Prompt from Wordwielder – Gingerbread
AN: Dedicated to Mrspencil because she always helps and asks nothing in return. Thank you, ma'am.
The Case of the Gingerbread Molds
I recall very clearly that 12th of December 1882. It was a Monday morning and Sherlock Holmes and I were preparing to celebrate our second Christmas as flat mates. Holmes, as I expected, was little interested in seasonal celebrations. He preferred to observe them quietly at home. I enjoyed the time of year, harkening back to better days in my youth. To Holmes' credit he did not object to the wreath I hung in the window or the garland over the door. Our sitting room was far too small to have a Christmas tree, of course, but I had helped Mrs. Hudson and Billy set one up in her large sitting room on the ground floor and I felt all was right with the world.
That particular Monday morning stands out from the majority for one reason. It was an odd crime that Holmes should have ignored or at most, scoffed at. To the contrary, he was positively intrigued.
"Good morning, Watson," he said coming into the sitting room from his bed chamber wearing, as he often did, his mouse grey dressing gown.
"Good morning, Holmes," I replied. "Coffee is ready if you'd care for some."
"Yes. I think I would," he said and settled into his chair across from me. "Is there anything of interest in the papers this morning?"
"I don't know if any of it is really in your line," I said truthfully. "They caught the Bayswater Slasher last night."
"Any fool can apprehend a glorified cutpurse," Holmes said derisively.
"A neat piece of work on the part of the police, I thought," I said in passing, as I continued to scan through the police blotter.
"Did they have one of the constables put on a dress and walk unescorted down the lane?" Holmes asked, buttering a slice of toast.
"Yes," I confirmed and glanced at him. He was smiling smugly. I went on, "There's Lady Aplington's jewel box. You said that didn't interest you, though."
"When a lady makes a false claim on her insurance agent, it is up to that agent to employ me," he said primly. "I do not rake muck and besmirch a lady's reputation simply to occupy my time. Anything else?"
"Here's an odd one," I said with a bit of a smile. "A baker's shop on Margaret Street was robbed last night sometime after midnight."
"A baker's shop?" Holmes asked with a puzzled frown. "How very odd. Was the till stolen?"
"No," I said and skimmed through the brief article. "Says here the only things taken were gingerbread molds. I didn't know there were such things."
"Nor did I, Watson," Holmes admitted. "I never gave much thought to the subject. I supposed they had to have some sort of cutter to make those fanciful little gingerbread men. Molds. Really?"
"Here's what is in the article, though it isn't much:
Mr. George Tucker and wife, proprietors of Tucker's Breads and Fine Confections, rose early this morning to fire their ovens only to discover their income would be sorely diminished. In the night a burglar had entered by way of the delivery door at the back of their bakery and made off with some forty gingerbread molds the Tuckers use to make seasonal confections at this time every year. The theft is thought to have occurred sometime after midnight, as the baker had worked late preparing for his next day's orders.
Mr. George Tucker told this reporter the molds had been passed down from father to son for many generations and this was a serious blow to his family's heritage. He hopes the police will take the theft seriously as without these molds he believes he will be hard pressed to make a living. Police Inspector Jones refused to make any comment or statement regarding the theft.
"And that's all there is." I finished.
"There are many Joneses on the force," said Holmes, "but I may know this one. If it is the man I think it is, the Tuckers will never see their prized molds again."
"Is he that bad?" I asked.
"He is an imbecile, Watson," replied Holmes. "He has one thing to his credit, though. He's as tenacious as a lobster. Once he gets his claw on something, he doesn't let it go. I doubt this theft will be enough to bait him, though. May I see that paper?"
I passed Holmes the paper, open to the page with the story on it. I was going to ask him what he thought of the theft when Mrs. Hudson came in with our breakfast and fresh coffee. The wonderful smell of roasted sausage and fried eggs drove all thoughts of gingerbread molds from my mind and I tucked in quite happily.
"Would you care to go round to Margaret Street with me, Watson?" Holmes asked when we had finished our meal.
"Margaret Street?" I asked. I could not believe that so trivial a theft had actually gotten his attention.
"Yes," he said, giving me a direct, but amused look. "It's just that Jones is such an unreliable sort on something like this. I feel some compassion for these poor people. Their livelihood is in some jeopardy, don't you think?"
"Well, it's certainly better than spending another day cooped up in here," I said. "Yes. I'll go with you, Holmes. Gladly."
A little after ten that morning we stepped down from our cab in front of Tucker's Breads and Fine Confections. There was a steady traffic going in and out of the bakery, but it seemed mostly of the professional sort. Young men carrying wooden cages or crates filled with various sorts of breads and stacking them in the backs of delivery carriages. I supposed they were taking them to restaurants and the like. While Holmes paid our driver I examined the front windows with their charming displays of confections. Here there was a large Christmas cake. There a tray of brightly frosted biscuits in the shape of Father Christmas. All manner of sweet delights were in evidence. I could not imagine the baker's income would suffer over much from the loss of the gingerbread molds.
Holmes and I entered the bakery and were immediately enveloped in the pleasing scent of baked goods. The bakery, as far as I could determine, was quite a tidy and well run place. Breads were confined to one side of the establishment while cakes and other more fanciful edibles were on the other side. Holmes strode purposefully up to a round man of middling years wearing an apron who was just setting out a tray of gingerbread ornaments, or so I took them to be.
"Good morning, sir," said Holmes pleasantly. "Would you be Mr. Tucker by chance?"
"I am, sir," said the man. "Good morning to you. How may I be of service?"
"It is I who might be of service to you, sir," said my friend. "I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes. This is my associate, Dr. Watson."
"Good morning to you, Doctor," Mr. Tucker greeted me. "What is it you mean by being of service to me, Mr. Holmes?"
"You see, we read the article in the Gazette this morning recounting the theft of your molds," Holmes explained. "It caught my interest and I thought, perhaps, I should see if I might be able to recover them for you."
"Indeed?" Mr. Tucker said, taking a closer look at my friend and myself. "Are you with the police?"
"No," replied Holmes easily. "I am a private investigator, Mr. Tucker. Nothing more."
"Well, sir, I can't afford a private investigator," Mr. Tucker replied a little crossly. "And I don't think it's appropriate for a man to come here preying upon me and my missus in our hour of need, Mr. Holmes."
"I assure you, that is the farthest thing from my mind," Holmes said soothingly. "Call it a whim on my part in keeping with the spirit of the season. I would charge not a penny, Mr. Tucker. My sole concern is to recover your molds for you, if I am able."
Mr. Tucker narrowed his eyes suspiciously at my friend and then at me. I gave him a nod of assurance and his expression softened.
"If that is the case, Mr. Holmes, I ask you to forgive me," said the baker. "My only excuse is that the theft has me out of sorts."
"I quite understand, sir," Holmes said and waved it away. "No need for apology or explanation."
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," said Tucker, looking more relaxed than a moment before. "And thank you also, Doctor. What can I do to help?"
"The article contained very little information," Holmes said. "It did mention the thief entered by the delivery door. I'd like to take a look at that, if I may."
Tucker readily agreed and brought us through his bakery with its ovens and racks of loaves. The temperature was quite warm, especially in comparison to the weather outside. Holmes paused a pace or two from the door to get a general impression, I supposed. I recall it as being a stout but otherwise typical door of its kind. A large handle of iron, large strap hinges and a small window like a porthole at the height for a person to look through. This last was protected by a grate of wrought iron bars fastened in place with heavy rivets. The door seemed perhaps a little over built for the protection of a mere bakery.
"I note these bars are quite new, Mr. Tucker," observed Holmes. "Installed no more than six or seven months ago."
"That's quite right, Mr. Holmes," Tucker confirmed. "I had them put in back about the first week of June."
"May I know why?" Holmes asked.
"That's simple enough, sir," said Tucker. "Some vagrant or drunkard broke in."
"There was a break in prior to last night?" my friend asked, though he did not sound surprised.
"Yes, Mr. Holmes." Tucker scratched his chin in thought. "First week of June. I'm sure of it. I can look in my account book if you'd like. I recorded the purchase of the bars and they was put in the day after the break in."
"And did that burglar steal anything?" asked Holmes.
"No, sir," said Tucker. "That window was smashed, sir. All the cupboards were gone through, but nothing was missing. Upset my wife something terrible."
"I can imagine," Holmes murmured. "Tell me, Mr. Tucker, where were the gingerbread molds kept at that time?"
"I kept them in the cellar, sir," the baker replied. "They're made of wood and quite old, you see. My father taught me how to polish them with bee's wax to keep the wood from cracking, but he always made a point to impress on me the need to keep them at an even temperature so as they wouldn't shrink or swell. He said to store them like they was wine, sir."
"And where is the entrance to this cellar you kept them in?" asked Holmes.
"Oh, well, it's outside, sir," Tucker said pointing to the back wall of the bakery. "I keep it locked tight, as any man would."
"So, if I understand you correctly, the molds would not have been in here at the time of the first burglary," said Holmes.
"I only get them out this time of year, sir," Tucker confirmed. "They're for making gingerbread biscuits."
"I see. Will you pardon me a moment?" Holmes asked courteously and then went to examine the lock of the door. He used a small but powerful magnifying lens to inspect the keyhole. I was a little surprised to see him push the corner of his handkerchief into the opening and twist it about before withdrawing it.
"Well, Holmes?" I asked when he was through.
"It was well oiled and then picked, Watson," Holmes told me. "This was no amateur. Certainly it was not his first break in."
"I'm not trusting that lock again, sir," Mr. Tucker told us. "I've called round to the blacksmith and commissioned him to forge me a locking bolt. I'll shut this place up like a fortress from now on."
"A wise precaution, though I'm afraid it is too late, Mr. Tucker," Holmes said. "May I have a look at your cellar door?"
"Right this way." Tucker lead us out into the wide alley behind his bakery and to a narrow door made of planks. He used a key from his pocket to open the lock, a twin to the one on his back door, and then took a lantern from a hook. Holmes lit the lantern with a match from his pocket and the baker led us down into the inky dark of his cellar. Though outside was freezing cold, the cellar was a moderate temperature. It was a small room with a stone floor, neither damp nor dry. I remember thinking it would have made an excellent place in which to store wine.
"This is the cabinet I kept the molds in, Mr. Holmes," Tucker said, indicating a plain but well-crafted wooden cabinet the height of a man. He opened the door and showed us the empty shelves on which the molds had been kept when not in use.
"Yes," Holmes said, running a finger over the surface of one of the shelves. "I think I've seen enough down here, Mr. Tucker. Tell me, do you still have any of the ginger biscuits made in these molds? I would very much like to see some of them."
"I have a few of each left, though they are a day old now," said the baker as we climbed the steps back up to the alley.
Mr. Tucker conducted us back into the bakery and past his ovens to a room near the far end of the shop. A woman was there rolling dough and placing it into forms to rise. Several younger people were kneading dough and dividing it by weight, while still more were mixing ingredients.
"This is my wife, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," Mr. Tucker said. "Annabelle, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. They've come out of the goodness of their hearts to help recover our molds."
"Have they?" Mrs. Tucker asked, pausing in her work to look at us. She was a plump yet comely woman of an age with her husband and I must say she fit with him like salt fits with pepper. "It's very kind of you gentlemen, I'm sure. Though I don't know there's anything that can be done to get them back. A terrible thing it is to have a stranger creep into our home and business to steal things. And to lose those molds after they've been passed down so many years. Our son Thomas was to have them from my Albert. And now I suppose we'll never see them again."
"I hope that will not be the case," said Holmes. "I can make no promise, save that I will do my best to return them to you."
"Annabelle, what did you do with those ginger biscuits we had left over from yesterday?" Tucker asked his wife. "Mr. Holmes would like to see them."
"They're all over there on the counter," she said and pointed to a large basket under a window.
Holmes and I examined the biscuits, the homey smell of ginger rising to greet us. They were the most peculiar biscuits I have ever seen. Not true biscuits, rather more like carvings of people in old fashioned garb. The bakers had used colored sugar to paint them so there was a variety of each one. Holmes selected one in the shape of a lady and set it aside and then plucked another in the shape of a gentleman with a sword on his hip. As I watched, I realized most of the biscuits were little men in different courtly dress. They all seemed to be in the same sort of clothing. It reminded me of what one my find in a play by Shakespeare. Most amusing.
"Watson, do you see what I see?" Holmes asked.
"Gingerbread men, though they are quite the strangest I've ever laid eyes on," I answered.
"Say rather, unique," said Holmes and held up the first gingerbread lady he had set aside. "Does she not remind you of anyone?"
"Well," I said and looked closely at the biscuit. "She does look somewhat familiar. I suppose that could be said of dolls or tin soldiers, too. Familiar, but I can't place her."
"Dolls or tin soldiers," Holmes murmured with a smile. "Mr. Tucker, may I take a few of these biscuits? I would like to show them to someone."
"If it will help get my molds back, Mr. Holmes, you can have the whole basket," said Tucker.
"I shan't need so many." Holmes picked half a dozen including the lady he already held. Tucker provided a small box to put them in and Holmes promised to report back as soon as he knew anything. Mister and Missus Tucker thanked us profusely and we bid them good day.
"Where to now, Holmes?" I asked when were back on the street.
"The British Museum, Watson," he said, waving down a hansom.
"Museum?" I asked, bewildered.
"A friend of mine is studying for his doctorate and has been taken on in their archives," Holmes explained. "I believe he will find these ginger biscuits quite interesting."
Holmes and I stopped at the reception desk and made inquiry after Holmes' friend. We were told he was in his office down stairs and a page conducted us to him. Thomas Free greeted each of us with a smile and handshake. I found him instantly likeable. A small, bookish man, to be sure, but an enthusiast for his field of study which was the court of Queen Elizabeth and more generally the Tudor line.
"What brings you down here, Holmes?" Free asked as he waved us to a pair of leather chairs.
"I have some items I would like for you to examine," Holmes told him. "I think they are rather in your line."
"My line?" Free asked with a smile. "Ha! That's good. A box of biscuits. Just like you to joke, Holmes. I'll send the porter for some tea and we'll have a proper visit."
"Tea if you must, but first take a look at the biscuits," Holmes insisted.
Free frowned, apparently thinking Holmes was forcing the joke, but he humored him.
"Holmes?" Free said in a tone of sneaking suspicion. "Where did you find these?"
Holmes told Free of the theft and explained his reason for bring the biscuits to him.
"I think you're onto something here," said Free and rose to take the box to a work table in the corner of the room. He laid them out in a neat row and took a large portfolio book from a shelf. Opening the portfolio he found the page he was looking for and took out a large magnifying lens. "You are onto something. Look here! This one is Sir Francis Walsingham! You can see the details quite well, considering they're done in gingerbread. And this one of the lady! Holmes! It's Elizabeth! Where did you find these? Who made them?"
"Calm yourself, Free," Holmes soothed. "I told you. These were made using the molds that were stolen."
"Yes," breathed Free. "Yes. You told me. I just hadn't expected this. Forgive me. It's a shock, that's all."
"Can you identify any of the others?" I asked, finally getting an idea of why Holmes had been so interested.
"Well, this one is a very Spanish looking fellow," Free said. "And this other looks rather German. It's difficult to tell. What I can say for certain is that these two molds were made based on certain paintings we have in our collection. These others are likely done by the same method."
"That is very interesting," Holmes said and began to pace.
"Wait a moment!" Free exclaimed. "I think I recognize this style. Wait here, will you? I'll be right back. Not gone for long!"
And like a shot, Free darted from the room. I looked at Holmes and he at me. His brows were raised and there was a pleased twinkle in his eyes that I rarely had seen. Free returned a minute later carrying, of all things, an ornate chair. He set it down near the table and took up his magnifying lens again, examining the carvings on the arms and chair back.
"It's him," Free stated simply. "I can't be certain without seeing the molds themselves, but I would wager a month's allowance on it."
"Who?" asked Holmes, going closer to the chair and peering at the carvings.
"Robert of Luton," said Free, almost shaking with excitement. "He started his apprenticeship during the reign of King Henry III. By the time Elizabeth came to the throne he was a journeyman and became one of her favorites. I'm sure he must have carved those molds. If it wasn't him, it was one of his students. The style is just too similar."
"Robert of Luton was a sculptor?" I asked.
"No, Dr. Watson," Free said, hardly able to contain his exuberance. "A carpenter. Furniture maker. A wood worker, Doctor. And I feel sure I could prove the provenance of the molds if we can recover them."
"Would they be worth anything?" Holmes asked.
This seemed to surprise Mr. Free. The excited animation I had just witnessed in him drained instantly away, replaced by a rigid mental concentration.
"If it could be proven that these molds were made by Robert of Luton for Queen Elizabeth, then they might be worth a great deal to a collector," he said, finally. "Without proof, then they would be no more than curiosities. Worth no money and little historically. I can prove it, though, if you can bring them to me. It would mean the making of me if you could, Holmes. Oh do get them, Holmes! I beg you!"
"Calm yourself, Free," Holmes soothed again.
"Take a deep breath and let it out slowly, man," I advised. I was frankly growing concerned for the young man. He seemed on the verge of a nervous collapse.
"Now, tell me, who would be able to recognize these ginger biscuits for what they are?" Holmes said evenly, so as not to excite his friend again.
"It would have to be someone who knew of Robert," Free said slowly. "Someone familiar with the style of carving. Someone very familiar with Elizabeth's reign."
"Can you make a list of those people?" Holmes asked. "Omit any who are not currently in London."
"I don't know," Free said and glanced at the ginger biscuits. "I can make a list of those who are probably in London and then I'll make a list of those who might be."
"That will have to do," Holmes said and patted Free on the shoulder. "Send the list to my flat when it's done. Tell no one of this discovery. For the moment it must remain secret."
"Very well, Holmes," Free said and went to his desk. "Just between the three of us. Not a word. I promise."
We said our goodbyes and went and hailed another cab.
"Where now?" I asked, feeling the energy I often felt when I knew there was some plan in motion. We were on the hunt and the game was afoot!
"Back to the baker's, Watson," Holmes said, seeming as intent as I. "I have more questions to ask him. From there we shall return to Baker Street to partake of lunch and wait for Free's list. After that, we will see where the trail leads."
Upon arriving at Mr. Tucker's bakery we found the baker and his wife busy with their loaves. Holmes questioned the man while they worked.
"Before the first burglary, Mr. Tucker, was there anyone who made inquiry in regard to the molds?" Holmes asked him.
"Not to my recollection, Mr. Holmes," the baker said and slid a large tray with several loaves from the oven. He placed them on a table and immediately pulled another out, repeating his movements like a machine.
"I remember one!" Mrs. Tucker said, her movements a mirror of her husband's. "Came in a day or two after Christmas last year. Came in again after the New Year, too. Said he liked the ginger biscuits so much he wanted to buy the molds so his cook could bake them. I told him no. The molds wasn't for sale. They was my husband's, after all."
"And do you remember the name of this man?" Holmes asked intently.
"Didn't give a name," she said. "I think he said his wife had got some for a Christmas party. That's how he found out about the biscuits in the first place."
"I see," said Holmes, sounding disappointed.
"Now we don't get too many large orders for them," Mr. Tucker said, still removing loaves from the ovens. "And it would have been right near Christmas."
"The account book!" Mrs. Tucker cried. "Albert, it'll be in the account book. Any big order we had would be, wouldn't it?"
"You're right, Annabelle!" Tucker exclaimed. "You just let me finish up with this bread, Mr. Holmes, and I'll fetch my books. We'll see whose name we find."
And that's just what we did. The order in question had been placed by Mrs. Priscilla Logan of Saffron Hill on the twenty-first of December 1881. We now had a name to look into and Holmes' appetite for the case was whetted.
"May I borrow this ledger, Mr. Tucker?" he asked.
"Certainly!" Tucker said with much enthusiasm. "Get my molds back and you can have one of my ovens, Mr. Holmes."
"Thank you," Holmes laughed. "I don't know where I would put it, though. I will return this ledger as soon as I can. Good day to you."
At Baker Street we feasted on very good ham and a loaf of fresh bread Mrs. Tucker had forced on us as we left the bakery. Good mustard and thinly sliced chees complimented the meal. At half past noon a commissionaire from the museum delivered the list Free had promised and Holmes looked over it with great interest.
"Look here, Watson," he said rising and crossing to me where I sat by the fire. "Ronald Elmore Logan."
"Can we be sure, Holmes?" I asked, though hope raced in me.
"It should be a simple matter to find out if he is related to Priscilla Logan," said he. "I'll wager they are husband and wife, Watson. Do me a service, will you?"
"Surely I will," I said readily.
"Go through my common place books on the shelf there and see what you can learn of these people," he said and made for his bed room.
"What will you be doing?" I asked, though I was already up and reaching for the L volume.
"I must make some inquiries of a delicate nature, Watson," he said, coming out still pulling on his frockcoat. "It is possible that the molds are not yet in the hands of Mr. Logan. That would be to our good if I can locate them."
What I learned about Mr. Ronald Elmore Logan was that he was a fairly wealthy man. He owned shares in mines in South Africa and Canada. He also owned a controlling interest in a major trans-Atlantic shipping company and was heavily invested in the railway. Two other items of note were that he was a large contributor to the British Museum and had taken a degree in Elizabethan history. There was little doubt in my mind at that point that we had our man, or at least knew who was behind the theft.
Holmes returned at around three that afternoon. His demeanor was that of a man who was ready but relaxed. I watched him carefully as he loaded his pipe and lit it.
"Watson, would you be up for a little action this evening?" he asked, taking his chair by the fire.
"Absolutely," I said.
"Excellent," said he. "We have some time to pass before we meet Inspector Peter Jones. Tell me what you can about Ronald Logan."
Working from my notes I gave him an outline of the man and his interests. Holmes was keen for it all and had me show him the articles he had pasted in his book. The next two hours dragged by for me, but Holmes occupied himself with his violin, pacing back and forth in front of our large window.
At five o'clock we took a cab and met Police Inspector Jones on the street several doors down from a boarding house. It seemed to be a middle class sort of place. There certainly were no obvious signs a criminal lurked beyond the gaily decorated front door.
"Mr. Holmes," said the inspector as we walked up. "Who's this gentleman, sir?"
"This is my associate, Dr. Watson," Holmes introduced me.
"This might get rough, Doctor," Jones warned me.
"I'm aware of the danger, Inspector Jones," I said and showed him my revolver.
"Very good, then," he said and looked to Holmes. "Shall we go in?"
Holmes gave him a nod and we strode to the door and entered the boarding house. The inspector flashed his badge at the matronly woman who accosted us in the foyer and she went silent, though she was clearly confused.
"Where is Simon Burch?" Jones demanded.
"Upstairs," the woman said. "Turn right. His room is at the end of the hall."
We followed her directions, moving quietly but not too quietly. Had this Burch heard a stealthy step on the boards it might have alerted him to his danger. I will say this in favor of Inspector Jones; he was a man of action. His stride hardly faltered as he approached the door and kicked it open, splintering the frame as the lock tore loose.
Burch had been laying in his bed reading the Times and when the door burst in he sat bolt upright in bed and stared at us. Jones was on him in an instant and by some trick he threw him to the floor and snapped the darbies on the man's wrists.
"What's this about?" demanded Burch. "You can't kick in a man's door and arrest him without cause! I have rights!"
"You are under arrest," Jones said coolly. "The charge is theft and burglary. I advise you to come along peacefully, Simon Burch."
"I've stolen nothing!" Burch protested.
"Then where did you get these?" Holmes asked, almost sounding amused. From the floor he lifted a large crate like the ones we'd seen at the bakery that morning. In it were small blocks of wood with sheets of waxed paper laid between them. Holmes removed one from the top and showed it to Inspector Jones. "Your evidence, Inspector."
"They're just blocks of wood," Burch said. "Not worth nothing."
"That remains to be seen," Holmes said and we escorted Burch out to the street where Jones summoned a constable and a four wheeler was hailed.
Later that week Holmes told me his friend Thomas Free had examined the gingerbread molds and was working with two other specialists to confirm they had indeed been carved by Robert of Luton for the court of Queen Elizabeth. References were found indicating the molds had actually been commissioned by her in order to create small gifts for certain visitors to her court throughout her reign. Each mold was carved in the likeness of one of these visitors and the resulting gingerbread man was presented to the person it resembled.
Mr. and Mrs. Tucker were annoyed that the molds were being held as evidence, but they did not fault Sherlock Holmes.
Shortly after Christmas we found another article in the Times that was pleasing to us both. Our gracious Queen Victoria had heard of the molds and their significance to English history. She presented an award of two hundred pounds and a special commendation to the Tuckers for preserving this small, rare and odd collection of artifacts. She also commissioned a new set of molds to be carved provided the Tuckers donated the originals to the British Museum where they could be properly conserved and displayed to the public. As an incentive Queen Victoria consented to allow a mold to be created with her likeness. The Tuckers readily agreed.
AN: Queen Elizabeth I actually did give gingerbread likenesses to some of the visitors to her court.