The Mis-Rememberings of Firelock Chomes
by Mark Reasoner
I heard the sound of a shotgun cocking and instinctively ducked down. Chomes could not see me do this, so he fired where he thought my head was located behind the book I was reading. Buckshot exploded across the room, missing me but decimating the volume I’d been perusing. A scream also came from the flat on the other side of the wall.
“Why did you do that, Chomes?” I asked as the smoke cleared.
“You removed that tome from the shelf ahead of schedule,” he replied.
“So?”
“Substantial penalty for early withdrawal, Dodson.”
Arguing the matter was interrupted by Mrs. Lodestone’s entry. She was in high dudgeon, apparently, though she could have also been high on heroin. One never knew.
“Mr. Chomes,” she said, “You must stop shooting that weapon. You’ve injured another tenant next door, and Mrs. McGillicuddy is quite perturbed. You are costing her a fortune.”
“Just put it on my account,” Chomes replied.
Mrs. Lodestone left in a huff, faster than normal as it usually took her a minute and a huff to vacate our rooms.
“You know, Chomes,” I said after our landlady left, “You really should do something about these outbursts. It’s getting so we are on a first-name basis with the plasterers. Not to mention the painters.”
“Perhaps you are right, Dodson,” he said while returning the shotgun to its place above the mantle, “but I wouldn’t be so likely to fire off a round or three if we had a case. You know how boredom doesn’t become me.”
There were many things that didn’t become Chomes, but I chose not to mention them.
Chomes hadn’t been consulted since we yanked several dodgy fellows back from Brooklyn last month. As usual, Inspector DeFraud and the yard garnered most of the credit, though Chomes and I did receive season tickets for our troubles.
Unfortunately, nothing of interest was currently available.
“Why don’t you assist me, Dodson?” he said. “Why don’t you see if you can rustle up a case for us? Or at least a decent roast-beef sandwich?”
“How would I do that?” I asked.
“Go see what Mr. Max is serving today.”
Now I joined Mrs. Lodestone in high dudgeon.
“I’m a doctor, not a maitre’d.”
“Then be prepared to deal with the current situation,” Chomes said.
I left.
I returned a short while later and tossed my acquisition to Chomes. “Just as you like it,” I said. “Thinly sliced with horseradish.”
“Kosher?” he asked.
“Would Shapiro’s serve anything else?”
He must have thought not, as he quickly began devouring the sandwich.
While Chomes made a pig of himself, I removed my coat and went to take my usual seat. I was shocked to find someone already seated there.
“Who the hell are you?” the man asked as he threw me to the floor.
“I’m the doctor,” I said. “Who…?”
“Good heavens, Mr. Chomes,” the man exclaimed. “You’ve brought the man to me.”
“I have not,” Chomes replied. “This is my cohort, Doctor…”
“Yes, the doctor. Doctor Hooh.”
“No, he’s not Doctor Hooh,” Chomes said.
“Doctor Who?” I asked.
“Hooh,” the man said.
“Who’s Hooh?” I asked.
“Enough!” Chomes said, throwing his sandwich remains at me. “Let’s start from the beginning. Dodson, allow me to present Mr. Hopper VanVleck, superfluous and autocratic director of the London Symphony Orchestra.”
“Care for a sandwich?” I said to our visitor as I stood.
“No, thank you,” Mr. VanVleck said.
“Now, then,” Chomes continued. “Let’s review what brings you here, sir. Please tell the doctor why you have consulted me.”
“Very well,” our visitor said. “It began last Thursday or perhaps Friday. No matter, the orchestra was performing Mr. Beethoven’s final and greatest work. It happened in the final movement. Both the first and second chair bass violin players collapsed in the middle of their lower arpeggio.”
“Collapsed, you say?” Chomes said.
“Completely. And a bottle of whiskey was found on each of them. Apparently they were both intoxicated.”
“Dear God, NO!” I exclaimed. “You can’t be saying the basses were loaded in the last of the ninth.”
“That’s precisely what I am saying,” VanVleck replied.
“Interesting,” Chomes said. “But where’s the mystery?”
“The mystery is what happened next,” VanVleck continued. “The maestro was just about to stop the performance when a third bassist picked up the music at the exact spot. The performance went on and the audience gave the orchestra a five minute ovation.”
“So the third bass player saved the day,” Chomes said. “Quite remarkable, but again, where’s the mystery?”
“But that’s just it, sir,” VanVleck replied. “The mystery is who this man was. He did not remain after the performance, and we have not been able to find him since. It’s what Hooh said must be first.”
“Who’s first?” I asked.
“Hooh’s, that’s whose,” VanVleck reiterated.
“Hooh’s what?”
“His first.”
“What’s first?” I retorted.
“No, Hooh’s first,” VanVleck said. “I’ll get to Watt in a second.”
“Who’s Watt?”
“I don’t know,” VanVleck said. “He could be the man I’m looking for, the man who played the third bass.”
“So back to Hooh,” I said. “What was he doing?”
“Doctoring, I suppose.”
“Why do you suppose that?”
“He said he was the doctor, Doctor Hooh.”
Before we could start around again, I looked at Chomes and noticed he had nodded off to sleep. I couldn’t say I blamed him.
When he came to an hour or so later, VanVleck and I were considering striking our own agreement but Chomes quickly called us out.
“We must repair to Spaulding Square,” he said. “Our answer could be there.”
“Since when do you have time to rhyme?” I asked. Chomes didn’t answer but did start toward the shotgun. I withdrew the question.
“Why?” VanVleck asked.
“What?” Chomes replied, lowering his weapon.
“Is it Hooh?”
“Is what Hooh?”
“Why.”
By this time, the room was spinning. Or perhaps it was my head as I tried to follow the conversation while avoiding being cut to ribbons by the expected blast. Fortunately, Chomes must have been just as confused, as he turned the shotgun on our visitor. Before he could fire, however, VanVleck dove behind the sofa out of range.
“Drat!” Chomes said, returning the shotgun to the mantle. “But no matter. We must persevere. Dodson, you will accompany me. And you, Mr. VanVleck, will return to your office and arrange for me to speak with the soused string-men.”
“You mean the bombed bassists?” VanVleck asked.
“Either, or both, as you will.”
An hour or so later, Chomes and I stood in front of the rambling edifice known as Spaulding Square, just off the Doubleday Road station. As we approached the entrance, a gaunt, uniformed man stepped out to greet us.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“You certainly may, my good door-man,” I said, but was interrupted before I could state my intentions.
“I’m not Dorman, he’s inside.”
“Why is the door-man inside?” I asked, “And if he is, who are you?”
“Porter.”
“Even better,” I said. “We came to talk to the porter.”
“I’ll let him know you are here,” the man said, turning to enter the building.
“Wait,” I said. “Aren’t you the porter?”
“No, I’m the door-man,” the old man replied. “The porter is inside, where you would expect to find him.”
“But you said you were the porter,” I said. “And you also said the door-man was inside.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Perhaps we should start over,” Chomes said, finally joining the conflagration. “Who are you, sir?”
“Porter.”
“You’re the porter for this building?”
“No, I’m the door-man.”
“But you said…” I interjected.
“I said I am Porter,” the man said, standing up straight. “That’s my name.”
Chomes nodded as if he understood. I made a note to ask him later. I didn’t have a clue.
“I will get the porter for you if you wish,” the door-man continued. “Whom should I say is calling?”
“Firelock Chomes and Dr. Dodson,” Chomes said.
The old man nodded and entered the building.
Within a few minutes, he returned and beckoned us to follow him into the vestibule. Inside, another elderly gentleman dressed in a grey, winter suit with a matching tie waited behind a small desk.
The door-man made introductions.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “This is Dorman, the building porter. I’m sure he can assist you.”
Before I could blather with complete incoherence, Chomes smacked me upside the back of my head.
Chomes moved over to look at the sign-board posted on the opposite wall. As he perused the listings there, he spoke.
“Now, Dorman,” he said.
“Yes?” Both men replied.
“Not the door-man,” Chomes said. “The porter. Porter, you may return to your door-man duties. I need to consult with porter Dorman.”
Eventually, they sorted it out and we were left with the man in the grey, flannel suit. Chomes returned to the desk to face the porter.
“Alright, Dorman,” he said. “Where’s the doctor?”
“Which doctor? Who do you seek?”
“Hooh, that’s who.”
“Hooh’s on the first. Just down that hall.”
“But your sign says Hooh’s on the second,” Chomes stated. “So who’s on the first?”
“Hooh, that’s who. Watt’s the man’s name on the second level,” Dorman said.
“So, Hooh’s on the first?” I asked.
“Indeed. Watt’s on second and Hooh is on first.”
“And why is that?” Chomes asked.
“Watt,” Dorman, the porter, replied.
“He asked why Hooh was on the first,” I said.
“I heard him,” the porter replied, “And answered.”
“You did not,” I said. “You indicated you hadn’t heard or did not understand.”
“So, I ask again,” Chomes went on, “Why is Hooh on the first?”
“Watt.”
“Hooh. Why is Hooh…?”
“I’m trying to tell you,” Dorman hollered, “Watt’s the man’s name on the second. Hooh is on the first.”
This was getting us nowhere, as Chomes quickly pointed out when he slapped the porter into unconsciousness. We left the man there and repaired to the office indicated on the sign-board. Chomes rapped on the second-level door.
“What?” came the reply from inside.
“Doctor Hooh?” Chomes inquired.
“No,” a man said as he opened the door, “Professor Watt.”
“You’re not Hooh?” I asked.
“What? No, I’m not Hooh, I’m Watt.”
“Where’s Hooh?” Chomes asked.
“I don’t know,” the man answered, slamming the door.
We left the building and walked back toward the underground. As we did, Chomes spoke.
“Well, Dodson,” he said, “We now know something we didn’t. We are making progress in identifying the unknown orchestral person.”
“How so?” I asked in reply. “We still don’t know who played the third bass.”
We returned to Baker Road and retired for the evening. The next morning, as we finished breakfast, Chomes stated we should expect our client along with the two players at the heart of this mystery.
“Excellent,” I replied. “By the way, Chomes, who are these pickled players? What are their names?”
“Maurrow and Dey,” Chomes answered.
Further conversation was impossible, as we were rudely interrupted by our client storming in. Chomes looked at his watch.
“Ah, VanVleck,” Chomes said. “Right on schedule.”
Our client seemed to be in a state of very high dudgeon, but I didn’t really notice as that was becoming the norm around our place.
“I cannot believe it,” he exclaimed. “I cannot arrange for you to speak with the men. They will not make themselves available. At least not conveniently.”
“What’s the issue?” Chomes asked calmly, though he did move slightly toward the mantle. I moved slightly toward the back side of the sofa.
“One can’t be available until tomorrow and the other must be dealt with today.”
“What’s the problem?” Chomes asked. “We’ll speak with them thusly, today and tomorrow. As I was just telling Dr. Dodson--”
“But you can’t,” VanVleck cried.
“Why on earth not?” I asked.
“I just told you. He won’t be available. You’ll have to wait until then to talk to Dey.”
“Well, if we can’t talk to Dey, we’ll talk to Maurrow,” Chomes said.
“No,” VanVleck replied, “Today.”
“But you said tomorrow,” I cried. “Which is it?”
“I’m trying to explain,” our client continued, collapsing into a chair.
“Then, please do,” Chomes said.
VanVleck gathered his wits. Placing them back into his pocket, he proceeded to explain the situation.
“The two bass-men are stringing this out. We won’t be able to speak to Dey until tomorrow. He’s catching a train to London.”
“Then we shall converse tomorrow.”
“No, sir, you must speak to Maurrow today. He insists on it. He’s pitching quite a fit about the whole thing.”
“Then let us do so,” Chomes said. “We shall speak to Dey tomorrow and to Maurrow today.” He gathered his coat and headed toward the door. “Come along, gentlemen. I feel we are closing in on a solution.”
I opted out of the conversations with the symphonic sidemen, preferring to remain home where I could drink whiskey and peruse volumes at my leisure. Sadly, I did too much of the former and the next thing I knew, Chomes was shaking me violently.
“Up, Dodson,” he said. “The game is on and we need to head out afield.”
“What are you saying, Chomes?” I asked as I tried to gather my wits and the empty bottles. “Do you know who was on the third bass?” I went on while stashing the empties where Mrs. Lodestone would stumble over them.
“No, I do not,” Chomes replied. “But I do know his location. And we must hurry.”
“Where?” I asked as we left our rooms.
“Wye.”
I stopped short. How could Chomes ask this? How could he question my desire to know?
“Oh, I don’t know,” I mumbled. “I just thought it‘d be nice of you to clue me in on developments as you drag me off on some wild chase…”
“Dodson,” Chomes interrupted. “What are you blabbering about?”
“For bloody sake, Chomes,” I cried. “I simply asked where we were going and you questioned my need to know. I would really like to know where we are going.”
“And I told you,” Chomes said. “Wye.”
“I just want to know where, that’s why.”
“And that is where — Wye.” Chomes picked up the pace. “Now do hurry, or you’ll be left out of the solution to the mystery.”
We quickly made our way to the 2:49 train and were soon left standing in Wye.
“So, this is Wye,” I remarked as the train moved off. “But it doesn’t explain why.”
“Because,” Chomes said, “Our mystery man’s efforts were centred over there.” Chomes pointed toward a group of buildings higher up the landscape.
“Up in that village?” I asked, following his digit.
“Not exactly,” Chomes replied. “That’s just our landmark, the village of Cosstell.” He then pointed to the valley below. There, in the center of a large, green field, was an old church and several other buildings. A low wall surrounded the group of structures.
“That’s where we shall learn the identity of the mysterious third bassist,” Chomes said. “In that abbey below the village of Cosstell. Come along, Dodson.”
A short hike down the line soon found us at the door to the old place. The sign over the entry said, “Cosstell-Lower MCCXII.”
“Hmm, Cosstell lower mick-ex-zye-eye,” I said. “What on earth does that mean, Chomes?”
“It means you’re an idiot, Dodson,” Chomes said. He rang the bell and a man wearing a dark robe opened the door.
I’ve never quite mastered ecclesiastic designations, so I wasn’t sure if we were speaking to a vicar, a pastor, or a friar. I said nothing and that was the correct choice as he turned out to be the janitor.
Chomes rushed past the poor man into the main hall.
“Alright,” he said loudly. “Where is he? Where is the man you are hiding, the man who saved things in last week’s performance?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” the man in the robe said. “I just work here.”
“You mean you don’t know who played the third bass?”
“Of course he doesn’t,” said a voice from the other side. Another robed man entered the room.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” I asked.
“I am the man you seek,” he answered. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Chomes?”
“Indeed it is, sir,” Chomes replied, “For our investigation has led inexorably here, and only you can be at the heart of this matter.”
“Dodson,” Chomes continued, turning to me. “All the questions we have asked and all we have learned lead directly to this man, the leader of this establishment and the only person who could possibly know the answer to our question. May I present the Abbot of Cosstell-Low.”
Explanations became the second order of the day. The first was dinner and as soon as we discarded our menus, Chomes began summarising the solution to this most baffling situation.
“As we all know,” he said, “This whole affair concerns the mysterious tertiary symphonic performer. Had the first two not become intoxicated during their arpeggio, Beethoven’s finale would have concluded without incident and we could not be having this conversation.”
“But they did, and we are,” stated our companion.
“Quite so,” Chomes said. “And it has been a remarkable journey. So, let us review.”
As we waited for our dinner to arrive, Chomes took us through the events and conversations leading up to the present.
“First on the scene was Hooh. Who he is and why he was first was originally unknown. But his presence led us to what came second. Or rather, who.”
“Hooh’s on second?” I asked. “I thought Watt was on the second.”
“Naturally, you would,” Chomes said snidely. “But it doesn’t matter. Hooh was the first. This led me to conclude what would occur next.”
“And Watt was indeed second,” I replied, just as snidely. The other gentleman almost gave himself whiplash by looking first at Chomes, then at me.
“Of course, this led us nowhere,” Chomes continued. “So, I returned to the scene of the crime to discuss things with those involved. This, however, would prove quite difficult.”
“How would that--?” our companion asked.
“Timing,” Chomes answered, cutting the man off. “We needed to speak both to Dey and to Maurrow. But that wasn’t possible — as I am sure you are aware, sir.”
The abbot smiled. “Quite so, sir,” he said. “It took some doing, but I was able to arrange for those gentlemen to be unavailable at the required time.”
“You mean you were responsible for Maurrow not being available on his day?” Chomes stated.
“Correct,” the abbot replied. “As well as Dey not being present until the morrow.”
“Good heavens, Chomes,” I exclaimed. “I see it now. VanVleck was actually right. You really couldn’t talk to Dey until tomorrow back then, and yet you had to talk to Maurrow today.”
“Quite so, Dodson,” Chomes said laconically. “And that leads us to why.”
“Ah, yes,” our companion said. “Wye. A lovely place left over from calmer times, don’t you think?”
“That’s not what I said,” Chomes said. “I wish to know why you did this, not why we came to Wye.”
The abbot of Cosstell-Low’s ancient and sequestered church and sacred halls smiled again. He took a sip from his drink before answering.
“Because,” he said. Then he paused dramatically. “Because I could.”
Later that week, back in our Baker Road rooms, Chomes and I related all of this to our client.
Mr. VanVleck was not pleased. He seemed to require an identity for the mysterious ad-hoc member of the orchestra’s string section.
Chomes tried to explain our investigation but VanVleck would have none of it.
“You have not uncovered anything,” he cried. “You have discovered nothing.”
“I have uncovered everything,” Chomes replied.
“But what of my original question?” our client said. “Why did it happen? Why did the basses become loaded during the last of the ninth? And who actually played that third bass?”
“Actually, sir,” Chomes said, “I really do not care anymore.”
And that brought the conversation to a very short stop.
“Why did you do that, Chomes?” I asked as the smoke cleared.
“You removed that tome from the shelf ahead of schedule,” he replied.
“So?”
“Substantial penalty for early withdrawal, Dodson.”
Arguing the matter was interrupted by Mrs. Lodestone’s entry. She was in high dudgeon, apparently, though she could have also been high on heroin. One never knew.
“Mr. Chomes,” she said, “You must stop shooting that weapon. You’ve injured another tenant next door, and Mrs. McGillicuddy is quite perturbed. You are costing her a fortune.”
“Just put it on my account,” Chomes replied.
Mrs. Lodestone left in a huff, faster than normal as it usually took her a minute and a huff to vacate our rooms.
“You know, Chomes,” I said after our landlady left, “You really should do something about these outbursts. It’s getting so we are on a first-name basis with the plasterers. Not to mention the painters.”
“Perhaps you are right, Dodson,” he said while returning the shotgun to its place above the mantle, “but I wouldn’t be so likely to fire off a round or three if we had a case. You know how boredom doesn’t become me.”
There were many things that didn’t become Chomes, but I chose not to mention them.
Chomes hadn’t been consulted since we yanked several dodgy fellows back from Brooklyn last month. As usual, Inspector DeFraud and the yard garnered most of the credit, though Chomes and I did receive season tickets for our troubles.
Unfortunately, nothing of interest was currently available.
“Why don’t you assist me, Dodson?” he said. “Why don’t you see if you can rustle up a case for us? Or at least a decent roast-beef sandwich?”
“How would I do that?” I asked.
“Go see what Mr. Max is serving today.”
Now I joined Mrs. Lodestone in high dudgeon.
“I’m a doctor, not a maitre’d.”
“Then be prepared to deal with the current situation,” Chomes said.
I left.
I returned a short while later and tossed my acquisition to Chomes. “Just as you like it,” I said. “Thinly sliced with horseradish.”
“Kosher?” he asked.
“Would Shapiro’s serve anything else?”
He must have thought not, as he quickly began devouring the sandwich.
While Chomes made a pig of himself, I removed my coat and went to take my usual seat. I was shocked to find someone already seated there.
“Who the hell are you?” the man asked as he threw me to the floor.
“I’m the doctor,” I said. “Who…?”
“Good heavens, Mr. Chomes,” the man exclaimed. “You’ve brought the man to me.”
“I have not,” Chomes replied. “This is my cohort, Doctor…”
“Yes, the doctor. Doctor Hooh.”
“No, he’s not Doctor Hooh,” Chomes said.
“Doctor Who?” I asked.
“Hooh,” the man said.
“Who’s Hooh?” I asked.
“Enough!” Chomes said, throwing his sandwich remains at me. “Let’s start from the beginning. Dodson, allow me to present Mr. Hopper VanVleck, superfluous and autocratic director of the London Symphony Orchestra.”
“Care for a sandwich?” I said to our visitor as I stood.
“No, thank you,” Mr. VanVleck said.
“Now, then,” Chomes continued. “Let’s review what brings you here, sir. Please tell the doctor why you have consulted me.”
“Very well,” our visitor said. “It began last Thursday or perhaps Friday. No matter, the orchestra was performing Mr. Beethoven’s final and greatest work. It happened in the final movement. Both the first and second chair bass violin players collapsed in the middle of their lower arpeggio.”
“Collapsed, you say?” Chomes said.
“Completely. And a bottle of whiskey was found on each of them. Apparently they were both intoxicated.”
“Dear God, NO!” I exclaimed. “You can’t be saying the basses were loaded in the last of the ninth.”
“That’s precisely what I am saying,” VanVleck replied.
“Interesting,” Chomes said. “But where’s the mystery?”
“The mystery is what happened next,” VanVleck continued. “The maestro was just about to stop the performance when a third bassist picked up the music at the exact spot. The performance went on and the audience gave the orchestra a five minute ovation.”
“So the third bass player saved the day,” Chomes said. “Quite remarkable, but again, where’s the mystery?”
“But that’s just it, sir,” VanVleck replied. “The mystery is who this man was. He did not remain after the performance, and we have not been able to find him since. It’s what Hooh said must be first.”
“Who’s first?” I asked.
“Hooh’s, that’s whose,” VanVleck reiterated.
“Hooh’s what?”
“His first.”
“What’s first?” I retorted.
“No, Hooh’s first,” VanVleck said. “I’ll get to Watt in a second.”
“Who’s Watt?”
“I don’t know,” VanVleck said. “He could be the man I’m looking for, the man who played the third bass.”
“So back to Hooh,” I said. “What was he doing?”
“Doctoring, I suppose.”
“Why do you suppose that?”
“He said he was the doctor, Doctor Hooh.”
Before we could start around again, I looked at Chomes and noticed he had nodded off to sleep. I couldn’t say I blamed him.
When he came to an hour or so later, VanVleck and I were considering striking our own agreement but Chomes quickly called us out.
“We must repair to Spaulding Square,” he said. “Our answer could be there.”
“Since when do you have time to rhyme?” I asked. Chomes didn’t answer but did start toward the shotgun. I withdrew the question.
“Why?” VanVleck asked.
“What?” Chomes replied, lowering his weapon.
“Is it Hooh?”
“Is what Hooh?”
“Why.”
By this time, the room was spinning. Or perhaps it was my head as I tried to follow the conversation while avoiding being cut to ribbons by the expected blast. Fortunately, Chomes must have been just as confused, as he turned the shotgun on our visitor. Before he could fire, however, VanVleck dove behind the sofa out of range.
“Drat!” Chomes said, returning the shotgun to the mantle. “But no matter. We must persevere. Dodson, you will accompany me. And you, Mr. VanVleck, will return to your office and arrange for me to speak with the soused string-men.”
“You mean the bombed bassists?” VanVleck asked.
“Either, or both, as you will.”
An hour or so later, Chomes and I stood in front of the rambling edifice known as Spaulding Square, just off the Doubleday Road station. As we approached the entrance, a gaunt, uniformed man stepped out to greet us.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“You certainly may, my good door-man,” I said, but was interrupted before I could state my intentions.
“I’m not Dorman, he’s inside.”
“Why is the door-man inside?” I asked, “And if he is, who are you?”
“Porter.”
“Even better,” I said. “We came to talk to the porter.”
“I’ll let him know you are here,” the man said, turning to enter the building.
“Wait,” I said. “Aren’t you the porter?”
“No, I’m the door-man,” the old man replied. “The porter is inside, where you would expect to find him.”
“But you said you were the porter,” I said. “And you also said the door-man was inside.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Perhaps we should start over,” Chomes said, finally joining the conflagration. “Who are you, sir?”
“Porter.”
“You’re the porter for this building?”
“No, I’m the door-man.”
“But you said…” I interjected.
“I said I am Porter,” the man said, standing up straight. “That’s my name.”
Chomes nodded as if he understood. I made a note to ask him later. I didn’t have a clue.
“I will get the porter for you if you wish,” the door-man continued. “Whom should I say is calling?”
“Firelock Chomes and Dr. Dodson,” Chomes said.
The old man nodded and entered the building.
Within a few minutes, he returned and beckoned us to follow him into the vestibule. Inside, another elderly gentleman dressed in a grey, winter suit with a matching tie waited behind a small desk.
The door-man made introductions.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “This is Dorman, the building porter. I’m sure he can assist you.”
Before I could blather with complete incoherence, Chomes smacked me upside the back of my head.
Chomes moved over to look at the sign-board posted on the opposite wall. As he perused the listings there, he spoke.
“Now, Dorman,” he said.
“Yes?” Both men replied.
“Not the door-man,” Chomes said. “The porter. Porter, you may return to your door-man duties. I need to consult with porter Dorman.”
Eventually, they sorted it out and we were left with the man in the grey, flannel suit. Chomes returned to the desk to face the porter.
“Alright, Dorman,” he said. “Where’s the doctor?”
“Which doctor? Who do you seek?”
“Hooh, that’s who.”
“Hooh’s on the first. Just down that hall.”
“But your sign says Hooh’s on the second,” Chomes stated. “So who’s on the first?”
“Hooh, that’s who. Watt’s the man’s name on the second level,” Dorman said.
“So, Hooh’s on the first?” I asked.
“Indeed. Watt’s on second and Hooh is on first.”
“And why is that?” Chomes asked.
“Watt,” Dorman, the porter, replied.
“He asked why Hooh was on the first,” I said.
“I heard him,” the porter replied, “And answered.”
“You did not,” I said. “You indicated you hadn’t heard or did not understand.”
“So, I ask again,” Chomes went on, “Why is Hooh on the first?”
“Watt.”
“Hooh. Why is Hooh…?”
“I’m trying to tell you,” Dorman hollered, “Watt’s the man’s name on the second. Hooh is on the first.”
This was getting us nowhere, as Chomes quickly pointed out when he slapped the porter into unconsciousness. We left the man there and repaired to the office indicated on the sign-board. Chomes rapped on the second-level door.
“What?” came the reply from inside.
“Doctor Hooh?” Chomes inquired.
“No,” a man said as he opened the door, “Professor Watt.”
“You’re not Hooh?” I asked.
“What? No, I’m not Hooh, I’m Watt.”
“Where’s Hooh?” Chomes asked.
“I don’t know,” the man answered, slamming the door.
We left the building and walked back toward the underground. As we did, Chomes spoke.
“Well, Dodson,” he said, “We now know something we didn’t. We are making progress in identifying the unknown orchestral person.”
“How so?” I asked in reply. “We still don’t know who played the third bass.”
We returned to Baker Road and retired for the evening. The next morning, as we finished breakfast, Chomes stated we should expect our client along with the two players at the heart of this mystery.
“Excellent,” I replied. “By the way, Chomes, who are these pickled players? What are their names?”
“Maurrow and Dey,” Chomes answered.
Further conversation was impossible, as we were rudely interrupted by our client storming in. Chomes looked at his watch.
“Ah, VanVleck,” Chomes said. “Right on schedule.”
Our client seemed to be in a state of very high dudgeon, but I didn’t really notice as that was becoming the norm around our place.
“I cannot believe it,” he exclaimed. “I cannot arrange for you to speak with the men. They will not make themselves available. At least not conveniently.”
“What’s the issue?” Chomes asked calmly, though he did move slightly toward the mantle. I moved slightly toward the back side of the sofa.
“One can’t be available until tomorrow and the other must be dealt with today.”
“What’s the problem?” Chomes asked. “We’ll speak with them thusly, today and tomorrow. As I was just telling Dr. Dodson--”
“But you can’t,” VanVleck cried.
“Why on earth not?” I asked.
“I just told you. He won’t be available. You’ll have to wait until then to talk to Dey.”
“Well, if we can’t talk to Dey, we’ll talk to Maurrow,” Chomes said.
“No,” VanVleck replied, “Today.”
“But you said tomorrow,” I cried. “Which is it?”
“I’m trying to explain,” our client continued, collapsing into a chair.
“Then, please do,” Chomes said.
VanVleck gathered his wits. Placing them back into his pocket, he proceeded to explain the situation.
“The two bass-men are stringing this out. We won’t be able to speak to Dey until tomorrow. He’s catching a train to London.”
“Then we shall converse tomorrow.”
“No, sir, you must speak to Maurrow today. He insists on it. He’s pitching quite a fit about the whole thing.”
“Then let us do so,” Chomes said. “We shall speak to Dey tomorrow and to Maurrow today.” He gathered his coat and headed toward the door. “Come along, gentlemen. I feel we are closing in on a solution.”
I opted out of the conversations with the symphonic sidemen, preferring to remain home where I could drink whiskey and peruse volumes at my leisure. Sadly, I did too much of the former and the next thing I knew, Chomes was shaking me violently.
“Up, Dodson,” he said. “The game is on and we need to head out afield.”
“What are you saying, Chomes?” I asked as I tried to gather my wits and the empty bottles. “Do you know who was on the third bass?” I went on while stashing the empties where Mrs. Lodestone would stumble over them.
“No, I do not,” Chomes replied. “But I do know his location. And we must hurry.”
“Where?” I asked as we left our rooms.
“Wye.”
I stopped short. How could Chomes ask this? How could he question my desire to know?
“Oh, I don’t know,” I mumbled. “I just thought it‘d be nice of you to clue me in on developments as you drag me off on some wild chase…”
“Dodson,” Chomes interrupted. “What are you blabbering about?”
“For bloody sake, Chomes,” I cried. “I simply asked where we were going and you questioned my need to know. I would really like to know where we are going.”
“And I told you,” Chomes said. “Wye.”
“I just want to know where, that’s why.”
“And that is where — Wye.” Chomes picked up the pace. “Now do hurry, or you’ll be left out of the solution to the mystery.”
We quickly made our way to the 2:49 train and were soon left standing in Wye.
“So, this is Wye,” I remarked as the train moved off. “But it doesn’t explain why.”
“Because,” Chomes said, “Our mystery man’s efforts were centred over there.” Chomes pointed toward a group of buildings higher up the landscape.
“Up in that village?” I asked, following his digit.
“Not exactly,” Chomes replied. “That’s just our landmark, the village of Cosstell.” He then pointed to the valley below. There, in the center of a large, green field, was an old church and several other buildings. A low wall surrounded the group of structures.
“That’s where we shall learn the identity of the mysterious third bassist,” Chomes said. “In that abbey below the village of Cosstell. Come along, Dodson.”
A short hike down the line soon found us at the door to the old place. The sign over the entry said, “Cosstell-Lower MCCXII.”
“Hmm, Cosstell lower mick-ex-zye-eye,” I said. “What on earth does that mean, Chomes?”
“It means you’re an idiot, Dodson,” Chomes said. He rang the bell and a man wearing a dark robe opened the door.
I’ve never quite mastered ecclesiastic designations, so I wasn’t sure if we were speaking to a vicar, a pastor, or a friar. I said nothing and that was the correct choice as he turned out to be the janitor.
Chomes rushed past the poor man into the main hall.
“Alright,” he said loudly. “Where is he? Where is the man you are hiding, the man who saved things in last week’s performance?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” the man in the robe said. “I just work here.”
“You mean you don’t know who played the third bass?”
“Of course he doesn’t,” said a voice from the other side. Another robed man entered the room.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” I asked.
“I am the man you seek,” he answered. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Chomes?”
“Indeed it is, sir,” Chomes replied, “For our investigation has led inexorably here, and only you can be at the heart of this matter.”
“Dodson,” Chomes continued, turning to me. “All the questions we have asked and all we have learned lead directly to this man, the leader of this establishment and the only person who could possibly know the answer to our question. May I present the Abbot of Cosstell-Low.”
Explanations became the second order of the day. The first was dinner and as soon as we discarded our menus, Chomes began summarising the solution to this most baffling situation.
“As we all know,” he said, “This whole affair concerns the mysterious tertiary symphonic performer. Had the first two not become intoxicated during their arpeggio, Beethoven’s finale would have concluded without incident and we could not be having this conversation.”
“But they did, and we are,” stated our companion.
“Quite so,” Chomes said. “And it has been a remarkable journey. So, let us review.”
As we waited for our dinner to arrive, Chomes took us through the events and conversations leading up to the present.
“First on the scene was Hooh. Who he is and why he was first was originally unknown. But his presence led us to what came second. Or rather, who.”
“Hooh’s on second?” I asked. “I thought Watt was on the second.”
“Naturally, you would,” Chomes said snidely. “But it doesn’t matter. Hooh was the first. This led me to conclude what would occur next.”
“And Watt was indeed second,” I replied, just as snidely. The other gentleman almost gave himself whiplash by looking first at Chomes, then at me.
“Of course, this led us nowhere,” Chomes continued. “So, I returned to the scene of the crime to discuss things with those involved. This, however, would prove quite difficult.”
“How would that--?” our companion asked.
“Timing,” Chomes answered, cutting the man off. “We needed to speak both to Dey and to Maurrow. But that wasn’t possible — as I am sure you are aware, sir.”
The abbot smiled. “Quite so, sir,” he said. “It took some doing, but I was able to arrange for those gentlemen to be unavailable at the required time.”
“You mean you were responsible for Maurrow not being available on his day?” Chomes stated.
“Correct,” the abbot replied. “As well as Dey not being present until the morrow.”
“Good heavens, Chomes,” I exclaimed. “I see it now. VanVleck was actually right. You really couldn’t talk to Dey until tomorrow back then, and yet you had to talk to Maurrow today.”
“Quite so, Dodson,” Chomes said laconically. “And that leads us to why.”
“Ah, yes,” our companion said. “Wye. A lovely place left over from calmer times, don’t you think?”
“That’s not what I said,” Chomes said. “I wish to know why you did this, not why we came to Wye.”
The abbot of Cosstell-Low’s ancient and sequestered church and sacred halls smiled again. He took a sip from his drink before answering.
“Because,” he said. Then he paused dramatically. “Because I could.”
Later that week, back in our Baker Road rooms, Chomes and I related all of this to our client.
Mr. VanVleck was not pleased. He seemed to require an identity for the mysterious ad-hoc member of the orchestra’s string section.
Chomes tried to explain our investigation but VanVleck would have none of it.
“You have not uncovered anything,” he cried. “You have discovered nothing.”
“I have uncovered everything,” Chomes replied.
“But what of my original question?” our client said. “Why did it happen? Why did the basses become loaded during the last of the ninth? And who actually played that third bass?”
“Actually, sir,” Chomes said, “I really do not care anymore.”
And that brought the conversation to a very short stop.