Sherlock Holmes and The Folk Tale Mysteries

by Gayle Lange Puhl

  “Now the letter,” murmured Holmes from behind the London Times. I smoothed out the missive, written in black ink with a broad nib on thick handmade paper. It was dated the evening of the break-in.

  “Mr. Holmes,” it ran, “Enclosed you will find a newspaper account of the invasion of my home this morning. As reported, the police have no idea of the identity of the vandal. I am unwilling to wait for them to get a clue. I have heard of your exploits and I strongly urge you to come to Croydon and look into this problem. This wanton act has greatly upset not only me, but my dear wife and our daughter.

  “Allow me to tell you about my circumstances. I was born in the Black Forest and earned my degree at Berlin University. Shortly after that, I immigrated to England and took up the position of junior librarian for the Hibernian Institute of London. After years of service, I reached the highest position in my department. Late in life, I married Miss Ursula Stief of Norfolk Square, Paddington. We established a home outside Croydon. Four years ago saw the birth of our little daughter, Bebe. Last year I retired from the Institute.

  “Our property is situated at the end of a long lane that runs from Croydon over a mile into Graffing Woods. We are able to indulge in a large garden and keep a horse and carriage. We are also fond of long walks along the many paths through the woods. My wife is an enthusiastic berry picker.

  “As for servants, there is a local boy who cares for the horse and helps in the garden. My wife has a cleaning woman who comes in twice a week.

  “Our lives were quiet and uneventful until this morning. I must add that the chair that was destroyed was an antique that had come down from my wife’s family. It was Bebe’s own particular chair.

  “I am depending on you, Mr. Holmes, to discover who is responsible for this outrage. Upon receipt of your telegram I will meet the London train at Croydon Station.

  “Your servant, Raubtier Bhaer.”

  Holmes folded up the Times. “I received that letter yesterday by the afternoon post. Any thoughts, Watson?”

  “The man doesn’t take no for an answer,” I replied. “There is no doubt expressed in his letter that you will not take his case at once.”

  “Good man.”

  “He is impatient. The break-in occurred barely two days ago and he is not willing to give the police time to investigate the case.”

  “Quite sound. Anything else?”

  “I see nothing else. Is there more?”

  “Ah, perhaps not. We may check your theories now, Watson,” said Holmes as the train pulled into Croydon Station. “This is the Bhaer family waiting for us, I believe.”

  Standing on the platform were the three Bhaers. After introductions all around, we stepped into a waiting carriage and started to Bern Lodge.

  I studied with interest the three people seated across from us. Raubtier Bhaer was a large, hulking man, over six feet tall and broad in the chest and shoulders. He had a great grizzled beard and the backs of his hands bristled with reddish hairs. He wore a somber black suit and, surprisingly, a loden green Bavarian hat.

  Ursula Bhaer was young and plump, fully a foot shorter than her husband. She was neatly groomed, wore a striped pink morning dress and a straw skimmer trimmed with artificial berries and leaves. Sitting next to her was a roly-poly mite in a pink and lavender plaid dress and matching beret with a white fur bobble.

  “It’s too bad there is not an earlier train from London to Croydon,” growled our client. “We’ve had another break-in this very morning.”

  I was startled. “What?”

  “Indeed,” remarked Sherlock Holmes. “Tell me about it. Have the police been informed?”

  “No, and I am not going to tell them,” responded Mr. Bhaer. “What did they accomplish after the first invasion? They just trampled my tulips and poked around the fireplace. Moreover, I haven’t heard a word from them since and I don’t expect to.”

  “That’s why you are here, Mr. Holmes, and your friend Dr. Watson,” Mrs. Bhaer said in a pleasant low voice. “Raubtier has great confidence in you.”

  “More than in the local police, at any rate,” muttered her husband. “I’ve seen their work.”

  “Pray tell me about this morning,” said Holmes.

  “I received your telegram last night so we decided to have an early breakfast and meet the train together. Ursula made my favorite dish, oatmeal porridge.”

  “But it was too hot,” Bebe Bhaer piped up.

  “Yes, it was too hot to eat at once, so we decided to take a turn around the garden in order to let it cool. We were only gone a few minutes, checking on the new plantings, but when we returned we saw at once that the culprit had struck again.”

  “The front door appeared untouched, but the bowls of porridge on the kitchen table had been disturbed. My bowl of porridge had been tasted and a large spoon left thrust into it, Ursula’s bowl had been moved and the porridge tasted, and Bebe’s porridge…”

  “Had been tasted too, and someone ate it all up!” wailed the little girl. Mrs. Bhaer leaned over to comfort her as the child began to cry. “It’s all right, darling. We had a nice breakfast in the café while we waited for the train, didn’t we? The fur bobble nodded up and down and a tiny handkerchief appeared.

  “We left the house immediately, of course,” rumbled Mr. Bhaer.

  I felt a wave of sympathy for Bebe Bhaer. Sherlock Holmes’s cases seldom involved small children. I realized that this young child felt that she was under personal attack by some shadowy intruder. Her chair had been broken. Her breakfast had been eaten. Strangers had been introduced into her life to solve a problem her parents could not control. I set my jaw and looked at Sherlock Holmes.

  His head was tilted back against the cushion and his hooded eyes were concentrated on the scenery out the carriage window. “We have arrived at Bern Lodge, I believe,” was all he said.

  The carriage had stopped before a wicker gate. Beyond the brick garden wall, we saw a large two-storied half-timbered cottage with a steep, freshly thatched roof. It sat in the center of a sizable formal garden elaborately designed with geometric flower plots filled with colorful May blossoms and rimmed by neatly trimmed box hedges. Blooming shrubs and fanciful topiary trees were tastefully placed to the best advantage about the property. Beds of daffodils made a brave show but the multi-colored tulips and the lavish lilac bushes promised to overtake them in another week. Graffing Woods surrounded the land on nearly all sides. Small outbuildings in back were tucked up right under the twisted limbs of the ancient trees. Behind us, the lane curved away behind an outcropping of old oaks. There was no sign of the nearest neighbor.

  The three Bhaers led us through the gate and up the gravel path to the front door; Holmes bent down and examined the latch. “The door is locked. Was it so this morning?”

  Raubtier Bhaer’s voice rumbled as he turned his house key to open the door. “I do not lock my door while I am on my own property, sir.”

  The Bhaer front door opened into a hall floored in flagstones that divided the ground floor into two equal halves with a set of stairs leading up at the back. On the left was an archway giving into the sitting room. An identical arch on the opposite wall afforded a glimpse of the kitchen. Sherlock Holmes stood upon the hall mat and surveyed the floor before him.

  “This corridor has been cleaned,” he announced, displeased. “The newspaper account mentioned muddy footprints.

  “Of course it has been swept and mopped,” exclaimed Mrs. Bhaer. “I take great pride in the orderly upkeep of my home.”

  “Forgive me.” Holmes suddenly smiled at her. “Of course you do. It would have been useful, however, if the scene could have been preserved. And this is the sitting room, also swept and dusted? Assuredly so. What an interesting room! Are some of these pieces from your native land, Mr. Bhaer? I see the remains of the chair have so far escaped the
dustbin.”

  “I put those aside, Mr. Holmes, after I decided to engage your services,” said Mr. Bhaer.

  “Please, all of you remain in the archway. Watson, what do you think of this?” Holmes picked up a shattered leg from the pile of debris stacked on one side of the hearth. He held up his magnifying glass to intensify a view of the cracks and splinters that bristled from the broken stump.

  “It just looks smashed to me, Holmes,” said I.

  “There is a pattern, Watson,” murmured Holmes. “There is most certainly a pattern. “ He swiftly examined each piece in the pile. From that, he turned to the rest of the room.

  The sitting room was decorated with many Bavarian touches. Tables, chairs and chests were heavily hand-carved or brightly painted with rustic design. Light draperies screened windows filled with tiny panes of hand-blown glass. Two chairs faced the fireplace. One was a large brown leather armchair, obviously Raubtier Bhaer’s, set next to a middle-sized rocker which was amply padded with embroidered pillows.

  “That must be Mrs. Bhaer’s chair,” said I.

  Holmes did not reply. Using his glass, he gave them both a thorough inspection, and then prodded the seats with his strong, thin fingers.

  We passed the Bhaer family in the hallway and entered the kitchen. More Bavarian touches were evident there but Holmes concentrated on the kitchen table. It was constructed of thick wood hand-carved and painted in a motif of hearts and roses. Three matching chairs were pushed away from the three bowls sitting on the blue painted tablecloth.

  The largest bowl had a big spoon sticking up over the rim. The medium-sized bowl was pulled to the edge of the table and the smallest bowl was tipped on one side, scraped clean. Sherlock Holmes brought out his magnifying glass again and scrutinized them. He tasted the contents of each dish, and then held up a spoon from the table.

  “Very suggestive,” he remarked. “A most interesting case. Come, Watson, what do you make of this?” He turned the spoon’s shaft toward the light. I looked at it closely.

  “There are smudges on the handle,” said I.

  “Do you see anything else?”

  “What should I be looking for, Holmes?”

  “Watson, Watson! Look at the size of the smudges.”

  I peered at the marks through Holmes’s glass. A sharp thrill ran down my spine. “It is a complete fingerprint, but small. Holmes, a child has done these destructive things!”

  A low growl came from behind us. We turned and found the three Bhaers scowling at us from the kitchen archway.

  “Not my child.” It was a flat statement from Raubtier Bhaer.

  Holmes took the little girl’s hands in his and turned them over to look at her fingertips. “No, not Miss Bebe,” he agreed. “Her fingers are far too narrow.” He moved to the stairs. The third step caught his attention and he crouched over it. He picked up something invisible to me and rubbed it between his fingers.

  “Leaf mold. I wonder…” I heard him mutter. He turned to Mrs. Bhaer. “Were these steps swept along with the rest of the house after the police left?”

  “Why, yes, of course,” she answered.

  “What a fool I have been!” Sherlock Holmes shouted. “Watson, follow me!” He bounded up the stairs with me at his heels. The three Bhaers followed.

  The top of the stairs revealed a long corridor that ran the entire width of the house. Three doors were irregularly spaced along its length. Holmes grasped the nearest doorknob and turned it.

  “That’s my bedroom,” boomed Raubtier Bhaer.

  We stepped into a large room fitted out as a sleeping chamber. Three tall windows filled it with sunshine. The light gleamed off more carved and painted furniture. The most striking item was an enormous handcrafted sleigh bed set against one wall. A vast white fur cover lay half on, half off the mattress, one corner dragged down to the floor.

  The Bhaer family walked in behind us. “This is intolerable!” rumbled Mr. Bhaer. “Someone has been sleeping in my bed!”

  Sherlock Holmes gave the fur cover a swift survey with his magnifying glass, and then opened the connecting door to the next room. It proved to be a medium-sized bedroom, decorated in the same Bavarian style but with lavish feminine touches. The prevailing color was pink. Ruffles adorned every surface, including the filmy curtains at the two windows. Frilly pillows trimmed with lace had been tossed to the floor from the four-poster bed. Holmes lingered briefly at the bed, looking at an impression on the soft coverlet where a weight had rested upon it.

  “I tidied up this room before breakfast,” gasped Mrs. Bhaer. “Someone has been sleeping in my bed!”

  Another door led to a smaller room that was equipped as a nursery. My gaze swept over a Bavarian toy box and shelves of storybooks flanking a single window to a little camp bed in the corner. On it was heaped a tangle of blankets.

  A tiny voice shrilled behind me. “I did make my bed this morning, Mummy, I did! Someone has been sleeping in my bed!”

  With a dramatic flourish, Sherlock Holmes stretched out a long arm and threw back the coverlet. “And here she is!”

  I stood frozen in amazement. Lying on her side under the blankets was a sleeping young girl of about seven or eight years. Long blonde curls cascaded over the pillow beneath her head. She was wearing a light green dress trimmed in dark green braid. A bracelet gleamed on her wrist. On her feet were white stockings and scuffed black shoes. Holmes gently touched her shoulder.

  The little girl opened her eyes and looked up. Behind me Raubtier Bhaer snarled, “Young lady, what in blazes are you doing in my house?” The three Bhaers advanced past me toward the bed, scowling at the little culprit.

  She quickly took stock of the situation. With startling agility and speed, she leaped up and dashed out the door leading to the hallway. A moment later, we heard her footsteps clatter down the stairs. The three Bhaers made a concerted move toward the hall as if to give chase, but Holmes got there first.

  “I think not, Mr. Bhaer,” he said smoothly but with a dangerous look in his eye. One hand was thrust deep into his coat pocket. “She is just a child. I am certain she will not return.”

  A loud report sounded from below as the front door slammed shut. Through the window, I caught a glimpse of her green and gold figure running into Graffing Woods.

  The Bhaer family glared from Holmes to me, standing with my back to Mrs. Bhaer’s bedroom door. I witnessed many things during my time of service with the Army in Afganistan, but never during the worst battles did I ever see a more terrifying sight than that of Raubtier Bhaer and his family, as they stood before Sherlock Holmes in baffled rage. Their teeth bared in fierce grimaces, three pairs of black eyes snapped in anger and six hands raised up as if to claw the air.

  But they did not move. Sherlock Holmes stood his ground before the door. After a tense, endless minute, Raubtier, Ursula and Bebe Bhaer growled in unison, “Get out.”

  We did not need a second invitation. The three Bhaers followed closely as we navigated the upstairs corridor, the steps leading downstairs and the length of the flagstone hall. They only stopped when the wicker garden gate clicked shut behind us.

  We continued rapidly down the lane that led to Croydon until the curve of the road hid us from view of the Bhaers’ house. There we stopped and I peered cautiously around a tree. I saw the three Bhaers march up the gravel path to their house, enter, and firmly shut the door.

  I turned and looked at Holmes. He was standing on the side of the road and his eye caught mine. He threw back his head and laughed.

  “That’s one fee I shall never collect, Watson,” he chuckled.

  I took a deep breath. “I’m glad you found all that amusing,” I retorted. “I was never so frightened in my life.”

  Sherlock Holmes was composed in an instant. “My dear Watson, I do apologize. I thought there might be tr
ouble, but I underestimated the level of fury in that house against the intruder.” He displayed an empty coat pocket. “I am very glad you were with me. I believe I would have had serious difficulty getting out of that room by myself.”

  I felt my face redden. Such remarks from Holmes were rare. We resumed our walk toward Croydon at a much slower pace. My head was spinning with questions. “Who was that girl, Holmes? What was she doing in the Bhaers’ house? Why, after the first break-in, did she come back? I must admit, I find it all confusing.”

  Holmes had an actor’s appreciation of an audience, even if it was just me. “We have a little walk before us, Watson, and the weather is excellent for an English May morning. Now is as good a time as any to go over the important points of this case. It does display singular features.

  “I had deduced from the client’s letter that he possessed a bad temper and was of a controlling nature. His language in in the letter, using words like “outrage” and “invasion”, indicated that. He didn’t write of the family attending activities in Croydon, but of solitary long walks in the woods. He consulted me because he had no faith in the local constabulary and wanted quick results. Those are not the actions of a thoughtful and accommodating man.

  “I knew before we left Baker Street that the break-in posed little physical threat to the Bhaers. In fact, it bore all the signs of a crime of opportunity. The family was absent only momentarily. The front door latch had not been tampered with. The breaking of the child’s chair seemed purposeless unless it could be explained as being accidental.

  “I was disappointed to find after we arrived that the place had been cleaned and any evidence cleared away. Mr. Bhaer did have the good sense to retain the remains of the little chair. As you saw, I went over the pieces with my glass. I determined that the stress marks of the wood showed that the chair broke because of a heavy weight applied to the seat that splintered the legs. The chair was old and the force came from above. The supports cracked and the chair collapsed.