Copyright © 1999 by David M. Scott
Of all things in life, the thing of which I am least enamoured is to be knocked up at three o'clock of a cold morning. That was my lot, however, in November of 1902, when Sherlock Holmes shook me awake with a cry of "Come, Watson! Stiffen the sinews and summon up the blood! There's murder done!"
"My sinews are sufficiently stiff, thank you," I grumbled. "For God's sake, Holmes, light the fire!'
"No time," said Holmes, tossing a pair of heather-mixture trousers at my head. "We have thirty minutes to catch the train for Finchingfield, in Essex. Listen to Hopkins’ wire: 'Murder at Ardmore Hall. Come instantly, view scene before sword removed. Your sort of case.' Young Hopkins has never failed to provide amusing and enlightening opportunities."
Still half asleep, I found myself bundled down the stairs and into a cab. As we pelted down the deserted street, I asked, "What's it all about, Holmes?"
Between puffs at his omnipresent pipe, Holmes said, "You have as much data as I. It's a capital case, and evidently someone's been stabbed with a sword. There is not enough data yet to form any sort of theory. We must possess our souls in patience until we foregather with Hopkins."
I slept soundly in a corner seat on the train, and felt a bit better when Holmes woke me. We descended to the platform to be met by Inspector Stanley Hopkins, whom Holmes regarded as a gem buried in the common clay of the official police force. He greeted Holmes warmly, and guided us to a four-wheeler. As we pulled away from the station. Holmes asked him to expound upon the case.
"This may not be a difficult case," he said, "but I thought you might find it interesting. Ardmore Hall, about five miles from town, is the home of James and Charles Ardmore, two brothers who made a fortune in shipping. They’re retired, even though James is just fifty years old, and Charles four years his junior. They spend their time on hobbies. Charles collects arms and armour, which is part of the circumstances of the case.
"The household usually retires early, and by half-ten last night the place was dark. Around midnight, one of the footmen, who had trouble sleeping because of the toothache, heard what he called a clattering sound. He got up and followed it to the room that houses Charles’ collection. The electric lights were on, one of the windows was open, and Charles lay on the floor with one of his own swords driven clean through him."
"Has anything been stolen?" asked Holmes.
Hopkins shook his head. "That’s the odd part. I’ve had Charles’ secretary out of bed. He says nothing’s missing, and since cataloguing the collection is his responsibility, he should know. There are some valuable pieces there. I saw one dagger with a gold hilt and four rubies the size of my thumb-nail. Gates, the secretary, says his master gave over two thousand pounds for it at Sotheby’s."
"Perhaps the thief simply panicked, and ran away," I sugested.
"There is evidence to show that he didn’t," replied Hopkins. "That is what makes the case interesting. But here we are! You have just enough time to inspect the collection room before full daylight. Then, the grounds. Knowing how you work, I’ve preserved the scene as much as possible."
Ardmore Hall was an imposing residence, obviously no more than twenty years old, and with all the modern conveniences. We were admitted by a hastily dressed butler, and led to the scene. Charles Ardmore’s collection was certainly impressive. The room would have held two hundred guests and a dance orchestra, were it not filled with glass-fronted display cases bristling with antique weapons and armour. Eight electric chandeliers banished any shadows.
Hopkins had indeed taken every precaution; a stair-runner had been laid from the door to the spot where the victim lay. As we walked across it, Holmes examined the polished wooden floor to either side with little grunts of satisfaction.
Charles Ardmore was a pitiful sight. Clad in a collarless shirt, trousers and crepe-soled shoes with no stockings, he lay on his side between the display cases. He could not have rested on his back or front, for a rapier a yard long had been driven through his chest. With a gesture, Hopkins invited Holmes to examine the body.
Holmes knelt to the task. Without looking up, he asked, "Have you tried to remove the sword?"
"No, sir," replied Hopkins. "All we’ve done is had the local doctor pronounce him dead. He is as we found him."
"Ha! Score one for you!" laughed Holmes. "Look, Watson, look at the man’s shirt front."
I examined the smudges of dirt on the garment. "He obviously dressed in a hurry, and perhaps in the dark. He must have picked up a soiled shirt. One wouldn’t be too particular about how to dress for a burglar."
My friend shook his head. "True, perhaps, but insufficient. Look at the shape of the stains." His finger traced an outline on the shirt, and I suddenly saw what he had seen.
"Foot-marks!"
"Indeed," said Holmes. "One on each side of the sword. I’ll wager the killer sat on the floor, and tried with all his might to extract the sword, bracing his feet on the dead man’s chest. Have a closer look, Doctor. What do you think?"
I knelt and felt around the entry and exit wounds. "This is jammed tight between the ribs, and there is bruising on both sides of the wound. I saw a few like this in Afghanistan. You’ll need a surgeon with a rib spreader to remove it – or a hydraulic press." Hopkins grimaced at the gruesome thought. "I have my bag with me, if I can be of service."
It was agreed that the remains of Charles Ardmore would be conveyed to a spare bedroom, where I would remove the weapon. Holmes asked that I keep the shirt with its foot-marks intact as evidence. We made a little procession of it, with the butler leading, two servants carrying their late master, myself, and a police sergeant detailed to observe. Holmes and Hopkins decided that they would examine the grounds while I worked.
It was no easy task, what with handling the sword so as not to destroy any finger-prints, and a six-foot policeman falling down in a faint. Forty minutes passed before I was able to descend. The butler directed me to the dining room, where a hasty breakfast had been laid.
As I entered, bloodstained sword held at present arms, I gave Inspector Hopkins and the footman the shock of their lives. Holmes, however, shook with laughter. "Something wicked this way comes!" he crowed. "Come, Watson, the ham isn’t all that tough. Put that thing away and take a plate." I stood the sword in a corner, pulled a chair in front to protect it, and helped myself eagerly from the sideboard.
Between mouthfuls, Holmes said, "The clattering which the footman heard was without doubt a sword-fight, which is confirmed by the scuffing of the polished wooden floor. The police found Charles Ardmore’s chosen weapon, which had rolled away under a display case when he fell. There were tracks in the grounds that seem to match the boot-marks on the shirt. We followed them through the woods, but lost the trail at the road. The lock on the window was forced, and by a professional."
"Since nothing was stolen," continued Hopkins, "and the thief tried so hard to get the sword, I expect he was commissioned to steal the one piece. The police know of some burglars who work to order, taking only a specific object for their employers. I’ve wired the Yard to investigate their whereabouts last night. Even if we find the thief, I expect we’ll never lay hold of the man who hired him. These fellows are paid well for their silence."
"Well, then," said Holmes. "We must work backward from the sword to determine who would want it. Let us finish our meal and examine it closely."
We suited the action to the word. Back in the trophy room, an examination for finger-prints proved fruitless, so we cleaned the weapon. It was a beautiful thing, a yard of razor-sharp Toledo steel with a golden basket hilt worked to resemble intertwined snakes. Holmes scrutinized it through his lens, while Hopkins summoned the secretary and asked him about the sword. "That was a new piece," said Mr. Gates. "Mr. Charles was just back from holiday on the Continent. He said he’d bought it from a widow who’d fallen on hard times. I know no more of it, except that it’s obviously worth more than the fifty pounds he paid."
"Where did he find it?" asked Holmes.
Gates thought a moment. "Some where in Spain, I believe. It might have been Italy, but the workmanship looks more like the Spanish pieces in his collection. The name Montoya is engraved at the base of the blade; that’s Spanish, isn’t it? I’m no expert; I was a clerk in the shipping office before Mr. Charles brought me down here, but you can’t catalogue a collection this size without learning something."
"An expert is just what we need," said Holmes. "and I know where to find one. Hopkins, may I take the sword to London for the day?"
"Of course," the detective replied, "but surely you don’t propose to board the train waving that thing about?"
"Pardon me," interjected Gates, "but I play the trombone in the Salvation Army band."
Hopkins turned to him. "What’s that got to do with anything?"
Holmes was quicker to see the light. "I believe that the instrument’s case would fit the sword quite nicely. Thank you for the offer, Mr. Gates."
So it ws that we boarded the up train, Holmes carrying the long black case. As the countryside rolled by outside the window, Holmes chatted about the evidence. He often used me as a sounding-board to work out his ideas.
"Young Hopkins won’t get far with his bespoke burglars," he opined. "I threw him some broad hints about the shape of the boots that made those tracks, but to no avail. He doesn’t realize that those boots are not of English make. We have a foreigner, we have a foreign object almost stolen, what need is there to bring in an intermediary?"
I raised one objection. "You did say that it ws a professional who forced the lock on the window."
Holmes chuckled. "I expect they have plenty of professional theives in Spain, considering how many amateurs there are. That is no obstacle. No, Watson, I pin my hopes on the provenance of the sword. Let us hope my friend can shed some light there."
We found Holmes’ friend at the British Museum. Professor Harwell greeted him warmly, but looked askance at the trombone case. When we opened it, however, his look changed to one of amazement. "My stars, Holmes, what have you got here?" He lifted the sword, and tilted it toward the light to inspect it. "Twelfth Century Spanish, no doubt, and very fine… oh, dear! A Montoya! Wait here!"
He darted off, returning with two young men not long out of school. Mr. Brodie was a stockily built, urbane lad, and his companion, Mr. Jones, a tall, muscular, bearded fellow with a definite Celtic lilt to his voice. They gave us a perfunctory greeting and fell upon the sword like wolves on the fold.
"Brodie is something of an expert on the period," explained the professor, "and some time ago, Jones told us a quaint little tale about a Montoya sword. Well, gentlemen, is this what I think it is?"
Brodie gave a satisfied litle laugh. "It most certainly is. Where on earth did you get it?"
"Out of a murdered man," replied Holmes, shortly. "What can you tell us about it?"
"Murder?" cried Jones. "Marcus, that fits so perfectly! Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, this is the Sword of Vengeance!"
"Very dramatic," drawled Holmes, "but it gets us no forrarder. There is obviously a tale to tell. Would you oblige?"
We seated ourselves, and Brodie began, "Domingo Montoya was one of the finest craftsmen that ever lived. Only a dozen or so pieces of his are known to exist, and you’d need a king’s ransom to buy one. This, however, would cost you an emperor’s ransom or two. Henry, tell them the legend."
Jones took up the tale. "It is said that Montoya made the sword to the order of one Count Rugen, a fine swordsman but a cruel and vicious man. When the sword was done, Rugen refused to pay the price they had agreed on; instead, he offered a tenth of the price. Montoya wouldn’t give him the sword, so he killed Montoya. Montoya’s son tried to stop him, and got a scar across the face for his pains, but he ran away before Rugen could force him to tell where the sword was hidden.
"The lad grew up determined to avenge his father. He couldn’t earn enough to pay for fencing lessons from the great masters, so he became a thief to support his education. For twenty years he studied, and became one of the greatest ever to handle a blade. When he was ready for revenge, he took his father’s sword and set out to find the man. He didn’t know who Rugen was, but he did know that the Count had six fingers on one hand.
"Young Inigo Montoya somehow got himself involved in a political plot, and found out that the man behind it was a nobleman with six fingers on one hand. Now, the lad was no politician and no strategist; he needed help to get to Rugen. He needed the Man in Black, a mysterious fellow who some claim had been a pirate. The Man in Black had been captured by Rugen, so Inigo Montoya knelt in prayer, and the hand of God took the sword and used it to guide Montoya to the dungeon where the Man in Black was held. Montoya freed him, and with the help of a friendly giant, if you believe the legend, they stormed the castle where Rugen was holding a beautiful princess hostage. Montoya killed Rugen in a great battle, the Man in Black married the princess, and as you would expect, they all lived happily ever after. Most fairy tales start out as true stories, embellished with every retelling. Now that I’ve seen the sword, I believe that something of the sort really did happen."
"The legend says that a man who wields the sword to revenge an injustice cannot be defeated," put in Brodie.
Professor Harwell snorted. "Superstitious nonsense!"
Brodie merely smiled. "There are elemental forces in the world that we do not understand. You can call them superstition, witchraft, fairy tales or the hand of God, whatever you like, but they are there. Henry here makes a speciality of supernatural lore. That’s why he knew so much about the legend of the sword."
Jones nodded. "All of the details I’ve found are consistent with other cases of divine guidance, right back to the Star of Bethlehem. We’re far too skeptical these days, and we’ve shifted our worship from God to Science. Miracles require faith. Back in the days when people had that faith, God performed miracles. Now, we only think of God when we’ve got ourselves into trouble and can’t get out of it."
"An interesting point of view," mused Holmes. "Mr. Jones, do you think the sword would perform a miracle for me?" He picked up the weapon and held it high. "I ask whatever power guides this sword to help me see justice done in this case!" We were all taken aback. I thought I heard Jones mutter something in Latin, finishing with Amen.
Holmes thanked the academics profusely and bade them a hasty good-bye, promising that, should the sword become available for further study, they should have first claim. In the carriage on the way back to the station, he confided, "I really don’t know what came over me, Watson. Perhaps Mr. Jones’ ghost-story influenced me on what your friend Sigmund would call the sub-conscious level. Yet, when I held up that sword, I swear that I felt something like a chill in my bones."
I smiled. "It is November, you know."
"It’s more than that," he replied. "Jones is a Celt, a race with deep and mystical roots, and Brodie is what I would describe as ‘fey’. He is right, you know. Though I may have denied it in the arrogance of my youth, I’ve leaned since then that there are things that do not admit of a rational explanation. There may be science of a sort behind them; perhaps we simply do not know enough. Think, for example, how your revolver would seem to a Hottentot. A burst of thunder, a cloud of smoke, and you kill a man at a longer distance than anyone can throw a spear. They would either worship you or burn you at the stake."
I chuckled at this. "I’ve heard some strange stories, too. All doctors do. Battlefield ghosts, deathbed experiences, and so on. And who was that fellow in Tibet you told me of, the one that could convince you to not see something right in front of you?"
"The Tulku? That’s a tale for another time", chuckled Holmes. "I need to reflect upon the case. You’d better get yourself some newspapers to read on the trip down. I expect I’ll be very poor company." So it proved. My companion curled himself into the corner seat of our compartment, and proceeded to fill the air with smoke from his brier. Not a word did he speak until we were on the platform at Finchingfield again.
"Take this, would you please?" he requested, handing me the trombone case. "Here, boy!" A young porter came at his call. "Tell me, lad, how is the fishing this time of year?"
The lad grinned. "It’s a bit late in the season, sir, but you know fishermen. There’s always an optimist or two."
Holmes turned to me and smiled. "Sounds like our Spanish friend, doesn’t it?"
I was momentarily bewildered, but the boy asked, "Is he a friend of yours, sir? Tall fellow, with a moustache and hair over his collar?"
Holmes nodded. "That must be good old Montoya. He said he might come down and wet a line. Do you know where he’s staying? I’ll look him up and buy him a drink."
"No, sir," said the lad. "I only offered to carry his bag and his rod-case, but he didn’t want no help. He left the station walking."
"What day was this?" I put in.
The boy though a minute, "Day before yesterday, sir. If you like, I can ask about and let you know if I find him."
Holmes passed the lad a coin. "Oh, don’t bother. He’s a solitary sort of fellow, and if he wants to fish alone, who am I to disturb him? Now, find us a carriage, please, we’re bound for Ardmore Hall."
As we pulled away from the station, Holmes gave a satisfied little laugh. "Got it in one, Watson!"
I turned to him. "Obviously, the man the porter saw is our man. How did you know he came in the guise of a fisherman?"
"Well, I wouldn’t expect him to bring a trombone case to carry the sword away, and it’s far too late in the year for golf. A fishing-rod case seemed to best suit these rural suroundings. We’re very close, Watson! It only remains to set a trap, for I know the fellow will return."
When we reached the Hall, we took Hopkins aside and reported our findings. The Inpsector was all for combing the countryside in search of a Spaniard, but Holmes dissuaded him. "If you take him in the open, you’ll have little evidence against him. The man will be back for the sword, I’ve no doubt of it. What we need is for you and your men to give an ostentatious performance of departure. We shall return under cover and catch our man red-handed."
So it was that we left with much fuss and bother, rode a train as far as the next station, and returned by a farm cart to slip through the woods after dark. Holmes and Hopkins had agreed on the disposition of the constables outdoors; we made our way to the kitchen door and were admitted by the efficient Mr. Gates. His master, James Ardmore, joined us in the hall, and we crept in darkness into the collection room.
"Complete silence and darkness is necessary from this moment onward," came Holmes’ whisper. "Watson, the switch for the chandeliers is beside you. Be ready to press it on when I call." Hopkins, Bates and Ardmore were settled into chairs in the other three corners of the room.
The wait seemed interminable. From the chimes of the hall clock, it was after two o’clock in the morning before we heard stealthy noises at one of the windows. There was a soft snap, and I felt the breeze from outside. Footsteps tip-toed across the room, and a match was struck. The flame revealed a lean, almost feral face, staring wildly at the empty case where the Sword of Vengeance had rested.
"Lights, Watson! Looking for this, señor?" The electric light bathed the room and momentarily blinded us all. When my vision cleared, I saw Holmes brandishing the famous sword.
"That is mine, give it to me," said the Spaniard. When Holmes made no move to comply, he snatched up another sword from a display. "My name is Arturo Montoya! You have outraged my sister and stolen my birthright. Prepare to die!"
Metal clashed upon metal as the combatants closed. Up and down the aisles they fought, Holmes’ classic stance against the stranger’s improvisation. As they fought, they taunted each other.
"A student of Biencin, are you?" asked Montoya.
"His star pupil," admitted Holmes.
"I find he is a bit behind the times."
"If you mean that he still demands discipline, you’re right."
"You fight like an old man, you die like an old man. There will be blood tonight!"
"You fight like a young boy, no patience, no control. The sword," said Holmes, deftly lopping off one end of Montoya’s flambuoyant moustache, "must become part of you. You look like you’re chasing off wasps."
"You are the one who will be stung," his adversary replied, neatly slicing a button from Holmes’ waistcoat.
Holmes side-stepped the follow-up blow, parried, and whipped the sword out of the Spaniard’s hand. To our surprise, the man threw a back-somersault, catching his weapon in mid-air. He brought up his guard just as Holmes’ blade came whisting toward him.
"I’ve seen monkeys do the same trick better," jeered Holmes.
"At least I have more than one trick," replied Montoya. "I study them all, Spanish, French, Italian, Greek. Let’s see how you like this!" His tactics shifted, and he darted in at Holmes, the tip of his sword oscillating like a snake.
Holmes abandoned his classic fencing stance, his sword whirling back and forth, blocking Montoya at every thrust. "You should have studied further east," he cried, "the Nin-ja of Japan are the true masters!" He pressed forward and Montoya gave ground. "Do you yield?"
With a cry of "Death first!", the Spaniard threw himself at Holmes, knocking his blade aside. I raised my revolver as Holmes’ sword clattered to the floor, and Montoya’s drove for the heart.
"Hold your fire, Watson!" cried Holmes. All of us, Montoya not the least, stared agog. Holmes had stopped the thrust simply by clapping his palms to either side of the blade. Before his opponent could recover, he pivoted inside the thrust, took a grip and threw Montoya to the floor. Holding the man face down in a come-along grip, he bent forward, his lips close to the Spaniard’s ear. "On my word of honor, I know nothing of your sister, nor how the sword came to England. If you’ll get up and behave yourself, my friends and I would like to hear your story."
"Why waste my breath," Montoya scoffed, "when you will hang me anyway?"
Sliding the sword toward Hopkins, Holmes pulled his captive to his feet. "I am interested in justice, not hanging. Come, now, speak up."
Hopkins raised a hand. "Before you do, I am a police officer, and you are under arrest for assaulting this man with a deadly weapon. There may be other charges, later. I must warn you that everything you say will be taken down, and it may be used as evidence in court."
Montoya shrugged. "I thank you for the warning, but I have nothing to lose." Two constables, drawn to the study by the noise and lights, stood at his elbows. "My name is Arturo Montoya. Do you know the history of the sword?" Holmes summarized what we had learned at the museum, and the Spaniard nodded. "The sword has been in my family for generations. My ancestor, Inigo Montoya, who first took it up in vengeance, was a master thief and a better swordsman. Both skills have passed from generation to generation, but in recent times the Montoyas have been a bit more respectable. I am a sailor. Nine days ago, I came home from a voyage across the Mediterranean to find my sister in tears. She is home alone when I am gone, her husband died years ago. While I was at sea, an Englisghman came to our house. Someone in Barcelona had told him of the sword, and he wanted to buy it. Of course, Teresa told him it was not for sale at any price. This he did not like. He argued, and when she told him to leave, he called her a filthy name and struck her in the face with his fist. As she lay there bleeding from the mouth, he took the sword and threw some English money at her, then left.
"Teresa did not know the man’s name, but she described him, and I knew he had come from Barcelona. I went there, and with the help of friends, traced the man, but he had gone back to England. I followed to reclaim what is mine, and to throw his dirty money into his face. I took rooms at a farm near here and pretended to go fishing while I looked round the house. Last night, I saw into this room, and decided it would be better to just take the sword and leave the money. If I looked him in the eyes, I would kill him, and I did not want to hang so far away from home.
"It was easy to get in; you really need to get new window catches, señor. I found the sword, I had it in my hand, when the lights went on and the fat pig picked up a weapon. It was his last mistake. He was not the swordsman you are, señor," he nodded to Holmes, "but it would not have helped him. A Montoya who takes up that sword to revenge a wrong will always win. I killed him quickly, if it helps. I drove the sword right through him, and whispered ‘For Teresa’ as he died. It seems that I do not know my own strength, because I could not get the sword back out of him. When I heard someone coming, I had to go, but I could not leave this country without the sword. I did not expect you tonight, and I did not expect such swordsmanship. Who are you?"
"My name is Sherlock Holmes," said my friend.
"Madre de Dios!" cried our captive. "I have heard the name. It is an honor to face you in combat. If they do not hang me, perhaps you will teach me that little overhand cross-stroke you say you learned in Japan?"
"Perhaps," Holmes grinned. "Hopkins, surely there are mitigating circumstances here? To hang such a splendid swordsman would be an affront to nature."
"Murder is an affront to nature, and the law." Hopkin’s voice and face were iron. "If you wanted your property back, man, there are legal ways."
Montoya laughed at the thought. "Oh, yes. A foreign sailor, with no money to hire a good solicitor, in court against a rich English milord? I do not think that I would get justice there. Besides, there was a matter of honor to settle. My sister’s face will be scarred forever from this man’s blow. The only way she can bear it proudly is if she can say that blood was shed in payment for the insult. No, my way was best. If I hang, I die with my honor intact."
"Excuse me," interjected James Ardmore. Our host had been strangely silent, listening to the history of the crime unfold. "Inspector, I will not press charges against this man. I knew my brother to be something of a bully, but I did not imagine this sort of thing. Give him his sword, and I will pay his passage back to Spain."
Hopkins shook his head. "What am I to tell the Comissioner, or the Press? There’s a little matter of breaking and entering, not to mention murder. No, sir, it will not do. Slip the darbies on him, Sergeant, and let’s get him to the station-house."
Holmes and I returned to London the following morning. I thought that the case was closed, but a few days later, our breakfast was interrupted by the sound of feet pounding up our stairs and the explosive entrance of Inspector Hopkins. "Damn it all, Holmes! Damn your interference!"
My friend raised his eyes from the Times. "Why, whatever is the matter?" he inquired blandly.
Hopkins loomed over the table and thrust an accusing finger in Holmes’ face. "You’re the matter! They’re sending that damned Spaniard and his pig-sticker home, with diplomatic immunity, back-dated to his arrival!"
"How long have we known each other, Hopkins?" Holmes asked soothingly. "How long have we worked side by side, one supporting the other? Sit down, calm yourself, and let us discuss this. Have you had your breakfast?"
The hypnotic effect of Holmes’ personality calmed the official detective. He subsided into a seat and admitted that he hadn’t eaten. Holmes rang for another plate and cup, and began his explanation.
"It is quite true," he said, "that Montoya is being returned to Spain at my instigation. The Spanish Ambassador owed me a favor – you recall the unpleasant incident at the dinner he gave for the Earl of Waltham? I rather fancy that, if not for me, he would now be stamping passports in Kuala Lumpur or some such place.
"You know the facts of the case. Come now, as a man, not as a detective, do you think justice is served by hanging Montoya?"
"What I think as a man doesn’t matter," retorted Hopkins. "I’m a police officer."
"And a very good one," rejoined Holmes. "You did your job, and brought your man to book. If the diplomats choose to dispose of the case in this fashion, it is no reflection on you. You may even get some sympathy from the popular press."
"I’m not in it for the publicity, Holmes."
"I know that," Holmes nodded. "Still, it does you no harm. Try to see the situation from my point of view, and that of the Home Secretary, with whom I conferred on the matter. Shall we put Montoya on trial, exposing a pillar of English commerce as the sort of man who beats and robs defenseless women? Shall we make a martyr of Montoya, and risk trouble with Spain? What would that serve? It’s much better this way. The Sword of Vengeance is declared a National Treasure of Spain, and in return for clemency, our friends at the British Museum have access to it for study. James Ardmore feels that he has expiated his brother’s guilt, and you still have a successful investigation on record. This case is a three-edged sword, Hopkins, and the three edges are Law, Justice and Diplomacy."
"It irks me," complained Hopkins. "but I see the force of your argument. I admit that I didn’t want to see the man hang, and I don’t think he would have when the circumstances came out in court. Still, it’s not my place to argue with the Home Secretary."
Thus was settled the matter of the Sword of Vengeance. I suspect that the slight to Hopkins weighed on Holmes’ mind, however, and that he took steps through private channels to make amends. A few months after this case, Hopkins was elevated to Detective Chief Inspector.