The Case of the
Sentimental Tobacconist
by Martin Edwards
MY friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes possessed a mind unlike that of any other man I have met. Events of the profoundest political significance meant nothing to him, yet his knowledge of minutiae was encyclopaedic. He could converse fluently on an extraordinary range of topics and it was by no means uncommon for his conversation to traverse the works of Goethe, the latest developments in toxicology, and the geography of London's East End within minutes. The treasure-house of information in his brain was supplemented by the wealth of detail stored within the twenty-six indexed volumes lining the bookshelves in our sitting room. The index married a concise record of hundreds of investigations to a compendium of strange and neglected facts and items clipped from newspapers and magazines. Nothing which caught his eye was commonplace; nothing bizarre or out of the ordinary failed to excite his interest.
One Saturday morning, the last before Christmas, we were enjoying a companionable silence after breakfast. My friend was composing a letter to François le Villard, whose advancement in the French detective service owed much to Holmes' assistance. Le Villard had sought his opinion on a matter of the utmost confidentiality; to this day, all I can reveal about the case is that it concerned two senior members of the clergy and a suitcase filled with twigs. Holmes had been wrapped in thought for over an hour before beginning to write rapidly.
For my part, I was making notes concerning the remarkable story of Jonathan Small. Having had previous success with a small brochure I composed about the first investigation in which I had been privileged to watch Holmes at work, I hoped that the mystery which I had tentatively entitled "The Sign of the Four" might also attract the interest of a publisher. If so, it would be more than a celebration of Holmes' mastery of the science of deduction; it would also represent a humble token of my love for Miss Mary Morstan. I had had the joy of meeting her at the outset of the enquiry, and at its conclusion she had consented to take my hand in matrimony. On the day I was making my notes, our wedding was due to take place in less than a month's time. I would be starting a new life as well as a new year. Yet eagerly as I anticipated both, still I relished the final weeks of bachelorhood.
A knock at the door ruptured our serenity. Holmes frowned as he blotted the letter, and subjected the unfortunate Mrs. Hudson to a penetrating stare as she entered the room.
"There's a gentleman to see you, Mr. Holmes," she said. "I told him that you'd left strict instructions not to be disturbed until mid-day, but he was most insistent. When I invited him to leave his card, he said that he would not rest until such time as you granted him a consultation. He says you met him once and he hopes you might remember him."
She presented my friend with the brass salver.
"Josiah Buckle!" To my surprise, a rare flash of delight crossed my friend's saturnine countenance as he tossed the grubby card onto his desk. "Of course it will be a privilege to renew the acquaintance. Please show him up without delay!"
Our landlady was a wise woman and had learned that, with Holmes, one must invariably expect the unexpected. Within moments she was ushering the visitor into our presence. He was a small, shuffling fellow, at least seventy years of age and bent with rheumatism. His rusty black frock coat had a couple of buttons missing and his cuffs were badly frayed. Yet at the sight of Holmes, genuine pleasure seemed to flicker in his little brown eyes.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" he cried, offering a knobbly hand. "So you have not forgotten, then?"
"You rendered me no small service when I was compiling my monograph," my friend said. "Without your expert guidance, I might have succumbed to an unpardonable error when it came to differentiating between the rarest Turkish brands."
"Not you, Mr. Holmes!" the old man said warmly. "You emphasised to me that you value accuracy of data above all else. You would never have made the mistake of resorting to guessing about the provenance of the ash. All I did was to import a few boxes so that you could make a precise comparison."
"Without them, my monograph would have been the poorer. That particular Latakian cheroot has never been popular in England, but I could name at least one notorious forger on the Continent who favoured it above all others. Yes, Mr. Buckle, I remain in your debt. It is good to see you again, although naturally I regret the need to offer my condolences on the loss of your wife."
"You heard the news about Charlotte? It was tuberculosis, you know."
My friend shook his head sadly. "A most wretched disease."
I had not been idle during my time at No. 221B Baker Street. In addition to chronicling Holmes' triumphs in connection with the Lauriston Gardens mystery, I had relished the opportunity of observing at close quarters the methods that he employed. Often the most astonishing deductions, once understood, proved to be based upon the simplest logic. I fancied that I myself might acquire the detective habit. It was certainly easy to understand how Holmes had come to the conclusion he did concerning Mr. Buckle's wife. No respectable wife would allow her husband to make a visit in such an unkempt state. As Mr. Buckle had apparently been married at the time of his original acquaintance with Holmes, it was logical to infer that his wife had since passed on. "May I introduce you to my colleague, Dr. Watson. Since we became co-tenants, he has become intrigued by the business of detection and you may speak freely before him. Watson, let me advise you that, should you ever have cause to transfer your loyalty from Bradley's, no one in London stocks a wider range of fine tobacco than Mr. Josiah Buckle. Indeed, sir, I very much regret that you should have found it necessary to close your shop some time ago. It cannot have been for the want of custom."
Buckle's bushy eyebrows rose. "How did you know that I had closed my shop?"
"Oh, the conclusion is a straightforward one upon examining the evidence before our eyes. Watson, would you be so good as to explain?"
I felt myself growing hot under the collar.  "I'm afraid . . .."
Holmes allowed himself the glimmer of a smile. "Oh, my dear fellow. I am disappointed. You have proven such a willing pupil that I quite believed you would have mastered the knack of making such an elementary deduction. When a man with a thriving retail business arrives on my doorstep on a Saturday morning in December, at a time when his shop should be crammed to overflowing with customers seeking to replenish their tobacco pouches in readiness for the festive season, there are three possible explanations. First, the reason for his call is so urgent that it cannot wait. But in that event, surely he would have arrived here before eleven o'clock? Second, he has delegated responsibility for running the shop to an assistant. But few trades are as dependent upon expert personal service as that of the tobacconist and, because of the special nature of his products, Mr. Buckle has always taken a proper pride in attending to customers personally and at all hours. Third, the shop has closed."
"But why did you suggest that it has been closed for a considerable period of time?" I enquired.
Holmes pointed to the card on the desk. "No successful shopkeeper ever allows his supply of cards to run out. Mr. Buckle's business was unquestionably successful and that dog-eared scrap is plainly the last card in his possession. I infer that he has not been trading actively for some little while, an assumption reinforced by the olfactory evidence."
I stared at him.  "I do not understand."
"By the nature of his business, a tobacconist carries with him everywhere the aroma of the products that he sells. Inevitably, the strong smell of the coarsest shag impregnates his clothing, masking the fine perfume of more delicate blends. Yet unless my nostrils deceive me, I detected only the subtle whiff of an Arcadian Mixture when Mr. Buckle entered this room. That happens to be, as I recall, the brand he smokes himself. Ergo, he has not been trading for some time."
The tobacconist shook his head in astonishment. "Mr. Holmes, you have not lost your touch!"
"There is one other consideration. You explained to the good Mrs. Hudson that you were extremely anxious to see me. Yet, as I have mentioned, you have hardly turned up on our doorstep at the crack of dawn. From that I presume that you have spent the first part of the morning in quite a wretched state, wondering whether the problem troubling you is too embarrassingly trivial to justify calling upon me. Yet your concern is such that, having wrestled with the dilemma, you finally resolved to seek my advice, come what may."
"Sir, you have it precisely!"
"Very well, then.   May I ask what brings you here?"
Our visitor's face clouded over again. "I did hesitate before coming here to consult you. I thought about it several times, as you are a busy man and I thought the matter might seem relatively inconsequential. But a crime has been committed and although the police have expressed sympathy, they have failed to apprehend the culprit. As a result, I am left with nowhere else to turn."
"It is often an apparently minor incident which hints at the existence of the most remarkable intrigue." Holmes indicated a vacant chair. "May I beg of you to take a seat and unburden yourself without delay?"
The old man took the offered seat, then passed a hand over his brow as if to calm himself before speaking. "Since losing my dear wife, Mr. Holmes, I have devoted all my energies to my business. It is a strategem which enables me to set grief aside, at least until the small hours of the night. For all my loneliness, I am fortunate in my memories as well as in having the business to divert me. Imagine my dismay, then, when, quite out of the blue, I received this threatening message."
He passed to Holmes a sheet of paper on which had been pasted a message composed of words cut from a newspaper or magazine: "Beware the burglar. Please do not fight him. To do so would be fatal."
Holmes raised his eyebrows. "A curious missive. What were the circumstances of its arrival in your hands?"
"I found it pushed under the shop door one morning when I went to open up. There was no envelope, no clue as to where it had come from."
"Had your shop ever been burgled before then?"
"Never. As you know, many of the varieties that I keep for customers are rare and expensive, but for the most part they are an acquired taste. A common thief is unlikely to regard them as a prize. He might choke on certain unfamiliar brands if he smoked them himself and there is scarcely a thriving market for them in the taverns and back streets of the city. A few of the smokers' accessories that I stock are costly, but they have never attracted the attention of any felons, let alone burglars with homicidal intent."
"So," my friend said, "you had advance warning of an improbable crime. How singular. What steps did you take?"
"I found the message unsettling in the extreme, but what could I do? I thought it might be a hoax, although when I confided in a friend, he advised me to take it seriously."
"On what basis?" Holmes asked.
"It was his opinion that the message must have come from a villain with a conscience who had learned of a ruthless confederate's plan to raid my business."
"That does seem to be the only logical conclusion," I said.
"My friend said that he doubted the police would show any interest in such a vague threat, but I decided to speak to the local constable. Unfortunately, my friend's pessimism proved correct. There was nothing the police could do to assist me. Their resources did not permit the mounting of a guard outside my shop on the slim possibility that the note was genuine and the shop had indeed attracted a burglar's attention.   The constable offered to look in regularly, but understandably he could do no more." "Did you continue to trade?"
"At that point, yes. I shall admit to you frankly that the message made me fearful, but what else could I do? Since losing Charlotte, I seem to have lost all confidence and it is rare for me to go out at all. Yet, in a cruel irony on the one occasion that I was persuaded to take a drink or two at a local hostelry, I found upon my return that someone had broken into my premises."
"Ah!" Holmes leaned forward in his chair. "Pray tell me exactly what happened."
Josiah Buckle cleared his throat noisily. "I did not stay out late. It was barely ten o'clock when my companion Kilner and I came back to Maynard's Court. Kilner, well aware of my apprehension, was kind enough to insist on accompanying me back home. How glad I am that he did. As I was about to take out the key to the door at the side of the building which leads to my private accommodation, I became aware that the lock had been broken. At once I knew that the message had not been a hoax. This was the predicted crime. Yet something caused me to throw caution to the winds, and although Kilner tried to hold me back, I shook him off and hurried into the house."
The old man was breathing hard. Although he spoke of hurrying, he could not have been fit enough to have moved at more than a snail's pace. The poor fellow had admitted the dread that he had felt following the receipt of the anonymous note, yet the instinct to protect his home and business had prevailed and, not knowing whether the miscreant was still inside, he had been brave enough to investigate. My heart went out to him, but upon Holmes' features I could discern merely an intense concentration upon the unfolding facts.
"What did you find?"
"Nothing untoward," came the melancholy reply. "The shop was deserted and so too were my private rooms at the back and upstairs. I could find no sign, at first, that anything had been taken. I have never made a habit of acquiring elaborate possessions, although some of my stock is valuable, as I have mentioned. You will remember that I keep cigar cutters imported from America. They are ingenious mechanical contraptions which cost a pretty penny. Equally valuable are the silver vesta holders and porcelain match holders. But Mr. Holmes, not one of them had been taken."
"Perhaps the burglar was interrupted," I suggested.
"I thought the same, even after I discovered that something had, indeed, been stolen from me, yet nothing of value to anyone but myself."
"What was it?" Holmes demanded.
Mr. Buckle dabbed at his nose with a handkerchief that had seen better days. "A handful of family letters that I kept in a box in the parlour. A couple were written by my dear Charlotte, prior to our marriage. But the majority—perhaps a dozen— came from my late son, George."
"I recall that you once mentioned him to me," Holmes said. "He was a sailor, wasn't he?"
"What a memory you have!" our visitor exclaimed. "He was our pride and joy. A fine, upstanding lad."
"He was lost at sea, was he not?" In Holmes' voice was a note of sympathy that startled me. I had never heard him speak with such tenderness before.
"That is correct." At this point, emotion overwhelmed Mr. Buckle and he blew his nose with some violence. "He was only twenty years old. There was a terrible gale in the Tasman Sea. Many hands were lost, including George. That was in 1855, and I have thought about him every day that has passed since then."
"He wrote to you from ports of call, did he not? I recall that you showed me one or two of his letters."
"You must forgive a father his pride," Mr. Buckle said in a muffled voice. "Apart from my memories, letters are all that I have left of him and I like to show them to people who might be interested. He was such a lively correspondent, Mr. Holmes. His last voyage took him to the other side of the world and he delighted in telling us about what he got up to and all the sights he saw."
"Were all his letters were stolen by this burglar?"
"Not all of them, thank the Lord. He left a couple of them, together with several from Charlotte which I keep in a drawer in my bedroom. But the theft left me in despair. How I wish that the rogue had stolen something else—anything but those letters! Kilner did his best to console me, but I would have none of it. Suddenly I had the worst of all worlds. A determined burglar had for some reason made me his target, yet failed to take anything but the items I held most dear. It was a pound to a penny that he would return to steal whatever he wanted in the first place. He left no clues for the police to follow and they have confessed themselves baffled by the crime. From that day to this, I haven't dared to open the shop—or leave the building. Had I not kept myself busy rearranging the shop for Christmas and reorganizing my merchandise, I should have become entirely despondent."
"Indeed. I have been remiss, Mr. Buckle," Holmes cried, hastening to one of the tobacco pouches on the mantelpiece. "I beg you to forgive my manners. Will you join me in a stick of cavendish?"
For the first time a faint smile passed across our visitor's troubled features. As if transformed by the mere sight of the tobacco, he ceased to be a bent old man and became a skilled craftsman, slicing and shredding the herb with infinite care. After rubbing it gently between his palms, he gathered it up in his fingers as if it were a pet kitten, all the while sniffing it as he might a delicate flower.
"I love my business, as you know. Even at seventy-one, I have not contemplated retirement, but this affair has knocked the stuffing out of me. Kilner sought to cheer me up. He argued that the burglar, having tried and failed, would not trouble me again, but I was much less optimistic. For the past few weeks I have been a prisoner in my own home, Mr. Holmes. At last this morning I concluded that I owed it to myself, and to George as well, to seek your guidance."
"A pretty puzzle," Holmes said, casting another glance at the anonymous message. "Tell me this. Mr. Buckle. What is the name of your customer or associate who enjoys a close connection with the town of Bradford?"
Our visitor stared at Holmes in amazement. "Why, how on earth do you . . .?"
"His name?" Holmes insisted.
"Well, Harry Kilner, the friend I mentioned to you, was born and bred in that part of the country. His sisters still live in Bradford, but he came to London years ago."
"And he still retains a nostalgic attachment to his Yorkshire roots?"
"Most certainly. He often speaks about his youth in the West Riding. I have often heard him say that he longs to return there."
"Then why does he not do so?"
Buckle shifted in his chair, as if discomfited by the prospect of disclosing a confidence. "The truth is, Mr. Holmes, that Harry's sister is a pillar of the Temperance movement and he is rather too fond of a drink. I keep telling him that good tobacco is far better than grog. Sometimes he joins me in a cheery pipe and helps me blow a cloud. But alcohol has been his downfall, and since losing his regular employment, he has spent more of his time in taverns than in seeking work."
"What was his trade?"
"He was a valet, but when his employer died, the heir had no wish to retain Harry's services and the poor fellow has never found another steady job. It is sad, for he's a decent sort, if a little impulsive. His ideas may be muddled, but he has my welfare at heart."
"You mentioned to him that you intended to see me this morning?"
"I did."
"And he sought to discourage you from troubling me?" Mr. Buckle stared. "Precisely so. He said that there was no need, that I would not be bothered again by the burglar, despite his failure to steal anything of value. When I demurred, he became quite agitated and insisted that you would be too busy. But how did you know? What is your interest in Kilner?"
"Quite simply this. Your Yorkshire friend holds the key to your little mystery."
Two spots of colour appeared in our visitor's cheeks. "What on earth makes you think so?"
"I dare wager a modest sum that he is the author of that warning," Holmes said, gesturing languidly at the unsigned note. "What?" Mr. Buckle rose stiffly from his chair. "Mr. Holmes, it is inconceivable!"
"Unpalatable, perhaps," my friend said blandly. "Nevertheless, you will find that my surmise is well-founded. I have some knowledge of different newspaper typefaces and this example is distinctive. Those words have been cut from headlines appearing in The Bradford Telegraph, you may depend upon it. The blurring of the letters is a conspicuous and recurrent fault. I understand the paper to be an excellent publication, but a touch parochial in its concerns and infrequently purchased south of the West Riding. Yet the message was not sent through the post from White Rose county, but rather hand delivered. From this it is easy to infer that the newspaper must have been supplied to a Yorkshireman exiled to the capital, who then cut it up to assemble this message, becoming your unknown correspondent.
Mr. Buckle's face turned the colour of chalk. "Kilner told me that his sister sends it to him regularly, to keep him in touch with local events."
"Indeed. That the person who warned you was someone with whom you were on good terms was self-evident. It is rare for anonymous warnings to include the word please. If Harry Kilner expected you to be burgled, and was concerned that the culprit might prove violent if confronted, that would explain his determination to take you out of harm's way on the evening that the crime was committed."
"But that implies that he is in touch with the man who stole George's letters!"
"If not in league with him. I fancy that Mr. Harry Kilner has a good deal of explaining to do. But we do not have a moment to lose, now that he is aware you are consulting someone other than the local constabulary. Watson and I must pay him a visit."
"I shall come too!" our visitor exclaimed. "Mr. Holmes, you will not take it amiss when I state my belief that you are making a dreadful mistake in pointing the finger at Kilner. The man would not hurt a fly."
Holmes shook his head. "His tender heart is evidenced by the warning he sent you, but that may not be enough to save him."
"Save him?"
"From the consequences of his own folly. This is dangerous work, Mr. Buckle. Might I ask you for a favour?"
"Anything!"
Holmes sprang to his feet. "Please return at once to your premises and set about reopening the shop. The smokers of London should not be deprived of your wares for a day longer. Kilner was right. For you, the moment of danger has passed. For him, it is the here and now."
In such mood, my friend was irresistibly persuasive. All protests stilled, Mr. Buckle consented to part from us. Within minutes, Holmes had given a cabby the command to whip his horse up and we were in a hansom, clattering frantically through the December drizzle. The address Mr. Buckle had given us for Harry Kilner was unknown to me, but Holmes, with his intimate knowledge of the byways of London, identified it as a miserable street half a mile distant from the tobacconist's emporium. As we travelled, I sought to draw Holmes out and gain an insight into his analysis of the mystery, but, not for the first time, he contented himself with an enigmatic response.
"You are familiar with my addiction to logic. What do you believe was the burglar's purpose?"
"Hardly to steal a batch of letters that date back perhaps thirty years."
"Really?"
Holmes' lip curled, but when I pressed him, he refused to say more and that set me furiously to thinking. Might the letters contain a secret? An idea struck me. I recalled that, in the days when George Buckle had sailed to the other side of the globe, gold had just been discovered in Australia. Could there be a connection? It seemed to me a fruitful line of enquiry, but I was able to make little of it, save to infer that Kilner might have believed that the letters contained clues to the whereabouts of a treasure trove—a cryptogram, perhaps, that the tobacconist had failed to understand. It seemed improbable, but Holmes had already taught me that there is a world of difference between that which is impossible and that which is merely unlikely.
I was still battling the conundrum when we reached our destination. The cab drew up outside a shabby brick building which adjoined a public house on the corner called The White Swan. According to Josiah Buckle, his friend occupied a room in the basement. A flight of steep stone steps, worn deep by generations of trudging tenants, led down from the pavement. At the bottom, a heavy door stood ajar.
"I fear we are too late," Holmes whispered.
He hurried down the steps and I followed close behind. At his touch, the door swung open to reveal a ghastly sight. A man lay face down on the bare-planked floor of a small and musty room. Blood was oozing from a wicked gash on his right temple. My first thought was that he was dead, but as we crossed the threshold into the musty dwelling, he seemed to make a Herculean effort of will and raised his head a fraction. I saw in the bloodshot eyes an expression of deep despair.
"Cave," he said in the hoarsest whisper I have ever heard. "The upside-down swan . . . ."
With those words, his head sank down again. I sprang forward to check his pulse. There was nothing.
"He's dead," I said.
Holmes sighed.   "A terrible price to pay."
"For what?"
My friend gave me a bleak look. "For avarice and betrayal of trust. If only we had arrived half an hour earlier, this poor wretch's life would have been saved, although I fear that he would only have been spared for Pentonville. Come, we must summon Scotland Yard."
As we waited for the police, Holmes examined the miserable rooms of the late Harry Kilner in the painstaking fashion that I had first witnessed on the day I had accompanied him to the house off Brixton Road where Enoch J. Drebber, late of Utah, had met his end. The place was thick with dust and the peeling wallpaper smelled of mildew. Kilner had few possessions, but I saw piled upon a battered chest half a dozen yellowing copies of The Bradford Telegraph. At length Holmes gave a nod of satisfaction and was scribbling a note detailing his conclusions when our old acquaintance Tobias Gregson arrived, accompanied by a clutch of silent subordinates. "Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes! What have we here?"
In a few crisp sentences my friend explained the circumstances that had brought us to the scene of the crime. "You and your men will no doubt wish to conduct the usual investigations. Dr. Watson and I must bid you farewell, for our next task is to break the news to Mr. Buckle that his friend is dead."
Gregson wrinkled his nose. "You know, we must not jump to conclusions. I dare wager that this murder is quite unconnected with the tobacconist. You say that Kilner was a toper. Well, such men fall easily into bad company. There may well be a simple explanation for what has happened. A quarrel over a debt or a woman, perhaps."
"I quite agree," my friend said with asperity, "that one should not jump to conclusions. Please take this note. It contains the deductions I have made from the evidence I have found here. You and your men will surely arrive at an identical result, but when you are finished here, you may care to check whether we have the same ideas."
Holmes folded the piece of paper on which he had been writing and passed it to the detective.
"What will this tell me, then, Mr. Holmes?" "The size and type of the boots worn by the murderer, the colour of his coat and of his hair, together with the weapon he used to batter poor Kilner to death. All that remains is for me to express my very best wishes to you for the Christmas season. Good day."
He turned briskly and led me out of the grim basement. When we had regained the street, I said, "I am disappointed in you, Holmes. Your powers appear to be failing. I should have hoped that you would at least have been able to suggest the felon's name as well."
Holmes permitted himself a thin smile. "Well, I might hazard a guess . . . but no, it is better to seek solid evidence than to indulge in speculation."
I pointed at the sign above the entrance to The White Swan. "Kilner spoke of an upside-down swan and we know that he was overly fond of a tipple—I wonder if we should look inside the tavern for further enlightenment?"
"I hardly think that it specialises in enlightenment," Holmes said crisply. "No, Kilner's final words are suggestive, I grant you, but I suspect that the swan he had in mind was black. Now here's a cab! We must return to Josiah Buckle's premises and break the news that he has lost a friend."
As was his custom, Holmes refused to say another word regarding his theories about the crime, leaving me to rack my brains in vain. On our arrival at the tobacconist's shop, we found Mr. Buckle hard at work, sweeping the floor as he prepared to reopen for business. He seemed to have brightened up considerably since our consultation. He greeted us with a cheery handshake.
"Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, how good to see you again! As you will see, I've taken you at your word and started to make ready for a resumption of trade. I owe you such a debt. After talking to you, I feel ten years younger. I keep telling myself that even if I've lost George's letters forever, I still have my memories of him. Besides, I know every line of his correspondence by heart."
"I have sad news for you," Holmes said gently. "Harry Kilner is dead."
Josiah Buckle paled.   "Good Lord!"
Holmes laid a hand on the old man's shoulder and explained what had happened. "There will be a time to mourn your friend, but murder has been done and I must devote myself to making sure that the killing of Harry Kilner does not go unavenged. Mr. Buckle, please attend. I have a very important question for you. You told me that your son George perished in 1855. Did he ever spend time in Western Australia during the year before his death?"
Bewildered, the tobacconist said, "Yes, he did—but how could you know?"
"It is my business to know things," Holmes replied coolly.
"You mentioned that Kilner lost his employment following the death of his employer. Can you tell me exactly what happened?"
"You'll have heard of Sir Titus Gillibrand, no doubt," Mr. Buckle murmured. "The family made its money in the tea trade and Sir Titus was noted both as a collector of rare artefacts and for his generosity in charitable causes. He was twice widowed and gave freely to those who seemed to him deserving. He also kept a large private staff. Unfortunately, his son from his first marriage died a year ago and young Charles, who is something of a black sheep, inherited the family fortune."
A strange light came into Holmes' eyes. "Ah, Mr. Charles Gillibrand? I came across him once during the course of my enquiries into a business concerning a blind auctioneer and a croquet mallet. As I recall, young Gillibrand was a collector of quite obsessive zeal. He did, however, lack his father's good taste. I recall watching him bid furiously for the privilege of owning a quite hideous oil painting. He did not succeed and frankly I thought it a stroke of luck, but his mortification at being outmanoeuvred by his rival was alarming to behold."
Josiah Buckle nodded. "By all accounts, he is a strange young fellow, single-minded to the point of fanaticism. Certainly, he lacks any trace of his father's amiability. Within a week of Sir Titus' death, he dismissed all the old man's servants and replaced them with a ruffian whom he had picked up during the course of a misspent youth. Poor Kilner was so desperate for work that he tried to curry favour with Charles, undertaking errands in the hope of securing a fresh position, but to no avail."
"Where does the son live?"
"Overlooking Hyde Park, at Number One, Java Mansions."
"Very well," Holmes said. "That must be our next destination. Come, Watson, the solution to this pretty puzzle is at hand."
"But Mr. Holmes!" the tobacconist cried. "You have not explained . . .."
Holmes raised his hand. "Please, sir. This is a moment for action rather than words. When I return, you may put to me as many questions as you desire."
With that he led the way out of the little shop and we were soon dashing through the streets towards the heart of the city. The skies were darkening and as we approached Hyde Park I heard a distant rumble of thunder. I wished that Holmes would take me into his confidence, but already I had learned the futility of taxing him before he was ready to unburden himself. Java Mansions was a tall building of white stone, splendidly positioned a stone's throw from the park. The very plainness of its architecture seemed, paradoxically, to hint at the wealth of occupants who had no need to make a show of affluence by indulging in extravagant ornamentation. To my surprise, however, the windows of Number One were not only curtained but also traced with cobwebs. There was no sign of decoration for Christmas, but the house was not unoccupied. I saw one of the curtains move as we descended from the cab.
"Sir Titus Gillibrand was a businessman of considerable distinction," my friend murmured, tugging at the bell pull. "I fear that, as so often happens, the son has inherited the ruthless-ness of the parent without the compensating sense of noblesse The result is seldom happy, either for the individual or the society in which he moves."
After a short delay the oak door creaked open. A squat, sullen-eyed man stood on a raised step above us. He was the very opposite of the smart and discreet butler whom one would expect to encounter in a house such as this. His coat was tattered and an old scar curved across his left cheek. He had evidently not shaved for several days and his whole bearing suggested that his sole purpose was to deter those who had the temerity to call from venturing into the house, by force if necessary.
"No trespassers," he muttered, before either Holmes or I could utter a word. He was by no means a giant, but his shoulders were broad and his girth considerable, so that he blocked the way into the entrance hall as effectively as a brick wall.
My friend responded with an ironic smile and, raising his voice, announced, "I believe that Mr. Charles Gillibrand would be willing to make the acquaintance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
From inside, a high-pitched voice cried, "Mr. Sherlock Holmes? What a delicious surprise! By all means, do come in."
With a scornful grunt, the servant lumbered aside to allow us ingress. As we strode forward, a slender young man came to greet us. His face was pale, as though he rarely saw the sunlight, and his fair hair was slicked back. As he came nearer it became evident that he had used a large quantity of some kind of eau de cologne and he gave each of us what can only be described as a rather unmanly handshake.
"I saw your cab arrive," our host explained, dismissing his man with a flap of the hand. "Of course I was so intrigued! To what, pray, do I owe the honour of a visit from London's most celebrated detective?"
He ushered us into a cavernous sitting room. Two of its walls were covered with fine paintings of the Venetian school, a third with old maps. A display cabinet was filled to overflowing with silver coins in presentation cases and a bookcase groaned under the weight of heavy morocco-bound albums. I could picture this curious fellow, a few moments earlier, peering out between the brocaded curtains when he heard the cab stop outside. A couple of candles in an elaborately carved holder on the sideboard burned brightly, but the corners where their light did not fall were dark and gloomy, and I remarked films of dust on every surface. A further puzzling instance of the contradiction between evident riches and skimped housekeeping.
"Thank you," Holmes said as the young man indicated an armchair. "I prefer to stand. Our visit will be brief. I have only one object in trespassing here and that is to ensure that the property of Mr. Josiah Buckle is returned to its rightful owner."
Charles Gillibrand's cheeks turned crimson and he clutched at the sideboard as if for support. "What on earth are you suggesting, Mr. Holmes?"
"The letters," my friend said suavely. "Mr. Buckle has a strong sentimental attachment to them. I have come to retrieve them. Nothing more."
Our effete host swallowed hard. "I am afraid that is impossible. I simply cannot understand what you are asking me to do."
With two quick strides, Holmes was standing in front of Gillibrand. Their brows were almost touching. "I must insist," he said in the calm, level tone that, as I had come to realise, he employed when he was in deadly earnest. "Mr. Buckle has a strong sentimental attachment to the correspondence that was stolen from him. He is an old and decent man and he deserves better than to have his last years tarnished by a theft as cruel as it was pointless."
"Pointless?" Charles Gillibrand murmured. "How odd that you should say that. Not, of course," he said hastily, "that I have any idea what you are talking about. What in the name of Heaven makes you believe that I would be able to assist you?"
"Less than two hours ago," Holmes said, "I was looking down on the corpse of your late father's valet, Harry Kilner."
"Oh dear." The young man's eyes flickered and I thought I caught a note of hysteria in his voice. "An accident? The demon drink, I suppose. Poor old Harry was overly fond of alcohol. My father often used to measure the bottles to quantify the scale of Harry's little thefts. Poor father! He was too kindly to take the obvious step of dispensing with the services of a criminal who betrayed his trust. That was a mistake I did not make myself."
"No doubt," Holmes said languidly, "it was with a view to ingratiating himself to you that Kilner drew your attention to the upside-down swan."
That final phrase had a startling effect upon Charles Gillibrand. He uttered a gasp of shock and glanced wildly around the room as if in search of a means of escape.
"Ah," Holmes said, "1 see that I have it right."
Seized by panic, the young man called out, "Cave! Cave! Where are you? Come here at once, or it will be the worse for you!"
We heard the pounding of feet and the door was flung open by the ruffian whom we had met at the door. When he saw my friend confronting Gillibrand, he narrowed his eyes and rocked on his heels. He gave the impression of an uncaged animal, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
Undeterred, Holmes gave him a curt bow. "Mr. Cave? Your master has confirmed a rather speculative theory of mine. The size of your boots and other details regarding your person only serve to strengthen it. Before he died, Harry Kilner murmured a few words and the first was 'Cave.'"
Cave scowled and balled his fists. Gillibrand glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He seemed almost as frightened of his servant as he was of Holmes.
"What do you want, Mr. Holmes?"
"The letters. All of them. Including the envelope for which you were willing to sacrifice a man's life."
"I did not mean for anyone to die," Gillibrand said. "Poor Cave is blessed with strength in abundance, rather than intelligence. Kilner's death was unnecessary, but this fellow never knows when to stop."
Cave moved ever so slightly and again I was reminded of a wild creature. He seemed to me less a man than a ferocious beast who respected no one, who followed nothing but his own primitive instincts.
Giving him a nervous glance, Gillibrand murmured, "Mr. Holmes, I am sure that we can come to some arrangement."
"My immediate concern is to ensure the return of the letters. As to the murder, no doubt you and this brute will have to throw yourselves on the mercy of Scotland Yard."
"I had nothing to do with the murder! It was Cave's fault, 1 tell you. All I asked him to do was to give Kilner a warning, but he went too far."
Holmes shrugged. "A slender basis for defence against a capital charge."
"What!" There was no mistaking the fear in Gillibrand's eyes. "Now, Mr. Holmes, you can have the letters, and Cave's neck too, if need be. But I tell you, I am innocent."
"My neck?"  The ruffian roared with fury.   He took a pace towards my friend and swung a punch which Holmes, always light on his feet, dodged easily enough.
"For Heaven's sake, man, have you gone mad?" demanded Gillibrand, placing a small white hand on the fellow's arm.
It was inconceivable that such a feeble grip could restrain such a strong and violent man and Cave shrugged it off with such force that he sent his master spinning backwards, so as to collide with the sideboard. The impact was sufficient to cause the candlestick to topple over, and within seconds the woodwork was ablaze.
Cave bellowed in incoherent horror, much as an animal might when confronted by fire, and backed to wards the door.
Gillibrand lay crumpled on the thick Persian carpet, screaming at the sight of the room in flames. I whipped off my coat in an attempt to beat out the fire, but its ferocity drove me back. Within minutes the smoke that was rapidly filling the room would make it impossible to breath. Already pungent smoke was filling my nostrils. Even as I fought for air, Cave made good his escape, but neither my friend nor I sought to follow him.
Holmes advanced towards the prostrate young man. "The letters!" he shouted. "Where are they?"
Gillibrand cast a quick glance at a cabinet on the opposite side of the sitting room. "Do something!" he yelped. "My house is on fire! You must save it, for pity's sake!"
"Pity!" Holmes demanded as he moved swiftly across to the cabinet and threw open its doors. "What pity did you have for Josiah Buckle or Harry Kilner?" A pile of papers spilled out onto the carpet and he swooped like an eagle upon a pack of yellowing envelopes loosely tied with string.
As I redoubled my efforts to fight the blaze, Gillibrand cried out. "So you have what you came for! Now help me!"
Still prostrate on the floor, he was choking from the fumes. The blaze had taken hold. My own eyes were watering and I knew that in seconds the battle would be lost.   Within moments, the effects of smoke inhalation would render me insensible. "Holmes! We must go!"
My friend moved across the room, seized Gillibrand's collar, and dragged the young man across the floor and out of the room. Not an instant too soon, I joined them in the hallway, banging the door shut against the inferno raging within.
"You see, Mr. Buckle," Holmes explained to the tobacconist late that evening, after Gillibrand had been turned over to the authorities, and Cave had been tracked down and arrested as well, "it was clear to me from the outset that you had been the victim of a cruel plot that not only separated you from mementoes of inestimable personal value, but also from not inconsiderable riches."
The old man studied the items on the table in front of him with tears in his eyes. There were half a dozen envelopes and as many sheets of paper, all bearing the careful calligraphy of the late George Buckle. "I shall never be able to thank you enough, Mr. Holmes."
"Think of the return of the letters as a Christmas gift, my dear sir. It was apparent that Kilner knew that you had something worth stealing and yet, when he lured you away to the tavern, the only items stolen appeared to have no more than sentimental value. A casual theft is not so carefully planned and I felt sure that the secret lay with your son's letters. Something he had written, perhaps? The good Watson thought so, but I was not so sure. Poor Kilner's final words provided me with almost all the information I required. He did his best, with his parting breaths, to hang the man who had done for him. Not only did he name Cave, but he also explained the motive for the burglary."
"The upside-down swan," I murmured, looking at one of the envelopes. It bore a blue lithographed stamp on the top right hand corner. On opposite sides of the stamp's frame were the words Western Australia and Postage Four Pence. Within the frame was a black swan, the emblem of the old Swan River Settlement. In the printing process, the picture had been inverted.
"I have made a study of philately," Holmes said, "and my knowledge has assisted me on more than one occasion, most notably in the matter of the Duke of Leinster's baubles. I was already aware that the error on this particular scrap of paper had achieved the status of legend amongst collectors. It dates back to 1854, precisely the time when your son might have purchased a stamp to place on one of his letters home. When I learned of Kilner's connection with Charles Gillibrand, the explanation for the theft became clear. Gillibrand was a hoarder of scarce and valuable items. Kilner had gained some knowledge of philately from Sir Titus, who was himself a stamp collector of repute. When you showed him your son's letters, he saw a means of ingratiating himself with his former employer by telling him how he could lay his hands on a famously scarce and valuable item."
"But why did he not speak to me about this?" the tobacconist said.
"You described him as an impulsive fellow. I surmise that he decided to kill two birds with one stone. He assumed that Charles Gillibrand would be glad to buy the stamp from you, but he had not reckoned on the speed with which the son had squandered the family fortune. His house was decaying and he depended for personal service upon a thug. He could not afford to pay the fabulous sum that the "Inverted Swan would command, so he decided to steal it instead, and threatened Kilner with Cave if he breathed a word to you. Perhaps he offered Kilner a bribe; perhaps Kilner thought that you would not miss a mere envelope. Hence the anonymous warning. In any event, instead of taking just the envelope with the swan, Cave stole all the envelopes he could find, without bothering to remove any of the letters. Kilner was undoubtedly in a state of terror when he learned this, and when you told him that you intended to consult me, he made the mistake of alerting Charles Gillibrand, perhaps hoping he would be rewarded for doing so, but he only succeeded in bringing about his own death. A terrible end, and the perpetrators richly deserve to hang for what they have done. It is at least some consolation that they are now in the hands of the authorities."
Josiah Buckle took a reflective puff from his cherrywood pipe. "Well, Mr. Holmes, within the space of a few hours I have lost a friend who betrayed me and made a fortune for which I care nothing. But I also have my son's letters, which mean more to me than all the wealth in the world. And what have you gained from today, except for the satisfaction of solving a riddle?"
Holmes shrugged. "I have repaid my debt to you and staved off boredom. I ask for nothing else. Except, perhaps, for the opportunity to sample another of those remarkable Alexandrian cigarettes to which you introduced me half an hour ago. A touch self-indulgent, perhaps, but then—it will soon be Christmas! Watson, will you join me?" 
O