The Secret Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes by June Thomson

Wesson had gone and with him the priceless heirloom which had been in the Bedminster family for generations.
    Holmes had trusted me and I had let him down.
    It was with an exceedingly heavy heart that I packed up the remaining treasures and took a cab back to Baker Street where I sat alone by the fire, constantly turning over in my mind what I should say to Holmes on his return.
    I have never known the hours pass so slowly. The afternoon and then the evening dragged by as I waited for the sound of his familiar footstep upon the stairs and listened to the clock striking the hours. Ten o’ clock came and went, then eleven and still there was no sign of my old friend.
    At midnight, I went at last to bed, exhausted by mental torment, although I slept only fitfully, my mind still in an anguish of self-recrimination.
    It was almost half-past three before Holmes eventually returned. Although I had dropped into an uneasy slumber, my senses must still have been alert for I was aware of a cab drawing up outside the house, followed shortly afterwards by the sound of his latchkey in the street door.
    In a second, I was wide awake and, lighting a candle, I put on my dressing-gown and slippers and went downstairs to the sitting-room to find Holmes, disguised with a brown beard anda flat cap, in the act of filling a glass of whisky with soda water from the gasogene. *
    ‘My dear fellow!’ said he, as I came creeping round the door. ‘Did I wake you? I am most dreadfully sorry.’
    ‘It is I who ought to apologize,’ I said humbly. ‘I am afraid, Holmes, that I mishandled the business with Wesson very badly. To think that I allowed him to walk away with the Cooper! What on earth can I say or do to make up for my mistake? If you wish me to apologize in person to Lord Bedminster …’
    ‘Oh, that!’ he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Do not trouble yourself in the slightest about it, Watson. We can easily retrieve the miniature from The Magpie whenever we wish. A whisky and soda?’
    I was so greatly relieved by my old friend’s cheerful insouciance that it was not until I had sunk down into an armchair by the fire, the embers of which Holmes had coaxed into a blaze, that the full purport of his remark struck home.
    ‘You mean that you have discovered The Magpie’s identity?’ I asked.
    ‘Of course,’ he replied, handing me a whisky and soda. ‘What else was the purpose of our little excursion to Claridge’s Hotel?’
    ‘Then who is he?’
    To my utter astonishment, Holmes began to chant in a singsong voice, as if repeating a well-known nursery jingle or a childhood tongue-twister, ‘Are you feeling low? Is your pulse too slow? Then let Parker’s little pink pills perk you up.’ Seeing my bewildered expression, he burst out laughing. ‘Surely you are familiar with the advertisement, Watson? It appears regularly in all the popular penny newspapers. I am surprised, in fact, that Parker’s Pills have not put you and your colleagues out of business long ago, for they are claimed to have suchefficacious results in the treatment of a host of ailments, from insomnia to headaches and from neuralgia to muscle fatigue, to say nothing of the tonic effect they have on the blood, the liver, the kidneys and the digestive system generally.
    ‘Well, my dear fellow, I have discovered that The Magpie is none other than Parker himself, retired now from active participation in the business but still no doubt enjoying part of the profits from his most lucrative trade in little pink pills. It is astonishing how gullible the general public is over patent medicines. It will spend a small fortune on such restoratives when a decent bottle of brandy would do them twice as much good at half the price.
    ‘However, to return to The Magpie. You realized, of course, Watson, that Wesson was merely his agent? But you are probably unaware of who exactly Wesson is. He is none other than Arty Tucker, short for Arthur but a particularly apt