THE ADVENTURE OF THE TALKING POLECAT

[huronna]

THE ADVENTURE OF THE TALKING POLECAT
By Dr. John H. Watson
Edited for publication by Paul E. Jamison

EDITOR’S NOTE
I don’t normally go to garage sales nowadays. There’s usually not much to interest me – VHS tapes, old appliances, lots of baby clothes, and not very many books. But some time ago I was walking through a residential neighborhood on the way to somewhere else when I was passing by a moving sale. I would have kept walking, but a pile of books caught my eye and I stopped to examine it. There was nothing much of interest – several cookie-cutter romance novels and the type of bestseller suitable for whiling away time while you’re getting some sun at the beach. And a pile of what looked like old loose-leaf notebooks. I was intrigued enough to begin looking through them.

There were about a dozen notebooks, each full of stories or essays written in longhand on both sides of the paper. The author’s handwriting was small and somewhat crabbed, and I have to admit that his penmanship was mediocre. The paper was yellow with age and the ink had faded with time, but I could still read the words fairly well if I worked at it.

I didn’t spend too long reading these notebooks anyway, not after I made out the author’s name on the first page of the first one.

I thought at first that it had to be a hoax. Perhaps some imaginative student had tried to work up a pastiche for a homework assignment. But to do so many of them? I checked, and all of the stories were supposedly by the same author. And the paper looked properly old. If this were a hoax, someone had gone to a lot of trouble.

I threaded my way through old furniture and hyperactive kids to the person with the cashbox. She was in the middle of a conversation with a friend about someone else kicking out her deadbeat boyfriend, so she was a bit distracted when I said, “I’ll take these, please.” The notebooks had been priced at 50¢ each, but she looked them over and said, “$5 for all of them.” I handed over a fiver and headed straight home.

Once I got home, I made some cocoa and sat down to read. I was excited, of course; if these notebooks were genuine, I had found a treasure trove. It didn’t take long before I realized, though, that I hadn’t known the half of it. I had to get in touch with the Skippys.

I’m good friends with Murphy, Max, Sammy, Clarissa and the rest of the furry crowd. I like those guys a lot, and I’ve always gotten a kick out of touring the Skippy Compound – they don’t let just any human wander around. And not just any human gets the Compound’s very special private telephone number, either. I picked up my phone and dialed.

The phone was answered after two rings and I heard a high-pitched voice. “Skippy here. Hey, Paul! What’s up?”

“Hi, Skippy. I came across something at a local yard sale. Calling it unusual is putting it mildly.” I described what I had. “I think you guys ought to look at it.”

The Skippys know me well enough to realize that I won’t joke with them on something like this. Skippy replied, “I’ll get hold of our Forensics department and our historians. We’ll get a team together and be there right away.”

Within the hour, they showed up in a couple of their tiny vans, and soon the notebooks were spread out on the floor and several ferrets were poring over them with portable microscopes and magnifying glasses, snapping photos and tapping notes in their SkipPDAs®. Some of them were chittering away and others were intensely silent. The Skippys were at least as excited as I was.

Shortly, Skippy came over to me with one of the notebooks and said, “Paul, we’ll have to take these back to the Compound for a detailed analysis, and I don’t want to jump to conclusions until we do. But for now… it looks like these are genuine.”

All I could say was “Oh, my.”

Skippy nodded.

And as best as the Skippys can figure, the notebooks are genuine.

Nobody – neither the Skippys nor I – has any idea how these notebooks ended up here in Kansas after all these decades, much less in a yard sale. We tried to track down the people who were selling them, but the sale was over and the house was empty when we found it. The owner of the property had been renting it and he wasn’t too inclined to help a group of talking ferrets. In any case he didn’t have much information about the former tenants.

The Skippys have given me transcripts of the notebooks. It’s anyone’s guess what impact these stories will have among scholars. But at least one of the narratives in the notebooks has caused a lot of excitement in the ferret community.

When you read it, you will see why.

[huronna]

Part 1

Despite having just passed my 75th birthday, my constitution is as robust as it was when I was much younger. My friend Sherlock Holmes contends that this good health is the result of the substance that he has extracted from the royal jelly produced by his bees. Seeing that he is only two years younger than I and is, if anything, even more sprightly and nimble, I see no reason to dispute this claim.

What my good health means is that I can still travel by train for long periods without tiring prematurely. I recently made one such journey, as I do occasionally, from Holmes’ and my cottage in Sussex to London, to conduct some business with Lloyd’s Bank. I needed to deposit a payment from the “Strand Magazine” for a recently published narrative, but I also wanted to sort through some of my papers there. My readers will remember the tin dispatch-box that once resided in the vaults of the Cox and Co bank. Since they took over the Cox bank a few years ago, the dispatch-box and others are now in the safekeeping of Lloyd’s, and they are crammed full of my records of the many remarkable adventures that I have shared with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The latest published account, which I had called “The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger”, had been received quite favourably by the readers of the “Strand”, even though there had been no actual mystery to solve. I wanted to look over my notes and decide which case to write about next, hopefully one that properly showcased Holmes’ reasoning abilities.

Despite my good health, I am 75 and I know that I have only a finite amount of time left on this earth. There are still large numbers of unrecorded cases in those dispatch-boxes, and while on the train to London, I reflected that many of those cases will still be unrecorded after I am gone. It was a sobering thought.

There are several reasons why I have not written out some cases for publication. Many are of a sensitive diplomatic nature and will remain hidden from the public eye, possibly for decades to come. I confess that I am reluctant to write about others, as they represent some of Sherlock Holmes’ few failures; but Holmes thinks that they are still worthy of public scrutiny, so they may see light someday. Other cases are kept confidential through agreement with the people involved. And still other cases were so mundane – not to mention boring – that I will not subject my readers to them, though they may be more suited to farce in the music halls; the business of Merridew of the abominable memory comes to mind.

But a few of Holmes’ cases will likely never see publication because they were incredibly bizarre. So bizarre, in fact, that they could never be taken for anything other than fiction; and, at that, they would read like the appalling “scientifiction” that has started to recently appear in American pulp magazines. Holmes himself, who despite his criticism of my published work has offered me invaluable advice, said at first, “My dear Watson, who is going to believe a story about talking animals?” It is true that these remarkable creatures have become better known recently to the general public. That does not, however, address the diplomatic ramifications of this adventure.

Still, it will not hurt to write something out about our experiences on the northern shore of Ireland, if only for my own amusement.

The case began for Holmes and me on a November evening in 1895. Winter was mere weeks away and the nights had begun to get cooler. My shoulder wound from the Afghan bullet was intermittently aching from the change in weather. On the evening in question, the wind was moaning against the windows of 221B Baker Street. Holmes and I were ensconced in chairs before a roaring fire in the fireplace. I had managed to get hold of the Times before Holmes had a chance to scatter it about the room, and I was catching up on news of the aftermath of the earthquake that had struck in the Midwestern United States the previous month.

In place of the newspaper, Sherlock Holmes was reading what little mail we had received that afternoon. I had seen the name of Holmes’ brother Mycroft on one envelope. Holmes had already read this, but had not discussed it with me. He held up another letter and said, “It looks like we may have a new client, Watson. See what you make of this.”

He handed the letter and its envelope over to me and I examined it. I had witnessed Holmes’ methods of deduction many times before, and I felt confident that I could at least glean something from the letter. I immediately noticed that the paper was certainly of high quality and I said, “Our prospective client would seem to be well off.”

Holmes opened his mouth to say something, but I held up a finger and said, “Wait a moment!” Something had caught my attention and I examined the letter more closely.

I then looked at the envelope, and something seemed to fall into place in my head. It was a strange sensation. Perhaps this was the way Holmes felt when he was making a deduction. “I take back what I said. I believe that whoever wrote this was well off, but has fallen on difficult times.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows. “Dear me! And how do you arrive at that conclusion?”

I held up the envelope. “The letter is written on high-quality paper, but it does not match the envelope. The colour is different. The envelope is actually quite cheap – the glue has started to give way in some places, just from travelling through the Mail. The sender has had to use whatever envelope he could afford.”

Holmes had an eager look in his eyes, like a teacher that was getting through to a slow pupil. “A good point, Watson! Is there anything else?”

I looked over the letter again. Now that I had reached a preliminary conclusion, I could see other clues. I held the letter up to the light. “I do not have your knowledge of watermarks, Holmes.” He nodded and waved this aside. “But I presume that watermarks usually appear near the centre of the paper.”

“Not all of the time, but it’s a general rule of thumb. And what of this particular watermark?”

“In this case, the watermark is at the edge of this paper. Indeed, it looks like the edge cuts through the watermark. From this, I conclude that the paper was originally much larger – twice as large, perhaps – and he has cut it in two.”

“First having folded it in two, yes. I noticed the crease. Do go on.” Holmes was clearly enjoying this.

I was certainly enjoying it. “Therefore, he has economized by taking a regular sheet of writing paper and cutting it in two.” I turned my attention once more to the letter. “There is more evidence of economy here. The writing starts out easy enough to read, but after a few words, the ink begins to fade. Then it returns to its former strength, then again fades. The writer has not gone back to trace over the letters to correct this. Therefore he writes as much as he can before getting more ink. He is doing this to preserve his supply of ink.”

I looked up and smiled. “All of which indicates that he has come down in the world, although he still has a supply of quality writing material.” I looked at the writing again. “Oh, yes, and he’s left-handed.”

Sherlock Holmes tilted his head back, clapped his hands and laughed. “Capital. Watson! Most capital! You have been an apt pupil, and you obviously have learned a lot over the years! I am afraid, my friend, that I must disappoint you on one point. I believe that the writer is right-handed.

“But the rest – oh, my, you have done a remarkable job of deduction! You have reached the very conclusion that I have about the person’s coming down in the world – and from the very same clues! My dear Watson, you have no idea how that pleases me!”

My error in reading the penmanship was of little consequence. As you can surmise, I was beaming with pride. “I’m sure I’ve missed some other points, Holmes. I do notice some smearing of the ink, but I cannot say what that means.”

“It tells us that he holds his hand in an odd way when he writes, but not why he does so. Now, as to the contents of the note.”

I read the letter over.

“Mr. Holmes. I am coming to London on Thursday the 7th. I wish to discuss an odd business with you. I believe it involves murder.

Sincerely,
MURPHY DONALDSON”

I looked at the envelope. “No return address. Postmarked Dublin, Ireland. So it may be an Irish case.”

“It has been awhile since we’ve been to Ireland, hasn’t it? And Mr. Donaldson is supposed to be here today.”

“Mr. Holmes, you have a visitor.”

“Ah, I believe that this is he. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, show him in. Do come in, sir, and sit down.”

Mr. Donaldson was a stocky, grey-haired man, bundled up in a faded pea-coat against the chill weather. He removed his coat and handed it over to Mrs. Hudson, who went to hang it on a hook by the door. Mr. Donaldson walked slowly over to the chair by the fireplace. He walked with a limp and was holding his right hand in an awkward position.

He spoke with a distinct Irish lilt. “I thank you for the welcome, sir. This is a cosy fire for a man on a cold day. I presume that you are Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“I am. You were a sea-faring man at one time, were you not? I notice the tattoo of a ship’s anchor on the back of your hand.”

“That I was. I served for twelve good years on the sloop ‘Annie Greensprings’, until she was lost off of Belfast two years ago. I was one of the fortunate few to survive, but my body was battered fiercely. I was seven months in bed healing from the wounds I received. My leg and my arm have never healed completely, as you can see. It was the end of my days as a seafaring man. What use is a sailor with a bad leg and arm?

“I had done quite well for myself as a sailor – I was used to having the finer things of life – but all that was gone. I’ve spent the last few months hanging around the docks and bars of Ireland. A sailor can always find a drink in the company of others. I have a bit of a pension and I’ve had the odd job here and there, so I get by, but I miss the sea.”

“Pray, Mr. Donaldson, how can we help you? You mentioned the possibility of murder.”

“It involves the suspicious death of a friend of mine, a lighthouse keeper on the island of Inishtrahull. There is a special comradeship between the men of the ships and the men of the lighthouses. Gordon was a good friend of mine for years – a finer man you could not have by your side in a tavern brawl. Whenever I was on shore leave, we’d get together to drink and to share stories and have a roaring good time. When I was put ashore for good, I could not travel as well as before, but we kept in touch by post.

“For a man who can no longer sail the seas, a post as a lighthouse keeper is a tempting prospect – you can at least be near the ocean again. Many a time I mentioned to Gordon that I’d be available and willing to come onboard his light as an assistant. He liked the idea, and he kept my name in for the position.

“Just last week, however, someone in a Dublin pub mentioned in passing that the Inishtrahull light was looking for a new keeper. As you can guess, this brought me up short and I asked of the speaker what had happened to the current keeper.

“He said to me, ‘Have you not heard? The poor man’s been killed.’

“This was a shock to me. I had not received a letter from Gordon for about a week, but I had thought little of it. I demanded to know what had happened.

“‘A sad business, that. The keeper took a dive off of the platform. It was a drop of about thirty feet and his neck was broken. It happened only a few days ago.’

“Oh, woe, gentleman, for such a good man as he to be taken from us too soon! I will miss him for the rest of my days. I enquired further, and my informant said, ‘It was a bad night and he may have been swept off of the platform. Or he may have been distraught and took his own life. But there it is. You’re of the sea. You know how these things happen.’

“Indeed I do. But the story did not sit right with me. I knew Gordon well. He was a careful type, and he had said that there were rails around the platform, so I could not see him being swept off. And he was a joyful man – I could not see him taking his own life. That left a third possibility that no one had mentioned.”

“Murder.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. Murder. Someone, for reasons I cannot fathom, may have pushed my friend off of the lighthouse platform. I will not rest easy until I find out the truth.

“And here is the supreme irony, gentlemen. Just two days after I heard the sad news about my friend, I received an offer to take over the post as permanent keeper for the Inishtrahull lighthouse.”

I mentioned something about the jokes Fate plays us. Holmes asked, “Have you accepted the offer?”

“I believe my old friend would want me to have it. For his sake I will go and look into it. There is a resident of the island who is performing the tasks now, but it is a temporary arrangement until I get there.”

“When do you leave?”

“As soon as I can – tomorrow if possible.”

I asked, “But your letter came from Dublin. Why come to London before you head for the north of Ireland?”

“So I could see you gentlemen. You helped a relative of mine over some business with fraud. Mr. Holmes, I want to ask you to help me find out what happened to my friend. Was it an accident, or suicide – or murder?”

Holmes thought about this for a few moments. There was obviously little of substance to what our visitor had told us, and I was certain that my colleague would dismiss it out of hand as not worthy of his efforts.

Homes surprised me, however. He said, “Mr. Donaldson, is there anything else you can tell me? You mentioned that Mr. Gordon wrote to you frequently. Did he write about anything unusual?”

“Not particularly so. Inishtrahull, gentlemen, is the northernmost island of Ireland, about seven miles off of the coast. He got along well with the other inhabitants, but there was never much news about them to share. He would talk about the different boats that he’d see from the lighthouse – shipping vessels from across the Atlantic, local fishing boats, passenger ships. He was fond of talking about the birds he would see. Gulls, mostly. He would get excited about spotting a new type of bird. Recently he described one bird he’d seen several times – darker plumage than the regular gulls, with a white face. He’d never seen anything else like it, and it fascinated him.

“As to other things he’d written about…” Here our guest hesitated.

“Come, now, Mr. Donaldson, please do not hold anything back. What else did your friend write about?”

“Well… He’d claim that he’d seen the Wee Folk.”

Holmes’ eyes – and mine, too, I’m certain – widened at this. Holmes said, thoughtfully, “Wee Folk? Leprechauns and fairies? Was your friend having you on?”

“I thought that that might be the case. Gordon always had a high humour. In one of his earlier letters, he wrote me about the time he was looking down from the platform at the ground below and caught a glimpse of two small creatures scurrying around the rocks. He said that they stopped and looked up at him. They then disappeared.”

“Small animals, perhaps.”

“That’s what I thought, and he said that they were the size of small animals. But he assured me in his letter that they were standing on two feet. And he said that they wore brownish costumes. Other times he would mention seeing them again. And later he wrote that he thought that he could hear small, high-pitched voices. He could not make out words.

“I thought it was all a joke on me. But Gordon always wrote about this with a straight face. I decided to play the game and went along with him on it. After some time he did not mention them anymore.

“But a few weeks ago, Gordon sent me a letter in which he mentioned seeing another strange creature. He was on the platform again one night, and he thought he glimpsed it below, but he was not sure that his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him this time. But if he did see something, it was a different from the other two he had claimed to have seen.”

“Different in what way?”

“He said it was larger than the other two, much larger, almost as large as a man. But it was all black, so it was very hard to see any detail.”

“Was it an African native?”

“He did not say.”

“I see.” Holmes stood up. “Mr. Donaldson, I admit that your problem intrigues me. Where are you staying while in London?”

“A small hotel near Victoria Station.”

“When you return to Inishtrahull, Watson and I will accompany you. I want to look into this. Will that do for you, Watson?”

I managed to stammer out an assent. My practice had been slow lately, and my neighbour could handle my patients while I was away.

The lighthouse keeper was happy to hear this. “That will be fine, sir. I will check out tomorrow.”

“That will give us time to prepare for the journey. Good day to you, sir.”

After Mr. Donaldson had left, I could contain myself no more. “Holmes, what is this? I saw nothing of the remotest interest in his story. Just a few suspicions which seem not to be founded on a shred of evidence! And talk of Wee Folk! You’ve always been dismissive of the supernatural! Is there something more to this than what we were told?”

Holmes held up the envelope from his brother. “Indeed. Mycroft expresses concerns about Ireland, specifically over the question of Home Rule.”

“Ah, I begin to see some light.”

“I’m sure you would. There has been some agitation in Ireland over the issue, especially since the Home Rule Bill failed to pass Parliament two years ago. There have been outbreaks in violence, particularly in the northern part of the country. Mycroft has asked me to –” Holmes glanced at the letter “– ‘go over there and look into it’. He does not give any specific reasons why or what I’m to look for. But I’m sure he has his reasons.”

“But what would that have to do with a murdered lighthouse keeper?”

“I have no idea. That’s why I should investigate.

“Besides, we have had a busy year of it, have we not? The Bruce-Partington business, for example. We have no ideas what the coming year will bring us. If nothing else, a simple murder in Ireland will cleanse the palate. Get down the Bradshaw, will you, and see when a train for Liverpool leaves tomorrow.”


To be continued

[huronna]

Part 2

Holmes and I met Mr. Donaldson at his hotel the next morning and the three of us embarked on a train for Liverpool, where we caught a packet boat for Dublin. It took us the better part of a day and several transfers to travel to the north coast of Ireland. Winter was coming and many of the trees were bare of their leaves, but the scenery was still green, befitting the Emerald Isle. We idled the time away with our own pursuits. I was reading an adventure novel by Rudyard Kipling. Holmes had bought as many newspapers as he could find in the kiosks at Victoria Station and in Dublin, and he and Mr. Donaldson were reading them over. From time to time the three of us discussed the current affairs, such as the latest Anglo-Ashanti War and Sir Francis Scott’s preparations of his expeditionary force.

From there, the talk turned to the Home Rule question. Donaldson was straightforward with his opinions.

“It would be nice, gentlemen, if Ireland was given at least some responsibility for its domestic affairs. I would like to see a Dublin parliament, at least for some time. There are some, I know, that want a complete separation from Great Britain, but I’m not willing to go as far as that.”

“Didn’t Parnell propose such a limited parliament?” I said.

“Aye! A good man, Parnell was, may he rest in peace. The divorce scandal caused bad feelings with his supporters, but there was no better man around.”

“It’s a shame that the Home Rule Bill did not pass a couple of years ago.”

“Ah, there will be other chances. Our time will come, gentlemen, mark my words!”

Sherlock Holmes, no doubt thinking of his brother’s mission, said nothing.

We were soon discussing news of an international flavour, specifically of the recent visit to Europe of Japan’s first steamship, of the Nippon Yusen Kaisha shipping line. Donaldson, as an old seafaring man, was very much interested in this.

“Gordon mentioned in his last letter that he may have seen that Japanese steamer. He was on the platform, checking the lighthouse glass, when he noticed a steamship just a few miles out to sea. He took out his spyglass and focused more closely on the vessel. He could not recognize the flag, and the name on the bow was in some sort of oriental hand. Nice, clean vessel she was.”

Holmes spoke up. “I’m fascinated with steamships myself – they can achieve such amazing speed. Did your friend say how fast she was going?”

“Not fast at all, from what Gordon said. Indeed, he did not think that she was making much headway at all.”

“Ah, well, they may have been checking the boilers or some such.”

We finally reached the end of the line that evening at Cardonagh, just about eight miles from the northern coast of Ireland. We enquired of the stationmaster about how to get to Inishtrahull.

“You’ll have to travel up the coast to Malin Well. From there you can catch a ferry boat out to the island. It’s too late to travel there tonight, though. You’ll have to catch a stage in the morning.”

At this point, someone behind us spoke. “Excuse me, but this is quite a coincidence! I have to travel to Inishtrahull, as well!”

We turned and discovered that the speaker was a young man, trim and energetic, dressed in a fine travelling suit. He smiled. “My name is Kevin Quinn. I’m from around these parts.”

Holmes said, “I recognize you, Mr. Quinn. It seems that we have shared the journey all the way from London. If you had not introduced yourself just now, I would have come to see you.”

The young man chuckled. “Well, there’s nothing mysterious about it. I’m standing for Parliament to represent Donegal, and I am coming back from campaign business in London.”

Mr. Donaldson said, “Why, yes, I’ve heard about you, Mr. Quinn! A friend of mine on Inishtrahull had good things to say on your behalf.”

Mr. Quinn shook Donaldson’s hand. “I’m glad to hear it. Who is your friend?”

“It was Gordon, the light keeper.”

“Oh, yes, I knew him. Poor fellow, to have that happen! Are you here because of that sad business?”

“I am. I will be looking into taking up the lighthouse post in my friend’s stead. These are friends of mine, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.”

The politician shook our hands. “Sherlock Holmes, you say? The name sounds familiar. Aren’t you connected with Scotland Yard?”

Holmes took it well enough. “No, no, I work on my own. The Yard consults with me from time to time.”

Quinn nodded. “Ah, that’s right, my error. Hang on – are you here to look into Gordon’s death?”

Holmes nodded. “Mr. Donaldson had some questions about what had happened and asked me to look into it.”

“But surely it was straightforward enough? He either fell off or took the notion to end his days. Is there some cause to doubt that either way?”

“That is what I’m here to find out.”

Quinn looked thoughtful. “You know… Gordon didn’t seem to be the melancholy sort, comes to that. There may be something to what you say. But wouldn’t the trail have gone cold by now?”

Holmes replied, “There may still be some clues. If we’re fortunate, the weather has not washed any traces away. My concern is that any investigators have trampled on the evidence.”

Quinn smiled. “You needn’t worry too much about that. Some constables did go over to look around and take the man’s body away, but there was never much of an investigation – it seemed clear what had happened. And I’m told that the weather has been fine. No rain for some weeks.”

“Excellent! I look forward to going over the scene tomorrow. For tonight, we shall stay at an inn here and catch a coach tomorrow morning.”

Quinn replied, “I shall look forward to sharing the journey with you.”

To be continued

[huronna]

Part 3

The sea between the mainland and our island destination was beginning to get restless for the season, and the waves were choppy and foamy. It was not too bad for our ferry ride, thankfully. I have often reflected on how my life would have been different had I joined the Royal Navy instead of the Army. If nothing else I can handle rough seas.

It took us about an hour to reach fine harbour at the northeast corner of the island, and we disembarked. Inishtrahull Island is small – only a mile by half mile in dimension – and is a rocky landscape. There were no trees to be seen, and the most prevalent plant life was grass. I could see some seabirds soaring overhead, and I glimpsed a seal slipping into the water on the opposite side of the harbour.

On a rocky outcrop just above the harbour was the lighthouse. It was a stocky tower about forty feet high, right next to a long, single-story building.

As we were stepping from the boat, I noticed several stone cottages nearby. I asked Mr. Quinn, “How many people live on the island?”

He replied, “Over one hundred. They make a living from fishing. There is even a school house here – you can see it over there. Ah, this is Morgan! I believe that he has been manning the lighthouse. Hullo, Morgan!”

A wiry little man came down to the dock and shook the politician’s hand. “Good to see you again, Mr. Quinn! I hope the trip to London was fruitful for you!” He looked at the rest of us. “My goodness, we seldom get visitors, and here we have a boatload! To what does the Hull owe the pleasure of your company, gentlemen?”

Mr. Quinn performed the introductions. “This is Mr. Murphy Donaldson. He has come to see about becoming the lighthouse keeper.”

“Ah, Mr. Donaldson! Gordon always spoke highly of you! From what he said, if anyone could look after the light, I believe you could do a fine job!”

“And this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his friend, Dr. Watson.” Quinn looked serious. “They are here on Mr. Donaldson’s request to enquire about poor Gordon’s death.”

Morgan firmly shook our hands. “And I am glad that you are, sirs. I would say that Gordon would be the last man to die in such a way, either by accident or by his own hand.”

Holmes looked up at the lighthouse. The platform was surrounded by a rail about four feet high. He said, “Looking at the guardrail, I quite agree. It would take some effort for a blast of wind to sweep a man over that.”

Holmes stepped off of the pathway and studied the ground. “Is the soil always this soft?”

Morgan replied, “Yes, sir. The sea mist this time of year soaks it so it’s always damp.”

“Has there been any rain lately?”

“None to speak of – certainly none since poor Gordon’s death.”

“The police obviously had to come out here. Were there very many in their party?”

“Not very, sir. Two constables and three others to take charge of the body. They felt that the cause of death was obvious, so there was little need for a larger group.”

Quinn added, “You’ve seen the ferryboat. There’s very little traffic out to the island in any case, so a large party would have been awkward.”

“Excellent! Watson, even at this late date, there may still be some clues visible! Shall we go up to the lighthouse?”

The politician begged off. There was a family on the south side of the island that he usually stayed with, and he left us to walk over there. Morgan led us up the walk to the lighthouse. He said, “There are extra rooms for visitors. I’m certain we can put you gentlemen up for the night.”

Holes replied, “I believe that we won’t have to depend on your hospitality for very long. I hope to solve the mystery by tomorrow or the day after.”

Donaldson asked, “What will you do first?”

“I will want to enquire among the inhabitants about any unusual goings-on in connection with the keeper’s death.”

Morgan looked back at him. “I can assure you, Mr. Holmes, that none of our folk would want to harm Mr. Gordon. He was a good man.”

“I accept your word on that. But I must make the enquiry. Tell me, did you notice anything unusual?”

The wiry little man thought for a moment. “No, I did not. Mind you, Gordon claimed to have seen some queer things.” Morgan chuckled. “He mentioned seeing the Wee Folk, but I never knew if he were serious or not. He pointed at something once, claimed that he’d just caught a glimpse, but by the time I’d turned, the whatever-it-was had vanished. But I never saw anything.”

We soon reached the base of the lighthouse. Morgan said, “This is the spot where Gordon was found, his neck was broken from the fall.” Holmes and I looked over the soft, damp ground. There were rocks nearby, and the grass was a dead brown.

Mr. Donaldson said, “Mr. Holmes, I want to go in and look over the light. If things work out right, it will be my home for I do not know how long.”

Holmes replied, “That is fine, sir. Watson and I will stay out here and see what we may see.”

After the two men had left us, Holmes and I made a preliminary examination of the ground. For a few moments we said nothing.

Finally Holmes broke the silence with, “Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”

Something odd had struck me, and I decided to play Holmes’ game again. I looked up at the lighthouse platform above and looked again at the ground. “One thing, Holmes, which I find unusual is the peculiar condition of the point of impact where Mr. Gordon’s body hit the ground.”

Holmes’ eyes gleamed. “And what is so unusual about the point of impact?”

“That there is no point of impact!”

Holmes clapped his hands together. “Capital, Watson! Capital! It’s like Silver Blaze and the dog in the night-time!” He pointed up at the tower. “A body falling from that height would have left some sort of impression on the soft ground, and it would have still been there. But there is none! What does that tell us?”

I thought about this for a few moments and said, “That he did not fall from the platform.”

“Yes! And that means that he was already down here when he died!”

“Which means someone down here struck him a heavy blow and killed him. Holmes, Gordon was murdered.”

“Indeed. I wish I had been here to examine the body, but it cannot be helped.” Holmes took out his magnifying glass. “Now I must examine this area more closely. There are few clues that I have seen so far, but I shall glean what I can. If you would step back, Doctor.”

I stood off to one side. Holmes is far better than I at reading the telltale signs. He quickly dropped to his hands and knees and began crawling around the area, his gaunt nose only inches from the ground. I sat on a rock and watched.

Soon Holmes spoke. “Well, that is one mystery solved. There are animal tracks here.”

“What kind of animal, Holmes?”

“Some sort of polecat, although the feet are elongated a bit. I would wager, Watson, that they are the mysterious Wee Folk our lighthouse keeper mentioned.”

“That sounds likely. I would not have guessed that there were polecats on this island.”

“Pets, possibly.” Holmes continued his close examination.

A few minutes later I was looking around and discovered two small black eyes peering at me from nearby. I looked closer and saw what it was.

“Holmes, those are the tracks of ferrets!”

Holmes stopped and looked up. “And how did you – ah, I see,” Holmes glanced at the ferret and went back to his research.

The creature had apparently emerged from behind a rock and was standing up on its hind legs and staring at me. It was of a dark brown colour with lighter highlights, and there was a mask of dark fur around its eyes. We had had a ferreter in to Baker Street to see about a rat problem some months back, and his ratter of choice was a similarly marked ferret, named Noah, that he called a Sable. I had liked meeting Noah, who acted like a little clown, and I warmed to the ferret before me now. He looked at me with what seemed surprise. I could almost believe that there was intelligence behind those dark eyes. I spoke to it softly. “Hello, little one. What are you doing all the way out here, eh?”

Now I admit that I have my vices. I have an eye for the ladies and an unfortunate fondness for gambling that has occasionally driven Holmes to locking the chequebook in the desk drawer. But I am not a slave to strong drink; I know too well what alcohol had done to my father and brother and had managed to avoid the same path. But what occurred next caused me to wonder if that had really been the case.

For the creature spoke.

The ferret looked at me and looked at Holmes. Then in a high-pitched voice, it said, “Holmes? Watson?” He looked at my friend. “Not the detective Sherlock Holmes? By the sainted Mary! Can it be true?”

Holmes had dropped his glass and was staring at the creature. I noted this and a part of me was relieved that I was not hallucinating. None of us said anything for a few moments.

Then we heard another high-pitched voice. “Oh, preserve us, that’s torn it!” And another ferret walked out on its hind legs from behind the rocks.

This animal had lighter fur, more of a cinnamon. It walked up to the first ferret and cuffed it behind the ear with its paw. “Michael, has it ever occurred to you that keeping your mouth shut might be a good idea?”

The darker ferret rubbed its head and said, “But, my love, this is – this is Sherlock Holmes! You know who he is!”

The other ferret sighed. “Yes, I know. I suppose there’s nothing for it, then. Gentlemen, we must introduce ourselves. I am Eileen, and this lovely fellow with the discretion of a banshee is my husband, Michael. We know your names, of course.”

It was at this point that I found my voice. “Husband? Do you mean that you’re married?”

The one called Michael seemed to bristle at the question. “Yes, Eileen and I are husband and wife in the eyes of the Catholic church! There wouldn’t be anything wrong with that to you, would there?”

I hastily replied, “Oh, no, no! It’s just…” I ran out of words.

Holmes said, slowly, “I think that what my friend is trying to say is – just what are you?”

Eileen sounded amused when she replied. “Why, we’re ferrets, kind sirs. What do we look like?”

“Oh, you look like ferrets, all right, except that ferrets don’t talk.”

“True, sir. But you see, we’re different than other ferrets.”

“Ah.” Holmes thought for a moment. “I’m sure that there’s a rational explanation for the fact that you can talk. At least I hope there is.”

Michael said, “There must be, sir. We are no supernatural beings. We bleed and hurt and eat and think and love like you humans – although, to be honest with you, we wish that you’d think more often than you do. Present company excepted.”

His wife said, “We are ferrets and we can talk. It’s the way the Lord made us.”

Holmes snapped his fingers. “Hold a moment. I have heard rumours of talking ferrets before! There is supposedly a colony in Poland. But I had dismissed it as tall tales – mere fiction!”

Eileen said, “Oh, and how many of his readers dismiss Dr. Watson’s stories about you as mere fiction?”

I said, “She has a point, Holmes. The ‘Strand’ sends me their letters.”

Holmes nodded. “Touché, er, Madam. Then those ferrets in Poland are relatives of yours?”

Michael replied, “Distant ones. We used to be part of one large group of ferrets, but some of us parted ways twoscore years ago. Some of us stayed here while others ended up in Poland.”

Holmes sat down to get closer to the ferrets. “I see. Do you know where you originally came from?”

Eileen said, “We believe so. We keep very good records of our history. As best as we can determine, we first appeared near Wold Newton in England, in 1796. That was not long after the meteor fall.”

Here came another surprise. Holmes showed excitement at the mention of the meteor. “Really? This is a coincidence! I have made a study of that meteor fall!”

“Holmes, do you mean you have some idea what these creatures are talking about?”

“Indeed, Watson. There was a group of travellers passing by when that meteor fell near Wold Newton. Included among them were my great-grandparents. I have made a study of the other passengers and of their descendants. Some remarkable people can trace their ancestry back to those travellers – our friend Professor Challenger, the French detective Dupin, that scoundrel Raffles, the Duke of Greystoke, even my late nemesis Moriarity – all of their lineages can be traced back to that journey, at that time and place. I’ve often wondered if that meteor had some influence on those passengers, so that they produced such progeny.”

Eileen said, “Aye, sir, we know about those people who witnessed the meteor fall that day. You see, we’ve made a study of them and their offspring.” The ferret smiled. “Including you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

The look on Holmes’ face was something to behold. I said, “You’ve read my stories, evidently.”

Michael said, “Oh, yes, sir! Fine stories they are, too! But besides that, well, we’ve kept an eye on you and your illustrious career, Mr. Holmes. Some of us have been spies.”

I thought again of the ferret Noah, but said nothing.

Holmes cleared his throat. “Yes, well, apparently that meteor had something to do with your origins.”

Eileen said, “We think so. The evidence is circumstantial, but it fits the known facts. A ferreter named Kirk was passing by when the meteor hit the earth, with his breeding stock, and we are descended from that stock. We haven’t figured out how the meteor affected our ancestors – and yours – but we have some ideas. The French scientist Becquerel has been doing some work with phosphorescent material that shows some promise.”

I asked, “So why are you here on Inishtrahull? This is quite a remote place for intelligent creatures, both two- and four-legged.”

Michael said, “My beloved and I are here to study the ocean currents. We live in a small cave near the beach.”

Eileen said, “After we appeared in Wold Newton at the turn of the last century, we kept ourselves hidden, though the villagers knew about us. But too many humans tend to be hostile to what they cannot understand, and we had to leave. We travelled to London, and from there, some of us moved on to Poland, as you know. As for the rest, there is a large colony near Liverpool. They’re developing sailing skills. We’re part of a smaller colony that lives here in the northern part of Ireland.”

Holmes and I had nothing to say after hearing this amazing tale. To think that for one hundred years, such reasoning creatures had shared this world with humans, and that few people knew of it!

The one named Michael asked, “Are you here because of the death of Mr. Gordon, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes shook himself out of his reverie and replied, “Oh! Yes! Mr. Donaldson is an old friend of Gordon’s, and he suspected foul play. From what my colleague Dr. Watson and I have observed, he had reason to be suspicious.”

The two ferrets looked sad. Eileen said, “We’re sorry to hear that. Mr. Gordon was a good man, and we miss him.” The two creatures bowed their heads and crossed themselves.

I could not help but speak. “Are you Catholic?”

Eileen replied, “Roman Catholic, yes.”

One more strange thing about these beings. “Are you affected, then, by the strife in this country?”

“Between the Orange and the Green, you mean?” She shook her head with a hint of a smile. “No, we stay away from that. Religious conflict is a human thing. We are Catholic, and that is fine by us. If someone else wants to be Protestant, that is their affair.”

Michael said, “We know them to be poor, deluded fools for all that. But that is no reason to bring violence against them.”

Holmes said, “So you actually knew Mr. Gordon.”

Eileen replied, “Yes, sir. It was only a couple of months ago that he stumbled across us one fine afternoon. We were up on the platform – it is easy for us to climb up the outside of the lighthouse – and it seems that he heard someone’s voice.” She gave a sidelong glance at the husband, who was possibly incapable of blushing. “We owned up and sat down for a long talk. He turned out to be quite accepting of our kind. He would purchase some extra fish from the island’s inhabitants and cook up a portion for us. Mr. Gordon was kind to us, and he kept our secret from the others here.”

Michael said, “There are times when I suspect that the islanders may know more about us than they let on, but we keep to ourselves in any case.”

Eileen said, “Although we slip up from time to time.” Again Michael did not blush.

Holmes said, “Getting back to the business at hand – can either of you shed light on Mr. Gordon’s death? You could see things that would escape the notice of the ordinary human.”

Eileen replied, “Little enough, I’m afraid. We came across poor Mr. Gordon’s body not long before one of the humans did. There was nothing we could have done. We assumed, like everyone else, that he’d fallen from the platform.”

Michael said, “I heard you just now conclude what really happened. That was a fine piece of observation!” The little ferret beamed at us. It was clear that Sherlock Holmes had an admirer.

Holmes was aware of it, too. He smiled and replied, “Thank you. Have you seen anything peculiar recently?”

“There is the man dressed in black.”

Holmes leaned over eagerly. “Tell me about him.”

Eileen frowned. “He is very strange – even for a human, please take no offence. He is small, and he is dressed in a black garment, with no ornamentation – he even wears a black hood at all times. We have never seen his face – we cannot give you a description. The only thing we can say is that he’s shorter than the average human.”

Michael said, “We only see him occasionally, perhaps once a month or so; the last time was at least six weeks ago. He skulks around mainly at night, and he goes to great lengths to leave as little spoor as possible.”

Eileen said, “He is very good at covering his tracks – for a human, it’s uncanny. We think that he resides in one of the caves on the south coast of the island, or perhaps on one of the abandoned cottages. We simply do not know.”

Michael seemed to be embarrassed. “I’m afraid that we’re not very good at tracking.”

“What does he do when he skulks about?”

“That is one of the most peculiar things of all. He has a trained bird!”

“Describe this bird.”

“It is about three feet long with webbed feet and a long, sharp bill. The plumage is black, with a white face. And there is a bright yellow band around the throat.”

“What does he do with this bird?”

Eileen said, “He will come up to this part of the island from the south with the bird in a wooden cage. He will then release it and it will fly out across the water – we know not where. The human will then wait for it to come back, which it will do after an hour. It is something like a homing pigeon, although it does not look like a pigeon.”

Holmes leaned against a rock and pondered this information. I have seen it many times, but it was still fascinating to watch him at moments like this. One could practically see that remarkable brain working, sifting data, testing and discarding possible explanations, trying to reach a sensible conclusion.

Holmes finally said, “I am going to continue to examine the ground around here. There may be some telltale signs that I can pick up.”

Michael said, with ill-disguised eagerness, “May we help?”

Before Holmes could reply, Eileen said, “My dear, we really ought to leave the man to his work. He is a professional at this, you know.”

Her husband was clearly disappointed, but he nodded. Holmes said, “I believe that you have been invaluable help already, thank you.” Michael cheered up at this. The two ferrets said good-bye and soon were gone. Holmes wasted no time in returning to his hands and knees and crawling around the ground.

I shook my head and said, “Such remarkable creatures!” Holmes grunted – agreeing with me for all I know – and made no other sound as he resumed his examinations.

Finally, after about fifteen minutes, Holmes sat up and scanned the area one last time. He said, “Here is something else remarkable, Watson. Our mysterious person in black has left virtually no evidence of his existence. I see several footprints from the constables and those who took the body, but none of his at all!”

“But people have seen him!” It was not until later that the irony of my use of the word “people” struck me.

“Indeed. And I believe them. So he was here. He is possibly still here. But he leaves no tracks.”

“It must take a high degree of skill to be able to do that.”

Holmes replied thoughtfully, “Yes, a high degree of skill, indeed.”

“This man must have killed Gordon right here.”

“The possibility is strong that he is the culprit. Either that, or he is connected with the death in some way.”

“And we have no clues.”

“On the contrary, my dear Watson. The very lack of clues is a very strong clue, indeed. It gives us insight into our suspect.”

“What insight is that, Holmes?”

“I am reluctant to express my ideas as yet. I have said before that it is a mistake to theorise without all of the facts. I will not say that I don’t make such an error occasionally. I am human, after all, and it is a very human thing to do.” He gestured at a small animal’s print nearby. “Whether you define a ‘human’ as having two or four feet.”

“So what do we do now?”

“The first order of business is lunch, I think, with friend Donaldson. Then I wish to go around and meet the island’s other inhabitants.”

“Do you think that you will learn anything from them?”

Holmes stood up. “I doubt it. Some sightings of our man in black, perhaps. I feel that things will very much happen tonight.”


To be continued

[huronna]

Part 4

We visited several of the cottages that afternoon. Holmes told them that we were friends of the prospective lighthouse keeper and had come out with him as tourists to see the island of Inishtrahull. He asked innocent questions about the island wildlife and any unusual sights. Some of the residents were friendly to us and some were more reserved. We saw Kevin Quinn again and the family with which he was staying. He received us warmly, but his hosts said little and gazed at us warily.

I was under the impression that we accomplished nothing and said so that evening during dinner in the lighthouse. Holmes agreed. “But I had not really expected to learn anything.” We finished our meal and he continued, “But now the sun is getting ready to set and our real work begins. Let us dress in the darkest clothing we have, including scarves, and we will light a lantern to take with us. But we will leave the shutter closed – I do not want to give away our position. Oh, and I think carrying our guns will be a wise precaution.”

Once the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon and we were bundled up and ready, we left the lighthouse. Holmes placed a finger to his lips, which I had expected, and we carefully, silently made our way across the rocky ground outside the building. The lighthouse was perched near the edge of a cliff that fronted the beach and Holmes pointed to a nearby outcropping. It was an excellent location for hiding, and we ducked down behind the rocks to watch for whatever was going to happen. Darkness had fallen well by this time, punctuated by the bright lighthouse beacon, which rotated around and around in the night sky. The only sound was that of the waves washing against the beach below.

I am not certain how long we had to wait, but an hour would have been likely. Then Holmes touched my sleeve, and I heard the squawking and shuffling of some bird. I strained my eyes and thought I could discern a dark shape, blacker than the night above, that was moving stealthily across the ground toward the edge of the cliff.

The beacon above cast some feeble light on the ground below, and I could just make it out as the black shape stopped at the cliff and set down some sort of conical object that it was carrying. It removed a black cloth and revealed that the object was a cage, and in it was a black bird with a white face. The man in black opened the cage door and took the bird out, which flapped its wings to shake off the effects of confinement.

Holmes again touched my sleeve, to remind me to keep quiet, and I watched as the man did something to the bird. Then he let it go, and it soared into the air. It flew upward and then turned toward the sea.

The bird flew right past the lighthouse at the level of the platform, and it just happened to pass by when the beam swept around and illuminated it in midair. At that instant a small body leapt out from the platform right at the bird, and a high-pitched voice screamed, “Michael!”

I would have thought that the distance was too far, and that the ferret would miss and fall to the ground below. But Michael succeeded. It was astonishing. He reached the bird and caught it around the neck. The bird squawked and tried to shake off its passenger, but the ferret held on and the two animals wrestled in midair as the beam moved away and left them in relative darkness.

At this point Holmes hissed and pointed. The man in black had cast stealth to the sea breezes. He was standing up, staring at the bird and ferret above. As I watched, he pulled out a long object and brought it up to where his lips likely were.

I felt a chill. I knew what that object was; Holmes and I had seen its like before.

Holmes cast silence aside as well. He stood up, shouting “Hi!” and opening the shutter on our lantern. The figure in black whirled around as the light fell on him. He was clad in a form-fitting black garment, with a hood over his head. The hood had been pulled up to expose his mouth; if it were down, the only thing one could have seen were the eyes, which were wide now as the man stared at us.

The figure brought something up and threw it at us; I could not make out what it was. At that moment, Holmes and I fired our guns. The man threw up his arms and fell back, toppling over the cliff to the beach below.

I said, “Holmes, who was that?” But Holmes had no time to answer. At that moment, Eileen screamed again from the platform and we looked up to the sky again.

We could barely make out the black bird. It was now over the water just off the beach, and we almost didn’t see the small, black object drop from it and plummet to the waves below.

Holmes shouted, “Watson, hurry!” and clambered down the cliff to the beach, stripping off his coat as he went. Climbing down the cliff sent pain through the other bullet wound, in my leg, but I followed as fast as I could. I reached the beach just as Holmes jumped into the surf and began to swim out.

I knew Holmes was a fine athlete, but this was one of the few times that I witnessed his skill at swimming. It seemed to take him forever, but it was only minutes. I could not see the small body, but apparently Holmes could. At any rate, Providence smiled on us all that night. I heard a cry of triumph, and Holmes began to swim back to shore through the waves. He was paddling with one arm, as he was clutching something with his other.

I waded out and pulled him to dry land. Michael, his fur soaked by the sea, was curled in a ball in Holmes’ grip and was shivering.

“Quick, Watson, your scarf! We must get heat into him!”

I removed my scarf, and something fell to the sand. I also took off my coat. “We must get some heat into you as well, Holmes!”

“Yes, yes, but our small friend here will lose heat faster than I!” We wrapped the ferret up in my scarf.

Michael looked up and said, with some effort, “Mr. – Mr. Holmes. I got this – from the bird.” He held a leather packet in his paws. “The bird – had it in its mouth.”

Holmes took the packet and handed it to me. “Put it in your pocket, Watson. We shall look at it later. You have done remarkably well, little one.”

Holmes bent down to pick something up from the sand, and we began to climb back up the cliff. Off to one side I noticed the body of the black-clad man, crumpled in a heap on the beach. I paid no further attention to him – we had other matters to attend to.

We reached the top just as Murphy Donaldson and Morgan rushed up. Donaldson said, “What happened? We heard shots –”

“Michael! Oh, Michael!”

The two men turned and stared at the small creature that had spoken. Eileen ran up and clutched at Holmes’ soaking-wet trousers. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, is he all right? Please tell me he is all right!”

Holmes held Michael more snugly. “We will not give up on him yet!” He looked at Morgan and Donaldson. “Gentlemen, we will explain when we can. But this brave creature needs attention now! Heat and something warm to eat is called for!”

Michael muttered, “Chicken soup – chicken soup will be good for body and soul.”

###################################################

Holmes and I and the ferret were all soon wrapped in warm, dry blankets and sipping some steaming chicken broth. Holmes was looking over the contents of the packet that had been with the bird. Michael had quit shivering by now. Eileen would not leave his side.

She shook her head and said, “My husband. My brave, foolish, strong, stupid – my wonderful, beloved husband.” She cuffed him on the head. “How dare you risk your life like that? What would I have done without you?”

Michael rubbed his head and said, “I only wanted to help.”

Morgan and Donaldson could not take their eyes off the ferrets. Finally Donaldson said, in tones of awe, “Incredible… How can this be? Are these the Wee Folk?”

Holmes placed the packet down and said, “These are remarkable creatures. Possibly no others like them have ever been seen on the face of the Earth. But they are real. However, they are the Wee Folk that Gordon mentioned to you in his early letters.”

Eileen said, “But he stopped talking about us in those letters after he came to know us. We wanted our presence here kept secret, and he honoured that. For that we are grateful to him.”

Donaldson said softly, “You knew Gordon?”

“He was a good friend to us. You were his friend, too; he spoke highly of you. We figure that any friend of Mr. Gordon’s is a friend of ours.”

Donaldson was visibly touched. “Thank you. I will try to be so.”

Michael said, “Gordon is a good name. I would be proud to name a son of mine Gordon. We ferrets tend to keep names in families; there shall be many Gordons among our descendants.” He looked at Donaldson. “Murphy is a good name, too. I would like to see a Murphy in my family’s future.”

Eileen said, “Gordon is a nice name, my love, but what if it’s a girl?”

Michael began to reply. “Yes, Gordon isn’t quite suitable as a lady’s name –” Then he stopped. He blinked twice and his jaw dropped. He stared at Eileen, and she smiled back.

I am a doctor, and I have attended many women in that condition. I have seen this many times before. The father-to-be is always the last to figure it out.

Morgan snorted. I discovered later that he was the father of three.

Congratulations would have to wait, for I had other things on my mind. “All right, Holmes. I want to know what this was all about. That man had a blow-gun. Who was he?”

Holmes settled back, wrapped in his blanket, and replied, “That, Watson, was what the Japanese call a shinobi. He is also known as a ninja.”

“Ninja? I have never heard the term.”

“Remember when I told you I bested Moriarity at Reichenbach with the Japanese system of wrestling known as Baritsu? I learned the art from an oriental gentleman in Soho as payment for a favour I had done him. That gentleman taught me much of the ways of Japan, including ninjas.

“Ninjas are part of a class of mercenaries and spies. They carry out such covert tasks as assassination, infiltration, sabotage and espionage. Unlike the samurai, who prizes honour highly, the ninja will use any underhanded tactic to achieve his goal. He has developed many weapons to do his work, such as the blow-gun that we saw, and this.” He held something out to me.

It was a small four-pointed star made of iron. “It is called a shuriken or a throwing-star. It is what he threw at us when we shot at him. We were lucky that we surprised him and spoiled his toss. Otherwise, the results would have been lethal. As it is, Watson, this stuck in your scarf.”

I looked at the nasty little weapon and said, “Did you suspect this… ninja at first, Holmes?”

“Not really, to be honest. All I knew that our adversary was very clever at hiding his presence. Indeed, he left almost no evidence at all. I know of several organizations that are adept at such stealth, including ninjas.

“The bird was a clue. It is a cormorant. They are used for fishing in China and Japan. The fisherman ties something around the bird’s throat – the ring around the neck that you mentioned, Michael, is not a part of its plumage – and sets it free to dive for fish. With the restriction around its throat, the cormorant cannot swallow the larger fish, and it flies back to the boat, where the fisherman removes the fish from the throat and sends the bird out again.”

“I see. Since the cormorant is used by the Japanese to fish, you came to the conclusion that we were dealing with a ninja.”

“I figured that the probability was high, at least.”

“But surely this bird was not being used to fish.”

“Oh, certainly not, Watson. It was being used as a sort of carrier pigeon. The ninja had been using it to carry items, no doubt to a boat waiting some distance off from the shore. Items such as this.” He held up the packet.

“And what is that, Holmes?”

“There are papers here, Watson. Papers of a sensitive nature. I do not want to divulge their nature now. But there is someone I wish to talk to tomorrow.”

###################################################

The next morning, we returned to the cottage where Kevin Quinn was staying and knocked on the door. A young man answered. Holmes said, “Will you tell Mr. Quinn that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wishes to speak with him? It’s to do with a diplomatic question.”

Soon the politician came to the door. “Mr. Holmes, this is a bit of a surprise. What in the world is this about a diplomatic question?”

“I wanted you, sir, to be among the first to know that I have solved the murder of Mr. Gordon. Did you happen to hear gunshots last night?”

“Now that I think of it, I did hear something. What was that?”

“Watson and I shot a spy. He was Japanese in origin, and he was what is known as a ninja. Have you heard the term?”

Quinn’s face was unreadable. “I can’t say as I have.”

Holmes continued, “I do not know the details, and we will probably never find them out. But I am certain that he murdered Gordon. The lighthouse man apparently stumbled across the ninja’s activities, purely by accident, and was killed to be silenced.”

Quinn said nothing.

“The question, of course, is why a Japanese spy would be on a remote island like Inishtrahull. It is not like Japan and England are enemies; talks of an alliance have recently begun, and it will likely come to pass in a few years. But Japan has just won their war with China, and they are likely still feeling a combination of aggression and mistrust that comes with wars. There are also factions in Japan, I believe, that will be opposed to an alliance with Britain. I feel that the ninja was here to gather information for someone back home. He had a trained cormorant to fly the data that he had to a boat that was likely waiting offshore.”

Still Quinn said nothing.

“Of course, the question is – who was he working with? And why here in Ireland? I believe the answer lies with what is Irish Home Rule.

“Some factions in Ireland want a Parliament in Dublin with limited powers, still answerable to London. Others want complete independence from England. Still others want things to remain the way they are now. It ties in to the religious conflicts here. I am sad to see how your country is divided over the question. It has come to violence before, and I am afraid it will get worse.

“I believe that someone in Japan had contacted representatives of an Irish group – possibly one opposed to English rule in any form – to use them to obtain confidential information about discussions in Whitehall concerning the proposed Anglo-Japanese Alliance. Such information would surely be advantageous to Japan’s efforts to obtain concessions when the treaty is signed. Or to thwart all efforts at formulating a treaty. We will never know. The ninja’s body has disappeared – carried out to sea by the tide, perhaps – and we cannot learn any more from him. His contacts on the supposed boat are likely long gone by now.

“I was able to obtain confidential papers from the ninja’s trained cormorant before they were delivered. I have that much. Had these papers been made public, it would have been embarrassing for Her Majesty’s government. The question now is how the Japanese spy obtained these papers from his contact here in Ireland. Visitors to Inishtrahull are few and far between. But the island did receive some yesterday – the very day that the Japanese spy attempted to deliver them to whoever was waiting for them.”

For a few minutes, Kevin Quinn stared at Holmes. He finally said, “I don’t know if I like what you’re implying, sir.”

Holmes replied, “I imply nothing, sir. I have too little evidence. But I have the papers, and I will deliver them to my brother, who works for the government, when we get back to London. I just thought you might like to know, Mr. Quinn. We leave tomorrow, sir. Good day.” Quinn went back in the cottage without saying goodbye. We learned that he left Inishtrahull later that day.

That evening, we shared a fine supper of fish with Donaldson. With us were the ferrets.

At one point, I asked Michael, “Tell me, what will you and your charming wife do now?”

The ferret replied, “We will stay here a few more weeks, but soon we will be leaving the Hull and returning to our colony on the mainland.”

Donaldson had decided to accept the position of lighthouse keeper and was to remain on the island. He had already grown close to Michael and Eileen, and now he expressed his dismay. “Leave? But you are welcome here! I enjoy your company. Why must you leave?”

Eileen said, “I want my daughter – or my son – to be born with our own kind. We know how to handle such an event. But more than that, we are almost done with our work here.”

Holmes asked, “And what work is that?”

Michael said, “We have been studying the ocean currents from here. We have learned a lot, and the ferrets will need that knowledge.”

“Why is that?”

Eileen said, “Those of our kind in Liverpool have been studying shipbuilding and the craft of sailing. We have a goal in mind. When we are ready, all of the ferrets in the British Isles will sail for America.”

Holmes said, thoughtfully, “You have not been treated well by humans here.”

“No, we have not. When we left Wold Newton, one of our kind suffered horribly at the hands of a human in London. The human took his own life to pay for his sin, and we vowed to leave London, and eventually England, forever. We are almost ready for the journey; our ship has been designed and the keel has been laid.”

“I will regret your departure. You would have made excellent operatives for my business. You surely could get into places my Baker Street Irregulars could not. How soon will you leave?”

“Most likely right after the beginning of the upcoming century. That seems fitting, somehow – a new century, a new life.”

Holmes said, “Well, I have often remarked on the dynamic qualities of the American people. Perhaps you will find acceptance there.”

“We hope so. We believe that there are already some of our kind in Canada. Some of Mr. Kirk’s breeding stock were transported there after they were exposed to the meteor.”

Donaldson said, “I will miss you.”

Eileen placed a paw on the old sailor’s hand. “And we will miss you. We have met many kind people here. We wish you humans could all be that way. But we shall be here a few more weeks.”

“After you have left the Hull, will you come back to visit?”

The ferret – a gracious lady indeed – smiled. “That can be arranged.”


To be continued

[huronna]

Part 5

Holmes and I left on the ferryboat the next day. We carried a note to be left at Dublin with a friend of Donaldson’s; he would arrange for the new lighthouse keeper’s belongings to be sent to Inishtrahull.

Our journey back to London was uneventful. Holmes and I talked of this and that, but there was little more of the case that we could discuss. Holmes could not share the contents of the packet with me; I can accept that. I was curious about one thing, though.

“Holmes, what will become of the cormorant? Its master is now dead.”

“I would not worry about the bird’s chances for survival. It is probable that it flew out to the hypothetical boat, as it was trained to do, and the ninja’s mysterious contacts sailed away into anonymity, taking the cormorant with them. Indeed, they may also have spirited away the ninja’s body before they left, as well.”

“So they may have come to shore and took off the body? He was not washed out to sea by the tide, then?”

“That is still a possibility. We will never know, I’m afraid.

“Even if the boat did not take the cormorant away, Inishtrahull Island is a good place for a seabird to take up residence. The cormorant would fare well there.”

“It would fare even better without that band around its neck.”

“True. But it can still catch small fish and swallow them.”

Holmes delivered the papers to Mycroft, and we heard nothing more of it. That’s the way it is sometimes with politics and diplomacy. Gordon’s death was listed officially as “unsolved”, but those that mattered were satisfied to know what happened.

Kevin Quinn’s ambitions for a seat in Parliament came to nothing. He disappeared from public view, not to be heard from until recently. The subsequent events in Ireland are well known.

Over the years, more people have learned of those remarkable creatures that Holmes and I first came across that day on Inishtrahull. By now the ferrets have established themselves among the people of Canada, and they seem to get along with the humans there quite well. There are many times that I have mourned England’s loss of these animals, but I have also seen evidence that justifies their decision to leave.

Among my papers relating to this case is a small envelope that, in January of 1896, found its way by post to 221B Baker Street. There was no return address, but it was postmarked Dublin. The message was brief:

MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES AND DR. JOHN WATSON

WE WERE BLESSED WITH TWIN BOYS. THEIR NAMES ARE GORDON AND MURPHY.

THANK YOU, GENTLEMEN, FOR ALL.

M & E


To be concluded

[huronna]

EPILOGUE

Addendum by the Head Skippy, based on records in the Skippy Chronicles

Toronto, Ontario, Canada, February 1927

Michael was an old ferret. His sable coat had roaned extensively. But his joints had only a trace of arthritis, and he could still get around almost as well as his grandchildren. It was a Canadian winter day, a good day to stay indoors and read by the fire.

The door opened and a young Dark-Eyed White jill, bundled up until only her pink nose was visible, came in with a blast of cold air and a flurry of snow.

“Elizabeth, my favourite granddaughter! What brings you here to visit us?”

Elizabeth smiled as she took off her coat and scarf. All of Michael’s granddaughters and grandsons were his favorite grandson or granddaughter, depending. “I’ve just come from the library, Grandpapa. Where’s Grandmama?”

“Eileen is out taking hot meals to some shut-ins. You know how she is.” He looked at the rolled-up cylinder the young jill held in her paws. “Did you find something interesting at the library?”

“The human librarian let me borrow it. You’re not supposed to take magazines out of the library, but she trusts you with it, Grandpapa. Look!” She unrolled the magazine. “The January ‘Liberty’!”

“Oh, good. Is there anything interesting?”

Elizabeth smiled. “There’s something here that you’ll like, I know. The latest Sherlock Holmes story!”

Michael sat up straight. “Oh! Oh, wonderful! It’s been some time since the last one! What’s it called?”

“’The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger’. I’ve already glanced through it. It’s not really much of a mystery, but it’s a fine story. However, there’s one part that I think you’ll love to read.”

Elizabeth sat down and spread the magazine out in front of Michael, opened to the story. “Look here – in the first paragraph. Dr. Watson is talking about his notes on Mr. Holmes’ more scandalous cases. Dr. Watson assures his readers that he and Mr. Holmes will respect the confidentiality of those cases. Start reading here.”

Michael read:

“…The discretion and high sense of professional honour which have always distinguished my friend are still at work in the choice of these memoirs, and no confidence will be abused. I deprecate, however, in the strongest way the attempts which have been made lately to get at and to destroy these papers. The source of these outrages is known, and if they are repeated I have Mr. Holmes’s authority for saying that the whole story concerning the politician, the lighthouse, and the trained cormorant will be given to the public. There is at least one reader who will understand.”

The old ferret looked at the last sentence for a few moments, and a smile slowly spread across his face. He smiled his gratitude to his granddaughter, and she smiled back.

Michael settled back in his chair, held up the human magazine and began to read.

THE END


SkipPDA® is a registered trademark of the Skippy Corporation

[huronna]

THE ADVENTURE OF THE TALKING POLECAT
By Dr. John H. Watson

Annotations by Paul E. Jamison

Part 1 of 2

Everybody knows Sherlock Holmes. People who have never cracked open a book, much less an honest-to-gosh mystery novel, know the man with the curved pipe and deerstalker hat. It comes as no surprise that there are otherwise sane folks out there who have a veritable mania about Sherlock Holmes, just like there are fanatics about Star Trek, football and, well, ferrets. There are many amateur Sherlockians out there. They have their own organizations; I am a member of the Sherlock Holmes Society of London, myself. These people generate a surprising amount of Sherlockian scholarship – analyzing every aspect of the 56 “official” short stories and 4 “official” novels. What these Sherlockians love to do – indeed, it’s at the heart of all they do – is play the Game. The Game is this: assume that Sherlock Holmes really existed, and that all of the “official” stories really happened, published for our edification by Dr. John Watson, with this fellow Arthur Conan Doyle acting as “Literary agent”, whatever that means. Then try to explain the inconsistencies in the stories. Where was Watson’s bullet wound, the shoulder or leg? How many times was Watson married? Why does Dr. Roylott use a whistle to call a snake – which can’t hear – and why would he feed it a saucer of milk? Why do the Moriarity brothers all have the same first name? See what I mean? Hours and hours of fun!

Another activity in The Game is to speculate on what Watson doesn’t tell us. The Good Doctor mentions several unrecorded cases in passing throughout his accounts. Among others, he refers to “The Giant Rat of Sumatra”, “The Singular affair of the Aluminium Crutch” and “Ricoletti of the Club Foot and His Abominable Wife”. Sherlockians have a grand old time speculating about the details behind these, and some of them will take pen in hand and write pastiches. And that’s what I’ve done.

As I’ve made clear many times, the Skippys are pretty brainy little guys. I figure that they’d be drawn to the brainy humans. I think a Skippy was there when Gregor Mendel was studying peas. A Skippy was at Kitty Hawk to watch those two brothers. When the eggheads at Alamagordo exploded the world’s first atomic bomb in 1945, do you doubt the Skippys were there? So why wouldn’t the Skippys take an interest in the world’s greatest detective?

The basic plot of the story practically wrote itself. And, yes, I had a grand old time writing it.

I did a lot of research – online, for what that’s worth. I relied on Wikipedia for information on 19th-Century Irish politics and Irish railway history. I found several sources for information on Inishtrahull Island and the lighthouse. The timeline at the following website is my source for Holmes’ and Watson’s birthdates and the general dates for when the adventures took place and for when they were published. Not all scholars agree with this timeline.

webpages.charter.net/lklinger/Chrotabl.htm#N_1_

I also relied on “The Annotated Sherlock Holmes”, edited by William S. Baring-Gould, and “The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes”, edited by Leslie S. Klinger, both highly recommended. Is it any surprise that I felt that I had to annotate my own story?

#####################################


“Despite having just passed my 75th birthday…”

It is generally agreed among scholars that John Watson was born in 1852 and Sherlock Holmes was born in 1854. Watson is therefore writing these words in 1927.


“My friend Sherlock Holmes contends that this good health is the result the substance that he has extracted from the royal jelly produced by his bees…”

Upon retirement, Holmes took up beekeeping in Sussex.


“Seeing that he is only two years younger…”

See above.


“I recently made one such journey, as I do occasionally, from Holmes’ and my cottage in Sussex to London…”

See above.


“Lloyd’s Bank.”

A prominent bank in London from 1765 to its merger with the TSB Group in 1995, to become Lloyds TSB Group. Not to be confused with Lloyd’s of London.


“Strand Magazine”

A very popular monthly magazine published in Great Britain between January 1891 and March 1950. The content consisted of factual articles and fiction. Most of Dr. Watson’s accounts of Holmes’ adventures were published there under the name of Watson’s literary agent, Arthur Conan Doyle.


“My readers will remember the tin dispatch-box that once resided in the vaults of the Cox and Co bank….”

The tin dispatch box was first mentioned in “The Problem of Thor Bridge”, published in March 1922.


“Since they took over the Cox bank a few years ago, the dispatch-box and others are now in the safekeeping of Lloyd’s…”

In 1758, the Right Honorable John, Viscount Ligonier, colonel of the First Foot Guards, Field Marshal and Commander in Chief of His Majesty's Forces, appointed his secretary, Richard Cox, as agent to pay his troops. Other regiments followed and Messrs Greenwood Cox and Co was formed as bankers for virtually the whole British Army by end of the Napoleonic Wars. It makes sense that an old soldier like Dr. Watson would do business with them. In 1923, because of a downturn in business due to the end of the First World War, Cox & Co was sold to Lloyds Bank.


“The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger”

First published in the United States in “Liberty” on January 22, 1927, and in England in the “Strand Magazine” in February, 1927. This was the next to last Sherlock Holmes story published by Watson. The last was “The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place”.


“…I am 75 and I know that I have only a finite amount of time left on this earth.”

According to the timeline that is referenced above, Dr. John H. Watson was to die in 1929, two years after these words were written, under unknown circumstances. One can guess that this statement would not sit well with some scholars.

It should be noted that the timeline wisely does not give a date for Holmes’ death. William S. Baring-Gould, in his book “Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street”, states that Holmes died in 1957 at the respectable age of 103. The general consensus among Sherlockians, however, is that Sherlock Holmes is still alive over a century and a half after he was born. The logic is this: such an important man as Holmes would surely rate an obituary in the London “Times”, which publishes obituaries for all the important people of the world. However, an obituary for Sherlock Holmes has never appeared in the “Times” – therefore, he is still alive. The royal jelly extract must be potent stuff.

And that tells you a lot about Sherlockians. They – I hesitate to say “we” – are sentimentalists. They yearn for it to be 1895 again, when life was simpler and there was a place for everything and everything was in its place. Of course things were just as complicated in 1895 as they are today, but one can pretend otherwise. There’s comfort in believing that in some unprepossessing little cottage in Sussex, there’s an old man, hawk-nosed, wrinkled and white-haired but still standing as tall and as shrewd as ever, looking after his bees and fondly recalling his career as the world’s first consulting detective, and that he will be there always.


“There are still large numbers of unrecorded cases…”

As to why they were never published, Sherlock Holmes did handle some cases for the British Government and for foreign governments as well, and it’s natural to assume that these were of a diplomatically sensitive nature. It would be years – if ever – before Watson and Holmes would feel safe to place them before the public. And many of the more personal cases would involve potential scandals, and Holmes would have promised to keep them from the limelight.


“Merridew of the abominable memory…”

Another unrecorded case mentioned by Watson. I know it must have been more serious than this, but I picture some poor absent-minded sap who comes to Holmes for help in locating his spectacles. “They’re on top of your head, you idiot!” Not the sort of case that readers would enjoy or Holmes would want immortalized.


“…they would read like the appalling ‘scientifiction’ that has started to recently appear in American pulp magazines.”

Pulp magazines were cheap fiction magazines printed on cheap “pulp” paper. The heyday of the pulps was from the end of the 19th Century to the mid-50’s. There were pulp magazines for just about every genre – Western, Mystery, Adventure, Romance, “Spicy”, Fantasy, Sports, Horror, etc., etc., etc., etc. The quality of the writing was variable, but the real point of the pulps was entertainment at affordable prices.

The pulp magazine “Amazing Stories” was launched in April, 1926 by Hugo Gernsback. It was the first English-language magazine devoted entirely to Science Fiction. (It has been claimed that the world’s first science fiction magazine was “Hugin”, published in Sweden, 1916 – 1920, but this claim is disputed.) At the time, there was no such term as “Science Fiction” – the closest was “Scientific Romance”, which was applied to Jules Verne’s and H.G. Wells’ works – and Gernsback coined the unwieldy term “scientifiction” to describe what he was publishing (and, yes, many of the stories were appalling). For obvious reasons, this never caught on. It’s safe to assume that Dr. Watson, whose taste ran to yellow-backed novels, was familiar with American pulp magazines, and it’s possible he came across the word ‘scientifiction”.

The term “sci-fi” was supposedly coined by Forrest J Ackerman in 1954, as a play on the term “hi-fi”; Ackerman did things like that. Many science fiction fans abhor the term “sci-fi”, as they feel it cheapens the genre, and prefer “SF”. Someone has coined the phrase “speculative fiction”, but “spec-fic” has yet to catch on.


“…a November evening in 1895.”

1895 has come to be the default year for Sherlock Holmes. This comes from the poem “221B” by Vincent Starrett, one of the most eminent Sherlockians of all time. The poem embodies the Holmes enthusiasts’ nostalgia for two immortal characters in an unchanging England where “it is always eighteen ninety-five”.

According to the timeline referenced above, five of the Sherlock Holmes’ published cases took place in 1895: “The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge”, “The Adventure of the Three Students”, “The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist”, “The Adventure of Black Peter” and “The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans”. The same year, HG Wells published “The Time Machine”. Salisbury regained the office of Prime Minister of England. The Lumiere brothers held public film exhibitions in Paris, and the German physicist Wilhelm Röntgen discovered X-rays. It should be noted that the timeline referenced above incorrectly states that Charles Stewart Parnell died in 1895; other online sources give that year of his death as 1891.


“My shoulder wound from the Afghan bullet was intermittently aching from the change in weather.”

Dr. John H. Watson served as an Assistant Surgeon of the Army Medical Department in Afghanistan. He was seriously wounded by a Jezail bullet in the Battle of Maiwand in 1880. The problem for Sherlockians has been the location of the wound. In “A Study in Scarlet”, Watson says that he was struck in the shoulder by the bullet. But in “The Sign of Four”, he refers to receiving the bullet in his leg. Scholars have argued over this extensively. The consensus is that Watson was wounded twice, in the shoulder and leg, by Jezail bullets, with the shoulder wound being the more serious.


“I was catching up on news of the aftermath of the earthquake that had struck in the Midwestern United States the previous month.”

A major earthquake occurred in the New Madrid Seismic Zone on October 31st, 1895.

[huronna]

Annotations

Part 2 of 2

“…a lighthouse keeper on the island of Inishtrahull.”

I did as much research about the Island of Inishtrahull (known as “The Hull”) and the lighthouse there as I could find online. The island is, as described, about one mile by one-half, about seven miles off of the Irish coast. There was a resident community on Inishtrahull of fishermen, but they were evacuated in 1929. The lighthouse was first put into operation in 1813. A replacement lighthouse was built in 1958. A lighthouse keeper was in residence until 1987, when the light was automated. Inishtrahull Island is now a nature reserve.


“Rudyard Kipling.”

Kipling’s “The Brushwood Boy” and “The Second Jungle Book” were both published in 1895.


“…the latest Anglo-Ashanti War and Sir Francis Scott’s preparations of his expeditionary force.”

The Ashanti Empire was founded in 1670 and dissolved in 1902. At its height, the Empire covered 100,000 square miles in Africa, in what is now Ghana. There were five wars altogether between The British and Ashanti Empires between 1824 and 1901. The Fourth Anglo-Ashanti War took place between 1894 and 1896. The war was started under the pretext of unpaid fines from the last war; the real reason for the war was to conquer the Ashanti Empire to keep the French and Germans out of the territory.

Sir Francis Scott left Cape Coast with the main expedition force of British and West Indian troops in December 1895, and arrived in Kumasi in January 1896. His troops were soon joined by Governor William Maxwell. Robert Baden-Powell led a native levy of several local tribes in the campaign. The inhabitants of Ashanti did not resist, and the leader of the Empire was arrested and deposed.

“… the Home Rule question.”

The Irish Home Rule Movement called for self-government of Ireland within the United Kingdom. The Movement reflected a desire to repeal the Union Act of 1800, which united the kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland. Between the 1870s and the Great War, Home Rule was the single most dominant feature of Irish politics and heavily influenced British politics. There were many issues involved and many supporting factions: Irish Nationalism, Unionism, and plain old complete independence. The division between Catholics and Protestants were mixed into all this, which didn’t help any. It’s no wonder that violence reared its head.

Parliament tried to pass an Irish Home Rule Bill a total of four times between 1886 and 1920. The Second Bill had been defeated in 1893, two years previously. The Fourth Irish Home Rule Act was passed in 1920 and established Northern Ireland as a Home Rule entity within the United Kingdom.

Charles Stewart Parnell (1846 – 1891) was a Member of Parliament, a major figure in Irish politics, leader of the Irish Parliamentary Party and a champion of Home Rule. He lost the confidence of the Party over his relationship with a married woman and the subsequent divorce scandal.

It’s all pretty complicated, really. I may have gotten some of it wrong.


“Get down the Bradshaw…”

George Bradshaw (1801 – 1853) was a printer and publisher, best known for developing the first and most successful series of British railway timetables. “Bradshaw’s Railway Companion” was published between 1839 and 1961. “Bradshaw’s Continental Railway Guide”, covering European railways, was published between 1847 and 1939. Nowadays, Network Rail, which owns and operates the British rail infrastructure, has granted Middleton Press permission to print hard copies of the National Rail timetable, under the name “Bradshaw-Mitchell’s Rail Times”. And here’s a fun little tidbit: Indian Railways’ timetable is still known as “Newman’s Indian Bradshaw”.


“We were soon discussing news of an international flavour, specifically of the recent visit to Europe of Japan’s first steamship, of the Nippon Yusen Kaisha shipping line.”

The Nippon Yusen Kabushiki Kaisha (Japan Mail Shipping Line) is one of the largest shipping companies in the world. It traces its origins back to 1870. The company’s, and Japan’s, first steamship visited Europe in 1895, and liner service to London was inaugurated in 1899.


“We finally reached the end of the line that evening at Cardonagh, just about eight miles from the northern coast of Ireland.”

According to a 1906 railroad map I found online, Cardonagh was the end of the railway line in this area of Ireland. Malin Well, the most logical place for ferry service to Inishtrahull Island, is several miles up the coast, but apparently was not on the line.


“It took us about an hour to reach fine harbour at the northeast corner of the island…”

I found a Flickr account with a great set of photos of Inishtrahull Island. I include the link here. I based much of my description on this map.

www.flickr.com/photos/dmcl/sets/929386/

A photo of the Inishtrahull lighthouse as it appeared in Holmes’ and Watson’s time is here.

www.flickr.com/photos/dmcl/3833442919/


“ ‘… It’s like Silver Blaze and the dog in the night-time!’ ”

This refers to “The Adventure of Silver Blaze” and the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime, one of the most famous bits of conversation in the Sherlock Holmes Canon.


“Now I admit that I have my vices. I have an eye for the ladies and an unfortunate fondness for gambling that has occasionally driven Holmes to locking the chequebook in the desk drawer. But I am not a slave to strong drink; I know too well what alcohol had done to my father and brother and had managed to avoid the same path.”

This paragraph refers to clues about Watson’s personal life that are scattered through the Canon.


“The other ferret sighed. ‘Yes, I know. I suppose there’s nothing for it, then. Gentlemen, we must introduce ourselves. I am Eileen, and this lovely fellow with the discretion of a banshee is my husband, Michael. And we know who you are, of course.’ ”

It will be easy to figure out who is descended from this ferrety couple.

Eileen and Michael refer to the events in “Civlisation: The Rise of Mustela sapiens” throughout this story. It will be easy to figure out who the ferrety shipbuilders are, too.


“ ‘…There was a group of travellers passing by when that meteor fell near Wold Newton. Included among them were my great-grandparents. I have made a study of the other passengers and of their descendants. Some remarkable people can trace their ancestry back to those travellers – Professor Challenger, the French detective Dupin, that scoundrel Raffles, the lineage of the Duke of Greystoke, even my late nemesis Moriarity – all of their lineages converge on that journey, at that time and place. I’ve often wondered if that meteor had some influence on those passengers, so that they produced such progeny.’ ”

Professor Challenger was a character that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle created for some of his science fiction stories, most notably “The Lost World”. Arsene Dupin was the detective created by Edgar Allen Poe for “The Murders of the Rue Morgue”. Raffles was a gentleman thief in a series of stories by E. W. Hornung, coincidentally the brother-in-law of Arthur Conan Doyle. The Greystoke line produced, of course, John Clayton, better known as Tarzan.


“ ‘The French scientist Becquerel has been doing some work with phosphorescent material that shows some promise.’ ”

Antoine Henri Becquerel (1852 – 1908) is hailed as the discoverer of radioactivity in 1896. The Skippés and Skippées were obviously following his experiments closely at the time. I imagine that the Skippys have closely observed the works of many great scientists over the years.


“ ‘That, Watson, was what the Japanese call a shinobi. He is also known as a ninja.’ ”

Everyone is familiar with the ninja. I based my descriptions of the ninja and the cormorant on articles in Wikipedia.


“ ‘Remember when I told you I bested Moriarity at Reichenbach with the Japanese system of wrestling known as Baritsu?’ ”

From “The Adventure of the Empty House”. Unfortunately, baritsu is not a real martial art. Japanese Sherlockians regret this.


“ ‘It is not like Japan and England are enemies; talks of an alliance have recently begun, and it will likely come to pass in a few years.’ ”

The possibility of such an alliance was first brought up in 1895, and the Anglo-Japanese alliance was signed in 1902.


“ ‘But Japan has just won their war with China…’ ”

The First Sino-Japanese War lasted between August 1st, 1894 and April 17th, 1895. The main reason for the war was control of Korea.


“ ‘The January “Liberty”!’ ”

“Liberty” was an American general-interest magazine that was published between 1924 and 1950.


“ ‘…The discretion and high sense of professional honour which have always distinguished my friend are still at work in the choice of these memoirs, and no confidence will be abused. I deprecate, however, in the strongest way the attempts which have been made lately to get at and to destroy these papers. The source of these outrages is known, and if they are repeated I have Mr. Holmes’s authority for saying that the whole story concerning the politician, the lighthouse, and the trained cormorant will be given to the public. There is at least one reader who will understand.’ ”

Taken verbatim from the first paragraph of “The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger”.