THE UNOPENED CASEBOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES:

The Purloined Papyrus

Being a reprint from the reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D., late of the Army Medical Department

Edited by Callum J. Stewart

I

Mr. Sherlock Holmes is many things, but an early riser he most assuredly is not. It came, therefore, as no surprise to me to find the sitting room at our lodgings at 221B Baker Street empty when I returned from my morning walk that brisk December morning in 1895, despite the fact that it was almost noon.

Spreading the morning paper out on the table, I became engrossed in the cricket scores when I suddenly felt a presence at my shoulder and heard a voice intone, "Surrey holding their own against Kent, I see."

Turning around to see Holmes peering over my shoulder, I almost leaped out of skin. "Holmes!" I exclaimed, "how long have you been standing there?"

"Not long, my dear fellow, not long. There is something more interesting in today's newspaper than cricket scores however."

"Just more on these blasted Egyptian robberies, Holmes," I said, turning back to the front page. "A collection of something called canopic jars from the British Museum last year, an effigy of an Egyptian god from an antique dealer, an engraved stone from the temple of Karnak from a private collector and now -"

"Yes, yes," Holmes interrupted, "I know all of this. Turn to page 12."

I did so and was surprised to see a small article penned by none other than Holmes himself. "Holmes," said I, "you haven't turned your hand to journalism?"

"Don't be absurd, man" Holmes scolded. "Are you reading it?"

"Well, of course, old fellow!" I replied, my eyes darting across the page.

"Well stop," Holmes said, slamming his hand down over the type. "Stop, Watson, at least until you have read this." Holmes produced an envelope and held it in front of me. I took it from him and read the contents as he walked across to the fireplace.

"This fellow could make a fortune in Harley Street with his handwriting," I said, squinting to read the few scrawled lines. The only thing I could make out without too much effort was the signature. "Why, Holmes!" I exclaimed. "This is from Lord Bentley Hardcastle, the world famous explorer!"

Holmes merely nodded.

"My dear sir," I read, "I have enclosed a piece of ancient Egyptian papyrus upon which is written the words of the sacred scroll of life. The ancients believed these words would restore life after death. Perhaps we can meet when I am next in London. Until then I remain yours sincerely, Lord Bentley Hardcastle. PS - as you requested I have also returned the letter you sent me, please find it enclosed."

After I had finished reading the letter I turned to see Holmes standing by the fireplace holding a scrap of withered paper over his eyes and grinning broadly. I laughed as he danced across the room and placed the paper in front of me.

"The papyrus in question" Holmes said triumphantly. "What, friend Watson, do you make of that?"

"I make nothing of it at all Holmes other than it is very old, evidentially Egyptian and is adorned with hieroglyphics I could not hope to decipher. What's this all about, Holmes?"

Holmes pointed to his article in the newspaper. "Read. And understand."

The article (if one could describe it as such) was exactly as I would've expected it to be: precise, direct and to the point - very much like the man who wrote it (when he wasn't in one of the rare whimsical moods he was in now). It merely said that Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street had come into possession of a valuable piece of Egyptian papyrus and the rightful owner could claim it at the aforementioned address.

"Are you sure this is wise, Holmes?"

"Advertising the fact that you have an Egyptian artefact in your possession in the midst of a series of robberies of such artefacts? Of course it's not wise, Watson."

"Then why do such a thing?"

Holmes threw his arms up and sighed in despair. "Watson, Watson, have I taught you nothing? Surely, by osmosis alone, you would have picked up something of my methods by now!"

I thought for a moment and then remembered the case I named "A Study In Scarlet" and how an advertisement in the newspaper started that adventure. "Of course, Holmes, how thunderously stupid of me. You intend to lie in wait and catch the burglar red handed!"

"Don't be ridiculous Watson. The identity of the burglar is of no consequence."

"Whatever do you mean" I enquired.

"Whoever he may be, the burglar is a common and petty sort of crook and as such cannot be in this caper for himself. A criminal of his calibre - the crude, breaking and entering class of criminal all too common in this great city - would not steal artefacts from ancient Egypt. Such things are hard to sell on and as such are useless to him. No, he must be working for another. The identity of his employer is what I intend to find out, my dear fellow."

"Astounding Holmes. Whilst every policeman in London is searching for the robber, you alone are searching for his employer."

"Precisely right. Now, what time is it? The great cellist Jean-Pierre Duport is giving a recital this afternoon and I wish for us to attend."

"Then on to the St. James for a spot of supper and back here to lie in wait for our man."

"Capital!" Holmes cried. "It seems our day is set out. Allow me a few moments to become more presentable and we shall be off. This should be a memorable day!"

II

All afternoon Holmes sat in perfect contentment as Duport, the undoubted master of his art, gave his recital. After a delightful supper at the St. James, we arrived back at 221B in high spirits and good cheer. Holmes' light demeanour changed, however, immediately upon setting foot over the threshold and the fire I have often seen when, to use his own expression, the "game is afoot", burned in his eyes.

"Light, Watson! We must have light!"

I complied with Holmes' wishes and turned on the gas. The room filled with light as Holmes busied himself with preparing the room for our inevitable visitor.

"Our man tonight will be a common criminal and as such will be careless. His employer, whomever he might be, will also be a somewhat careless sort as he will not have undertaken any sort of criminal venture before."

"However do you know that, Holmes? The identity of the man is unknown to us - for all we know the devil himself could be behind this."

Holmes scoffed and said, "Watson, Watson, as usual your eyes are open and yet you see nothing. Question - when, in the past, has there been a crime spree of this nature, specifically the theft of Egyptian artefacts?"

"Well," said I, "never, but that doesn't mean the man behind this hasn't a criminal past. He could be selling the objects on, as with the artwork stolen from the Louvre a few years ago."

"I despair sometimes, I really do. Think, Watson!"

I did so and realised that we had not heard of any Egyptian artefacts being put up for sale either legitimately or on the black market. I said so to Holmes, but pointed out that just because we had not heard of any such sales did not mean that none had taken place.

Holmes laughed and began filling his pipe from the Persian slipper on the mantle. "How correct you are, my dear fellow. We may not know of any such illegitimate sales of antiques, but rest assured, my network of juvenile spies - the Baker Street Irregulars - would. They are the very eyes and ears of this great city, as well you know Watson and can glean information from sources that you or I would be unable to even get close to. Two fully grown men, one as recognisable as myself thanks to your reporting of our past cases, would be shown the door instantly in any black market trading place in London, but the Irregulars can pass unnoticed and unheeded. I have asked the Irregulars for their assistance and not a one has reported anything back to me, it is therefore safe to infer from this that there is nothing to report, for Wiggins and the rest are as loyal to me as you are. As for legitimate sales, by auction or otherwise would have been reported in the newspapers and," Holmes waved a hand towards the ever-growing stack of daily papers on the table, "they have not. So you see, Watson, no sales - legitimate or otherwise - of Egyptian antiquities have taken place."

"Well," said I, sitting opposite Holmes who had by now curled up in his favourite chair, "you have an answer for everything."

A smile danced fleetingly on my friend's lips. "And now, my dear fellow, let us smoke and then retire. We will no doubt be roused from our slumber at some point in the night. It is imperative that we ignore the burglar. He will not steal anything of value from our personal effects, so we need not worry about that. He will come for one thing and one thing alone." Holmes sprung with catlike agility from his chair and whipped the papyrus from the desk drawer. He made sure to cover the wax bust of himself he had made the previous year to trick Colonel Sebastian Moran - a tale I recounted in "The Adventure of the Empty House." I smiled at the memory of that case - and at the remembered joy of discovering my friend had not died at Reichenbach - and picked up the book I was reading. Holmes placed the scrap of papyrus almost reverently on the sideboard and then walked to the door, opened it and shut off the lights leaving me sitting in darkness.

"I'll finish my book in bed then, shall I?" I said.

"An excellent idea, Watson."

Walking through the darkened room towards the door I asked Holmes if he was quite certain the intruder wouldn't steal anything other than the papyrus. Holmes merely laughed and bade me goodnight. As I trudged up the stairs to my room I heard Holmes, his voice like thunder, shouting.

"Mrs. Hudson!?" he roared, "we are to be burgled tonight! Pray do not make a scene!"

III

The net morning I awoke to find that, much to my surprise, I had slept soundly through the night. I had half expected to be roused by a window breaking or a thud on the landing, but, quite the opposite, it was Holmes who woke me. He was standing, fully dressed at the foot of my bed and as I blearily opened my eyes he smiled at me warmly.

"It is as I predicted. Come."

Dressing as quickly as I could I joined Holmes in the sitting room where he was examining a small hair under his magnifying glass. "Ah, Watson, good morning. What do you make of this?"

Handing me both glass and hair, I studied it closely for a moment or two then, applying Holmes' methods, held it to my nose and inhaled. It held a very faint smell, but one which I recognised as being the product I used to use on my moustache when I was still a rakish young officer in the 66th Foot. Remembering our previous run-ins with the hair's undoubted former owner, I offered forth the identity of the burglar as Jimmy "the gent" Hastings, a tall, rakish, self-styled "Jack the Lad" and burglar of some repute.

"Excellent, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed. "You are, I must admit, becoming quite the detective."

Enjoying this rare moment of praise, I neglected to mention that fact that in all probability the hair would have almost certainly have escaped my notice in the first place. Changing the subject from my own limited skills of deduction, I asked Holmes what our next course of action was to be.

"We must speak with Hastings, of course, Watson and from there find out the identity of his benefactor." Holmes snapped his head around as if reacting to some sound that had been inaudible to my ears. "Mrs. Hudson has today's paper, Watson. Perhaps it would be worth our while to pursue it for developments in this case before setting out."

"Holmes," said I, "however can you know that Mrs. Hudson has -"

I was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson's knock on the door. "Papers, Mr. Holmes" she called. Holmes leapt over the sofa and opened the door as he had done so many times in the past. He reached out his hand, took the papers with a dismissive "thank you, Mrs. Hudson" and closed the door before the poor woman could enter. He threw the papers upon the rug before prostrating himself on the floor next to them, devouring the printed words like a lion devours a zebra carcass. He was silent for the next few minutes before he let out a small yet triumphant "ha!" and jumped to his feet.

"Holmes swung his coat round his shoulders as he swept past me and on down the stairs. "Get your hat!" he called over his shoulder.

By the time I had retrieved my hat and coat, Holmes was already outside hailing down a cab. I caught up with him just as one pulled up and as we climbed in and Holmes shouted "Scotland Yard" to the driver, I asked how we would go about finding Hastings.

"There was a exceedingly small notice on page 27 of the Daily Telegraph today, so small in fact that I am bound to admit that it almost escaped my notice, that stated that our old friend Inspector Forrester has been questioning Hastings on an unrelated matter. If anyone will know where "the gent" is, it will be Forrester."

IV

Inspector Forrester had not much changed since the last time Holmes and I had dealings with him, during the 1887 case I called "The Adventure of the Reigate Squire." In his office at Scotland Yard, he told us that Hastings had lodgings in South Kensington and that he was a reformed character who had been acting as an informer, keeping Forrester abreast of happenings in the criminal underworld. I was about to tell Forrester that he would be well advised to keep a closer eye on his "informer" but Holmes silenced me with a glance. He smiled and graciously thanked the inspector and, taking my arm, fairly dragged me out into the street. He paced the side of the road like a caged beast, his finger placed upon pursed lips and his face a scowl of deep contemplation.

"To South Kensington, Holmes?" I suggested only for Holmes to spin around in almost in a fury.

"Watson," Holmes hissed, "have you no eyes, man? Confound it, as always you have seen everything that I have and yet you have observed nothing."

Taken aback by the venom in Holmes' voice, I said "that comment is beneath you, Holmes."

Holmes stopped pacing and said softly, "my apologies, my dear friend." I nodded and Holmes continued as if the momentary fall out had never happened. Holmes had a habit of doing this and it made it difficult to stay angry with him. "We do not need to visit James Hastings, as he is merely a pawn in a much bigger game. Onto Inspector Forrester. Forrester had several indications of singular interest upon his person as well as in the office in which we sat. The first was the mud upon his shoes, a red clay that is found in several parts of this fair city, notably in South Kensington. This fact, however, is of no great importance since by Forrester's own admission he has been working with Jimmy Hastings . Secondly and more importantly, the papers which lay strewn across Forrester's desk were all concerned with a single subject - ancient Egypt."

"Well, that proves nothing except that Forrester is investigating the Egyptian robberies" said I.

"Not so. I glanced at the duty roster on the wall as we entered and it showed that Gregson and Forbes are assigned to the Egyptian robberies."

"So perhaps Bradstreet or Forbes are sharing Forrester's office?"

"Perhaps. Thirdly and most interestingly, despite it being December, the window of Forrester's office was wide open."

"You're right, it was almost freezing in there. Forrester was smoking, however. Perhaps he was trying to empty the room of the odour of smoke? He did, I seem to recall, stub out his cigarette and use a newspaper to waft the smoke towards the window. Maybe he was just being a courteous host."

"No, no, that's not it. Thanks to your chronicling of my cases it is common knowledge that I am something of a connoisseur of tobacco, so Forrester would have no reason to rid the room of smoke on my account. It was something altogether more damning. I would wager a fiver that you scented the tobacco before the last of it was wafted out the window?"

"Well, yes, but -"

Holmes interrupted, "I would further wager a further fiver that you could not place the smell. It did not smell like any tobacco you have ever encountered, am I not correct?"

We had begun walking along the street back to Baker Street; the cold was doing my old wound no good at all but since Holmes was caught up in thought I thought it best not to distract him by suggesting we hail a cab. All this talk of tobacco had evidently made Holmes hungry for some himself and he lit a cigarette and blow the smoke out in jets through his nostrils as we walked down the snow covered streets. I thought for a moment about the smell of Forrester's tobacco and had to admit defeat. I challenged Holmes to name the tobacco, then instantly regretted it remembering Holmes' monograph to which he had given the snappy title of 'Upon the Distinction between Ashes of the Various Tobaccos.'

A playful grin spread across Holmes' face as he said "the tobacco, my dear old chap, is a brand called Tabagh. You have never heard of it."

"I admit that I have not."

"You cannot be blamed for that, friend Watson, for it is neither manufactured nor sold in this country."

I stopped walking and snapped my fingers with a cry of "Egypt!"

"Precisely," Holmes said, coolly. "Let us review. Hastings broke into 221B and stole the papyrus sent to me by Lord Bentley Hardcastle. Forrester and Hastings are, by Forrester's own admission are working together. Forrester has been studying ancient Egypt, as evidenced by the papers on his desk, and has either spent time in, or currently has a connection in Egypt, as evidenced by his use of Tabagh tobacco."

"So Inspector Forrester is behind the thefts?"

"The evidence would seem to suggest that that is the case. However, my deductions are not proof. Have you any plans for this evening?"

"Well," said I, "I had planned to take my publisher to dinner to discuss -"

Holmes interrupted, "Watson," he sighed, "must you insist on publishing your lurid accounts of our cases?" He gave a dismissive wave of his hand and said, with an air of finality, "your publisher can wait. I require your assistance to spin the web in which we will catch our spider. Now, my dear fellow, let us hail a cab. This cold must be playing havoc with your injury" and with that Holmes bounded across the street to wave down a hansom.

V

We arrived back at 221B Baker Street a short while later and, rather than go to our rooms, Holmes stood on the threshold and let out a piercing whistle which brought Baker Street to a standstill as all on the street turned to look at Holmes. Embarrassed, I silently prayed for the ground to swallow me up but Holmes merely smiled.

"Whatever did you do that for, Holmes?" I hissed as the street went back to its business and, in answer, Holmes pointed to a street urchin I recognised as Wiggins, the leader of the Baker Street Irregulars, running shoelessly towards us.

"Wiggins!" Holmes exclaimed, "follow the doctor and myself upstairs, there's a good chap."

Holmes entered 221B and, followed by myself and Wiggins walked up the seventeen steps that led to our rooms. Glancing behind me at the trail of mud Wiggins was leaving on the stairs I could imagine Mrs. Hudson's reaction when she saw it. Holmes threw his coat in the general direction of his chair and pulled his mouse coloured dressing gown over his shoulders before turning to Wiggins.

"Now, my boy, there's a shilling with your name on it if you can find Inspector Tobias Gregson of Scotland Yard and bring him here within one hour. Get him here within half an hour and I'll give you a guinea."

Wiggins eyes lit up like coals. "A guinea, Mr. Holmes?"

"A guinea," Holmes repeated. "But only if Inspector Gregson is standing before me within half an hour."

Wiggins scampered off to search for the man Holmes ones described as "the smartest of the Scotland Yarders" (but, given Holmes' opinion of the Scotland Yard men, this was hardly sweeping praise) as Holmes flung himself into his chair and lit a pipe.

"How do you intend to establish Forester's guilt, Holmes?" said I, sitting opposite my friend and lighting my own pipe.

"He will never admit that he is the man behind the robberies of his own free will" Holmes said.

"Obviously" I interjected.

"I require solitude, Watson. I appreciate it is cold, but would you please wait for Inspector Gregson at the door? When he arrives head to Scotland Yard and find a place of concealment in Forester's office and wait for me there. Oh, Watson, don't make that face, here's Wiggins' guinea for when he returns, there's a good fellow."

The prospect of waiting for Gregson in the December snow did not appeal to me, but Holmes was not to be argued with so, reluctantly, I wrapped a woollen scarf around my neck and waited on the doorstep for Gregson. After a short wait, a hansom pulled up carrying the Inspector and Wiggins who, guinea in hand scampered off as I climbed into the cab and we took off towards Scotland Yard. As we drove down the street, I glanced up at our window and saw the familiar silhouette of Holmes in his chair, his pipe hanging from his mouth obviously deep in thought. I kept my eyes on the figure in the window until we rounded the corner at the end of Baker Street and thundered off towards Scotland Yard.

VI

"What's this about, doctor?" Gregson asked as we rattled across the cobbled streets towards Scotland Yard.

"Holmes has reason to believe that your colleague Forrester is implicated in the Egyptian robberies that you and Forbes are investigating" I said. Gregson's face lit up and he asked me to explain. I recounted the events of the day to him and he sat silent for a moment.

"The evidence certainly seems somewhat persuasive. I have always known that Forester had an interest in Egypt - many people do, but I never would have linked him to these robberies. What interests me is the fact that Jimmy "the gent" Hastings and Forester are working together - and I know for a fact that Hastings is in no way the reformed character Forester told you he is, why only last week one of my men had a run-in with Hastings."

The large Scotland Yard building loomed in the distance and Gregson and I formulated our plan. We would, as Holmes had instructed, make our way into Forester's office and lie in wait for…what? Holmes' arrival? I wished he hadn't been so secretive, but I trusted that he had a plan, whatever that plan might be. For our part, the only snag in our plan was the fact that Forester had not yet left for home. The hansom pulled up outside the Yard building behind a cab that was idling by the pavement and we alighted, paid the cabby and entered the building. Forester was still in his office and, seeing no way in without being detected, Gregson and I sat in the office next to Forester's and waited for an opening. We did not have to wait long until a uniformed officer knocked on Forester's door and told him there was a gentleman wishing to see him. Forester grumbled and followed the officer downstairs.

Seizing our opportunity, Gregson and I rushed into Forester's office and secreted ourselves in the shadows. No sooner had I installed myself into my hiding place and watched Gregson do the same next to me when Forester returned with his visitor - none other than Jimmy "the gent" Hastings - tall, rakish and his hair and moustache impeccably pomaded, but despite his dapper appearance, his stumbling gait betrayed the fact that he was drunk. Hastings slammed the door behind him and struck the desk with his fist.

"Where's my money, Forester?" Hastings asked, his voice raised in a shout. Forrester, for his part looked confused.

"But I've already paid you, Hastings" Forester said, uncomprehending.

"Not for the last job. Not for Baker Street."

"Hastings, I have paid you for every job you have undertaken for me - paid you well enough that you can afford to go to the Crown and Arms and get stinking drunk."

"I'm not drunk" slurred Hastings unconvincingly, "and I demand what is rightfully mine."

"A lot of talk," Gregson whispered almost imperceptibly, "but nothing in the way of a confession."

Hastings lurched unsteadily towards Forester, his fists clenched. "I broke into the British Museum to bring you some clay pots! I broke into a private residence to bring you a carved slab! I broke into the home of Sherlock bloody Holmes to bring you a scrap of paper and you refuse to pay me!"

"I have paid you well for each and every artefact you have brought me!" Forester said, his voice even. "We have a deal, Hastings. You acquire the artefacts that I require, and I pay you for your trouble."

"That'll do, nicely" Gregson whispered before standing up and revealing himself to Forester and Hastings. Hastings drunkenly pulled a revolver from his coat pocket but before he could put it to use, I sprang from my hiding place and wrestled Hastings to the floor. My task was not a difficult one thanks to the landlord of the Crown and Arms and Hastings fell to the floor without too much effort. Forester, on the other hand was sober and able to make a dash for freedom, leaping across the desk towards the door. Gregson was too slow and I too occupied with Hastings to stop him and so Forester made it through the door. Occupied as I was with keeping Hastings from shooting, I did not witness what followed, but Gregson paints the amusing picture of Forester running down the hallway looking over his shoulder rather than looking where he was going and running full pelt into Inspector Lestrade who was on his way home. Forester was knocked unconscious when he fell to the floor and Lestrade was overjoyed to have "apprehended" a fleeing criminal.

As Forester was dragged away, Gregson and Lestrade joined me in the office where Hastings had now begun to grapple with me and was clawing at the floor in an attempt to reach his revolver. Lestrade and Gregson assisted me and we hauled Jimmy "the gent" to his feet. Lestrade snapped a pair of W. V. Adams' handcuffs onto Hastings' wrists. Hastings gave Lestrade a withering look and turned to Gregson

"I would be greatly indebted to you, Inspector Gregson," Hastings said "if I could remove these handcuffs." Hastings reached his hand to his face and tugged at his pomaded little moustache which peeled away from his face taking a false nose with it.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed.

"Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade and Gregson said almost in unison. Holmes merely smiled and held up his wrists for the handcuffs to be removed. Lestrade fumbled with the key before finally freeing Holmes.

"But I saw you in the window at Baker Street" said I.

"The Empty House, Watson?" Holmes said, smiling.

"The bust, of course! But where is the real Hastings?" I asked.

"That's an important point, Mr. Holmes" said Gregson. "We have the employer, but we don't have the employee."

Holmes walked over to the window and opening it, leaned out and whistled to the hansom that was waiting below. From the cab came the lean figure of Jimmy "the gent" Hastings who walked into the building and up the stairs. He entered the office and held out his wrists for Lestrade's handcuffs.

"Oh, those wont be necessary, Lestrade, I'm sure Mr. Hastings will co-operate. He has little choice if he wants the law to be lenient with him."

"Mr. Holmes promised me you'd go easy on me if I helped him nab Forester" Hastings said, his voice cracking with worry.

"I'm sure we'll be able to work something out, Hastings" Gregson said. "Lestrade, take this man downstairs, would you please?"

"Be happy to" Lestrade said, taking Hastings' arm and leading him out the door. As he led Hastings down the corridor I overhead Lestrade ask Hastings how he thought he would look with a moustache; I had a feeling that the Yard men would honour the bargain to be lenient with Hastings.

"Mr. Holmes," Gregson said turning to my friend and extending his hand, "once again you have our thanks."

Holmes took the Inspector's hand and insisted that no thanks were necessary. Gregson turned to me and said, "I'd like to request that this story not be published, doctor. After all Inspector Forester was a respected policeman and, despite his crimes, I would rather not see his name dragged though the mud." I gave Gregson my word that my account of the case would go unpublished and he thanked me, shaking my hand. Again he held out his hand to Holmes who took it and shook it briefly. Then he turned towards the door with a "come, Watson" and he was gone.

VII

When we arrived back at Baker Street and had made ourselves comfortable in our chairs, Holmes told me of how, after he had set up the wax figure in the window, he had made himself up to resemble Hastings and visited him in South Kensington. He explained to Hastings that the game was up and his only hope of avoiding prison was to co-operate with him. He laughed at the memory of Hastings' face when he came face-to-face with himself at the door. Hastings then accompanied Holmes to Scotland Yard where the events which I have just related transpired.

"But what of the artefacts, Holmes? I assume they will be returned to their rightful owners."

"That is of no interest to me, but yes, I imagine they will be. Oh, that reminds me." Holmes fished in his pocket and removed the scrap of papyrus that began our involvement with the case. Holmes held it to the fire and used it to light his pipe before watching it burn to ashes.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed "that is a priceless artefact! Lord Bentley Hardcastle sent you that!"

"Do you remember the letter that accompanied it, old boy?" Holmes asked, grinning slyly.

"Well, yes, but I fail to see why you felt the need to -"

Holmes held up his hand to silence me and asked if I remembered what the letter said. I gave him a brief summary of the letter's contents and Holmes smiled again. "Very good," said he, "but what of the postscript?"

"Postscript? Ah yes, something about including the letter you had sent him?"

"Precisely, Watson" said Holmes. "The envelope is on the mantle, pray make a long arm and hand me it."

I did so and Holmes removed two pieces of paper, one of which I recognised as Lord Hardcastle's letter. The other was a note written in Holmes' precise handwriting. I asked him to read it to me, but Holmes gave a dismissive wave of his hand and handed it to me. I read it aloud:

"My dear Lord Hardcastle," it began, "congratulations on your recent discoveries in South America. I understand you are about to undertake an expedition to Egypt. Would it be too great a request that you send me an artefact of little or no value that I might use in my efforts to stop a wave of crime that will undoubtedly soon be moving inexorably through London? Rest assured you would be doing myself and your country a great service. I await your response and am, very sincerely yours, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes smiled and puffed on his pipe.

"Why, Holmes," said I, "this letter is dated September 1894! The first robbery had only just made the newspapers and yet you anticipated the others and had already worked out a way to discover the identity of the criminals! Astounding."

"Elementary, Watson. Though, I must admit I am rather proud of this case and the foresight I showed in anticipating it. A shame it will go unpublished."

I suggested changing the names of the principle characters, but Holmes would hear none of it. I had, he reminded me, given my word to Inspector Gregson that the story would never see the light of day. It is in that case, once again my sad duty to consign this account to that file which contains the Unopened Casebook of Sherlock Holmes.