An Excellent Mystery

aka The Adventure of the Lost Luggage

by Soledad

Fandom: Sherlock Holmes/Sherlock BBC

Genre: Action/Adventure

Rating: G, suitable for all

Series: none

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The modern version belongs to BBC and Messires Moffat and Gatiss. The items of the lost luggage were borrowed from this website: www. .uk/ lostluggage/ victorians. htm. Remove the breaks and you can see the actual items for yourself.

Summary: An original Sherlock Holmes adventure, featuring the main characters of the BBC series.

Beta read by my good friend Linda Hoyland, whom I owe my gratitude

Notes to Chapter 01:

The places mentioned in this chapter are really existing ones, like New Street Station or The Grand Hotel.

Inspector Bradstreet is actually Inspector Baynes of the ACD canon. I just switched the names because I liked the name Bradstreet better.

For visuals: Mr Roberts is "played" by Sir Derek Jacobi; his successor, Mr Stoner, by Kai Owen, his bride by Eve Myles, Mr Murdoch by Yannick Bisson and Harper, the footman. by Burn Gorman. The two porters are Thomas Craig and Johnny Harris, respectively.


Chapter 01 – Lost Luggage

For Station Superintendent Roberts there was no grander building in Birmingham than New Street Railway Station. Or, as it had been described when formally opened on 1 June 1854 – although it had already been in use for two years by then – the "Grand Central Station at Birmingham".

Oh, there had been other grand buildings, surely. There was The Grand Hotel on Colmore Row, St. Philip's Cathedral, the Theatre Royal... one could have gone on for hours. But Mr Roberts found that none of them could be compared with his beloved station.

A breath-taking piece of architecture it was, which, at the time of the opening, had the largest arched single-span iron and glass roof in the world, spanning a width of 212 feet and being 840 feet long. It had held this title for fourteen years, until St Pancras Station opened, just last year.

A true marvel that he, Lucius Roberts, had been allowed to take care of since the very first day.

For thirty-five long years he had been caretaker of this jewel and he'd loved every single day of it. But he wasn't a young man anymore. It was time to retire from active duty.

Today he'd finish instructing his successor on the duties and responsibilities of a Station Superintendent. And as much as the thought of handing over the station hurt him, he knew his jewel would be in good hands with young Mr Stoner.

Such a memorable day deserved the proper attire, and so he took out his best to honour the event, even though his valet had to go away on an errand and thus couldn't help him getting dressed. Fortunately, though elderly, he was no dotard yet. He could get dressed on his own properly. It just cost him more time without help, that was all.

Trousers and boots went on easily enough. He could do them sitting down, after all. Well, mostly. Getting the long, fine linen shirt over his head and tucked in properly, without those beastly wrinkles, was a little more difficult. He had to sit down again, for he felt a brief wave of dizziness. But eventually, he got the suspenders on and the waistcoat and its many small buttons and the jacket fastened.

Even if he dropped the button hook in the process. Twice.

He admired his appearance in the minor with satisfaction. Whatever he might think about the capricious changes of fashion, he had to admit that lately, it had taken a turn to the better. The narrowed trousers, the sleeker cut of jackets looked more appealing. Especially the way jackets were cut up from the bottom now, so that the waistcoat beneath could be seen – and, more importantly, the chin of the fob watch threaded through its buttonhole.

He made a very dignified picture with it, he found.

Now it was just him and the cravat. He hadn't tied it himself for a while and tried to remember the proper moves as he wound the deep burgundy silk around his throat carefully, ignoring the tremor in his hands... a merciless reminder that he was getting old; perhaps even feeble.

It took him several tries to get it right. But when it was done, when it was secured with the pin – a gift from his co-workers on his thirty-year-anniversary – he almost felt like himself again. Almost. Still, he wished his valet were here to make sure he looked as neat and proper as a man of his standing was expected to do.

Getting to the station was no great hardship, fortunately. The London and North Western Railway had provided him with most comfortable rooms above Queen's Hotel when he had moved from London to Birmingham, for which he only had to pay a peppercorn rent.

That had enabled him to save enough money to purchase a modest little cottage in Much Benham, a little town on the outskirts of London, where most of his belongings had been already transferred. By the time he got there, his servant would have arranged everything to his liking.

Young Harper was truly a treasure, he thought fondly. Albeit short, thin, weasel-faced and of sour disposition, he was also a loyal soul who had served his master faithfully for the last eighteen years. Ever since Mr Roberts had taken pity of the starving street urchin and taken him into his employ.

Yes, he had definitely been blessed with Harper. Just as he'd been fortunate with young Will Stoner who had started off as a minor clerk under his tutelage and was now ready to take over from him – a change towards which Mr Roberts had worked for a long time.

He had watched the young man carefully and tested his skills and devotion methodically time and again. He had reportedly mentioned Mr Stoner's capability in his written reports to his superiors. He had even called in several favours to ensure that Will Stoner would, indeed, become his successor – for the position of the Station Superintendent was a much-coveted one.

Fortunately, Will Stoner had contacts of his own. Both his father and that of his soon-to-be-wife occupied important positions in the City Council and the London and North Western Railway, respectively, and had therefore sufficient influence. Thus, he could count on more than just Mr Roberts's support, which might or might not have been enough to secure for him the position.


After some very careful manoeuvring down the stairs and around piled-up heaps of luggage, Mr Roberts reached the interior of the station and headed for the Lost Luggage Department, where he was supposed to meet Will Stoner.

As always, the aforementioned interior took his breath away. Its magnitude alone deserved attention. Its once record- breaking semi- circular roof was composed of iron and glass, without the slightest support except that afforded by the pillars on either side... a rare piece of construction by Messrs. Fox, Henderson & Co. And beneath that roof, the station was brimming with life.

Mr Roberts's experienced eye easily saw through the turmoil and bustle created by the excitement of the arrival and departure of trains, the trampling of crowds of passengers, the transport of luggage, the ringing of bells and the noise of two or three hundred porters and workmen. For a simple onlooker it probably seemed like hopeless chaos. For Mr Roberts, it was the same extraordinary scene he witnessed daily at Birmingham Central.

Porters, and workmen and clerks and even regular passengers greeted him with respect as they hurried by. He'd been a constant feature of New Street Station for decades, and everyone knew him.

Some of these people he'd known since they were small children, clutching the hands of their parents when seen their first steam train, and they saw him as a distant but friendly uncle. Others were new, but regular; and even those who didn't know him from before they stopped for a moment to give room his dignified figure.

As he crossed the footbridge across the platforms, slowly making his way towards the Lost Luggage Department – the last part of the station he had to hand over before the final farewell – he spotted young Mr Stoner waiting for him outside the office doors, under one of the beautiful, wrought iron candelabra that were the pride of the main hall.

The young man had also dressed to the event, wearing an old-fashioned frock coat with a contrasting waistcoat and trousers and even a top hat. Not that the latter would have been needed indoors, but it was part of the formal attire and thus a sign of respect .Most young people preferred the more fashionable sack coats with matching waistcoat and trousers, but Will Stoner would find that improper for such an occasion. The patterned Ascot tie was the only allowance he would make.

Half of Mr Roberts's age, he was a somewhat stockily built young man of middle height, with a round, friendly, eager face, guileless brown eyes and brown hair. Easy-going by nature yet respectful towards his betters, he was generally liked by everyone. He had worked hard and diligently to reach his current position, and as he looked at that face full of earnest expectation, Mr Roberts was once again reassured that his beloved station would be in good hands.

"Good morning, sir," he said, tipping his hat respectfully. "May I offer my help?"

"Thank you, my lad, but that shan't be necessary," replied Mr Roberts. "My walking stick and I can manage it on our own just fine."

No matter how much his gout had been bothering him lately, he would never show it by accepting the arm of the young man. That was simply not done in his – former – position.

Will Stoner nodded in understanding. He had known – and respected – the pride of his mentor ever since he'd begun to work at New Street Station nearly fourteen years ago.

"I hope you don't mind that I've invited Gwyneth – Miss Cooper – along," he then said apologetically. "She wanted to come badly, as soon as she learned that we'd be inspecting some lost luggage today. You know how interested women are in things that belong to other people... and we shan't be handling anything confidential."

Mr Roberts suppressed a sigh. Will's fiancée was a nice enough girl if one was interested in that wide-eyed type, but she was also an unstoppable chatterbox. That woman could talk without having to take a single breath all day... perhaps even in her sleep. How Will could bear her was everyone's guess, but he seemed completely besotted with her and couldn't deny her any wish as long as fulfilling said wish was within his powers.

Of course, the fact that her father had an important position at the London and North Western Railway and had been a great help with securing Will's position as the new Station Superintendent did play a role. That, and the fact that she brought a sizeable dowry into the marriage... well, the upcoming marriage.

The wedding was scheduled for June, and Mr Roberts had been invited, of course.

Therefore, he accepted the fact that their work would be considerably delayed by Miss Cooper's chatter and curiosity, and he entered the Lost Luggage office as the companion of his successor, determined to bring the last part of his duties to a proper end.

Inside the office, two of the porters had already done a great deal of preparatory work, sorting the pieces of lost luggage by the date at which they had been found. Mr Roberts had introduced the labelling system to this particular department a decade or so ago, for it made it much easier for passengers to reclaim their lost things.

The label marked the date and the platform when and where each piece had been found, as well as the trains that had stopped at the respective platforms at that time. This system made things really easy for both parties. Nevertheless, there was still a great deal of luggage that remained unclaimed.


At the moment, about three dozen suitcases and travelling trunks stood in the office, in small, well-ordered groups, plus a considerable number of walking sticks, umbrellas, children's toys, various pieces of clothing like hats, gloves, overcoats, jackets and their like; even handbags and handkerchiefs. The amount and variety of things people left behind was simply amazing.

And amidst of all those things stood Miss Gwyneth Elise Cooper, looking very out of place but clearly intent on looking into every trunk, every suitcase, every lost handbag, should she be allowed to do so.

She was a slender young woman – considerably younger than Will – with a round, freckled face and unexpectedly large, liquid brown eyes that contrasted nicely with her pale skin, which she'd clearly inherited from her Welsh father. Her hair was dark brown, too, and she wore it in a cluster of ringlets, pulled back at the sides and swept up to the top of her head. Her frizzled fringe hung over her forehead from under the curvy-brimmed bonnet that was tied under her chin with a ribbon.

She was wearing a yellow-patterned blue silk walking dress of the latest fashion, with the overskirt plated into a seam-line on one side at the front and draped diagonally across her body to a low set of hip tucks on the sides. The back of it was gathered in several low-hanging puffs, causing the overskirt to sweep up rather high, leaving the underskirt exposed. Her form-fitting bodice had a fairly low cut and tight sleeves that reached to the elbows and were seamed with ruffles.

Even though he welcomed the disappearance of the overdone bustles, Mr Roberts found this new fashion a little offensive, to be perfectly honest. But despite the fact that he hadn't got a family of his own, he knew that there was no way to tell a young woman not to wear something if they found it to their liking.

Especially if their friends wore the same things. And if their fathers could afford to dress them fashionably.

Miss Cooper gave the old gentleman a curtsey and one of those gap-toothed smiles that made her so endearing, in spite of her more exasperating qualities.

"So kind of you to allow me to watch, Mr Roberts," she said with ill-concealed excitement. "I cannot wait to see what you might find!"

Mr Roberts rolled his eyes. Some women – usually those of wealthy houses who didn't need to work for a living – could be so unbearably childish sometimes. Still, he had only to endure Miss Cooper for this one morning. Unlike poor Will, who had chosen to spend his whole life with her – something that Mr Roberts still couldn't quite understand.

"Let's start with the older pieces," he said to the porters instead. "Everything that's been here longer than five years is unlikely to be claimed, so – unless there is an address within or anything else to help in finding the owner – they'll be given to charity. There are too many penniless families in this city in desperate need for clothing, even if it has been worn by someone else."

The older one of the porters, by the name of Broadhurst, a heavily built man with an almost alarmingly red face and bristly whiskers, who'd been at New Street Station for almost as long as Mr Roberts himself, nodded in understanding.

"The oldest pieces are over there, in the right-hand corner," he answered with a thick Yorkshire accent. "D'you want me to open them for you one by one, sir?"

"That would be the best," agreed Mr Roberts. "That way we can search them for clues in peace, while Crabtree here can help Mr Stoner deal with the newer ones."

The younger porter, a fresh-faced lad in his early twenties, dutifully followed his orders, and for the next couple of hours they were all unpacking and re-packing the trunks and suitcases… with the enthusiastic help of Miss Cooper who didn't seem to mind the years-old dust soiling her fashionable dress. Her curiosity was clearly stronger than her vanity, at least for the moment.

Most of the aforementioned trunks and suitcases – especially the more recently found ones – had a label on the inside of their lids with the name and the address of their owner, or some calling cards, or a couple of letters with full addresses on the envelope among the pieces of clothing. Mr Murdoch, the clerk of the Lost Luggage Department (another one of Mr Robert's protégées) meticulously noted all the names and addresses, together with the type of luggage and the date of their finding, on his inventory list.

At New Street Station everything had its proper order and was done with the proper care. Mr Roberts had seen into it for the last thirty-five years, and the results showed.


Lunchtime drew close and they were nearly finished when Broadhurst heaved the last two pieces onto the counter. One of them was a travelling trunk from the type daughters of middle-class families had taken with them for longer journeys abroad fifteen or twenty years previously: a flat-topped trunk, four feet eleven inches wide and one foot eight inches deep and high.

It clearly had seen some wear and tear because the brown leather covering it was faded quite a bit and the small brass nails with which it was studded along the edges had become tarnished and dull, as well as the large, square clasp that closed the lid. Two leather straps, also closing with brass buckles, served to help keeping the lid fixed, but one of the straps was broken, half of it missing. The leather handle in the centre of the lid was equally worn.

The suitcase, considerably smaller than the trunk was in even worse condition. The cheap covering was peeled off in several places, especially at the corners, and the frayed handle was tightly wrapped with a piece of string to give it more stability.

According to the labels stuck onto them by station personnel, they were both found on the same day, on the same platform: on September 16th, 1879. The platform had been the one for the train coming from London and heading to the north.

"I remember these," said Mr Roberts. "I noticed them left on the platform after the train had steamed out again on its way north. I was already a senior clerk back then, so I had them brought to Mr Murdoch's predecessor. They were placed in the Lost Luggage Department until somebody came to claim them."

"Yet no-one came, apparently," commented Mr Murdoch softly.

Mr Roberts nodded. "No, they did not. I intended to open them a few weeks later and find out as much as I could, so that the owner might be traced, but I a few days later I was promoted to Station Superintendent, and there was so much to do for a while until I learned how to run things smoothly that I forgot about the whole thing."

"So they've been collecting dust here for the last ten years and no-one ever asked after them?" asked Miss Cooper in surprise. "Why wouldn't people want their possessions back?"

Mr Roberts shrugged. "That could have been a number of reasons, Miss Gwyneth. We shan't know more till we open them and take a look."

"We might want Constable Davies present as witness while we are doing that, sir," suggested Will Stoner seriously. "These things may belong to someone who's fallen victim to a crime; and in that case it would be better for the police to see the contents first hand."

Mr Roberts gave him a look full of almost paternal pride.

"An excellent suggestion, Will. Mr Murdoch, if you would give the police a call…"


Some of the new inventions were really a blessing, Mr Roberts mused, while Mr Murdoch competently phoned the nearby police station to call Constable Davies to the case. Phones, for example. In his youth, he'd have had to send an errand boy and wait for an answer for quite some time. Phones did the deed within minutes.

Within another twenty minutes or so arrived Constable Davies, a tall, tow-headed, curly-haired uniformed policeman in his early thirties, who usually dealt with problems concerning New Street Station. He came in with his helmet under his arm, radiating friendliness as was his wont.

In fact, he was the most amiable policeman Mr Roberts had seen in his whole long life. And very polite, too.

"Good day, Mr Roberts," he beamed at the elderly gentleman. "How may I help you, sir?"

Then he spotted Miss Cooper and his expression clouded immediately.

"Has there been a… a situation, sir?" he asked delicately.

A situation usually meant that a lady of gentle breeding might have been caught doing something completely inappropriate for her standing and the utmost discretion was required to deal with the case.

Stealing was the most frequent offence. Some gentlemen thought that holding their wives and daughters on a short leash – financially – would be the right thing to do. Some of those wives and daughters, however, weren't too happy with that and tried to help themselves as best as they could. Such unfortunate affairs were always difficult to handle. More so if the family were truly prominent.

Another frequent problem was runaway maids, travelling with the stolen property of their mistresses, pretending to be ladies. Or pleasure women on the look-out for possible customers, molesting the gentlemen travelling alone on the train.

learly, the latter possibilities would be… well, impossible in the case of such a well-known young lady as Miss Cooper. Money, though, could lead the most valorous people on the bent way, and Constable Davies was not looking forward to the necessity of persecuting somebody of Miss Cooper's standing.

Fortunately for him, Mr Roberts reassured him in a great hurry.

"Oh, no! Nothing like that, my dear Constable! All we need is an official witness while we open a few pieces of lost luggage that had not been claimed for ten years.

The blue eyes of Constable Davies lit up in relief – and with professional interest – upon hearing that.

"Do you believe that something might have happened to the owners?" he asked.

"We don't know," admitted Will Stoner. "At least the trunk must have belonged to a woman of a middle-class family, by the look of it. She might have died, she might have run off with an… er… unsuitable fellow in a bout of youthful rebellion. Whatever the case may be, her family would appreciate getting her belongings back."

"I imagine they would," said Constable Davies agreeably. "Well, then, who shall do the honours?"

"I'll leave it to Will's – Mr Stoner's – capable hands," replied Mr Roberts. "After all, this is his station now."

"Thank you, Mr Roberts, sir!"

Beaming with pride, Will Stoner fished a small folding knife from his coat pocket, carefully inserted the tip into the opening of the clasp and tried to turn it. After a couple of tries, the clasp finally gave and they could lift the lid of the trunk.

It was only three quarters full, the contents covered with some white material that was probably a neatly folded petticoat, the corners tucked in. On top of the cover lay a lady's narrow-brimmed top hat, made of grey silk and a pair of grey kid leather gloves, the glove stretchers still stuck in the fingers.

But what caught Constable Davies's attention at once was a long, narrow, cream-coloured envelope. It was addressed to a certain Mr W. Spice in Hawkhurst; but when the Constable opened it, the latter within was written for a woman.

"It's from The Grand Hotel, here in Birmingham," he said in surprise. „They acknowledge a reservation for the 6th of September1789. Unfortunately, the name of the woman that had made the reservation is not here."

"Perhaps if we ask the personnel of The Grand Hotel," suggested Miss Cooper.

"It is unlikely that anyone would remember," argued Will Stoner. "It's been ten years..."

But Mr Murdoch shook his head.

"They would still have a guest book, or a list of reservations," he said. "Every good hotel has one; and The Grand Hotel is one of the best in Birmingham."

"Then The Grand Hotel it is where the inquiries should be continued," decided Mr Roberts. "However, that is the business of the police from here onwards. Close the trunk again, Will; we should not touch that which might be considered evidence."

"But-but we haven't seen yet what else is in the trunk!" protested Miss Cooper.

"No; and we shan't do so, either," answered Mr Roberts a little sharply. "We do have what we need: a direction in which the police can continue their investigation. There is no need to go through a lady's personal belongings. That would be most improper."

Miss Cooper pouted unhappily, but this was still Mr Roberts's battlefield – at least for the moment – and he was adamant to respect the unknown woman's privacy. Will Stoner therefore closed the trunk with the help of his pocket knife again, and Constable Davies promised to have it brought to the police station, where it would be kept secure till the end of the investigation.

"And now for the suitcase," ordered Mr Roberts.

Will Stoner's trusted pocket knife did the trick again; the suitcase could be opened without any great effort. Will lifted the lid, and for a moment, they all had an odd déjà vu experience.

Once again, the contents of the suitcase were covered with some white fabric; this time a man's nightshirt.

Once again, the corners were tucked in neatly, with almost military accuracy.

And once again, a long, narrow, cream-coloured envelope lay on top of the white cover.

"That is... odd," muttered Constable Davies.

"Perhaps we should take a closer look at the envelope," suggested Miss Cooper.

She was reaching for it already when the stern voice of Mr Roberts stopped her.

"I believe we should leave that to Constable Davies, Miss Gwyneth," said the old gentleman in a tone that brooked no argument.

Miss Cooper huffed in annoyance but did not try to snatch the letter for herself, as had clearly been her first intention.

Constable Davies picked up the envelope gingerly, as if he were afraid that it might burn his fingers, and looked at the sender address first.

"Well, I'll be damned!" he cried in surprise; only to apologise in the first moment profoundly. "Sorry, Miss Cooper. I'm truly sorry. I was caught by surprise for a moment. This letter, too, is from The Grand Hotel, it seems."

Opening the envelope, he pulled out an official-looking letter and skimmed it briefly.

"Yes, indeed," he then said. "It's written by the hotel keeper, offering a certain Mr Anderson the position of the night porter. And what's even more interesting: he was supposed to start working on the 6th of September 1879."

"On the very same day for which the unknown woman reserved a room," added Mr Roberts thoughtfully. „That cannot be a coincidence."

"Hardly," Mr Murdoch agreed. "Even less so as both pieces of luggage were found on the same day, on the same platform, only ten days later. There has to be a connection!"

"There most likely is," said Mr Roberts. "And that is why we shall hand over both the trunk and the suitcase to the police. If anything untoward happened to either of those people ten years ago – or to both of them – it is up to the police to find out what it was."

"Right so, Mr Roberts, sir," said Constable Davies gravely. „I shall have both things taken to the police station at once. Inspector Bradstreet enjoys a good mystery, and he's right good at solving them, too."

"Bradstreet... Bradstreet..." Mr Roberts tried to will his memory to cooperate. Strangely enough, he found it easier to remember people and things from the more distant past than recent events. „Wasn't he with the Sussex force before?"

"Until he married the missus, yes" supplied Constable Davies helpfully. "He's been here for the last year and a half already."

"A peerless fellow, that man," added Mr Murdoch gravely. "We were lucky to get him when that terrible Inspector Jones went to Scotland Yard. At least now we shan't have to worry that we might be arrested on a whim, just because the Inspector of Station House Three is having a bad day."

"Oh, come on, Mr Murdoch, he wasn't that bad!" protested Will Stoner, but Mr Murdoch just shook his head grimly.

"Oh yes, he was. Tenacious as a lobster, I shall give him that much, but more often wrong than not, and never ready to admit when he was wrong."

The two porters, the Constable and even Mr Roberts stared at him in surprise. This was the largest speech any of them ever heard from the quiet, mild-mannered clerk. Inspector Athelney Jones must have made a lasting impression on him.

Constable Davies made a mental note to find out what the conflict between Mr Murdoch might have been. It was always useful to know such things.

"Right, then," he finally said. "Thank you for bringing this to our attention. I shall send over someone this afternoon to bring everything to the police station, and we'll look into it as soon as Inspector Bradstreet has a moment."

"Thank you, Constable," replied Mr Roberts. "And should you find out anything about the fate of the owners…"

"I shall inform you, sir," promised Davies.

Then, with a courteous farewell to all, he was gone.


"Well," said Mr Roberts," it seems we are done here, too. It was more interesting than expected, but I am relieved that it is over, all the same. I cannot deal with too much excitement at my age. All this is yours now, Will," he added, with a sweeping gesture towards the station, and if his eyes were a bit too bright while doing so, everyone pretended that they hadn't noticed it.

"Thank you, sir," answered Will Stoner with feeling. "I shall take good care of everything for you, I promise."

"I know you will, my boy. I know you will," Mr Roberts stood and grabbed his walking stick. "Well, I must be off. Much to do before I move, and Harper has gone to prepare my new home for me, so I'm on my own."

"Crabtree could go with you and help," offered Will, and the younger porter nodded eagerly. But Mr Roberts shook his head.

"You young people have your own work to do; and as of from now, I shan't have anything else to do. Nothing else in the world; nothing but time that has to be filled somehow."

He swallowed hard, then collected himself and walked out of the Lost Luggage office without a backward glance.

~TBC~