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Holmes, whose austere face was now very pale. “His infernal electricity exploded the shell in the breech, even as it struck him dead. Gun-barrels, as well as copper wires and brass clasps, are excellent conductors of electrical current. – Watson, I must trouble you to bind up my shoulder. The bullet did not go entirely astray.” He bent over to scrutinize the corpse more closely. “As he truly said, that ledger contained the answer to all questions. The rictus of his features is characteristic of electrically-induced spasms and convulsions. Best not to look, Mr Traill. Some things are even less pleasant to gaze upon than the red leech.”

Some time afterward, at the trial which concluded with the sentencing of the co-conspirator Basil Jarman to a long term of hard labour, we learned that almost half of the Traill estate still remained. Thus our client continued his life of idle literary dabbling, while his blameless sister Selina presumably receives a sufficient allowance to fritter away on psychic mediums.

Besides his own substantial fee, Holmes somehow contrived to retain a small souvenir of the case. To this day, our untidy mantelpiece in 221b Baker Street boasts a matchbox best not opened by the unwary, for its coiled rubber occupant is repulsive to the eye. The box is labelled in Holmes’s own neat hand: Sanguisuga rufa spuriosa. I have my doubts about the Latin.

The Adventure of the Grace Chalice

Roger Johnson

“Watson,” said Mr Sherlock Holmes from the bow-window, where he had stood for the past half-hour, gazing moodily down into the street, “if I mistake not, we have a client.”

I was more than pleased to hear the excitement in his voice. Holmes had been restlessly unemployed for nearly a week, and neither his temper nor mine had been helped by the dull, leaden skies of March with their intermittent showers, which caused my old wound to ache abominably.

“A prosperous man,” he continued. “Purposeful and not without self-esteem. Ah, he has paid off the cab and is approaching our door. Let us hope that he brings something of interest.” He turned away from the window, and at that moment we heard a determined ring upon the front-door bell. Within a minute our good landlady had shown into the room a plump man with heavy jowls and thick grey hair.

“Gentlemen,” said our visitor, as the door closed softly behind Mrs Hudson, “my name is Henry Staunton, and I am the victim of a most audacious theft!”

“Indeed?” replied Holmes, calmly. “Pray take the basket-chair, Mr Staunton. Your name is, of course, familiar to me as that of a connoisseur of objets d’art. Has some item from your collection been stolen?”

“It has, sir. It has! I shall come straight to the point, for I dislike circumlocution, as, I am sure, do you. Besides, I wish to have the matter settled without even the least delay. You must know, then, that I recently acquired from old Sir Cedric Grace the celebrated golden cup known as the Grace Chalice. I may say that it cost me a very considerable sum – a pretty penny, sir! But I do not grudge it, for the chalice is unique, quite unique.

“Now, before depositing it with my bankers, I determined to retain the chalice at my house for a short while, so that I might study it thoroughly. I live at The Elms at Hampstead, a very desirable residence, near the Heath and somewhat away from the main thoroughfare. Ahem! I kept the chalice in a safe in my study, securely built into the wall, and hidden behind a looking-glass. You may imagine my distress – my utter distress, sir – when, this very morning I discovered the safe unlocked and the chalice gone!

“I am a man who values his privacy, Mr Holmes, and I have no desire to admit the official police to my property. Instead, I am resolved to rely upon your skill and discretion in the matter.” He made a little flourish with his hand, and I remembered my friend’s assessment of him as a man not lacking in self-importance.

Holmes himself sat quietly, his eyes closed and his long legs stretched out before him. “That is very good of you, Mr Staunton,” he replied blandly. “You