Four-Pipe Problem Episode 9

So that was the plan! ‘Still it would have to get wet first…’ I said, but even as I was speaking I realised that Moriarty would make sure the potassium ignited. We searched the hold and found on the far side a pipe fed through from the outside. Which meant that once the tide rose…

‘Exactly,’ said Watson, though I hadn’t spoken. ‘The boat and everything for a mile around will go sky-high.’

There was no time to lose. We found Holmes slumped against the bales; Watson began slapping him with more force than was strictly necessary; over and over again he slapped until eventually Sherlock opened his eyes, said ‘Ah,’ and closed them again. ‘We’ll have to carry him,’ I said. We took one shoulder each and hoisted him to a standing position, then half-walked, half-dragged him to the companionway.

‘Why are you so angry with him?’

Watson took no notice but put both hands under his shoulders and with me carrying the feet, we hoisted Sherlock up the steps and onto the deck from where we practically slid him down the walkway onto the embankment.

‘A cab!’ said Watson.

We looked in despair at the street which just now appeared empty of cabs.

‘A boat!’ I said. ‘We’ll have to steal a boat.’ Watson pointed to a small motor-boat moored a few yards away. We dragged the unconscious Sherlock along the bank and heaved him on board like a sack of coals.

‘He wouldn’t listen to me.’ I was wrestling with the engine; it took me a minute to realise he was answering my earlier question.

‘Sherlock? I know the feeling. Cast off!’

He cast off from the bank, then hopped aboard to join me: like Holmes he seemed ten times more alive now that he was on the move. ‘I don’t even know your name!’

‘Isabella!’ I cried, above the sound of the engine starting. I pointed her prow at the middle of the river and pulled the throttle back as far as it would go.

At that moment a shout came from behind. We turned to see a man, presumably the boat’s owner, running along the bank gesticulating. Watson shouted ‘Sorry! Emergency! Get clear of that boat!’ There was no time to explain; he just had to point to the doomed vessel and hope the man would understand. I tried to coax some extra speed from the engine.

‘How long do you think it’ll take?’ I had to raise my voice above the growl of the engine and the slap of the wash.

‘Twenty-three minutes.’ The voice came from the stern.

‘Holmes!’ Watson rushed over to his friend, putting a hand to his brow and another to his wrist. Holmes brushed aside these attentions and stood up, saying quickly, ‘Watson forgive me, I was a boor and a fool. Isabella, more speed if you please. We have not a moment to lose.’

‘She won’t go any faster!’ I said. From behind us we could still hear the plaintive cries of the boat’s owner. I hoped we would be able to get the craft back to him in one piece – but at least this way it would avoid being blown to bits.

Like a cat Sherlock leapt to the prow and began to inspect the engine. Swiftly he turned a knob and extracted a lever from the innards; immediately I felt the little boat begin to speed up. ‘The governor!’ Sherlock cried above the roar of the motor. ‘Remove it and the engine is capable of great speed.’ I thought what he’d done was probably illegal but then the toll of our illegal actions was rising so fast it scarcely mattered. Rising like the tide…

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Kirk out

Subway Poets – How Did it Go?

I haven’t had time to tell you about last Saturday’s gig because we were immediately whisked away (or we whisked ourselves away) to Whitby for a few days. I would have told you yesterday but I think three posts in a day is more than any reader can be expected to bear. So how was it? In a word, terrific. I think we were all nervous about how many people would come: I know from experience that you can have loads of people saying they’ll come to an event and not actually turn up; even so I’d have been deeply disappointed if there had been less than a dozen. The room is compact and accessed by a set of steep stairs (perhaps preparing us for Whitby) but I needn’t have worried – in the end we were practically at capacity which for fire safety reasons is 40 people; more importantly, they all came back after the break. It was a great atmosphere with a sympathetic and responsive audience (there’s nothing worse than an unresponsive crowd) and I think we all gave of our best. I knew I felt I had given of my best and there was a real connection especially when I did ‘Spike’ (see below.) The five of us are all experienced performers but with very different styles. Steve Cartwright is a musician as well as a poet and does some very funny numbers; his poem about McDonald’s is one of my favourites. Liz Dickinson is more thoughtful and writes mostly in free verse: Veronica is perhaps more lyrical and likes to move about among the audience, and Paul has his own unique style. So I think we all complemented each other pretty well. I was very chuffed with the turnout and the response from the audience and at the end of each half we had a lively Q and A session. Great stuff. God, if you’re listening, I’d like more of the same, please. The poem ‘Spike’ is one I think I’ve mentioned before: it concerns the nasty anti-homeless metal spikes that appear in doorways and on pavements. It was performed at Leicester Cathedral as part of the inaugural concert of Sound Cafe, a homeless choir where I was poet in residence for a while. (Below is a link, though it doesn’t look like it.)

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Here’s a taste of the poem.

SPIKE

There’s a spike in the figures today

rough sleepers are up

in the early dawn

before the cleaners come

to clatter up the cans and bin the burger boxes

before the real people come

the ones who count

the ones who work

the ones who earn

the ones who pay

pick up your bed and walk away.

(c) Sarada Gray 2023

I do hope you’re enjoying the serial. Comments welcome.

Kirk out

Four Pipe Problem Episode 8

Episode 8 of our Sherlock Holmes fan fiction serial. Hope you’re enjoying it.

‘Sherlock!’ I called his name again and again, but there was no reply. We had to get off this boat and stop Moriarty before the unthinkable happened – he must not be allowed to get away with it. Watson had fallen asleep again: I started kicking him mercilessly.

His eyes opened a crack. ‘Keep still,’ I said. ‘I’ll get us free in a moment.’

He struggled to consciousness. ‘If we don’t get off this boat,’ I said, ‘we’ll be drowned.’

He seemed to come to with a snap. ‘A knife!’ he said. ‘In my pocket!’

‘Wait.’ I’d never be able to reach that. I needed to think.

Most people think karate is all about yelling and chopping blocks of wood with your hand. It isn’t. Karate is about the power of the mind. In order to chop wood you need to hold it in your mind, molecule by molecule, and as though sorting grains of rice, mentally part a space between them. You find the space between the atoms and hold that space in your mind, making a weak path along the grain of the wood. Only when it is perfect in the mind do you bring the hand down. Nothing is done with the hand; all with the mind.

So, I reasoned, if a lump of solid wood can be severed in two, so can a knot be untied. I set my mind to the work; I felt the shape of the rope entwining my wrists like snakes, I felt the knots holding them fast, with my fingers I felt the quality of the rope and in my mind I searched for its weaknesses. It was a rough rope, stout but easily frayed. Having surveyed the rope I held in my mind all its constituent molecules. I became a microscope, looking deep within. When I saw the molecules clearly I began slowly to make them move, to slip over one another like figures in a dance, hand over hand, arm over arm; and in so doing my wrists seemed to make themselves slimmer, the tendons contracting, the fingers folding into the centre, the bones seeming to shrink and pull inwards, huddling together like animals in the cold. I applied my mind harder and harder to the task, seeing chains of molecules like eels in a pot, writhing and slipping and sliding over one another, until at last (it seemed an age) I felt the knots loosening. Again and again I repeated the process, slipping and shrinking and slipping again, until I sensed my moment and with a quick twist and jerk, pulled first one hand and then the other free of their bonds.

Rubbing my wrists, I stood up. Watson was staring at me in disbelief. ‘How did you -?’

‘No time.’ I began to scrabble at his knots.

‘My pocket – the knife!’ he said, and I opened his coat and extracted an army knife which sliced through his bonds like a hot blade through butter. Sherlock was still unconscious, but my eye was caught by the piles of brown, slate-like material which lay everywhere. They might have been large slabs of chocolate except that the colour was grey; almost black.

‘What is this stuff?’ I fingered a piece; it was cold to the touch.

Watson clambered uneasily to his feet, still rubbing his wrists. ‘Don’t touch that!’

‘Why? What is it?’

‘Potassium!’

‘Potassium?’ I said, bewildered. ‘Like – in bananas?’

‘Nothing like bananas. It’s an explosive – if these slabs get wet they will blow this boat and everyone on it to kingdom come!’

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Kirk out

Whitby Legs

I’ve got Whitby legs. As anyone knows who’s ever been to Whitby, there is no such thing as a flat surface in the entire town. Apart from the beach, which is fairly level, everywhere else is at the top of a terrifying cliff or else at the bottom. Our holiday let was at the top, a beautiful location just a couple of minutes’ walk to the sea front; but to get onto the beach you had to descend a series of zig-zagging slopes at a terrifying angle – and more importantly, ascend them again afterwards. Whitby is a series of stairways, slopes and alleyways; the town itself lies down yet another series of steep streets (not great if you’re coming back after a session in the absolutely stonking pubs, which sadly we weren’t) but brilliant for keeping fit – in fact I was impressed by the ability of my short, fat, hairy legs to cope with it all.

Whitby is slightly down-at-heel; an old sailing and fishing town now more known for its festivals of Goths, folk music and steampunk. It reminded me of a retired Admiral, not sad, just living in a quiet but picturesque way by the sea and visited at intervals by goths, folkies and steam punkers (I still can’t get the concept of steam punk into my head, no matter how many times OH describes it but then all OH does is burble on about Babbage and his difference engine). There are some brilliant and quirky shops, mostly expensive but without seeming exclusive; there’s also a jet museum as jet (the mineral not the means of transport) is found in the area and many of the shops sell it in the form of jewellery. Although we didn’t go in many of them, there are some wonderfully individual cafes and traditional pubs. The whole place is largely devoid of the depressing set of chain stores you find in most town centres; neither did I spot a parasitic out-of-town shopping centre.

On day two I woke early and, filled with spring madness, put on a cossie under my clothes and ran off to the beach. It was really too cold to swim but I managed a paddle – and very bracing it was too. On the third day we decided to walk a bit of the coastal path, so we wound steeply down into the town, got some hummus and pitta for lunch, and climbed again, tackling first the 199 steps to the ruined abbey (founded in the 6th Century by St Hilda) and then hugging the coast. We were heading for Robin Hood’s bay but got tired before we reached it and, mindful of the fact that we’d have to walk back again, stopped and had lunch in front of the Whitby Fog Horn, sincerely hoping that it wouldn’t go off in a sudden mist as the sound would be deafening. The coast path is truly beautiful with stunning views of the sea and of headland after mysterious headland going on and on into the distance. We saw a few other walkers, though not many, and remarkably little litter, which was also true of the town itself. After that our poor little legs, having climbed mores steps and steep paths than an individual can be expected to negotiate in the space of a short break, decided they’d had enough and we walked back.

Not far away are the North Yorks Moors, a bleak and beautiful expanse of heather criss-crossed by dykes and a habitat for birds, flowers and butterflies. On a 20-minute walk (a detour on our return journey) we saw curlews, grouse and painted ladies. It must be very bleak in winter but this time of year it’s beautiful. I nearly rented a shepherd’s hut on the moor but that would have been a very different kind of holiday.

Sadly the only pub we had time to visit was an Irish themed one but you could easily do a pub crawl every night for a week and not run out of pubs. I didn’t take many photos I’m afraid – I wasn’t in the mood and besides, as OH says, the camera prevents you from seeing – but here are a couple.

And on the way back we visited my daughter and grandson who is doing brilliantly; he’s an incredibly alert and calm baby and we are of course already convinced that he’s a genius.

Oh, and I forgot to mention the Yorkshire pudding beer, the Sophie Lancaster memorial bench and the replica of Captain Cook’s Endeavour ship the ruins of which, in a bizarre twist, were discovered in New York Harbour during our visit. And then there’s the award-winning chippy where they asked us to take a seat at a table and five minutes later told us they were closing. So as you can see, a break crammed with incident.

And damn! I now realise I haven’t told you about the poetry on Saturday. I’ll have to do that in a separate post.

Kirk out

Four Pipe Problem Episode 7

The story so far: Doctor Watson having mysteriously disappeared, perhaps for good, Sherlock’s new assistant called Isabella is helping with his latest case: a Mrs Schillen has sought his help after her baby was stolen on a bus and replaced with a length of lead piping. Their search leads them to the docks where they find a boat with a grotesque cargo of dead bodies. Both Sherlock and Isabella lose consciousness and awake to find Doctor Watson tied up with them in the hold. Then they encounter the last person any of them expects: Moriarty. Now read on…

‘I’ve been expecting you,’ he said.

‘Clearly. Slavery? Branching out a little, aren’t you?’ I knew it was an effort for Sherlock to speak but he sounded as light as if they were discussing the weather.

‘Thought I’d give it a go.’

‘I assume killing them wasn’t part of the plan. What happened?’

‘An unfortunate accident.’

‘Gas?’

‘You saw the canisters? Some of these foreign suppliers are so careless.’

‘You should not have stowed it next to those poor people.’

‘No.’ Moriarty appeared to consider the idea. ‘Mixing cargoes is never a good idea.’

My stomach was churning again; I kept my mouth firmly closed and tried to ignore the smell.

‘And the gunpowder plot?’

‘Didn’t you realise that was me?’

I couldn’t help myself. ‘You’re with the Brotherhood?’ I broke in.

‘Aw, she’s sweet isn’t she? Not as good as Doctor Watson. Still, it’s always good to have a spare.’

Sherlock was sounding more like his usual self at every moment. ‘The Brotherhood. Where are they?’

‘There-is-no-Brotherhood!’ shouted Moriarty.

I quailed, but Sherlock remained unmoved. ‘So it was you all along? Acting alone?’

‘I don’t need help.’

‘And Kew Gardens? That was you?’

Moriarty merely chuckled.

‘So what’s the plan for today?’ How Sherlock could discuss a terror attack as though arranging a picnic was beyond me.

‘Why should I tell you?’

‘Oh go on, you know you want to.’

Moriarty laughed. ‘Well I don’t see the harm, since you’re going to be tied up for a while. In – oh, exactly one hour – ’ (he consulted his watch) ‘- Buckingham Palace with your little Queen inside, will all be blown sky-high!’

‘She’s your Queen too,’ I retorted.

Again Moriarty appeared to consider the idea. ‘I never really took to the woman. Too snooty, too devoted to that loathsome Hun. Still, you’ve got to admire my style, giving her a send-off on her birthday. Don’t you think?’ He tossed a coin into the air and caught it.

‘Weren’t you tempted to try the Houses of Parliament?’

Moriarty made a show of yawning. ‘It’s been done, Sherlock. Old news. Besides, the Head of State? You can’t get higher than that.’

‘What about the people?’ I was alarmed to hear that Sherlock’s voice was growing dull again and his words beginning to slur.

‘What people?’

‘On the boat.’

‘Oh, them. Never you mind.’

‘Dumping at sea?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough – you’ll be going with them after all. Bon voyage!’

He threw the last words over his shoulder as he left. The door swung to and fro with a squeak and then there was silence. ‘Sherlock!’ I cried. ‘What the hell are we going to do?’

There was no answer.

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Kirk out

Four Pipe Problem Episode 6

‘Doc-’ he slurred, and finally the penny dropped. ‘Watson? You’re Doctor Watson?’

He gave a hiss which I took for assent.

‘We’d given you up for lost! Where have you been?’

For answer, he merely groaned again.

We were, I surmised, down in the hold of the ship. As my eyes adjusted to the light I could see around us sacks of dry goods and heaps of a slate-like material. There were no sign of the pipes, nor of Sherlock himself: I wondered what they’d done with him.

‘Have you seen Sherlock?’ I asked my companion.

The name seemed to jolt him awake. ‘Basta!’ he burst out.

Either he was saying enough in Spanish or he wasn’t happy with Sherlock; my money was on the latter. ‘Where is he?’ I persisted. ‘Have you seen him?’ He did not reply. Then the stench overpowered me again and I leaned over the other side and retched. There wasn’t much to bring up, but that didn’t make it any pleasanter. The vomiting cleared my head, however, and I knew that we had to get out; it was a miracle the Brotherhood hadn’t killed us already. And where was Sherlock? I began furiously nudging Dr Watson. ‘Wake up! We have to get out of here! They’re going to kill us!’

From over the other side of the bales came a bleary voice, one I knew only too well. ‘Not pipes,’ it said. ‘People.’

‘Sherlock?’

Of course it was Sherlock. My heart sank at the sound of his voice: Sherlock never injected during a case; only when he was bored.

‘People?’ I said.

‘Slavery. People-trafficking.’ He got the words out with difficulty.

‘Sherlock, are you all -’

Before I could finish the door swung open, and into the room came the last person any of us expected or wanted to see.

‘Moriarty,’ said Sherlock. Was it my imagination or did he sound a little brighter?

‘Sherlock,’ replied a cold, dark voice. ‘Enjoying the trip?’

I had often wished – fool that I am! – to see Moriarty face to face, and here he was. How often had I planned the words I would say to him! But here, confronted by this infamous excuse for a human being, I quailed. Physically he was slight, but the sound of his voice chilled the blood. Sherlock had lectured me more than once on how a person can be identified from their voice alone and I felt that after this encounter I’d have known Moriarty’s in the depths of hell. It was not harsh and villainous as I might have expected but soft and foul as as putrid mud.

‘I’ve been expecting you,’ he said.

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Kirk out

Four Pipe Problem Episode 5

I have seen Sherlock Holmes sunk in thought but never, ever have I seen him lost for words. He barely seemed to have the energy to close the door, having done which he staggered and slumped against the wall. I was about to look for myself but with a limp, outstretched arm and a faint croak he prevented me. Then his legs buckled under him and he slumped to the floor with a groan.

I began to panic. Doubtless the wonderful Doctor Watson would have known what to do but I had no idea. What was wrong? What had Holmes seen? I could hardly shout for help; nor was I qualified to administer medical assistance. But as I agonised his eyes flickered open briefly and he muttered one word: ‘Lestrade.’

I would gladly have summoned Lestrade but I had no idea how. And what should I tell him? I needed to see what Holmes had seen; I pushed open the door a crack and stood paralysed, first with bewilderment and then with horror. Death does not frighten me – I have seen dead bodies enough – but I had never imagined anything like this. The cabin was stacked floor to ceiling with shelves, and on every single shelf lay a human body, each one strung out in the most tortured positions as though they had died in some unimaginably horrible manner. Then a stench came to my nostrils and just like Holmes, I blacked out.

When I woke the first thing I noticed was a soreness in my arms. All was in shadow as though I had fallen into some underworld. I was seated on a hard floor, my hands tied to a thick wooden pole, possibly a mast. I could hear water lapping at the sides of the boat and at the window were chinks of light, though whether sun or gaslight I couldn’t tell. From somewhere down by my elbow came a moan. I turned to look, wincing with the pain, and saw a man lying next to me with his hands and feet tied. It was not Sherlock. I couldn’t tell if the man was awake or not; I tried to speak to him but the words felt like stones on my tongue. He was much shorter than Holmes and roughly dressed. He opened his eyes a crack and closed them again.

‘What’s going on?’ I said. ‘Who are you?’

‘What-?’ he slurred. Perhaps he was drunk, or they’d drugged him.

‘What’s going on?’ I repeated.

He tried again; a syllable escaped him which sounded like ‘sun.’ There was no sun in this filthy stinking hole, that was for sure.

‘Sun? What do you mean?’

‘Doc-’ he slurred, and finally the penny dropped. ‘Watson? You’re Doctor Watson?’

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Kirk out

Four Pipe Problem Episode 4

‘What?’ I almost shouted.

‘Quiet!’ he hissed.

I lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘Buckingham Palace! But then why in god’s name are we down by the docks?’

‘Because here is where the gunpowder will be unloaded. I had information from my underground network that an attack was imminent, and I have been waiting for a sign. I only blame myself for being too slow; it wasn’t until she extracted the pipe from her basket that I understood.’

‘What?’

‘The pipe is the sign. If I am not much mistaken moored up at the docks we will find a vessel carrying pipes ostensibly for laying gas mains but in fact concealing explosives.’ He could barely contain the excitement in his voice but with that he set off, leading the way alongside the river, dodging between dark outbuildings and rotting shacks. The moon was out now but it was still very dark; it was difficult to keep him in view as he glided ahead, seeming more like a great cat than a man. He was all of a piece with the darkness, as if he had become his own shadow. After what seemed a long time he stopped abruptly and motioned to me to crouch down behind a shed.

‘You see that ship there?’ Out of the darkness loomed a big hulk. She was slumped at an angle, stuck in the mud of low tide, but when the river rose again she’d rise with it.

‘Is that the one?’ I breathed.

‘If I am not mistaken.’

The vessel looked barely seaworthy and I wondered whence it had sailed. Holmes motioned me to follow him through the mud to where a single plank provided a gangway onto the boat.

I pulled at his sleeve. ‘Sherlock!’ I hissed. ‘What if someone sees us?’

‘We must be careful. They will not be expecting us.’

I tried to remember my martial arts training as I followed: Look straight ahead. Look directly at the target. Never look down. I found a point on the boat where an empty lifebelt container sat on the rails, fixed my gaze on it and set one foot on the plank and followed while Sherlock slunk silent, catlike, up to the deck. I kept my centre of gravity low, took the last few feet almost at a run and practically fell into Holmes’s arms: I apologised, but he did not seem to have noticed.

‘What now?’ I whispered.

‘I have in my pocket a device.’ Holmes had a way of speaking low without whispering which was quite extraordinary: he had learned it from monks in Tibet and it had more than once saved his life. He extracted from his cloak a metal implement like a large torch. ‘A chemical detector,’ he explained. ‘My own invention. It will light up in the presence of explosives.’

I forbore to say Amazing, Holmes as Doctor Watson would no doubt have done, though I was impressed. Motioning me to follow, Holmes led me down into the bowels of the boat, swinging his detector to and fro like a searchlight and as we came to the bottom of the companionway it began to light up. As we approached a doorway the light began to shine more brightly: slowly, gently, he put a hand to the door and opened it a crack. As his eyes adjusted to the light he opened it slightly further and squinted inside with one eye. As he took in what he was seeing his face assumed an expression of the utmost horror.

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Kirk out

Four Pipe Problem Episode 3

Sighing, I told Mrs Schillen we would be in touch and asked Mrs Hudson to show her out. Holmes was already in a cab across the street and waving to me impatiently.

‘Care to elucidate?’ I asked as we rattled along, whither I could not tell, except that I thought we might be going East. Sherlock had frequently lectured me on the inability of ‘females’ to know the points of the compass and I had frequently lectured him on his prejudiced views, though even I had to admit that a sense of direction was not my strongest suit.

But Holmes remained silent, so I contented myself with looking out of the window and trying to deduce where we were. All parts of London looked alike nowadays, the same shops and inns, the same news stands. Where could we be headed? We had not crossed the river – or not yet. But there was no point in trying to get information out of him – he would tell me when he was ready.

Eventually he thrust into my hand the crumpled paper which Mrs Schillen had given him. I smoothed it out on my knee and read: We have your child. Do not contact the police. We will be in touch. BBP. ‘What does it mean?’ I said.

‘What indeed, Watson?’ he said. I didn’t bother correcting him – what was the point? Clearly I was no substitute for his lost friend and never would be.

‘But what does it mean?’ I said again.

As the cab slowed he turned to me urgently and said, ‘My dear – ahem! – my – Isabella, this is a case of the utmost delicacy; it is also likely to be highly dangerous. Forgive me, when I asked you to accompany me I temporarily forgot that you were yourself and not my – not Watson.’

No shit, Sherlock, I thought, but all I said was, ‘You needn’t worry. I am trained in martial arts.’

This made no impression upon him. ‘I must insist that you stay in the cab and return to Baker St.’

‘I will do no such thing,’ I retorted. ‘Didn’t I help you with the Rain Gang? And the Compton Street murders? And how could you have solved The Black Hat Mystery without me?’

‘Well,’ he admitted, ‘you have had some success. Beginner’s luck, most likely, or a chance intuition. But now -’

‘Forget it, Sherlock,’ I said firmly. ‘I’m coming.’

There would have been a great deal more discussion but time was of the essence and we had drawn up at our destination. It was almost dark by now and I could see that the river was nearby. In front of us and alongside the river were a number of tall buildings, from which I deduced that we must be by the docks.

Sherlock paid the driver and led the way along the wharf. By now it was practically dark; the river was a strip of blackness at our side. He pulled me into the shadows and took the piece of paper from his pocket.

‘Have you ever heard of The Brotherhood of the Blue Pipe?’

I said no.

‘They are a highly dangerous terrorist organisation. Do you remember the Kew Gardens bombings?’

‘Of course.’ One could hardly forget an attack that had studded half of London with broken glass, not to mention destroying hundreds of rare plants. ‘Was that this – Brotherhood?’

‘Indeed it was. And this message indicates that they are planning another attack.’

‘Does Mrs Schillen -?’

‘No, of course she doesn’t realise. She thinks – well, I don’t suppose she thinks about anything except getting her baby back.’

‘But she didn’t want to go to the police.’

‘No, well obviously she’s terrified that some harm will come to the child. But she clearly has no idea who’s behind it. Nor of the significance of the length of piping.’

‘I thought that was just to fool her into thinking the baby was in the basket.’

‘And so does she. That’s exactly how females think, if one can call it thinking.’

‘Sherlock -’

‘So what we must do -’

‘Hang on – what is the significance of the pipe?’

‘If I’m not mistaken, Wat- sabella – it’s a sign.’

‘What sort of sign?’

‘Have you never heard of a pipe bomb?’

I gave a sharp intake of breath.

‘The people responsible for the Kew Gardens bombings used a particular form of pipe bomb and they are now, if I’m not very much mistaken, planning to blow up Buckingham Palace.’

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Kirk out

Four Pipe Problem Episode 2

‘Your baby?’ I knew this was my interview now; Sherlock was no good at all with what he called ‘emotional females.’ We’d had more than one conversation about that.

‘What about your baby?’

‘She’s gone!’

I got out my notebook and pencil. ‘How old is she?’

‘Just four months!’

‘Have you been to the police?’

‘I -’ she gulped and seemed about to burst with grief. I did not want to press her at this stage but she might have to go to the police in the end, whatever her reasons for avoiding it.

‘Very well. Please tell me in your own words what happened.’

She told me, haltingly and with many outbursts of sobbing, how she had been on the omnibus going to see her mother and –

‘Which omnibus?’ interjected Holmes.

She seemed startled by the question. ‘The number thirty-nine. From Hammersmith. And as soon as I’d got off -’ again she burst out sobbing.

‘Yes?’

‘You realised the baby was gone,’ interjected Holmes, speaking with so little feeling that I could have slapped him. Mrs Schillen gave a loud wail of confirmation.

‘And then what happened?’ I persisted gently.

‘I came straight here. In a cab.’

‘But why didn’t you go to the police?’

She delved into the Moses basket at her feet and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. ‘I’ll never forgive myself! I became distracted by a thief – he was trying to take my purse – I had to fight him off – and when I got off they’d taken my baby and replaced her with this!’ And from under the blankets she extracted a length of lead piping, such as forms part of the plumbing in half the houses in England.

I was about to ask a question but Sherlock broke in. ‘May I see that?’ His voice was calm and possibly none but I would have observed that he was in a state of high excitement. He turned the pipe over in his hands and examined it closely. Then he asked to see the piece of paper. He perused it quickly, then he jumped up out of his chair. ‘As I suspected!’ he cried, and then, grabbing his hat and cloak,made for the door crying, ‘Watson! After me!’

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Kirk out