He went on without missing a beat. “They opened the chest wherein I lay. Assuming I was dead because I was ice cold, they searched the room until they discovered the tin box containing my diamonds and my invaluable identification papers.”

  “And how did they find the secret compartment in the brick wall?” I inquired.

  “Because the aged intruder had a brilliant skill set nearly matching my own. Since the laboratory has not been thoroughly ransacked, as an unskillful thief would have done, I recognized immediately that this was no average intruder, but one who instinctively understood I would not have left any valuables tucked onto a back shelf or even in an obvious safe. Nor did these thieves accidentally stumble upon the secret entrance through the wine rack into the laboratory. This old man and his young accomplice were nefarious people with ill intent. They were on a mission to find me and were well aware that I would have scrupulously secreted anything of monetary or other significant value. So, the old goat must have thought as I had: Where does one best hide an egg?”

  “Uh . . .” He had lost me. I was missing the connection.

  “One hides an egg among many other eggs . . . or in this case, bricks—in the wall.” Holmes’ eyes darkened, his jaw set, expressing frustration but also a grudging admiration for the old man. “He was clearly a highly skilled individual.” Pausing, he pondered that a moment. “He might even have been a worthy adversary.”

  “Except that he’d be long dead by now,” I noted.

  “Actually, Winslow, he was dead just moments after he found my tin box.”

  “What?”

  “He and the boy lit a torch, were about to set the place afire and leave, when they were surprised by a man about five feet ten inches tall with red hair.”

  Mrs. Hudson gasped, then whispered, “Yes! My husband!”

  I looked sharply at her, stunned.

  But to the crypt-keeper relating this fantastic tale it was all very matter of fact.

  “So I supposed. The old man drew a pistol.” The storyteller was on a roll now, saying to Mrs. Hudson, “Your husband scuffled with him until the old man was bludgeoned from behind with a wine bottle by a woman of approximately your height.”

  Mrs. Hudson looked stricken, glancing at me with a guilty expression before turning back to him and nodding in stupefaction. I realized my own jaw was beginning to slacken. Our gazes returned to this apparition in the wheelchair as he continued.

  “The old man fell, striking his head against the brick abutment near the floor, dying instantly.”

  I looked at Mrs. Hudson for confirmation. Her voice was barely audible, “Yes.”

  As much as I tried to resist, I found myself getting drawn into this strange man’s astonishing tale and was also becoming increasingly curious about Mrs. Hudson’s own history.

  “During the fracas, the bad boy bolted, running awkwardly and slicing open a nasty wound on the back of his right hand.” He looked at Mrs. Hudson. “You and your husband saw my ‘corpse,’ but finding no identification and never having met Captain Basil personally, feared opening a rather distressing and prosecutable hornet’s nest. So you left the old man’s body in the secret chamber for a few days.”

  Mrs. Hudson stared blankly as he went on. “When no police came around to investigate, you removed the old man from the site of his demise and buried him. Then you resealed the chamber, bricking up the edges.”

  White as a sheet, Mrs. Hudson’s mouth was agape. “That’s . . . that’s exactly the way it happened!”

  I looked at her, aghast, and found myself stammering, “But . . . but even if that’s all true,” I turned to the ragged, wild-haired man, “how could you have possibly pieced it all together after poking around that laboratory for only five minutes?”

  “It was about eight and three-quarter minutes,” he corrected, then sighed. “Wir sind gewohnt dass die Menschen verhöhnen was sie nicht verstehen. Goethe was pithy, wasn’t he?” Then, as if to enlighten a schoolgirl, he began, “Goethe, you see, was—”

  “A brilliant German writer, thank you,” I said archly, “but Ich spreche kein Deutsch.”

  “Ah. Then I shall translate: ‘We are accustomed to the mockery of what they do not understand.’” He stared at me as though I were a fool for not recognizing and revering his august reputation. “And ‘piecing together’ a crime, solving a mystery—that, my dear doctor, is what I do. It is my trade.” I stared a moment longer and was about to speak when he was off again, summing it all up. “So, the bad boy who stole my papers and valuables would now be a dishonorable man of about seventy-two, who walks awkwardly and has a scar on the back of his right hand.”

  I was still staring. “Dishonorable because . . . ?”

  “Oh come, come!” he blurted. “Because he never reported the crime! Or returned the stolen valuables. And his ambulatory awkwardness results from his club foot.”

  I shook my head and laughed again. “After sixty years, how could you guess all that?”

  “I never guess!” He bristled and practically jumped down my throat. “Guesswork is a shocking habit, destructive to the logical faculty. And the prospect of being your patient would fill me with concern, Doc-tor. Do you guess rather than observe?”

  I was startled, insulted, and angry. But as I was drawing a breath to defend myself, he abruptly jumped to his feet, swayed for a moment to find his balance, and headed for the laboratory with a grunt. “Oh, very well, so you can begin to comprehend my methods.”

  Mrs. Hudson and I exchanged a concerned glance. She was chewing her upper lip and still looked exceedingly abashed. Myself, I was more than curious to see this peculiar man prove how he could have deduced all that information—if only so I could find fault with it and poke holes in his surly, annoying self-confidence. His snide comments had gotten my dander up.

  His egoism was bolstered by the renewed vigor of his physicality. Seeming to have overcome his wobbliness temporarily, he walked straight-backed and chin up with an almost military bearing. Indeed, if there was ever a man of whom it could be said, both physically and character-wise, “He had a broomstick up his ass,” it was him.

  There were many times to come when I gladly would have shoved it there myself.

  We reentered the secret laboratory, and he assumed the role of an impatient, oh-so-clever tour guide. “I realize of course that some of this may be difficult for your mind to fathom.”

  I muttered dryly, “No shit . . . Hubert.”

  “One must not only see, Doctor, one must ob-serve.” He held up his magnifying glass to emphasize the point. “Before commencing my lengthy slumber, I carefully swept the floor of the laboratory clean, so any items that are now upon it have accumulated since. Particularly,” his eyes brightened, “the dust!”

  There was certainly a lot of that. Everywhere. On everything. He moved to one side, an errant cobweb catching in his stringy, matted hair. Pointing toward a shelf, he said, “You can easily see that the undisturbed dust on the shelf there is of a certain thickness.” I could. “That thickness equals an accumulation of one hundred and twenty-three years. But here”—he knelt and indicated a spot on the floor—“is a footprint with an accumulation of dust only half as thick as that which is undisturbed, hence the footprint was made about sixty years ago. The same half-thickness occurs on the books that were thrown down at that time, confirming my hypothesis.”

  He had a point, but I wasn’t about to give in so easily. “Alright, but—”

  He gestured for me to keep quiet and look more closely. “In one of these footprints can be observed a dried peony petal, and in this Marin County clime, peonies blossom only in June, therefore specifying the approximate month in which the crime took place. This other set of footprints I indicate here was made by a man who shuffled slightly, indicating advancing age—the old man of whom I spoke. His advanced years are further evidenced by his use of a cane. See the cane marks in the dust?”

  Well, yes, I did. “But ‘stoop-shouldered’?”

  He rose to his full height while showing irritation at the slowness of my wit, then demonstrated, assuming a slouching posture. “The cane of a stoop-shouldered man will come to rest ahead of his feet because his curved back puts his shoulders and arms forward!”

  I had observed enough elderly patients to realize that he was correct once again. He sniffed, saying, “The rest is quite obvious to even the most casual observer.” He pointed over my head. “The blackened circle on the ceiling right above you indicates a torch was lighted. Indeed, its remnants can be seen, stomped out, over there.” He pointed, and I saw the blackened fibers. He steamed onward. “These larger footprints indicate the entrance of a man about five feet ten inches: the late Mr. Hudson. I deduced his height from the length of his stride. Was he not five feet ten inches, Mrs. Hudson?”

  “Exactly,” she said with a rasp. I could tell that her mouth was dry.

  Again he knelt, identifying something I hadn’t seen. “This tuft of red hair where the old man fell indicates he grabbed Mr. Hudson by the hair, pulling out some of it, and their struggle is evidenced by their intermingled footprints. Are you getting the idea, Wats—er, Winslow?”

  I could only nod my head, overwhelmed.

  “Alright.” He scooted slightly to one side. “Now here is a much smaller footprint, and near it a hairpin exactly like the one Mrs. Hudson is wearing in her hair today.” He held up a distinctive, very old-fashioned hairpin to Mrs. Hudson, whose own wrinkled hand reflexively lifted to touch an identical one in her white hair.

  “And here are fragments of the wine bottle Mrs. Hudson had taken from among its fellows there in the wine rack and broken over the head of the old man.” Now he stood and pointed up to the hanging metal lampshade he had examined while so ridiculously perched atop the stool earlier. “Had she been any taller, she would’ve struck this hanging metal lampshade, which is undented.” He tapped it twice, wiggling his eyebrows, delighted with himself.

  I glanced at Mrs. Hudson for confirmation. Her eyes told me this speculation was also true. When I looked back, our tour guide to murder was kneeling by the bricks at one end of the copper sarcophagus.

  “Here fell the evil old man, having drawn but not fired his pistol. The outline of the pistol is seen in the dust. The dust also tells us that he made no further movement—therefore, dying instantly, as I stated. He was dragged away several days later—see the scuff marks over here?”

  I nodded blankly. They were indisputably visible.

  “The passage of a few days is indicated by the fact that much blood had time to be absorbed into the porous brick floor.” He looked sharply at our host, “Mrs. Hudson, did the dead man have any identification?”

  She drew a nervous breath and appeared sorry that she had to report “No, sir.” This gave only a moment’s frustrated pause to the odd gentleman, who moved to the large copper sarcophagus before beckoning me closer.

  “The top edge of the chest wherein I laid has four distinct sets of fingerprints. They represent the old man, the bad boy, and Mr. and Mrs. Hudson.” He looked me in the eye. “Do you recall Mrs. Hudson’s comment today when she first saw me?”

  I realized and reluctantly repeated, “It is him!”

  “Correct. Confirming that she had indeed seen me before.” Then he turned and strode back toward the secret entrance into the chamber. “This new brickwork along the seam of the wine rack is clearly of later construction than the rest of the house—therefore, added by Mr. and Mrs. Hudson. Careful inspection of this exposed nail”—he held his glass down to magnify for me the designated nail—“shows an accumulation of skin, dried blood, and a tiny piece of blue material from his shirt. The escaping boy held the tin box by its sides in front of him, like this.” He mimed holding such a box. “He gouged a serious wound on the back of his right hand.”

  By now I was nearly breathless, sputtering, “And . . . ‘clubfooted’?”

  He threw his head back, exasperated by my stubborn stupidity. “Ob-serve! Look at the boy’s footprints: the right one is curved in and under. Your diagnosis, Doc-tor, must be . . . ?”

  “Uh, yes. CTEV,” I said. When Mrs. Hudson glanced at me for clarification, I added, “Congenital talipes equinovarus. Deformity. Clubfooted.”

  “Brava, Winslow!” he positively sneered. “Brava! Is it not rewarding to use the senses the Almighty gave us?” He drew a deep breath, looking at our host. “Now then, Mrs. Hudson, might there be any mail for Captain Basil?”

  She looked surprised that he would know to ask. “Why yes, sir, that there is!”

  She bustled away, and he followed, leaving me alone and standing in the secret doorway. My mind was reeling. Could he possibly be who he said he was? No. That was ridiculous. But after the dazzling display I had just witnessed, I found myself wondering. How could he not be? My own powers of deduction were completely jumbled.

  I quickly went upstairs and watched him approach the arched entrance to the charming Victorian sitting room where early afternoon light was now beaming in through tall leaded-glass windows. His gait was slightly off again, like someone trying to find his sea legs aboard a rocking ship.

  The semi-mummified gentleman proceeded through the archway, apparently glimpsing something that made him jump and utter a startled yelp. It was his own horrific reflection in a mirror just inside the door. He cleared his throat and recomposed himself while still working to find his balance. I could tell he was trying to mask his embarrassment and hoped no one had witnessed this brief moment of surprise. And vulnerability.

  As I entered the sitting room, again I drew a breath, recalling Mrs. Hudson offering me ownership of the estate. My eyes were drawn longingly to the mahogany bookshelf wall filled with many leatherbound volumes. I knew that many of my favorites must be among them, and I had a moment of yearning for my earlier fireplace fantasy of living there—shortly before life had become weirdly complicated by the appearance of this odd Englishman.

  I saw that Mrs. Hudson was still limping slightly from her twisted ankle as she crossed the inviting room to the vintage rolltop desk, and I wondered aloud, “How did the intruders get into your house that day, Mrs. Hudson, without you knowing?”

  She looked back at me, saying, “They must have taken note of our regular Saturday night dates.” A sweet smile brightened her face at the memory. “For dinner and a little dancing. That particular night was our anniversary, June nineteenth, and the peonies had just blossomed.”

  “Indeed they had,” Holmes said matter-of-factly. “Like clockwork.” He shot me a haughty glance to emphasize his previous assertion that the laboratory break-in had taken place in June.

  Mrs. Hudson’s expression clouded over. “When we returned that night, we realized that someone had been searching through our rooms, then we heard them in the cellar.” She lifted the cover, which rolled up and revealed a desktop with a wide, brown leather writing area set into the wood. Two inkwells were in evidence, and there were several pigeonholes and small drawers of varying sizes stacked up at the back. Mrs. Hudson opened one of the drawers and carefully withdrew a single yellowed envelope, holding it out to her cellar resident. “This was the only letter, sir. Dougy’s grandfather showed him where it was kept, but it’s never been opened.”

  He took it with some urgency, but his three-inch fingernails frustrated his efforts to open it. After trying for a moment, he impatiently thrust the envelope my way. I stared at the front of it in some confusion. “It’s postmarked London, twenty-six October 1899.”

  “Yes.” He was slightly bemused. “Posted on my birthday, actually. And it would have arrived on these shores shortly after I began my hibernation.” He gestured impatiently for me to open it. “Do get on with it.”

  Very carefully, I unsealed the envelope and withdrew the fragile epistle from within. He had moved slowly away from me, around the room, gently touching various items. For the first time I saw a softer, more serene side of him as his long, thin fingers carefully touched the back of an 1890s chair, then a lamp, then the white queen of a marble chess set. It was as though he were greeting old friends of whom he was very fond. He sensed my eyes upon him, looked up, and raised his overgrown eyebrows, indicating for me to read the letter.

  I looked at the handwriting on the thin, century-old paper. The penmanship was graceful, evidence of a more elegant, lettered age than our own. Taking a hesitant breath, I began to read: “‘I hope you don’t ever again know such despair.’” I glanced up at him, but his face betrayed no emotion, and I resumed my oration, “‘If you do, this letter perhaps will help you reach some peace. You always managed before when troubled. You can again. Slumber, rest yourself but also remember H and naturally M send support. Is there anyone in all of America whom you take as friend? Care for yourself.’ And it’s signed . . . ‘My’?”

  He smiled. “Mycroft. My brother.” Then, for the first time, a tiny crack appeared in his tightly composed veneer as he realized, “My . . . late . . . brother.”

  His eyes grew distant as he seemed to reflect on the loss of his brother—and of all he had known in the past, if one was to believe his phenomenal tale. Then he snapped back into the moment. “Well! This, of course, explains everything!”

  He eagerly rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened as he came around the velvet tufted chair, sat down in it, and elegantly crossed his legs as though he were wearing formal afternoon clothes instead of tattered, foul-smelling, mummy rags. “The old man with the cane was Henry Moriarty, come to avenge the death of his despicable older brother, James Moriarty, who had died by my hand. It obviously took Henry sixty years, but he had finally tracked down my resting place. Even in his dotage old Henry clearly maintained the keen instincts and thievery skills of a Moriarty, all carefully honed and still razor sharp.”

  He put his fingertips together in what I would later recognize as one of his characteristic poses when pondering a situation. At this particular moment, however, with those three-inch nails, he reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the West.