The Adventure of the Saltonstall Salter

by Gildir

Holmes investigates the mysteriously pointless theft of a saltcellar, which is linked to a beautiful woman, an ancient manuscript, and a dangerous enemy.

The Adventure of the Saltonstall Salter.

I do not own the characters in this story. They were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and some of them were introduced in the stories contained in The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes, which is still under copyright in the United States of America. This story also contains references to the Granada Television series starring Jeremy Brett.

"…something like Aldridge, who helped us in the bogus laundry affair."

Inspector Lestrade, The Adventure of the Cardboard Box

I.

In the course of my long association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes I have seldom heard him speak of his dreams. During the affair of the Noble Bachelor he had indeed shared with me some of his nocturnal experiences in the realm of the mind, but these seemed to me so troubling and uncharacteristic that I excluded them from the account of the matter which I later prepared for publication. Holmes was the least fanciful man I have known, and under normal circumstances scorned even the slightest suggestion of superstition or the occult.

Nonetheless, there was one instance in which one of my own dreams seemed to aid Holmes in discovering the solution of a problem which might otherwise have perplexed him, master reasoner though he was. Although I am a medical man, I am not qualified to express an opinion as to whether this was a demonstration of the unknown powers of the human mind, or whether it merely reflected the greater ease with which one may perceive the solution of a problem in the mental relaxation of sleep. I present an account of the incident here as a small but instructive example of my friend's willingness to entertain any suggestion which might aid him toward the resolution of a case.

I find in my notes that it was on the 13th of January in the year 1889 that Holmes first became involved in the matter of the Saltonstall Salter. My wife was on a visit to Mrs. Cecil Forrester, her former employer, while the crisp winter weather was happily accompanied by an absence of illness, leaving me with few patients to attend. As I strolled toward Baker Street to visit Holmes, the sun shone with unseasonable brightness through the leaves of the trees in Regent's Park. Even a three-legged dog I saw walking slowly past Madame Tussaud's seemed more cheerful than one might have expected for a creature thus handicapped.

Having learned from Mrs. Hudson that Holmes was speaking to a client, I knocked softly on the familiar door of the sitting-room we had so long shared.

"Come in!" cried Holmes' voice from within.

I entered, feeling slightly embarrassed by the hint of irritation in my friend's tone. When Holmes saw that it was I, however, the fleeting smile that was one of his characteristic facial expressions flashed across his features, replaced instantaneously by a look of thoughtful concentration.

"Ah, my dear Watson, your timing is impeccable," he said. "Lord Saltonstall, this is my friend Dr. Watson, whose assistance may well be invaluable to me in your case, as it has been in so many others."

The representative of the aristocracy who rose and bowed stiffly to me appeared to be in his middle sixties, with white hair and bright blue eyes in a lined, handsome face. My readers will doubtless know of the fame and wealth of the Saltonstalls, a large family with cadet branches throughout Britain and North America.

"It is not every day that I receive so distinguished a guest, Lord Saltonstall," said Holmes as the three of us sat, Holmes, as was his usual practice, with his back to the window. "And yet from what little you have told me it seems that the matter which brings you here appears trivial on the surface."

"It is a matter of deep importance to me," said Lord Saltonstall in a surprisingly youthful voice, "and yet I fear it may seem trivial to one so deeply acquainted with crime as yourself, Mr. Holmes."

"You need have no fear on that account, Lord Saltonstall," I interjected. "Many of Holmes' most serious investigations have followed from seemingly unimportant occurrences."

"Indeed," said Holmes. "There was that business of the Abernetty family, of which you may have heard, Lord Saltonstall, and there was the dreadful affair of the Shoreditch Seven, which came to my attention because an elderly book merchant had the dust wrappers upside down on all his volumes whose authors' names started with G. I pray, therefore, that you tell us the story of your missing saltcellar from the beginning."

Holmes reclined in his chair, steepling his fingers, as his aristocratic client began his account thus:

"You must understand, Mr. Holmes, that my wife and I have a large staff, but they have all served us for years. Their integrity is unquestionable. However, it is unavoidable that other individuals enter our home on occasion to do work of one kind or another, and it is my firm belief that it was one of these persons who stole the saltcellar which belonged to my wife's grandmother.

"The saltcellar was kept at the front of the largest cabinet in our kitchen. It was of no substantial monetary value, and therefore my wife never saw the need to keep it in a place of greater safety. I believe also that Dora – Lady Saltonstall – enjoyed looking at it because it reminded her of her grandmother, of whom she was extraordinarily fond.

"On Wednesday the ninth, my wife entered the kitchen at four o'clock to consult with the cook about dinner. As was her usual habit, she opened the door of the cabinet, only to find the saltcellar gone. Mrs. Adams – the cook – knew nothing of the matter, and, as I believe I have already indicated, she is a long-time servant in whom Dora and I place the most absolute trust. In any case, Dora tells me that Mrs. Adams' utter surprise and astonishment could not have been counterfeited, and that she was plainly entirely innocent of any knowledge of the saltcellar's whereabouts.

"Together Dora and Mrs. Adams conducted a thorough search of the kitchens, thinking the saltcellar might have been carelessly misplaced. Not only did they find nothing, but a housemaid who heard them discussing the matter reported that she had seen the saltcellar at noon that day when she brought out the plates for lunch. Her veracity is also beyond question, and in any case she would hardly have been likely to call attention to herself by volunteering information if she were truly concerned in the affair."

"And what, pray tell, is this upstanding housemaid's name?" Holmes asked, gazing languidly but keenly at Lord Saltonstall from under his half-closed eyelids.

"Her name is Lucy Anderson, I believe," Lord Saltonstall replied. "It is my wife who most often communicates with the domestic staff. Dora and I are both convinced that the saltcellar was taken between the hours of noon and four, by one of the outsiders who were in the house that day."

"Who were these outsiders?" I asked.

"There were too many for your investigation to prove an easy one, I fear," Lord Saltonstall said ruefully. "That day we had deliveries of butter and milk – those people are not supposed to enter the house, of course, but sometimes do so in order to speak with our household employees. Dora tells me that there are a number of chaste amours in progress between members of our staff and these visitors, one or two of which may soon result in matrimony. There was also a pickup of laundry, and the piano in the living room was tuned."

"Indeed," Holmes said, his eyes snapping open with interest. "Who is your piano tuner, Lord Saltonstall?"

"A man named Dick Winchester, who has been in the business for many years, I believe."

"Ah, Winchester," Holmes replied. "I believe I know him slightly. He once came to the Alhambra to tune a piano there during an investigation in which I found it necessary to disguise myself as a pit musician. Winchester is blind, is he not?"

"Yes, he is, Mr. Holmes," Lord Saltonstall said with some surprise.

"And all these persons were present in your home at some time between noon and four on the day in question?" Holmes asked.

"So far as my wife and I can ascertain from our household routine, from our own recollections, and by questioning the servants, yes, so they were," Lord Saltonstall answered. "My wife has been deeply distressed by the loss of the saltcellar due to its value as a remembrance of her grandmamma. She was in tears, on and off, for the latter part of last week. Finally she begged me last night to come and see you. I agreed, of course, though I feared that you would not find the investigation congenial. For my wife's sake, I am prepared to offer you a munif –"

Holmes raised his long hand and interrupted him.

"It is the case itself that attracts me, Lord Saltonstall, not the value of the missing object or the potential magnitude of the reward," Holmes said. "There are some features about this affair that interest me, most especially the seeming absurdity of the crime. Might I ask, Lord Saltonstall, precisely how long Mr. Winchester was present in your home on Wednesday?"

"He arrived at eleven, and remained until two. Not only did the piano require much work, but at one o'clock my wife prevailed upon him to take some luncheon. He is not a man who appears to be well-nourished in his daily existence."

"I see," Holmes mused. "And did Lady Saltonstall enter the kitchen while Mr. Winchester's food was prepared?"

"No, Mr. Holmes. She merely asked the cook for some cold meat and salad. No more detailed consultation was required."

"Then she would not have opened the cabinet on that occasion," I surmised, understanding Holmes' meaning.

"No, she did not."

"Thank you, Lord Saltonstall. You have been most informative. If convenient for you, Dr. Watson and I shall call upon you at two o'clock this afternoon, at which time we shall examine the scene of the crime."

"That will certainly be acceptable. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Holmes."

Lord Saltonstall rose and bowed to us. We also rose, and Holmes saw his client to the door. When it was closed behind him, Holmes turned to me with a half-mocking smile.

"You appear displeased by my cavalier treatment of your time, Watson," he said. "However, rest assured that I am aware you have no patients to see on this Sunday – the day of the week when you would be least likely to have appointments to keep, in any case."

"How can you possibly know that, Holmes?" I asked, somewhat embarrassed by my friend's keen perception of my slight irritation with him.

"As I may have remarked before, Watson, you have the curious habit of carrying your stethoscope inside your hat. It is not there today. Had you an appointment to keep, you would surely have carried the instrument with you rather than leave it at your home or consulting rooms, lest you be delayed in reaching your patient and not have time to retrieve it."

"Your reasoning seems sound," I admitted.

"Then, too, it is clear that you have walked here from your house. Although the weather today is fine, the layer of snow and mud adhering to your boots suggests that you have walked through places less well-cleared after the recent snowfall than the pavements of either Baker Street or the Paddington district, through which I passed last night. Had you a pressing appointment, you would have ensured you were not late for it by hiring a cab, and your boots would have remained clean."

"As always, you are correct, Holmes," I said.

"Not always, Watson – not always," Holmes replied. "The man who is always correct has no knowledge left to strive for, and is indeed to be pitied."

"I was surprised that you were not more interested in Lord Saltonstall's mention of the amount he proposed to pay you, Holmes," I said. "Surely, your pursuit of the intriguing cases brought to you by those in the lower classes of society is subsidized by the fees you receive from the upper?"

"Lord Saltonstall's case may prove intriguing enough in itself, Watson," Holmes replied, his eyes alight with anticipation. "Besides, our noble client is not so wealthy as most believe. Surely you saw how badly his shoes needed repair? Lord Saltonstall is, in fact, an inveterate book collector, and has spent most of his capital in that pursuit. He gives little heed to anything else."

"Except his wife," I observed. "His concern for her is obvious."

"That is true, Watson," Holmes acknowledged. "He is also shockingly permissive toward his household staff. Those of the wealthy who wish to retain their wealth keep a tighter rein on domestic affairs, no matter what unpleasantness may be occasioned by their doing so. But here comes Lestrade! What problem is taxing the best minds at Scotland Yard today, I wonder?"

Holmes was now standing by the bow window, where I joined him and saw the police inspector climbing out of a hansom cab. He rang our front doorbell, and downstairs we could hear Mrs. Hudson proceeding to the front door to let him in.

"Indeed, it is Lestrade," I said. "Those bulldog features are unmistakeable."

Holmes looked at me with amusement.

"Our friend Lestrade seems to be rising in your estimation, Watson," he replied, a twinkle in his eye. "As the years pass, you compare him to higher and higher forms of mammalian life. In the first of your highly romanticized accounts of my investigations you referred to him, I believe, as 'rat-faced'; but when you learned that he was a member of the Metropolitan Police he became 'ferret-like', and now you compare him to a bulldog. Shall I tell Lestrade that, should his investigative abilities improve, you may be likening him to a bloodhound in a few years? It may encourage his professional development."

Before I could reply, Mrs. Hudson's stately tread had ascended the stairs, followed by Lestrade's lighter footfall, and the landlady was knocking on the door to announce the Inspector.

"Come in, Lestrade, come in," Holmes said cheerfully. "Watson and I were just discussing a fascinating demonstration of the Darwinian theory. No doubt, however, you have brought us something rather less dull."

"Dull? Well, you can make up your own mind about that, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, pronouncing my friend's name with the same curious blend of respect and scepticism as he always did. "But it's the most deuced thing I've heard of in a month of Sundays."

"No wonder you have deigned to visit us this Sunday, then," Holmes said. "Please sit down, Lestrade, and tell us of the Bogus Laundry Affair."

The little detective gazed at Holmes as if thunderstruck.

"By all that's holy, how did you know that, Mr. Holmes?" he asked suspiciously. "Has Gregson been here to tell you about Mr. Aldridge's suspicions?"

"As to your first question, Lestrade, the answer is simplicity itself, since your official notebook is sticking out of your breast pocket, open to a page with the heading I took the liberty of reading," Holmes said with a smile. "As to the second, I have not seen your esteemed rival and colleague since the rather commonplace murder in Stepney last month, and I am as ignorant of the identity and suspicions of Mr. Aldridge as is Dr. Watson."

Somewhat mollified, Lestrade settled back in his chair.

"Well, that's all right then, Mr. Holmes," he said genially. "John Aldridge is a police constable, one of the best men we have on the Force. If he doesn't make sergeant within the year, I'll eat my hat. Last month he fought a whole gang of ruffians on the East End docks, and walked away without a scratch on him. He lives in Limehouse with a Chinese woman, who is known to the neighbours as "Mrs. Aldridge", but –"

Lestrade broke off, slightly embarrassed.

"But their ménage lacks the benefit of a marriage licence," Holmes finished for him.

"That's it, precisely, Mr. Holmes. All very improper for a policeman, of course, but Aldridge's superiors turn a blind eye because he's such a good man. Aldridge came to me with the strangest story, which he had been told by his lady friend. Her sister has been hired recently by a laundry – no surprise there, half the Chinese in London seem to work in laundries. The funny thing, though, is that this laundry only services one household. Or, at least, so Mrs. Aldridge's sister told her."

"And has Aldridge's sister-in-law described anything suspicious that has happened at the home of Lord Saltonstall?" Holmes asked blandly.

Lestrade jumped out of his seat and glared at Holmes, who smiled back at him with an air of self-satisfaction that anyone other than an old friend and comrade such as myself might well have found insufferable.

"Confound you, Holmes, you enjoy this sort of thing a little too much for your own good!" the detective fumed. "No doubt the noble gentleman's name is also visible to you on my notepad?"

"As it happens, Lestrade, it is not," Holmes replied. "However, I must admit that I did hear something of this affair before your arrival. If you failed to notice the armorial bearings on the carriage that pulled away as your cab arrived, your powers of observation are perhaps insufficiently developed. However," he continued nonchalantly as Lestrade fumed, "I think that this information would be better heard first-hand. Is Constable Aldridge off-duty today?"

"Yes, he is, as it happens," Lestrade said grudgingly.

"Then I suggest that the three of us pass the hours until two o'clock, when Watson and I have a previous engagement, by visiting the Aldridges at home. Perhaps Watson will be good enough on the cab ride over to favour you with his views on the origin of species."

II.

Constable John Aldridge of the Metropolitan Police was a powerful, swarthy, clean-shaven man, about six feet in height and clearly a match for even taller men. He greeted us with cordiality and courtesy, and was pleased to see Lestrade, whom he seemed to regard with the greatest respect.

Mrs. Aldridge – for so I will call her in this narrative – bustled about the kitchen of their small house preparing lunch as we talked with her husband. In my long and varied experience of women I have seldom seen a more charming and fascinating creature. She spoke with a curious but delightful Oriental accent, which I shall not do her the discourtesy of attempting to reproduce in reporting her words.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Aldridge said jovially, following my glance towards the kitchen. "Looks like a delicate flower, but she's not so delicate when you get to know her. And she'd marry me any day of the week I asked her. But I haven't asked her, because she's too good for a bloke like me. Someday she'll get tired of England and want to go home, and I'll not tie her down here with a marriage licence."

"Constable Aldridge, can you tell Mr. Holmes what your wife told you about the laundry that services the Saltonstall house?" Lestrade asked.

"Surely, Lestrade, the story would be better heard from the lady herself," Holmes interjected as Mrs. Aldridge re-entered the room with our meal.

"If these gentlemen are willing to listen to my words, I will gladly speak to them," Mrs. Aldridge said, looking to Aldridge for his approval.

"Go ahead, Ping," Aldridge said as she sat down with us. "You're better at story-telling than I am any day of the week."

Mrs. Aldridge rested her chin on her folded hands – very much like Holmes himself, I thought – and began:

"My sister Sue was hired last month by a laundry run by Johnson. He is a man I have known for many years, but not as a laundryman. It seems that he has recently gone into a new line of business, in which I can only wish him success and prosperity."

Was it my imagination, or was there a slightly sardonic tone to her voice as she said this? Aldridge glanced sharply at his wife, as though suddenly uncomfortable, and then hastily returned his attention to his meat and soup.

"Sue has worked for laundries before in China," she continued, "and they have all had a large number of customers. Last year in Shanghai she visited fifty homes a week to pick up people's laundry. But this new job is only one day a week, and, as far as she can tell, the laundry is picked up from only one household."

"As far as she can tell, you say," Holmes said. "Then your sister does not herself pick up the laundry?"

"No, Mr. Holmes. That is done by two young men – Chinese, like my sister and me – who have been in Johnson's employ for some time."

"And they are also acquaintances of yours?" Holmes asked, carefully observing Aldridge's reaction to his question. Again the police constable appeared displeased, perhaps even unhappy, but quickly masked his emotions.

"Ping knows everyone in Limehouse," he said with apparent unconcern. "She's a regular social butterfly."

"On what day of the week does your sister perform her work for Johnson?" Holmes asked.

"On Wednesday, Mr. Holmes. She arrives at noon, and the laundry comes in shortly afterwards. Because it comes from one household only, she and the other girl who works with her are finished by nine in the evening. My sister does other work during the rest of the week, of course."

"How does your sister know the laundry comes from the Saltonstall house, Mrs. Aldridge?" Lestrade asked.

"From a careless remark she heard from one of Johnson's men, and from the marks on the laundry itself," Mrs. Aldridge explained. "It all points to Saltonstall."

"A regular detective, isn't she?" Aldridge said proudly. "Her and her sister both. They'd do better in the C.I.D. than some of the gents who are there now – no offence, Inspector," Aldridge added hastily.

"None taken, Constable," Lestrade said warmly. "We both know that not all of the Yard's top men are remarkable for their intellect."

Holmes appeared highly amused by this remark, but suppressed his mirth, his shoulders shaking as he sipped the excellent tea Mrs. Aldridge had served us.

"Tell me, Mrs. Aldridge," he asked. "Does this Johnson know that Sue is your sister?"

"No, Mr. Holmes. She says Johnson barely speaks to her, but wanders wordlessly through the room where she works to make sure she and the other girl do their jobs properly."

"And this laundry is here in Limehouse, I presume?"

"Indeed it is, Mr. Holmes," Aldridge said. His wife gave a confirming nod.

"Given the distance between the Saltonstall mansion and the Limehouse district, if the laundry arrives a little after noon, then it must be picked up from the Saltonstall house at about eleven-thirty. We can confirm the exact time with Lady Saltonstall later today. It may interest you both to know that, as I have already informed Inspector Lestrade, something of great sentimental value was stolen from the Saltonstall house last Wednesday."

"I guessed something of the sort," Aldridge said glumly. "The Inspector wouldn't have called on us with you two gents without more reason than just a laundry that serves one person."

"And yet that was enough to cause suspicion in itself," Holmes said briskly. "The outré detail in the midst of ordinary life often hints at something criminal beneath the surface. You did well to bring this to the Inspector's attention, Aldridge. You have justified his high opinion of you."

Lestrade appeared irritated for a moment by Holmes conveying his praise to Aldridge in this manner, and thus bypassing the protocol and hierarchy of the police. His displeasure, however, quickly passed.

"Indeed, Aldridge," he said. "You're a credit to the Force. We may have you in the C.I.D. yet if you keep on like this."

The three of us finished our meal, rose and expressed our gratitude to Mr. and Mrs. Aldridge for their hospitality. As we headed to the door, I saw Holmes pass Mrs. Aldridge a small folded slip of paper, on which he had written something as we ate, concealing it on his lap from Aldridge's view. Mrs. Aldridge looked at him in silent surprise, but his gleaming grey eyes warned her to say nothing as we took our leave.

"It is now half-past twelve," Holmes remarked as we stepped into the open air. "If you will take my advice, Inspector, I think the time before our appointment at the Saltonstall residence will be best spent visiting Mr. Richard Winchester, one of the finest piano tuners in London."

Dick Winchester lived in rooms that were remarkable for their apparent chaos. Articles of clothing, eating utensils and all manner of other items were scattered over every available surface with no apparent pattern. However, as Winchester, an exceptionally thin man of about sixty, moved through the rooms, it was evident that he knew where everything was, and that there was a system here which made perfect sense to him in his world of darkness.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," he said as he opened the door. "I would recognize your voice anywhere, as I'm sure you remember. And who are your two friends?"

Lestrade and I had not spoken, but Winchester, with a keenness of hearing similar to Holmes' own, had evidently detected three sets of footfalls outside his rooms.

"This is Dr. Watson, my friend and biographer, and Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard," Holmes said. "We would like to ask you about your visit to the home of Lord Saltonstall last week."

"Come in, Mr. Holmes, come in!" the blind man said cheerfully. "Anything I know that's useful, you're welcome to it. One musician to another."

"Winchester has an exceptionally keen sense of hearing, Watson," Holmes murmured to me as we entered. "He saw through one of my disguises, so to speak, during the investigation at the Alhambra I mentioned earlier, with results that were fortunately less serious than they might have been. But we also had many fascinating conversations about the influence of Verdi on Sir Arthur Sullivan."

The four of us sat on overstuffed chairs, Lestrade clearly uncomfortable in the cluttered room. Reasserting his authority, he took the lead in the conversation.

"We understand that you tuned the piano at the Saltonstalls' last Wednesday," Lestrade said, taking out his notebook. "At what time did you begin work, Mr. Winchester?"

"Well, now let me think," Winchester said – oddly enough, closing his sightless eyes and leaning back in his chair. "Last Wednesday, yes, Lord Saltonstall. That piano needed a lot of work, you know. I started on it at eleven, and didn't get through until two o'clock. It took much longer than it would have done if they had it tuned regular, like they should do."

"And did anything unusual happen in the house while you were there?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, something does occur to me, now you mention it," Winchester said slowly, summoning the memory. "At about eleven-thirty, I heard someone moving in the direction of the kitchen. Furtive-like, as though they didn't want to be seen. I was two rooms away, so I couldn't have seen whoever it was if I had my sight, but I heard 'em, all right."

"How do you know this was at eleven-thirty?" Lestrade asked sceptically. "You couldn't see the clock."

Winchester smiled.

"Why, by the point I had reached in tuning the piano, young man," he said, raising his eyebrows. "When I'm at work, I know what time it is, all right."

"Then what happened?" Holmes asked. "Did you hear any more of this person?"

"Indeed I did," Winchester said. "After about half a minute, she run to the servants' entrance –"

"'She'," Lestrade said. "What makes you say 'she'?"

"Well, I couldn't necessarily tell when she was tiptoeing, but when she run, that's the way a woman runs. Young slip of a thing, I should say."

"Eleven-thirty," Holmes mused. "All of this happened at eleven-thirty?"

"That's the truth, Mr. Holmes, and you know I never lie."

"And you were served luncheon at one o'clock, I understand."

"That's right. Her Ladyship saw to that. I tried to say there was no need, but she wouldn't hear it. Said I could use some nice meat and salad, and I won't deny it was good."

"Thank you, Mr. Winchester," Holmes said. "You have been of material assistance to us. If we think of anything else to ask, may we return?"

"My door's always open to you, Mr. Holmes," Winchester said. "There aren't many detective types who can talk about both Rigoletto the hunchback and Ricoletti with the clubfoot, both learned-like."

"Rigoletto the hunchback," Lestrade mused. "Never heard of him. Was he a ruffian you investigated once, Mr. Holmes?"

"No, Lestrade," Holmes replied, his eyes twinkling. "He was an entertainer whose daughter was unfortunately murdered, long before your or my time."

"Ah," Lestrade said crisply. "Not someone we knew of at the Yard, then."

Holmes smiled and winked at Winchester. Whether because he knew Holmes well enough to realize that he must have winked, or because his remarkable hearing was keen enough to detect the movement of Holmes' eyelid, Winchester winked back.

"You see, I trust, Lestrade," Holmes said as we climbed into another four-wheeler, "why I wished to question Winchester. His keen sense of hearing makes him an invaluable witness, as I have had occasion to discover before. Now, he has established for us a most important fact. The Saltonstalls' housemaid is unquestionably lying."

"What makes you say that, Holmes?" Lestrade asked.

"Consider the facts," Holmes replied as the cab started for the Saltonstall house. "Lucy Anderson, the maid, told Lady Saltonstall and the cook that she saw the missing saltcellar when she opened the cabinet at noon that day. Yet from the testimony of Winchester and Mrs. Aldridge, it seems unquestionable that the saltcellar was stolen at eleven-thirty and conveyed away from the house with the laundry pickup. The housemaid claims to have seen it when it was no longer there; ergo, the housemaid is lying. Given Winchester's further testimony that the person he heard was a woman, the logical conclusion is that Lucy Anderson is the immediate thief."

"Then the mysterious laundry is indeed behind the theft," I surmised.

"As usual, Watson, your perspicacity has led you unerringly to the correct conclusion. It seems that this Johnson, the owner of the laundry, must be the mastermind behind the theft. The laundry was probably founded for that sole purpose. Yet many perplexing questions remain. Why should anyone wish to steal an object of such little intrinsic worth, whatever its sentimental value to Lady Saltonstall?"

"Perhaps something was concealed inside it," Lestrade suggested.

"That can hardly be the case," Holmes said dismissively. "The presence of such a hidden item could scarcely be unknown to both Saltonstalls. Even if it were known to them, no special care was taken to keep the object safe. It was kept in the kitchen cabinet, where any servant could see it at any time."

"But perhaps a valuable object was hidden in the saltcellar by its former owner, Lady Saltonstall's grandmother," I suggested.

"Dora, Lady Saltonstall, is the former Dora Fairchild, a well-known music-hall actress in her day," Holmes informed us. "She was the first member of her family to attain worldly success, and of course married well above her social station. Mysterious objects of great value were not likely to be found in her family. But here is the Saltonstall mansion, where we may gain further insight into some of the points that puzzle us."

Inspector Lestrade was a man of decisive action. As soon as the elderly, nervous butler admitted us, Lestrade demanded to see the housemaid, Lucy Anderson. Within five minutes she was standing before us in an elegantly appointed drawing room lined with bookshelves – a pale girl with dark hair, perhaps nineteen years of age – and Lestrade was accusing her of the theft.

"Yes, yes," she sobbed, "I did it. I took the saltcellar from the cabinet."

"And what did you do with it once you had taken it?" Lestrade demanded.

A wary look came into the girl's eyes.

"That's more than I'll say," she declared, her voice trembling. "That involves other folk than me, and I'll not take the chance –"

She broke off, clearly unwilling to say more.

"I must warn you that, if you tell us the full truth, it will go better for you at the trial," Lestrade informed her.

"At the trial, maybe," the girl said, her dark eyes flashing with mingled defiance and fear. She remained silent as Lestrade led her outside and whistled for two constables on the beat, who escorted her to Scotland Yard. As Lestrade re-entered the drawing room, an exquisite china clock on the mantel chimed twice.

"The hour has come for our appointment," Holmes said cheerfully. "We shall soon meet with the noble book collector and his no doubt charming wife, who will escort us to the scene of this perplexingly trivial crime."

And so it proved. A few moments later Lord Saltonstall entered the room and introduced us to his wife, a tall, blond woman somewhat younger than her husband. She had heard of the arrest of the housemaid – presumably from the butler, who had hurried toward the rear of the house as Lucy Anderson was led away – and appeared considerably agitated as the introductions were made. She shook Lestrade's hand with a discomfort that indicated she regarded him as occupying a lower social station than herself, and then sank onto a chaise longue.

"Lucy arrested!" she said in a moaning voice. "How can this have happened? She spoke out immediately and said she had seen the saltcellar that day! Surely she would have avoided comment on the matter if she were the thief?"

"It would appear, madam, that your housemaid attempted to deflect suspicion precisely by drawing attention to herself," Holmes said. "So helpful and forthcoming a servant surely could not be the thief. Unfortunately for her, her account was contradicted by a most trustworthy witness. But may we examine the scene of the crime, Lady Saltonstall?"

"Yes, of course, Mr. Holmes," she said, rising and leading the rest of us toward the kitchen. "Is there any possibility that my salter will be recovered, Inspector?" she asked, turning eagerly to Lestrade as we walked. For the moment, the prospect of perhaps recovering her cherished heirloom overrode her social disdain for the official detective.

"We don't know yet, Lady Saltonstall," Lestrade answered. "The girl isn't telling us who her accomplices were, or where the saltcellar went after she took it, so there's no way to retrieve it at present."

Lady Saltonstall's face clouded over with disappointment.

"I notice that you referred to the missing item as a 'salter', Lady Saltonstall," Holmes remarked. "Surely that word usually refers to a person who makes, sells or uses salt, not to a saltcellar?"

"I'm sure you are right, Mr. Holmes," Lady Saltonstall replied with a short laugh. "But my late grandmother always referred to it as the salter, and therefore so do I. Surely the name we use for the object is immaterial?"

"Little is truly immaterial in a criminal investigation, Lady Saltonstall," Holmes replied. "However, I confess that I see no relevance to the matter as yet. The use of the word merely struck me as unusual."

The five of us entered the kitchen, where Lady Saltonstall greeted Mrs. Adams, the cook, and then opened the large kitchen cabinet where the missing saltcellar had formerly been kept. Holmes examined every inch of it, carefully removing the dishes and glassware and setting them on a nearby table. His long fingers probed the recesses of the cabinet and searched the shelves and door for clues. I was not certain what he hoped to find, since the chain of events on this spot last Wednesday was now well-established, and eventually Holmes turned away from the cabinet with a sigh of disappointment.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed, a wild thought suddenly striking me. "Is it possible that the thief was after the salt itself? Do you use some especially rare variety of salt, Lady Saltonstall?" I asked, turning to our client's wife.

Before Lady Saltonstall could answer, Mrs. Adams burst out laughing behind us.

"Sorry, your ladyship," she said, wiping flour from her forehead, "but the gentleman's question struck me that funny. Bless you, sir, we use only the best Cheshire salt, and fine as it is, it wouldn't bring enough to make someone go stealing it."

"But is not salt sometimes used in a laundry?" I persisted, remembering Holmes' suspicions about the organizing centre behind this crime. "I have heard that it is added to water to prevent woollens from shrinking."

"An intriguing theory, Watson, but, I fear, less than germane to the matter in hand," Holmes said. "We must seek the true cause of the thief's interest elsewhere."

Holmes then asked to see the servants' entrance, to which, according to Winchester's account, Lucy Anderson had taken the stolen saltcellar, presumably to be picked up with the laundry. Unsurprisingly, the constant comings and goings through this door had effaced any traces that might have been of use to Holmes, whether inside the rear hallway of the house or in the alley outside. Holmes straightened from his fruitless examination of the earth, where the snow that had fallen since the theft had not yet been fully cleared away, and addressed Inspector Lestrade and myself.

"There is nothing more to be learned here," he said. "Our inquiries must pursue different paths. Lestrade, I am sure you must have work to do at the Yard, while Watson and I can best continue our investigation among my indexes and commonplace books at Baker Street."

He bowed cordially to Lord and Lady Saltonstall and led the way out of the alley and thence to the street, not waiting on the conventionality of being shown back through the house to the front door.

With my wife still away, I occupied the afternoon reading medical journals at Holmes' rooms in Baker Street, while my friend searched through his voluminous scrapbooks of cross-indexed newspaper and magazine clippings on every unusual or criminal event of the last fifteen years. From a few murmured comments, I gathered that Holmes was looking for any reference to "Johnson", the man Mrs. Aldridge had said was in charge of the laundry for which her sister worked. I wondered again why the constable's female companion had mentioned this Johnson with a hint of irony, as though there were some past connection between them of which Aldridge was aware and about which he was unhappy. Holmes' search did not seem particularly fruitful, although he occasionally gave a grunt of satisfaction which told me, accustomed to his mannerisms as I was, that he had found at least some hint of Johnson's past life and activities.

After Mrs. Hudson had cleared away our supper dishes, I prepared to leave for home. Holmes surprised me by holding up a restraining hand.

"Stay, Watson," he said. "Your wife does not return home for another day or two, I believe you said. I am expecting a late visitor, and if you would be so kind as to spend the night in your old room, you might learn more about the affair of the Saltonstall Salter."

Naturally intrigued, I pressed him for additional information, but not a word more would he say. Holmes was always secretive, but never more so than when he hoped to produce an effect of surprise on those who observed the course of his investigations, like a dramatist arranging a coup de théâtre.

As the clock chimed ten, then half past, then three quarters past, I found it difficult to keep my eyes open, but one glance at Holmes' keenly watchful face convinced me not to set aside my book and proceed upstairs to bed. At last, at eleven o'clock we heard the distant sound of the front doorbell. Mrs. Hudson had already retired to her bedchamber, and so it was Holmes who softly descended the stairs to the front door, returning a few moments later with our visitor.

It was, as I immediately realized I should have guessed, Mrs. Aldridge. She threw back the hood of a coat far too large for her, which had perhaps originally belonged to some male relative of her husband, for whom it would have been too small. Her dark eyes shone clearly in the dim light of the fire and the flickering gas lamps.

"I received your note, Mr. Holmes," she said simply. "John Aldridge is on duty tonight, and so I have come. What do you wish to know?"

"Pray, be seated," my companion said courteously. With a nervous flick of the head, the young woman sat in the basket chair close to the fire. Holmes and I also seated ourselves. There was a brief silence.

"To answer your question, Mrs. Aldridge," Holmes said gravely, "I wish to know about those things of which you could not speak freely before your husband. Above all, I must ask you what the true nature was of your past relationship with Johnson, the man behind the crime we are investigating."

Mrs. Aldridge gave a shuddering sigh and closed her eyes. Her hands tightly gripped the arms of the basket chair. When she opened her eyes, however, they were still clear and determined, focussed sharply on Holmes.

"I will tell you," she said. "When I came to this country from China, I began by carrying on a trade practised by many of my countrywomen here who have no better prospects. Johnson was my employer then, and as part of my duties I extended my services to him whenever he required me to do so."

She said this in a completely matter-of-fact tone, fixing first one and then the other of us with those darkly bright eyes, clearly aware that we had both heard of such things often enough before.

"It was wrong, I know, but I knew no better," she continued. "John Aldridge showed me better. He came to us one day when there was a disturbance, and he could not take his eyes off me. At first I thought he wanted only what so many of his fellow officers wanted when they visited us, but I was wrong. He would walk by the house every day after that, and if I was outside we would strike up a conversation. I would tell him about China, and he would tell me about the strange things he saw and heard and experienced in London. Within a fortnight, I had grown used to his visits and worried a little for him if he failed to appear.

"Then, after he had been absent for two whole days, leaving me thinking of little save his welfare, he knocked loudly on the front door one night. Johnson answered it, and when I heard their voices raised I tiptoed downstairs. Some instinct warned me to put on my shoes and one of Johnson's coats – the very one I am wearing now. I arrived downstairs to find John Aldridge filling the doorframe, a grim look in his eyes.

"'I want Ping,' he said. 'Will you bring her out to me, or do I have to come in and get her?'

"'I'm afraid it's past the lady's regular working hours,' Johnson sneered. 'I don't work my girls all day and all night, like some of 'em do. Besides, I doubt you make enough as a copper to afford –'

"'Shut your mouth, or I'll shut it for you, Johnson,' John said. My breath caught in my throat, for he had always spoken gently to me. 'Don't you understand? I'm not paying you. I'm not paying her. I'm taking her away from here, and she'll never have to ply your filthy trade again.'

"Johnson had seen me cautiously approaching the two of them out of the corner of his eye, and he smiled.

"'Perhaps the lady disagrees with you, Constable,' he said. 'Don't you, sweetheart?'

"John turned his head slightly and looked at me. In that moment I made my decision.

"'No, I do not,' I said, stepping forward into the lamplight. 'I go with you, John Aldridge.'

"'Oh, really? We'll see about that,' Johnson said, turning fully to John and assuming a fighting stance.

"'Be careful, Johnson,' John warned him. 'I reckon I can knock you down any day of the week.'

"'Just try it –' Johnson began to say, and aimed a punch at John's stomach that was meant to be unexpected. His plan failed, however, and with only three punches John had him on the floor, clutching his wrist and his left eye in pain.

"John extended his hand to me. I took it. From his position crouched on the floor, Johnson spat a threat after us.

"'You've got her,' he snarled. 'See if you can keep her. See if she don't run off with some sailor of her own kind, and see if I don't come after you in a dark alley one of these nights for taking her.'

"But John Aldridge and I walked out of the door of that place, and he took me to his little house, and there I have stayed ever since. That was six months ago, and not once have I regretted my choice."

Holmes and I were silent for several moments when she had finished. Then Holmes offered her one of his fleeting smiles, which came and went as quickly as a gleam of sun through the clouds on an overcast day.

"Constable Aldridge was certainly correct when he spoke of your story-telling skills," he said. "You would make Scheherazade herself envious. But it surprises me that your sister subsequently took a job with this man."

"Sue had only just arrived from China," Mrs. Aldridge explained. "She did not know of this – indeed, she still does not. I could not well ask her to leave his employ when jobs are so scarce for us. And, of course, he has gone into a new field of business."

"Indeed, the laundry," Holmes mused, his eyes masked by the shadows cast by the fire. "I suspect, Mrs. Aldridge, that you have more to tell us about the circumstances behind the recent theft from Lord Saltonstall's house."

Mrs. Aldridge sighed again and lowered her eyes.

"Your note told me that a saltcellar was stolen, an object of little value," she said quietly. "That surprised me, for there is an object of value – great value – somewhere in the Saltonstall home.

"The laundry for which my sister works is not the first of Johnson's businesses to have made deliveries at Lord Saltonstall's back door. There are times when Lady Saltonstall is away, and at such times I myself have passed through that back door, delivered and picked up again at set hours, like the laundry.

"I do not mean you to think too ill of Lord Saltonstall. I enjoyed our conversations, for I was new to England and knew little of it, and Lord Saltonstall was always very kind and patient in explaining things. He seems to me a man who delights in sharing knowledge with others on all sorts of matters, and is sad that he does not have more friends with whom to discuss the things that interest him most.

"And so it was that he showed me his treasure. And I told Johnson of it, for he had warned me to keep nothing secret from him that I learned while working for him. He was very interested, and swore me to secrecy. For this reason, I cannot say what the treasure was."

Holmes' eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"But surely," I expostulated, "promises made to such a man –"

"A very dangerous man, Dr. Watson," Mrs. Aldridge replied, steadily meeting my gaze. "If I told you, I fear he would kill me. More important, he would likely carry out his later threat and kill John."

She rose and again pushed forward the hood of her coat, which she had not taken off.

"I have told you all I can. Johnson must not learn that I have been here, and above all he must not believe that you have learned from me the nature of Saltonstall's treasure, or John and I will pay the price."

Holmes and I also rose as Mrs. Aldridge walked toward the door of our sitting room. As she reached it, her back still turned to us, she spoke as though to herself.

"'O Lord, I have cried unto Thee; hearken Thou unto me.'"

A moment later she was gone. We heard her softly descending the stairs, opening the front door and closing it again behind her.

"Was that a quote from the Bible, Holmes?" I asked. "I did not recognize it."

"I do not know, Watson," Holmes admitted. "As I may have remarked before, my biblical knowledge is a trifle rusty. Good-night!"

III.

It was that same night when I experienced the strange dream to which I have already alluded at the beginning of this narrative. As I descended to breakfast the next morning my head was still full of it, and, although I seldom told Holmes of my dreams, somehow I could not forbear mentioning this one to him.

"I had the strangest dream last night, Holmes," I said as Mrs. Hudson set down our plate of breakfast kippers.

"Really, Watson?" Holmes replied sardonically, lowering his copy of the Times. "I would not have thought you the sort to experience dreams, did I not know them to be a normal function of the human brain."

"I hardly ever remember my dreams, Holmes. Yet this one stuck in my head. I can still see it as clearly as I see you now."

"In the words of the estimable Mr. Dodgson, 'Life, what is it but a dream?'" Holmes mused.

"I encountered a group of hooded and cloaked women, dressed in dark blue, walking across some wide, illimitable space. One of the women pushed back her hood and spoke to me. Now that I think of it, Holmes, she looked very much like Mrs. Aldridge."

"Who, of course, visited us last night in a large coat with a hood," Holmes pointed out. "The mind works upon the material of the waking hours in producing its nocturnal dramas."

"She spoke to me, Holmes," I persisted. "She said, 'Dr. Watson, remember the silent letter.' Then she and the other women vanished, and I was left alone."

Holmes suddenly became tremendously excited.

"What did she say, Watson?" he asked.

"'Remember the silent letter,'" I repeated. "I must confess I have no idea what she meant. Perhaps she was referring to a letter meant to be read silently rather than aloud?"

"I rather think she was, Watson, but not the kind of letter of which you are thinking," Holmes said, his eyes alight with the thrill of the chase. It was obvious that, inexplicable as it seemed, my words had given him some crucial clue.

"But surely," I objected, "it was simply a meaningless dream."

"Dreams are not always meaningless, Watson, not when an intelligent man is still pondering matters while asleep which perplexed him while awake," Holmes said. "I rather think, my dear fellow, that you have hit upon the missing piece in the puzzle of the Bogus Laundry."

I knew better than to ask him further what he was thinking. As always, he would reveal it to me at the time which best suited his purposes.

"I must spend the morning in the library of the British Museum, Watson," Holmes said when we had finished eating. "Your dream has suggested to me what may prove a most fruitful line of inquiry. You, I believe, have at least one patient this morning, for I saw you checking your medical bag before breakfast. Since your wife is still away, we shall meet back here for lunch, at which time I expect to have gained more insight into the Saltonstall affair."

My patient was, I regret to say, an elderly, garrulous hypochondriac; she was, in addition, quite hard of hearing. Although she was my only patient that morning, it was half-past twelve before I returned to Baker Street. Holmes had not yet arrived. When he did so at a quarter to one o'clock, the look of satisfaction on his face told me that his morning had been a successful one.

"'I slumbered and slept,'" were his cryptic first words to me as he fell into the chair beside the fire. "'I dreamed and was helped, and the Lord sustained me.' The quotation is apropos, is it not?"

"Yes, I imagine so. But what is its source, Holmes? Again, if it comes from the Bible, I do not recognize it."

"It is the sixteenth verse of the one hundred and fifty-fifth Psalm," Holmes replied. "Its applicability to our current situation is quite remarkable."

"But, Holmes!" I exclaimed. "There are only one hundred and fifty Psalms!"

Holmes laughed and handed me a packet of notes in his precise handwriting, clearly made during his visit to the British Museum.

"You will find there an account of the researches of Professor W. Wright, of Queens' College, Cambridge," Holmes said. "Two years ago he published a communication in the Proceedings of the Society of Biblical Archaeology on the subject of 'Some Apocryphal Psalms in Syriac'. The first of the five psalms he translated was that known in the Eastern Orthodox Church as the one hundred and fifty-first; it appears in most copies of the Septuagint, the Greek translation of the Old Testament made, or so legend claims, by seventy scholars working under the orders of King Ptolemy II of Egypt."

"You told me last night that your Biblical knowledge was a trifle rusty, Holmes," I said, amused.

"I have read up on the subject since then, Watson," Holmes said impatiently. "The other four psalms in Professor Wright's article had never, so far as he knew, been printed in English before, although they appeared in two Syriac manuscripts, one in the Vatican, the other at the University Library of Cambridge."

"This is all very interesting, Holmes," I said, "but I fail to see the relevance –"

Holmes leaned forward in his chair, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

"These four psalms are known only to a vanishingly small number of biblical scholars. How then, my dear Watson, do you explain the fact that, just before leaving this room last night, Mrs. Aldridge quoted one of them to us?"

I gaped at him, searching for an answer.

"No explanation comes readily to mind," I admitted.

"I have summoned Lord Saltonstall, Inspector Lestrade and Constable Aldridge to join us here at one o'clock," Holmes said. "At that time I will make known to them my deductions concerning Lord Saltonstall's greatest treasure, the true target of the thieves who have been visiting his home."

Our guests arrived punctually at one o'clock, brought to Baker Street by telegrams Holmes had sent to Scotland Yard and to Lord Saltonstall's residence. All three men appeared somewhat uncomfortable at being summoned so peremptorily by my friend, but their curiosity to learn what progress he was making overcame any irritation they might have felt at his presumption. After the introductions were made between Constable Aldridge and Lord Saltonstall, who appeared even more uncomfortable at being formally introduced to a mere uniformed policeman than his wife had been to meet Lestrade, the five of us seated ourselves around the dining table.

Mrs. Hudson served lunch, not without some grumbling about the lateness with which she had been informed of the number of guests. During the first course Holmes fixed Lord Saltonstall with his steely gaze.

"I have reason to believe, Lord Saltonstall," he said, "that the true target of the thieves who absconded with your wife's saltcellar was, in fact, the Saltonstall Psalter."

Lord Saltonstall nearly choked on his mutton chop. His attention was occupied by his napkin for a moment, and when he returned his focus to Holmes, his expression was dazed.

"How on Earth could you know that?" he spluttered. "No one even knows I own the book!"

"Not quite no one, I think," Holmes said calmly. "As you yourself told us, Lord Saltonstall, many people enter your home on occasion to do work of one kind – or another."

The look Holmes now gave Lord Saltonstall was so significant that our client blushed and lowered his gaze to his plate. The meaning of what had passed between them clearly eluded Lestrade, who looked from Holmes to Saltonstall with a puzzled frown, but was not lost on Aldridge, who again appeared unhappy and uncomfortable.

"One of these hired labourers, I think, saw the Psalter and recognized its value," Holmes continued. "He – or she – told this Johnson of it, and he set his mind to stealing it. He must have planned the theft for months. For this purpose Lucy Anderson was suborned from her loyalty to your household. Unfortunately, Johnson's plans ran afoul of Lucy's lack of education and of your wife's peculiar use of the word 'salter' to refer to her grandmother's saltcellar. When Lucy was asked if she knew where the 'Psalter' was, she thought she did, unfamiliar as she was with the word meaning a book of psalms, with its silent 'P'. Lady Saltonstall must have referred so often to the 'salter' in her hearing that she never thought Johnson or his messenger could mean anything else."

"Brilliant, Holmes!" I exclaimed. "But how did you know Lord Saltonstall had a Psalter of unusual value?"

"That information is partly confidential, Watson," Holmes said. Although he addressed me, his eyes were now fixed on John Aldridge, who nodded in understanding. "Some of my sources must retain their anonymity. Suffice it to say that I became aware of knowledge of a rare Syriac psalm, knowledge that proceeded from Lord Saltonstall's house and had no other likely source.

"That psalm and three others are now known to exist in only two manuscripts in the world, and were never printed until two years ago. What if Lord Saltonstall possessed a Psalter of much greater age, one containing – if my surmise is correct – those four psalms, and a fifth which is more widely known, in addition to the familiar group, making one hundred and fifty-five psalms in all? Such a volume would be a treasure indeed, for it might hint at an unknown history behind the transmission of the texts. Literary scholars are detectives in their own way, and would be intoxicated by the promise of clues to the history of the Bible offered by such a book. Many an unscrupulous bibliophile would pay well for such a treasure, the more so if – as I also surmise – the volume itself is handsome in appearance."

"What makes you say that, Mr. Holmes?" Aldridge asked, keenly interested in my friend's reasoning.

"Dr. Watson, Inspector Lestrade and I visited the Saltonstall home yesterday," Holmes explained. "As the Inspector will confirm, the books that lined the shelves were all of handsome appearance. It is clear that Lord Saltonstall values aesthetics as well as rarity in his collection – is that not so, Lord Saltonstall?"

Our client groaned good-naturedly and smiled at us.

"It is clearly useless to keep secrets from you, Mr. Holmes," he said. "The book is the prize of my collection. Its vellum pages are bound in the finest leather, and the frontispiece is an exquisite illumination of the Baptism of Christ created by an unknown master. According to the title page, it was copied at the Monastery of St. Andrew in the year of our Lord 1450, in the century before the monasteries were dissolved by Henry VIII and so much history and knowledge was lost. It is said that the monks of St. Andrew's at one time included many former Crusaders, so that the texts of the Psalms may have been translated in Syria by some wandering warrior of God. Is it any wonder that I regard the Psalter as my greatest treasure, and keep it locked in my nightstand?"

"No, that is no surprise, Lord Saltonstall," Holmes acknowledged. "And so Johnson never had a real chance of taking it. What we must now do is make him believe that he still has such a chance."

"But surely, Mr. Holmes," Lord Saltonstall objected, "now that the culprit's identity is known –"

"Known, but not proven," Holmes interrupted. "The testimony of the piano tuner, Richard Winchester, and that of your wife, Aldridge, strongly suggests that the laundry run by Johnson is connected to the theft, but the evidence is still too thin to convince a rightfully sceptical British jury. Lucy Anderson, the unfortunate housemaid, has refused to name her accomplices. Our only hope of bringing Johnson's crime home to him is to trick him into another attempt to gain the Psalter. Once he has fallen into our trap and demonstrated his own guilt, we can obtain search warrants for Johnson's laundry and his home and find further evidence – possibly including your wife's precious saltcellar, Lord Saltonstall."

"That seems wise, Mr. Holmes," our client agreed. Lestrade also nodded, though he was clearly irritated by Holmes having taken over so completely the planning of our future measures.

"But how do we trick Johnson into such an attempt?" Aldridge asked.

"I rather fancy that is where you come in, Aldridge. If my recollection of our first interview with you and your wife is accurate, Mrs. Aldridge said that her sister, Sue, works in Johnson's laundry. She also said that, though she is an old acquaintance of Johnson –" here Aldridge's eyes hardened for a moment, so fleetingly that Lestrade and Saltonstall could not have noticed – "he is unaware of Sue's connection to her. Is that not so?"

"Yes, that's correct, Mr. Holmes."

"Then, if your wife were to tell her sister to expect to find a message for Johnson in this week's laundry – a message purportedly written by Lucy Anderson, whose arrest is unknown to Johnson and need not become known if Inspector Lestrade can keep it out of the newspapers for another two or three days – saying that she had found the true Psalter and would bring it to a place of our choosing this Wednesday evening –"

"Then we'll have him!" cried Lestrade, striking his fist into his palm for emphasis. "If he takes the bait, that is."

"Ah, Lestrade, remind me to discuss with you the criminal ego," Holmes said, rising from his chair to retrieve his pipe from the mantelpiece and fill it with tobacco from the Persian slipper. "In any event, we can but try."

IV.

The note to be sent to Johnson was drafted by Holmes and approved by Lestrade. The final document was forged by Holmes in a convincing replication of the illiterate handwriting to be expected of a housemaid of nineteen with little education. It informed Johnson that Lucy Anderson had found the Psalter's hiding place, and asked him to meet her in an abandoned warehouse in Rotherhithe to pick it up and pay her the agreed reward.

Mrs. Aldridge's sister could not give Johnson the note until Wednesday, the day the Saltonstall laundry would arrive with the note concealed among the items by our client's wife. During those two days I returned to my practise and greeted my wife on her return from Mrs. Forrester's. When I told her of the Saltonstall investigation, she agreed that I should see through what Holmes and I had begun. Had she known the full extent of the danger we were to encounter that Wednesday night, she might have been less content with my participation in the climax of the mystery.

Our meeting with the criminal was set for ten o'clock in the evening, and I arrived at Baker Street an hour beforehand to find Holmes, Lestrade and Aldridge gathered in the sitting-room. My revolver was loaded and in my pocket, and I was somewhat surprised to see Holmes slip his own weapon into his coat, since he carried arms less frequently than myself. Aldridge was in uniform and armed only with a truncheon, being unaccustomed to firearms, but Lestrade wore a look of mingled satisfaction and deliberation as he slipped his hand into his hip-pocket and then withdrew it again after a moment.

"It's best not to take any chances," the Inspector said. "We in the C.I.D. have been doing a little checking on this Johnson while you were investigating ancient manuscripts and forgotten prayers, Mr. Holmes. He's a dangerous villain, and served a term at Parkhurst already for assault and battery. It's not likely the four of us can't handle him, but forewarned is forearmed, that's what I always say."

Although my ability to read my friend's thoughts from the expression of his countenance was far less reliable than his to read mine, I suspected on this occasion that Holmes was on the point of asking Lestrade whether he had intended to make a pun. He appeared to think better of it, however. Taking his walking-stick from the rack, he led the way downstairs to the front of the house, where a four-wheeler was awaiting us. We rode to the warehouse in gloomy silence, crossing Waterloo Bridge and passing through Lambeth and Bermondsey on the way to Rotherhithe. I could not escape a sense of foreboding that our plan seemed too simple, and that some aspect of it was liable to go amiss.

It had begun to snow lightly when we stepped out of the cab, one street over from the dark, forbidding warehouse. My pocket watch, its face scarcely visible in the dim light of the streetlamps, told me that it was a quarter to ten.

"We must tread carefully, Lestrade," Holmes whispered as we slipped through the heavy front door of the building, which stood ajar. "Johnson may well suspect a trap. He will have taken precautions –"

At that moment two dark forms detached themselves from the surrounding shadows and launched themselves at us. A gleam of light through one of the dusty, broken windows of the warehouse was enough to show me that the two men were Chinese, very likely the two associates of Johnson of whom Mrs. Aldridge had told us. Aldridge drew his baton, and an instant later one of the men was on the floor, clutching his head and groaning. The other man, however, pulled a billy-club from his belt and attacked Holmes, who parried the blow with his walking-stick.

At the same moment, a third figure emerged from behind an abandoned packing crate and dashed into a small room, probably once the office of the warehouse manager, walled off from the large space in which we found ourselves. Aldridge followed at a run. Before I could come to Holmes' assistance, a loud cry of pain issued from the adjoining office. It was unmistakeably Aldridge's voice.

"Constable!" Lestrade shouted, dashing toward the small room. I followed, in obedience to my oath as a doctor, which required that I give my first attention to Aldridge, who was almost certainly injured.

Inside the small room, which little light reached from the outer windows of the building, Lestrade and I found a white man whom I presumed was Johnson standing over the prostrate form of Constable Aldridge. He was huge and red-faced, his black eyes glittering in the dim light as they darted from Lestrade to me and back again. Then he dashed to the door at the back of the office and tried the handle, but it was securely locked. An instant later the stocky man had turned and lunged at us, a desperate desire to avoid capture burning in his eyes.

"Watch out, Lestrade!" I shouted. "He's got a knife!"

Fear might have rendered a less experienced officer incapable of action. But whatever his faults of intelligence or imagination, I had only ever seen Lestrade frightened once, and on that occasion he had, perhaps, believed himself confronted by a supernatural foe. Johnson and his knife were a decidedly material threat. With the spring of a lion, the little detective leapt at Johnson with me at his side. After a desperate struggle which seemed far longer than it was, we succeeded in disarming the criminal, and the broad-bladed knife clattered to the floor.

A moment later Lestrade had snapped the handcuffs on his wrists while I hastened to attend to Aldridge's injury. He had not been stabbed, but had been struck on the head with some force, possibly with the broken chair that lay on its side behind the abandoned manager's desk. For a moment I feared the worst, but then I heard Aldridge groan, although he did not yet fully regain consciousness.

As Lestrade issued the necessary warnings to Johnson, who was silent and seemingly stunned by the suddenness of his capture, Holmes entered the room dragging his young Chinese opponent by the wrist.

"My single-stick experience has again proved valuable," Holmes said. "I am glad to see that my absence did not greatly incommode you, Watson. But how is Constable Aldridge?"

"He'll live," I said, looking up from where I knelt beside him, "but we should get him to hospital right away. He has suffered concussion, although I can feel no break in the skull."

A few minutes later, Johnson and his two associates were being escorted to the closest police station by four burly constables summoned by Lestrade's whistle, while Holmes, Lestrade and I accompanied Aldridge in the four-wheeler across London Bridge to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, where I had once served as a house surgeon. My connections at the hospital allowed us to secure the services of Dr. Leslie Oakshott, the distinguished surgeon, who had not yet been knighted by Her Majesty the Queen. He confirmed my diagnosis.

"He must remain in bed for at least a day, preferably longer," Dr. Oakshott told Lestrade as we stood at Aldridge's bedside. "He may have difficulty sleeping as he recovers, and he may well suffer from nausea and vomiting. Bear in mind also that he may be unusually irritable for some days. Nonetheless, if there is no sign of worse damage, he should be able to return to work in one or two weeks. He is clearly a man with a strong constitution, and there should be no permanent effect on him."

"That's where you're wrong, Doctor," Aldridge said weakly, raising his head from his pillow. "That ruffian knocked some sense into me, if he did nothing else. Can you get Ping here, Inspector? There's something I'd like to ask her."

"I'll do that, Constable," Lestrade said, briefly touching Aldridge's shoulder before passing out of the room. Holmes and I also made to leave, but Aldridge asked us to remain for a moment.

"I read your little book, Doctor," he said to me. "There's something I want you to know, in case you ever write about this affair. The first time I met you I told you that Ping was too good for me. I guess I never felt worthy of her, no matter what the fine people would think. But now I know I wouldn't want to live without her, not any day of the week. Tonight, when I thought –"

Aldridge swallowed and rested his head back on the pillow.

"I want her there always when I come home," he said simply. "And I reckon it's late enough that your own wife will be getting anxious, Doctor."

The following day, we learned from Lestrade that Johnson had admitted selling Lady Saltonstall's saltcellar to a pawnbroker in Tottenham Court Road once he realized it was of no great monetary value. Unfortunately, the pawnbroker had already sold the saltcellar, which therefore could not be recovered.

"Lady Saltonstall will be most disappointed," was Holmes' comment. "I may possibly expect a smaller fee from our client than I would otherwise have received. Many of my police acquaintances have long regretted the fact that pawnbrokers and dealers in used furniture are not required to keep the items they acquire for some fixed period of time before reselling them."

To my surprise, Holmes suggested that we visit Johnson in his cell, saying there were still some points he wished to clear up. It was another unusually fine day for January, and the sun shone brightly as we rode to the police station. When we entered the cell Johnson leapt up from his cot, his face flushed a deeper red than usual, but then sank back down, an unsettlingly calm belligerence resting on his features. Holmes and I sat on the bench opposite him.

"I suspected a trick, but I walked right into it," Johnson said without preamble. "That book could have made my fortune, so it was worth the risk. Now you've got me for conspiracy, and for assault and battery on a copper."

"Indeed, Johnson," Holmes calmly replied. "I learn that you have already served one term at Parkhurst; now you will likely serve a second. You are only lucky that you are not guilty of murder, as you might be had your blow landed harder on Constable Aldridge's skull, or had Watson and Lestrade not so effectively disarmed you."

"I know," Johnson said, appearing surprisingly shaken. "I was a fool, but I was desperate to get away. Things like that almost scare me into going straight, sometimes."

Holmes smiled thinly.

"You say that the Psalter could have made your fortune, Johnson," he said, his face taut. "Am I correct in assuming that you had a buyer lined up for it?"

"Someone I've dealt with before," Johnson said. "I name no names, but someone who was very interested when I told about the book. Of course, she –"

Johnson hesitated, realizing the mistake he had made, and then continued, glaring defiantly at Holmes.

"She didn't know how I would get it, and she didn't want to know," he said. "And I don't think you'll be able to track her down, just knowing she's a lady. There are lots of ladies in this world, Mr. Holmes."

"Indeed there are," my friend said. "And some who appear to be ladies are not, while for others the opposite is true."

Holmes' face relaxed. He leaned forward on the bench, fixing Johnson's black eyes with his own grey ones.

"Tell me, Johnson," he said, his voice very low. "You seem to me a reasonably intelligent and observant man, for all your roughness and villainy. In the course of your criminal endeavours, have you felt the influence of the spider in the web?"

Johnson appeared surprised by the question. He considered for a moment, his brow furrowing in thought, and then also leaned forward, his face only inches from Holmes'. He spoke in an equally low voice.

"Yeah, I felt it," he said. "But I stayed clear of it. I may not be a good man, but I'm my own man. I did my own thing, independent-like, and I told anyone who'd have me do otherwise to go hang."

"An apt choice of words," Holmes said, rising. "It is to be hoped that they will indeed hang one day. But you will not. And, I fancy, we shall meet again, Shinwell Johnson."

Needless to say, Holmes did not shake the ruffian's hand, but his nod at him as we departed gave a curious impression of respect.

"What was all that about?" I asked as we descended the steps of the police station into the brisk air of the January day. "What 'spider' were you referring to?"

"I do not think I will yet speak of it, Watson," Holmes said. His eyes seemed to be looking somewhere far away. "The day is too bright."

He smiled at me – another of those fleeting smiles that I might almost have thought I had merely imagined – and then turned to hail a hansom cab.

A few weeks later I again visited Holmes at his rooms in Baker Street in order to show him an interesting item in the morning Times. Holmes read it and then flung the newspaper back at me with a groan.

"No doubt you find that a tonic for your insufferable romanticism," he said, averting his gaze.

The brief item announced the quiet marriage the previous day of Miss Ping Soon to Detective Constable John Albert Aldridge of Her Majesty's Metropolitan Police. Lestrade, it appeared, had given the bride away.

"My dear Holmes!" I exclaimed. "This is excellent news! We should surely be extremely happy for both of them."

"Indeed, Watson. I am sure they will navigate the hazards of married life better than do many couples. But I cannot deny my relief that I was not invited to the ceremony. The sentiments invariably propounded at such occasions would, I am sure, have turned my stomach."

"One thing still puzzles me, Holmes," I said. "How could you possibly have known that Lord Saltonstall called his precious book the 'Saltonstall Psalter'?"

"Ah, Watson, you have put your finger on the one weak link in an otherwise unbroken chain of reasoning," Holmes said, smiling. "The name of the book was merely surmise on my part. I gambled, however, that Lord Saltonstall would have been unable to resist the obvious assonance, and in the event I was proven correct. But the whole case hinged on the silent letter in the word 'Psalter'. I do not think, my dear fellow, that I should ever have solved it had you not told me of your uncommonly helpful and relevant dream."

"Well, Holmes," I said, feeling a warm glow of contentment at his rare words of praise, "as you yourself said at the beginning of the Baskerville matter, I may not be myself luminous, but I am a conductor of light."

xXx

"Shinwell Johnson... made his name first as a very dangerous villain and served two terms at Parkhurst. Finally, he repented and allied himself to Holmes, acting as his agent in the huge criminal underworld of London, and obtaining information which often proved to be of vital importance."

Dr. John H. Watson, The Adventure of the Illustrious Client