The Case of the Missing Sailor
by M

          “Ladies,” I said with a smile and a somewhat nervous chuckle, “is it truly necessary for me to dress up as well?”   

          “We can’t ‘ave a gen’le-ladies’ tea without bein’ gen’le-ladies!” the youngest girl exclaimed determinedly. 

          “Perhaps,” I beseeched, “I could play the gentlemen guest?”  It was a desperate move, but I could see no firmer ground.

          “No, Do’or Wa’son,” the eldest, a girl of ten, responded logically, “gen’lemen aren’t allowed at a gen’le-ladies tea.”  Her emphasis on the word ‘gentleladies’ was to impress upon me that the fact was simply self-evident, and I knew then that any further resistance would be in vain.  So I steeled myself and accepted the proffered garment.  It was a voluminous dress of pale blue and was adorned with an amazing array of beads, ruffles, and lace.  It was quite old-fashioned and worn, and I had no doubt that it was taken from the very back of their mother’s wardrobe.  This would be a very interesting afternoon, I thought to myself wryly, as I removed my coat jacket, unfastened my cuff-links, and rolled up my sleeves.  Once accomplished, the girls began to giggle with excitement as they helped threw the large vestment over my head.  A very interesting afternoon, indeed, I thought.

~

          I had been commissioned by my good friend Sherlock Holmes to stay with one of his clients, a Mrs. Merriweather.  She was wife to a sailor and had three children, all girls.  The eldest, Susan, was ten; the middle, Elizabeth, was seven; and the youngest, Kathryn, was five.  They were a most delightful pack of young ladies and welcomed me instantly into their fold.  I was seen, I believe, as a delightfully novel and highly cooperative play-thing.  I accepted my role without protest, for I sensed any opposition would have been ineffectual. 

          The family was (as most families of sailors are) not of the upper-classes, and as such their home was small and not well furnished, but all was kept tidy and clean.  I was given a small cubby at the top of the house, under the eaves, where I had a narrow bed and a small wardrobe and wash basin.  I could only truly stand upright in a small portion of the room, so I would often creep about in a slightly crouched position. 

          What was lacking in lodging was more than made up for in the natural good-will of my hostess.  Mrs. Merriweather was a large and jovial woman of high-spirits, and we got on immediately.  We would frequently spend the late evenings, after the three girls were put to bed, playing whist with two of her neighbors, also pleasant and boisterous women.  I think they found me amusing, though I can’t fully understand the reason.  I suspect it was because of my association with Holmes; my publishing of his cases was making us minor celebrities. 

          This had been my arrangement for the last week, and I had not seen Holmes since he left me with the Merriweathers.  Nor had there been any hint of danger at my end, for nothing out of the usual had occurred thus far.  I simply carried out my duties as animated play-toy to the girls and whist partner to Mrs. Merriweather, ever watchful for suspicious happenings.

          On the day of the “gentleladies tea,” which was taking place on the floor of the girls’ small bed-chamber, Holmes decided to make a re-appearance.  As I sat in my light blue dress, collar and neck-tie exposed, someone spoke from the doorway.

          “They’ll make a fine lady out of you yet, Dr.,” Holmes said with cool amusement in his refined voice.  Empty tea-cup in hand, legs folded underneath me, I turned and saw Holmes with an usually broad grin upon his face.  Before I could respond to his teasing comment, the girls sprang from the floor and ran to him shouting, “Mr. ‘olmes, Mr. ‘olmes!”  He took an automatic step backward when he realized he was about to be met by a gaggle of energetic young girls.  They smiled and giggled and wrapped their arms around his legs, for he is quite tall. 

          I smiled at the scene, seeing the amusement drain rapidly from his face as he now bore the brunt of girlish affection.  He reached down slowly and patted each lightly upon the head in an awkward gesture of friendliness.  Then Susan, the eldest, looked up at him and asked, “Did you find Papa, Mr. ‘olmes?” 

          His face went blank and he raised his eyes to meet mine, silently pleading with me to create any distraction that might allow this question to go unanswered.  “Girls,” I said, “it’s time to go down and help your mother with dinner.  Let Mr. Holmes have his legs back.” 

          The girls were well-disciplined and knew that their daily chore of helping prepare dinner was well-passed due, so they released their grip upon Holmes and started walking sullenly out the door.  Then Kit, the youngest (whose proper name was Kathryn), stopped and asked with a look of expectation, “will you be stayin’ with us too, Mr. ‘olmes?”

          He knelt down to be level with her, “I will indeed, for a short time,” he replied and she immediately ran over and hugged him fiercely about the neck.  He made a tentative and brief hug in return and said, “Down stairs with you now.”  She released him and tore off after her sisters. 

          He stood up and closed the door.  Then he turned and looked at me as I stood up, still in my outrageous costume.  He smiled, amusement once again lighting his face, and said, “I prefer you in white shirt and trousers, Watson, but I must admit that that particular shade of blue brings out the color of your eyes wonderfully.”

          As I pulled off the dress, I replied, “You wouldn’t be so amused if you’d just spent the last hour impersonating Mrs. Wilberforce-Pembrambly at afternoon tea with her ladies.”

         He tried to hide a snigger as he said, “no, I suppose I wouldn’t.  ‘Mrs. Wilberforce-Pembrambly’, you say?”

          “Yes, the eldest girl, Susan, insisted she give each of us proper ladies’ names,” I answered while I struggled with my cuff-links.  Holmes walked the short distance between us and deftly took over the job.  I realized, as his fingers moved over my hands, that I had not seen him in just over a week and I missed him terribly.  Instinctively, I stepped in and kissed him.  A cuff-link clattered to the floor.  Our kiss lasted far longer than good-sense dictated it should have, and I was forced to break off our embrace before my body reacted in too obvious a fashion.  He too, I noticed with pleasure, was struggling to maintain his composure.

          Holmes quickly recovered the cuff-link from the floor and finished his task.  “Mrs. Wilberforce-Pembrambly is indeed a proper lady’s name,” he said casually, “and in fact, she is the lady of the social season.”

          “What?” I asked puzzled and unsure as to whether or not he was jesting with me.

          “I am not teasing you,” he said in reaction.  “The Daily Chronicle has been reporting frequently on the lavish social affairs thrown this season by the newly-widowed Mrs. Wilberforce-Pembrambly of Kensington.  Your play-mates have been reading the Chronicle it appears, and they have done you a great honor in the assignment of your moniker.”

          “Yes,” I said, “their mother makes the two eldest girls practice their reading every evening with old editions of the papers.”  I shrugged on my coat-jacket as I spoke and was now more comfortably adorned in my usual attire.  Holmes ran his gaze briefly over my person, and I was pleased to see appreciation in his eyes. 

          “How have you been faring on the case, Holmes?” I asked.  “You have not located Mr. Merriweather, I presume?”

          “Correct,” he answered as we took seats, I on the bed and he on a small wooden chair, “I had traced him as far as Rotherhithe then lost him completely two days ago.  I fear that something may have happened to him.”

          “What might have occurred?” I asked.

          “At present, I do not know,” he responded as his eyes focused inward with thought.  I waited patiently for any further explanation, but none was forthcoming.  Finally he said, “I shall be joining you here in the evenings, Watson, and I fear Mrs. Merriweather had no choice but to place me in with you.” 

          I smiled, very pleased with the thought. 

~

          Dinner was an unusually quiet affair; even the girls said very little.  The youngest, however, had noticed that Holmes was ignoring his plate entirely (as is often his habit during a difficult case), and she asked with vehemence, “Mama, do I ‘ave to eat me peas?  Mr. ‘olmes ain’t eatin’ his peas.”

          “Kit, you know full well you got a eat yer peas,” her mother responded sternly, “go on, now, and never you min’ what Mr. ‘olmes does.  Asides, you wan‘a grow up an’ be all skinny like ‘im?”

          Holmes had only looked up at the mention of his name, for he had been lost in that great mind of his for some time.  He smiled slightly at this exchange and the comment regarding his lean frame, which had been said good-naturedly and with a wink in his direction. 

          Kit looked over at him again and must have realized that he was indeed quite thin because she took a fresh roll from the center of the table and placed it on Holmes’s plate, next to the one already resting there.  She then scooped up an overly-large portion of butter from the dish and placed it next to the two rolls.  Holmes watched these movements with an inquisitive eye, but did not move or speak.  I smiled at this delightful display of a child’s generosity.

          After dinner, Holmes asked for a private word with Mrs. Merriweather, and I suspect he was informing her of his lack of progress.  I was charged with getting the two older girls to practice their reading and maths, and the youngest to practice reciting her numbers and alphabet.  Soon after, Mrs. Merriweather came out of the kitchen with Holmes, both looking very somber.  She dutifully hustled the girls off to bed, and Holmes and I were left in the small sitting-room.  He lit a cigarette and offered one to me, which I accepted.  We smoked for some time before Holmes spoke.

          “I believe an attempt may be made upon this family, Watson,” he said gravely.  “I do not know any more than that, but we must remain alert for such an event.  Have you your revolver upstairs?”

          “I do,” I replied.

          “Excellent,” was all he said before returning wholly to his thoughts. 

~

          The next several days proved unremarkable.  Holmes left the house early and sometimes did not return until well past midnight.  We made ourselves as comfortable as possible in the small chamber at the top of the house.  The bed was narrow for one, cramped for two.  But Holmes rarely slept during this time; rather, he would sit upon the floor—legs stretched out in front of him, back resting against the side of the bed—smoking and thinking.  I lay on the bed drifting in and out of sleep beside him.  If he noticed I was coming awake, he would caress my hand or arm soothingly, lulling me pleasantly back to my dreams. 

          One night, when he placed his hand upon my arm, he did not endeavor his customary tender caress, and so my eyes came open at this break of our routine.  I saw that he was listening attentively, and then I too heard a muffled noise from downstairs.  I came awake at once and Holmes looked at me, silently telling me that the game was afoot and that I should prepare for an altercation.  I quietly slid out of bed as he stood up and opened the door noiselessly.  I hastily threw on my trousers, tucking my night-shift in as best as possible, and collected my army revolver from under the mattress. 

          We crept down the stairs and looked into the girls’ room, nothing amiss I was glad to see.  Then we silently advanced toward Mrs. Merriweather’s bed-chamber, but before we reached it I was suddenly struck by a fierce blow to the back of my head.  I must have lost consciousness instantly for I remember nothing of the events following and must rely on the accounts of others for the following description of events.

          I was sprawled upon the floor, blood oozing from the back of my head, my revolver lying uselessly beside me.  Holmes whirled and saw the villain leap over me.  He was wielding a large cudgel, and Holmes narrowly succeeded in deflecting a vicious blow by throwing up his arm.  Holmes managed to hurriedly grapple his foe around the waist, limiting his abilities with the cudgel.  He drove the devil into the wall with a loud ‘thwack’ and several framed pictures came crashing to the floor, glass shattering upon the floor-boards.  The struggle was fierce, and soon Mrs. Merriweather was awake and trying to light a lamp.  The girls, likewise, were being roused from their slumber by the violent commotion. 

          Holmes took several blows before he wrestled the cudgel from the other man’s grasp, and just as Mrs. Merriweather was emerging from her room with a lamp, the fight was shifting down the corridor.  Suddenly Holmes was thrust violently against the wall and the villain, blood dripping from his nose, ran toward the window at the end of the hall and knocked out the glass with his elbow.  He then quickly but clumsily made his escape, with Holmes just inches behind him.

          “Damn!” he cried as he watched his foe sprinting down the back alley into the pitch darkness. 

          Mrs. Merriweather was now at my side, the lamp spreading light over the bloody wound on the back of my head.  The girls were standing in their doorway, afraid to venture into the corridor.  “Get back in yer room and shut the door!” Mrs. Merriweather shouted at them with fear and distress clear in her voice. 

          Holmes rushed down the corridor and was kneeling down beside me, a hand gently upon my cheek.  He leaned his face closer to mine and with much relief saw that I was still breathing.  “Quick,” he demanded forcefully, “go for a doctor, hurry!”  Mrs. Merriweather left the lamp, ran into the sitting room to collect another, and in nothing but her night-robe sprinted out the front door. 

          Holmes was kneeling there beside me gently whispering my name in hopes of rousing me from unconsciousness.  It was nearly five minutes before I began to regain my senses. 

          “Holmes?” I whispered as I heard his voice.

          “Yes,” he replied eagerly, “I’m here, Watson, I’m right here.”

          “What…happened…?” I asked slowly as I opened my eyes and tried to move my head.  My vision blurred suddenly so I resumed being still.

          “Do not try to move,” Holmes said, “you took a violent blow to the back of the head.  Lie still.”  My hand instinctively moved to inspect the back of my head, and I discovered a bloody gash across my occipital region.  When I touched it, pain shot through my head and I nearly blacked out again.  Holmes was saying something, but I could not focus my attention long enough to comprehend. 

          “…he should be here soon,” he finished. 

          “Who?” I asked in my confused state.

          “The doctor,” he answered with concern, “just lie still, Watson.” 

          “Are the girls…alright?...and…Mrs. Merriweather?” I asked.

          “They are all fine,” he replied, “try not to move.”

          “Are you…hurt?”

          “I am fine,” he answered and stroked my cheek tenderly as I lay there fighting off nausea and unconsciousness. 

          I must have lost the last struggle because when I woke again, I was looking at a plump man of sixty.  “Dr. Watson,” the man said. 

          “Yes,” I replied in a whisper.

          “I’m Dr. Russell,” he said.  “You’ve taken a rather nasty blow to the head, old boy.  You’ve lost a little blood, but not enough to be serious.  I’m just finishing up the bandage now, and I’ve given you some morphine for the pain.  Do you think you are fit enough for us to move you to your bed?”

          I tested my senses and realized that the morphine had begun to have its effect.  I nodded slightly and whispered, “I believe so.”

          The doctor smiled, and turned his gaze to the side and said, “Mr. Holmes, would you help me move him up the stairs?”  Soon I was hoisted over the two men’s shoulders and fighting waves of nausea as we ascended the stairs.  I sank gratefully into the small bed, careful to position myself on my side, and closed my eyes.  The last words I heard before drifting into sleep were the doctor’s, “Come, Mr. Holmes, let us tend to that face of yours.” 

~

          I awoke the next day just before luncheon.  I saw Holmes sitting in a chair brought up from the sitting-room, hand upon mine, face covered in sticking plaster.  I sat up suddenly, concerned at the sight of my friend’s swollen eyes and bruised cheeks.  My head swam with pain instantly and Holmes leaned over and placed a steadying hand upon my chest.  “It is not as bad as it looks, my dear Watson,” he said through a swollen bottom lip.  “You must rest, now.  Are you thirsty?” he asked.

          “Yes,” I croaked out in a hoarse whisper.  He handed me a small glass of cool water.  “Drink slowly.  Are you in much pain?”

          “Yes,” I answered plainly, “my head…”

          “The doctor is just downstairs and will bring you something for the pain shortly,” he told me.  I smiled weakly at him.  He looked at me oddly and said, “Watson, I…I really must apologize…for putting you in such a dangerous position.”

          “It is not…your fault…Holmes,” I said slowly and truthfully.  “I should have…been more alert.”

          We sat in silence for some time, then his countenance (what was not covered over by bandages or bruises) returned to normal, and he said in a low voice so that no other could hear, “I would kiss you, but I fear my lips would protest at being so used.”  I smiled and brought his hand up to my own lips and kissed his palm softly.

          Just as I lowered his hand, we heard the doctor and Mrs. Merriweather coming up the stairs.  Holmes did not remove his hand from the top of mine, I noticed. 

          “How is he doing, Mr. Holmes,” Doctor Russell asked pleasantly. 

          “He has just come awake,” Holmes replied.

          The doctor then shuffled Holmes out of his chair and took up his medical ministrations. 

~

          I spent the next several days abed, the pain fading gradually.  Holmes would sit with me as often as he could, but he was still in pursuit of Mr. Merriweather.  His face was terribly bruised, but the swelling had subsided considerably.  The girls and Mrs. Merriweather kept me company when Holmes was away.  The girls were particularly delighted when Dr. Russell allowed them to finish the wrappings of my bandage. 

          Soon I was able to move about without feeling light-headed and was glad to be taking my meals at the table again.  Many of the neighbors would visit, wanting to hear the story, and many of the women would make a fuss over my injuries and tout my bravery.  One such incident (for which I’m most glad Holmes was not present to witness) occurred when two such neighbor women were dining with us one evening.

          “You know, Do’or Wa’son, I fancy you might liked ta meet me daugh’er, Isabel, she might make ye a fine match, she might,” the woman said with a smile.  You see, my bachelorhood had become a topic of much discussion among the women of the neighborhood; the ending of it being of primary importance to them.

          I stared down at my plate, not expecting such a direct statement.  I managed to say, “I’m afraid I would only disappoint the young lady, Mrs. Edwards.” 

          “No’ at all, Do’or,” she replied heartily, “a brave, ‘andsome do’or like you disappoint a woman?  I’ll ne’er believe it.”  The other women at the table good-heartedly added glowing comments in support of my good character.   Even Susan stated that she thought my mustache made me look noble, which caused me to smile warmly at her. 

          When I finally had a chance to respond, I said, “Ladies, I do appreciate your good words, but I am simply not able to make any offers of courtship, I do apologize.”

          “That’s a’cause yer going to marry me, right Do’or Watson?”  The middle girl, Elizabeth, asked with a voice full of hope.  She had, soon after I arrived, decided that when she grew up I was to be her husband.  I thought this sweet, but informed her that she would be better suited to a younger man, perhaps someone closer to her own age.  She had summarily rejected this notion, saying that boys her own age were silly and stupid and did not have best friends who were famous detectives.  I could not deny the logic of this and rapidly altered the subject.

          Everyone around the table smiled at Elizabeth’s girlish dreams of marriage.  I finally said with a small smile, “Elizabeth, I am sorry to disappoint you, but I am not exactly an eligible bachelor.”

          “But you don’ ‘ave a wife,” she said, hope still present in her voice.

          “No, I do not have a wife,” I replied truthfully, “but my heart is promised to another, you see.”

          “Who?” she asked in a disappointed tone.

          “Elizabeth,” her mother interjected quickly, “you know it’s rude ta ask a gen’leman about his intimate business.  You’ve bothered the good do’or enough now.  Go on an’ eat yer dinner afore it gets cold.”

          “Yes, mum,” she said and turned her face dejectedly to her food, but she just sighed and shuffled her potatoes around her plate.

~

          Holmes and I lay in our narrow bed one night, talking over the case.  Actually, I asked questions and he remained deep in thought, answering only briefly.  I was against the wall, on my side (pain still resulted if I lay the back of my head down), and Holmes was lying on his back in his shirt sleeves; he remained fully dressed and continued to be alert for danger throughout the night. 

          His introspection was so profound that I had managed to undo his shirt buttons and was softly caressing his stomach with the tips of my fingers before he took any notice of my actions.  He looked down at his torso, watching my movements, and then he shifted his eyes over to me and I smiled at him warmly.  His countenance had not altered, so I knew I still had not gotten his full attention.  Suddenly he cried, “Watson, that’s it!” and sprang from the bed.  He put on his boots and hastily laced them.  And without bothering to re-fasten his shirt buttons or put on a neck-tie, he grabbed his coat jacket and fled the room.  I was astonished only as a reflex because I knew immediately that he had put some hitherto unknown piece of the puzzle into place and was rushing to take appropriate action.  I debated whether I should follow him, but he would have demanded I do so if I could be of any assistance.

~

          The next morning, during breakfast, the front door burst open and there stood Sherlock Holmes holding up a man in a horrid state of ill-use.  His arm was bandaged and slung and his clothes were tattered and bloody, not to mention the purple-bruises adorning his face, neck, and wrists.  The man had obviously been tied, beaten, and strangled.  I guessed immediately that this was Mr. Merriweather.

          “Jack!” Mrs. Merriweather screamed and ran to him, knocking her chair backwards in her haste.

          “Papa!” the girls screamed in unison and followed their mother with much the same speed.  I myself stood up and swiftly made my way toward the new-comers.  Mr. Merriweather, despite his many ailments, was eagerly greeting his family.  Holmes had stepped to the side, so as not to be a distraction from this intimate familial moment.  I came up beside him and he smiled at me with warmth and satisfaction—he had successfully resolved the case and brought Mr. Merriweather back to his family.  My own pride in him swelled visibly.  His smile increased but he averted his eyes in modesty at my unspoken admiration for his singular gifts. 

          This silent moment between us was broken by Mrs. Merriweather suddenly bestowing upon Holmes a vigorous embrace and several unladylike kisses upon his cheeks.  His startled and uncomfortable countenance was most amusing indeed, and I grinned at him as he desperately looked over to me for aid.  But his problems were only beginning because soon the girls were piling around him, hugging him fiercely about the knees.  Leaving Holmes to cope alone—for there was little to be done in the face of such strong feminine will—I took a few steps over to Mr. Merriweather and introduced myself. 

          “Do’or Watson?” he asked when I told him my name.  “Mr. ‘olmes says you’ve been keepin’ me family right safe these past couple weeks.  I’m much abliged to ye, sir, much abliged.”

          I gave him a most friendly smile, “Think nothing of it, sir.  Your family is both generous and warm, and it was a pleasure to keep their company.” 

          “Come, Watson,” Holmes said as soon he was able to get away from the ladies Merriweather, “it is time we were getting back to Baker Street.”

          “Do you ‘ave ta go, Mr. ‘olmes?” Kit asked pleadingly, still clinging to his trouser leg.

          “Yes, I’m afraid so, Miss Kathryn,” he said formally. 

          “I’ll go and collect our bags,” I said and headed upstairs, with all the girls soon running after me.

          The girls continually expressed their displeasure at my leaving while they watched me gather what little personal items Holmes and I had brought.  All of these I placed into my single carpet-bag (Holmes had only one change of clothes and his toothbrush and razor).  Our task completed, we all filed down the stairs. Holmes and I made our farewells, which were followed by heart-felt protestations from the girls. 

          Soon we were out on the street, hailing a hansom.  Once the horse had been whipped up, I turned to Holmes and congratulated him on his success. 

          “I must admit, my dear Watson,” he said with a smile, “that once again you have furnished me the critical element.”

          “How so?” I asked, unsure what I might have done to assist him.

          He smiled at me warmly and said “it would be highly inappropriate to discuss the matter at present.”

          We said nothing for the rest of the ride.

~

          After an excellent and comfortably familiar luncheon, we sat in our usual chairs at Baker Street, blue pipe smoke swirling pleasantly about the room.  I was very pleased to be home and could see that Holmes was likewise enjoying our customary atmosphere. 

          “Tell me, Holmes,” I requested, “how did you manage to find Mr. Merriweather?  And what might I have done to help inspire the solution?”

          He looked at me and smiled, hesitating a moment as he collected his thoughts.  “Mr. Merriweather, merchant sailor, was I’m afraid to say a petty smuggler.  He has made some minor profit providing covert transportation of certain goods.  It seems, though I cannot be certain, that he had been engaged in such trade for a number years and was always cautious and sensible.  His reputation in this city, in fact, was excellent among those minor criminals in need of such services.

          “However, a recent shipment of what Merriweather thought was white marble from Italy was in fact a consignment of stolen South African diamonds.  These diamonds had been ingeniously hidden between slabs of marble and sealed with screws that were subsequently hidden with plaster.  This scheme, you might guess, was being undertaken by a low-ranking faction of Moriarty’s larger criminal network.

          “Because of some unexpected police activity in the river front district at the time of his ship’s arrival, Merriweather had to alter his operations and, as such, the smuggled goods had to be hidden until delivery could be made securely.  He had a friend in Rotherhithe that provided safe space to keep his shipment, which is why he was detained for the first three days after his ship docked.”

          “Is that why you were able to trace him as far as Rotherhithe?” I asked.

          “Precisely,” he answered.  “After three days, Moriarty’s men came looking for their shipment.  They caught up with Merriweather late one night and requested the location of their diamonds.  Naturally, he knew nothing of diamonds and insisted as much.  They reinforced their request in violent terms, but it soon became clear that further prodding was required.  They took him away, to where I still know not, and proceeded to starve and torture him for the next two and a half weeks.”

          “But why didn’t he just tell them the diamonds were in Rotherhithe?” I wondered.

          Holmes smiled, “Ah…but he did not know that he had transported diamonds.  You see, when Moriarty’s gang realized that the delivery was late, they naturally suspected some foul-play was involved and immediately sent toughs to rectify the situation; men who were unaware of the clever system of concealment inside of layered marble.  Further, these men were not the familiar clients to which Merriweather was accountable, and he would not betray them by telling these seemingly-unconnected ruffians of the Italian marble.  An unfortunate misunderstanding for both Mr. Merriweather and for ourselves it seems, as these toughs had soon grown restless.  They attempted to squeeze our smuggling sailor further by abducting and threatening a member of his family.  Luckily for the Merriweathers we were able to abort that mission before any serious harm was done.

          “Up until the last moment I knew only that Merriweather was involved in a petty smuggling operation and that his latest consignment was white Italian marble.  Furthermore, I had learned that Moriarty’s gang was expecting a shipment of stolen diamonds, and that they had not been delivered.  I knew that there must be some connection between the two circumstances, but could not identify it.”  He smiled at me slyly and continued, “Until, of course, you unbuttoned my shirt-front last night in order to place your hand upon my skin.  Several times, Watson, your hand was hidden between the folds of white shirt cloth, thus, providing the connection between white Italian marble and stolen diamonds.”

          “I say,” I exclaimed.

          “Indeed,” he said.  “After that it was merely a matter of luring out Merriweather’s captors by offering to exchange sailor for diamonds, which were still safely in Rotherhithe.  I did all this, of course, through an intermediary so as not to tip Moriarty’s fiends off to the trap.”

          “So you called in the regular force, then,” I said.

          “Lestrade was waiting with open arms, as usual,” he replied.  “Once Merriweather was safely out of the clutches of these scoundrels, we patched him up as best we could, and the rest you know.”

          “But wouldn’t Lestrade have arrested Merriweather, as well?” I wondered. 

          “Lestrade and I had to make a deal on that score, I regret to report,” he said solemnly.

          “What sort of deal,” I asked.

          “I was to persuade Mr. Merriweather to abandon his operations for good, and if he agreed and kept his word, then he could go a free man,” he answered.

          “And if he kept up his petty smuggling…?” I asked.

          “Then I would willingly join Scotland Yard, officially,” he replied with some distaste for that most ‘regular’ of police institutions.

          “You didn’t really, Holmes,” I said in disbelief.

          “I did, and will hold to my word,” he said with dignity.  “But I have the utmost confidence that Merriweather will smuggle no more, for I had discussed the situation with his good wife present, and she has assured me her husband will abandon his criminal ways.  And as you well know, Watson, when a woman of Mrs. Merriweather’s caliber makes a promise on her husband’s behavior, you can be assured it will be kept.”

          “No doubt,” I agreed as I reflected on the strong-will of Mrs. Merriweather.

          “So you see,” he said, “you not only took a sharp knock on head for this case, but were instrumental in its ultimate resolution.  Where, I ask you, would I be without my Watson?”