Looking through the folded, yellowing documents in the despatch box belonging to Sherlock Holmes, I often find myself reminiscing about the cases my good friend and I undertook all those years ago. Many are remarkably interesting, others simply astounding. One case that has, until now, remained unwritten is the curious case of the West End gourmet. I can recall that case as if it were yesterday, when Holmes stood by the embers of the autumn fire playing his violin in the quiet times between cases.

"What are you playing, Holmes?" I asked.

"It is a small section of Beethoven I have fashioned for the solo violin," he explained enthusiastically, "Normally it is played by the whole orchestra, but I fancy that I can do the passage justice. Also, my relaxed demeanour might encourage our latest guest to ring the doorbell and request our services!"

I turned to look out of the window and, sure enough, a long grey-coated man stood there gingerly, waiting for the right moment to knock on the door. His umbrella waved in the heavy rainstorm that splattered down out of the sky, drowning his dignity in the pale moonlight. Mrs Hudson entered carrying a tray of tea and biscuits which she planted on the table near to the fire.

"I see we have a visitor," I remarked as she turned to leave.

"He's been there all evening, Dr Watson," she replied, "Normally I would go out there and invite him in, but Mr Holmes said I should wait until he has plucked up the courage to ring the bell himself."

At that exact moment the bell rang and all around breathed a sigh of relief.

"Well I never, Mr Holmes!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed as she started towards the main door, "He'll have caught his death in the time he's spent standing in that downpour. I'll fetch him a cup for some tea as well!"

"You do that, Mrs Hudson," Holmes agreed, "I think with the amount of thinking he has done he will be telling his tale for quite some time."

We waited in anticipation for the sound of the foot on the stair, just prior to our visitor entering the room. Finally he stood there, dripping from head to toe in soaked clothing as he blundered about, looking for somewhere to put himself. Finally he came to rest before the two of us.

"Which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?" he asked cautiously, as though expecting to be ejected from the building at the first sign of complaint.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my trusty companion Dr Watson, please pull up a chair and be seated so that you may tell us an account of the tragedy that has befallen your loved one or close relative."

"How could you have deduced that?" asked our visitor, shock lining his deep-set, hard features. He was a well built man with broad shoulders, a figure that would encourage submission and subservience, and yet here he was, bowing and scraping before us like a naughty boy.

"It was quite simple," Holmes replied, "you are carrying a set of gloves that are too small for your own hands, and yet you were holding them tightly and staring at them as you stood at the door before you rang the bell. Since they could not be your own property, they must belong to another who is quite dear to you, presumably the self same person that you wish to save or have cleared of all blame."

"Mr Holmes," our visitor stammered, "My name is John Wilkins and you must help me to save my brother from the gallows!"

There was a moment's silence whilst we digested the news. I looked at Holmes with compassion, and he returned the look with a nod of the head. Holmes indicated the vacant seat again and John Wilkins sat down, a look of shock and worry across his features.

"Please explain the reason for this disastrous turn of events by recounting what you know about the background of the event and the persons involved," Holmes began afresh with an enquiring look on his face, as if expecting the case to explain itself in simple terms as the story unfolded, "I'm sure that your brother is not the guilty party here."

"But all the evidence points towards him," Wilkins explained, "The police have been and had a look and they are convinced that it is him who did it!"

"And where is your brother now?" Asked Holmes.

"Why, he has run away, and cannot be found anywhere in the whole of London!"

Holmes stroked his chin and narrowed his eyes. Ideas were obviously already forming in his mind about the case and the effects his investigations would have upon it.

"I think we had better start at the beginning," I said, and Holmes agreed. "The solution lies in the problem, as my good friend Mr Holmes would agree."

"Very well," Wilkins began with a slight stammer, "I will tell you all I know. My brother works at the Rothschild Restaurant, in the West End of London. It is one of the best restaurants for miles around. In fact, people travel considerable distances to go there and savour the cuisine. My brother was employed there about six months ago, as an assistant chef. He generally does all the chopping and slicing, being left in charge of the knives and the cleavers. He does his job remarkably well, and never wastes any good food or good ingredients. I have eaten there myself and, although expensive, the food is marvellous and the staff work together as a perfect team."

"This all sounds wonderful," Holmes interjected, "but I see no apparent problem."

"The problem is that my brother David and the head chef Marcus Howe did have their disagreements. Normally it was about tidiness. I was there in the kitchen one evening when I witnessed one of the many incidents that took place between them.

"Marcus entered the kitchen and looked around. Everything was neatly stacked and carefully organised in meticulous detail. A place for everything and everything in its place.

"Suddenly the manager entered the room.

" 'Hurry up Marcus,' said Mr Stephens, 'we open in one hour. Better get your ovens heated up and ready.'

" 'Certainly Robert,' Marcus replied, 'I'll have this place ticking over in a flash!'

"Marcus walked over to the work surface and picked up the menu of the day. Fairly soon people would come pouring into the restaurant to order their meals and service had to be quick. A lot of people turned up in suit and tie or dickie bow, with the partners in ball gowns or posh frocks. It was very upmarket.

"Marcus prided himself on his pride and efficiency, but he sometimes wished he could spend a little more time perfecting the food to his own gourmet standards, to get that perfect taste and look. But the neatness and tidiness that he had around him was paramount. Only when everything was neatly arranged and spotlessly clean could he feel at home.

"David stood at the door. Since the restaurant had expanded, more staff were required to meet the demands of the customers. The new boy stood there looking slightly dishevelled and unkempt.

" 'Hello," he said, 'I'm David Wilkins.'

"Marcus shook his hand and introduced himself.

" 'My, this place is tidy!' said David, 'does it ever get used? Don't worry, I'll soon drag this place down to my level.'

"Marcus turned white.

" 'Just a minute,' he growled, 'this place is tidy and it's staying tidy.'

" 'Rubbish!' snorted David, 'it needs messing up a bit.'

"Marcus gritted his teeth and silently returned to slicing the ham. David had certainly got off on the wrong foot with Marcus, who was determined to halt all untidiness in its tracks. Over David's first week, Marcus watched him carefully.

" 'Don't forget to clean that surface when you've finished with it,' he'd say, or, 'Don't forget to put the pans back in the right order!' "

"This is all very interesting," Holmes interrupted after a short pause, "but it doesn't shed too much light on the case at hand."

"I was explaining the character difference between the two men," John Wilkins continued carefully, "it all boils down to the day that Marcus took a day off and left David in charge. Mr Stephens told Marcus, 'Don't worry, the place will still be here when you get back!'

"The rest I have heard from the police, Mr Holmes.

" 'We'll soon drag this place down to my level,' David said again as he watched Marcus leave by the front door.

"When Marcus came back the day after, he went straight to his kitchen. What he saw made his blood boil. The place was the untidiest, messiest kitchen he had ever seen. He doubted he would find anything ever again. Surfaces were dirty, washing up was left undone, fresh meats were stacked next to cooked meats, sinks were still full of dirty washing up water, furniture was scattered about the place and ovens had been left switched on.

" 'We looked after the place alright when you were gone,' David chirped cheerfully.

"Marcus lost his temper and unconsciously grabbed a knife to remonstrate."

"But that sounds as though Marcus is the one to hang," I said confused, "Surely your brother was merely untidy and a bit of a layabout. That's hardly a crime. It may give such a good restaurant grounds to sack him, but surely no worse than that."

"Apparently," Wilkins continued ashen faced, "the body of Marcus Howe was found in the kitchen half an hour later. My brother had vanished and there were no witnesses. The other staff only came back because the sound of the arguments had stopped."

"Do you have any idea where your brother might have run to?" asked Holmes.

"None," replied Wilkins, and bowed his head.

Holmes steepled his fingers and gazed levelly at Wilkins, his eyes beaming with intelligence.

"Mr Wilkins," Holmes spoke softly, "I think I may be able to help your brother after all. I don't think that this case is as clear-cut as it at first looks. There are one or two lines of enquiry that I would like to pursue before we write off David Wilkins as a condemned man."

John Wilkins rose to leave, and clasped Sherlock Holmes by the hand. "As God is my witness, I hope that you can save him," he whispered hoarsely.

Holmes glanced out of the window and then turned to Wilkins sincerely. "It seems that the rain has stopped and you may make your way back to your home address, where I will contact you in due course."

"Naturally, I'll give you my card," Wilkins said, handing over a small piece of light blue paper with his name and address on it. "Should you find anything, please be in touch as soon as humanly possible. It is very important that you prove my brother's innocence in all this."

"It will take a few days," Holmes smiled, "but there will be an answer to the problem, I assure you."

After Wilkins had gone I turned to Holmes with an open mouthed expression, saying, "It all seems such an open and shut case. There is very little to redeem the man after what we have heard. Surely there is no case for us to investigate here."

"Oh, but there is, Watson, there is!" Holmes began filling his pipe, ready to sit down in his armchair to do his thinking. "There are one or two loose ends and clues in all that we have witnessed tonight which indicate that the solution is more obvious and more criminal than even I could at first deduce. Come man, surely you spotted one or two items amiss in all that?"

"No, Holmes, I didn't," I replied.

"But let us not talk about it now," Holmes waved his hand dismissively, "We will begin first thing in the morning by visiting the restaurant in question. Then, I think we will be in a better position to tackle the police over their deductions."

"I don't know how you do it, Holmes," I said, "but you must be onto something!"

Holmes was sat in his armchair, lost in thought. Nothing would shake him out of his reverie until the early hours of the morning when he would be ready to continue his investigations.

The next day, we rose early and headed off towards the West End by hansom cab. It was an uneventful trip, but quick since there was little traffic out at that time.

"I smell a rat," Holmes murmured quietly. If Holmes smelt a rat, he usually found one. With this in mind, I remained silent as Holmes disembarked the cab and paid the driver.

The main door to the restaurant was locked, as it would be at eight o'clock in the morning. Holmes rapped on the door insistently until a serving girl in waitress uniform answered the door.

"Who can be knocking at this time?" she complained, "You're making enough noise to wake the devil himself!"

"I am Mr Sherlock Holmes, and this is my trusty companion Dr Watson. May we enter? We have been asked over to investigate a most terrible crime," Holmes explained.

"By all means," the waitress replied opening the door, "Who are you here to see?"

"We come on behalf of John Wilkins," I replied, "We believe that there is more to be gained from looking at the scene of the crime."

"Have the police disturbed the evidence?" asked Holmes.

"There has been a bit of a tidy up since they left," the waitress stammered. Holmes stamped his foot in annoyance. The waitress continued so as to avoid what could become a scene in such a wealthy area. "You'd better come in."

Holmes and I were admitted into the main foyer of the empty restaurant.

"Is there anybody about who can speak to us about this appalling crime?" asked Holmes, leading the way into the main dining area.

The waitress stepped in front of him to bar his way, saying, "I'll fetch Mr Stephens, the manager, he'll be able to help you."

With that she was gone, leaving us to ponder the mystery further without clues or assistance. A few minutes later, Mr Stephens arrived, his black-rimmed glasses dominating his thin, moustached face.

"How may I help you, gentlemen?" asked Mr Stephens.

"I am Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, Molly told me that much. I believe you wish to see the kitchen where the murder took place," Stephens assumed, indicating the main door into the dining area.

"You are most kind, Sir," Holmes bowed his head in respect.

After a brief trip around the edge of the dining room, we came to a smaller nondescript door set in the middle of the oak panelling. Stephens took a key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. The door swung open to reveal a slightly unkempt kitchen. Although most of the items were neatly arranged, there was a clear indication that certain areas had been touched and interfered with by other hands. Holmes entered the kitchen and looked around. An outline was drawn in chalk on the tiled floor where the body had lain the night before. Holmes began to pace the room, looking closely at certain objects whilst blatantly ignoring others. He opened drawers and cupboards, but continued to move from place to place in a logical and highly organised fashion.

"Anything, yet?" I asked after a good fifteen minutes had passed.

"Whose coat is that?" asked Holmes, pointing at the hat stand in the corner by the tradesman's entrance.

"Well, I'm not sure," Stephens looked surprised, "I could check for you."

"If you would," Holmes smiled and then swept the offending article off the stand and studied it in more detail.

"Does it tell you anything?" I enquired, peering over Holmes' shoulder.

Holmes simply grunted and kept any observations he might have had to himself. At this moment Stephens returned from the main dining area.

"We don't know whose coat that is," Stephens told my good friend in an assured manner.

"This is just an ordinary kitchen," I observed, "No hidden weapons or traps."

"There are weapons all around us!" Holmes exclaimed, "Knives, skewers, everything. There could be dozens of them if you knew how to use them. Even an empty wine bottle can become and offensive weapon in the wrong hands."

I bowed my head and remained silent for a while as Holmes continued his work. There was an air of expectancy as we all waited for further developments from the master of detection.

"Tell me your story, Mr Stephens," asked Holmes, peering at him from the other side of the table, which dominated the room.

"Well, at about eight o'clock last night I entered the kitchen and tripped over an obstruction on the floor," Stephens began, thinking back in a comparatively wistful manner. "I had been on my way to hurry up the chef since some customers were getting quite irate at having to wait so long for their food. At first I thought the body on the floor was merely unconscious, since the kitchen was empty of all hands except for that.

" 'Wake up!' I remonstrated, shaking the body hard.

"The body didn't stir, so I went to the sink to fill a jug of water. Quickly, I splashed the water in the face of the figure lying on the floor. Again, the body refused to stir. It was then that I noticed the knife. I checked for a pulse and found none. I checked again, thinking I might have got the wrong spot. The body was still warm. For a final check, I put the back of my hand against the nostrils of the body. Nothing. I gulped in air. It looked like it was a dead body. But where was the other chef, Mr Wilkins?

"Suddenly, Donald Fraser the waiter came in from the dining area.

" 'What are you looking so shocked for?' asked Donald, 'just wake him up and get him back to work!'

" 'I think he's dead,' I said.

" 'You're kidding!' Donald groaned and conducted the same checks for breathing and pulse that I had already gone through.

" 'What do we do?' asked Donald.

" 'We call the police,' I said, taking charge as best I could, 'this is a job for them!' "

"Usually!" Holmes interjected with cutting zeal, "They are a good bunch of men, but they so often lack the intelligence to look beneath the surface and see the truth that is staring them in the face."

"That's as may be, Mr Holmes," Stephens shot back, "But I couldn't call consulting detectives first. I have my reputation and that of the restaurant to think of."

"I take your point," Holmes smiled, "Pray continue!"

"Well, as I said the knife was never used," Stephens concluded, "So the police were just a little baffled during their investigation."

Holmes smiled victoriously and reached for the litterbin. Reaching inside, he retrieved a rolling pin and then placed it on the table.

"The victim died due to a blow to the head. Or several blows to the head," Holmes indicated, pointing at the indentations on the rolling pin. "Why would that rolling pin be in the bin?"

"It's brand new," Stephens replied, growing shocked once more and staring at the chalk outline of the body on the floor.

"Brand new?" Holmes asked, "I see. Keep this item in a safe place and submit it to the police back at the station. Perhaps the man you should ask for is Inspector Gregson or Lestrade."

"Yes, Mr Holmes," Stephens looked amazed and scooped up the offending article, peering at it suspiciously and trying to imagine what evils had been conducted with it.

"Also the coat on the hat stand," Holmes continued confidently, "We must leave no stone unturned."

"Incredible Holmes!" I cheered, "You have noticed more in five minutes than the police did in an entire day! Have you drawn any other conclusions, yet?"

"I would not like to say at this time," Holmes affirmed politely, "There are still one or two avenues left to pursue at this time. But he has left the scene. Run away. And only the guilty run. I must return to Baker Street to ponder this crime further."

With that, Holmes fastened up his coat and headed for the door. As I followed him, he stopped for a moment and turned towards Mr Stephens one last time.

"You must remember, Mr Stephens," Holmes elaborated, "That all things are of interest in a case such as this, even the smallest possible details that come to light. They illuminate so much of the invisible, so that the detective or man of intelligence may learn more of his quandary as well as more of his means. If anything further should crop up, notify us at our lodgings as soon as possible, along with the police officers I have mentioned at the yard."

"Why, yes, Mr Holmes!" Stephens agreed, but Holmes was gone, and I was left to follow in his wake like a faithful gun dog on the scent of seasonal game.

Later that night at Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes sat deep in thought in his favourite chair by the fire. As if concentrating on a far distant point, invisible to all else, he breathed in the fumes from his pipe and nodded to himself, as if acknowledging some carefully deduced information. I stopped reading to find that Holmes was watching me from across the room.

"Have you come up with anything, Holmes?" I asked with bated breath.

"I want you to come with me to the suburbs, Watson," he replied, "Namely to this address."

With that, he handed me a piece of paper with an address on it. I didn't find it familiar and turned to Holmes for an explanation.

"No, Watson," Holmes smiled, "You are not supposed to recognise it. It is deep in the leafy suburbs of Hendon. However, I am not entirely sure what our reception will be like, so I suggest that you bring along your trusty revolver, just in case we encounter any kind of problem in the execution of our public duty."

"This sounds serious," I intoned.

"It is, Watson. It is," Holmes confirmed seriously, "More serious than I can say. But I strongly suggest that we keep a low profile, and don't introduce ourselves until I say."

I thought for a moment, then raised an eyebrow in expectation.

"Your trip to the public records office?" I asked.

"I went to a few other locations this afternoon, as well," Holmes nodded, "Some more revealing than others. In fact, some gave very clear clues which I will divulge only when the time is right."

"I fully understand," I breathed, "But surely you can give me some idea of what you found?"

"Now is not the time, Watson, as I'm sure you will agree," Holmes mused philosophically, "You see, I must be sure of my facts before I make any announcements. You will understand that I have my reputation to think of. On many an occasion Scotland Yard has issued statements to the press, only to have to retract them at a later date. Such practice does not make them look informed or wise. Therefore, I must take care not to make the same mistake. If people were to think, even for an instant, that I merely blundered into the solutions of my cases, many would take their confidence and cares elsewhere."

"I do see, Holmes," I agreed wholeheartedly, "But surely even your innermost musings can be of interest to myself, as your chronicler and archivist?"

"No thank you, Watson," Holmes waved his hand dismissively, "On some occasions I must pilot this ship alone."

Holmes jumped to his feet, commanding, "Don't just sit there, Watson! Call a cab at once!"

"Of course, Holmes," I acquiesced, rising and placing the newspaper on the table Holmes often used for his chemical experiments. There wasn't a moment to lose!

An hour later, we stood in the darkness close by to the house Holmes had pinpointed in his thoughtful deliberations. All around was quiet, as if suburbia was sound asleep already. A few homes had lights completely extinguished, but the one which caught our interest still had lights flickering in the darkness.

"You see, Watson?" Holmes whispered from our vantage point in the bushes on the opposite side of the road, "There are two lights visible at number twenty two. One on the ground floor, and a further light in the second floor attic."

"But what is so unusual about that, Holmes?" I asked plaintatively.

"That question will be answered shortly," Holmes grinned, pointing, "Look over there!"

Coming down the street we could plainly see the figure of John Wilkins. Whistling to himself, he crossed the street, plainly heading for the house we were observing from our vantage point. As Wilkins turned into the pathway of the house, Holmes coughed loudly and stepped out into the open. Wilkins stopped in his tracks and started around as he saw us both approaching him from the opposite side of the road.

"Sherlock Holmes!" he exclaimed.

"Good evening, Mr John Wilkins," Holmes proclaimed loudly, "may we have just a moment of your time?"

"Here?"

"By all means, here," I concurred. If Holmes had reason for his actions, then I dutifully stood beside him on all counts.

"Please explain in your own words the events in the kitchen of the Rothschild Restaurant on the night in question?" Holmes asked severely, his stare drilling into the backs of Wilkins' eyes.

"Well, it was just an ordinary day," John Wilkins rambled, scratching his head, still in shock, "They were just cooking the menu of the day."

"When did you arrive on the scene?" I asked, picking up on the discrepancy at once.

"Why, I heard this account from the police," Wilkins stammered.

"Of course you did," Holmes pressed relentlessly, "Please elaborate. When did the Head Chef arrive?"

"I think the police said he arrived at his usual time," Wilkins replied, now looking worried, as if we had stumbled on something grave.

"Was there anything unusual about the start of that working day?" Holmes continued.

"Well, I really can't say," Wilkins gulped, "On that day I received word from my mother that she was ill, so I went to tend to her bedside at her home."

"So you saw no acts of violence, then?" I asked, trying to make sense of the confusion that Holmes was playing to his advantage.

"Certainly not," Wilkins gasped, "Why would I have?"

"Very well," Holmes surmised with a heavy look in his eyes, "Now we must meet your brother, John Wilkins."

"But he is missing!" I cut in.

"He can be found quite easily," Holmes purred quietly.

"So where could he be?" I asked.

Holmes pointed up to the attic of Wilkins' mother's house in front of us. "Up there," he said triumphantly.

Wilkins' eyes widened with shock as he choked, "How could you have known that, Mr Holmes?"

"It was obvious that was where he would be," Sherlock Holmes replied coolly, "He is a man with few friends and nowhere to run. He has a small family that cares for him, but which does not allow him to stray too far. In a house of that age and design, it would be possible to conceal a person for a certain length of time, provided the law enforcement services were not too thorough in their investigation. In short, he would run home to his family for help, and there hope to remain concealed until he felt ready to prove his innocence."

"Then you believe he is innocent?" asked Wilkins.

"I will divulge my findings in due course," Holmes snapped, "In the mean time, it would be civil of you to invite us in for refreshment before we make our way back to Baker Street."

"By all means, Mr Holmes," Wilkins stammered, "I was forgetting myself."

A few moments later we were greeted at the front door by Wilkins' mother, an ageing, bent backed figure in a domestic pinafore covered in a romantic flower pattern.

"Would you all like a cup of tea?" she asked.

"Thank you, my good woman," Holmes smiled, gesturing towards me, "Well, Watson, you are the expert in dealing with the fairer sex. I suggest that you help our good friend to bring forth the refreshments."

"I can cope!" the old woman cussed and stomped into the kitchen alone. Holmes whistled and rolled his eyes, grinning at the fact that he had managed to say the wrong thing to a woman again. Holmes took a seat on the sofa and carefully eyed Wilkins' movements. He took in every detail that he could whilst remaining candid in conversation.

"May we meet your brother, Mr Wilkins?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

Wilkins bowed his head and gestured for us to follow.

"Come this way, the both of you," Wilkins invited in a defeated tone of voice.

It took a few minutes to climb the steep, narrow stairs up to the attic room. Once there, Wilkins gave a specified knock on the door, after which we heard the key turn in the lock and the door creak open. A shaft of light from behind the door shone out across the landing, casting a thin, narrow beam of light across the wall opposite, which widened as the door opened further. Bracing myself, I stepped into the room in the wake of John Wilkins and Sherlock Holmes. There, before us at last, stood the unkempt and untidy image of David Wilkins. In his eyes, however, was a furtive look, like a man who had something to hide. Holmes took all this in calmly, as he sat down on a wooden chair by the bed.

"Why have you brought these people here?" asked David nervously, "You said I was safe from all prying eyes!"

"This is Mr Sherlock Holmes and his good friend Dr Watson," John Wilkins explained, "and I have learnt today that very little can remain hidden from them for long."

"I do my best to remain vigilant," Holmes explained, "It is my line of business, after all."

"You have a home of your own, do you not?" I asked.

"Of course," David replied, "I'm my own man."

"Do you know why I'm here?" Holmes enquired softly.

David stiffened for a moment, but remained silent.

"Do you know how the Head Chef died?" I asked.

"My brother, John, tells me that he was killed by a blow to the head and that I am the chief suspect in the murder," David replied. Then a look of hopelessness and fear crossed his face, and he pleaded, "I didn't do it, Mr Holmes! Dr Watson! You must believe me when I say that I had no hand in his demise."

Holmes stroked his chin thoughtfully, then looked at John Wilkins, then back again.

"Your brother has gone to great lengths to protect you," Holmes observed, "Is this something we would find to be a regular event in your lives?"

"From when we were young boys at school," David confirmed, "my brother always looked after me. He protected me from bullies and the negative attentions of teachers."

"Even teachers?" I asked surprised, "Such as what?"

"Well," David began, "there was a time when I was being singled out for special attention by a merciless tyrant of a teacher who did maths. He did everything in his power that he could to make me suffer or feel a fool. John, two years above me, got to hear about this when I admitted it to him one night, and he flew into a rage. The next day he stormed into the class and beat up the teacher in charge. We both got the cane at the orders of the headmaster, but that maths teacher never took exception to me ever again. In fact, he became civil and respectful."

"I see," Holmes mused, and then turned to me, saying, "Watson, I think this pattern is a regular one. On checking with the police earlier today I found that John Wilkins already has a record from ten years ago of violence towards others. In that case, the matter was all cleared up without too much bother, but the character profile they had on record was that of an unpredictable and violent young man with a tendency towards physical action."

"I see, Holmes," I replied, "So you believe that we are looking at the latest manifestation of this type of behaviour?"

"Quite so, Watson," Holmes nodded, "In fact, I wrote down a note whilst in the police station about the forensics of the case we are investigating right now."

Quickly, he removed the item from his jacket pocket and handed it to me carefully. I looked slightly annoyed for a moment, as if convinced that his mysteriousness had caused too much of an unnecessary delay. Quickly I tore open the envelope and read the contents.

"What is that?" asked Wilkins.

"It is a note from Scotland Yard," I replied, scanning the document quickly, one more time.

Wilkins started in surprise. "What does it say?"

"I will tell you," Holmes decided, "It says, 'The forensic team has deduced that the injuries to the head of the Head Chef could only have been caused by a man taller than six foot three. The suspect has a height of only five foot two'."

"Then the case is concluded!" I gasped, "Our client has been proven innocent. The police no longer need to find him. He is free to go!"

"All we needed to do was find him in order to tell him the good news, eh Wilkins?" Holmes intoned carefully.

"My goodness, you're right, Mr Holmes!" Wilkins exclaimed with cautious enthusiasm. "Then you believe he is innocent?"

"Almost," Holmes deliberated carefully.

"You mean there is doubt as to the innocence of David Wilkins," I gasped, "even after the forensic evidence was in?"

"The police took a closer look at the rolling pin," Holmes chatted informatively, "which has, by the way, now been positively identified as the murder weapon."

"Really?"

"Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill the Head Chef?" Holmes enquired professionally.

"No."

Suddenly, we were interrupted by the sound of John Wilkins' mother, calling from downstairs, that the tea was ready. All agreed that we would discuss the matter further over a cup of the brew. Quickly, we filed downstairs into the lounge and took our seats around the hearth. There was silence for a few moments before Holmes summed up his case.

"There was someone else in the kitchen that day," Holmes pointed out as he placed his teacup back on the saucer.

"Were you anywhere near the kitchen?" I asked Wilkins firmly.

"I've told you my story!" Wilkins snapped back.

"And yet you hid your brother upstairs, anyway?" Holmes purred.

"I have a duty to protect the innocent," Wilkins growled.

I sensed that Holmes was about to go for the kill, so I reached inside my coat pocket and took a grasp of the revolver I often carried with me for our safety. Holmes rose to his feet and towered over the resting form of Wilkins in the armchair opposite.

"Only a tall man could have inflicted the wounds the police have described to us by letter," Holmes concluded.

"I agree."

"Someone over six foot three."

"I have the telegram here if you want to read it," I said to Holmes, but he waved it away.

"Your brother upstairs is five foot two," Holmes reiterated, steepling his fingers whilst looking at Wilkins, "Whilst you, John Wilkins, are six foot five."

"What are you suggesting Mr Holmes?" barked Wilkins.

"I am saying that your brother did not kill the head chef, Mr Wilkins. You did."

At that, Wilkins leaped to his feet and swung a fist at my old friend. Sherlock Holmes ducked and parried the blow, delivering a punch of his own to the jaw of his assailant, who crumpled in a heap on the floor. I drew my revolver and pointed it at Wilkins levelly.

"Stay where you are, John Wilkins," I commanded, making it quite clear that I meant business.

"You can't keep me here forever, Sherlock Holmes," Wilkins intoned in a threatening manner. "Sooner or later your guard will slip, and then I'll be away."

"Before coming here I took the precaution of informing Scotland Yard of my actions," Holmes told our captive humanely, "And if I am correct they will be arriving at any time now."

At that moment there came a knock at the front and back doors. Mrs Wilkins opened the rear kitchen door to reveal the solid frame of a uniformed constable barring the exit. The silhouette of another such constable appeared framed in the window of the front door down the hallway. Wilkins groaned and stared malevolently at Holmes.

"You attacked me before you were sure," he spat.

"Not at all," Holmes corrected him, "I acted in self defence."

"And I am a witness to that act," I added supportively.

"Come, come, gentlemen, you explain it all to me down at the station," Inspector Eaton intoned, striding in from the back door. "We would all be most interested to hear a full account."

Holmes patted Inspector Eaton on the back and said, "You arrived just at the right moment! Although, I have to say, I waited until I saw signs of your men's arrival before I offered my conclusions to all concerned."

"We're very grateful of your help, Mr Holmes," Eaton replied, "although, of course, you will have to take the witness stand to ensure that Mr John Wilkins pays his dues to society."

"Actually, Inspector," Holmes excused himself, "I would prefer it if my part in this investigation were not made public. If you would like to talk to Lestrade, he will tell you that we have an arrangement for precisely this type of situation. The police may take all the credit. I, on the other hand, will merely receive my usual fee and all part in this case may be forgotten."

"Your modesty does you credit, Mr Holmes," one of the constables spoke up, "To us the solution of a case means promotion and credit. To you it means embarrassment and a lot of unwanted publicity."

"I leave my publicity to the writings and archiving of Dr Watson," Holmes bowed his head sagely, "That is surely enough praise for any man."

I smiled for a moment as Inspector Eaton looked quizzically in my direction. It seems that he, too, was an avid reader of Strand Magazine.

"Now, I must bid you farewell, gentlemen," Holmes waved a hand on his departure, "I must now return to Baker Street and update my notes. Also, there may be other clients who might wish to take advantage of my services. Come along, Watson!"

"Yes, Holmes!" I replied and, shaking Eaton's hand, bade him good luck and farewell.

The next night Holmes continued to play his violin. I sat and listened in my usual seat by the fireplace, and nodded along in time to the tune as he played. When he stopped, I turned to him and asked, "Beethoven?"

"No Watson," he laughed, "It is an attempt by myself to write a tune of my own. It lacks the gusto of Beethoven but has the merriment of Mozart. I will try to improve the tune over the coming weeks, but I fear it will remain very much the same. What do you think of it, Watson? Does it please you?"

"Very much so," I smiled, "and it is nice to see that even the most terrible of crimes do not dull your spirit or dampen your ardour for living."

"What we were a party to today was a crime of passion," Holmes recounted sadly, putting down the violin and seating himself nearby, "I do not believe it was his intention to kill, more that it was accident that took a wrong turn in the heat of the moment. Nevertheless, we have a corpse on our hands, and in the eyes of the law the culprit must be held to account."

"Very well," I acquiesced, "But the jury will look at the facts, not excuses or character witnesses. It is a very serious crime, Holmes, and one that is not easily excused."

"Quite right, Watson," Holmes clapped his hands. "At the very best, John Wilkins may get a charge of manslaughter, but I feel more that the crime will be justified by a prison sentence of not less than fifteen years. Inspector Eaton informs me by cable that John Wilkins will not be released on bail before the trial by jury, where it will be down to twelve good men and true to decide his fate."

"Do you sympathise with him, Holmes?" I asked.

"In a way," Holmes admitted, "but in others not. But I am not a man of the law, merely a consulting detective, and my duty is to support that law in my investigations so that true justice may be done by those responsible."