(_By Cunnin Toil._)
No. I.--THE BISHOP'S CRIME.
I was sitting alone in my room at 10.29 on the night of the 14th of
last November. I had been doing a good deal of work lately, and I
was tired. Moreover, I had had more than one touch of that old Afghan
fever, which always seemed to be much more inclined to touch than to
go. However, we can't have everything here to please us; and as I had
only the other day attended two bankers and a Lord Mayor for measles,
I had no real cause to complain of my prospects. I had drawn the old
armchair in which I was sitting close to the fire, and, not having
any bread handy, I was occupied in toasting my feet at the blaze
when suddenly the clock on the mantelpiece struck the half hour, and
PICKLOCK HOLES stood by my side. I was too much accustomed to his
proceedings to express any surprise at seeing him thus, but I own
that I was itching to ask him how he had managed to get into my house
without ringing the bell. However, I refrained, and motioned him to a
chair.
"My friend," said this extraordinary man, without the least preface,
"you've been smoking again. You know you have; it's not the least use
denying it." I absolutely gasped with astonishment, and gazed at him
almost in terror. How had he guessed my secret? He read my thoughts,
and smiled.
"Oh, simply enough. That spot on your shirt-cuff is black. But
it might have been yellow, or green, or blue, or brown, or
rainbow-coloured. But I know you smoke Rainbow mixture, and as your
canary there in the corner has just gone blind, I know further that
bird's-eye is one of the component parts of the mixture."
"HOLES," I cried, dropping my old meerschaum out of my mouth in my
amazement; "I don't believe you're a man at all--you're a devil."
"Thank you for the compliment," he replied, without moving a single
muscle of his marble face. "You ought not to sup----" He was going
to have added "pose," but the first syllable seemed to suggest a
new train of thought (in which, I may add, there was no second class
whatever) to my inexplicable friend.
"No," he said; "the devilled bones were not good. Don't interrupt me;
you had devilled bones for supper, or rather you would have had them,
only you didn't like them. Do you see that match? A small piece
is broken off the bottom, but enough is left to show it was once
a lucifer--in other words, a devil. It is lying at the feet of
the skeleton which you use for your anatomical investigations, and
therefore I naturally conclude that you had devilled bones for
supper. You didn't eat them, _for not a single bone of the skeleton is
missing_. Do I make myself clear?"
"You do," I said, marvelling more than ever at the extraordinary
perspicacity of the man. As a matter of fact, my supper had consisted
of bread and cheese; but I felt that it would be in extremely bad
taste for a struggling medical practitioner like myself to contradict
a detective whose fame had extended to the ends of the earth. I picked
up my pipe, and relit it, and, for a few moments, we sat in silence.
At last I ventured to address him.
"Anything new?" I said.
"No, not exactly new," he said, wearily, passing his sinewy hand over
his expressionless brow. "Have you a special _Evening Standard_? I
conclude you have, as I see no other evening papers here. Do you mind
handing it to me?"
There was no deceiving this weird creature. I took the paper he
mentioned from my study table, and handed it to him.
"Now listen," said HOLES, and then read, in a voice devoid of any sign
of emotion, the following paragraph:--"This morning, as Mrs.
DRABLEY, a lady of independent means, was walking in Piccadilly, she
inadvertently stepped on a piece of orange-peel, and fell heavily
on the pavement. She was carried into the shop of Messrs. SALVER AND
TANKARD, the well-known silversmiths, and it was at first thought she
had broken her right leg. However, on being examined by a medical man
who happened to be passing, she was pronounced to be suffering
from nothing worse than a severe bruise, and, in the course of
half-an-hour, she recovered sufficiently to be able to proceed on her
business. This is the fifth accident caused by orange-peel at the same
place within the last week."
[Illustration: "The Bishop was in his night-gown, and the sight of two
strangers visibly alarmed him."]
"It _is_ scandalous!" I broke in. "This mania for dropping orange-peel
is decimating London. Curiously enough I happen to be the medical man
who----"
"Yes, I know; you are the medical man who was passing."
"HOLES," I ejaculated, "you are a magician."
"No, not a magician; only a humble seeker after truth, who uses as a
basis for his deduction some slight point that others are too blind
to grasp. Now you think the matter ends there. I don't. I mean to
discover who dropped that orange-peel. Will you help me?"
"Of course I will, but how do you mean to proceed? There must be
thousands of people who eat oranges every day in London."
"Be accurate, my dear fellow, whatever you do. There are 78,965, not
counting girls. But this piece was not dropped by a girl."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"Never mind; it is sufficient that I do know it. Read this," he
continued, pointing to another column of the paper. This is what I
read:--
"MISSIONARY ENTERPRISE.--A great conference of American and Colonial
Bishops was held in Exeter Hall this afternoon. The proceedings opened
with an impassioned speech from the Bishop of FLORIDA----"
"Never mind the rest," said HOLES, "that's quite enough. Now read
this":--
"The magnificent silver bowl to be presented to the Bishop of Florida
by some of his English friends is now on view at Messrs. SALVER
AND TANKARD'S in Piccadilly. It is a noble specimen of the British
silversmith's art." An elaborate description followed.
"These paragraphs," continued HOLES, in his usual impassive manner,
"give me the clue I want. Florida is an orange-growing country. Let us
call on the Bishop."
In a moment we had put on our hats, and in another moment we were in
a Hansom on our way to the Bishop's lodgings in Church Street, Soho.
HOLES gained admittance by means of his skeleton key. We passed
noiselessly up the stairs, and, without knocking, entered the Bishop's
bedroom. He was in his night-gown, and the sight of two strangers
visibly alarmed him.
"I am a detective," began HOLES.
"Oh," said the Bishop, turning pale. "Then I presume you have called
about that curate who disappeared in an alligator swamp close to my
episcopal palace in Florida. It is not true that I killed him. He----"
"Tush," said HOLES, "we are come about weightier matters. This morning
at half-past eleven your lordship was standing outside the shop of
SALVER AND TANKARD looking at your presentation bowl. You were eating
an orange. You stowed the greater part of the peel in your coat-tail
pocket, but you dropped, maliciously dropped, one piece on the
pavement. Shortly afterwards a stout lady passing by trod on it and
fell. Have you anything to say?"
The Bishop made a movement, but HOLES was before-hand with him. He
dashed to a long black coat that hung behind the door, inserted his
hand deftly in the pocket, and pulled out the fragmentary remains of a
large Florida orange.
"As I supposed," he said, "a piece is missing."
But the miserable prelate had fallen senseless on the floor, where we
left him.
"HOLES," I said, "this is one of your very best. How on earth did you
know you would find that orange-peel in his coat?"
"I didn't find it there," replied my friend; "I brought it with me,
and had it in my hand when I put it in his pocket. I knew I should
have to use strong measures with so desperate a character. My dear
fellow, all these matters require tact and imagination."
And that was how we brought home the orange-peel to the Bishop.
* * * * *
Ben Trovato.
A penny-a-liner heard--with a not unnatural choler--
That he of all invention was apparently bereft;
And so he up and told them that a smart left-handed bowler,
"Manipulates the leather with the left!"
That's very chaste and novel, and alliterative too;
As a sham Swinburnian poet we should think that man might do!
* * * * *
[Illustration: EDUCATED.
(_From a Yorkshire Moor._)
_Keeper (to the Captain, who has missed again, and is letting off
steam in consequence)._ "OH DEAR! OH DEAR! IT'S HAWFUL TO SEE YER
MISSIN' OF 'EM, SIR; BUT"--(_with admiration_)--"YE'RE A SCHOLARD I'
LANGWIDGE, SIR!"]
* * * * *