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“What I’d like, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Landrie said tremulously, “is for you to find my dog.”
I glanced at Holmes, and winced at the look on his face, a brief flash of deep offense before he concealed it with a wry smile. “Dear me, dear me. Mrs. Landrie, while I understand that your dog is no doubt important to you, I fear that this is not an agency for recovering lost pets.”
He managed a light tone, but I who knew him so well could hear the frustration simmering underneath. Holmes had been without cases for a month, which was an eternity for him, and yet something so simple as a missing dog would offer no challenge to his stagnating mind.
“You’ve found lost pets before, sir.” Mrs. Landrie settled deeper into her chair, as if making a point that she wasn’t about to budge until she’d told her story. “I’ve read about it in Dr. Watson’s tales of your work. He wrote all about how you found that Silver Blaze. I don’t see why a dog should be any different from a horse.”
Holmes shot me a baleful look, then stitched on a brittle smile and turned back to our would-be client. “Well, well, I do not take every case that comes my way, I fear, yet perhaps I can offer guidance to a more appropriate course of action. Pray continue.”
“I live alone, except for my servants,” she said, tone only a little wistful. Mrs. Landrie was just on the brink of elderly, with elegance and poise that remained despite her clear distress over the missing dog. “Last night, I awoke just after eleven to the sound of breaking glass. Juniper and I went downstairs to investigate.”
Holmes leaned back in his armchair, fingertips steepled and his eyes half-lidded as he listened. “Juniper?”
“My dog. She’s a wonderful spaniel, white with brown speckles, and she’s been with me since before my husband passed away, which was three years ago. He was a kind man, if a bit too fond of good whiskey and going out to drink with his friends. Juniper cheers me up so.”
Holmes nodded. “What did you and Juniper find when you investigated the noise?”
“My late husband’s study had been broken into, the bow window smashed.”
“The study is on the ground floor?”
Mrs. Landrie nodded and smiled, just a little. “There wasn’t much for anyone to take. After Patrick’s death, I took over the place as a bit of an art studio. Aside from his old papers, the only things in the room are all my drawings and paintings of Juniper. But I don’t care about the burglary, or if anything was taken. I just want you to find my dog!”
Holmes glanced at me, and I suppressed a smile at the look on his face. “Do you believe the dog was stolen?” he asked, managing politeness. “Or has she run away?”
“Well, that’s the thing. I don’t know!” Mrs. Landrie leaned forward, wringing her hands. “Juniper sniffed around at Patrick’s old desk—the drawer was open—and then out the window she popped! She ran off barking, and didn’t come back when I called to her, and she hasn’t come back since.”
“Then she has run away?”
“Oh, no. Not for sure.” Sniffling, Mrs. Landrie took out a lace-edged handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m terribly afraid that whoever broke into my house is holding her captive, but I haven’t gotten any ransom note yet. I would pay, you know, and I wouldn’t even make them give back anything they took. There was nothing in the drawer anyway, just some old papers from Buckingham Palace.”
I have known Holmes long enough to believe that whatever his frustration with this minor problem, he would have yielded to her plea for help in time. Holmes has a kind heart, no matter how easily he becomes bored, and his offense had already softened to resignation.
Now, however, he straightened up like a hound that has caught the scent. “Buckingham Palace?”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Landrie said, nodding. “My Patrick worked there as a secretary for much of his life. He even took notes for the Queen on occasion.”
“Dear me, dear me.” Rising from his chair, Holmes paced the room in uncontrollable agitation. “You are unaware of whether any papers were taken?”
“I haven’t a clue, Mr. Holmes. The drawers had been gone through, but as to what was in them…” She shrugged, then stood as well and drew herself up with all the determination of the finest lady. “Stolen papers are not my concern. All I wish to know is whether you’ll help me find my dog.”
“I believe I shall,” Holmes said in a somewhat distracted tone. “Thank you, Mrs. Landrie. I shall visit your home a little later today.”
After I showed her out, Holmes snatched up a pen and scribbled a note. He dispatched that by way of one of the Irregulars, then at once took up his violin and began to play in a rather frenetic fashion.
Alarmed by the change in his mood, I sat and looked over my notes so far. Although the mention of the Palace was certainly an interesting addition to the case, I could not think of what possibility had so excited Holmes. I nearly began to guess, both as to the full nature of the case and where he had sent the note, and narrowly stopped myself. I did try to follow Holmes’ methods, and he would chide me for idle speculation.
“There are too many possibilities, Watson,” Holmes said abruptly, putting his violin down. He dropped into his armchair and sank his chin to his breast, brows tightly knit. “Mrs. Landrie’s lack of attention to her husband’s papers could cause anything from a minor scandal to a European catastrophe. How am I to deduce what the consequences may be if I cannot even be certain what was taken?”
His tone was frustrated, but his eyes gleamed, and I smiled. “It is certainly more interesting to you now than a mere lost dog case, I presume.”
“The dog is irrelevant,” Holmes said impatiently.
“You are ordinarily fond of dogs, my dear fellow.”
“I am fond of dogs when deployed for some purpose.” Rising again, he began to pace the sitting room, hands clasped behind his back. “They are quite useful in matters of tracking—you remember good old Toby—but this agency does not recover lost pets as a general rule.”
Before he could continue his diatribe, which I had no doubt would have turned to lamenting that the days of the great cases were past, we were interrupted by a reply to the note he had sent. He stood and read it, then flung it down into my lap. “That is from my brother Mycroft. I asked him to confirm certain details of our client’s story.”
I picked up the note and read it aloud. “‘Patrick Landrie had access to much vital government information as well as family documents and Palace happenings. Trusted servant, loyal, but did drink too much. Retrieve whatever was taken.’”
Holmes would not say another word, and soon we were underway to the Landrie home. It was a modest estate in London, a pleasant house with gardens and a lawn covered in holes. Clearly, Juniper liked to dig.
As I gently plied Mrs. Landrie for further information, although she clearly knew nothing about her late husband’s work and still cared not a jot for what had been taken, Holmes investigated the crime scene. He first crawled around the lawn with his lens out and nose to the ground, then scurried around the hedges, and finally climbed through the broken window into the study.
I joined him there, and for a moment could only stare at the sheer number of drawings and paintings of the quite striking dog. She had marvelous spotted fur, well-depicted by delicate brush strokes, and curious brown eyes. The art depicted her in a variety of poses, from digging up the lawn to carrying various sticks and toys.
With a chuckle, I pointed to a half-finished portrait still on the easel. “Well, at least we may become well acquainted with the appearance of our missing individual.”
“Tut! Tut! This is no time for jokes, Watson.” Holmes dropped to his knees by the desk, and stuck his head and one hand into the open drawer. After a moment, he emerged with a look of satisfaction, if not triumph. “It is, however, time for finding a hidden compartment in this desk. It is empty, which certainly makes it more likely that something was taken.”
“Wonderful, my dear Holmes!” I cried in admiration. “What now?”
Holmes rose, a wry smile tugging at his expression. “Now we follow the dog.”
That, at least, was quite easy to do. Holmes stalked across the lawn, studying the disturbed grass, and I tagged after him. The marks left by the running dog were quite clear, and I could see the spot ahead where she’d torn through the hedge to follow the burglar.
“Hullo! What’s this?” Holmes said suddenly, pausing by one of the holes that Juniper had dug. He chuckled, indicating the collapsed side of the hole, and the deep impression of a boot in the bottom. “It seems our burglar slipped into one of the holes, and if you study the impressions after this point, it is clear from the irregular depth of his footprints that he was limping. It seems that he wounded himself, which shall certainly be helpful for tracking. Your medical opinion?”
“Sprained ankle, most likely,” I said, studying the footprints. “He is limping, but still putting weight on the foot. If it was broken, that would be far more difficult. Are you better disposed towards Juniper now that she has been useful in matters of tracking?”
Holmes ignored me utterly, following the trail of footmarks. We reached the street before he stopped. “The man took a single-horse carriage from here. The wheel tracks are too narrow for a cab, thus he must have been prepared for his escape. It seems that the dog chased after him.”
I resisted the urge to comment further on the dog’s usefulness, for I could see by the distance and abstraction in Holmes’ eyes that he was putting his full powers to use. We followed the signs of carriage and dog, occasionally stopping so that Holmes might investigate a spot where the trail was confused.
It had rained last night, just a light drizzle, and the mud on the quiet streets left many clear traces. In time, we at last came to an area with smaller houses, each with their own fenced garden.
At the gate to one of the fences lay a white dog, speckled with brown of both dried mud and her own natural spots. She raised her head, eyeing us curiously, and then whined at the gate.
“Well, well. Juniper, I presume,” Holmes said, and drew a leash from his pocket. “Come here.”
Juniper rose cautiously, then began to wag her tail at the sight of the leash. She bounded down the path and jumped up on Holmes, leaving muddy paw prints on his black trousers.
Holmes gave a soft sigh. “Sit.”
Juniper sat, still wagging her tail. I couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. “My, she is a lovely dog!”
Neglecting to reply, Holmes delicately clipped the leather leash on her collar and passed the leash to me. “Do you hold this, Watson, and I shall see about this gate latch. It should not prove difficult.”
He was an expert at forcing locks, and soon had it open. I watched him, petting Juniper as Holmes snuck through the garden and peered in a window.
“Hum!” he said, coming back towards me. “The house appears empty, but I should like to be certain. Are you game for a little breaking and entering?”
“Always,” I said cheerfully, still petting Juniper. “You have already satisfied your commission, at least. Should I leave Juniper outside, or—”
She tugged hard on her lead, pulling free, and ran into the garden. She took a sharp turn behind a bush and began to vigorously dig, barking as she did so.
“What the deuce is the dog doing now?” Holmes complained with some little asperity. “I cannot break into this house if the dog is intent on drawing the attention of passersby. Retrieve her, Watson.”
Before I could do so, she emerged from her digging with something in her mouth. She jogged up to Holmes and sat, wagging expectantly and gazing up at him with adoration.
“Well, well,” he said slowly, taking the oilskin pouch from her. “Good dog.”
She pushed her head up into his hand when he patted her absently, then laid down on his shoes while he opened the pouch. I joined him, curious about the paper he had just taken out. “What is it, my dear fellow?”
“It is most likely the packet that was taken from Mr. Landrie’s desk, hastily hidden by our burglar once he arrived here. This may not even be his house, merely a detour to ensure that if he was caught for his housebreaking, his larger plan might remain secret. The oilskin would have protected the paper from water at least temporarily.”
“But what is the paper?” I asked, picking up Juniper’s leash again. “And what larger plan?”
“The paper contains information about certain secret passages in and out of royal residences, not merely Buckingham Palace but others as well.” Holmes held out the oilskin to Juniper, and she sniffed it. “As for the larger plan, I have suspicions, but still require more data for confirmation. Go on, Juniper! Seek!”
Juniper had either been trained to track, or else simply yielded to Holmes’ mastery, as we all did. She took off at once, nose to the ground, following a trail more efficiently than either of us could.
I was both pleased and amused to see Holmes’ attitude changing towards the dog. He was certainly no longer insulted by his commission, but working with her quite well.
Juniper led us to a barn in the neighborhood, then paused at the door and looked back at Holmes. He patted her on the head, then pointed out the uneven footmarks to me. They were certainly the same limping pattern as the others.
“Stay,” Holmes murmured to Juniper, hooking her leash around a fence post. He gestured to me, and I drew my revolver. “We shall not spend time on picking this lock, merely set our shoulders against it. Come, Watson, on three.”
We broke the barn door open, and found no horses, merely a mostly-empty barn with a wire cage in one of the stalls and a startled, middle aged man sitting beside it. He had one leg elevated on a stool, his ankle badly swollen, and looked up at us with wild, startled eyes.
“I wouldn’t have hurt anyone, sir!” he blurted, clearly recognizing Holmes from the illustrations in the Strand. “I’ve just been in a bad way since I lost my job, thought it’d be an excellent way to make some fast money to pay back my debts.”
“Kidnapping one of the Queen’s pet dogs is certainly an excellent way to get oneself killed,” Holmes said coolly, crossing his arms as he gazed at the man. “I was uncertain until now whether you were set on the dogs or the horses, given that the notes you stole from the Landrie residence permit secret access to both the kennels and the stables. Judging by the size of that cage, I presume you intended to kidnap one of the collies. Tell me the truth, and it will go better for you.”
“One of the collies, yes. I used to work at the Palace, you see, doing odd jobs round the place, and I’d gotten to know the dogs quite well over the five years I was there.”
“What is your name?” Holmes asked, studying him. “If you give me an alias, I shall find out. I advise against it.”
“Jack Millay.” Sniffling, Millay wiped his eyes. “I’d been gambling too much, that’s why I was dismissed. They thought I might be a threat.”
Holmes gave a soft snort. “How far fetched.”
“I wasn’t a threat, honest! Never done anything like this in my life.” Millay turned watery, pleading eyes back to Holmes. “I knew Patrick Landrie had been trusted with certain secrets about the place. He told me about it, and about his hiding place in his desk, back when we went out for drinks, and he’d had a few too many.”
“Ah, I thought it might be something like that.” Holmes glanced at me. “You will recall Mrs. Landrie mentioning that her husband was a little too fond of whiskey.”
“Aye, he was. I thought I’d get the notes he’d been trusted with, and borrow a dog from the Palace for a bit. Just for the ransom, you understand! I wouldn’t have hurt any creature.” Millay gestured to the wire cage, which had soft bedding, as well as bowls for food and water. “But just after I got what I’d come for, that spaniel chased after me, and I sprained my ankle. I managed to give it the slip and hid the plans without even getting a chance to look at them. I couldn’t very well sneak into the Palace kennels with a sprained ankle. So, I was sitting here wondering whether I ought to give the whole thing up.”
“Dear me, dear me.” Holmes regarded him, and I could see that he was weighing the man’s sincerity against the chance of him attempting something like this again. “Well, I shall have to turn you in for the burglary, but I believe you have told me the truth, and thus I shall not mention this other sorry business to Inspector Lestrade. But be warned, if I see any trace of this sort of scheme in future, l shall hunt you down as the most relentless sleuth-hound.”
Once we had transferred custody of Jack Millay to the police, we took Juniper back to her home in a cab. She seemed quite excited at the ride, which she spent sitting in Holmes’ lap, and he petted her with a certain look of amused resignation.
“She is a marvelous dog, is she not?” I said, unable to resist as I ruffled her speckled fur. “She was quite useful in the end, my dear Holmes.”
“Yes, my boy, I will admit that much. This case certainly had its points of interest, and we have averted what could have been quite an ugly business.” Holmes settled an arm around Juniper to steady her as we went around a turn, and she licked his face. “Jack Millay was not a hardened criminal, and I think it very unlikely that he shall ever try to commit any crime again after this one went so horribly. Mrs. Landrie may not even press charges, given how little she cared about the burglary. But had Mr. Millay managed to abduct a royal collie, things would have gone much more harshly for him.”
We pulled up at our destination, and Juniper jumped down eagerly. She had looked quite tired after her adventure, but she perked up now as we brought her home. When she saw Mrs. Landrie rushing outside, she slipped her lead and ran across the lawn, barking quite joyously.
“Oh, my Juniper!” Laughing with delight, Mrs. Landrie sank to the grass on her knees and hugged her returning dog, who wagged her tail with vigor. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I knew you were just the man to find my missing dog.”
Amused, I looked at Holmes, and he smiled back at me with a shrug of comic resignation. “Well, well, I suppose I was.”