Mr. Sherlock Homes was, on that sunny morning in May of 1895, bored and irritable. He had just concluded an investigation of extreme delicacy and difficulty, only to be informed that his findings were to be suppressed in "the greater interest". Normally, Holmes would have consigned such a client (whom I may not identify) to the devil, and gone his own way regardless of consequences, but that option was not open to him in this instance. The client was one that he could ill afford to defy. With no other outlet for his frustration, Holmes lay upon the settee and subjected me to a running monologue on iniquity and ingratitude, pausing only to light another bowl of a tobacco fouler than any I had experienced, even in India.
It was with a sense of mounting anticipation that I watched from our bow window as a uniformed comissionaire mounted the steps of 221B Baker Street. So many of Mr. Sherlock Homes' cases were heralded by such an arrival that I had high hopes for the buff-coloured envelope that Mrs. Hudson brought up a moment later. Holmes thanked her gruffly, tore open the envelope, glanced at the missive enclosed, and passed it across to me.
"Aloud, if you please, Watson," he prompted. I read it out:
Langham Hotel
London
Dear Mr. Holmes,
I am told by persons whose opinion I value that you are a discreet man and without peer in your line of work. I wish to consult you unofficially. I shall call upon you at eleven o'clock today. If this is not convenient, please send word to the Langham and I shall come when you can see me. Oblige me by mentioning my coming to no one.
Constantine Karolides
I knew the name from political leaders in the Times. Karolides was the Greek Foreign Secretary, and well known as a peacemaker among the troubled states of eastern Europe and the Ottoman Empire. Our own Prime Minister had referred to Karolides in print as "the great healer of the Balkans", and had invited him to London.
"It seems you will move in exalted circles again, Holmes," I mused.
Holmes snorted. "I doubt that. Mr. Karolides mentions my discretion before my abilities and lays a great deal of stress on the sub rosa nature of his business. If it were affairs of state, he would have come to me through someone in our own Government. It may be another scandal in high places, but I have heard of Karolides as the soul of propriety. We shall see at eleven. I must tidy myself up."
Looking at his ash-encrusted dressing gown and two days' stubble, I heartily agreed. Holmes took himself off to his ablutions while I made our sitting-room presentable. Well before eleven o'clock, Homes was back, shaved, brushed and businesslike.
It still lacked a few minutes to the hour when Mrs. Hudson tapped on our door and announced "Mr. Skouros". There entered a man of middle height, broad shoulders and the characteristic swarthiness of the Greek. Holmes introduced me and himself, vouching as always for my discretion. Our guest settled uneasily in the basket-chair and seemed to gather his thoughts before speaking.
"You will forgive me using an alias, sir, but I cannot have my name brought into the matter at all. I bear no blame, but too many people believe your saying that there is no smoke without a fire someplace."
"I can make no promises," Holmes replied. "I do not speak carelessly of my clients' business, but neither do I accept commissions to sweep people's dirt under the rug." His last case was obviously still on his mind. "With that caveat, sir, perhaps you will tell me all about it. I cannot decide whether to act for you until I have the facts."
Karolides sat a bit straighter. "I have no dirt to be swept, Mr. Holmes. I am not personally involved at all. I simply... but I will explain.
"I came to England three days ago by the steamship Icarus. On the journey, I was approached by one of the stewards with an offer that shocked me down to my boots. The pig invited me to purchase one or more young English girls for the hareem that he supposed me to keep. He had a disgusting line of what you could call 'sales talk', all about how his blonde 'merchandise' contrasted nicely with the 'dusky maidens of the East', and that the motto of the firm was 'virgo intacto or you money cheerfully refunded'. I was so appalled that I let him go on for half a minute before I dragged him to the purser and denounced him. He was relieved of duty and given his papers the minute we docked.
"I should have preferred a charge against the man, but I am faced at home with a very conservative constituency and a prudish administration. There are those who want me out of office at any cost, and they would take the opportunity to twist the truth around and blacken my name. As there were no other witnesses to the offer, I let the matter drop.
"Since then, I have asked some personal friends in your Government about such trade. They know it exists, and the police prosecute when they can, but all too often the victims are spirited away and never seen again. I have it on good authority that your Scotland Yard is powerless to stop it. That is what I want you to do." He sat back with a determined look on his face.
Holmes had listened with half-closed eyelids. Without opening them, he asked "Why?"
The question surprised Karolides. "Why, you ask? Because it is wrong. It is evil. It is wicked and hateful and it must be stopped!". This violent outburst surprised us both.
Holmes sat up, opened his eyes and looked our client full in the face. "No, Mr. Karolides, it's not enough. No abstract desire for the ideal of justice brought you here. You have a personal stake. What is it?"
Stuttering a bit, Karolides said, "I was offended by the man's offer. That is all."
"No, no, sir," replied Holmes. "If you do not tell me everything I cannot involve myself in the matter. Watson here is a doctor; he cannot properly treat a patient who conceals symptoms. Think of me in the same way. Come, now," he continued sympathetically, "we will respect your confidence."
The diplomat's face was flushed beneath the olive skin. "All right, then. I suppose I must." He sighed, and twisted his hands. "You should know that I was educated in England. When I was up at Oxford, I met a young lady, the daughter of one of the dons. To put it briefly, we fell passionately in love. We kept it quiet, but planned to marry once I took my degree and achieved a post in our Government which would let me support her.
"Three weeks before I received my B.A., she went to London for a day's shopping. From the time I saw her off at Oxford station, no one saw her or heard from her again. When she did not return that night, her father set the police in motion, but it was no good. She had vanished without a trace. My soul died when I realized I'd lost her, Mr. Holmes. I flung myself into my work as an anodyne, and for three years pushed myself so hard that I had no time to cry my heart out.
"They say that time heals the wound. After those three years, having worked myself up into a good position in our diplomatic corps, I was starting to look forward to life again. Then the blow came, on a visit to a minor potentate in Jordan. He was a gross, boastful fellow, and he insisted on showing us his collection of concubines. We were led to a balcony screened by an openwork grille, so that we could look down upon the harem without being seen. The sight of those poor girls, condemned to the beastly appetites of that fat fool, tore at my heart. I started to turn away, when one face caught my eye. It was my own Maggie, dressed in next to nothing and staring as if drugged. I collapsed on the spot, and was out of my head for weeks with brain-fever. During that time, I was transported back to Greece. When I came to my senses, I swore to myself to free her. If I could not buy her, I would steal her. I was given some time to recuperate; I used it to return to Jordan and make cautious enquiries. I was just too late. My darling was dead. I learned from a servant that she had somehow earned the sheik's displeasure, and she died under the lash.
"You told me when I came, Mr. Holmes, that you do not sweep people's dirt under a rug. Still, I have gone this far, and I may as well tell you all. I am a murderer, sir. I come from a clan that avenges its dead, and the sheik died that very night under my knife. He took a long time to die; I made sure of it."
I had listened dumbfounded to this tale of horror, but now I felt impelled to speak. "No, Your Excellency. It seems to me that you were an agent of justice. An eye for an eye, you know. If that's murder I'm a Dutchman."
"You are certainly not a barrister," drawled Holmes, "but I'm inclined to agree with the sentiment. I am certainly not about to rush down to the Yard and swear out a warrant for extradition." He turned to Karolides. "I am most sorry to open old wounds, but I thank you for your candor. Still, these events are in the past. What would you have me do now?"
The Greek's fist pounded the arm of his chair. "Smash them, Mr. Holmes. The steward on the boat is your point of departure. Follow the trail to its source and destroy the blackguards."
A smile crept to the corners of Holmes' mouth. "At least in this case I have a client who knows what he wants. I shall look into the matter, sir, but I can make no promises until I have surveyed the situation. This steward may be a mere puppet; most large criminal organizations work in watertight compartments, and the lower level do not know whence comes their orders."
My friend sat more upright in his chair, and the keen light in his eyes told me that this case had captured his interest. "Watson, your notebook. A few particulars are required. You arrived in England when?"
"Wednesday morning."
"And it is Saturday now. If the steward was dismissed, he may be beyond our reach now. London is an easy city to disappear in, or he may have found another berth and shipped out. His name?"
"I got that from the Purser. His name is Andrew Purbright."
A vertical line appeared between Holmes' brows. "Purbright, you say? Watson, quickly, yesterday's Times." I handed him the paper, and he delved into its pages. "Aha! My memory does not fail me. I regret to say, Mr. Karolides, that we may be at a dead end." He held out the paper, and I rose to look over Karolides' shoulder at the article indicated by Holmes' finger.
Murder in Rotherhithe
Robbery Suspected
The body of a sailor was discovered yesterday in Shepheard's Alley, Rotherhithe, by a dustman. The deceased has been identified as Andrew Halliday Purbright. Purbright had just come ashore from a voyage, yet his pockets were empty, leading the police to suspect robbery. Identification was possible only because a spectator at the scene had sailed with Purbright some years ago. Detective Inspector G. Lestrade, who had just successfully concluded another case in the district, was called to the scene. In an exclusive interview with our reporter, Inspector Lestrade said that Scotland Yard was close on the heels of a waterfront gang whose modus operandi is to waylay sailors as they leave public houses. The Inspector was confident that arrests would follow this latest crime.
Karolides was crestfallen. "I suppose his employers did this to protect themselves. Is this now a lost cause, Mr. Holmes? Can you not find some other approach to these people?"
Holmes laid a hand on his arm. "I said that I would look into the matter, and I shall. Lestrade is an old friend, and I should be able to get from him whatever facts were not in the newspaper. Can you call here tomorrow at four o'clock? I shall be able to tell you then whether I can continue the case."
Karolides nodded, though it was plain from his expression that he thought the cause lost. "Four o'clock, then. Gentlemen, I bid you good day and good luck." I handed him his hat and stick and showed him downstairs.
When I returned to the sitting room, Holmes was already arrayed in his street clothes. "We might catch Lestrade at the Yard, Watson. Mrs. Hudson!", he called down the stairs. "A cab, and quickly!" In a matter of minutes we were in a hansom and rolling down Baker Street.
Lestrade was indeed at the Yard, but he had little information for us. Purbright had been seen in the Bear public house the night before the discovery of his corpse, and had drawn some notice to himself by his angry demeanour. "There are many varieties of drunkard," Lestrade told us, "happy, sad, belligerent, playful and so on. Purbright was in a mean and vicious mood that night, complaining that he'd lost his berth and swearing revenge on the steamship line and the purser, whom he referred to as 'that bald-headed b---'. He left about ten, with a parting curse for the landlord and the quality of his ale. No one saw him outside, and the alley's not fifty yards from the pub."
"Have you any idea where he was going on his way through the alley?" asked Holmes.
"Not an earthly," replied Lestrade. "We haven't found where he was lodging, but there are hundreds of small rooming-houses for sailors in that area. No doubt his landlady will come forward, if she hasn't sold off his kit and let the room again. There's not much respect for protocol on the waterfront."
Holmes made a note on his cuff and continued, "Have you spoken to his former employers? They may have known where he lived."
Lestrade shook his head. "Purbright was sacked for cheeking a passenger. The only address they had for him was his sister's in Shropshire. Funny thing, though. Purbright called the purser 'bald-headed', but the fellow had a full head of black hair. I suppose 'bald-headed' is some sort of Shropshire insult. It was about the mildest name Purbright had for him."
"And the purser's name?"
"Denbeigh, Charles Denbeigh. Look here. Mr. Holmes, how do you come into this case? I thought a back-alley ramping was a little run-of-the-mill for you."
Holmes gave Lestrade a sly look. "The official police have their informers, do they not? Well, so do I. A ship's steward is in an excellent position to learn some interesting things. You should know, Lestrade, that I protect my friends."
"So that's the lie of the land? Well, Mr. Holmes, you may be reading too much into this. We've been after a gang of footpads down on the docks, and I see this as one more robbery with violence on their charge sheet when we catch them." He stood, to end the interview. "I have some things to attend to, gentlemen, but you can call on me again if I can be of use."
In the cab, returning to Baker Street, I reproached Holmes. "I've never known you to tell Lestrade an outright lie before. You'd never heard of Purbright before this morning."
"Incorrect on two counts, Watson," he replied. "To take the last point first, I heard of Purbright yesterday when I read of his demise in the Times. And I did not lie to Lestrade, I simply presented him with three unconnected truths: I have informers, a steward can hear interesting things, and I take care of my friends. If he perceives a connection where there is none, that is no fault of mine. It's an old and honored tactic, Watson. Just read the editorial leaders or politician's speeches. It's all the vogue in Russia just now. 'The Jews are getting richer, the peasants are getting poorer, therefore the Jews are robbing the peasants'. One day, Watson, the construction and dissemination of propaganda will be the foremost weapon in the conflict of nations. Why, just the other day, Lord--- but there is no time. Here we are home again, and I must go out once more."
Holmes dashed up the stairs and into his room; I followed at a more civilized pace. In twenty minutes he reentered the sitting room, in disguise as I expected. His old sailor's getup was flawless. "Captain Basil will once again roam the docks, buying a pint of bitter for anyone with a good story to tell," he chuckled. "I may not be back for a day or two. I can count on you to remain here and deal with any messages? Very well. If I am not back when Mr. Karolides calls, assure him that we still have a trail to follow and tell him I will contact him at his hotel. I'm off now; the back stairs, I think," and he was gone.
There was still no word from Holmes when Constantine Karolides arrived the following afternoon. My assurance that enquiries were in progress did not raise his spirits. On the chance that Holmes would keep the appointment, I offered Karolides a drink and brought up the Balkan situation to start a conversation. I was getting the best lesson of my life in politics when the door opened and Mrs. Hudson announced Lady Gwendoline Harvey. The lady, hard on her heels, was a tall, tweed-clad "county" sort of woman with the indefinable air of a horsewoman about her, and a voice like fingernails on a chalkboard.
"Where is the man Holmes?" she demanded, looking down her nose.
"We expect him back soon, madam," I replied. "You wish to consult him?"
"Ha!" she snorted. "I wish to slap his impertinent face! I also wish to tell him that if he bandies my name in public again, he shall hear from my solicitors!"
Karolides flushed red, embarrassed by this turn of events. "I am sure that there is some misunderstanding, ma'am," I stammered. "I have never known Mr. Holmes to be any less than a gentleman."
"Thank you for that ringing testimonial, Watson." My jaw dropped as I realized that Lady Harvey spoke in the voice of Sherlock Holmes. Karolides was beyond speech. "I assure you, gentlemen," continued Holmes, "that my guise is no idle prank. Give me five minutes to divest myself of these fripperies and I shall a tale unfold."
In less than that time, Holmes returned, wrapped in his grey dressing gown, the favorite briar pipe already burning. "It was an intolerable strain upon my will power, Watson. We really should allow women to smoke in public. But you are waiting to hear the results of my quest. Very well, then.
"In the guise I have used before, that of a superannuated whaling man, I worked my way through a dozen pot-houses picking up gossip. I claimed to be just back from the Argentine, and eager for the latest news. It was never long before someone mentioned Purbright's killing, but the only new information I gleaned was his address, a cheap lodging-house that lies in the opposite direction from Shepheard's Alley for anyone leaving the Bear. I docketed the fact that Purbright was not going home, and went to his lodgings myself. To his landlady, I feigned ignorance of his death and claimed that he owed me money. I am ashamed to say that she ran me off with a fire-tongs.
"Not long after, I became convinced that I was being followed. Two men, rough-looking but not seamen, were working opposite sides of the street, sometimes passing me and letting me overtake them, but always keeping their eyes on me. Now, when one is being followed, the most effective tactic is to shake the follower off, then follow them. They will report back to their masters when they lose the scent. I tried to free myself of their pursuit, but two against one is steep odds in that game. I cut down an alley, and I thought I had broken free when a bullet struck the wall next to me. I expected another one to come, and took to my heels.
"Watson knows that I have several places in London where I keep disguises. I got to one of these safely, and Captain Basil vanished. Lady Gwendoline Harvey turned up at Paddington, having apparently stepped off the three-twenty. And here I am, with nothing to show for my adventures except the knowledge that there is more to Purbright's death than petty robbery."
Impressed as he was with Holmes' account, Karolides still kept to the heart of the matter. "Can you go no further, then?" he asked.
"Not from this end," Holmes replied. "There is another approach, but to use it I must go abroad and acquire the proper bona fides. How long are you in London, sir?"
"I leave on Thursday next," replied Karolides.
"Hardly time enough. I assume I may reach you by telegram if there are developments?"
"Of course." Karolides borrowed my notebook to write out his private telegraphic address. "If you require an advance on expenses," he continued, reaching for his pocket.
Holmes held up his palm. "That will not be necessary at this point. Watson will attest that I overcharged my last client shamefully; I will take pleasure in spending his money in this noble cause." He conducted our client out with assurances that he would do his utmost.
I arose early the next morning, but Holmes had already packed a carpet-bag and left. A note from him adorned my solitary breakfast table:
Watson,
It may be some weeks before my arrangements are made. You can do nothing now but wait for my call; when it arrives, be ready to act. I rely upon you implicitly.
Regards,
SH
It was in fact almost three weeks before word of Holmes came, and its manner in coming was most mysterious. After dinner one evening, I received a note from Claridge's Hotel. An old friend and fellow Army officer, Colonel Berenger, was staying there and had fallen ill. He was asking specifically for me, so I rushed round and was shown up to his room. To my surprise, he leapt out of bed the moment we were alone. Laughing at my puzzlement, he stripped off his moustache and eyebrows, and there stood Sherlock Holmes.
"Watson," Holmes cried, gripping my hand in both of his, "it is good to be back. Please forgive the subterfuge, but I wanted a council of war without anyone knowing that I was back in England. Colonel Berenger was kind enough to lend me his rooms and go for a stroll."
"But how did you get here? Where have you been?" I cried.
Holmes waved my questions away. "There will be time for that later. Ah, here is our third conspirator!" The door to the hall opened, and in walked Lestrade, clad in a hotel attendant's uniform.
Gathered around a table, with our pipes going and the whisky and soda handy, we three listened as Holmes laid out his plans. "Berenger returns to Egypt tomorrow, with my thanks. He is a police official there, and it is my great fortune that you introduced me to him last winter, when he was in London. He is a mine of information about crime along the Nile.
"Tomorrow night, we must be ready to act. I have an appointment with the ringleader of the most powerful white slavery gang in Europe. The man is one Arthur Rosemont Wilson, and God alone knows from what mire he crawled. I am certain that he is the man we seek. He deals only in blonde ladies, and is known from Tunis to the Bosphorus as 'The Canary Trainer'."
"But why would he agree to see you?" Lestrade asked.
"He will not see me; he will see the Sheikh Mohammed Aziz Al-Haroun, a prospective customer. I have spent the last couple of weeks establishing myself as the Sheikh. You recall, Watson, that I passed through the Islamic countries some time back? Well, on that trip I went up the Nile to the holy city of Kadir, where I met Al Johara, the great holy man and leader of the Sufi tribe. I was able to render him a small service, and he was pleased to reciprocate by helping me become the erstwhile Sheikh. I am staying on the floor above this, with a quartet of Sufi retainers, the best swordsmen in the tribe. Wilson has checked and rechecked and the Sufi have met every challenge. I am accepted as legitimate, and have been granted an audience tomorrow night to view his wares. Wilson insists that I come alone; his minions will call for me here and return me.
"What he does not know is that I have had his representatives followed, and know his address. Once again, the Irregulars have proven their worth. Watson, you and Lestrade must lead a raiding party to Twelve, Yew Tree Terrace, at nine tomorrow night. There is open ground on all sides of the house, and pickets are posted after dark. You will have to remove them. When you hear my police whistle, or my revolver if need be, storm the house."
Lestrade's jaw was set and his shoulders back. This was his element. "We'll be there, Mr. Holmes, and ready. Count on me."
"I know I may. I always have," replied Holmes, at which Lestrade flushed like a schoolgirl.
Our plans made, I returned to Baker Street. I was ready when, the next night, Lestrade arrived at eight to collect me. With him was a comforting sight. I do not think my readers have met Police Constable William Henry Church. PC Church was a favorite for raids and public disturbances; his six feet seven inch height and twenty-one stone of solid muscle were enough to quell the rowdiest villains. Next to him, Lestrade (who was only just regulation height) looked like one of Sanger's midgets.
A closed four-wheeler took us to the East End. We stopped around a corner and some distance away from our objective, where two Black Marias and a dozen constables waited. A sergeant approached Lestrade and informed him that all of the lookouts had been taken except the one at the front of the building.
"Come, on, Doctor, we'll see to this one ourselves," Lestrade suggested.
In that part of London, the sentry must have been surprised to see two respectably dressed gentlemen weaving down the street arm in arm, and doing their intoxicated best to remember the words to "Knocked 'Em in the Old Kent Road". As we came abreast of the sentry, Lestrade and I staggered to a stop. The scent of the brandy, poured over us from my pocket flask, hung round us.
"Shir!" Lestrade whined. "Shir, can you give ush the time, shir? Me watch's shtopped, shee?" As Lestrade pulled out his watch, a few sovereigns came with it and tinkled upon the pavement. The sentry bent over to pick them up, presenting the back of his neck to the handle of Lestrade's revolver. With a wave back down the street, Lestrade summoned his squad to take up positions. He gave orders that guests were to be admitted but no one allowed out.
Lestrade, PC Church and I followed the high wall around to the back of the house and entered the grounds through an unlocked door. As we crept across the manicured lawn toward a lighted set of French doors, we heard a clock striking nine in the distance, and the sound of a carriage arriving. "We're just in time," Lestrade whispered, and indeed we were.
We found ourselves looking through the windows at a large, well-furnished study. Behind a desk in the center of the room sat a large, bald-headed man smoking a cigar. The door from the hall was just opening, and in walked a tall, richly robed Arab (whom I barely recognized as Holmes), flanked by two rough-looking white men and followed by a grossly fat Arab in native dress. We could not hear the conversation, but in the space of ten minutes it changed from a peaceful business negotiation to something less auspicious. The man at the desk appeared angry; he slapped his hand down upon the blotter several times and jabbed his cigar in Holmes' direction.
Lestrade was just muttering "I don't like the look of this at all," when the two escorts seized Holmes by the arms and the fat Arab drew from his belt a long, curved sword.
To this day, I have no recollection of drawing the pistol from my pocket, but I can clearly see the fat Arab's face as a pair of .455 bullets struck him in the chest. A rending crash made me turn my head to the right; PC Church had ripped one of the barred French doors from its hinges, and we followed him inside. As we entered, two more ruffians arrived through a door behind the desk; Church simply swung the French door like a cricket bat and knocked them both to the wide.
Lestrade and I were frozen, watching as Holmes gave a demonstration of the Oriental fighting arts. His left arm whirled up, back and under again, breaking one captor's hold and catching the man's arm in a painful position. With a twist of his hip, Homes sent the man headlong into a glass fronted cabinet full of curios. The second villain fared worse. Holmes' stiffened free hand jolted into his throat, knocking him back a pace. As Holmes freed his right arm, he drove his elbow in under his assailant's ribs, then rotated his arm into a stinging backhanded fist that broke the man's nose and sent him sprawling.
All this took place in seconds, just enough time for the man behind the desk to recover from his shock and pull a revolver from a drawer. Holmes leapt completely over the desk, spinning like a Russian ballet dancer, and lashed out with his boot heel to strike Wilson squarely between the eyes. The pistol flew from Wilson's hand, and he dived after it. His fingers just touched the grip when a regulation police boot landed on his wrist. He looked up into the barrel of Lestrade's revolver.
"Arthur Rosemont Wilson? I am a police officer, and I arrest you in the name of the Crown on charges of abduction and assault with intent to commit murder." Lestrade was enjoying his moment of triumph, as we could hear the Flying Squad breaking down the front door.
"Come, Watson!" Holmes cried as the room filled with blue uniforms. "Upstairs, the captives are kept upstairs!" We climbed to the attic and were confronted by a horrible sight. The whole space was divided up into about thirty cells, each about six feet square. In each cage was an scantily clothed woman. In the center of the attic stood a small brazier, with a laboratory retort fixed to drip laudanum (I recognized the sickly smell) onto the coals. While I doused the brazier and tore open the small windows at each end of the attic, Holmes went to the head of the stairs and called down to Lestrade. We were soon joined by several uniformed women from Major Booth's Salvation Army, enlisted at Holmes' suggestion to aid and comfort the young ladies.
We left them to their ministrations, and rejoined Lestrade on the drive, in time to see Wilson and his associates loaded into the Black Maria and sent off.
"Well, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade beamed, "this has been a great night for Justice. I am grateful to you for bringing the matter to my attention. The papers tomorrow will praise you to the skies, I've no doubt."
Holmes waved his compliments away. "I have no desire to appear in the matter. It's your arrest, Lestrade. Keep Watson and myself out of it."
"As you wish," the detective replied. "This will certainly do me a deal of good with my superiors. Tell me one thing, though. I've just watched you demolish three men in as many seconds. Where on earth did you learn to fight like that? It wasn't from the Marquess of Queensbury, I'll wager."
"Someday," Holmes mused, "Watson's scribblings may tell how I saved young Soichiro Baritsu from a false charge of embezzlement, and how his father, Hideo Baritsu, repaid me by teaching me the secrets of Japanese wrestling and boxing. You see before you, Lestrade, the only white man ever to achieve the fifth dan in the art of Shoto-Kan Karate."
"You don't say. I look forward to reading it up. Well, I must be off to file the charges against these blackguards. You can go home to bed, but my work goes on."
The next day's papers gave great play to the breakup of the white slavery ring, and the subsequent trial was a sensation. Lestrade, acting on Holmes' suggestion, persuaded one of Wilson's henchmen to testify for the Crown, and the charges against Wilson expanded to include the murder of the steward Purbright. Holmes and I were at the back of the courtroom when the verdict was returned.
Mr. Justice Wiley peered over his half-moon spectacles at Wilson. "Prisoner at the bar, you have been tried by a jury of your peers, and found guilty of willful murder, attempted murder, abduction and procuring for immoral purposes. Have you anything to say before sentence is passed upon you?"
Wilson merely grunted, and shook his head No. His Lordship donned the black cap and continued, "Arthur Rosemont Wilson, you will be taken from this place to the place from whence you came, and thence to the place of execution, to be hanged by the neck until you are dead; and may God have mercy on your soul."
Outside the courtroom, Holmes had a unique experience. A middle aged woman, cheaply but neatly dressed, found her way through the crowd to his side. Taking him by surprise, she stood on tip-toes to kiss his cheek, then slid away without a word. Or so I thought, but Holmes later told me that she had whispered "For Jenny, thank you".
"Which one was Jenny, I wonder? You could find out from Lestrade," I suggested.
"No need to bother him, Watson. Even in those clothes, borrowed no doubt from a servant, I could still recognize Helena, Countess of Belmorance. Her daughter, the Honourable Eugenie Hartford, has supposedly been visiting relations in Canada. Did you actually believe," he asked, turning an accusing eye on me, "that I would not have read up on disappearances of blonde young ladies early in this case?"
A few days later, we were visited by an attaché from the Greek Embassy. He bore with him a small canvas valise. "I am entrusted, Mr. Holmes, with the safe delivery of this object into your hands. I am to tell you that I have no knowledge of its contents, or of the identity of the sender. You observe that the wax seal on the latch is intact? Very well, then, I bid you good day." His speech delivered, the diplomat bowed and took his leave. Holmes appeared indifferent to the parcel, but I could not contain my excitement.
"It must be from Karolides, Holmes. Aren't you going to open it?" I asked.
"If you would oblige, Watson," he replied with a languid gesture. I needed no more urging, but broke the seal and opened the bag wide.
"Holmes! There must be a thousand pounds in here! And there is a letter." I read it aloud.
Athens
My Dear Mr. Holmes,
The news has reached me of your success, and I send the enclosed as a first payment of my debt to you. Please submit your full account, and it will gladly be paid. I shall sleep well tonight. You have my undying gratitude.
K.
Holmes never sent an account to our client, and the bag of money was used discreetly to help the less fortunate of Wilson's victims. The satisfaction in ridding England of Wilson was quite enough, he said. Holmes used to claim that blackmailers were the worst of criminals, but these days I need only mention the "Canary Trainer" to cause him to reconsider.