Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 105, December 30, 1893.

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

PORTRAIT OF MR. "MINCE-PIE,"

THE M.P. for Christmas.

THE ADVENTURES OF PICKLOCK HOLES.

(By Cunnin Toil.)

No. VII.—THE STOLEN MARCH.

(Continued.)

As soon as we entered the drawing-room all the little Gumpshons clapped their hands with delight, and surrounded their Uncle Picklock, each of them attempting to infer from the expression on the great detective's countenance what it was that he carried in his left coat-tail pocket. "I know what it is," said Edgar Allan Poe Gumpshon, a boy of fifteen; "it's plum-cake. I know it must be, because I never seed it, so it ain't seed-cake." Gaboriau Gumpshon, aged thirteen, opined it was a packet of bull's-eyes, "'cos that's what detectives always carry on dark nights," whilst Ann Radcliffe Gumpshon declared with certainty that it must be nuts, for she had just heard a cracker explode in the street. "Children," said Picklock Holes, "you are nearly right. Your powers have much improved. I am delighted to see that you are kept up to the mark;" and, speaking thus, he produced from his pocket an apple, which he presented to Edgar, a pocket-knife which he handed to the jubilant Gaboriau, and a pincushion, which was immediately clasped and carried off in the chubby hand of little Ann Radcliffe. "A year ago," said Picklock, turning to me, "these children could not have reasoned inductively with one half of their present approximate accuracy; but my dear sister, Heaven bless her! is a wonderful teacher, the best and cleverest of us all. Indeed, indeed you are, Philippa," he continued, warmly embracing Mrs. Gumpshon. "I am a mere bungler compared to you. But come, let us to business." At a signal from Lady Holes the happy children trooped off to bed, and we elders were left alone.

Sir Aminadab opened the conversation. "I sent for you, my dear boy," he said, "because I have just received from one of my agents in the North information of an important case which demands immediate investigation. Neither Hayloft nor Skairkrow can go, having business that keeps them in London. I look, therefore, to you to cover the family name with new lustre by solving this extraordinary mystery." Here the old man paused, as though overcome by emotion. Picklock encouraged him with an expressive look, and he continued:—

"This morning," he said, "I received from my agent this letter." He drew a sheet of paper from his breast-pocket, and read, in tremulous tones, as follows:—

"'Tochtachie Castle, Daffshire.

"'Sir,—Lord Tochtachie has been robbed. I overheard him last night conversing with the Hon. Ian Strunachar, his eldest son, who used the following words: "Not a doubt of it. They have stolen a march——" More I could not hear at the moment. The case is of immense importance, and I trust you will lose no time in sending a competent investigator. I have, of course, concealed both my presence here and my knowledge of the theft from his lordship.

"'Yours faithfully,

'David McPhizzle.'"

"There, my boy, is the case. Will you go and help a Scotch representative peer to recover his own? Think how terrible it must be to lose the march or boundary that separates your ancestral domain from that of a neighbour whose whole course of life may be antipathetic to you. Will you go?"

A wave of emotion passed over my friend's face. I could see that a struggle of no ordinary kind was raging in his breast. Finally, however, he looked at me, and his mind, I knew, was made up. In another ten minutes we had bidden adieu to his family, and were speeding northwards in the Scotch express.

Over the details of the journey it is not necessary to linger. Suffice it to say that on the following morning we arrived at Tochtachie, and took up our quarters in a deserted barn situated in the very centre of the estate. From this point we pursued our investigations. Our first proceeding was to interview the local constabulary, but we found them as obtuse and as foolishly incredulous as policemen are all the world over. One of them, indeed, went so far as to hint that Holes was "havering," which I understand to be an ancient Gaelic word signifying metaphysical talk, but a look from the great detective chilled him into silence. Day by day we worked, and not even the night gave us a rest from our self-sacrificing labours. We mapped out the whole district into square yards; we gathered the life-history of every single inhabitant on the estate; we left no clue untracked, no loophole unblocked, no single piece of evidence unexamined, no footstep unmeasured. We collected every scrap of torn letter, every crumpled telegram-form. The very heather of the moor, and the trees growing in the policies of the Castle were compelled by Holes' marvellous inductive powers to yield to us their secrets, until after weeks of patient toil we at last judged ourselves to be in possession not only of the stolen march, but also of evidence that would bring conviction home to the guilty party. We had paused, I remember, by a heap of granite at the roadside. Holes seemed strangely excited. "A march," I heard him muttering, "is performed by footsteps; steps are often made of stone. Can this be it? It must be! It is!" Then, with a shout of triumph, he gave orders to have the heap loaded on to a country cart, which was to follow us to the Castle.

We arrived in the great courtyard at about seven o'clock in the evening. Holes slipped from my side, entered the house, and after a few moments returned to my side. We then clanged the bell, and demanded to see his lordship. In a few moments Lord Tochtachie appeared, surrounded by kilted retainers, bearing torches, and intoning in unison the mournful sporan of the clan. It was a weird and awful sight. But Holes, unemotional as ever, advanced at once to the haughty Scotchman, before whose eye half a county was accustomed to tremble, and, without any ado, addressed him thus: "My Lord, your march has been stolen. Nay, do not interrupt me. Your guards are careless, but not criminal—of that I can assure you. Here is the stolen property; I restore it to you without cost." At this moment the cart rumbled up, and ere the peer had time to utter a word, it had discharged its contents into the middle of the yard. Holes went on, but in a lower voice, so as to be heard only by Lord Tochtachie: "The guilty party, my Lord, is your honoured father-in-law. He dare not, he cannot, deny it. He is, I know, blind and deaf and dumb. These qualities do not, however, exclude the possibility of crime. I have just found these pieces of granite in his morning-room. The proof is complete."

At this moment a shot was heard in the Castle, and directly afterwards a frightened butler rushed up to his