Holmes shook his head. "Sir Andrew would have realized his son's crime when he saw what was in the dead man's trunk, and to spare his dead son further shame he hid the urn. Somewhere secure, apparently, for it took ten years for the influence to affect him. When it did he will have realized the significance of the unique decoration on the outer casket. It was a warning that nobody heeded. He could not leave that deadly urn to destroy others. His notes prove that he connected it with his son's death and also suggested to me the remedy that he devised. The bolster confirmed it."
"Bolster?" I said, "Where was there a bolster?"
"A wooden implement, Watson, known as a bolster or lead-dresser, used by plumbers for knocking sheet lead into shape, as a moleskin pad impregnated with tallow is used to wipe the joints of leaden pipes and containers. Sir Andrew evidently recalled the leaden lining of the bronze casket and reasoned, perhaps, that it had some inhibiting influence on the ore's emanations. This morning's visit and Mr Swain's photographs confirmed my deduction. Sir Andrew's last visit to Addleton may have been to stand at his son's grave, but it was also to return the stolen urn to the Black Barrow. He was quite right. No one will re-open that mound, the locals keep away and there will never be a road or railway or houses on the Moor. Its poisonous influence is as harmless there as if it was at the bottom of the ocean."
"I admit that it all makes sense," I said, "but it still seems very theoretical to me."
"Theoretical!" he snorted. "The pieces of my puzzle have been the words of witnesses who had no cause to lie. All I have added is the unproven, but entirely reasonable, theory of a number of eminent scientists. In the absence of data, Watson, it is permissible to theorize in directions which do not conflict with such data as does exist. It seems that my application of their theory has provided Curie and his friends with further data. In connection with which, Watson, I must ask you not to add this case to your published stories if only because publication might prematurely disclose the reasoning of my French friends and rob them of their just triumph in due course. But I must really write and tell Curie this singular tale."
I confess that I had no intention of publishing an account of the Addleton affair. I could not fault Holmes's reasoning, but I could not quell a suspicion that it was all rather too logical and was not capable of proof.
Holmes wrote to Lady Cynthia and to Dr Leary, assuring them that the Addleton disease would never occur again and also to Edgar, explaining his understandable error. That fair-minded man wrote at once to the papers saying that, in the light of new information, he wholeheartedly and entirely withdrew any implication he had made against Sir Andrew Lewis.
Twenty-five years have elapsed since the Addleton tragedy and science has moved on. I owe my friend an apology for doubting him and I make it here. It was less than two years after Holmes had explained his reasoning to me that Becquerel established the existence of an emission from uranium ore which affected photographic plates. Miss Sklodovska, or Madame Curie as she is now widely known, realized that pitchblende contained something that emitted "Becquerel rays" more strongly than uranium and, thereby, discovered radium, the medicinal use of which has saved countless lives. The Curies and Becquerel have richly deserved their Nobel prizes for their efforts in turning a freak of nature to the advantage of mankind, and it seems to me that my friend Sherlock Holmes deserves recognition for having made what must surely have been the earliest practical application of their theories.
As to the deadly aspects of "Becquerel rays", they are now well understood by scientists. Now we know their dangers and, unlike our primitive forefathers, we do not have to fear that they will ever be carelessly unleashed upon the world.
The Adventure of the Parisian Gentleman – Robert Weinberg & Lois H. Gresh
1
More than once in my chronicles detailing the amazing deductions of Sherlock Holmes have I commented on my friend's irritating lack of modesty. Though hating publicity of any sort, Holmes was justifiably proud of his work as a consulting detective. Never a humble man, he could be at times insufferably smug. However, when it came to morality, Sherlock Holmes never let vanity sway his sense of what was right. Never was this fact more clearly demonstrated than in the episode of the Parisian Gentleman.
It was a quiet evening in early October, 1894. A thick blanket of fog covered Baker Street. The evening edition contained little of interest and I relaxed, half-dozing, on the sofa. Holmes stood in front of the fire, smoking his pipe, a thoughtful expression on his face. From time to time, he glanced to the window. It was quite clear he was expecting a visitor.
"Are we due for some company tonight, my dear Holmes?" I asked, wondering what manner of trouble would soon be knocking at our door. "Something odd in the paper? Or, perhaps a difficult problem for theYard?"
"Neither, Watson," declared Holmes, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Our client comes from abroad. Start thinking about your wardrobe for a trip to the Continent. Tomorrow, we set off for Paris."
"What?" I said, astonished. "Obviously, Holmes, you've already had discussions with this new patron."
"Not at all," said Holmes. "I have never spoken to the gentleman."
"His letter then," I continued. "He mentioned details in his correspondence with you."
"Nothing of the sort," said Holmes. He dug out a folded piece of stationary from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. "See for yourself."
The paper was from the French Embassy. Scribbled in bold handwriting were the words, 9 PM at your quarters. Utmost urgency. Privacy Required. The note was signed, Girac.
"Who is this Girac?" I asked, shaking my head in bewilderment. I knew better than to question Holmes's deductions. Though how these few words signalled a journey to Paris was a mystery to me. "Do you know him?"
"Only by reputation," said Holmes. There were footsteps on the stairs leading to our rooms. My friend stepped to the door. "A member of the French Sûreté, he is quite famous for his problem-solving abilities. Some call him, I am told, the French Sherlock Holmes."
A brisk knock indicated the arrival of our guest. "Inspector Girac," said Holmes, as he ushered the Frenchman into our parlor. "I am Sherlock Holmes. And this is my friend and associate, Dr Watson."
"A pleasure, gentlemen," said Girac in a smooth, deep voice without the least trace of an accent. He was a tall, heavyset man with clean-shaven features, a thick mop of black hair, and dark, observant eyes. His gaze never rested, moving quickly from one point to another in our apartment. "Please excuse the lateness of the hour, but I needed to see you as soon as possible and embassy business kept me occupied until now."
"Please be seated," said Holmes, waving Girac to an empty chair. My friend strolled back to his place in front of the fire as the Frenchman sat down. "You are here, of course, concerning a new problem involving the Dreyfus case."
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Girac, his eyes bulging in shock. "Can it be there is a spy in the Embassy? My mission is quite secret. Other than the President himself, no one knows why I'm in England." The Frenchman shook his head in dismay. "We are undone."
"Surely, Holmes," I said, equally startled, "This revelation is magic."
"Nonsense," said Holmes. "Merely an elementary exercise in logical thinking, Watson. You should know by now that superstition is no match for basic deduction."
My friend held out the note he had shown me a few minutes earlier. He assumed the pose of a university professor, about to lecture his students. "Receiving this letter in the morning, I instantly knew important events were brewing. Why would Inspector Girac, famous in his own country as a detective and investigator, need to visit me? Only a case of the highest national interest, requiring he use every available resource, would force the Inspector to seek the skills of an outsider. But why me, a foreigner, instead of another member of the Sûreté? The answer had to be that Monsieur Girac harbored suspicions about his comrades. As you well know, Watson, police organizations are normally a tightly knit group. Such apprehensions can only be the result of national turmoil. While I do not regularly follow French politics, I am not blind to news of the world. It was therefore quite apparent to me that Girac's visit concerned the notorious Dreyfus spy case."