During the many years of my friendship with Basil, the consulting detective renowned in the Mouse Kingdom, I served in the honourable role of a chronicler for his unusual practice. Some of my notes I have published almost immediately after they were made, some shall never see the light of day. The case, however, that the present story is concerned with, is one of those the printing of which I was obliged to postpone for their participants' sakes. Only several weeks ago I was brought a telegram from my friend, saying "Webster dead. Free to write the story."

May it be that this story pales against the other mysteries solved by Basil in the memorable year 1895, a one veritably packed with cases. We all remember the conundrum of canaries a man named Wilson used to train, the terrible story of the Temple poisoner, meeting whom was very nearly the death of us both, the tragedy of poor, poor, miss Hawthorne. The story of the blue vitriol smugglers is also awaiting its turn. Despite this, I think the happenings I am to describe, bloodless as they are, are worth attention, partly as a cautionary tale.

The autumn that year was wet and so foggy you couldn't see the end of your own outstretched paw. Even criminals, it seemed, were loathe to leave their warm burrows. Unless forced by most urgent causes, those days nobody would venture into the foggy streets of London.

For the past few days Basil and I have been staying in our Baker Street rooms; myself reading medical journals alternately with penny dreadfuls, he tidying up his files and fiddling melodies as haunting as befit the weather. That evening I was sat by the fire, a plate of Mrs. Judson's delicious cheese pancakes on hand, an article on hereditary hearing loss in my lap, starting to wish I was afflicted with it.

"Basil..." my groan was drowned out by the moaning of the violin he was torturing, staring into the mist out of the window. Rubbing at my forehead, I reached for a cup of tea.

Basil's terrible music stopped suddenly on a long, groaning note.

"Thank you." I sighed. With a tut, Basil strode to the other side of the room to reverently put his instrument on the mantel exactly in the moment when someone knocked at our door.

"Ask Mrs. Judson for some more tea" he called, opening.

"Hello, Gregson! What brings you in that weather?"

But the first mouse to walk in was not the inspector. A stooped individual, his fur dirty yellow and tufty from the moisture, came in, casting fearful glances on Basil and me. The pitiful image was rounded out by our guest's clothing, well made of expensive fabrics, but wrinkled and incomplete. All my medical instincts, not to mention my common sense, would have balked at going out in such a weather without a coat, let alone in my shirtsleeves.

Gregson, tall and proud in his dark topcoat, went in, squeezing past Basil, and carefully closed the door behind him.

"Really, it should be obvious" he said, his tone a touch surly.

"Yes, of course I read today's paper" Basil pushed a stack of papers off an armchair to offer it to our soaked guest. "I don't see, however, how I could be of help, mister Adams."

"I'm innocent!" the yellowish individual croaked, staring pleadingly at my friend. Gregson shrugged.

"What can I do. He's stubborn."

"I'm innocent!" the other repeated. "Get me out of this hornet's nest, I beg of you! Money is no issue! It's a matter of-"

"Mister Adams." Basil interrupted, sitting down and steepling his fingers. Adams shuddered, Gregson his his amusement with a twitch of his whiskers.

"I don't think there is much I could do for you." He bent to pick up a newspaper. "All evidence is against you."

"I kept telling him that on the way here" Gregson said.

"I'm innocent!" I've a great alibi!"

The inspector giggled, covering his mouth with his paw. "Worth listening to, I can tell."

Basil nodded at Mrs. Judson, who walked in with a steaming teapot and additional cups on a tray. Then he gave a long, thoughtful look to Adams, whose paws were clenching on the arm rests of the chair.

"Calm down and tell us everything. I promise nothing" he said, seeing a glint of hope in the client's eye, "except to listen to what you have to say."

"That's still more than the police would do" the yellowish mouse hissed, squinting at the impassive Gregson.