Circa

by "Copper Beech"

"Most unusual," said my husband and partner, Sherlock Holmes. He didn't often speak of his dreams, but this morning, as I lay next to him, waiting to become fully awake, he described his night's encounter. "I found myself in the British Museum. It was imperative that I find a piece of ancient glassware. But no matter how many turns I took or how many stairs I climbed, I could find neither it nor my way around the museum."

"What makes your dream so unusual?" I asked, trying to stifle a yawn.

"It is not the dream itself, Russell. It is not unusual for me to have such dreams at the start of a case. What is unusual is the timing of it. I have no case at present."

"Well, maybe something happened to remind you of a previous case," I offered, now awake enough to rest my weight on my elbows.

"Perhaps so. It is likely no more than that," he said as he rose from the bed to prepare for the coming day.

I reverted to my best sleeping posture and listened to the sound of splashing water and imagined the quick strokes of Holmes' shaving razor. I was very nearly back to sleep when Holmes' softest voice whispered in my ear, "Russell, did you not promise Mrs. Hudson you would drive her to the train station this morning?"

"So I did," I replied, and got myself out of bed.

By the time I was ready for breakfast, Holmes was off checking his bees. I ate quickly and gathered up Mrs. Hudson's luggage to put in the boot of the Morris. I came back to the cottage to find Mrs. Hudson waiting patiently for my signal that all was ready.

"Sorry to be so tardy, Mrs. Hudson," I said as I opened the door to the Morris for her.

"That's alright, dear," she responded with a touch of understanding. "You've been working far too hard lately. And you have not been getting enough sleep," she added with a touch of reprimand. "You need to stop and take a look at the world around you. Here it is October and I expect you haven't even noticed the leaves on the great copper beech have started to turn.

She was right. I hadn't. And autumn is my favorite season. The start of a new academic year.

I put the Morris into gear and we made our way to the train station. It wasn't a long trip. Holmes and I often walked it, but then we traveled light. And Mrs. Hudson was on her way to Australia. She would need every bit of luggage I was now placing on the platform.

We went inside to wait for the train that would take her to the coast and the ship that would send her to her children and a second spring. I found a place to sit as Mrs. Hudson went to to check on the train's arrival. I glanced at the bench beside me. On it was a copy of yesterday's Times. A passenger from London had left it as well as the city behind. Holmes received that august paper daily, but I did not always take the time to read it.

I reached over and picked up the remnants of the first few pages. I glanced at the leading story. Parliament was squabbling again. I scanned the other articles. Nothing much caught my eye. London was not my home the way it was to Holmes. I had an interest in her, but he had a relationship. As I started to fold the paper and set it back on the bench, I saw a headline that must have been in 12 point type. "Venetian glass stolen from the British Museum" it read. There wasn't much to the story, except to say that an ancient Venetian bottle had been stolen from a display that was under construction. I was halfway through a quote by the curator, when Mrs. Hudson came up to me and informed me that the train had arrived. We said our farewells and she waved at me from the window of her compartment as the train pulled away from the station. I got back into the Morris and headed for home.

When I returned, Holmes was in his laboratory. I went in and stood behind his seated figure. I waited for a time until I knew he felt my presence and placed a hand on his shoulder. He covered it with his own and then lifted it to his lips and kissed it, returning it to me.

"I take it Mrs. Hudson is well on her way to Brisbane?"

"Yes, the train was a bit late, as were we, but yes, Mrs. Hudson is on her way."

"And what are your plans for the day?"

"Mrs. Hudson said I'm working much too hard and that I need to stop and take a look at the world about me. I agree. Therefore, I am going to take a walk on the downs. Would you care to come?"

"Not just now, but as soon as I finish this experiment, I will come find you."

With that, I left the slightly sulfurous scent of the lab to enter the clean, though slightly damp air of the downs. I walked over familiar land and by trees I had seen more times than I cared to count, but this time of year brought such change to them that they almost seemed new. I walked trying not to think about Hebrew texts or mathematical equations, but what I saw in front of me here and now.

I wasn't entirely successful. Oh, I managed not to think about things academic, but my mind wandered so, that I could not for the life of me remember how I got to the spot on which I was now standing or how long I had been standing there. It was the place where I had first met Sherlock Holmes. He had his eyes on bees and I had mine on my book. I sighed. Little seems to have changed. Holmes sees present possibilities. I see the past. I sat down and thought about who I was and where I was going. Before it turned into a maudlin exercise, I heard a voice behind me say, "I must say, Russell, you followed a circuitous route to get here. It was like you had no sense of direction at all."

I looked up. "I suppose I didn't."

He sat down next to me. "So, Russell, you are looking for a break from your studies."

"It's only a walk, Holmes."

"I think not. Mrs. Hudson has chastised you before for working too hard and you never took it to heart. You must have already come to the conclusion yourself."

"Holmes, you're making too much of this. I have taken walks before."

"But not to this spot."

"And how would you know that?"

"Because I come here often."

I gave him an astonished look.

"No need for surprise, Russell. I was coming here long before we met. I find it a place conducive to thinking."

"And what are you thinking now, husband?"

"That we should take up the case of the Venetian glass."

"Did your dream tell you this?"

"No. I received a call from Inspector Lestrade whilst you were taking Mrs. Hudson to the train station. The dream was only a call to action. Lestrade's call put a name to it."

"Are you suggesting we make our own way to the train station?"

"In a word, yes."

Having no defense, the man had caught me in a mood for a change of pace, if not scenery, I replied, "Then let's go."

The next day found us in the office of the curator of the British Museum.

"Good afternoon," said the curator. "I'm Andrew Martin. And this is my assistant, Edward Fielding. Dr. Fielding is in charge of our new exhibit on ancient glasswork. He can answer any questions you might have. Right now, I am late for a meeting with the director of our latest dig in the Holy Land. If you will excuse me." And off he went, leaving us in the hands of Dr. Fielding.

"Where would you like me to begin?" asked Dr. Fielding.

"With the missing object itself," I heard myself offer. A nod from Holmes told me he concurred.

"Well," began Dr. Fielding, "it was a Venetian glass bottle from the late 17th Century.

"How valuable is it?" I asked.

"Valuable," he said, "but not priceless. "Of course," he added, "if it were part of a set, it might be."

"A part of what set?" Holmes asked.

"Oh, excuse me. A set of household items, preferably from a nobleman's home. They might include jars for storing olive oil, bowls, perfume bottles, or wine bottles, such as this. Common items to be sure, but common items are not always kept with the best of care. They have a tendency to get broken. There may be a lot of them, but not all that many intact. One might find one or two whole items from a set, but seldom all."

"Who might find these items valuable?" asked Holmes.

"Museums of course, historians, collectors..." He paused to think.

"What sort of collectors?" Holmes asked, during the break in the litany.

"Very wealthy ones. Eccentric ones. Who knows? People collect all kinds of objects, because they have some kind of personal appeal. One doesn't need much reason beyond, I like it and I want it."

"I see," said Holmes.

"Could you tell us about the exhibit?" I interjected.

"Yes, of course. In fact, I'll take you to it."

We walked out of the curator's office and into a narrow passageway. After making our way through a veritable warren, we reached the exhibit. It was smaller than I expected, but then none of the pieces were so large that they would not fit comfortably into the display.

"It's not quite finished," said Dr. Fielding with a note of apology in his voice. "You see, we just don't have a replacement for the missing bottle and the exhibit is set to open in a fortnight. And now we'll have to use something from a later time and..."

"Could you describe the missing bottle?" I asked, trying not to sound unsympathetic to his plight, while keeping him on track.

He thought for a moment and began. "It's made of clear glass and stands about this high," he explained, holding his hands vertical and apart. "The bottom is rounded, but flat, and the bottle itself tapers up to a long neck."

I gave Holmes a look to see if he could picture the artifact. His expression told me no and I asked Dr. Fielding if he might elaborate.

"Oh, I am sorry," he said. Perhaps if I drew you a picture. I'm afraid we don't have any photographs of it. He rooted around in a pile of papers on a nearby table, chose one, and took a pen from his pocket. After turning the paper over to get a clean surface, he drew a shape that was not too different from a modern wine bottle, but enough to be distinctive. I thanked him.

"Dr. Fielding," Holmes said after viewing the drawing. "Please tell us the events that occurred on the day of the theft."

"Hmmm. Let's see. I arrived at the museum around 8:10 that morning. I was a bit late, I remember, because I had trouble sleeping the night before and when it came time to rise, I was tired. I was out-of-step all day. Anyway, I got to work doing a quick inventory of the exhibit pieces. My assistant and I worked steadily until my elevenses. I got back to work shortly before 11:30."

"Was anything missing at that time?" Holmes inquired.

"No."

"Pray proceed." instructed Holmes.

"Well, the coffee didn't do much to wake me up and by the time lunch came around, I was fairly ready for sleep. I left for lunch about 1:00 and after a light meal at the restaurant across the street, I took a walk in the park. I hoped the fresh air would invigorate me. Instead, I found myself looking for a bench on which to sit. I sat down and closed my eyes. I must have fallen asleep, because when I opened my eyes and looked at my watch, it was nearly 3:00. I promptly got up and hurried back to the museum. I was ready to give Dr. Martin all manner of apologies for my lapse, when my assistant came running up to me. It was he who told me the bottle was missing."

"And where might we find this assistant?" Holmes inquired.

"He's in my office."

"Mr. Fielding," began Holmes, "if you would kindly take Miss Russell to your assistant, I would like to stay here and examine the area."

"Yes, of course."

"Russell, I will meet you at the Elgin marbles in an hour."

So, off we went to find the assistant, while Holmes pulled out his magnifying glass and began to examine the fine details of the display.

We found the assistant behind a stack of papers in an office that resembled a storage room. It wasn't that it was small, it was that there were books, papers, and objets d'art everywhere. I was surprised the young man found a place to sit.

"Alexander," Dr. Fielding called out over the stack of papers, "could we speak to you for a moment?"

A disembodied voice came back over papers, "Of course, sir." The words were followed by actions and we were given sight of a blond-haired young man, who was far neater in appearance than his workspace. "What can I do for you?"

"This is Miss Russell. She is here to help us find the missing Venetian glass. She would like to ask you a few questions."

"I'll do what I can."

"Then I shall leave you. I will be at the exhibit should you have any questions," said Dr. Fielding.

"Now then, would you please tell me what happened the day the artifact was stolen? Specifically, I would like to know what you were doing between the hours of one and three that afternoon."

"I was at lunch between one and two. When I got back, I set to work here, sorting papers. But around 2:30, I had a problem, so I went to find Dr. Fielding.

"How did you know it was 2:30?"

"Because when I reached the exhibit, and did not see Dr. Fielding, I looked I my watch. I wondered if he had taken a late lunch or had a meeting I'd forgotten. You, see, in addition to my other duties, I keep track of his engagements for him."

"Did you notice anything unusual about the exhibit?"

"Nothing much at first, I was looking for Dr. Fielding, not thinking about the exhibit. Then I noticed the exhibit case had been left open. That is very unlike Dr. Fielding. He's careful about not leaving important items out and about. Despite what this office looks like." he added, catching me looking at the artifacts scattered about the room. "Those are replicas."

He continued his account. "As I was saying, Dr. Fielding is most careful about such matters, so I was surprised to see the case open and unattended. I thought perhaps he had been unexpectedly called away. I waited for a time, and when he didn't appear, I took a closer look at the exhibit. I counted off the number of pieces in my head and came up one shy. I then took the inventory sheet and matched item for item. It was then that I discovered the Venetian glass was missing. I was about to go find Dr. Martin when Dr. Fielding came in. That's when I told him the news.

"What was his reaction?"

"He asked me if I was sure and when I said yes, he suggested we tell Dr. Martin. And so we did."

"Is there anything else you wish to add?" I asked at the conclusion of his story.

"No, I don't think so." I got up to leave. "Wait," he said. There is one more thing." I turned and looked at him. "It wasn't the most valuable piece in the collection."

"It wasn't?"

"No, there were two or three other pieces worth much more."

"And they weren't taken?"

"No. Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

"It does indeed," I said. And added, "Thank you for your assistance."

"You're welcome," he said, opening the door for me.

"Now if you'll just direct me to the Elgin marbles..."

"I sat on a stone bench and watched the people as they peered at the stolen Greek antiquities and thought of the day I met Lady Veronica Beaconsfield here. I gave an involuntary shudder as I remembered some of the more unpleasant aspects of that case. I looked up to break my train of thought and saw Holmes standing in front of me.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes, quite. What did you discover?"

"Not here," he whispered as he took me by the arm and pulled me to my feet. We made our way through the throng of visitors and found ourselves on Great Russell Street. Turning the corner, we headed down Montague Street and toward Russell Square. We reached the still green square and found a bench on which to sit. "Now then, Russell, I will answer your question. I discovered the display had not been left open. There were minute scratches on the lock, where it had been picked. I found no useful fingerprints, but I did find a strand of auburn hair. And what did you discover, Russell?"

"That the theft took place sometime after 1:00 pm and before 2:30 pm. And that the bottle was not the most valuable item in the collection. It's not much."

"Ah, but it is a start, Russell. Now shall we take advantage of being in London before we are to meet brother Mycroft? I took the liberty of contacting him and inviting ourselves to dinner. There are one or two items I would like to discuss with him."

And so we spent the rest of the afternoon wandering about London. We weren't exactly tourists, so we didn't feel the need to see Buckingham Palace or Westminster Abbey. Instead, we found ourselves in familiar places; Regent's Park, Baker Street, and finally Mycroft's rooms. Before we made to that haven, we stopped to buy a bottle of wine in honor of the occasion.

We entered our favorite wine merchant's establishment and were immediately greeted by the owner, Antoine. "Bonjour, Monsieur et Madame Holmes," he said as we crossed the shop to meet him. "How are you?" he said, switching to English. We nodded that we were fine. "Now, what can I do for you today?"

"We would like some wine to take to a dinner engagement, responded Holmes.

"And what will be served at dinner?"

Holmes confessed he did not know, but suspected a red wine would do. Antoine directed us to a fine selection. And as he discussed each selection with Holmes, I took a look around. Next to the red wines was a display devoted to beaujolais. I ran my eyes over the row of identical bottles. The regularity pleased me. I started to count them. I'd gotten up to ten when something made me stop. The bottles were no longer the same. Number eleven was not lightly tinted, it was clear. But that's not what threw me. It was the shape. It was not like the cylindrical bottles I had come to expect. It was more vase-like. More like...the Venetian bottle we were seeking. Exactly like the Venetian bottle we were seeking.

"Antoine," I said in my most casual voice, "could you tell me about this beaujolais?"

Antoine walked over to me, followed by Holmes. "That is a beaujolais from a small vineyard in Burgundy. They call it nouveau beaujolais."

"Could you tell me about the bottle?"

"Mais, oui. It is a replica of an old Venetian bottle. It is to draw attention to the product. New wine in old wineskins, they say."

"Antoine," said Holmes, "can you give us the name and address of the vintner?"

"Un moment," he said holding up a thumb. I will see." With that, he disappeared into a back room.

"Good work, Russell," Holmes said in low tones. "I believe you have found a valuable clue."

I smiled at the praise, but said nothing. Presently, Antoine returned with a slip of paper. On it was the promised information. We thank him and left with two bottles of wine, one old and one new.

In due time, we arrived at Mycroft's rooms. Holmes handed him the bottle of burgundy, and we sat down to talk before dinner. As was our custom, we did not speak of "pretty little problems" before or during a meal. Instead, we spoke of of all things, the childhood of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. There was little sentimentality in the discussion, but there was a trace of pride in Mycroft's voice as he told me how his younger brother, who had recently taken up boxing, defended his honor in a trifling matter concerning a young lady, her intended, and an innocent invitation.

After dinner (which the wine suited quite well), we sat near a welcome fire and got down to business. Holmes explained the situation. Mycroft responded, "It seems to me, Sherlock, that you need to ascertain whether or not any such items are missing from other collections."

"I asked Dr. Fielding about that," replied Holmes, "but he knew of none."

"Then I shall look into it for you. In the meantime, it appears that you and Mary ought to go to a certain vineyard in France."

"Yes. Indeed," said Holmes. He paused between the two words to see if I would offer any objection. When I did not, he seemed almost pleased.

The next morning, we made our way back to Sussex to prepare for our journey to France. When we arrived at our cottage, Holmes made a check of his bees and I packed. We met each other in the kitchen and ate a simple meal. Then after taking a quick look around the house, we left for the train station.

As our train pulled away, I thought of how this journey would afford me ample opportunity to see autumn come to France. Mrs. Hudson would be pleased. Then I wondered how close she was to seeing spring come to Australia. I had just begun to picture her standing on the deck of her ship, looking out over the expanse of the ocean, when my reverie was interrupted by a young man asking me for my ticket. I handed it to him and after a moment's perusal, he handed it back to me. He did the same for Holmes and after wishing us a good journey, left us to our compartment.

I looked over at Holmes and saw his was in the process of lighting his pipe. I got out a book to read and we both settled in. We had known each other long enough that we did not always need to talk when we were together. We enjoyed each other's quiet company. It wasn't long before we left the train and boarded a boat to cross the channel and left the boat to board another train.

We were now in France. And Holmes slipped effortlessly into the language. I do not use it as often as say, Greek or Hebrew, but between Holmes' fluency and my reading of the French newspaper we purchased at the Calais train station, it came back to me.

Our ultimate destination was a small vineyard outside of Lyon, but first we checked into an equally small hotel and set off to find a place to eat dinner. We were seated at a linen-draped table and a waiter came over to take our order. He rattled off a list of specialties. I asked what he recommended and chose that. Holmes chose an entrée, that when it came, made me wish I had not ordered first.

The waiter left us and the sommelier replaced him. Holmes looked at the wine list and said, "Well, Russell, shall we sample some of the local wine?"

"Yes, of course," I said. Holmes pointed to his selection and the sommelier, nodding, set off for the cave.

I looked at Holmes and asked what wine he had ordered. "Something from the Jean-Baptiste vineyards," he said with a smile.

We were here to investigate said vineyard. When I first heard the name, I imagined a bottle with a label graced by a head on a platter. I was half disappointed when the sommelier presented our bottle. On its label was a drawing of a farmhouse, encircled by twining vines.

When the last of our seven courses was consumed with the last of the wine, we headed off for a well-earned night of sleep. In the morning we would set off for the vineyard.

Dawn broke clear and cool. And after a light breakfast (who could face food after the night before?), we went in search of a way to the vineyard. We found our ride at the boulangerie. The baker's delivery man was just about done filling his lorry with all manner of bread and since the vineyard was one of his regular stops, he offered to take us there.

It was a short, but bumpy ride. Upon arrival, we presented ourselves to Madame Petit. We came in our own person. There was no need for disguise. We just wanted to know about the production and distribution of the nouveau beaujolais.

Mme. Petit took us on a brief tour of the facilities. All went well until Holmes asked her about the Venetian bottles. Mme. Petit stopped dead and giving Holmes a wary look, said "You are the second anglais to ask about such things in the last month."

"Oh," said Holmes. "Can you tell me about his other Englishman?"

"He was a businessman," she said. "Suave. He wanted to know when and how we shipped our wine. He was especially interested in shipments to the United States."

"And what did you tell him?" I asked.

"I told him that we could not ship wine to the United States. They have the prohibition. Then he wanted to know about our shipments to England. I told him it was no secret, but that it depended on the wine. But that we would be sending our premier shipment of nouveau beaujolais in a day or two. And that we would be using special bottles. He wanted to know more about that, so I took him to Marcel. He is the one who knows such things."

"May we talk with Marcel?" asked Holmes.

Mme. Petit hesitated, but could not think of a good reason why not, and escorted us to the cave. There we found a man of about 50 inspecting rows of bottles and casks. He seemed happy to have his work interrupted and asked how he might help us. We explained that we wanted to know about the nouveau beaujolais and its unusual bottle.

"Ah," he said. "A good idea, n'est-ce pas?"

"Yes," I said, "But how did you come by it?"

"I saw the bottle in a museum. It was so simple, so elegant. I thought it was just the thing to help advertise our new wine."

"And how has it worked?" I asked.

"Mais, oui. We are on the way to selling more beaujolais this year than in any other."

Seeing the sales records did not seem important and it was an unnecessary intrusion. Neither of us asked about them. Instead, Holmes asked about the distribution. Marcel told us the bottles were taken rom the vineyard to Lyon, where a distributor took them to Paris, London, and the Continent.

Holmes asked the name of the distributor, and instead of telling us where to find him, offered to take us to him. I don't know if the offer was made out of a sense of altruism or the fact that it was nearing lunch time, but take us he did. Marcel went off to find his favorite café and we to find a Monsieur Paquin.

We met M. Paquin and he asked if we were interested in purchasing wine. He said that an English businessman had preceded us and that he expressed an interest in importing the nouveau beaujolais. We said no and explained in the briefest of terms, why we were there. He confirmed what Mme. Petit and Marcel had told us, but could offer little more. Except, he said, after some thought, that the mysterious Englishman had given his name as Alexandre. We thanked him for his assistance, and following Marcel's lead, found a café in which to eat lunch.

We returned to the hotel to find a message from Mycroft. It was a list of contacts and collectors in New York and Chicago. It seemed we were bound for America.

I had not been to America since the death of my parents. And while the prospect did not fear me, it did give me pause. Still, I decided not to let old memories interfere with the case. Besides, we would not be going to California and I would not have to revisit the place of my family's death. So, what was the problem?

Part of the problem was that I do not like to go to sea. It makes me ill. I managed to survive the trip Holmes and I made to Palestine, but that was a lifetime ago. I wasn't so sure I wanted to sail across the rough Atlantic.

After a rocky start, in which I think I actually turned green, I settled down to enjoy the crossing. "Holmes," I said on the morning of our third day at sea, "I do believe I can get out of bed without my head swimming."

"That is good, Russell," he said. "I was beginning to think we would have to put off at the nearest ice floe."

I shuddered at the thought and got slowly out of bed. "That will not be necessary Holmes," I said. And added, "Besides, we are too far south to be near any such ice."

He smiled and said, "Yes, I know. Would you like to go up and deck and see what you have been missing?"

"Yes," I said. "But perhaps a bit of tea and toast would be in order first." Holmes left to get said items and I prepared as best I could, to meet the day. I felt more myself after bathing and when Holmes returned, I was able to drink the tea and eat most of the toast.

"Finished?" he asked.

"Finished." I concluded. And I meant not only with the food, but with the illness. I was cured.

Holmes guided me to the deck and we stood against the railing. We looked out over the horizon and wondered how long it would be before we saw the first rise of land in the distance. If was, of course, days before we would arrive in New York, but Holmes and I happened to be in this same spot when when we saw the first indication of land.

"Russell," Holmes said after I pointed in the direction of the New World, "How do you feel about going back to America? You have not spoken of it since we began this journey."

"Actually, Holmes," I said in response, "I am rather comfortable with the idea of seeing New York again. I stayed there several days before taking a ship back to England and my aunt. I was alone, but not lonely there. It was a relief not to have to reply politely to inquiries about how I was doing. New York gave me a bit of breathing room and time to think before starting life again without my family."

"That is good, Russell," he said, as we drew closer to my past.

New York had not changed much since I had last seen it, save for the influx of motorcars. They seemed to outnumber the people, if that was possible. We hailed a taxi and after a ride, during which Holmes' face had that look it wore when I drove him at a speed he considered too fast, we walked into our hotel. It was late morning, so after a bit of a rest, there was time to meet our first contact.

Holmes and I found ourselves in the office of the curator of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. After some hesitancy, Dr. Stevens revealed that a Venetian plate had been stolen from the museum's storage facility. It, like the bottle, was valuable, but not overly so. There was little publicity over the theft, for which Dr. Stevens was grateful, but sometimes publicity made a case easier to solve and as of yet, this one had not been solved.

Conceding that speaking to a collector might aid us, Dr. Stevens gave us the name of a prominent New Yorker and made an appointment for us to meet her. It would not be until the next morning, so Holmes inquired about any concerts that might be given this evening. Dr. Stevens looked about for a copy of the Times. Holmes perused it for pertinent information and after finding what he was looking for, started to hand the paper back to Dr. Stevens. He indicated that Holmes could keep it and wished us a good day.

Leaving the museum behind, we headed for Carnegie Hall. Holmes purchased two tickets for this evening's performance of the symphony orchestra. The program included the work of two German composers, my favorite of which was Mendelssohn. Holmes did not find him as intense as some of his favorite composers, but he respected his work all the same.

The concert was wonderful. The last piece played was Mendelssohn's "Violin Concerto in E Minor Opus 64." The swell of the music caught me up and landed me softly on a distant shore. I thought of Holmes playing his violin for me. And how it never failed to move me. And when the concert ended, I longed to be in that place with him. We walked out into the night and I moved closer to Holmes. Then, as he had with my life, he took up my hand and filled up its spaces. We remained that way until we reached our hotel room. And it was only then that we let each other go, only to come together again.

The next day, we met Mrs. Philip Abernethy. She greeted us warmly and offered us tea. We both accepted and once we were comfortably seated, Holmes asked the first question.

"Mrs. Abernethy," he began.

"Millicent, please," she interrupted.

"Millicent," Holmes began again. "What can you tell us about collectors of Italian antiquities?"

"Well," she started, "I don't know many. There's Jeffrey James. No, he collects Greek art. There's Colburn Adams, but he died five years ago. There's Clark Williams, but no, I think he's moved on to modern art." She paused, "Oh dear, perhaps I don't know any."

Homes got up to leave. Millicent held out her hand . "No, wait," she said. "I do know someone. She's not exactly a collector, but she has a great interest in things Italian. Her father was an archaeologist, you see. Her name is..."

"Yes," prompted Holmes.

"Margaret Christopher," she said triumphantly.

"And where can we find this Margaret Christopher?" Holmes inquired.

"Chicago," I believe. Millicent got up to get a small address book. She thumbed through the first several pages. "Yes," she confirmed. "Chicago."

Millicent gave us the address and while she was sure this woman was on the telephone, she did not know the number. We left with a small piece of paper and the hope that a new lead brings.

I had not seen Chicago since my great uncle's funeral. And I remember neither it, nor him very well. Holmes on the other hand, had once known Chicago well. He was an Irish immigrant there once, but that's another story. Although one of the Chicago contacts Mycroft had given us was the director of the Field Museum, we did not begin our investigation there. Instead, we went directly to see one Margaret Christopher.

Margaret Christopher was a neat, if not prim woman. Her greying hair placed her anywhere between 45 and 55. But the tautness of her skin and the clarity of her eyes spoke 35-45. She was, in fact 42.

It took a bit of convincing, but she let us into her home. This time, we had no letter of introduction, so to speak. But there is a sense of dependability as well as danger to Holmes and she decided the former outweighed the latter.

I glanced about her sitting room and noticed that yes, indeed, she was a collector of antiquities. I commented on one of the pieces and she responded, "Oh, that's a reproduction. In fact, all of these pieces are. It is not easy to get true pieces anymore. Governments are starting to resist letting treasures leave their countries.

I continued to run my eyes over the contents of the room, when they involuntarily stopped. I couldn't believe it. It was the Venetian bottle we were looking for. Again. I picked it up and said, "Could you tell me about this piece?"

She hesitated and then, trying to sound at ease, said, "That's a rather poor imitation of a Venetian wine bottle." I handed the bottle to Holmes. He look at it and then at her and said, "Miss Christopher, would you mind coming with us to the Field Museum to verify that?"

"No," she said rather too quickly and added, "of course not."

We arrived at the director's office and asked if there might be curator who could appraise the bottle. The director called in a man who wore a suit that looked as if it had been slept in. He, in fact, looked as if he had just be awakened from a nap. "Will, could you take a look at this please," the director said, handing the man the bottle.

"Where did you get this?" he asked. We all looked at Miss Christopher. She replied weakly, "It was a gift. Is there something wrong?"

"I'll say," said the curator. "This is a valuable piece of glass that should have never left Italy."

"It is not a fake, then?" said Holmes.

"Not in the least."

"Then, Miss Christopher, you have some explaining to do," stated Holmes.

Miss Christopher sat down in a chair and tried to compose herself. "It reminds me of my father," she began. "He was an archaeologist, an expert in Italian antiquities. He was a member of the original Pompeii dig. He used to love to tell me stories about his digs. And I longed to be a part of them. But digs, he said, were no place for children. When I was older, he said, perhaps he would take me. And he kept his promise, despite the protests of his male colleagues, who did not want a woman invading their territory. I knew then that I would never be allowed to seriously study archaeology. Oh, I could be an amateur, but I didn't have the money to be so independent. When my father died, I realized I had nothing real to remind me of our days in the field. I only had reproductions. I wanted to touch the past to keep it alive.

"So you had it stolen?" Holmes asked.

"Yes," she replied, uncomfortably.

"And where did you get the money to fund this theft?" Holmes wanted to know.

"The stock market," she replied.

"How did you get the bottle into this country?" I asked.

"Ah," she said. "That took some help from a friend. He was one of my father's students. He's living in London now. He works at the British Museum."

With one voice, Holmes and I said, "Alexander."

"Yes," Miss Christopher confirmed. "Alexander Reynolds. He knew how much I wanted a genuine artifact and he devised the whole plan."

Back in August, the bottle arrived at the British Museum. It seemed the perfect choice. It was Italian. It was personal. It was real. And it was not so valuable that the museum would have the whole of Scotland Yard looking for it. Alexander spent weeks trying to devise a way to steal it. Then, he saw an advertisement for a new beaujolais. And wonder of wonders, it was going to be shipped in replicas of the very bottle he had planned to take.

He went to Lyon to investigate the winery and its distributor. Satisfied that he could make his plan work, he returned to London to steal the bottle. It wasn't hard. Dr. Fielding rarely noticed Alexander, save to give him more papers to sort.

One afternoon, when Dr. Fielding was a lunch, Alexander stole the bottle. He hid it in Dr. Fielding's office amid all the other clutter. That night, he smuggled it out and the first chance he got, went back to France. He bribed a worker at the distributor and together they put together a special shipment to London. It looked for all the world like it contained 12 new bottles filled with new wine, but in reality, it was only 11. One of the bottles was not made from newly blown glass, but glass whose maker had long ago turned to dust.

When Alexander received the shipment in London, he made preparations to send it to me in Chicago."

"But the United States has a prohibition on the manufacture and sale of alcohol," I said. "How could you hope to get the wine into the country?"

"It wasn't the wine I wanted to get into the country," she said without the trace of a smile. "It was the bottle. I knew the Federal agents would empty the wine. I also knew that they would give the bottles to me."

"Remarkable," said Holmes.

"And why did Alexander deign to help you?" I wanted to know.

"He respected father and wanted to continue his work. He couldn't do that shuffling papers for a professor who hardly noticed him."

"And what of the plate?" asked Holmes.

"What plate?" asked three voices in unison.

"The plate that was stolen from the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York."

"I know nothing about that," said Miss Christopher. "Perhaps Alexander was trying to raise more money. I don't know."

"Perhaps we can leave that one to the New York City Police Department," I said to Holmes.

"Yes, Russell," I suppose we can.