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“He would have made a fool of me and my men, Mr Holmes,” said Girac. “I owe you a debt that cannot be paid.”

“I will take that into account when I send you my bill, Inspector,” replied Holmes, solemnly.

4

We returned to London the next day, arriving back in the city to be confronted by several challenging problems that kept Holmes busy for the next few months. Our brief visit to Paris was almost forgotten until we received two final reminders of the case.

The first was a terse note from Girac. “Huret killed while trying to escape.”

“As the assassin predicted, Watson,” said Holmes, his face set in grim lines, “his case never went to trial. Though I doubt he realized he was forecasting his own murder. Huret knew too many secrets to be allowed to testify.”

The second came by messenger from the French Embassy. Enclosed in a box was an autograph letter of thanks from the French President and the Order of the Legion of Honour. It was one of many awards given to Holmes by foreign governments, most of which decorated our quarters in Baker Street. Holmes stared at the letter and the medal for quite some time. Then, he looked me right in the eye, the container resting on his knees.

“I am not a fool, Watson, placated by trinkets and certificates. A secret cabal of Jewish anarchists did not hire Huret. He was engaged by the French military, who hoped that killing the President would create even greater problems for the liberals and Jews in their country. The President’s own supporters and political allies wanted him dead, a martyr to their cause. The President’s life meant nothing to them. I suspect if he is wise, he will resign shortly.

“As for Captain Dreyfus, my readings about the affair as well as our pursuit and capture of Huret have convinced me that the Captain was completely innocent of all charges. He was made a scapegoat by his superiors because of his religious beliefs. Girac came to us not because he didn’t trust his men, but because he didn’t trust his government. As he stated, the corruption was everywhere. Many of the most important politicians and officials in France knew the truth but did nothing.”

With a sigh, Holmes dropped the container holding the autograph letter and the medal into a drawer of his desk. “When Dreyfus is a free man, I will post these awards Watson. Until then, they will remain untouched.”

For twelve long years, the medal and the letter stayed sealed in that drawer, even after Holmes moved to Sussex. Sherlock Holmes was a man of his word. And, for all of his vanity, he was a man of honor.

The Adventure of the Inertial Adjustor

Stephen Baxter

Our visitor was perhaps twenty-eight: a short, broad-shouldered young man, a little prone to fat, the voice high and thin, and he moved with a bright, bird-like bounce. His face, under thinning hair, was pale – perhaps he was consumptive – and his blue eyes were striking, wide and dreaming. He could hardly have presented a greater contrast, physically and in his manner, to my friend Holmes. And yet his conversation sparked with Holmes’s, as if their two minds were poles of some huge electrical battery.

This visitor had presented Holmes with a set of rather grainy photographs, taken with one of the New York Kodaks which are so popular. Holmes was inspecting these with his lens. The visitor, with some malicious glee, was challenging Holmes to deduce, from the evidence of each photograph, the elements of some unusual situation, after the manner of a parlour game. Holmes had just finished with a blurred image of some withered white flowers. I studied this for myself, and could see little untoward about the flowers, although I could not immediately place their natural order – perhaps it was the genus Malva – for instance, the shape of the gynoecium, clearly visible, was rather unusual. Holmes appeared rather irritated by this harmless image, and had passed on to the next, while his young visitor was grinning. “I’m not surprised he made nothing of it. The apparatus of a classic hoaxer!” he told me.

Holmes passed