Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 105, December 23, 1893.

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

THE ADVENTURES OF PICKLOCK HOLES.

(By Cunnin Toil.)

No. VII.—THE STOLEN MARCH.

I think I have already mentioned in the course of the articles which I have consecrated to the life and exploits of Picklock Holes that this extraordinary man was unmarried. There was some mystery about certain love-making episodes in the early stages of his career which nothing could induce him to talk about. If I ever chanced to mention the subject of matrimony in his presence, a hard, metallic look came over his features, and his lips closed with the tightness and vehemence of a pair of handcuffs. Naturally, I was not encouraged by these symptoms to pursue the matter. However, from what I have since been able to glean from other sources, I think I am justified in saying that Holes was at one time, while quite a young man, engaged to the daughter of an eminent church dignitary, a charming girl who united good looks to a comfortable balance at her bankers. One morning, however, Holes, whose mind was constantly occupied in the solution of deep and complex psychological problems, suddenly startled Miss Bellasys by informing her that from certain indications he had concluded that she had two large moles on the upper portion of her left shoulder-blade. It was in vain that the unfortunate girl protested with tears in her eyes that she was ignorant of this disfigurement; that, as a matter of fact, she had the best reason for believing that no such moles existed, and that, if they did, it was not her fault, but must be due to a momentary oversight on the part of her nurse, a woman of excellent character and sound church principles. Holes was, as usual, inexorable.

"My dearest Annabella," he observed, "I am never mistaken. Within the last ten minutes while I have been discussing with you my new theory of clues I have noticed your left eye—the right I cannot see—slowly close twice, while at the same moment your head drooped on to your left shoulder. Thus you were twice blind on the left side. Moles, as we learn, not merely from books on natural history, but from our own observation, are blind. You have, therefore, two moles on your left shoulder. The fact is indisputable."

Terrified by this convincing demonstration, poor Miss Bellasys released the great detective from his engagement, and retired shortly afterwards from the world to enrol herself in the ranks of a nursing sisterhood.

These, I believe, are the facts connected with my friend's only engagement, and I merely state them here in order that the deeply-interesting story of his life may be as complete as laborious and accurate research on my part can make it. It is perhaps not to be wondered at that the man should have been to some extent soured by the tragic termination of a love affair which seemed full of the promise of happiness for all concerned.

But it must not be supposed that the life of Picklock Holes was entirely destitute of the domestic joys. He would often tell me when we met again after an interval during which he had disappeared from my ken that he had been giving the old folks at home a turn, and that he felt himself in a measure reinvigorated by the simple and trusting affection lavished upon him by his family circle. I gathered that this consisted of his father and mother, Sir Aminadab and Lady Holes, his two younger brothers, curiously named Hayloft and Skairkrow Holes, his widowed sister, Mrs. Gumpshon, with various children of all ages left as pledges of affection by the late Colonel Gumpshon of the Saltshire Bays, as gallant an officer as ever cleft the head of an Afghan or lopped an Egyptian in two. Often had I felt, though I had been far too discreet to express it openly, an ardent desire to become acquainted with a family which, if I might judge by my friend Picklock, must be one of the most remarkable in the world for brain power and keen intelligence. My wish was to be gratified sooner than I looked for.

One evening, as Holes and I were sitting in my bachelor rooms in Belgrave Square, there came a sudden knock at the door. We were smoking, and I remember that Holes had just been explaining to me that it was customary to infer an assassin from the odour of Trichinopoly, whilst a Cabana denoted a man of luxurious habits and unbridled passions. From Bird's-eye tobacco a direct line of induction, he said, brought one to a Cabinet Minister, whilst Cavendish in its uncut stage led to a mixture of a smuggler, a Methodist minister, and a club-proprietor in reduced circumstances. I was marvelling at the singular acumen of the man when, as I say, there came a tap at the door, which interrupted our discussions. The door then slowly opened, and a small female child, of a preternaturally sharp expression, slid, as it were, inductively into the room. It was the youthful Isabel Gumpshon, one of Holes's nieces. "All right, Isabel," said the great detective, "we will come with you;" and in another moment a swift four-wheeler was conveying us to Fitzjohn's Avenue, where Sir Aminadab and his lady had their dwelling-place.

No sooner had we arrived than I felt that we were indeed in a home of mystery, to which the Egyptian Hall of Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke was a mere baby. There was in the air a heavy odour of detection, a sort of clinging mist of inductive argument, a vaporous emanation of crimes logically discovered and inferentially revealed, a pervading miasma of obtuse police-inspectors relieved by complimentary magistrates and eulogistic judges. The description may seem highly-coloured, but it represents with literal accuracy the impression made upon my mind by my entrance into the ancestral mansion of the Holes family. Nor was this impression removed as we ascended the stairs. On the first landing we found Mrs. Gumpshon engaged in teaching her youngest boy, Augustus O'Brien Gumpshon, a correct system of guess-work. The boy, a bright little fellow of five, was at that moment in disgrace. He had courageously attempted to guess his mother's age, and having in an excess of rashness fixed the figure at forty-two, he had been severely punished, and was at that moment languishing in a corner of the landing. In the drawing-room we found the rest of the family. Sir Aminadab, it appeared, had murdered the footman some ten minutes before our arrival, and had contrived by the aid of a pair of blood-stained braces, which were one of his most cherished possessions, to fix the guilt upon Lady Holes, in whose basket-trunk, moreover, the dismembered body of the unfortunate menial had been discovered by the cook. The ingenuity of this diabolical plot had for some nine minutes baffled the whole family. Lady Holes was just about to resign herself to the inevitable arrest, when Hayloft Holes, with an appearance of calm nonchalance, eminently suited to his impassive features, had produced from his father's waistcoat pocket two of the unfortunate footman's