my dear mrs. hudson -- criminals are as unpredictable as head-colds. you never quite know when you're going to catch one.
very impressive.
i can hardly wait. i'm sure i'll find out all sorts of fascinating things about the case that i never knew before.
oh, come now, watson, you must admit that you have a tendency to over-romanticize. you have taken my simple exercises in logic and embellished them, exaggerated them.
you have described me as six-foot-four, whereas i am barely six-foot-one.
you have saddled me with this improbable costume, which the public now expects me to wear.
you've made me out to be a violin virtuoso. here --
the fact is that i could barely hold my own in the pit orchestra of a second-rate music hall.
you have given the reader the distinct impression that i am a misogynist. actually, i don't dislike women -- i merely distrust them. the twinkle in the eye and the arsenic in the soup.
lurid is more like it. you have painted me as a hopeless dope addict -- just because i occasionally take a five per cent solution of cocaine.
five per cent. don't you think i'm aware you've been diluting it behind my back?
my dear friend -- as well as my dear doctor -- i only resort to narcotics when i am suffering from acute boredom -- when there are no interesting cases to engage my mind. look at this -- an urgent appeal to find six missing midgets.
six of them -- the tumbling piccolos -- an acrobatic act with some circus.
extremely so. you see, they are not only midgets -- but also anarchists.
by now they have been smuggled to vienna, dressed as little girls in burgundy pinafores. they are to greet the czar of all the russias when he arrives at the railway station. they will be carrying bouquets of flowers, concealed in each bouquet will be a bomb with a lit fuse.
not at all. the circus owner offers me five pounds for my services -- that's not even a pound a midget.
there are no great crimes anymore, watson. the criminal class has lost all enterprise and originality. at best they commit some bungling villainy, with a motive so transparent that even a scotland yard official can see through it.
mrs. hudson! mrs. hudson!
there is something missing from my desk.
something very crucial. you have been tidying up against my explicit orders.
dust, mrs. hudson, is an essential part of my filing system. by the thickness of it, i can date any document immediately.
that would be march, 1883.
she's right. i am suffocating.
not from lack of air -- from lack of activity. sitting here week after week -- blowing smoke rings -- staring through a microscope -- there's no challenge in that.
how i envy you your mind, watson.
it's placid, imperturbable, prosaic. but my mind rebels against stagnation. it's like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it's not connected up with the work for which it was built.
fair question.
thoroughly. but this will take care of it.
now, now, watson -- you mustn't underestimate your other charms.
i intend to do nothing of the sort.
not until you replace this needle. it is getting rather blunt.
i'm just as surprised as you are.
may i be so bold as to ask where you'er going?
you'll find it very dull -- snipping out tonsils and flushing out kidneys --
if you're looking for your medical bag, you hid it under the moorish table. which shows a little more imagination than last time -- when it was under your bed.
where am i going to find anyone who will put up with my rather eccentric habits?
watson.
please, mrs. hudson. you're in my line of fire.
merely celebrating her majesty's golden jubilee.
you heard him.
not really. it was simple choice between a bad habit and a good companion.
i've often been accused of being cold and unemotional. i admit to it. and yet, in my cold, unemotional way, i'm very fond of you, watson.
i'll do it.
now, watson -- you know there's nothing i wouldn't do to keep you here.
that's precisely it. why should someone send up two free tickets? anonymously, at that.
i suspect it's some sort of plot.
somebody wants to kill me.
that's right. it's a plot to bore me to death. i detest ballet.
h'mmmm.
who?
very strong arches, i must admit.
really.
that's only eleven.
that makes an even dozen -- in a messy sort of way.
yes.
this is dr. watson.
my health? better consult my doctor.
would you mind telling me what this is all about?
could you be more specific?
it is only the extraordinary that interests me.
madame.
madame says you are shorter than she thought.
i didn't mean to be.
thank you. thank you.
i'm afraid it loses something in translation.
'antonius stradivarius cremonesis, anno 1709.' well, the label is authentic. judging from the shape, the color of the varnish, and the tone, i would say it is a genuine stradivarius of the best period.
it's magnificent.
mine?
my fees as a detective are not exactly trifling -- but a stradivarius -- you're not serious.
what a shame.
i must say she doesn't look thirty-eight.
how admirable.
oh? is he missing?
and that's why you called me in?
i see. the whole thing is still in the planning stage --
za zdrovie.
what's in it?
red pepper.
i beg your pardon?
ready?
well, this is all very flattering. but surely there are other me -- better men --
that's more like it. the man's a genius.
absolutely first-rate mind.
oh, you couldn't go wrong with tschaikowski --
why?
pity, that.
madame mustn't be too hasty. she must remember i'm an englishman.
you know what they say about us. if there's one thing more deplorable than our cooking, it's our love-making. we are not exactly the most romantic of people --
an equitable arrangement. about my medical history -- when you asked me -- i neglected to mention a small detail. there is hemophilia in my family. we're all bleeders.
that's reassuring to know. but --
oh, i find her most attractive -- for a woman, that is.
maybe a slight one. you see, i am not a free man.
a bachelor -- living with another bachelor -- for the last five years. five very happy years.
i hoped i could avoid the subject. but some of us -- through a cruel caprice of mother nature --
the point is that tschaikowski is not an isolated case.
if you want to be picturesque about it.
believe me, madame, the loss is all mine. but i would prefer to disappoint you know than disappoint you in a gondola in venice.
it would have been catastrophe.
watson! watson, are you coming?
we're going home.
from the sound of your footsteps, i gathered that you were not in a particularly amiable mood.
watson, you have my most abject apologies. but have you ever been cornered by a madwoman? it seemed like the only way to get out of it without hurting her feelings.
so there'll be a little gossip about you in st. petersburg.
watson, you're running amok.
well, for one thing, i'd get rid of that flower.
then they'd really talk.
of course, we can still see each other clandestinely -- on remote benches in hyde park, and in the waiting rooms of suburban railway stations --
that's what i've been trying to tell you.
nobody would dare. after all, you have an enviable record with the fair sex.
good night, watson.
the answer is yes. you're being presumptuous. good night.
not at this hour.
i never found her so.
why did you bring her here?
young lady -- what did you want at this address?
rather.
watson, you'd better accept delivery.
there was some printing on the back of this -- but it seems to have come off in the water.
can you think of your own name?
so all we know is that she was coshed on the head, dumped into the thames, and subsequently dumped into our laps.
good work.
are you french? vous etes francaise?
vous etes suisse?
alors, vous etes belge.
vous etes belge -- de bruxelles!
if you don't mind.
your name is gabrielle, is that right? gabrielle?
and your husband's name is emile?
where is he? what are you doing in london?
when did you arrive from brussels? where are you staying?
what happened at the river? think! pensez! concentrez vous!
watson, i think we should arrange to have her removed to a hospital.
she should have medical attention.
this temporary amnesia -- how temporary is it?
watson, this is a very small flat -- we don't want to clutter it up with women.
quite. but we can't afford to wait for those veils to lift -- we must break through them as quickly as possible.
i do. the sooner we solve the case, the sooner we can get rid of her.
yes, gabrielle.
what?
did you?
where is the negligee?
and where is your luggage?
mmmmm. i smell porridge. lumpy as usual, i suppose.
mrs. hudson, why don't you go down to the kitchen -- get a towel -- and wipe that look of disapproval off your face.
as a matter of fact, i did take advantage of her.  would you hand me the butter- knife, please?
thank you.
none whatsoever. if you must know, i found her body quite rewarding.
especially the palm of her right hand.
very well. then i won't bother to tell you how i traced her suitcase.
remember that piece of soggy cardboard with our address on it? it was a luggage ticket -- the number rubbed off on her hand. and since she must have arrived from brussels by the boat train, i concluded that she had checked her belongings at victoria station.
or at least a pink negligee with maribou feathers.
voila!
now we're getting somewhere.
come in, madame valladon. you are gabrielle valladon.
and this is your husband, emile valladon?
sorry to have ransacked your valise. but since you came to us for help --
dr. watson is the handsome one.
that's the way he affects most women.
let's try to sort it out. you came to london looking for your husband.
where your husband was working in a copper mine.
your wedding ring -- it's made of copper.
jonah limited. go on.
32 ashdown street.
madame valladon, can you think of any reason why your husband should have lied to you about theses things?
so i gathered.
madame valladon, somebody tried to kill you last night. do you have any idea who could have done it?
madame valladon, i want you to send one more letter to your husband.
to emile valladon -- ashdown street -- what was that number?
nothing.
that empty shop is obviously being used as an accomodation address, or letter- drop. but what gets dropped must be picked up. the question is how? -- and by whom? -- and why?
hammer.  chisel.
maybe. here comes our letter.
now we are faced with the most nerve- wracking part of the detective's job -- doing nothing.
yes?
it could be worse. you could be at the bottom of the thames -- much to your discomfort -- and much to my chagrin.
i would surmise somebody is using ice- skates -- if it weren't for a conspicuous absence of ice.
this way.
the art of concealment, my dear watson, is merely a matter of being in the right place at the right time.
it certainly would simplify things, wouldn't it?
my guess would be scotland. inverness, to be more precise.
didn't you notice the paper at the bottom of their cage? the inverness courier.
what about it?
nevertheless --
my dear sherlock: i expect you and dr. watson to join me at the club immediately upon reciept of this note. according to my calculations, that should be at 11:40 a.m. your brother, mycroft. what time do you make it, watson?
either your watch is wrong, or mycroft has miscalculated. and knowing mycroft, i suggest you reset your watch.
i'm rather curious myself as to what is going on in that machiavellian mind of his.
don't worry. she's perfectly safe with mrs. hudson.
to see mr. mycroft holmes.
jamaican, no doubt -- either tropical or golosina -- i'm not quite sure.
and how are you, mycroft? how's your gout?
why are you wasting this precious stuff on us?
in the same town, perhaps -- but not the same world.
yes, i am.
i'd be grateful for any suggestion --
any particular reason?
the diogenes club, of course.
i have always suspected that there was some underground connection between this stodgy and seemingly calcified establishment and the foreign office in whitehall.
it seems to me that the diogenes club is here, there and everywhere. when there are rumblings of revolt in the sudan, an expedition subsidized by your club conveniently shows up to study the source of the nile. when there is trouble along the indian frontier, some of your fellow members pop up in the himalayas, alledgedly looking for the abominable snowman.
why don't you crumple it up and swallow it -- to make sure.
in other words, you want me to stay within my limits.
speaking of limits, what exactly is jonah limited?
by whose authority?
a pleasure, as always.
watson, what does the word glennahurich suggest to you?
it's scottish.
and like all scottish names, it's really a word picture. glen means valley, na means of the, and hurich, if memory serves me, means yew tree.
so the three boxes go to the valley of the yew tree.
open the door.
don't shoot, mrs. hudson -- you're liable to lose two excellent tenants.
you'll be relieved to know it was not loaded.
let's just say i know what the next step will be.
i want you to pack your things.
at 7:30 this evening, dr. watson and i are going to take you to victoria station, and put you on the boat-train.
are you quite finished? if you recall, what i said was that we're going to put you on the boat-train -- i didn't say you were going to stay on it.
at 7:30, mr. holmes and dr. watson will be seen waving goodbye to madame valladon at victoria station. at eight-twelve, mr. and mrs. ashdown accompanied by their valet john -- -- will appear at euston station, and board the highland express to inverness.
that's not necessary.
as you like to put it in your chronicles, the game is afoot.
all right. you can look now.
not at all. would it surprise you if i told you i once spent the night with 121 women?
on a very interesting case -- in a harem in constantinople.
what did you say?
oh.
the good doctor is constantly putting words into my mouth.
not at all. i am not a whole-hearted admirer of womankind.
the most affectionate woman i ever knew was a murderess.
it was one of those passionate affairs -- at odd hours -- right in my laboratory. and all the time, behind my back, she was stealing cyanide to sprinkle on her husband's steak and kidney pie.
of course not. only the ones i was involved with. and i don't just mean professionally -- kleptomaniacs, nymphomaniacs, pyromaniacs. take my fiancee, for instance --
she was the daughter of my violin teacher -- we were engaged to be married -- the invitations were out, i was being fitted for a tail-coat -- and twenty-four hours before the wedding, she died of influenza.
it just proves my contention that women are unreliable and not to be trusted. good night, mrs. ashdown.
how do you get to glennahurich? how far is it?
why not?
i would think so.
sad -- and rather odd. there are no flowers -- and no mourners.
morning.
working you hard, dad?
what happened?
local people?
what do you believe?
here you are, dad.
it would appear not.
because it's their brothers who have just been buried.
and they're not boys. they're as tall as they'll ever grow. hand me some pebbles, will you?
boys with the faces of old men.
would it help if i told you they were acrobats?
do you remember a tumbling act -- six brothers -- missing from the circus?
some of us are cursed with memories like flypaper. and stuck there is a staggering of miscellaneous date, mostly useless.
quite. the question now is -- who's in the third grave?
hand me that lantern.
obviously. what is not so obvious is why his wedding ring has turned green --
-- and why there are three dead canaries in the coffin. white canaries.
thank you.
may i have your wedding ring, please?
just as i thought. there is a distinct difference in color between your ring and your husband's. which leads me to believe that the cause of death was not drowning.  i wish you would stop that. stop it!
i know it's not easy. but you must remember that we're that nice couple from london, on holiday in the highlands.
that's much better.
now, if i may proceed without further interruptions --
you saw what?
what did you see?
the monster?
i see nothing.
gone? maybe it was never there.
watson, as you so succinctly put it, we are living in the nineteenth century --
monsieur valladon may have been found in the lake -- but he did not drown. he died of asphyxiation.
there is only one substance that can turn a copper ring green and bleach the color out of canaries -- chlorine gas.
a figment of your imagination. now let us be logical. the only concrete lead we have is the reference to the castle -- the question is, which castle?
am i?
would you like some cranberry sauce, dear?
would you pass the cranberry sauce, please, john?
quite.
what is it, dear? what's the matter?
why, indeed? let's go.
when rebuffed at the front door, one's only choice is to try the tradesmen's entrance.
are you the guide here?
what are they doing?
too bad. i particularly wanted my wife to see urquhart castle. the tower is one of the most interesting examples of -- about 1400, wasn't it?
let me see -- was it built under james the second or james the third?
thank you.
pleasant, but ignorant. he was off one hundred years and one james. it's actually 1500 and james the fourth.
if he's an official guide.
listen.  do you hear anything, watson?
they're not just birds -- they're our old friends.
to a graduate chemist it makes a great deal of sense. sulphuric acid, when exposed to salt-water, produces chlorine gas. would you mind clasping your hands, watson?
a little lower.  thank you.
that tower may be more interesting than i thought -- and not just architecturally.
if necessary.
quick, watson. after it!
keep rowing, dammit!
we've lost it.
quiet.
do you have your stethoscope with you?
i can hear something.
it's getting closer -- closer --
are you all right?
where's watson?
watson?
i don't think it will. look!
not really. my guess is that the monster, after a hard day's work, has returned home for his supper.
it's nothing new, actually. we've come across this situation before.
at the ballet.
there's a lake -- and there's a castle -- and there's a swan that isn't really a swan -- or, in this case, a monster that isn't really a monster --
what is it indeed that feeds on canary birds and sulphuric acid, and has an engine for a heart?
the stethoscope is a very sensitive instrument, and water is an excellent conductor of sound. there is no doubt that what we are dealing with is a mechanical monster.
not only is it equipped with an artificial heart, it also has artificial lungs. judging from the bubbles on the surface of the lake, it uses some form of air pump.
yes, madame valladon. i'm sure of it.
not very likely.
i think i have a pretty good notion of what they're up to -- the society for the preservation of scottish monuments -- better known as the diogenes club.
come in.
a bottle of champagne? i didn't order it.
instructions from whom? deliver it where?
are you sure you have the right mr. ashdown?
well, watson, i would say the curtain is going up on the last act.
who's minding the castle?
where are we going? some sort of party?
who's the host?
the red runner, i presume.
1886 -- not a very good vintage, is it?
interesting -- and educational.
sorry to be so unobliging. e. valladon.  h'mm.
speaking about things floating in the lake --
i think you're testing some sort of underwater craft -- camouflauged to mislead the gullible. i think it's an experimental model, operated by a crew of midgets. i think it is powered by sulphuric acid batteries, and uses canaries to detect escaping gas.  altogether a strange contraption.
what does the good book say? "and jonah lived in the belly of that fish for three days and three nights."
and at least one error.
so you had them buried in unmarked graves, to preserve your secret.
you went to all those lengths to prevent madame valladon from fiding her husband?
and madame valladon -- what part did she play in all this?
dead?
go on.
i'm afraid it was rather negligible, your majesty.
thank you, ma'am.
in a manner of speaking, ma'am.
i hope never, ma'am. it has not been one of my more successful endeavors.
you know -- to see the fist --
well, mycroft, it seems we have both been undone by a woman. what a shame.
give it to them?
and how are you going to arrange that?
sorry about that. but as long as you're up -- what is the german word for castle? schloss, isn't it?
and how would you say under the castle? unter das schlss? or die schloss?
your trappist friends are out there waiting to hear from you -- it's a chilly morning -- we don't want to keep them standing around too long, do we, fraulein hoffmanstal? come now. it's too late to play cat and mouse.
thank you. here's your signalling device -- it's a bit damp, i'm afraid -- would you care to let them know where they can find the submersible? no? then i'll just have to do it myself. i only hope my morse code is adequate to the occasion.
well, it's up to the good monks now. you can consider your part of the mission accomplished, fraulein hoffmanstal.
it isn't?
i stand corrected.
it's more amusing than that. once in the castle, they will encounter surprisingly little resistance -- it will take but a small bottle of chloroform to overcome the guards.
better than that. we're going to let them have the submersible. they will find it with its engines running, all set to go. i assume they're all expert sailors? and since there is a german battleship cruising off the coast of scotland, i expect they'll try to sail it out of the lock and rendezvous at sea.
i would suggest you get your things together. mycroft will be here to take you into custody.
let me see -- not quite that soon.
close enough.
we all have occasional failures. fortunately, dr. watson never writes about mine.
it was out there. now it's gone.
forever. look for yourself.
that's all that's left of h.m.s. jonah.
it would seem that somebody carelessly loosened the bolts of the submersible. what a fitting end for trappists -- now they are resting in eternal silence at the bottom of the lake.
and better than some consulting detectives.
i appreciate that, watson.
anyway, i don't think she'd care to have this story spread all over strand magazine.
quiet. i'm trying to read a personal message.
auf wiedersehn.
h'mmm. a letter from the diogenes club.
if only to have the distinct pleasure of blackballing his brother.
where is it, watson?
you're getting better.