arose next to us suddenly and after a short while, our hansom cab took a sharp turn to the left and our wheels rattled on the cobblestones of Abbotsbury Road. We were nearing our destination. It took only a few minutes after that and we were invited by the sight of the magnificent palace with the facade in Jacobean style. Its centre block was accompanied by the tower on its right and left side, two porticos bordered the eastern and the western wing of the house, majestic piers supported the terraces and the neat, decorative arches on the edge of every roof gave the look of a fancy cake to the whole building.

It was truly one of the most remarkable houses in the land.

The only mundane thing around was Inspector Lestrade himself. He waited by the bottom end of the large marble steps leading to the porch and smoked a cigar, his whiskers bristly and his ferret-like dark eyes worriedly darting around an exquisite garden surrounding us. He was accompanied by a gentleman of a smallish statue and dark moustache, dressed in a very expensive evening wear and was talking to him in reassuring, courteous tones. When we came nearer, he politely excused himself, uttered a strangely anxious greeting and introduced us to his illustrious companion: „Lord Henry Fox-Strangways, The Fifth Earl of Ilchester. And this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his loyal associate, Doctor John Watson.“

Just as I suspected – the man was indeed a distinguished British peer and the owner of Holland House. His beaky nose, compact figure and the proud bearing matched the caricatures of him that appeared in illustrated magazines from time to time. Still, he looked very nervous and although it was a misty day of winter, marked by the unpleasant chill, our client was holding a white handkerchief in his hand and was wiping out his sweaty forehead very frequently. His lids fluttered like the wings of a frightened bird.

We exchanged greetings and at his invitation, followed the Earl to the eastern wing of the house where an entrance-hall was placed.

As we entered, we were at once surrounded by the orgy of burgundy carpets, rich inlaid work and marble statues. Heavy chandelier hung above our heads as we ascended the grand staircase supported by the forest of lean columns which resembled something a Venetian Doge might enjoy in his days. My curiosity awakened in its full power and I devoured every sight with a great satisfaction. Holmes, on the other hand, passed the stairs with genuine disinterest. His ascetic mind, better suited for some ancient Greek philosopher, abhorred senseless displays of luxury and considered them a bad taste, if not downright disgusting.
We found ourselves in Gilt Room, a salle whose windows, embedded under a large Byzantine archs, overlooked the central court of the building and whose four walls were entirely covered with friezes.

A pair of commodious sofas was placed at both ends of the room. The Earl offered us the seat on one of them and mentioned tea. Holmes briskly seated himself, disposed of his hat and gloves, leaned against the backrest and raising his elegant violinist´s hands, steepled his fingers together. He then pierced the Earl with his keen, slanted bright eyes and interrupting his small-talk, appealed to him in a magisterial voice: „Please, Lord Henry, describe to us the circumstances of the case.“

I cringed at the daring rudeness of my friend. By the corner of my eye, I saw Lestrade choking on his own saliva and twisting his face into a sour expression.

But the aristocrat didn´t seem to notice the insult at all. He sagged down on the chair obediently, his legs curled under him as if he was trying to make himself even smaller and he started to profess the scope of his injuries in a strained, subdued manner.

At first it happened to The Lady Mary´s necklace and earrings. The valuable objects disappeared without the trace from the Lady´s Dressing Room in the eastern wing of the house and were not seen since. After that it was a precious cigar-case, heavily inlaid with diamonds. Lord Henry left the neat little thing at the coffee table in the Crimson Drawing Room, here in the central block, right next to Gilt Room. He returned after it half-an-hour later and found it missing.

The premises, especially the servant´s quarters, were searched thoroughly. Nothing was discovered. The owners of the house started to lock their rooms at night and ordered the butler to check every window and door in the house at night-time. Despite that, another disturbing and ghastly theft occurred yesterday, under the circumstances that were absolutely beyond Earl´s conception.

„I was sitting in the Principal Library, which takes almost an entire western wing of the house,“ he recounted. „I had a considerable sum of money on the table in front of me. The Boxing Day is soon upon us, so I was sorting out the gratuities I intended to mete out to my servants during Christmas. I was packing the respective sums into small paper boxes and sealing them up. It was two o´clock after midnight and the entire household had already gone to sleep, the house was dark and silent.
All of a sudden, I started to perceive that a strange, scratching sound is knelling somewhere behind my back. Indistinct at first, it grew louder and more urgent little by little and it intruded upon my consciousness in such a manner, that it could not be ignored anymore.

Initially, I have thought that a rodent managed to slip into the library somehow. I stood up, lifted up a candle from the table and examined the floor next to the bookshelves. I checked out the small Inner Library adjacent to the Principal Library and the cabinet leading to the Dining Room after that. But nothing seemed to be amiss, the light of the candle revealed only an undisturbed parquetry to me. The sound that mystified me so became muted during my search and gradually faded into a complete silence. I remained standing for a few minutes in the middle of the room when I couldn´t hear it anymore and waited for anything that would reveal to me the origin of this mysterious noise. Yet the library was once again tranquil and dormant like the inside of a monastery. Only the shadows cast by the flickering flame danced at the backs of the rows of books.

I returned to my table and resumed my work, trying to suppress a feeling of puzzlement and disconcertedness from my mind. I took up my boxes and filled up two more.

Then unexpectedly, the awful scraping sound resounded behind me anew. It was sharp and pronounced this time and mingled with something that sounded suspiciously like a wheeze.

I jumped up from my chair and whirled around. I would swear that the noise came from the back of the room but in the twilight covering that part of a library, I could discern no move. I grabbed the candle from the table and rushed forth.

This time it was obvious that the sound was being emitted from the Inner Library which was adjected as an appendix to the western part of the principal room. With a hand holding a candle outstretched in front of me, I drew closer to it. The noise died away as I reached the little cell, still, I gave no heed to the fact and crossed the threshold.

That´s when my candle was extinguished abruptly and I found myself in total darkness, blinking in confusion, blinded by the sudden loss of light. Before I could recover my wits, an unearthly susurrus echoed in my ears and in the next moment, I had a sensation of an unpleasant coldness coming into contact with my chest. In an instant, I recognised a chilly touch of a strange hand in it. It was a grotesque, tiny, shaky limb that traveled up my torso. Moreover, once it found my throat, it seized it into a fierce grip.

Now, I consider myself a valiant man, Mr. Holmes. Nevertheless, that ghastly incident shook me to the very core. Frightened out of my skin, I shrieked to high heavens and recoiled, breaking into a frantic dash and blindly throwing myself into the direction of the Dining Room. By a stroke of luck, I managed to find a doorknob in the black gloom surrounding me and burst into the Dining Room, calling for help.

I suffered something akin to nervous breakdown right after. Trembling like a leaf, I sank onto the carpet and breathed heavily, feeling faint. Still, I´m sure I did not loose consciousness, not even for a moment. The members of the household, roused from their sleep by my desperate cries, rushed into a room one by one and lifting me up, carefully led me to my chair, loosening my cravatte and collar and offering me brandy.

Swipe of liquor heartened me again and I was able to relate to my servants what befell me in the library. My men lit the lamps and stormed into the place, overturning it completely and raking over every inch of the floor and walls. However, they reported to me that they had found the place to be completely empty.

It was then I remembered about my boxes. I rushed back into the room and looked at my working table with apprehension. It was as I feared. All the boxes and the money I didn´t yet manage to divide into the individual sums were missing.

Mr. Holmes, the Principal Library is a long hall and it´s full of windows and doors as a result. Still, I can swear to you that I checked every single one of them myself before I commenced with my work and with the exception of the Dining Room door, they were all properly bolted. Disabused by the previous thefts, I did the same in the Inner Library and since the cell is but a small one, with only a single window at the back of the room and with a single side door leading to a western terrace, I can say with confidence that they were bolted too. They are rarely opened anyway. These possible outlets from the room were all checked anew after I discovered that I had been robbed and they were pronounced safely locked.

Since the furnishing of both rooms consists mainly of book-racks and various chairs and tables, there´s no place where a thief could hide with his loot if he was still inside. And he couldn´t leave through the Dining Room door either. Although faint, I remained conscious all along and since I lay not a full yard from a threshold, I would notice if anyone attempted to leave the premises.

No one could actually take the money from where they lay during my absence and depart with them. And yet it´s an indisputable fact, that a theft occurred. It´s a mystery, Mr. Holmes, a sinister mystery! The incident left me thoroughly perplexed and I´m still unsure what exactly had happened last night. Therefore I turned to you, so that you can throw some light on the matter due to your superior knowledge and abilities.“

The Earl´s narration left a deep impression in me. My fantasy painted the dramatic scenes of the lurking horror in my mind and my eyes conjured the vague shapes of a phantasm in every corner of the chamber in which we were currently seated. I almost flinched when a pale, ginger-haired young girl placed a tea cup on the table next to me. To my over-active imagination, she looked as a brooding apparition for a while. Thankfully, the young maid didn´t notice a thing. She was weirdly distracted and after she distributed the tea to every person present, she dawdled on the spot, twisting her hands nervously. Only after being admonished by her master who repeated twice: „You are dismissed, Bertha,“ did she leave.

Holmes processed the Earl´s story in silence, with his head bowed, his chin resting on his chest, fingers steepled under his nose and a frown creasing his high, prominent forehead.

„Lord Henry,“ he addressed our client at last. „I see that you are a keen supporter of a spiritualist movement. May I ask you what do you think about your adventure from the spiritualist´s point of view?“

His question surprised me as much as it surprised the Earl himself. I knew for sure that Holmes held spiritualist teaching for a naive form of charlatanism. His many scathing remarks on the matter during the years of our mutual acquaintance left no doubt about it. Why would he inquire after an opinion of the man whose head was muddled by this pseudo-religion?

The Earl, meanwhile, went through the process that all of our clients experienced at some point.

„What?“ he stammered. „How...?“

„That round wooden table in the corner is not on par with the rest of the furniture and it´s obviously being used during séances, by the summoning of spirits. Moreover, I see a spirit trumpet placed on it. Both objects are worn out by the long usage. Now, it would be a very big coincidence if such paraphernalia should be found in possession of someone else than a zealous adherent of Spiritualism. Don´t you agree with me, Lord Henry?“

„Oh!“ Our host wiped his brow once again and blinked, traces of redness staining his cheeks. „I didn´t realise.... but you are right, of course. I often find myself in communication with the spirit realm.“

„So, what is your opinion on the matter? Was it a natural occurrence or an interference of the paranormal?“ Holmes rumbled in his „I-am-toying-with-you“ voice.

The Earl straightened and fastened a firm gaze on my friend. His words held a deep-seated conviction when he replied: „The beings coming from the realm of the spirits have no use of our worldly fortunes, Mr. Holmes. It was a hand of a living human that took the money off my table and robbed my staff of their hard-earned gratuities.“

The detective boldly returned the stare and narrowed his eyes in a gesture so familiar to me. He was going for the kill. He gently turned his face sideways and all but accused The Earl: „You sound sincere. And yet you are not telling me everything. There´s something you are withholding from me, something that was the real source of your scare there in the library. Still, you hesitate to mention it. Although it makes you uneasy because you are aware that you can´t hold it secret forever. But nothing will force you to disclose it publicly... huh?“

He hit the nerve like a surgeon testing the reflexes of a patient. The aristocrat stiffened, his skin blanched into an ashen hue and his lips trembled. Never before did I see a man so put out of countenance.

Nevertheless, my friend didn´t progress in torturing the Earl any further because in that moment Lestrade hummed in disapproval and suggested: „Mr. Holmes, what is the use of this inquiry? It only adds further distress to His Lordship who was shaken badly enough by yesterday´s events already. Shouldn´t we rather examine the crime-scene by now?“

He threw a meaningful glance at Holmes, his dark eyes serious and weary. Holmes waved a hand at him irritably, clearly intending to put him off with some of his sarcastic witticisms or arrogant comments. Yet before he could get to that, they exchanged glances and a miraculous change came over Holmes. He stopped in the middle of his imperious gesture and a reflection of understanding flicked through his sharp features. The next instant he was up from a sofa, bristling with energy and eager like a bloodhound chasing a game through the field.

„Can we take a look at the library then, Lord Henry?“

Our client nodded pensively and rose from his seat to serve as our guide to the scene of the crime: „If you be so kind then and follow me, gentlemen...“

He led us to the door in the western corner of Gilt Room and along a charming small lounge known as Yellow Drawing Room, distinguished by the bright ochre-coloured paint on the walls. We crossed the lounge and found ourselves in a very short passage illuminated by the narrow window after that. It opened to a turret staircase at the right side and its window overlooked the lead flat roof of the terrace in the central courtyard. I registered that in a hurry, because there was no time for me to relish the view. There was a loud click of a latch bolt being unlocked and in the following moment, we entered the mysterious place where an audacious theft had occurred last night.

The library was as splendid as I imagined. It was a handsome hall, upwards of ninety feet long and about seventeen feet wide, with massive vaults providing an impressive style to the ceiling. Shiny parquetry covered its floor. Bookshelves full of precious volumes took up its entire length on both sides, but it was relatively well lit, because two big panelled windows were placed at both ends and one large oriel window was stretching itself right in the middle of the western wall, exactly opposite the passage we just emerged from. I noticed at least two more outlets from the room just to my left – a discreet door to the lead roof of the central terrace and one more oriel window, partly covered by the brickwork and changed into an alcove that way. I remembered two little windows flanking it on the facade, but these were probably blind. A glass door was leading also to the western terrace. The far side of the western wall sported a wonderfully ornate fire-place. To my right, on the other end of the room, I noticed the door leading to the Inner Library and opposite it a wicket leading into a small cabinet adjacent to the Dining Room. Along the full length of the library, the most exquisite writing and drawing tables, chairs and comfortable fauteuils were deployed.

The Earl was right – the place was full of windows and doors. Despite the dramatic story he told us earlier and despite his reassurances that he had this room checked over and over during the time of robbery, once I glimpsed the premises myself, I started to doubt that the hall was as air-tight as the man was trying to persuade us.

Holmes seemed to sport the same idea. He stopped our little group with a restraining hand, took a quick look at the room and pointed a finger into the south-western corner of the library.

„A staircase,“ he said. „Where does it lead to, Lord Henry?

„Oh, that!“ The Earl sent an awkward glance into that direction. „One small library is also at the level of the ground floor, Mr. Holmes and this little staircase connects it with the principal one. Still, the room below us is being refurbished currently and it´s permanently locked, because it´s still waiting for the new furnishing being delivered from our supplier. There´s nothing there, Mr. Holmes, except bare walls and some cans of paint. When the theft was discovered, it was checked just as every other part of this library, but the door was not being tampered with and it was coated with a thick layer of dust, undisturbed from the moment the painters left the room. The thief could not come from there nor hide there, Mr. Holmes.“

My friend acknowledged these facts with a short nod and turned his attention to the allusive Inner Library. He walked slowly to it and I automatically resumed my place by his side, leaving our two companions behind my back. That´s why we reached that bizarre cell at the same time and crossed the threshold together.

The Earl was a devious man after all. If he had at least warned us what we would find in that secluded recess of his... but he decided to put us through a shock therapy. Maybe it was his subtle vengeance for the rude, overtly familiar way in which Holmes was treating him. Still, instead of punishing my more phlegmatic friend he managed to almost drive me out of my mind instead.

Because when we got inside, the room, despite my expectations, was not empty. A heavy drawing table was placed in the centre. And from behind it a hideously distorted face leered at us, swarthy, dark face of an Oriental begirt with high turban, his teeth bared in a wild grimace and his fanatical eyes reflecting a blaze of devilish fire.

I spared one glimpse at that ominous apparition and nearly jumped out of my skin.

„Holmes!“ I bellowed and seizing Holmes by the shoulder, I literally threw him back outside, assuming a fighting stance and grappling for my revolver. Then I recalled with a chilly certainty that I had left the blasted thing at our flat. Looking around frantically I noticed the diminutive fire-place built unusually in the corner next to the door and grabbed the poker from within, lifting it over my head and all but jumping at my Ghazi adversary.

A hand landed on my forearm. With a cry of alarm, I whirled and just barely refrained from striking the person who interrupted me. But Holmes, fortunately, had good reflexes and he firmly caught the poker into his steely palm, causing me to stand still at last.

„Whoa, whoa!“ He exclaimed. „Spare us the bloodshed, Watson, will you? Besides,“ he continued, dry amusement evident in his voice, „it´s not really necessary. Look closer. The adversary you just charged like a cavalry is but a figurine.“

Still breathing heavily, I gasped and turned my eyes back to the sinister figure visible behind the table.

The light streaming from the big oriel window behind its back and from the glass door to its right bathed the entire place with illumination sufficient to see the taciturn form in detail. And now that I stopped panicking and looked at it more closely, it was very obvious to me that the thing was indeed a mannequin, a doll dressed in Turkish robes to evoke the atmosphere of an Oriental mystery in an audience scrutinising it.

On its wooden head, it wore a square felt hat begirt from all sides with luxurious white turban scarf and the body was hidden behind a white linen shirt, stripped blue-grey khalat and a luxurious fur-trimmed red kaftan. The face was a skillfully sculpted and quite life-like portrayal of a middle-aged Pasha with hatchet features and the prominent moustache. What I held for a devilish grimace and distortion previously was merely a certain deterioration of a very old wood, because, as a matter of fact, the figure had quite a benign facial expression. Its slim right arm rested calmly on top of the table and the left arm was slightly bent at the elbow, firmly clenching the long, very thin pipe in its hand. Both hands served as borders for an exquisite glass chess-board, eighteen inches square, permanently affixed to the top of the table – or maybe I should say „the box“, for it was rather clear now that the desk is of no usual type manufactured in our country and that it resembles a compact box instead.

It was the eyes which were so lively. They were inlaid glass eyes, similar to those which ancient Greeks introduced to the world with their bronze statues in some time immemorial. The resulting gleam gave them that fanatical flare which so scared me a minute ago – and the raised black eyebrows, concaved into high archs, only added to the effect.

Recognising my error, I flushed dark red with embarrassment. Lestrade passed me on his way into the room, muffling a badly-masked snigger in his gloved hand, while our host, walking right in his heels, gave me a wide berth. My stomach started to shake in anger at the sight of this. The man couldn´t know what chagrin had all this Oriental stuff currently brought into my life but still – it was so irresponsible of him to unleash this spook upon us without any warning.

Holmes, meanwhile, took a poker from me, returned it to its stand next to a fire-place, approached the figurine and chuckled in satisfaction. He was enjoying himself immensely. The Earl´s dastardly tactic didn´t faze him at all because unlike me, he anticipated that a „surprise“ would await us in this part of the library.

„So this is what you concealed from us, Lord Henry,“ he observed and pierced the aristocrat with all-knowing eyes. „It´s an impressive feat to leave out the object of this size and singularity out of your testimony. I´m sure my friend, Doctor Watson, will immortalise your tour-de-force in one of his stories, since even among our clients, your case is exceptional.“

The Earl mutely lifted his gaze up to Holmes and then cast it down again guiltily. Lips under his prominent nose grew pale and thin.

Although I was wroth with him, I understood at once and almost felt pity for him. The proud man was absolutely perplexed and aghast at his yesterday´s eerie experience and he especially feared this nightmarish figurine that somehow found its way into his possession. He couldn´t be sure if the macabre touch of a chilly hand he perceived last night was not the doll´s doing. However, he couldn´t admit that fact out loud and suffered his private Hell in silence. If an act of theft didn´t occur together with the scare, he would possibly never ever mention it to any living soul, I had no doubt of that. That´s why he could not force himself to tell us about the peculiar „inhabitant“ of this library. Yet Holmes, with his notorious dismissal of sentiment and his cold intellect, could not comprehend this and had certainly regarded it as twaddle.

Fortunately for the Earl, Holmes was currently not in the mood to further mock him. He was fully engaged with the new source of his entertainment. He crouched before a figurine, carefully touched the maple wood of the table which served as its seat and then clasped his hands together, intently staring at the brass plate he discovered at the front of the desk-box. It was rectangular in shape and endowed with an engraving which read as follows:

DER SCHACHTUERKE
HERGESTELLT VON
JOHANN WOLFGANG FRANZ VON PAOLA
JOHANNES DER ALMOSENGEBER
VON KEMPELEN
A.D. 1771

Holmes tilted his head slightly to the side.

„The Chess-Turk,“ he interpreted the sign for us, „constructed by Johann Wolfgang Franz of Paola, Johannes Almoner Von Kempelen, in the year of our Lord 1771.“

He remained mute for a while, emotion akin to awe pulsing in his firm jaw. Then he lightly caressed the surface of the table and remarked: „It´s true then. This is the original. The famous automaton, The Mechanical Turk. Fascinating. Can I ask you how you managed to get hold of it, Lord Henry?“

„Mr. Whiters of Philadelphia, my acquaintance from the club, offered it to me as a payoff – he owed me a considerable amount of money I won from him during a card-game. I liked the machine a lot when I first glimpsed it and I decided to properly buy it from Mr. Whiters. We had its price estimated by an expert, substracted the sum of a debt from it and I paid the rest of the price to that gentleman. It was nothing but a regular procedure, Mr. Holmes.“

„Most remarkable. And this Mr. Whiters... what profession does he exercise back at home?“

„To my knowledge, Mr. Whiters is a railway magnate and a shipbuilder and his family is renowned in the business circles in Pennsylvania for three generations now.“

„I see. Well, I can´t denounce you for your wish to obtain the automaton, for it is indeed an exquisite and world-renowned antique. The giants dwelled where we are standing at present, Lord Henry, for people like Napoleon, Empress Catherine The Great and many other anointed heads tried their luck in a match against this machine... but I digress. It´s compelling, yet not really relevant to our case. What I wanted to find out is whether the interior of this table was inspected as thoroughly as the rest of the furniture last night. Its construction rather cleverly prevents us to see inside from any angle, doesn´t it?“

That was true. As I mentioned previously, the table resembled confined compact box. Its front part was divided into five compartments - three cupboards of equal dimensions, and two drawers occupying portion of the chest lying beneath the cupboards. All were firmly locked. A green drapery concealed the back of the Turk, and fell partially over the front of both shoulders, which made even the rear part of the automaton all but invisible to our eyes. The chair, on which the figurine sat cross-legged, seemed to be firmly affixed to the main body of the table, but since this part of the machine was entirely covered by drapery, I could only guess the fact from the close position of the Turk to the desk and from its erect, fixed posture.

The Earl nodded in agreement: „Mr. Joshua Johnson, who tended to the automaton also for Mr. Whiters, is currently in my service together with his niece, Bertha. He was called here after the theft and promptly unlocked and checked the interior of the machine. It was entirely empty and the automaton itself did not look tampered with.“

Holmes raised a long, elegant finger to his full plush lips and rubbed them absentmindedly. I nervously shuffled my feet, for the gesture drew my mind into the most inappropriate direction. Thankfully, my friend didn´t indulge in tempting me for too long. He lifted himself from the floor and suggested to our client: „Can we peek inside now?“

The Earl was willing to demonstrate the inner part of the mechanism to us and rang at the aforenamed servant. In a few minutes, Johnson made an appearance in the library and deferentially bowed to his master. He was a robust, fairly young man with a wide placid face, bristly dark hair cut short and a hefty pot-belly.

On his master´s orders, he removed the bunch of keys from his striped vest and dully opened the first cupboard to the inspection of all present. Its whole interior was filled with wheels, pinions, levers, and other machinery, crowded very closely together, so that the eye could penetrate but a little distance into the mass. Leaving the cupboard-door open to its full extent, Johnson went round to the back of the table after that, and raising the drapery off the figure, opened another door situated precisely in the rear of the one first opened. This act threw some light through the cupboard and we could be confident that the thing is full of machinery. Johnson sluggishly closed and locked the back door then and letting the drapery fall off the figure, he came round to the front.

Leaving the first door wide open, he pulled out the drawer which lay beneath the cupboards at the bottom of the box instead. For although there were apparently two drawers, there was only one in fact — the two handles and two key holes being intended merely for ornament. The drawer was revealed to be void of any content, save the small cushion and a set of chessmen, fixed in a frame work made to support them perpendicularly.

Johnson didn´t bother to put it right back and deftly unlocked two remaining doors next, revealing them to be the folding doors, opening into one and the same compartment. To the right of this compartment, a small division, six inches wide and filled with machinery, was partitioned off. The main compartment itself was lined with dark cloth and contained no gadgets whatever beyond two pieces of steel, quadrant-shaped, and situated one in each of the rear top corners of the compartment. A small protuberance about eight inches square, and also covered with dark cloth, lay on the floor of the compartment near the rear corner on our left side. Johnson let us ponder over it, shuffled back to the rear-end of the table and, unlocking another door there, displayed clearly all the interior of the main compartment, disclosing it to the scrutiny of our company. Exposing the back of the Turk by lifting up the drapery, he then waved at my friend and when Holmes stepped nearer, he showed him some mechanism built into the back of the automaton to prove that the doll was full of gadgetry too and that it was an unsuitable hiding-place for any stolen goods whatsoever.

„All right,“ said my friend finally, a hint of disappointment evident in his voice. Johnson smirked and without any hurry locked all the doors anew, lifting a drapery and placing it to its original position at the back of the Turk.

While he was engaged in this activity, Holmes produced a magnifying glass out of his pocket and commenced to examine the windowsill, the frame of the glass door leading to the western terrace, the mantelpiece of the small fire-place and the floor, being sharply observed by Lestrade the whole time.

Johnson put the Turk back in order, but didn´t close the drawer at the base of its table-box. Standing by the machine, he leered at Holmes for a long while, until my friend turned to him again with question in his eyes. Johnson grinned then, his smile wide and full of teeth, stretching from ear to ear. He indicated the chess-board with his chubby hand and addressed Holmes in a surprisingly abrasive voice: „Care for a match, gov´nor?“

„No, thank you,“ responded Holmes in a typical dry manner and continued to survey the room. But Johnson was not willing to be brushed off so easily. He extracted a knight from among chessmen visible in an open drawer and accompanied it with a cushion taken from the same spot. He removed a pipe from the left hand of the Turk next and put a cushion under the slim arm as a support. After that, he placed the knight on D4 and winded up the machine, by applying the key to an aperture visible in the left end of the table-box.

Suddenly, a distinct whirr filled up the small cell, the machinery being put into motion.

This time, I was prepared for something extraordinary to take place before my eyes. Nonetheless, I still flinched when the Turk turned his head to the side unexpectedly, rolled his big fanatical eyes at me and rapped his fingers briskly on top of the table. I must confess I inadvertently took a step back in shock.

The Turk lifted his hand in the following moment, moving his arm in right angle and brought the gloved hand above the solitary knight, descending on it and receiving it with startling ease. Firmly clutching the chess-figure in his fingers, he then placed the knight at F5, correctly performing the L moved prescribed for the knight with it and rested his hand on a cushion for a while. He repeated the move over and over, seizing the chess-figure without difficulty and letting it to dance through a chess-board, touching the squares on the side of the board and in the inner part of the board in turn. I realised that he was performing a famous knight´s tour and that in due time, he will touch every single square on the chess-board with it. I licked my lips and shook my head in disbelief. I have never seen a thing so fascinating and yet so unsettling before.

Holmes didn´t seem to be very much impressed by Turk´s feat though. He threw an annoyed side-glance at the chess-board and left the room, going ahead with his investigation in the principal part of the library. Lestrade promptly slipped out after him, guarding him like a jealous mistress.

The Earl did not intend to abide with the spectacle any longer either. He wiped his sweaty forehead nervously and tucking the handkerchief into his back pocket, he growled at the servant with a touch of anger in his voice: „Stop this devilry at once!“

Johnson, looking at the scene with badly concealed satisfaction, petulantly grunted something inaudible, but obeyed, reached out for a key still sticking from the aperture and brought the mechanical moves of the automaton to a halt. An abrupt silence flooded the cell like a warm wave.

The Earl was breathing heavily, his eyes glistening and the dark moustache bristling. He requested of me without really looking at my face: „Doctor Watson, I apologise if this display was of any inconvenience to you, I did not realise what unfortunate effect my silence would lead to. But could you leave me alone for a moment right now, please... I will be at the disposal of you and Mr. Holmes in a minute.“

He was polite, however, his words awoke unpleasant feelings of me being a nuisance immediately. My chest tightened and the mood quickly turned black. I bowed curtly and perfunctorily, turned on my wheel and marched away, not acknowledging the stuck-up aristocrat with an additional word.

The hall of the Principal Library was already empty. Both Holmes and Lestrade probably just flew through it in a hurry and disappeared somewhere. My steps resonated loudly on the parquetry, evoking the atmosphere of the place long abandoned and forgotten in my heart. Unwilling to dwell on this spot I too hastened out. I had found the door through which we originally entered among columns of bookshelves and grasping a mahogany doorknob, I stepped into a short passage whose narrow window persistently squinted into a central courtyard.

Cold draft coming from the direction of a turret staircase to my right caressed my brow and cooled the hot outrage that threatened to completely overwhelm me today somewhat. The lead flat roof of a central terrace, dimly visible through the steamy glass, was besprinkled with fresh rain whose drops glistened like tiny pearls in the upcoming wintry evening, the last light of the day making them even more shiny and white. Trying to calm myself by admiring them, I pressed my forehead to the soothingly gelid window-pane.

That´s when I first saw him. His silhouette flashed past the trees down there in the garden, black among black as if it was one of the trunks, bare of leaves and dormant under the light frost. It was a sheer chance that I glimpsed him. Second later and I would have missed him completely. Because he was definitely hiding there. One of Lestrade´s constables was standing in a courtyard and the man was doing everything in his power to avoid being seen by him. He crouched behind some bush for a moment and then sneaked off behind the eastern wing of a building.

It was just as I thought. The area was not as tightly sealed off against external influences as the Earl believed. Some strange element was wandering around the place freely, unseen by the owners of the house... and it was quite possible that he had a hand in the crime that occurred here yesterday also.

Loosing sight of him, I tore away from the window and energetically passed along the charming Yellow Drawing Room shrouded in the shadows, majestic Gilt Room where we conversed with our client an hour ago and the hall behind it, reaching the grand staircase and descending it swiftly.

I found myself in the entrance-hall and regarded with a mild surprise that the front door stood wide open. As I was approaching it, my ears caught the sound of two voices and from behind the door-frame I beheld the tall sinewy form of my friend towering over Lestrade on a gravel path leading to the house. Initially, I wanted to inform him about the mysterious vagrant hanging around the garden and moved towards him. But something in his countenance and behaviour brought me to a standstill before I could cross the threshold. I froze in the middle of my step and shielded by the entrance-hall wall, I observed the scene taking place in front of me, hidden and invisible too at that moment.

Holmes reached out and gave Lestrade a little slip of paper, instructing him: „Deliver it quickly, I will wait for an answer till tomorrow morning.“

Lestrade took the little parcel away from him and nodded in a startling bout of obedience. He turned to leave, but was restrained by my friend´s gloved hand descending on his shoulder. Inspector threw the questioning glance at my friend and Holmes shuffled his feet a bit, growling low in his throat: „Lady Molly... tell her she is permanently on my mind since last night.“

Lestrade raised his bushy eyebrows, smiled smugly after that and finally grinned: „Oh, don´t you worry, I will assure her of that, Holmes.“

He touched the brim of his bowler hat in mock salute and darted off, his muffled laughter echoing among the trees. Holmes inaudibly mumbled something that sounded like „idiot“ under his breath and kicked some gravel from under his feet in slight annoyance. He then reached into his vest, pulled out a short clay pipe out of his pocket, lit it and leaning against a guard-stone raised at the edge of the wilted-up flower bed, he took a few hearty puffs off it. He shifted round thereafter and in that instant found himself face-to-face with me.

I was still crouching behind the threshold, silent and stiff, lurking in the shadowed doorway as if it was a den of a wild animal and I was playing a role of its beastly inhabitant. I did not see my own face, but it had to be pallid in the twilight of the entrance-hall, twitching with tension, ghastly and grotesque, because it managed to put even the cold-blooded Holmes out of countenance. His almond-shaped silver eyes widened in alarm and he faltered, lowering the hand holding the pipe to his waist and blinking in uncertainty.

„Watson? By Jove, you look like a ghost! What happened? Did some woe betide you?“

Amazingly, this was the straw that broke the camel´s back. I could stand anything, anything really... just not this uncomprehending stare aimed at me after the conversation I just witnessed.

Holmes had no time to even flinch. I was by him in seconds, pouncing from my bolt hole as a madman and had him by the lapels of his frock-coat immediately, fingers biting into his flesh like claws.

„Keeping things from me again???“ I hissed, giving him a hard shake. The pipe slipped out of his fingers and shattered on the gravel under our feet, but I paid no heed to the fact and unwittingly stomped on it, lashing into him: „Playing me for a fool anew? Is this why you persuaded me to give up my Kensington practice? So that you can laugh behind my back and ridicule me in front of our clients to make yourself look good?“

He opened his mouth in surprise. Only after I rattled him again did he seize my hands into an iron grip and tore them away from his coat, stuttering: „W-What? What the hell are you speaking about?“

Hysterical laugh escaped my lips as I spit venom at him: „Don´t act dumb! That´s all you do for weeks now! You are treating me like a lackey! Dense, brutish... and easily replaceable, as you aptly demonstrated to me a moment ago!“

Holmes didn´t respond, he just gaped at me, sheer confusion waging the battle with puzzlement on his sharp features. I was not able to endure the sight of this inapprehensive, cruel innocence any longer. I drew my head low in between my shoulders, inclined a bit and dashed forward as if all the devils of hell were on my tail. Holmes called after me, but I didn´t take notice of it, tearing through the bushes and whipping over the garden in a mad flight.

Dark trees danced around me in a whirlwind. Small barks flogged my face and chest as I ran through them with unseeing eyes, salty wetness dripping from them and streaming down the sides of my nose, slowly seeping into my moustache.

The white walls flashed up among the naked oaks and green cedars at last. I emerged from the park to a meadow encircling the Belvedere, a picturesque summer ballroom which awaited its season here in tranquility and solitude. The wind-beaten bench was placed where the lawn met the bridle-path. I staggered closer and fell down on it, curling to a ball where I sat and pressing my forehead to my knees in abject misery. Never in my life have I felt so washed up and broken.

I messed everything up. In a way I sensed that I would one day. When Holmes reappeared in my life, miraculously raising from his cold grave at Reichenbach Falls, sudden flood of joy, amazement and incredulity which utterly submerged my mind lead me to believe that I bore absolutely no ill feeling towards Holmes for his foul trick which made me mourn him for three long years. But an open wound, born out of resentment and hurt, lay behind that facade of merryment, not dead, merely sleeping. As long as I held myself for my friend´s valuable companion and chronicler, maybe even something more, the wound was safely forgotten, covered by the gauze of amnesia. And it was that gauze which was brutally torn from the wound of my memory the moment I realised I was being replaced by some woman. The illusion of my importance to Holmes shattered and the wound bled, bled profoundly...

I don´t know how long I dwelt on that spot, sheltered by the gray mass of the ballroom, drowning in grief. I was shivering with cold when I came to myself, the frigid atmosphere of the garden trapped deep in the folds of my clothes. Raising from the bench, my limbs stiff from inaction, I headed back to Holland House, stumbling on my way.

My tracks were still visible in the light frost covering the grass. Forming a distinct line in the thickening darkness under the heavy tree-tops, they led me toward the residence as safely as an Ariadne´s thread.

Then unexpectedly, another set of footprints crossed mine, giving the building a wide berth, disappearing in the bushes.

Despite the miserable state I was currently in, I sprang to attention, my mind alert and wary at once. The vagrant, momentarily forgotten under the onslaught of my troubles, was brought back to my memory with great force. Could it be...?

I decided abruptly and diverted from my path, pursuing this new trace along the park in hope that it would lead me to its source. It cost me almost no time. After a short stroll through the foliage, the tracks ended by the western wall of the house. A very tall beech tree grew there, striking large roots to the side of the hedge and towered high over the baluster railing of the terrace. Imprints of worker´s boots were visible right next to it. Although the bark of the tree seemed undisturbed, the intent to climb the beech was discernible from the position of the imprints. The man was here indeed. He approached the house long after the Yard has searched the place and thus escaped their attention, but was probably disturbed before he could infiltrate the Earl´s home this way. He retreated for now, this was certainly not the last we heard of him though.

Examining the footprints for a few minutes more, I finally pursed my lips and coming all the way round the central courtyard, returned to the entrance of the residence where I left Holmes after our disagreement.

Unpleasant drizzle sprinkled the gravel with damp film as I went round the corner of an eastern wing. Nearing the door of the house, I spotted the black figure standing with the arms crossed at the side-walk forking off to the rear side of the building. My heart skipped in my chest at the sight, wishful thinking conjuring the form of my friend before my eyes... however, it was only an elderly butler awaiting me there.

He greeted me politely and explained that he apprehended me at the order of his Lord. To my astonishment, I came to learn that the Earl has asked me and Holmes to spend the night in Holland House and assigned each of us the room for the night in hope that our presence would deter the allusive thief from repeating his felonious assault on this household tonight. Holmes allegedly told him that the case looks good and that there is a possibility of retrieving the stolen objects very soon, maybe as soon as tomorrow evening. The detective retired to the guest room shortly after, expecting me to join him there upon my return.

Feeling a bit overwhelmed, I followed the butler to the second floor, where our temporary lodgings were located. The old man brought me to the door of my room and bowing his head in a benign gesture, he left me in the hall, shuffling after the additional duties his Lord entrusted him with. I flung off the remains of a drizzle from my hair and nimbly strode into my chamber.

Holmes regarded me intently from his squatting position by the fire-place. He got up slowly and dusting off the ash smeared at the knees of his striped trousers, he remarked in a reconciliatory manner: „There you are at last, Watson.“

I stood frozen in the middle of a felt carpet covering the floor.

„What are you doing here?“ I rasped, my throat tight and sore all of a sudden.

He shrugged his elegant shoulders: „I invited myself in because I have to speak with you. I was not aware that this should be a nuisance to you. You never expressed any objections against me discussing the details of the case in your room before.“

Clever, all-knowing eyes, glittering like a cat´s, got me feeling pinned down: „Why should it be a problem that I am here now?“

Despite telling myself not to, I laughed bitterly, my chest full of bile: „Oh, so Sherlock Holmes, the only consultant-detective of the world, finds my presence tolerable now! To what do I owe the pleasure?“

Holmes frowned slightly and pressed his lips together: „I don´t understand why you are so angry. What have I done to earn such wrath? And here I thought that you would enjoy a brief respite from Baker Street and that you wouldn´t mind to accompany me, since you assured me so many times before that you are actually pleased to observe me during work.“

I was, I swear by all the angels and saints of Heaven that I was. I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis, with which he unraveled the problems submitted to him. Yet I would not admit it, not now, when his honest bafflement pushed me closer and closer toward madness. I determinedly clung to my stubbornness. Making a sour face, I bit into my moustache and spit out: „Actually, I would rather sleep back home than observe the mess you´ve made of this case! You and that pompous prick of a Lord! What other thing did you achieve here than some cheap jokes at my expense?!“

Holmes straightened out abruptly, tension turning the sharp angles of his face and his high cheekbones into stone. He couldn´t stand it when his expertise of crime was questioned. His attitude cooled considerably and he remarked dryly: „I´m quite confident that I collected all the data relevant to this case already, thank you.“

„For sure?“ I gibed at him derisively: „You know also about the tracks of the vagrant who was traipsing around Holland House this afternoon then? Do you?“

He glared at me: „What about them?“

„They are an important clue, aren´t they? The clue you have missed completely, Mister Genius-Detective!“

Holmes gave me a supercilious glance and curled his lips in something resembling pity: „Watson, I value your presence at my side for many reasons, both professional and personal. Still, detecting isn´t one of them, so leave the deductions to me. The tracks you discovered... I believe they might look suspicious to you, but rest assured, they are irrelevant to the issue we have at hand. I wouldn´t call them important, I´m sorry.“

His words floored me.

„What?“ I stammered and a red mist of rage clouded my sight right after: „How can you dismiss them so casually? How?“

„You know my methods. Just think about it in peace for a while and you too will realise it´s very unlikely they have something in common with our case.“

A surge of emotion almost struck me off my feet. I have entirely forgotten myself exactly like a few hours earlier. I was breathing heavily, my eyes were glazed with mist and my voice shook, dangerously at the verge of tears, when I burst out: „Of course... that evidence is absolutely worthless! Because the lowly doctor discovered it, not the sleuth similar to your female flame down at Scotland Yard!!“

He seemed taken aback at my outburst. He gasped and raised his hand in confusion, protesting fervently: „That.... that´s not true, I...“

But I have turned my back on him in an instant, cutting him cold. I leaned on the sink standing in a corner heavily, my face hot to the touch. A second, a second more, one more glance at my countenance... and he would know for sure, able to deduce it with ease, for I was as transparent as glass at that moment.

„Leave,“ I requested hoarsely. „Please, leave me alone, before I say something we both regret later. I beg of you.“

„Watson...“

I shook my head angrily: „Go! Don´t say anything, just go!“

Waves of confusion coming from his direction were almost palpable, but he obeyed without the further attempt at conversation. Silent steps resonated through the chamber and a light click of the door being closed reached my ears hereupon, revealing to me that the detective departed from the room.

I gnashed my teeth in endless frustration. I mangled up our relationship in an incredible manner. During the course of one day our friendly relations deteriorated badly and apparently, I couldn´t face Holmes anymore without lashing out into him. Every word he uttered made my feelings violently raise close to the surface, threatening to boil over and bury everything in their wake like a landslide. The moment in which I realised that I am competing for his attention with another person turned me into an insufferable fiend. I did not even try to recall all the bitter, jealous nonsense I hurled at him since we took charge of the Earl´s case. It was too much and it left me wide open for his scrutiny. Exposing myself like that, I could not imagine how I would face him come the morning.

Little did I know that I am worrying for naught and that the fate had a disastrous event in store for me, an accident which would turn all that happened until now into pale ashes.

I wearily lay down on my bed, still fully-clothed and stared at the ceiling, lost in thoughts. Wallowing in distress, I didn´t bother to light a fire although I saw the firewool stacked high in the hearth when I first entered the room. In my state of mind, it was impossible to pay heed to the slight discomfort of a cold chamber anyway and so I suffered it in silence, oblivious to it, apathetic like a shard of rock. Light rain was softly beating against the window panes. The lamp I left on the table flickered in the twilight, casting the warm coloured reflections on the white plaster.

And gradually, the peaceful atmosphere started to soothe me. My breaths grew deeper and more even and my eyelids became unbearably heavy. Fatigue got to me at last and I slowly slipped towards sleep...

Then unexpectedly – and it will always ring in my memory, to my very last breath – the cavalcade of noise thundered through the building. The racket of glass being shattered mingled with an unearthly yell so laden with terror that it made every single hair on my head bristle in fright. I was up and sitting straight in an instant, with the heart in my throat. The flood-tide of cacophony greeted me once more, the crash of smashed up chinaware so loud as if the house was being torn apart. And suddenly there was silence. It cut all sound off the place abruptly and ominously, with striking finality, leaving it as mute and still as a grave.

Shaken to the core, I leapt out of the bed and ran out into the hall. Somewhere in the passage, doors were being open in the wake of the hammering clamour and the uproar of startled voices filled up the air. But there was only one person that really interested me. I arrived at his door and beat upon it energetically.

„Holmes!“ I cried. „Holmes!“

No response came from behind the heavy oaken wood on which I was knocking. Led by the pure instinct, I grasped the door-handle and forced it down.

The door flew open, revealing the contents of the room behind it and laying it bare before me. I stood stupefied, popping my eyes at the disaster.

The bottom margin of the heavy leaden window-panes was brutally smashed. Black-laquered walking stick belonging to my friend got stuck among the sharp edges of the broken glass which gaped at me like the teeth of a primeval animal. In the corner, a decoratively carved cupboard lay on its side, partly destroyed and a mountain of china shards piled up high around it. Some of the fragments shot off into the room and peppered the burgundy carpet as a spray – they were literally everywhere and malignantly glistened in the light emitted from the fire-place.

Holmes lay prostrate amid the shambles. He was without his frock-coat, his vest gaping wide and he spasmodically plucked at the white shirt covering his chest, convulsing on the floor. His head was swept back violently, the face as red as the brick-wall.

One look at that unnatural colour and I realised the gravity of the situation, of that monstrous betrayal, at once.

„Sherlock!“ I screamed uproariously and holding my breath, burst into the premises, seized Holmes by the arms and pulled him out to the hall, stomping all over the shards and not caring one bit about it. As soon as Holmes was out, I slammed the door closed and took his thin, shivering form into my arms, carrying him through the passage to the staircase lobby which stood at the end of the narrow corridor. Some servants already gathered there, frightened and agitated, but I shooed them to the side and settled Holmes down, so that he could remain sitting there and was able to lean against the wall.

„You!“ I pointed at the red-haired, green-eyed maid Bertha who observed the proceedings as in a trance, with her arms raised to her throat and her hands clenched around her delicate neck. „Bring me the smelling salts! Hurry!“

And when the girl hurried away, I crouched next to Holmes, quickly removed his bow tie and collar and checked him out.

His breaths were very shallow still, the brick-red colour of his face pronounced. He retched wildly, but because he ate nothing during the course of this day, nothing was produced. Trying to help him out the best as I could, I opened his shirt and bared his chest which even at that moment shone white like alabaster. I put one of my palms to his bosom covered with fine chest-hair and the second one to his sweat-streaked back and assisted him in craning forward, instructing him in a firm, gentle voice: „Calm down and try to draw deep breaths. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Just like that, you do it well... proceed and try not to loose consciousness.“

Sound of the running bare feet pattered through the stairs and Bertha emerged among us again, holding the smelling salts in a crampy grip. I took the little bottle from her and handed it to the bewildered butler, pointing at Holmes: „Observe him keenly. If he was about to loose consciousness at any time, administer the smelling salts. Force him to breath in a regular manner. I´ll be back in a minute.“

The old man nodded and kneeled on the floor to my friend´s side.

I hastened to my own chamber and seized the jug full of water from the sink. I then marched back to the door of the room assigned to Holmes and kicked it open, rushing in and emptying the jug into the fire-place. The flames hissed virulently when they perished under the stream of the cold liquid. Extinguishing them, I threw the jug to the side and reaching the window in two long steps, I blew it open, letting in the fresh night air. After that, I left the room rapidly, unwilling to follow the example of Holmes and to let myself be poisoned by the toxic atmosphere inside.

Closing the door behind me, I came face-to-face with the owner of the house who just got there. The Earl was sporting silken pajamas and a grey dressing-gown, but he was disheveled, pale and quite disconcerted.

„Doctor Watson!“ He gasped, recognising me. „What the deuce transpired here? I have heard the clamour... did something happen to Mr. Holmes?“

I pierced him with a suspicious glance and instinctively stood to attention.

„It´s carbon monoxide poisoning.“ I informed him reservedly, with barely masked enmity.

He blanched even further, his dark eyes wild and he gnawed at his mahogany moustache with his teeth: „An accident?“

„I don´t think so.“ I responded with vitriol in my voice. „I believe it was a vile murder attempt. Don´t go in. I´ll tend to that place when it would be safe again.“

I turned my back on him and ran down the corridor, anxious about being separated from Holmes for too long.

I found the detective half-sitting, half-collapsed against the cushion which some good soul has fetched out for him from one of the rooms. His white chest was rising and falling under the erratic, yet fairly regular breath, slender, sensual hands lay peacefully joined above his abdomen, pupils lined by silver fluttered under the heavy lids. High cheekbones were still fairly ruddy, but a familiar paleness started to creep back into his features already.

The tight, miserable feeling which anchored itself in my own breast loosened slightly at the sight. I crouched back to Holmes and touched his carotid artery, taking his pulse. The palpitations were more-or-less regular now, scattering my worst fears to the wind. Yet I remained wary. Looking around me, I beckoned to a young valet to make him come closer and when he approached, I gave him a shilling, requesting of him: „I reckon that the broughams are stationed here at Ilchester Place. Could you fetch one for me, as soon as possible?“

The boy nodded and shifted away to run errand for me. I ordered Bertha and an elderly cook to stand guard over Holmes and taking command over the servants, I lead them back to the poisoned chamber where the Earl still stood, petrified.

Thanks to the draft I caused earlier, the murderous vapours already dispersed when I opened the door to that wretched place. Nevertheless, I left half of my men in the hall as a precaution and only entered the premises with the other half, including Lord Henry. The Earl moaned when he noticed the ruin of his precious chinaware, but he stopped to emit those sounds momentarily when I pierced him with a fiery look.

„They are only things.“ I reminded him sternly. „Something far more valuable, a human life, would be lost if these were not sacrificed. So rejoice at their destruction – for this is the only thing that saved you from having a dead body at your hands now, for which you would be held accountable as the head of this household.“

The Earl swallowed and protested feebly: „But what exactly occurred here, Doctor Watson? I don´t understand!“

I smiled thinly. I would never have dreamt that my person would substitute Holmes as a detective one day. Using my friend´s methods, I showed the Earl the distinct footprints left by Holmes´ shoes on the carpet under the window and explained: „Holmes was standing here for a long while, immersed deep in his mind pal... in his thoughts and he probably fidgeted with his walking stick, as is his habit when he has no smokes near at hand. Uhm, uhm... his pipe broke in an accident earlier this evening. Being submerged in the problem you introduced us into during dinner, he didn´t notice that something is amiss and only realised the danger when he started to feel faint and was on the verge of loosing consciousness. Unfortunately, carbon monoxide has no smell that would warn its victim of its foul presence. In an effort to preserve his life, Holmes used the last of his power to break the window and to cause the ruckus by yelling loudly, to raise the alarm. Right after, he collapsed and struck the cupboard down in the process, apparently while he was trying to grab onto something to cushion his fall.“

„That´s... awful! Inconceivable! How was this tragedy even possible? All of the chimneys here are swept on a regular basis, the chimney-sweep attended to them only a week ago!“

I frowned darkly: „You are asking how? Wait but a second, Lord Henry, I´ll show you!“

The black iron stand placed near the fire-place contained the full set of fire-tools in its small enclosure. I removed the fire-hook from it and bowing closer to the hearth, I stuck the long tool inside the flue, scraping against its walls furiously. The hook caught on its prise almost immediately. I pulled on it, once, very strongly and the freed object fell on the grate with a soft thud, sending a cloud of fine ash into the room.

It was a cloak, worn and patchy, as if it belonged to a beggar. Somebody stuck it into the flue, right about the damper situated at the throat of a fire-place, in such a manner that it let some smoke through, but caused the murderous carbon monoxide to cumulate in the room otherwise, changing it into a ghastly chamber of death. It was the work of a professional. Faced with the ruthless brutality of this deed, I had to contain the bout of helpless rage before I could show my find to the servants and the Earl. The thought of the price this foul act almost cost me was unbearable.

The men hummed in agitation when I exhibited the results of my search to them. I addressed the Earl who was staring at the rag incredulously: „The murder attempt had definitely taken place here tonight. I will gather the items belonging to my friend and take them with me. Lock the room after that and keep it under guard until dawn. You must notify Inspector Lestrade of these events the first thing in the morning.“

I quickly collected Holmes´ frock-coat, his hat, gloves and walking stick and hurried away, impatient to leave that awful place behind me. Intending to join Holmes straight away, I made only a short detour into my own room to fetch my bowler hat back from it. I was halfway through the chamber, grasping for the hat already, when suddenly, I became conscious of the fire-place located there, still untouched, with the firewool stacked high in the hearth.

I remembered how Holmes attempted to set the wood on fire the moment I interrupted him and had a row with him. He was thrown out by me before he could finish the job and I had not bothered to light the fire afterwards. It remained exactly as it was prepared for me, inviolate.

I could not resist it. Taking the fire-hook from the ground, I stuck it inside the flue as before and pulled, sharply.

Two dusty bundles fell off. One looked like a white cotton shirt, the other like the pair of seaman´s or worker´s trousers. Nervous tremor seized me when I glimpsed them and the heavy hook fell from my hand, landing on the floor with a clang. Blood froze in my veins.

The trap was laid here for me too. Had I not acted like a jealous Italian lover tonight, had I been in a better mood and kindled the fire... we would both be dead by now, Holmes and me. My foolish possessiveness saved us from the worst fate possible.

I couldn´t stand this place any longer. I flew out and didn´t even stop to issue the orders concerning my room similar to the ones I issued for Holmes´, I merely ran along the corridor, possessed by the fierce wish to get the detective out from this hell and to transport him as far from it as I could. Breathless, I jumped into the staircase lobby.

Holmes was somehow restless when I was in his presence again, squirming, only half-conscious, his face ashen and drawn. I squated down to him and put my arms round his waist.

„Help me,“ I beseeched the old butler and he promptly aided me in lifting Holmes up and in leading him down the stairs to the entrance of the house, or maybe I should say „carrying him“, for his legs were too weak to bear his own weight.

The brougham has already been waiting for us, its window-glass wet with raindrops and the light of its small lamps strangely inviting in the indigo-coloured velvet of the night. The air surrounding it was boreal, leaving the trace of ice in our lungs. The drizzle was transformed into a snowfall by it, tiny snowflakes danced through the space and thawed immediately on landing. Damp vapours were rising from the bodies of horses and from our nostrils as we inhaled the winter itself in that chilly atmosphere. But the sight of the vehicle warmed up my heart immensely and when the coachman jumped down from his coach-box and opened the door for us, so that I could settle Holmes down on the cushioned seat, I felt my self-confidence returning and I believed that I could have the reins of the situation in my hands again soon.

I thanked the butler and the boy who acted as my deputy in procuring the brougham for me and called to the coachman: „To the Hyde Park, please!“ In the next moment, I got in and slammed shut the door to our wooden cabin.

The brougham dashed out of the place, yanked out into movement. Trying to shield Holmes from the cold, I enwrapped him into my own coat, fondly recalling similarily sweet scene that took place ages ago, during the sinking of Friesland. I nestled tightly to him and lay his head on my shoulder, his wavy hair soft under my jaw.

„Holmes,“ I murmured, pressing my lips to his prominent forehead, which at that moment was as hot as a coal. „Holmes, pray tell me, where does Lady Molly of Scotland Yard have her residence? Do you know her address?“

He blinked in the darkness, thick eyelashes fluttering and slurred: „She lives near the crossing of St. James´s Street and Piccadilly. Next to the Bath Hotel.“

„Thank you.“ I nuzzled at him anew, placing the kisses on his temple and on his lids. I couldn´t get enough of him and for once, I didn´t care at all that he would know. I waited until we covered the safe distance from Holland House gardens and when I was confident that no person from the Earl´s household could overhear my conversation with the coachman to guess the direction at which we were heading, I knocked on the roof of the brougham with my walking stick. The vehicle slowed down at once and stopped.

I cracked the door open and gave additional instructions to the man: „Pass through the Hyde park and continue in the direction of Piccadilly. Our destination is the Bath Hotel near St. James´s.“

„Yes, sir.“ The man cracked the whip and we carried on with our ride, adjusting our route so that it was directed towards the Rotten Row. I returned to my warm nest by the detective´s side.

Touched by the winter-scented air from the outside and startled by my voice, Holmes seemed to be more aware of his surroundings now. He stared at me in the darkness, the whites of his eyes reddened, the pupils wide. His fingers weakly clawed at my vest and caught on it.
„We are going to Lady Molly?“ He rasped. „Why? You didn´t like it when she was being mentioned earlier. It made you angry...“

„Shush,“ I put my index fingers to his full, tempting lips and smiled thinly: „I was not angry, I was merely dramatic. You know me – always a romantic at heart. The reality simply overwhelmed me. But don´t worry. I´ll get over it.“

And I meant it. I swore to myself that I wouldn´t be upset, no matter if Holmes would end up in the arms of another or not. I will take it all in stride, cherishing every little moment spent in his presence, every second he would bestow on me. I almost lost him. My hands still shook when I thought about what could have happened tonight.

„John,“ Holmes raised his voice in an effort to oppose me.

I put my palm on the crown of his head, ruffling his unruly hair and gently lowered his face onto my chest. I petted him soothingly, my fingernails scraping against his scalp to calm him down: „Shhh, don´t speak. Try to rest now. We will sort it out tomorrow.“

He tensed for a moment, then nodded hesitantly and grew slack against me.

We traveled through the sandy road in silence, the streetlamps outlined by the rows of the black trees flitting behind the windows of the vehicle. Holmes dozed off after a while and reclined upon me, snoring softly. The bump in our path rattled our cabin a bit, shifting him closer to me and I noted with a mild amusement that the monotonous shaky movements of the brougham had some influence on him and awakened a manly physical reaction in his nether regions. I felt the enlarged, hardened tissue being clearly defined where it pressed against my thigh. Smiling sadly, I ruffled the wavy hair anointed with fragrant oil once more. Another person would enjoy this touch, this reaction, very soon but no one would deter me from taking this stolen moment away with me.

The trees behind the lamps were finally replaced by stately houses. We reached Piccadilly at last and after a few minutes our brougham pulled over to the curb in front of the three storeyed residential building in the neighbourhood of the Bath Hotel.

I jumped out, ordered the coachman to stay put and ascended the steps leading to the porch quickly. Somewhere in the distance, the clock of St. Stephen´s Tower chimed thrice, clear, silvery sound spreading wide in the nocturnal stillness. It was three o´clock in the morning.

The servants, roused by my persistent knocking, were fairly shocked when I asked for an interview with their mistress in that ungodly hour. But their lady was an exceptional young woman indeed, for in no time she appeared on the porch in person, dressed in the white night-robe and wrapped in a light cloak. I looked her over from head to toe when I first set eyes on her. She was nothing what I expected, thin, brown-haired and somewhat unassuming, yet I immediately took a liking to her. Her features were noble, she wore a dauntless expression on her face and her serious but gentle look assured me that Holmes would be in good hands here.

I briefly informed her about the situation, imploring for her help and she didn´t disappoint me, agreeing to shelter Holmes through the night and to offer him an aid from her personal physician. Making sure that I have her full support in this, I returned to the brougham and woke up Holmes to get him out of the vehicle. Leaning on me, he let himself be escorted up the stairs after that.

We exchanged glances when I entrusted him to the care of Lady Molly and he stretched out his hand to me feebly. But I held myself back and only waved at him, bidding him goodbye with the gesture and observing dispassionately how the door of Lady Molly´s residence closed after him.

Forbidding myself to be overcome by the emotions, I marched back to the brougham energetically and commanded curtly: „221B Baker Street, come on!“

There was a time early in our mutual acquaintanceship when I frequently accompanied Holmes to the concerts. We attended an opera written by that flamboyant German prodigy, Mr. Richard Wagner, once and one tune called „The Ride of Valkyries“, which was very powerful and majestic, firmly entrenched itself in my memory. Mostly because Holmes tried to reproduce the piece on his violin and persisted in it for a full week after the performance, driving me to distraction.

It was this dark melody that pulsated in my head when I stormed in our dwelling like a pack of Furies and stirred up an entire household into wakefulness, declaring the house uninhabitable for the night and forcing Mrs. Hudson, our errand boy and our cook to seek shelter next door, in Mrs. Turner´s house. Mrs. Hudson protested fervently against this untimely imposition, but I was relentless. Our address came to be known around all London recently and I could not risk the possibility of the fiend who tried to poison us coming veiled by night to repeat his trick here, by clogging the chimneys. I had seen our people off to Mrs. Turner´s and when they were safely tucked away, I ran upstairs into my room to fetch my revolver. Locking the building after that, I used the service of the coachman for the last time and let myself be transported to Hollis Club, where I slept on a pallet placed in Strickland´s suite through the rest of the night.

I was up around eleven o´clock again. I applied water and razor to my face to feel fresh and adjusted my slightly creased clothes, then ate a meaty lunch in the dining-hall of the club to restore my energy. Feeling as good as new, with a loaded revolver in my back pocket, I got myself a dog-cart then and promptly set out on a journey back to Holland House.

The Earl was very surprised to see me, mere hours after we parted under such dramatic circumstances. However, his good manners prevented him from displaying dismay or relief openly and so he politely offered me a seat, starting some meaningless small-talk. He was not as collected as he pretended, though. Our conversation was taking place in his drawing-room, under big windows which threw pale wintry light over the piles of books, stationery and documents stacked on the large writing desk and thanks to that sun-reflection I spotted a glass full of sparkly amber liquid, half-hidden behind the papers. It was shortly after noon yet the Earl was already drinking brandy. The events of the night got him rattled, badly.

He admitted that Inspector Lestrade and the constables from Scotland Yard had just left the building, investigating yesterday´s attack on my friend from the early morning. They weren´t very successful in discovering anything of substance, but that was to be expected since the whole thing was incomprehensible, almost unreal. The Earl could still not understand how did such terror find its way into his home, under his roof.

„I apologise that these things took such an untoward turn, Doctor Watson.“ He said at last. „It is my greatest wish that Mr. Holmes would recover from his affliction soon and I hope that no permanent harm was caused by the criminal act which befell him. Of course, I would not insist that he should continue with the case after last night´s incident. That would be impossible now.“

„Not at all,“ I interrupted him smoothly. „In fact, that´s why I am here, Lord Henry. We don´t want to give up the case, under any circumstances. It´s true that Mr. Holmes will be unavailable temporarily, but I can act as his substitute seeing that I am knowledgeable about his methods and enjoy his trust fully. I have every reason to believe that the fiend who is behind this devilry will try to break into your house again and that he will attempt to do it tonight, after dark. I intend to foil his plans. However, I will need your cooperation in the matter, for it´s crucial that I have a private access to some parts of this building without the fact of my presence being disclosed to your servants or a family.“

The Earl raised his eyebrows in amazement, but he seemed rather relieved and pleased at my suggestion.

„It will be my pleasure to assist you in any way necessary.“ He assured me courtly. „Please, tell me what you need me to do.“

I have listed my terms and in no time I was descending the central staircase into the entrance-hall again, heading back out and acting dismissively. The old butler who opened the door for me glanced at my face and murmured: „I´m so sorry about Mr. Holmes, sir. I was hoping to witness some of his famous deductions, but that´s it now, isn´t it?“

„Well, it can´t be helped.“ I shrugged my shoulders. „He won´t be able to work for a very long time, being incapacitated by his injury. No Doctor worth his salt would allow it, witnessing his state. I´m awfully sorry. Have a nice day.“

„Nice day to you too, sir.“

I took a pompous stride through the estate outside, making a big show of leaving through the entrance gate and walked along Abbotsbury Road for a while. I settled in the pub nestled in the row of houses opposite the Holland House garden next and ordered a pint of ale, took out my notebook and started to write down the story which I already named „The Adventure of the Mechanical Turk“ in my mind.

The evening twilight came early, as was common in this part of the year. I paid for the drink and returned to the street, crossing the bridle path in a hurry and reaching the wall of the garden. The gas lamps were not yet lit in this section of the town and the wall was drowning in the dark, more discernible by the sense of touch than by the sense of sight. It took me but a second to climb over it and to jump to the other side, softly landing on a sand-covered footpath lining the enclosure there.

I nestled against the nearest tree and held my breath, laying in wait till my eyes adjusted to the murky darkness around me. I then slowly moved forward, creeping through the foliage of the park and approached the house shrouded by the night, stopping frequently to carefully check for any signs of life inside the garden. If my enemy lurked for me there, I wanted to be prepared and to possibly intercept his attack. But only the soft wind rustled in the tree-tops above my head.

When I arrived to the outskirts of the arboreous part of the garden, I paused for a minute, staring hard at the red walls of the building that materialized in front of me. Western wing of Holland House towered above me, sinister under the wan, indigo sky and to the right of it, the arc of the central courtyard opened wide, enclosed by the short fence, the barren flower-beds covering the ground of the terrace like a sombre brown blots. The left side of the building sported a marble stairs leading into the most dense part of the park. Two gate piers carved out of white Portland stone in Doric style served as an official entrance to that place.

Nothing seemed to move under the porticos that embraced both wings of the house like a pair of huge arms. Confident that I can approach them unseen, I ran across the gravel strewn area at the front side of the residence, leapt forward, passed the marble stairs and slipped under the beautiful decorative arcade of the western wing with ease. Avoiding the light that some windows at the facade threw in my direction under the arcade, I quickly tip-toed to the metal door embedded in the wall of the central block, at the place where the gallery turned to the right and slipped the key into its lock. The key turned with almost no sound being emitted. The Earl kept his promise and carefully oiled both the lock and the hinges for me.

I noiselessly dived into the dark small hall that opened before me like the cave of some malignant being and locked the door behind me. Warm darkness encompassed me and with it the musty odour of the old plaster so often associated with the aged dwellings. The base of the turret staircase that I only saw from the level of first-floor thus far stared me right into the face. It was illuminated by the dim glow radiating from above, from the direction of the Yellow Drawing Room. Soft susurrus of voices and an occasional clink of the dinner plates spoke clearly about an inhabited house. I could be seen or caught at any moment. My heart hammered in my chest loudly, excited about the idea of danger.

I retreated to the left, emerging in a spacious saloon with glass-covered decorative maps glistening on the walls and from there I entered the other, smaller room, which seemed to be adorned with lots of glass-covered pictures instead. My destination, the abandoned spare library room which was currently being reconstructed, lay behind the door situated in the southern part of that chamber. I promptly approached it, the key offered to me by the Earl already prepared in my hand and slipped into the little cell inaudibly, bolting the heavy door at once. I managed to carry out the first part of my mission flawlessly.

The chamber in which I found myself was entirely empty, the smell of fresh paint hanging dense in the air. The big oriel window placed at the end of the room, which served as the only source of light for that place, was unusually cut in half by the staircase located in front of it in the 45° angle. If I remembered correctly, this staircase connected the spare room with the principal library, opening into a south-western corner of it, which was slightly hidden by the fire-place and thus not entirely visible from the long, book-lined hall. That´s where I intended to establish my post for the night, keeping sentinel over that area for as long as necessary.

I ascended the stairs and when I reached the niche stashed behind the fire-place in the upper library, I sat on the last steps there, a bit under the level of the floor. I threw off the coat and put it on the banister, put my bow-hat on the ground and pulled out my revolver, leaning against the cold wall.

I waited there for a long while. The clock ticking somewhere in the room struck the quarter, half and three-quarters of an hour numerous times, reminding me of the unending duration of my lone vigil, but I was obstinate and tried to remain alert, so that I could spring into an action swiftly at any moment. Soft buzz, scarcely audible in a distance, which bespoke of human activity taking place in the other parts of the house, gradually died away and was replaced by an absolute quietude, deep and fathomless. And the quieter it was, the more my nerves were being thrilled, until they were as tight as the violin strings. The tense atmosphere of the occasion was the same as when we were laying in ambush in the empty Camden House with Holmes, setting up the trap for that infamous ruffian, Colonel Moran.

And just like in the Camden House, a low, stealthy sound came to my ears suddenly, from the direction of the western terrace.

I was wide-awake and up on my feet in an instant. I crept to the center of the room, so as to avoid crashing into some table or a chair accidentally and to signalize my presence to the enemy that way. Then, I moved forward along the book-lined hall, until I reached the glass-door leading to the western terrace, from which the scratching sounds were being emitted. The vague outline of the man was visible behind the glass, sinister and black, working with purpose and handling a diamond glass-cutter with a surprising skill. Just as I approached, the fiend managed to cut off a large piece of glass. He stuck the hand into the hole right after, to grasp the slide-bolt latch and to open the door for himself. I ducked next to the door-frame hastily.

The man fumbled with the latch for a while and upon its removal, stood stiffly behind the threshold for a second, his breath loud and agitated in the stillness. He leapt inside after that, strength and determination in his every move.
I was upon him in an instant, seizing him by the throat and propped the barrel of the gun against the small of his back.

He screamed inaudibly and whirled around, the coincidental movement of his arm striking the gun out of my hand. The revolver clattered across the floor and vanished in the shadowed corner under one of the tables. That was unpleasant, but in result, I didn´t mind at all. I deflected the hook man sent in my direction by my forearm and repaid him by launching a good blow to his solar plexus. He hurtled on his back, right over the threshold of the cell containing the Turk, with his torso wallowing inside and the legs still fluttering in the library. He turned over, raising on his knees and tried to get up, but I descended on him in a flash and pinned him down to the floor. We grappled there furiously. He was very strong, but he didn´t count with my fierceness. Thinking about an injury he inflicted to Holmes, I would knock down ten of such men, not just this fiend alone. I succeeded to twist his arms behind his back and hold him in a tight grip, sitting astride his waist.

However, in that moment, when I was already sure of my easy victory, the sharp light flooded my face. Blinded by that unexpected illumination, I instinctively averted my face from its source and raised a hand to shield my eyes. Still, I froze when I heard the muffled, angry voice echo in the wake of the light, ordering me curtly: „Hands up, you swine! And don´t move!“

I blinked and slowly dropped my hand again. The eyes wide, I stared with disbelief at the person in front of me.

It was Father Christmas.

He held a lamp at the level of his shoulder, enabling me to take in his entire appearance. He wore a dark red, hooded knee-long coat and the high boots lined with fur. Wreath made of holy stuck as a crown on his large head, the mop of white hair thick and unruly and under his strong nose an enormous white beard covered almost his entire face, as effectively as any mask. There was a wild glow in the dark eyes hidden under the bushy eyebrows and the whole stance of his compact body was incredibly menacing. The hand holding the revolver did not shake. Despite the jolly disguise, I sensed we have a cold-blooded and ruthless fellow in our presence and my stomach sunk when I realised that this has to be the true villain I was chasing after.

With something akin to a grimace outlined under his beard, he hissed malignantly: „Stand up, both of you! Go, stand by the wall there, with your hands raised high! The first man who moves gets a bullet into his forehead!“

We obeyed and raising ourselves from the floor, shuffled to the side wall where we remained standing under the brute´s supervision. I glanced at the face of the mysterious man I caught, but I saw nothing there, except the sheer desperation.

Fake Father Christmas eyed us carefully and brusquely approached the Mechanical Turk, placing the lamp on top of the table-box. Then, he drummed his fingers at the side of the table impatiently, calling out: „Patrick! Come out, Patrick and hand me the money! We are leaving this place!“

Nothing happened. The silence descended upon us and we stared quizzically at our captor, mute and curious. Did he just call the figurine „Patrick“? What was the meaning of all this? Meanwhile, the villain seemed to be quite taken aback by the complete inaction from the Turk and fidgeted nervously. He energetically knocked at the side of the table-box again.

„Patrick! Have you fallen asleep, you wretch? Move your ass, we have no time for your shenanigans! I want the money, now!“

In the flicker of the lamp, the Turk´s fanatical glare had a touch of malice in its depths, his leer pronounced and strangely derisive. At first it didn´t look like he would be willing to obey the plea of his master, obstinate in his contempt towards the world of humans. But all of a sudden, the unthinkable happened indeed. With an almost inaudible creak, the Turk turned his head and stared at the Father Christmas pointedly. The wailing sounds, slightly resembling human speech, vibrated in the air, muffled as if they came from the deepest abyss. It was an eerie spectacle. I shuddered.

In that moment, our captor lost patience with the automaton completely.

„Oh, for God´s sake!“ he sneered and leapt behind the Turk, angrily tearing down the green drapery covering the rear side of the table-box. He inclined after that and threw open the rear door which shielded the machinery of the automaton.

And then he stiffened.

„I would frankly advise you not to move, Mr. Johnson.“ A new, yet oh-so-familiar voice, a tad arrogant, sultry barytone, rang triumphantly in the air. „The trigger of this revolver is very slippery, one false move from you and an unpleasant accident could occur... take a slow step back. Yes, just like that. Now another. That would do, thank you.“

Thin and slippery as an eel, my friend had swiftly forsaken the close-quarters of his hiding place and straightened sensuously. The barrel of his gun was unflinchingly aimed at the forehead of the fake Father Christmas the entire time, almost pressed between the villain´s eyes.

„Holmes!“ I breathed out, joy and excitement waging a battle in my chest. „Holmes!“

The detective, majestic and powerful, acknowledged my presence with an imperious gesture. In the following moment, he put a whistle into his mouth. Shrill, high sound permeated the air when he clamped his full, red lips around the small object.

The little room filled up with people immediately. Inspector Lestrade and his men appeared from somewhere, the Earl, dressed in the formal evening suit, peeked through the door restlessly, servants roused from their beds chattered animatedly in the library. The policemen seized the fake Father Christmas firmly and ripped off his disguise, revealing the petulant face of Joshua Johnson to us. The Earl gasped at the sight of him.

Holmes, who put the revolver back into his pocket, noticed our client´s confusion and nodded his head: „Yes, Lord Henry, the spooky thefts were the work of your servant. With the involuntary cooperation of this valuable antique, he managed to wreak havoc both on your household and the household of your predecessor, Mr. Whiters. He obtained the possession of the Turk in Philadelphia, where the chess-automaton was allegedly destroyed in the fire forty years ago and when he came to know the secret of the Turk´s functioning, he devised a plan which enabled him to get rich at the expense of distinguished people of his country and, later on, of ours. He hid his accomplice inside the automaton and ordered him to retreat there after each successful theft. Any subsequent search of the premises where the theft had occurred would prove fruitless then. And all the while, the stolen goods would be safely deposited inside this machine.“

The Earl stared at the machine in question in stark disbelief: „But... but how could that be? We looked inside the automaton after we discovered the theft. It was empty!“

Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands together: „No, my lord, it wasn´t. Pray, come here and let me show you something.“

He held the door placed at the rear side of the table open for the aristocrat and exhibited the hiding-place, from which he emerged earlier, to him.

„When we first saw this table, or should I say „a box“, being opened for our inspection, we perceived it from the front.“ He explained. „We automatically presumed that the machinery placed at the left side and the drawer under it extended to the back of the table, as it should be if the table was of an ordinary kind. That´s where we were wrong. Both the machinery and the drawer only went down to the middle of the box, leaving the space, where a person sitting with outstretched legs could comfortably hide, free for the usage of Johnson´s accomplice. The desk serving as the bottom part of the empty compartment placed next to the machinery is in fact a tilting device which enables the hidden person to move inside when operating the limbs of the Turk during a chess-game or when attempting to stay concealed from the prying eyes. It´s all very simple, really.

Moreover, the order in which the doors of the automaton were opened during an inspection aided to the illusion of the machine being totally empty. The door covering the machinery was opened at first, both from the front and from the rear side, so that we could see that nothing aside some mechanical components was located there. Meanwhile, the accomplice sat crouched in the next part of the automaton, behind the raised up tilting device. He moved back behind the machinery as soon as the rear door were locked again and returned the desk to its original position. On the outside, the drawer was being presented to us, catching our attention and preventing us from paying notice to the things taking place behind the machinery. The accomplice shifted the decorative metallic block in front of himself, separating the machinery compartment from the empty space next to it and remained there, motionless. Thus, the front door of all three compartments could be opened consequently and we wouldn´t notice a thing. It was a magician´s trick, Lord Henry, a clever, cunning trick.

A similar situation occurred when the machine was winded up, prepared to play a game with the person bold enough to challenge it. The whirr of the machinery masked up the movements of Johnson´s accomplice hidden inside the automaton – for it was him who led the hand of the Turk during a match, it was not a machine itself who stood against the challenging party. The accomplice had a small chess-board with him, which gave him an overview of the progress of the game taking place above him. He could also check the progress of the game visually. As you can see, the chess-board affixed to the table is made from a frosted and black glass. The chess-board is not original, for the original wooden piece is still being exhibited by the museum in Philadelphia. It was added to the automaton later, to help the operator move inside and keep track of the match. The glass is opaque from the outside but transparent from the inside, so that you can observe which figures were moved and where they were placed, if you are trapped inside the automaton.“

Holmes smiled ironically, why humour evident on his lips: „These tricks helped Mr. Joshua Johnson to relieve his employers of many a valuable object and to remove it into his own purse. Inspector Lestrade questioned Mr. Whiters on the subject already and the American admitted that more than ten thefts had occurred in his house during the time in which he possessed the Turk. Mr. Whiters, who is no less avid practitioner of Spiritualism than Lord Henry, believed in the paranormal cause of those events and never reported them to the police. He rather donated the Turk to the Lord Henry to get rid of its bad influence and to shift the malignant aura from his own person to another.“

„Huf!“ muttered the Earl, miffed that he had his leg pulled like that.

„So the scraping sounds I heard in the library before the theft was committed... the candle that somebody has extinguished... the chilly hand that touched my chest and seized me by the throat... it was all the doing of Johnson´s accomplice?“ He asked next.

„Yes, definitely,“ agreed Holmes.

The Earl looked at the mysterious man standing mutely by my side, his features stiff with contempt: „That means this individual here...“

„No, no, Lord Henry!“ Holmes laughed, merry twinkle dancing in his bright blue eyes. „You are making the same mistake as my dear friend, Doctor Watson. You think that this man is somehow connected with this case because he was in the vicinity after the theft occurred and because he forcibly trespassed on your house tonight. But nothing can be farther from the truth.

The mere fact that he needed to break into your property is the proof that he couldn´t move around the house freely and that he is a stranger to it. While all the thefts were committed by the person who had a free access to any room, could wander around the house unseen, knew where the valuable objects are usually placed and recognised a chance to burgle you when it occurred. It is highly unlikely that an outsider like this man would meet all the criteria at once. It has a clear characteristic of an inside job.“

„Who is it, Holmes?“ I growled impatiently, interrupting the detective. „Tell me who the hell is that wretched villain, so that I can repay him an attempt on your life!“

„Oh, as to that attempt... we already have a culprit among us. Isn´t that so, Mr. Johnson?“

All the eyes turned to the treacherous servant who spit on the floor defiantly. Unimpressed, Holmes sat at the edge of the Turk´s table and crossed his arms, clearing up the matter for us: „Mr. Johnson knew the jig was up the moment he saw me in this room, examining the Turk. He feared my famed reputation of a detective and in addition to that, he discovered that I am knowledgeable about the Turk´s origin. To be honest, I wasn´t really. I had to sent a request to the British Chess Society via Lestrade to be informed about the particulars. But despite that, I vaguely remembered that the Turk was considered to be the greatest hoax of the century – and that a man hidden inside was supposed to operate it.“

My friend smirked: „Whatever Johnson was thinking, he decided to get rid of me at once. He knew I was suspicious about him and so he flaunted the Turk´s abilities in front of me, acting recklessly, to show me he doesn´t care. Nevertheless, as soon as he received the news about me spending the night in Holland House, he entered my room and clogged up the flue with a piece of his old clothes to let me suffocate in my sleep. I´m sure he has done the same thing to the fire-place in the Watson´s room, yet by a lucky chance, the fire was never lit in it. That was one more act which could only be performed by an insider. It was also a very professional work. I´m sure this was not the first job of a kind that Johnson has brought to effect.“

Johnson had opened his mouth and in the next moment, spilled an avalanche of expletives out of it, shrieking to high heavens. But Lestrade´s constables made a short process with him. They bound his hands behind his back and swiftly escorted him out of the library.

The Earl wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

„You still didn´t tell us, who was Johnson´s accomplice, Mr. Holmes.“ He complained. „If he wasn´t responsible for the murder attempt, what was his role in this? Where is he? And where are the money he has stolen from me?“

Holmes bit into one of his long, elegant fingers: „When Johnson left Philadelphia together with Mr. Whiters to sail to our shores, the Turk wasn´t the only thing he took with him. Inspector Lestrade inquired after him and found out that he also kidnapped two children at the time. They were Patrick and Martha, the children of a local fireman, Mr. Robert Kelly. Martha was fifteen years old and Patrick was ten. Of the two of them, Patrick was known as the chess-genius.“

The man who stood numbly by my side, raised his head abruptly and looked at Holmes. Trembling with tension, he whispered quietly: „Do you know where they are now, Mr. Holmes?“

Holmes didn´t respond, he merely turned around and left the cell. We were all puzzled by this behaviour, but forgot it in a minute, because he returned immediately and led two small figures with him, walking hand-in-hand with them.

And that was an end for all the clever speeches. Only the happy cries resounded in the air for a long time after that and the tears of joy flowed in buckets, the melody of the family reunion sweeter than any Christmas Carol.

Not much remains to be told of this story. The man I caught in the library was indeed Mr. Robert Kelly, the father of the children. He crossed the ocean in search of that rascal Johnson and after a long time spent tracking various red herrings, he finally discovered that the villain took shelter in Holland House. It was a mere coincidence that he lurked in the garden the day after the theft and that he chose to break into the Earl´s residence the night Holmes laid a trap for Johnson there. Holmes and Lestrade didn´t know about him and they didn´t speak with the Earl to learn that I had planned my own course of action on the same night, so we complicated their objective a bit with our unexpected grapple in the library. Fortunately, it all ended well. Witnessing the ineffable delight of the father who was reunited with his small ones, I was not even dismayed that my judgement about the case proved to be faulty.

The money intended for the Boxing Day were retrieved from Bertha´s room and promptly returned to the rightful owner. Holmes contacted the young maid, who was the kidnapped Martha in reality, during the same day I have chosen for my interview with the Earl. He assured her that the help was near and persuaded her to take her brother into her chamber for the night, so that Holmes could resume his place inside the Turk. Both children, who were abused and bullied by their kidnapper in an indescribable manner, complied gladly and thus contributed to the villain´s fall. They are spending the impromptu Christmas holiday in London´s most luxurious hotel now, their expenses covered by the generous Earl of Ilchester. When Johnson´s trial will be over, they will be free to travel back home together with their father.

As for Holmes and me, we returned to our flat in Baker Street after we successfully closed the case. It was the morning of December 24th, the Christmas Eve, when we reached our safe haven again, worn to a shadow and we spent that day unusually, sleeping soundly after the exertion of the previous two days. Mrs. Hudson roused us in the evening to force a dinner on us, but the Christmas Eve flew by quietly afterwards, undisturbed by any unheralded event.

At last, the morning of the Christmas Day had come.

I entered our living room around nine o´clock and was surprised to find Holmes still there. He sat in his chair comfortably, wallowing around in his blue dressing gown and browsed through the Daily Telegraph.

I raised my eyebrows questioningly, but the detective didn´t pay any attention to me. He was fixedly staring at one page in the newspapers and frowned in dissatisfaction. I crossed the room to find a kettle full of fresh tea on the table and poured myself a cuppa, delighting in the scent of lovely exotic infusion.

„You are not with Lady Molly today?“ I risked a question afterwards.

Holmes grunted and growled in reply. I managed to discern the words „will not be available for a while“ from among his mumbling and so I let it at that, settling into my chair.

My gaze fell upon the fire-place in the next moment and I flinched.

„Holmes!“ I cried irritably. „What have you done to Mrs. Hudson´s mantel-piece?! Just you wait, she will have your scalp when she sees this!“

An ugly black nail was hammered to the middle of the mantelpiece, sticking out hideously and to make things even more unappetising, an old sock was hanging from it. Not only did this sock look worn out, a rag more than a piece of clothing, but it also sported a big hole where the nail had pierced it. Even if it was still usable when Holmes started to mess with it, it was utterly destroyed now, not worth a damn.

I pointed at the awful spectacle with my finger. However, Holmes only rustled the papers and buried his face deeper into them.

Shaking my head over his dirty habits, I got up and snatched the sock off.

The weight of the thing confounded me. Something hard and heavy was stuck in the sock and the object gently whacked me across my knees when I put the rag down from its place. Scowling at the unaesthetic foot-wear I was holding in my grip, I put my hand inside the makeshift „pocket“ and fished for the elusive object, grousing at Holmes: „What the hell have you put in there, a stone? I don´t understand what´s got into you all at once...“

I pulled the thing out. And then I just exhaled, startled.

Beautiful pocket-watch glittered in my palm brilliantly, coupled with a decorative golden chain. It was an unusual, quality piece, evidently custom-made, with the word „John“ printed out on a dial in an ornate cursive script. The golden chain was adorned with little pendant in a shape of a Persian slipper. On the periphery of the dial, tiny diamonds supplied the dots indicating the hours, with the Roman numerals being placed right under them. The back of the watch was inlaid with gold and felt ragged to the touch. Curious, I turned it around and blinked when I recognised the engraved ornament in an instant.

Six lines were etched on the auric surface, rendered in an elegant calligraphic hand called Nastaleeq. I recognised them instantly, because I replicated the slightest curve and line of their lettering not that long ago. Rubbing my thumb lightly over them, I whispered the verses which were inscribed indelibly in my heart:

It was night, but only for the others.
Like the day is my night, illumined by the face of my Love.
Even if the whole world by thorns should be seized,
I would drown, because of Beloved, in the flood of roses.
Even if the world turns to ruins, to be built again,
Drunk is my heart and ruined by The Ravisher of Hearts.

I gasped and peered at Holmes in shock, my eyes glistening.

He was standing by the window all of a sudden, transferring there from his chair as silently as a bat. He towered near that rectangle of light with his back turned to me and with his hands behind his back too, his solemn, dark silhouette grave and inaccessible like a rock on a wind-beaten shore.

„I know that you had seen this calligraphy before.“ His voice was subdued and somewhat sad. „I intended to give you the poem together with the watch during Christmas to gauge your reaction based on that, because I was sure that the curiosity will get the better of you eventually and that you will discern the meaning of the verses in no time. I hoped that even if you would find the idea insinuated by the poem off-putting, you wouldn´t give up your Christmas present because of that and would not return the watch to me.

But by chance, your action had forestalled mine. The card where the draft of the verses was written slipped out of my pocket accidentally. And your behaviour had changed drastically next morning. You were angry, so very angry with me... despite my expertise in all the things criminal, I am an amateur in the affairs of the heart and I feared that I have made a muck of things after all. I managed to disgust you and to chase you away from my side.

Yet that night in the brougham, when I was poisoned... it wasn´t just my imagination, was it? The emotion apparent behind every single one of your actions was real...

So – will you accept it?“

„Yes!“ I rasped, clutching the watch with a hand pressed tightly to my chest. „I would never give it away. It is my most precious possession already.“

The tense shoulders of my dear detective seemed to loosen a bit. He turned around, his pale bright eyes shining in hopeful anticipation.

„And the sentiment expressed in the poem? Will you accept it too?“

„Absolutely!“ I breathed out. „Absolutely, I swear!“

Holmes smiled widely. His sharp features softened and the expression gave him a look of a much younger, almost cherubic man.

„Good,“ he nodded with an awkward shyness and assumed the place in his chair anew, sprawling over it and observing me inquisitively. His fingers drummed on the armrest lightly, as if he was improvising the tune currently flowing through his mind palace.

Still trembling with nervous exertion and joy, I sank to my own chair. Hysterical laugh seized me after that and I bent forward, pressing my forehead to my knees.

„Oh, my God!“ I guffawed. „To think that I believed you to have an affair with Lady Molly all the time! Poor little thing! I was so madly jealous towards her!“

Holmes smirked maliciously: „That´s what you get when you attach more importance to the words of Mrs. Hudson than to mine. I have told you before that Lady Molly is merely a colleague. I could never love her because my heart was bound to another for a long time now. That man is my true love, loyal, brave, fearless and clever... although lacking in a detective reasoning a bit.“

The detective winked at me and continued: „I have helped Lady Molly to uncover the clues which would get her unjustly indicted fiancé out of prison and in turn, she has helped me to select and to prepare this poem together with calligraphy for you. Lady Molly´s father, Lord Robertson-Kirk, was the professor in Persian studies and she inherited this particular penchant for all things Oriental from him.

By the way, when she saw you on her porch two days ago, she took quite a liking to you. She has sent you a little Christmas greeting too. Here, take this.“

He handed me a nice Christmas card emblazoned with new Persian calligraphy. The poem was a quatrain this time, painted with a delicate brush on a colourful background ranging from the velvet blue to the coal black and the calligraphic signs the poem consisted of were iridescent either, blazing with golden and fiery red colour. The transliteration was listed right under the verses, presented in a fine cursive and it read like this:

Ba yar ba gul-zar shud-am rah-gozari
Bar gul nazare fakand-am az be-khabari
Del-dar ba man guft ke sharm-at bada
Rukhsar-i man in-ja o to dar gul negari

„Do you know what it means?“ I asked, intrigued.

Holmes grinned at me and recited:

„I went strolling with my beloved in a rose garden,
And from lack of awareness, I cast a glance upon a rose.
The Ravisher of Hearts said to me: May you be ashamed!
My cheeks are here and you are looking at roses!“

I groaned and buried my head in my palms, my face beet-red.

„Christ!“ I laughed in embarrassment. „That´s awkward! I was entirely transparent to her, wasn´t I?“

„Don´t worry, she is very discreet and absolutely trustworthy,“ assured me Holmes and rolled his eyes heavenward. „But to be honest, I don´t like it how we switched over to the subject of Lady Molly once again. My cheeks are here too, if you haven´t noticed. Would you like to kiss them, oh, Ravisher of Hearts?“

He was getting the hang of it really quickly. Sprawled on the chair with his thighs wide open, he looked at me from head to toe, estimating my measures mentally and cheekily invited me to sit in his lap that way. He probably wished for me to sink on his knees like some heroine of the dime-novel. I was very glad to disappoint him. I marched to his chair determinedly, seized him by the laps of his dressing gown and raised him to his feet. Then I kissed him in a really ravishing manner indeed, robbing him of his breath entirely.

„Sherlock,“ I said to him after that incredible snog, with my head reclining against his chest. „Unfortunately, due to excitement of the previous days, I forgot to buy you a present. But I have one prepared for you, there, in my bedroom. Would you care to join me, so that I can hand you that?“

His pupils became even narrower, like a cat´s. He kissed me gently, murmuring into my ear: „It would be my pleasure, John. Please, take me there.“

I took him by the hand and led him upstairs, grinning like a madman. And when I lay on my duvet in the following moment, with Sherlock enveloping me like a warm wave, my heart was dancing a triumphant waltz in my chest, making me dazed with bliss.

It was the best Christmas Day in my life.