by W H Oxley
As soon as Billy had departed, Holmes slumped down into his chair, closed his eyes and assumed the bored expression that meant that he would soon be resorting to his usual means of stimulation unless a fresh problem were to present itself and tax his great brain.
‘Holmes.’ I leaned forward and touched him lightly on the elbow.
‘Hmmm…’ He opened his eyes. ‘What is it, Watson?’
‘Holmes, not the cocaine … please, not the cocaine…’
‘Good old Watson; always concerned about my welfare. Have no fear. I will not be resorting to the cocaine this evening. I was just thinking of Nellie Melba.’
‘You mean the Australian opera singer?’
‘The very same. She is appearing tonight in Rigoletto at Covent Garden. What say you that we send Billy out to procure us a pair of tickets when he returns from his mission?’
‘It sounds like a splendid idea.’ I agreed.
‘Excellent… Ah! If I am not mistaken that is the distinctive sound of his boots upon the stair … and a little more hurried than usual…’
Billy marched into the room in a state of great indignation. ‘They wouldn’t take it, sir!’
All trace of boredom vanished from Holmes’s features in an instant, and he was as alert as a hound that scents a fox. ‘Who wouldn’t take what, Billy?’
‘We have to pay to review his book!’ I ejaculated. ‘Confound the fellow! He deserves to be horsewhipped!’
‘Tut tut, Watson.’ Holmes raised a hand. ‘You can’t go around horsewhipping Americans. It might provoke them into invading Canada.’
‘Well what would you propose that we do, burn the White House again?’
‘I do not believe, Watson, that our beloved prime minister, who but an hour ago sat upon that very same chair upon which you now sit, would be favourably disposed to your suggestion. There is always a simple solution to a problem, and it has always been my belief that when one has eliminated the impossible – and I am sure that you would agree that burning the White House falls within that category – then only the improbable remains. There are certain peculiarities about this case that make it worthy of further investigation.’
‘Such as?’
‘Or Tuesday, it could have been today. It was late afternoon when we tried send in our review.’
‘Ah, but Mr Stetson resides in Oregon.’
‘I don’t quite follow...’
‘The time difference, Watson: it is afternoon here but breakfast time in Oregon. Therefore, I think we can safely conclude that whatever it was that provoked the gentleman’s sudden change of mind it happened yesterday or earlier. Something that made him believe he was holding an item of exceptional value in his hands?’
‘Why exceptional value?’
‘To charge at a rate of one cent for thirty words, ten times the normal price, for a story that he considered to be worthless a day earlier suggests that something brought about a rapid increase in value, and if I am to unravel this mystery I must discover what that something was.’
‘Who can tell, Holmes? Maybe he saw it in the stars.’
‘By Jove, Watson, I think you have it!’
My friend leapt to his feet and began pacing the room waving the Egyptian cigarette he was smoking and scattering ash all over the carpet. I could hear him murmuring to himself ‘the stars’ but not for the life of me could I comprehend how either astronomy or astrology could possibly throw any light upon the subject. Finally, I could take no more.
‘What the Devil have the stars got to do with it?’ I ejaculated.
‘Everything, Watson, everything…’ He stopped pacing the room, sat down once more in his chair and smiled enigmatically. ‘When this book first came to my attention on Saturday there was not a star to be seen, but by Monday morning there were three little gold stars next to it: somebody had reviewed it on Sunday.’
‘Was it a good review?’
‘It was fair, but the reviewer had suggested keeping the plot and eliminating me, which is what prompted me to write my own review: I have no desire to be eliminated. The three star review obviously convinced the Mr Stetson that the book had good sales potential, and thus he decided to make money from it.’
‘Humph, the fellow is obviously not a gentleman!’
‘Americans are not gentlemen, Watson, which is why they will almost certainly rule the world one day.’
‘Really, Holmes! That is going too far! I know that you have an unfortunate tendency to be sentimental about them, but as long as Britannia rules the waves and the British Empire remains intact we can rest assured that they will remain safely confined to the other side of the Atlantic.’
‘Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age.’ For a moment his features softened, and I was gratified to catch a glimpse of the true feelings he felt towards me, but the hard mask of logic returned to his face and he became once again a cold calculating machine. ‘We have discovered the motive, Watson, but we have yet to solve the problem.’
‘Have we? I thought we had.’
I sat back and listened as Holmes played the Stradivarius worth at least three hundred guineas that he’d purchased at a pawnbroker’s in the Tottenham Court Road for fifty shillings. After an hour the music ceased, and without saying a word he put down the violin and rang for Billy.
‘You have found a solution?’ I asked.
‘I have indeed…’
‘Of course!’ I ejaculated. ‘The answer was simplicity itself: if it’s a review you have to pay, but if it is published as a book it is free.’
‘Exactly!’
‘But that’s brilliant!’
‘Not brilliant…’ he took a puff at his pipe, ‘elementary, my dear Watson, elementary.’
Other books by the author
The Missing Gun
