Fantastic Metropolis

“Indeed, you are doing no such thing, sir,” Holmes said gently. “It is a common misconception, I gather, among our American cousins that High- and Afternoon- tea are the same thing. They are very different meals, taken at quite different times. High Tea was in my day only eaten at certain seats of learning, and was a hot, early supper. The same kind of supper, served in a nursery, has of late been known as High Tea. Afternoon-tea, which consists of a conventional cold sandwich selection, sometimes with scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam, is eaten by adults, generally at four o’clock. High Tea, by and large, is eaten by children at six o’clock. The sausage was always very evident at such meals when I was young.” Holmes suppressed a subtle shudder.

“I stand corrected and instructed, sir,” said the Texan jovially, and waved a delicate sandwich by way of emphasis. Whereupon all three of us broke into laughter—Holmes at his own pedantry and Mr Macklesworth almost by way of relief from the weighty matters on his mind.

“Did you discover any clues to the mystery in High Cogges?” our guest wished to know.

“Oh, indeed, Mr Macklesworth,” said Holmes, “I have one or two things to verify, but think the case is solved.” He chuckled again, this time at the expression of delighted astonishment on the American’s face.

“Solved, Mr Holmes?”

“Solved, Mr Macklesworth, but not proven. Doctor Watson, as usual, contributed greatly to my deductions. It was you, Watson, who suggested the motive for involving this gentleman in what, I believe, was a frightful and utterly cold-blooded crime.”

“So I was right, Mr Holmes! Sir Geoffrey was murdered!”

“Murdered or driven to self-murder, Mr Macklesworth, it is scarcely material.”

“You know the culprit, sir?

“I believe I do. Pray, Mr Macklesworth,” now Holmes pulled a piece of yellowed paper from an inner pocket, “would you look at this? I took it from my files on the way here and apologise for its somewhat dusty condition.”

Frowning slightly, the Texan accepted the folded paper and then scratched his head in some puzzlement, reading aloud. “My dear Holmes, Thank you so much for your generous assistance in the recent business concerning my young painter friend.. Needless to say, I remain permanently in your debt. Yours very sincerely—” He looked up in some confusion. “The notepaper is unfamiliar to me, Mr Holmes. Doubtless the Athenaeum is one of your clubs. But the signature is false.”

“I had an idea you might deduce that, sir,” said Holmes, taking the paper from our guest. Far from being discommoded by the information, he seemed satisfied by it. I wondered how far back the roots of this crime were to be found. “Now, before I explain further, I feel a need to demonstrate something. I wonder if you would be good enough to write a note to Mrs Gallibasta in Willesden. I would like you to tell her that you have changed your mind about returning to the United States and have decided to live in England for a time. Meanwhile, you intend to place the Fellini Silver in a bank vault until you go back to the United States, whereupon you are considering taking legal advice as to what to do with the statue.”

“If I did that, Mr Holmes, I would not be honouring my vow to my cousin. And I would be telling a lie to a lady.”

“Believe me, Mr Mackelsworth if I assure you, with all emphasis, that you will not be breaking a promise to your cousin and you will not be telling a lie to a lady. Indeed, you will be doing Sir Geoffrey Mackelsworth and, I hope, both our great nations, an important service.”

“Very well, Mr Holmes,” said John Macklesworth, firming his jaw and adopting a serious expression, “if that’s your word, I’m ready to go along with whatever you ask.”

“Good man, Mackelsworth!” Sherlock Holmes’ lips drew back a little from his teeth, like a wolf’s scenting nearby prey. “By the by, sir, have you ever heard of a creature known as ‘Little Peter’ or sometimes ‘French Pete’?”

“Certainly I have, Mr Holmes. He was a popular subject in the sensational press and remains so to this day. He operated out of New Orleans about a decade ago. Jean ‘Petit Pierre’ Fromental. He was part Creole, part Italian and, some said, part Cree. A powerful, handsome man who had been a Shakespearian actor, but was famous for a series of particularly vicious murders of well-known dignitaries in the private rooms of those establishments for which Picayune is famous. A woman accomplice was also involved. She was said to have lured the men to the rooms so that her paramour might kill them and rob them. Fromental was captured eventually but the woman was never arrested. Some believe it was she who helped him escape when he did. As I remember, Mr Holmes, Fromental was never thereafter caught. There was some evidence he went to Memphis and joined a travelling medicine show. Was there not some evidence that he, in turn, had been murdered by a woman? Do you think Fromental and Sir Geoffrey were both victims of the same murderess?”

“In a sense, Mr Mackelsworth. As I said, I am reluctant to give you my whole theory until I have put some of it to the test. But none of this is the work of a woman, that I can assure you. Will you do as I say?”

“Count on me, Mr Holmes. I will compose the telegram now.”