“Yes, that is possible. It is also possible that he had taken it from his pocket not to see the time but to make a gesture, to indicate, say, that he was a busy man, whose time was of some value. But what seemed equally possible was that he had been consulting the watch for some other purpose altogether.”

“I cannot imagine what that could have been.”

“No more could I. But one must always allow in one’s calculations not merely for the unknown, but for the unimagined. I inspected the watch closely, with the aid of a lens. Upon the underside of the lid, rubbed almost to invisibility, was an inscription. At the top were two large letters, ‘P’ and ‘S’, twined together in a monogram. These initials, of course, matched those I had already observed on the dead man’s cuff-links. Below the monogram was a date, 1870, and, below that, two lines of writing, which I deciphered only with considerable difficulty. The first said ‘fond affection’, and the second ‘Violet Q’. Of course, the initial ‘Q’ at once suggested the surname ‘Quinn’, and the fact that ‘Violet’ and ‘Rosemary’ are both flower-names seemed too much of a coincidence to be the result of mere chance. I therefore conjectured that the woman, Violet, who had evidently given the watch to the dead man, was the sister of Rosemary Quinn, the Claydons’ housekeeper. There was one other possibility, I considered, which was that these two were one and the same person, namely Violet Rosemary Quinn, who had perhaps been known as ‘Violet’ when she was younger, but chose now to be known as ‘Rosemary’. But considering that there was definitely another woman involved in the matter – the woman whom Claydon had found to be in possession of his house when he returned from work – I discounted this possibility. The suggestion that that woman was indeed the sister of Claydon’s housekeeper was given added support by his observation that her appearance struck him as vaguely familiar. So already, you see, I had established a probable link between one of the usual members of the household and the apparent strangers who had taken possession of the house this afternoon.”

“Your reasoning seems very sound,” I remarked. “I am fascinated!”

“Thank you,” said Holmes. “Now, when Falk came to examine the body, and identified it as that of Percival Slattery, he informed us that Slattery had been born and bred in Australia. This instantly strengthened my theory, for Claydon had remarked that the woman who met him at his front door, although well spoken, had had an accent that he had been unable to place. Perhaps, I conjectured, her accent was an Australian one, and perhaps she had known Slattery when they both lived there. If so, she had probably given the watch to him then. As I considered this, the meaning of the photograph of the child on the piano became all at once very clear to me. There was, if you recall, a pencilled inscription on the mount of the photograph, which read ‘Victoria, O Victoria’. This appeared to be an ejaculation or lament of some kind, although the significance was not clear. But what if the ‘O’ in the inscription was not an ejaculatory ‘O’, as it appeared to be, but had been intended as an abbreviation of the word ‘Of’? I examined the photograph closely through my lens and, sure enough, immediately after the ‘O’ was the very faintest of pencil marks, a mere tick, but one which had clearly been intended as an apostrophe. The child’s name was therefore Victoria, and, evidently in a moment of whimsy, someone, probably the child’s mother, had inscribed the photograph ‘Victoria of Victoria’, Victoria being, of course, one of the colonies of Australia. That, therefore, was where the child had been living at the time the photograph was taken.

“But the presence of this mysterious and previously unseen photograph in the room where Slattery was met by Rosemary Quinn’s sister could, realistically, mean only one thing: that the child was his. The presence, furthermore, of the old picture of a church suggested that something to do with a wedding was the issue between them. Either he had married her and then deserted her, or he had perhaps jilted her at the altar rail. In either event, the whole case seemed now as clear as crystal, and I was able to conjecture – accurately as it turned out – the reason Falk had been invited there, and what it was that had caused Slattery to have a seizure. The only task that remained was to unsettle the housekeeper’s composure, so that when I mentioned her sister she would already be in a nervous state, be unable to conceal her surprise, and would very likely give herself away. She herself had presented me with the opportunity to ask unsettling questions by her somewhat vague description of the telegram she claimed to have received, and its unlikely contents.

‘‘Of course, logically speaking, if the telegram really had included a reference to the tobacco jar on the mantelpiece, it would, although surprising, not necessarily have proved anything one way or the other against the woman. But I perceived as soon as I questioned her on the point that she herself could see that it sounded distinctly unlikely. At that moment, her edifice of untruth began to collapse about her, and the rest you know.”

I stopped, turned to my companion and held out my hand. “Congratulations!” said I warmly.

“What is this?” returned he with a puzzled smile, shaking my hand.

“Your conduct of the case was exemplary,” I explained. “I have known you some years now, Holmes, and have seen you solve a good many cases – many, no doubt, of greater difficulty than this one. But I don’t know that I have ever seen a more accomplished and workmanlike demonstration of the art of detection!”

“Well, thank you, Watson,” said my friend, and I could see that he was quite affected by my sincere approbation. “It is kind of you to say so. Now, here is something else for you to consider,” he continued in a lighter tone, “as we traverse these seemingly endless streets of south London. Many of them are not entirely unattractive – indeed, Kendal Terrace itself is only wanting a tree or two to make it a very pleasant little thoroughfare – but they are, in the main, somewhat banal and unromantic. That can scarcely be denied. Is it not strange, then, that in such unpromising terrain should bloom such brilliant and fascinating flowers as these cases, which it is my delight to investigate, and yours to record? For it cannot be denied that the dull grey streets of London present the finest field there is for those who take pleasure in such things. It is as if Nature must always find a way of compensating, just as, in the densest of tropical jungles, so I am informed, where the trees grow so closely together that the ground is in constant shade, there flourish the brightest and most spectacular blooms that nature can show.”

“It seems a somewhat fanciful notion,” I remarked. “What about sparrows? The sparrow is undoubtedly the most common bird in cities and towns, and should, therefore, on your theory, be surpassingly beautiful. But whatever other good points it may have, the sparrow is undoubtedly the dullest-looking bird imaginable.”

Holmes laughed, in that strange, silent way that was peculiar to him.

“You are a good fellow, Watson,” said he at length. “You anchor me to reality when my flights of fancy threaten, like a runaway balloon, to carry me off to the dangerous reaches of the upper atmosphere! But here is a cab, trundling empty back to town!” he continued, stepping to the edge of the pavement and holding up his hand. “Let us take a ride to the Strand. I understand that a new restaurant has recently opened there, of which very favourable reports have been given!”

A HAIR’S BREADTH

THE WEEKS that immediately succeeded my marriage were a hectic time for me. As every married man will know from his own experience, so much that is new must be attended to then, and all the careful planning and preparation one has done beforehand inevitably turns out to have been either inadequate or misguided. For some weeks, therefore, I had seen nothing whatever of my friends. Indeed, so dramatically did the free time at my disposal seem to have shrunk since my bachelor days, when I had shared rooms with Sherlock Holmes in Baker Street, that I had scarcely had a moment to consider anything beyond the immediate concerns of my new household. I certainly did not expect to see Holmes for some time, and was surprised, therefore, as I stood one afternoon upon the kerb in Holborn, to hear through the noise and bustle about me that familiar, somewhat strident voice calling my name. It was a cold and wintry day, with a strong wind blowing, and I had been preoccupied with finding a cab. Now I turned to see Holmes standing at my elbow.