Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Crooked Cast
Sherlock Holmes ran his long, tapered finger over the row of books, prominently displayed on the mahogany bookcase shelf.
“Watson,” he asked at long last, “how do you feel about the theatre?”
“I haven’t attended since last year,” I declared.
He studied the books some more, pulled one out, examined the title, and gently pushed it back in.
“I have acquired some tickets to the theatre for tonight, in a few hours in fact, if you would like to accompany me,” he asked, quite seriously.
I accepted his invitation and promptly at 3:25p.m. we were ready to go. Sherlock Holmes stepped out of the door onto the street of 221b Baker Street, followed closely by myself.
“Watson,” he declared, “this week’s theatre is supposed to be spectacular. The actor’s are performing Shakespeare’s Macbeth. It is stupendous, or so I’ve been told, and the Queen herself is supposed to attend.”
“Excellent,” I announced, “and might I enquire as to who is performing?”
“The French Assemblage,” he replied, “the best in Europe.”
We continued down the cobbled street with nary a word between us, and Holmes, as always, was observing everything and missing nothing. I glanced around, even if for naught but to entertain myself and my gaze happened to fall upon a crude, hand drawn playbill . It was advertising this night’s performance but the group of actors portrayed on the paper was not the French troupe I had been expecting. I dared a look at Holmes, only to find that, like usual, he was one step ahead.
“Watson,” he cried, a note of frustration in his voice, “This is not the right acting company. I also fear that the Queen has no knowledge of this most peculiar switch.”
We continued along the roughly hewn cobblestone street with the occasional hansom passing by, listening to the steady rhythm of hoof beats fading away in the distance. As we continued on, the theatre soon loomed up in front of us, casting a dim shadow in swiftly fading light. We entered the theatre by the east entrance and took our places among the middle section. Scarcely five minutes had gone by when fanfare, produced from shining, well-polished brass trumpets, ricocheted throughout the theatre, announcing the arrival of her Majesty. She took her place in the balcony boxes and the gaieties began. With fanfare of their own, though the trumpets were not as shiny, the acting troupe took their places.
“I must have a word with Her Majesty,” Holmes exclaimed, “Wait here, Watson.”
Soon after, I concluded, the illustrious Holmes must have said something humorous because Her Majesty’s lilting laugh soon rang out, rebounding and echoing throughout the cavernous hall. The charading actors, if actors they really were, took this as a sign to redouble their pitiful, hideous efforts. This produced many laughs and not a few rotten tomatoes sailing with ill-practiced aim in the general direction of the stage. It was quite soon after this that Sherlock decided to return and, as luck would have it, he returned with some exceedingly disturbing news.
“After a small chat with Her Majesty and her guards, neither showed any knowledge of the apparent switch,” he continued, “In fact she thought it was so outrageous she laughed at me. Watson, something’s very wrong here.”
The acting was so horrendous, and Holmes was in such a mood, that we left before the end of the third act. It also didn’t help matters that the stage was completely covered in food picked up from the garbage. Sherlock was in a state but on the way home he strangely bent down to pick up a gold noble, which was also strange. We both continued on silently, Holmes’ brow furrowed deeply, as it always does when he has substantial issue on his mind. I bid him good night and we both went our separate ways. It was not until the next morning, however, that I discovered the real reason for his brooding. All over the city, criers were wandering the streets, calling loudly about the Queen’s missing ruby. The theft had been discovered because, when she set the crown down, the foremost ruby popped out of place and crashed onto the marble floor, a million pieces scattered throughout the room. I threw on my overcoat and hurried to 221b Baker Street, the street that is infamous to crooks and evildoers. Holmes was just settling down with a cup of tea and, just before I raised my hand to knock the brass knocker on the stately oak door, he called and, saying “Come in, Watson!”, I entered. I had barely had settled in an overstuffed easy chair, when he held out the gold noble he had found just last night. I took it and examined it.
“Sherlock Holmes,” I cried, aloud, “are you aware of what this is and what it means?”
“I am Watson,” he replied to my outburst in a calm manner, “I’m also doubly sure that the Queen herself will want to know about this counterfeited coin, obviously with more in operation. Watson, get me my coat. We are going to Buckingham Palace.”
Twenty-five minutes later we were in the Queen’s presence and she, obviously annoyed after last night’s episode, was very sharp in speaking to us.
Holmes however remained composed and collected.
“My dear Majesty,” he began.
“Holmes,” she said shortly, “I do not have all day.”
“Yet you made time to speak with us,” he began again, “And counterfeiters are not a thing to be taken lightly. Please tell me, Dear Queen, what type of coin this is.” He held up the coin for her inspection.
“Sherlock Holmes,” she cried, very annoyed, “Is this your idea of a joke?!? A child with one eye could see that it is a gold noble!”
“Now, Your Majesty, if you will examine it a bit further and closer,” he asked patiently, holding out the coin again, this time putting it into her outstretched hand.
She stared at it, her eyes slowly widening in amazement.
“Holmes,” she cried again, “This is a very serious matter! Copper bits are not meant to be gold nobles!”
“Also, Majesty, you will find that your crown has been done in such a way also and the jewels are all glass,” Holmes declared.
“What,” she said looking quite faint, her face drained of all color, “Whatever could you mean?”
“I shall explain,” he said, “If you have a copper bit and you need a gold noble you can make one at home. The materials needed are Sodium Hydroxide, Zinc, and Copper. First they would heat up the stovetop burner, they then put zinc in a bowl, next they poured sodium hydroxide on top of it, and after that settles they stuck the copper bit into the bowl and waited for the zinc to settle on top of it. Once the copper bit was completely silver they removed it and stuck it on the burner. This, after a few minutes, will transform the bit into a gold looking substance. Designed to fool people into believing it was more than it appeared to be. Even just 30 of such coins could destroy your economy.”
“But, but,” she stuttered.
“Your Majesty,” he continued, “you will find the crooks at the theatre preparing for tonight’s performance. You see, I took a small walk yesterday evening and I started on the street upon which I found the coin. I then proceeded south, inquiring in shops as to which had received gold nobles in payment, rarity in these parts. The closer I traveled to the theatre, the more frequent was the use of gold nobles.”
“In my travels I discovered that a quantity of rope had been purchased by one such coin. Another shop had copper in mysteriously short supply. You see, Your Majesty, the actor’s scheme comes together quite well.”
“Sherlock Holmes,” she replied, all hesitant and doubting notes gone from her voice, “you are a wonder to equal all other wonders!”
“Furthermore a crown could be composed of beaten copper, colored in the same ways as the coins, and colored glass is not hard to come by. Your guard, being part of the actor’s faux troupe, replaced the original crown. Girded in a guard’s costume from the theatre’s wide selection, he made the switch. My suspicions were aroused when I spotted a crude handbill. Obviously these thieves were trying to promote this escapade to other thieves. I have, using logic and deductive reasoning, concluded that they will use the crown in tonight’s performance of Shakespeare’s Richard III.”
“Holmes,” she cried again, “You are the best of miracles.”
Several hours later we were sitting in the comfortable apartment of 221b Baker Street. Holmes was, once again, viewing the bookshelf.
“Holmes,” I asked, “How in the devil did you do it?”
“Elementary, dear Watson,” he replied, “Now about this book. I cannot for the life of me recall where I’ve placed it……….”