Sherlock Holmes and The Folk Tale Mysteries

by Gayle Lange Puhl

  “Now these four prove my theory, Watson. Read them aloud.”

  Each of the telegrams had been sent from Market Blandings, Shropshire.

  “A dreadful thing has happened. Angela has broken off her engagement to Lord Heacham. She means to marry a wastrel. Come at once. Lady Constance Keeble.”

  The next one was just as mysterious.

  “I’m going to marry Jimmy if we both have to starve in the gutter, any gutter. Aunt Constance says Uncle Clarence will not give me my money. He is a pig. Come at once. Angela.”

  I read the next one with a furrowed brow.

  “I cannot understand why my engagement to Lady Keeble’s niece has been cancelled. I rode over to see if there was anything I could do about this dreadful business. All Lord Emsworth could talk about was linseed meal as a food for pigs. I am not interested in pigs. I don’t want to discuss pigs. Come at once. Lord Heacham.”

  I looked up in amazement at Holmes, who by now had abandoned his breakfast and had lit his first pipe of the day. I wrinkled my nose against the stench of the plugs and dottles of yesterday’s tobacco he had used to fill it and read the last telegram.

  “Empress of Blandings is refusing her food, and Smithers says he can’t do anything about it. He calls himself a vet! The man is an ass! And the Agricultural Show is next Wednesday week! We’ve tried acorns. We’ve tried skim milk and we’ve tried potato-peel. But she won’t touch them. Come at once. Lord Emsworth.”

  I tossed the last telegram back on the pile. “Holmes, what can all this mean?”

  “I admit the messages in these telegrams are enigmatic, Watson. You will notice that in a strange, round-robin sort of way, each one seems to be connected to the others. But what unity can be made of mention of a wastrel, starving in a gutter, any gutter, a broken engagement and untouched potato-peels presently elude me.”

  “Then these people are unreasonable.”

  Holmes began removing his purple dressing gown. “Even unreasonable people have problems that might be solved. I think we shall go to Market Blandings. This will be the first case I have ever had with four separate clients. And four separate fees.”

  Holmes and I easily made the train from Paddington that morning. It was due to turn around at Market Blandings at two o’clock. In the meantime, research at Doctor’s Commons had yielded the information that Uncle Clarence was the ninth Earl of Emsworth, living at Blandings Castle in Shropshire with his sister Lady Constance Keeble and a revolving roster of relatives and friends of relatives. He controlled the inheritance of his niece Angela and was particularly interested in all aspects of farming, including flowers and livestock. Lord Heacham was an upstanding young man with no history of criminal behavior. But in all the information that Doctor’s Common yielded Holmes there was nothing about wastrels or linseed meal. The Empress of Blandings was not mentioned anywhere, not in Debrett’s or even the Almanach de Gotha. I was as baffled as ever when we stepped onto the train just before it puffed out of the station.

  The trip up to Shropshire was quiet and uneventful. As Holmes and I stood on the Market Blandings platform just before two o’clock, looking about us for the cab stand, we were passed by an amiable old gentleman wearing country tweeds and a deplorable old slouch hat. He was mumbling to himself and I heard him clearly.

  “Don’t see why she shouldn’t marry the fellow. Seems fond of him and all that. I remember him now. A pleasant lad, I recall, with a healthy fondness for the rural life. Well, I’ll see him at the Senior Conservative Club tomorrow and give him the bad news. Bother! Just when I need to be here, with the Agricultural Show coming up!”

  With that, he popped into a carriage and the train pulled out toward London. Meanwhile Holmes had engaged a cab and motioned to me. “Take us to the Goat and Feathers, driver. Hurry, Watson, and bring the bags. I have reserved rooms at that establishment. From there we shall hasten to Blandings Castle.”

  “I knew there was money in this case, Watson,” murmured Sherlock Holmes, as our cab approached The Earl of Emsworth’s vast estate. The sunshine descended like an amber shower-bath on rolling parks, green lawns and wide terraces. Crenellated turrets stood at each corner of the ancient keep, and the Castle’s ivied walls stood as they had since the first Earl of Emsworth accepted the entrance key from the vassal who had overseen its construction, back when Henry the Seventh was a pup.

  A dignified butler with a large, bald head opened the front door for us.

  “I am sorry to tell you gentlemen that Lord Emsworth has just left for London and is not expected back until tomorrow. However, Lady Constance is in the library. Please follow me.”

  He announced us to the lady who was waiting for us in the library. Lady Constance Keebler, a masterful woman, displayed the spirited handsome features that carried her through life as the daughter of the eighth Earl of Emsworth and which sustained her through the ordeal she bore as the sister of the ninth Earl. She held out her hand.

  “I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Holmes, and you, Dr. Watson. Beach, bring us some tea. Gentlemen, please be seated. Mr. Holmes, I have heard of you from Lady Ickenham. You must understand that under ordinary circumstances I would have no use for a private detective. I always thought of them as furtive, weasel-faced little men, sneaking about prying into good peoples’ private affairs, but dear Jane spoke so highly of how you got Lord Ickenham out of that… misunderstanding… in Mitching Hill, I thought you might be useful during this emergency. She also mentioned how discreet you were.”

  Holmes was spared having to respond to this extraordinary speech by the appearance of Beach, who solemnly bore an enormous silver tray filled with tea things into the room as if he carried St. John the Baptist’s head ready for Salome’s approval. He set it before Lady Constance, who smiled brightly at us and asked, “Shall I be Mother?”

  Holmes and I had just accepted our cups when the library door opened and a young woman stamped her way across the carpet. She was a pretty girl, with fair hair and blue eyes which in their softer moments probably reminded all sorts of people of twin lagoons slumbering beneath a southern sky. This, however, was not one of those moments. She put her hands on her hips, her eyes flashed blue sparks at us all, and her lip curled in a startling manner I hadn’t seen since Holmes confronted Hugh Boone to solve the disappearance of Neville St. Claire in the tale I chose to entitle “The Man with the Twisted Lip.”

  “Stuffing your face, Aunt Constance? Refreshing yourself after spending the afternoon dancing on the bits of my broken heart?”

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, allow me introduce my niece Angela, who is obviously not at her best today.”

  “Not at my best, you say? I should think you could say I’m not at my best today. Dr. Watson, have you ever been thwarted in love?”

  “Well, not exactly thwarted, my dear…”

  “Well, you should try it sometime. It’s like being kicked in the stomach by an avalanche and then thrown by a gorilla through a bramble bush and over a cliff. A high, rocky cliff. My own aunt tells me I won’t get my money because I want to marry Jimmy Belford!”

  “Jimmy Belford?”

  “James Bartholomew Bedford, the only man I shall ever marry.”

  Lady Constance Keeble thrust a plate of scones at Angela as if she was striking a harpoon deep into the belly of a particularly troublesome whale. “Please sit down and have something to eat, Angela. These gentlemen did not come all the way from London to hear you prattle of that wastrel.”

  “I don’t want any scones. The food would choke me. I can’t eat.” Her attitude suddenly changed from anger at her aunt to interest in my friend. “Are you Sherlock Holmes from London?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “Mr. Holmes is here because I sent for him, Angela. If you must, you may speak to him after this meeting. Go away now. I i
nvited Lord Heacham here to express my sympathy over what your foolishness has done to him. He is due in half an hour.”

  “Ewww.” Angela disappeared like cold dishwater down a kitchen sink.

  “You now understand, Mr. Holmes, why I sent for you. Angela is being totally unreasonable about the engagement between her and Lord Heacham. They have known each other for ages. The engagement has been set for months. He is a highly respectable young man and Angela seemed content with the arrangement. I had just picked out their crystal pattern when she dropped this bombshell.”

  “James Bartholomew Belford?”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes. He had been sent away to America two years ago because he… well, it is distasteful for me to talk about it. Suffice it to say, he would not make a suitable match for the niece of the Earl of Emsworth.”

  “If he has been in America for the last two years, how did he and Angela manage to get engaged?”

  “He came back and they ran across each other in London a couple of weeks ago. Angela and he used to play together when they were children. His father is our vicar.”

  “What do you expect of me, Lady Constance?”

  She threw up her hands and seemed to be addressing the chandelier.

  “I am so tired of no one listening to me. I give the best advice possible and no one follows it. You cannot imagine how frustrating that is. Angela doesn’t listen. My brother Clarence doesn’t listen. I know what is best and what is best is for Angela to marry Lord Heacham and forget all about James Belford.”

  “I will look into your problem, Lady Constance. My first step will be a stroll about the grounds. Come, Watson. Such a fine afternoon is better spent outdoors.”

  “Lord Emsworth returns late tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Holmes. I would like this entire problem to be resolved as soon as possible.”

  We bowed ourselves out of her presence but our journey to the terraces was interrupted by Angela, who waylaid us in the hall.

  “This way! This way!” She beckoned to us and led us to the left along a palatial corridor to what appeared to be a game room. A heavily carved billiard table with a surface of green baize, its surface set up for a game of snooker, took pride of place in the center of the parquet floor. A row of French doors framed pretty sights of the terraces and landscaping outside, leading down to the water meadows where a lone cow grazed contently. The surrounding walls were hung with numerous large animal heads, each of which fixed its glassy eyes on us as if it pondered holding us personally responsible for its present state.

  “How may I help you?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

  “I brought you here because Aunt Constance never comes in this room unless she needs to speak to Uncle Clarence and he’s not here. In his woolen-headed way I think Uncle Clarence has always been fond of me. But Aunt Constance is the original Tartar and keeps a sharp eye on us all, especially Uncle Clarence. She told him that he can’t give me my inheritance if I don’t marry Lord Heacham. She had her heart set on that match. I admit he’s good looking and wealthy and he’s pretty harmless. I thought by saying yes Aunt Constance would get off my case. But then Jimmy came back from America and we bumped into each other in London and all the London church bells of the old nursery rhyme rang out at once.”

  Her face was transformed. Gone were the blazing eyes and the snarl from her pretty lips. She clasped her hands together and addressed Holmes with fluttering lashes.

  “Now it is Jimmy and I forever and he has quite enough money to marry me on, but he wants some capital to buy a partnership in a-”

  “Angela! Angela! Beach, go fetch Miss Angela. Tell her Lord Heacham is here.” Lady Constance’s voice echoed down the halls of Blanding Castle like the crack of doom, if the voice of the crack of doom sounded like that of a determined middle-aged frustrated daughter of the British aristocracy presently on the warpath. Angela gave us a startled glance and headed for the French doors. “Get Uncle Clarence to give me my money, Mr. Holmes!” With that final hissed instruction she vanished into the greenery and was gone.

  Holmes and I turned toward the door. To my surprise, instead of the butler, we perceived a solemn young man dressed in pinks and riding breeches.

  “I say,” said the young man. “I say, I’ve just ridden over at Lady Constance’s request to see if there is anything I could do about this fearful business.”

  Holmes introduced himself and me to the young nobleman. “I fear things look very black.”

  “It’s an absolute mystery to me. I mean, she was all right last week. Seemed quite cheery and chirpy and all that. And then this happens - out of a blue sky, as you might say.”

  “Miss Angela doesn’t want to go through with the marriage, Lord Heacham,” said Sherlock Holmes gently.

  “It’s all so dashed unexpected.”

  Holmes spoke a little louder.

  “She has broken off the engagement. She just spoke to us and that was distinctly stated.”

  “I mean, she was all right last week.”

  Holmes took a deep breath and tried again.

  “Angela has decided to marry someone else, sir. My name is Sherlock Holmes. Your telegram to me mentioned linseed meal as a food for pigs. What did you mean by that?”

  “When I came to Lord Emsworth to speak to him about Angela and the engagement, all he could talk about was his pig, Empress of Blandings. I found him by her sty and when I tried to talk to him, he meandered on and on about her diet. What do I care about her diet? Curse all pigs! All I care about is Angela! Uh, what was that you said about her?”

  “She wants to marry someone else. There is no way to change her mind.”

  Lord Heacham stared at Holmes. From his furrowed brow and the slight quivering of his nose it was clearly apparent he was trying to think. Several minutes passed in silence. I fancied I could almost hear breathing from the animal heads on the wall. Suddenly the information hit him and he staggered, clutching the table in an effort to remain upright. Billiard balls rolled in every direction.

  “She wants to marry someone else. There is no way to change her mind. Oh, my. Oh, dear me. How unexpected.” He stood in thought for another minute. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I see Angela is lost to me. I must go home and check the railway timetable. I seem to recollect there is a French Foreign Legion recruiting station next door to the Casino at Monte Carlo.”

  With that Lord Heacham stepped out another French window and disappeared into another clump of shrubbery.

  Holmes was thoughtful. “At least we have uncovered the meaning of the mysterious words ‘Empress of Blandings’. Follow me, Watson.” Instead of trekking through the labyrinth of corridors that made up Blandings Castle in search of an exit, we bowed to local custom and stepped through the French doors and into the green shrubbery.

  Holmes’ keen sense of smell soon brought us to a tidy little porcine residence far from the main buildings. We draped ourselves over the rails and peered at the vast expanse of pig within.

  Empress of Blandings may not have been wolfing down any potato-peels lately, but her appearance was still astonishing. She was a black Berkshire, and resembled a captive balloon with ears and a tail, and was nearly as circular as a pig could be without bursting. In a corner was a long, low trough, only too plainly full to the brim with succulent mash and acorns.

  “Note the thin layer of dust on the contents of her trough, Watson. I think we have found the origin of Lord Emsworth’s concern.” Holmes pulled his magnifying glass from his pocket and, climbing over the rails, proceeded to give the sty, the trough and Empress of Blandings a thorough examination.

  My nose was not as sensitive as Holmes’, but by the time he rejoined me I was positive he had done one of the most complete investigations of his career. I stepped upwind of the detective as he paced up and down the lawn edging Empress of Blanding’s bijou home. His head was bent on his ches
t and his hands were clasped behind his back. For several minutes there was no sound except the buzz of insects and the squelching of Holmes’ shoes on the grass, leaving a thin brown trail.

  “There is nothing more to be learned here, Watson. Our best course is to retire to the Goat and Feathers, eat some dinner and tackle Lord Emsworth when he returns from London tomorrow afternoon.”

  A quick wash-up and a change out of our traveling clothes filled the time until dinner was called. I was careful to place Holmes’ odiferous shoes outside his room door to be cleaned just before we went down to eat.

  The attractions of Market Blandings were such that after dinner, Holmes and I found ourselves sitting at a corner table of the tap-room of the Goat and Feathers. A previous brisk walk around the town had shown us the wisdom of that choice. I was engaged in lining up our empty bottles of Bass in a perfectly straight line when Holmes drew my attention to certain items of furniture scattered about the room.

  “Observe, Watson. That table over there clearly shows a thin line of fresh wood in two legs, indicating the legs were broken quite recently. Those three chairs at the next table display new cracks in their seats and chair backs. The smell of fresh glue is distinctive. Each of the tables in this room is supplied with four chairs, but that mended table has only three. Obviously one chair was broken too badly to be mended.”

  “What can it mean, Holmes?”

  “There has been a fight in this tap-room within the past two days, Watson.”

  “The past two days?”

  “Yes, presuming the table and chairs underwent repair as soon as possible. Otherwise the smell of glue would have dissipated by now. It must have been quite a fight to have left behind such a large amount of damage.”

  Sherlock Holmes stood up and went to the bar, where he engaged the landlord in conversation. In a few minutes he returned, bringing two more bottles of Bass, and smiled at me.