My Dear Watson

My dear Watson,’ said Mr Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street to his companion, ‘the human mind is inexorably and most conclusively the oddest of all oddities I have ever had the privilege of busying myself with. Of course, I am unabashedly miles away from coming to fully comprehend the threads of silken wonders and awe-inspiring hypotheses it is capable of weaving, and that, I can most certainly opine, is one of my elegant failures.’

Dr John Watson blew a puff of smoke from his pipe, as he listened to the ordinary musings of his companion, high on marijuana, by the fireplace. Christmas was due in a couple of weeks and the warmth of the spirit fluttered about the otherwise cold, dark and grey London. Sherlock Holmes, unconcerned and unaware of the implications of merrymaking, forever a stoic, interlocked his fingers upon his chest as he lay sprawled on the settee by the fireplace, covering his modesty by nothing save a bathing gown. It was those eccentricities of London’s detective of such renown that drew his companion to 221B Baker Street recurrently despite having a marvellous mansion of his own in Hounslow.

‘I couldn’t agree more with your opinion,’ assented Dr Watson.

‘Tell me, Watson,’ interjected Holmes abruptly. ‘What do you make of the scandal at the Hammersmith, Gregory & Spall Bank we jointly solved last week? I have, on a most curious search of your journal, not found an account of that sole incident which indeed is the purpose of my anecdotal opinion here.’

Dr Watson did not respond to that; in fact, the last week Mary, his wife, and he was holidaying along the Champ-Elysees in Paris. He looked surprised, for he had kept Holmes in the loop of the vacation; Holmes was insistent on accompanying the couple, for ‘security’ but Dr Watson waved off the unwelcome suggestion by stating: ‘It is our honeymoon, for Christ’s sake, Holmes!’

‘You know, Watson,’ continued Holmes, ‘the case was by no means a no-brainer, for it involved the most complex interplay of irrational, unscientifically and biased human emotions with the scientific, logical and ever-so analytical human mind. An illusion, so as to call it.’

‘Indeed, so,’ replied Dr Watson.

‘Would you thus care to relay the occurrence to our guest present here, Dr Watson, for I fear I might fumble: the marijuana is the best I have patched in a while, you see.’

Upon Holmes’ request, Dr Watson nodded. I noticed as I turned my attention to the young doctor who had inadvertently aged much before time (thanks to his regular interaction with the murky world of crime), that he stole a ruminating glance outside the window at the subtle fall of snow, positioning himself steadily as a storyteller. It seemed like nightfall even at three o’clock in the afternoon, as an ominous fog, coupled with thick black smoke from probably the Battersea plant and a dozen such others, hung over the city. A dozen horse carts clamoured hooves and wheel loudly on the cobbled Baker Street, a hundred voices reverberated through the glass windows of merchants and urchins alike down on the street. And he began:

‘Do spare me, for I will miss out the details and stick strictly to the events that gave shape to what could have been one of the most disastrous banking scandals our great country has ever seen, for had it not been nipped at the right time, it could have led to a massive collapse of the world as we see it. The weather had started turning frostier two weeks back, as you very well know. Christmas comes knocking but once a year, and it was the very time. Mr Sherlock Holmes, in his usual double-breasted coat, flapped hat and silver cane, and I was taking a casual stroll along the boulevard of Piccadilly, towards the Thames, on our usual route to St Paul’s. We were scheduled to meet Mary over there and then grab luncheon at the nearest public house. It was a dull, grey morning and it had been a while since Londoners had seen the sun. '

‘When we were headed towards the conjunction that led to the Strand, a most unlikely visitor approached us in the most

An unlikely visitor approached us in the most unlikely fashion. She was panting heavily, as though she had been running. I’d have placed her between thirty and thirty-five years of age, had she not revealed it to me later during the developmental stages of our case. Nevertheless, she was too obese. Not slightly, but morbidly. A red flush had formed on her chubby cheeks and narrow forehead, which gave us the implication that she was no good at running distances.’

At this, Holmes let out a chuckle. Apologetically, he waved his hand for the doctor to continue.

‘“Is one of you Mr Sherlock Holmes?” she panted heavily, perspiring despite the December chill. In fact, I was tempted to offer my kerchief to her, when she collapsed on my shoulder. By Lord, she was heavy! It required the combined efforts of the pair of us to drag the wench all the way to the Eros and sit her down on the steps. Our dear friend offered her some water, which, by a rather fortunate stroke, he happened to be carrying with him in his overcoat. That brought her around, but only momentarily, for she seemed to be in a state of a daze when she spoke the following words before fainting one more time:

‘“Mr Holmes, I swear by the Virgin Mary, by the Bank that helps me bring food to my table and by the mighty Eros underneath whom we now huddle, that some massive conspiracy is afoot therein. I work there as a receptionist, an usher for its clients, and for the past few days, strange occurrences within have baffled me to my wits.

‘ “I had joined Hammersmith, Gregory and Spall three weeks back, upon replying to an advertisement they placed on The Times. I was instantly wired by the evening to come for an interview with the partners, Mr Hammersmith, Mr Gregory and Mr Spall. The bank is a claustrophobic office, Mister Holmes,” she said, addressing both of us, “the size of a studio bedroom rather, in one of the larger buildings on the Moorgate, where I was chosen to be interviewed. In all honesty, I had never heard of the bank before in the city, but the offer was too lucrative to turn down. I was to avail £400 annually! Just as a receptionist, far from my wildest imaginations, Mister Holmes.

‘ “However, my suspicions began building the moment I stepped into their makeshift premises. Five people, that’s what I counted on my fingers, were present. Three of them wore expensive apparel, in my opinion, nothing less than a Saville Row stitch, while two others seemed like mere cashiers. Nevertheless, I felt that as a boon as well, for probably they had sufficient funds at their disposal for a receptionist.

‘ “My interview was conducted by a Miss Perry Graham Fisher. She was among the cashier looking women. At the onset, she was surprised to find me there, having confirmed and reconfirmed from a sheet of paper that no interviews had been scheduled for the day. But, I do not know what changed her mind, she brought me inside a room, more like a broom cabinet, where there was barely space enough for one, and asked me three questions: where do you live, do you have knowledge of basic finances and when are you ready to start, and lo! I was hired!”

‘I asked her what her answers to those questions were, to which she replied, Shoreditch, no and right at this instant. I was rather befuddled with the brevity of her answers, yet I kept my mind clear of all prejudices and preconceived notions.

‘She continued: “I was sent off, with a promise to commence work from the next morning, to report sharp at seven-thirty, which I did. To my surprise, the same five people in the same uniform were present there in their respective broom-cupboard bureaus. What struck me as odd, Mister Holmes was that they looked like they hadn’t slept the night before – there were large bags under their eyes that were poorly concealed with makeup. Notwithstanding those

, I began my work at Hammersmith, Gregory and Spalls’.

‘ “That, Mister Holmes, did not deter me from questioning the authenticity of the work the bank did. I had a desk to myself and no papers, no lists, no quill or ink to begin with, a mandate for every reception. When I asked around for the same, Miss Perry Graham Fisher rebuked me for not having thought of that earlier! I ran off to the stationers’ in the adjacent lane and bought, from my own monies, the relevant necessities. And that was just the beginning of the odd happenings I was about to witness at the bank, to which I must jump straight.

‘ “A week went by and I stacked together cash ledgers, attendance sheets, client lists and so on. Needless to say, the bank was just being set up and Miss Perry Graham Fisher was ecstatic; I assume she had no knowledge of my experience as a receptionist at the Lloyds’ of London. The week went by in the empty office but when I returned on Monday, Mister Holmes, I was left baffled; the tiny premises of Hammersmith, Gregory and Spall had at least fifty heads bustling about a much, more broadened space! I was left gaping, for it was absolutely extraordinary that Miss Perry Graham could issue a crumbling down of the walls to extend their space further merely over the weekend! Nevertheless, I ignored that and the sudden flurry of hired colleagues.

‘ “The strangest encounter I had was with this lady who frequented the bank commenced on that Monday onwards. She called herself Helen Baker. Tall, brooding and emphatically beautiful, Miss Baker talked to the clients. I did not have any evidence that might appeal to any sensible human’s rationale, but I did not trust that woman even a trifle bit. It happened that day, when one of the men that saw Miss Baker, Mr Frederick Powell of Southampton, waited for her at the settee near my bureau, out of a happy mistake of arriving half an hour earlier than his advisor.

‘ “I made casual conversation with him, asking him about his interests, his investments and his expectations from our bank, just fleeting, you know. In this conversation, Mr Powell mentioned to me a company based in the Americas that made automatic motor cars that would replace horse-driven buggies around the turn of the decade, an investment suggested by Miss Baker that had tremendous potentials in other economies as well. The company Mr Powell referred to was called Montgomery Motors, headquartered in Texas. You may call it a coincidence, Mister Holmes, that my sister lives in the very area where Montgomery Motors is said to be headquartered. That very evening I wired my dear sister asking her if a small investment in the said company could help me make some money. I received her reply the day before yesterday. Oddly, no such organisation existed, to the best of her knowledge, either in Texas or anywhere else in the continent, for that matter!”

‘Holmes was listening to this lady quietly. I made quick mental observations, accordingly. Apparently, what our client was doing would be considered unlawful in both countries, as you very well know. The cold had managed to bite through our flesh; I suggested sitting somewhere indoors, a highly practical opinion, but our dear Mr Holmes shut me up and beseeched the woman to continue.

‘ “Over the days, Mister Holmes,” she said, running out of breath continuously, “I went on to suspect Miss Baker. It happened a few days before yesterday when one of the clients, Miss Petunia, scurried into her office and demanded as to how a counterfeit currency note came into her position upon a cash request.”

‘This revelation alerted Holmes, for this was precisely the mystery that needed the solution to, naturally. The bank, Hammersmith, Gregory and Spall were, in our client’s opinion, pumping in counterfeit currency notes into the British system.’

Holmes remarked, ‘A case out of the ordinary murders. Counterfeit currency has far wider

implications, as my dear brother, Mycroft, had remarked to me once. It could be the start of a war of a scale so huge that it would resonate for aeons to come, most crucially in my experience, drainage of currency into all the wrong hands could fuel further crime. Money, my friend, is the ironically the most neutral necessity for all good as well as all evil to commence, depending entirely upon the hands it goes to.’

Doctor Watson nodded. ‘And thus, Mr Holmes chose to find out whose hands were the real currencies going to. At this juncture, our client had an intuition about the circulation of fake money into the system, but what she perhaps did not know what that the game was much, much larger beyond her comprehension.

‘She continued listing down her apprehensions regarding Miss Helen Baker, a lady who kept mostly to herself and dealt with only high-value clients. And, most mysteriously, recommending Montgomery Motors to every single customer seeking her advice on overseas investments. It struck our client as bizarre and, as I have already aforesaid, her sister was kind enough to send in a reply two days earlier that nothing of such a name existed in her vicinity. That furthered our client’s doubts and she went to report this hunch to Miss Perry Graham Fisher, who by then, had turned into a tea-time friend and conversation buddy for our client. From what she recounts, Miss Perry Graham Fisher assured her that she would take care of the matter, but in clandestine, for Miss Graham Fisher’s hierarchy being a rung or two inferior to that of Miss Baker in all respects, rubbing any of those bankers the wrong way could cast the establishment into a puddle of quicksand.

‘And then, she mentioned to us that inevitable consequence of blowing the whistle, no matter how soft. She said, “I am being followed and I know of it, Mr Holmes.”’

At this juncture, I gasped. Doctor Watson and Holmes smiled in unison.

‘ “I have absolutely no idea,” said she, “as to how my pursuer got to know about me, where I stayed and all the other private material about me. As I left my Hackney house in the mornings for the bank, I could sense that ominous feeling that I was not alone on a desolate road. I turned around and looked back as a habit, but there would not be a soul as far as my eyes could see. It was getting frightening, Mister Holmes. Even today, I sensed my pursuer as I neared St Paul’s. When I hopped onto a cab to Baker Street to meet you, to my utter shock, I find my cab being followed in a close chase by another, for every street, every lane, every turn this city has to Baker Street! I owe Mr Stratham Cole, the driver, for his expertise in the more covert lanes and by-lanes of this wondrous city that I was able to shun the devil off one more time. I paid Cole a bit more than the fare and got dropped off at the crowded Strand, and before anything, I spotted the pair of you gentlemen walking in my direction. I know one of you is Sherlock Holmes, I have seen you and your funny hat on the papers.”

‘So saying, she collapsed, this time on Holmes’ lap. I looked at my partner for traces of tension on his face, but on the contrary, I surprise myself by finding his left eye twitching in nothing but the sheer excitement of the newest case at our hands.

‘ “Watson,” he remarked to me, “please arrange for this lady’s clandestine home at the earliest, for I fear she is, right now, in grave peril from a devil, whom I can sense is not more than fifty yards from us.” No sooner did he say that, than my friend rose almost abruptly, throwing the entire weight of the fat lady completely on my laps and tossed his cane wildly. I could not turn around in time, but I swear by Providence that I heard the sound of wood crashing down upon fl

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esh and bone and consequential 

screams: Holmes had managed to bash this silver-plated wooden cane (that lies so innocently propped up against our settee, look at it!) on the assailant who bore a revolver with him, for I heard the cocking of the pistol – but before a shot could be fired, I heard the wretched character fall on the stone steps with a thud.

‘Before I could see his face, our assailant jerked up and dashed down the faintly crowded street far into the crowds of horse carts that moved towards, in my best judgment, Covent Garden. All I could see was that the short man wore a red overcoat of a dull maroon hue, and his ponytail was pitch black. 

‘I was confused, to be extremely honest, but one thing was for sure – there was a case. And, that there was some, if not complete, truth in what the fat lady told us on the stone steps of Eros at the Piccadilly Circus. It was one of the emptiest case descriptions we had ever gotten, but for our friend here – oh, for God’s sake, we have guests in here, Sherlock! Do stop rolling marijuana!’

Sherlock Holmes looked up at Dr Watson, his eyes bearing the ignorance of a child. He was midway in rolling himself a joint of tobacco and the remnants of the crushed marijuana.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, almost unashamedly. “Am I being a nuisance here?”

I shook my head. ‘Carry on, Mr Holmes. It probably helps you think. Pray, continue with your most interesting narrative, Dr Watson. What became thereafter of your case?’

Dr Watson gave a stern look at Sherlock Holmes, who shrugged and continued rolling a perfectly slim joint of the crushed herbs, and continued with the story:

‘So, as I was saying, it was the most unusual of all circumstances, but Mr Holmes was already on his feet, planning the next probable step while the lady lay her round, blonde head on my lap. I noticed she was wearing a skirt that had taken the current fashion experts by a storm of criticism and enthusiasm alike. She wore no hat, but her face was decorated with expensive cosmetics, probably from Harrods’, that sparkled along with the sweat that trickled down her forehead. Holmes took out the bottle one more time and sprinkled some more water on her eyes. Gradually, she stirred.

‘Holmes then signalled me to get her to the safe-house at the earliest, while he would “run his horses”; we then scheduled ourselves to catch up for dinner in the City by six-thirty, at a new pub with a rather hideous name by Southwark, with a progress report, if any. The place was called The Udder Monger.’ Dr Watson sighed and Holmes chuckled. He continued:

‘Hence, when the woman rose, I strolled down with her to the Strand, hailed a black cab and the pair of us clattered on towards St Paul’s. I was certain that we were delayed; my wife’s flushed face, as she stood waiting for me outside on the steps of the cathedral, corroborated that. I swear to you, the last thing I wanted her to see was another woman with me, but our client’s build cut me some slack.

‘Our client was quiet throughout the journey and all the more during luncheon. Although she did call for a hearty meal of rare steak and a bottle of fine sherry, Mary and I worked our way through simple fish and chips and a pot of tea. It was then that our client introduced us to herself, as Elizabeth Montrose, and retold her story the same manner she had recounted to us, to my wife, who seemed to have cooled down much upon hearing her version with rapt attention. She offered to help her stay at our Hounslow bungalow as well, and I stood relieved one more time by the woman I love dearest. God, she is a marvel!’

I grinned. The snow outside had further increased its pace of fall, but the fire crackling in the grate, coupled with the smoke curling gently out of the lit joint further eased my position in the apartment; I adjusted myself with much comfort on the hassock. Dr Watson continued:

‘For the record, please allow me to emphasize the fact that my wife is an ace shot and through certain influences in Westminster as well as our friend’s connection at the Yard, she is permitted to carry a pistol with her wheresoever she goes, alone or accompanied. Immediately after our luncheon, Miss Montrose and Mary were dispatched off to Hounslow in a safe cab, whilst I commenced my walk down east towards Southwark, for I had nothing better to occupy my time to. I had the hunch, however, that Holmes was up to something.

‘What happened at Southwark, Mr Holmes still opines, was a stroke of my genius I imbibed from my military career and, by a happy coincidence that carried forward Miss Montrose’s anecdote. The wind had gotten worse by early evening and most of the bankers and lawyers that fill that portion of the City were stomping away over puddles in the cobbled alleyways only to catch the only remaining cabs that would drive them back to the fires of their respective homes. A light drizzle had commenced after a rain whilst we had been at luncheon, and it had soon snowballed into a pour once again: I had to flap my overcoat on, for the wind was too strong for an umbrella then. I was perhaps among the only few unfortunate loners who stood on the Jubilee Walkway by the raging Thames, gripping the rails tightly, waiting for … for, something to transpire, as I stood pondering over the morning’s events. Rains soothed me, for some odd reason, you must understand. The facts of our morning’s encounter replayed inside my head, howsoever odd they were.

‘A woman comes huffing and puffing up to us, asking for a Mr Holmes. Without appropriate introductions, the lady informs us of a scandal of phoney companies and counterfeit notes at Hammersmith, Gregory and Spall, where she worked as a receptionist. She was followed by an assailant, who tried launching an attack upon us. Holmes came to our rescue and sent the unfortunate rodent scattering off. The jigsaw pieces were there: I was getting all the edgier to complete the puzzle, but my mind instructed me to wait for the remaining puzzle pieces to be put in front of our eyes.

‘It was then that I felt a sudden shove at my back, from a rather robust hand, a man of unprecedented strength, and I found myself toppling over the rails and coming crashing down below on the sharp pebbles of the bank of the grey Thames that can dig deep into your skull and kill you in a jiffy. However, by God’s grace, I did not break a single bone or even manage to scratch myself a fatal cut, save for a slight graze on my arm as a pebble cut through the cotton of my overcoat. I turned up to search for my assailant, but, alas, I could find nobody standing there; it was as vacant as I had left it before. But almost instantly, before I could even gloat upon cocking up their plans of killing me, I heard bullet shots that were headed in my direction, aiming most probably at my skull. I ducked and shielded myself with my leather gloves.

‘I recognised that the shooters were amateurs, for the bullets ricocheted off pebbles far ahead of me. But, yes, they were drawing closer to me every second. I did not hide or protect myself, for then, I saw the marine boats zooming down the river. I shouted. I cried for help, waved my white kerchief out for the occupants of the boat. It was not a smack of genius, but a genuine cry to scare off the snipers. Needless to say, it worked: as soon as the boat started rowing towards me, the bullets stopped.’

‘Most would hide, Watson,’ interjected Holmes lazily, as he finished off half the blunt. ‘You’re not stupid like most people, you know that. Not bright, but not stupid either.’

‘Thank you, Holmes. As I was saying, the marine rescue force bought my story when I told them that I slipped and fallen

off the rails and that I was frightened. They were apprehensive, for they too heard bullet shots, but I laughed it off. “Would I not hide, officer, had some foul soul tried to pin me down with a bullet?” I questioned him. With a warning to be more careful with my step the next time lest I voluntarily chose to spend nights in the prison, they dropped me off on the Walkway and sped off towards the Isle of Dogs in the heavy downpour that made the river at least a dozen notches more tumultuous no time.’

I wanted to applaud Doctor Watson’s sharp mind, but he carried on, just like the snow outside:

‘I, thereafter, wound my way towards the Udder Monger,’ he said the words with much contempt, ‘on the corner of Southwark, where I was scheduled to meet Holmes for our tete-a-tete. Although I was an hour and a quarter early for our dinner, I was gobsmacked to find the man seated by the window, munching upon a plate of fried potatoes!

‘ “Ah, Watson!” Sherlock Holmes cried in his usual self, waving to grab my attention. “Come, come! You must feast on their potatoes – they are ingenious! Do remind me to convey my compliments personally to the chef for his marvellously outstanding art very few can replicate!”

‘I took my seat opposite him. The restaurant was nothing fancy; a dozen or so tables were occupied, and the bar had not yet initiated operations. A small mousy waiter hovered over the polished wooden tables taking the orders; seeing plates on ours, he chose to avoid us and moved further to a table diagonally opposite ours that was occupied by a sole woman. The enthusiasm showing on my partner’s face was an omen, I observed. He was up to something.

‘ “Well? You have something, I presume, Holmes,” I asked him, for it was an abomination on Mr Sherlock Holmes’ character to initiate a desperately needed conversation by himself. However, almost unconcernedly and bordering on uncourteously, he continued munching on those fried potatoes of his. After what seemed like hours of me staring at his face morosely, he broke the silence.

‘ “What?” he asked me. “Why are you staring at me? It is making me uncomfortable, Doctor.”

‘ “Oh, nothing really, I was enquiring about the goddamn weather, Holmes… Do tell me what happened during the day, I pray you!”

‘He laughed. Not a giggle or a snigger, but a loud guffaw that turned heads to our table. I hope it is absolutely unnecessary to mention how disconcerting my partner can be in public places. And then, he broke into his version of the day, as I report trying my best to not undulate any of the facts:

‘ “Pardon me, my dear Watson, for the preoccupations I had regarding this most dangerous game forbade me in asking you the one question that could take me from here up the ladder of progression. Tell me, Watson, what you make of our client, Miss Elizabeth Montrose?” he asked me, like he usually does so, in case he needs a vain third opinion. I told him of my observations, that she kept up with the trends, shopped at Harrods, was a connoisseur bordering on gluttony. Holmes, like every time, rejected all my observations.

‘ “On the contrary, my friend,” he said, his mouth filled with the fried potatoes, “the stretch marks on her waist showed that she was starving herself for days, for her eyes sagged and drooped as well. The fact that she collapsed after a few yards’ jog, showed clearly that a lack of proper diet slowed down her metabolism. Also, those cosmetics were cheaply purchased, as they started draining off after profuse perspiration – a good brand would remain untouched by human sweat as there sits mentioned in my work which you have blatantly ignored reading for, what’s it been now, thirty days? Forty?”

‘I sat there, humiliated and humbled at the same time by Mr Holmes’ remarks, for they were anything but illogical or untrue.

‘ “Watson, the minute you departed

with Miss Elizabeth Montrose, I did some snooping around myself. I headed on towards the grimy alleys of Hackney, to her apartment,” he said. I interrupted him then, asking him, how come he knew our client’s name when she had certainly not disclosed it to him. He smiled coyly, just as he is now.

‘He said to me, as though my interjection was a gust of air, “When I reached Miss Montrose’s rented apartment, I was greeted by her roommate who struck me as a highly curious woman, more curious than, you know who.” I knew he was referring to the one woman who had managed to shake the very nature of Sherlock Holmes as the man who harboured no feelings, who had made the otherwise man made of stone realise he did possess a heart that beat with palpable human emotions, contrary to the notion he had outgrown all his adolescence and part of adulthood with. He called her The Woman, Miss Irene Adler. Back to the narrative, for I see the mention of The Woman pokes some uneasy holes in my friend.

‘ “She called herself Rosalind Joyce,” Holmes continued telling me, “and her profession, as she described to me, was something we do not speak of in civilised gatherings. It got me thinking: the reason why Miss Montrose boarded with someone like Rosalind Joyce in the dirty Hackney obviously drew back to something more intimate and personal – and I chanced upon a photograph of the pair at their apartment. They looked quite similar, except that Miss Montrose was morbidly obese but prettier to look at. Rosalind Joyce seemed like someone who had initiated the wonderful pain of starving herself to death.

‘ “And then, she got talking and – er – started – er – touching me improperly, making me unacceptably uneasy. What struck me was that she knew of Miss Montrose’s plans of seeing me and, rather curiously, she had been expecting me. And, my dear Watson, the way you warded off an attack today, the same manner, I warded off that woman’s moves on me. I cannot bring myself to describe the voracious lust she showered upon me, trying her best to excite the demon that I have put so effortlessly to sleep since ages immemorial, you know, but I cleverly foiled her plans too.” At this juncture, I recalled a private joke, my colleagues, at Barts’ often shared over coffee, about the impotency of their most brilliant chemist.’

Holmes got impatient. ‘You surgeons consider my steadfast and unmoving dedication to this art and science my impotency, Watson?’ He clearly was not pleased. ‘Please, continue, Doctor,” I said before a storm could thunder down upon me.

‘ “However, something did come out of our casual – er – conversation, Watson,” Holmes said to me. “Miss Joyce told me that Miss Montrose had mentioned the scandal she was sniffing at the bank. She saw her roommate arrive late, even beyond Miss Joyce’s shifts and thump a dozen or so folios on her bed. When she probed our client, Miss Montrose told her one sentence, which I believe Watson, to be the last link to our puzzle. She told Miss Joyce, “What do you do when you have an adder in your backyard, Rosie?”, which led the former to wonder. She seemed astounded at her roommate’s crass opinion, for she clearly mentioned that she too had an account with Hammersmith, Gregory & Spall. But that was her stroke of genius, Watson, which linked all her suspicions to the fact! I then excused myself from Miss Joyce’s alluring nudity (she insisted so! She wouldn’t breathe a word unless…) and headed off to the Bank.”’

‘I still have my inhibitions about you, Holmes,’ said Dr Watson to Sherlock Holmes. ‘Whether you shared your nudity with Miss Joyce, but that one sentence broke open everything.’ My curiosity further leapt, while Sherlock Holmes made himself more comfortable on the settee, as he turned his back towards us.

‘Do ignore his childhood-induced lack of manners. As we went hogging about our fried potatoes, after my rather light lunch, Holmes told me about what he felt about the scandal.