As I compile more and more notes on Sherlock Holmes, I realize that many of the odder adventures are still unrecorded. That is fully unsurprising, as to work with him is to invite the strange and foreign, and I have perhaps been privy to more queer happenings in a single adventure with the man than several other men will ever see in their entire lives. Consequently, I have decided to sketch out one of his lesser-known accomplishments; the details of which are sure to surprise even the most jaded of readers. An example of one of these bizarre happenings is demonstrated with the little problem of Mr. Bradstreet and his most curious affaire, which led to a complex web that I could never have predicted. In fact, no one could have predicted it—save Sherlock Holmes.
It was a brisk autumn day as I was passing by Baker-street by chance, returning home from one of my professional visits. As dinner time was still hours away, I decided to visit my old friend, with whom I hadn't spoken to in several weeks. I found him in his lodgings spread out in a chair, his pipe in his mouth and an atlas in his hands. I thought at first to leave him to his studies, but he discovered me before I could act. "Ah, Watson," said he, "come, sit down. Your company comes at an opportune time."
I walked to my companion and sat. He closed his book and glanced at the door. "A client had contacted me stating that he was to stop by with a most peculiar problem, but he is very much late- Ah, speak of the devil."
The door which I had just entered opened, and a large man entered the sitting chambers of my good friend. He looked like a well-to-do businessman, with a large face with finely trimmed whiskers running down both sides of his head. His face had a reddish composure, and plump from a life of privilege. The one flaw of his face was a large, circular scar on his cheek, and my military years helped me to identify is as a wound from a bullet. He wore a shining new tophat, a thick, expensive, brown cloak, and a pair of boots much older than the rest of his dapper clothing. "Greetings, Mr. Bradstreet," Holmes said in his own genial way, "please, have a seat near the fire. It is a windy evening, and I am sure you are cold from your voyage."
The new gentleman shot a glance from the corner of his eye to myself, and I noticed a slight tremble of his lip. "Who is this man?" he asked, his voice an octave higher than one would expect in such a large fellow.
"This is my dear friend Dr. Watson who is kind enough to occasionally chronicle a few of my cases. Be assured that anything you can say before me you can say before him."
Mr. Bradstreet ran his hand across his cheek, stopping his hand when it was over the old wound. He thought for a moment, and I was under the impression that he was about to walk back out the door, yet my suspicions went unfulfilled as he took up Holmes' offer and seated himself beside the fire. "My thanks, Mr. Holmes," he said, rubbing his hands near the flame, "I must admit I'm not accustomed to the cold climate here in London."
Holmes sat back in his chair. "Indeed?"
"Yes. I've spent quite a bit of time in the colonies. The weather of Africa is far better for a man of my build than that of England. I actually served as an officer in the British army in the south of Africa. In fact, I got this scar on my cheek from a skirmish with the native Zulu," he said, his chest puffing out slightly in pride.
"Perhaps," said Sherlock Holmes, touching his fingertips together, "Or perhaps you received that scar in a hunting accident in the English countryside."
Mr. Bradstreet gave a visible spasm and looked up at Holmes. "Why, by George, I did, but how could you know?"
"I observed, my good sir," said Holmes, "I knew that you couldn't possibly be an officer, as I can observe you've buttoned the lower button of your greatcloak to the higher reciprocal, and no one officer would be caught with such a sloppy odium. Furthermore, the wound in your cheek has healed most admirably, and I can only deduct that if you indeed had it inflicted in Africa there would be some putrefaction of the wound and a much more ugly scar. Is that not so, my good doctor?"
"Why," I said, "I would say so. My work in Afghanistan showed that even small bullet wounds tend to invite more disease than similar injuries in the town."
"Exactly. And after ruling out your story, I merely needed to discover the true source of your wound. I thought of the common place one could get a gunshot to the cheek, and determined hunting would be a very plausible source, and your boots lend credit to my hypothesis. I can see that they are often covered by a coat of mud and grass and had only recently attempted to be scraped off. Regardless, the boots are still stained by the mud and grass, showing that you were indeed in an outdoor environment. Simple deduction carried me from there."
Rather than being embarrassed at the uncovering of his life, Mr. Bradstreet gave a hearty laugh. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, you are as great as they say. That little story was merely a test, to see if you could really aid me in my little problem."
"I do believe I am quite qualified for whatever situation you could propose. Please state the problem, but with the truth this time."
Mr. Bradstreet chuckled once more. "Of course. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am Joseph Bradstreet, as you know, and I myself run a rather successful small printing venture. Business has been good to me, allowing me more luxuries than I have normally been allowed to enjoy."
Holmes' eyes rolled to the tophat that was still perched on his client's head, "Yes, I can tell that you've only recently came into the possession of your fortunes."
"Mr. Holmes," Bradsteet said, "can I trust that you will be entirely confidential in the details I disclose?"
"Of course."
"Well, my poor wife, who had been married to me for seven-and-twenty years had always been burdened by the mundaneness of housework. So on our anniversary I presented as a gift to her a young maid to help her with the housework. She is a young girl, of only seventeen years, who had recently made her way to England from France. The poor girl had been down on her luck and said she were to consider begging and other less than honorable actions to help pay for the necessities of life. Rather than let such a young, inexperienced girl out in the world, I chose instead to let her into my house. Yet she only helped my wife with the most basic of tasks, as Mrs. Bradstreet tends to be very forceful in her habits and claimed she thought the girl would be only trouble. Regardless, the maid helped to clean dishes and clothes, as well as a little cooking and cleaning. Although she didn't work as hard or as long as most women in her profession, I paid her most generously, as I couldn't bring myself to put more hardship on such an unfortunate young lady."
"Could you state the name of this young lady?"
"Jeanne Dinard."
"Thank you. Please continue."
"Well then, Mr. Holmes, came the most disgraceful action of my entire life. While my wife was out visiting her aunt, I was left alone with the young maid. It was a very cold night, and I was so very lonely… The maid had often eyed me, I will admit, but I never assumed she could ever be so… Open in her advances. But an illness had weakened my moral fibre, and… I will admit that I was guilty of forsaking my wedding vows and acting dishonorably against my wife. I shall spare you the details, but I would beg that you never reveal this fact to my wife. Her poor constitution couldn't take that sort of shock, and I honestly regret the disgusting action every waking moment."
"That is your sin, Mr. Bradstreet," said Sherlock Holmes, "But rest assured that I shall keep it quiet. When did this act take place?"
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. As for the time, it was only last Thursday. Now, I couldn't take the guilt of what I had done. And to make matters worse, the maid continued to warm to me, up to the point where she would often tell me when we were alone and if I desired her…! No, I couldn't stand it! I sacked the girl, and told her I could not bear her presence another day. I was so eager to get the whole affaire behind me; I didn't notice her own feelings. Apparently, she harbored some young, foolish feelings of love towards me, but that didn't sway my judgement. However, being a spiteful scorned young woman, she decided to inflict a wound onto me that would equal the wound I inflicted on her tender heart. She stole from my wife her precious jewelbox, and ran off into the night with it. And here's the rub, Mr. Holmes—I can not prove it. By thunder, I know that the girl stole it, but I have no proof. When I asked the police for assistance they looked into her lodgings but could find no trace of the box, and my complaints went unanswered and the crime committed on me unpunished. I want you to somehow help me retrieve this jewelbox before my wife arrives back from the aunt's house, as this jewelbox is her family's sole heirloom."
"Is it possible she merely sold the jewelbox?"
"No. She is of a romantic and passionate disposition, and to her the jewelbox must be a prize of priceless value. Regardless, she also hasn't the key to the box, so she would need to bash the lock to gain access to the gems."
"And you are absolutely sure of this fact?"
"I would wager my life upon it."
"She has new lodgings, does she not?"
"She stays at a boarding house in Lower Swandom-lane."
"I am familiar with that particular establishment. You are sure that she went there immediately after you had her sacked?"
"Yes."
"I understand. Very well, Mr. Bradstreet, I shall start my efforts to recover your wife's jewelbox immediately. I shall send word when I make progress in the case."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes! I shall await your response, then."
Mr. Bradstreet stood, gave a little bow, and left our chambers in a bit of a hurry. Sherlock Holmes stood up and picked his felt hat from a nearby table. "Well, Watson, fancy a small trip east?"
"Of course," I told my friend, "But I haven't had any supper."
"Ah, well, I'm afraid tonight you might just have to go wanting. This little affaire has more to it than first meets the eye, and I'm afraid we're going to have to act quickly if we're to discover the truth of this matter. I do hope that you'll excuse the lack of hospitality."
"Not at all," I said, grabbing my cloak, "I wasn't particularity hungry tonight anyway."
