Sherlock Holmes and The Folk Tale Mysteries

by Gayle Lange Puhl

  “I determined that of the two remaining chairs, Mr. Bhaer’s chair was too hard and uncomfortable for anyone but himself. Mrs. Bhaer’s rocker was piled with many cushions and was too soft and offered little support for most people.

  “The porridge presented a different question. Why was only Bebe Bhaer’s breakfast eaten? A simple taste test answered that. The big bowl, again Mr. Bhaer’s, contained salty porridge. Mrs. Bhaer’s medium-sized bowl was heavily treated with sugar. There was only a trace of porridge left in Bebe Bhaer’s bowl, so I deduced that her breakfast tasted best to the intruder, and so all of it was eaten.”

  “Amazing, Holmes!”

  He smiled. “This time there were no signs of muddy footprints in the hall or even the kitchen, but I found fresh leaf mold on the stairs leading up to the first story. The three Bhaers had left the house at once after the theft of their breakfasts was discovered. The steps had been swept the day before. Therefore, I decided that it was a good possibility that the miscreant was still in the house.

  “You saw, Watson, the signs of occupancy in Mr. and Mrs. Bhaer’s bedrooms. For the culprit, the father’s bed was too hard and the mother’s was too soft even after the removal of the pillows. The parents’ beds had proven too uncomfortable, but Bebe Bhaer’s bed was just right and so Goldilocks fell asleep.”

  “Goldilocks?”

  “I fear that you will lose all respect for my powers, Watson, when I tell you that I read the name engraved on her bracelet.”

  “Do you think she will return?” I asked.

  Gravely Sherlock Holmes shook his head. “No, as I told Mr. Bhaer, I do not. Curiosity got her into the house the first time, but the accidental destruction of the chair frightened her away. The interior of the Bhaers’ house is admittedly unusual and curiosity drew her back. But now, having come face to face with her reluctant hosts, Goldilocks’s curiosity has been fully satisfied. She will not return and it is better for her that she does not.”

  We walked up a small hill and came within sight of Croydon.

  “It was a good thing that we were both there when the culprit was discovered,” mused Holmes. “There was really great danger to her from the three Bhaers. Who would expect such a young child to be so fleet of foot?”

  “Quite a reversal from your ordinary cases, Holmes,” said I. “You solved the problem but were forced to protect the miscreant from your own client. You have lost your fee and we have been escorted from the house. Tell me, what have you gained from this adventure?”

  Sherlock Holmes clapped me on the shoulder. “Experience, Watson, and a fine dose of fresh country air, a walk in the bright May sunshine and lunch with my good friend. The next train to London does not leave until mid-afternoon and I spotted a little café just a block from the station as we arrived. Let us indulge our curiosity and find out what is inside, shall we?”

  The Case of the Anonymous Architect

  My friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, when not involved in a case, could be a difficult man with whom to live. An enforced idleness frequently brought on a dark fit of depression, marked by days and nights of silent brooding, during which I had learnt not to approach him but to eye him closely for signs of that insidious need for self-medication that drew him to the cocaine bottle and the syringe. In his own manner he resisted that final step by attempting to occupy his great brain with studies on many subjects, ranging from research into the history of early prehistoric man in the caves surrounding Cheddar to the chemical composition of an obscure South American poison brought back by the latest expedition of the British Museum. The stench and clouds of vapor that resulted from such an experiment were first welcomed by me, therefore, as I stepped into the sitting room of 221b Baker Street, one Wednesday morning in June.

  I was glad to see his mind occupied, even if the grey smoke reached up to cloud the gaslight lamp overhead. I threw open a window as he raised his head from the bubbling retort. Holmes stretched out a hand before his eyes and flexed his thin, strong fingers.

  “Tell me, Watson,” he said in his abrupt way, “Do you feel any tingling in your fingertips? Perhaps you have a buzzing in your ears or a blurring of your eyesight?”

  “No! I feel only a sour taste in my throat from this infernal atmosphere!” I snatched up a newspaper from the breakfast table and fanned some smoke out the window.

  Sherlock Holmes dropped his hand and shut off the tiny flame of his Bunsen burner. “I do not, either,” he sighed. “I have been inhaling these fumes for over twenty minutes without any adverse physical affects at all.”

  I stood aghast. “Holmes! It might have killed you!”

  “Ah, but it did not, Doctor, and that is the point. The fact that I am not writhing on the carpet at this very moment, in dire need of your professional services to save my life, advance my research exceedingly. Although I must confess that your labors would have been ineffectual due to the present lack of an antidote.”

  “My God, Holmes!”

  He stood up from the stool where he had been bent over the chemical table and stretched out his arms. I could easily deduce from his tousled hair and loosened collar that he had not gone to bed the night before. His mouse-colored dressing gown hung from his narrow shoulders like a piece of sacking and his eyes gleamed from the hollows of their sockets like two lit coals in the depths of a mine. His hands dropped down and I did not miss that one landed gently on the fireplace mantel near his syringe case and his cocaine bottle.

  He saw that I had noticed and for a minute we stared at each other, he defiant and me heartsick. I had just nerved myself to speak when a knock sounded on our door.

  “Come in!” Holmes bellowed. Mrs. Hudson entered bearing a folded piece of paper on a salver. She came forward with a placid air and extended the tray to Holmes. “There is a gentleman waiting downstairs, Mr. Holmes. He sent up this note.” He tore his eyes from mine and his hand moved to pick up the small sheet. I watched as he opened it and read the contents.

  “It is a client, by Harry! Mr. Justin Service.” His eyes slid sideways to me and he smiled. “We have a badly needed client, Watson. Pray show him up, Mrs. Hudson. Just give us two minutes while we straighten the room.”

  I heard the landlady sniff as she scooped up some debris from the floor on her way out. Holmes disappeared into his bedroom as I stacked papers on my desk and threw the pillows I found on the hearthrug back onto the sofa. He reappeared with his face washed, his hair combed; his collar ends done up, his dressing gown tugged tightly around his thin body and slipping cuff links into the sleeves of a clean shirt.

  Our client proved to be a medium-sized young man of no more that four-and-twenty, dressed in the subdued garb of a clerk. His hair was sandy and he had light blue eyes that blinked at us both from a pale, anxious face. He nervously rolled a brown bowler around in his twitching fingers and looked eagerly from my face to that of my friend.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

  “I am he. This is Dr. Watson, my friend and associate. Do sit here, Mr. Justin Service.” Holmes dropped into his armchair and motioned the young man to the sofa. I took a seat by the table to one side.

  Sherlock Holmes swept keen eyes over our visitor and held up the note he had been given. “You say here your problem is of the greatest urgency. Please, tell us about it.”

  “I have heard of you from friends, Mr. Holmes,” Justin Service began, leaning forward from his seat to better insure Holmes’ attention. “I am sure that you can tell from the color of my necktie and the scuffs upon my shoes that I am a junior architect with the firm of Lawler and Kingman, Battersea, London. I was hired just six months ago and it was within a week of my employment that my problem began.

  “I was born in Warwickshire. My father was a captain in the British Army who unfortunately died when I was six and my sister Anne was four. My mother was left little money and her family arranged a small a
llowance for our upkeep. We lived quietly in the country. My mother’s one wish was that I receive as fine an education as she could afford. My mother and my sister have made many sacrifices, Mr. Holmes, so I could succeed in life. I, in return, along with love feel a great obligation towards them.”

  “Of course,” Holmes nodded.

  “After my education ended I searched for work, applying to many firms. Finally I was hired by Lawler and Kingman on the recommendation of an old friend of my father’s.

  “You must understand that the Lawler of Lawler and Kingman is deceased and that old Mr. Kingman heads the business. The firm has a good name in Battersea but Mr. Kingman’s age, along with his excessive drinking in the last few years, has reduced the revenues. The offices had moved into a new building just before Mr. Lawler’s death four years ago and still had a few employees whom had been with the firm since its founding. I was told later that the very day I was hired the last remaining original draftsman was let go. A new beginning, it was believed, would rejuvenate the business.

  “Within a day or so, I realized that Mr. Kingman was unstable. His mood would swing from optimistic to the depths of despair in a single hour. This was my first job and I determined to keep my head down and do my best for a few months before I looked for other employment. I would need a good recommendation and that became my goal.

  “It was within the first few days that Mr. Kingman called me to his office. He stared at me with bleary eyes and a twisted mouth. He did not look well. The essence of our conversation was that he commanded me to devise, draw and turn in a finished plan for a large arcade to be built on a plot in Cornwall Way, on the east edge of Battersea. I was flattered to receive such an important assignment until I was told that he wanted it the next day.

  “It was impossible, Mr. Holmes! There was simply not enough time. I would need to survey the lot, determine the best use of the land and complete myriad other tasks before I could even put pencil to paper. My employer was in one of his moods. He was totally unreasonable. Either I completed this assignment by the next day, with the plans on his desk, or I was fired!

  “I returned to my room in despair. All I could think of was my mother and my sister Anne. I stared at their photograph that stood on my desk. How could I support them with my occupation gone? To be dismissed within a week of employment would preclude any other firm from considering me for a position. Suddenly there was the sound of footsteps on my carpet. I raised my stricken face from my hands and beheld a little old man standing before my desk. He was dressed in a suit of black and had a great shock of white hair upon his head. His face was obscured by a flowing beard of white that spread out over his chest like a blanket. He stood with his hands on his hips and looked at me sympathetically.

  “Who are you?” I asked in astonishment.

  “It doesn’t matter who I am,” the little man replied. “I know about your assignment. What will you give me if I draw up the plans?”

  “It can’t be done,” I groaned. “There isn’t enough time.”

  “Let me worry about that,” responded the strange little figure. “If it’s that important to you, what will you give me?”

  “I reached into my waistcoat and pulled out a gold pen that had belonged to my father. “I could give you this,” I stammered.

  “He cocked his head and considered the pen. “It’s not much, but I will take it,” he declared. Suddenly there was a dusty bottle and two glasses on my desk. “Let’s have a drink to seal the deal, Mr. Service,” he chuckled.

  “The mysterious appearance of the strange old man and the swift bargain he drove had totally unnerved me. I gulped down what he poured out without looking at it. A few moments later I felt my head grow heavy and I must have fallen asleep in my chair.”

  “Indeed, how interesting, Mr. Service,” murmured Sherlock Holmes. “Did you notice the color of his eyes? Or the condition of his hands?”

  “No, sir, it all happened so quickly. I awoke in the morning, still seated at my desk, in the clothes I had worn the day before. On my desk was a large bundle of papers. When I opened the package, I found surveying records and a complete set of plans, right down to plumbing and sewer designs, for a large shopping arcade, the perfect size for that lot in question in Cornwall Way.

  “I looked around. The strange little man was gone, as were the two glasses and the dusty bottle and my father’s gold pen.”

  “That is amazing!” I exclaimed from my corner. “What did you do next?”

  “What could I do? I carried the plans into Mr. Kingman’s office and placed them on his desk. He shuffled through them, grunted thanks, and dismissed me with a wave of his hand.

  “I went back to my office and tried to tidy my appearance. I phoned my mother and told her a story about having to work so late the night before that I missed the last train. I tried to eat something at my desk, but the food turned to ashes in my mouth when I was summoned again to Mr. Kingman’s office. Mr. Holmes, this interview was a repeat of the one the day before. Again he looked ill. He told me to design a row of luxury flats. If the plans were not on his desk by the next morning, he would throw me out without mercy.

  “I staggered back to my office and collapsed in my chair. Was this some dreadful dream? I heard a sudden cough and I raised my head to find that strange little man before me again. With a surge of hope, yes, hope, Mr. Holmes, I waited for him to speak.

  “This time he demanded my watch. I handed it over gladly. He gave me another drink from the old bottle and a few moments later I was asleep. When I woke up the morning sun was streaming in through the window and a paper-wrapped parcel was on the desk. I opened it enough to see that it contained plans for my assignment, just like the first one. I marched down the hall and deposited it on my employer’s desk. I watched as he pawed it over and waved me out as before. This time my story to my mother sounded feeble even to me. I could tell she was concerned but I had no answers to her questions.”

  I stood up and placed a large glass of water by his hand. Holmes’ eyes flickered to the sideboard but Service declined brandy and gulped at the water.

  “Was that the end of the affair?” inquired Sherlock Holmes.

  Justin Service blinked at my friend and shook his head. “No, Mr. Holmes. That afternoon another summons brought me to Mr. Kingman again. He looked even more ill than he had earlier. Our conversation was like a nightmare. This time he wanted plans for a small suburban bank, complete with elaborate security requirements. I was to place it on his desk the next morning.

  “I was too shocked to respond. Back in my room, the little man appeared again but I had nothing of value to offer him.

  “He smiled and rubbed his hands together. “We must come to an arrangement, Mr. Service, yes, we must. Here is my idea. I will supply you with the bank drawings and in return you will give your sister Anne to me in marriage.”

  “That is monstrous, sir!” I cried.

  “Would you rather see her out on the streets?” the little man snarled. “Would you see your own mother spend her last years in poverty, dressed in rags and shivering with cold and hunger? Here is Anne’s picture on your desk. She looks a fine, likely girl. Surely she would agree if it meant her mother would be spared such a pitiful fate.”

  “I groaned aloud. My mother’s meager savings had been spent on my education and she had actually gone into debt for it. . We were living on a stipend, depending on my earnings to maintain us in a small, respectable manner. I thrust aside the glass he offered me and staggered to the door.

  “Do we have a deal, Mr. Service?” the little man shouted.

  “Yes!” I gasped and fled the building.

  “For hours I wandered the streets. I couldn’t think. I believe for a short while, Mr. Holmes, I went mad. Finally I found myself on the evening train home. My mother heard me as I entered our lodgings and, seeing the state I was in,
insisting on putting me to bed. I refused to eat and slept fitfully. That next morning I crept out and made my way to Lawler and Kingman. The plans were waiting for me.

  “I put the bundle on his desk. Mr. Kingman looked dreadful. He took no notice of my errand and just waved me away. I retreated to my room and sat in terror, waiting for the next summons to his office. I must have sat there for over two hours. Suddenly I heard a row in the hallway. My nerves were at the cracking point. I flung open my door just in time to see Mr. Kingman bore past me on a stretcher. He had collapsed while with a client, and died at the hospital an hour later.

  “The firm was inherited by his two sons, who took an interest in their employees. Conditions in the office improved, we gained more clients, and no more unreasonable demands were made of me. The last few months have been quiet and productive. I had forgotten about the strange little man until this Monday evening, just before closing time, when he appeared on my carpet again. He smiled and chuckled as he rubbed his hands together and insisted that I invite him to my home this weekend in order that he may meet my sister. I became upset and argued, then pleaded with him. Finally we came to an agreement. If I guessed his name within a few days, he would never bother me again. Otherwise, I should regard him as my future brother-in-law.

  “I immediately began listing every name I could think of in my excited state. He chuckled and laughed at each attempt and after an hour departed, saying he would be back the next evening for me to try again. I spent a miserable night and day. When he returned, I had armed myself with the London and Suburban telephone directory. It was useless. He is to return to my office tonight, at seven o’clock, to settle the details of his visit. You must help me, Mr. Holmes. The very sight of him chills my blood. Please, remove this blight from my life!” Mr. Justin Service attempted to steady his shaking hands as his eyes darted from Holmes to me and back in a pitiful fashion.