35. THE CASE OF A SECOND-HAND CHAIR

One of Holmes' old cases returns to haunt him in a good way

“I have been contemplating recently,” said Holmes after folding his Times rather neatly (for him) and placing it on the table next to him, “I have been contemplating how, in this new century with the bright lights of the future beckoning, how we should be more aware of the comfort of our clients and make small adjustments to our accomodation.”

“I’m always suggesting improvements,” I reminded him. “Last week when Ingrid Buxom called I was made very aware that she found her posture difficult to maintain in that chair.” I pointed to the chair we usually sat our clients in. It was unpadded and getting shabby and for some time I’d been thinking how its very presence in our consulting room let us down somewhat. Miss Buxom had made the point for me by demonstrating her lack of comfort and, incidentally, exposing her fine ankles for my scrutiny at the same time

“I’ve had the very same thought!” ejaculated Holmes, “though Miss Buxom didn’t cross my mind. A pleasant enough young woman, though, even if her trade is somewhat less glorious.”

“She’s a singer in the halls,” I reminded him, “and as such no doubt at the bottom of your personal list of worthy young women. But I found he refreshing and, let it be said, honest.”

“And you worship her, I suppose, Watson,” he rejoined sharply.

“I found her genuine and pleasant,” I averred. “It would be a better world if Lady This or Countess that were more like the attractive Ingrid. But for all their finery and wealth, they’re often not.”

“But breeding, Watson,” replied Holmes hotly, “there is a great deal to be said for breeding! Ask your average shepherd or pig breeder what he’s got to say about breeding, and he’ll tell you how important it is! To the farmer in his fields breeding is money.”

“I thought we were discussing human beings rather than cattle,” I murmured.

“I am only too aware of your improper tendencies when it comes to the weaker gender,” Holmes said to me, almost severely, “and I suggest we agree to disagree and get on with the important discussion regarding the comfort of potential clients. I wish to replace that chair. It offends me, so it must surely offend potential clients. But if we acquire a new one it might give off the wrong message. It might even suggest that we’re out of our minds with extravagance!”

“Nonsense, Holmes,” I said, surprised at his unusually mean attitude to the spending of money. After all, business of late has been good and we have been able to select our clients with a view on how our income might be improved. Added to that, I have published a series of Holmes’ adventures in The Strand, and that has paid tolerably well. All in all we could consider ourselves as being fairly wealthy.

“It so happens there is a house sale at Ponsomby’s estate,” he said, ignoring my last ejaculation. “The man is taking his ailing wife to live abroad, in France, the South of that benighted realm I believe, and is disposing of many of his furnishings before putting his hall onto the market. And I happen to know that he has a fine assortment of chairs on the list.”

And so it was, with little or no meaningful consultation with me, his supposed partner in the lodgings, we found ourselves taking a carriage to the Ponsomby estate. It was close enough to London to be described as on its doorstep and when we arrived there the sale of furnishings and the like was already under way.

To start with, it was larger items that were under the hammer and the bidding was almost brisk with one buyer seeming to dominate the proceedings.

“I don’t like this, Watson,” muttered Holmes, “look at that fellow over there, the one who just paid handsomely for that dressing table, the one I would hardly think was still fashionable… he’s cleaning up! And the prices are way over the best estimates put out by the auctioneer!”

“I had noticed, Holmes,” I murmured, “maybe it’s we who are behind the times, out of date, old fashioned. Maybe values have shot up behind our backs!”

“You may have a point, Watson, but I doubt it. Now here’s a chair coming up, a single item described as a bedroom chair. It would look really good in our consulting room, and would present potential clients with the kind of image we want them to have. I was hoping to buy that, and for a pittance.”

It was a simple enough chair, though upholstered in the style of twenty years or so ago. But to my eyes that did it no disservice. I could see what Holmes meant when he implied it had a welcoming character to it. Holmes indicated to the auctioneer his wish to bid and started low.

To my surprise there were no further bidders for it. The gentleman who seemed to have purchased most of the rest of the furniture merely shook his head when the auctioneer looked his way, and Holmes’ low bid stood alone, much lower than the excellent chair’s value, but nobody took the bidding on. In very short time Holmes had bought the one item he wanted, and for a pittance, which pleased him no end.

We were about to leave the sale having bought what we wanted when the gentleman who had bid for most of the rest of the furniture in the sale sidled up to us.

“A nice chair,” he murmured, “a really nice chair. I would have put in a bid and upped the price, but I recognised you, Mr Holmes, and thought I’d do you a favour.”

“It’s James Byefleet, isn’t it?” said Holmes after the briefest moment’s thought. “I recall I had some business with you quite some years ago.”

“You taught me a lesson, My Holmes,” said Mr Byefleet, “and it’s been a lesson I’m grateful for learning.”

“I am gratified to hear that,” murmured Holmes.

“I was on the down,” he said, turning to me in order to explain himself. “I was heading for the gallows, and no mistake. Either to there or a terrible lifetime behind bars. My misses was always onto me to straighten myself up, and the kids were ashamed of their dad. And then there was that incident with the Italian. He was a wretch, was that Italian, and he crept under my eyes, so to speak, and started beguiling me. That’s the right word, Doctor, he started beguiling me. And in the end I all but did for myself. I almost partnered him in one of his dastardly schemes, but Mr Holmes was on the case all right. He showed me that I was going wrong, and the lesson was pushed home when the Italian was apprehended by Inspector Dooley of Scotland Yard and, would you believe it if I told you, he was hanged! From the neck! Dead!”

“You had but moments in which to change your ways,” said Holmes. “The Italian was a colleague of Moriarty, his agent, if you like, in Italy. But Moriarty’s a clever criminal with a sharp mind, and the Italian wasn’t. He was no loss to humanity, Byefleet, no loss at all when they strung him up and he took the drop!”

“You saved me from that, Mr Holmes, and I’m thankful for it. More thankful that you’ll ever know. I run a business now, a good business, furniture and quality art works to the wealthy, and my missus is proud of me, proud as a peahen!”

“I’m so happy for you, Mr Byefleet,” I said warmly.

“So that chair, your chair, I did have my eye on it but I reckon as kindness and assistance should be rewarded, so I rewarded you by not bidding on it,” he said, grinning broadly.

And then he was off to buy a few more items whilst Holmes arranged for our new chair to be transported along with us to Baker Street.

“A useful purchase, Watson,” he said as he paid the auctioneer’s assistant for his fine new chair, and I had to agree with him.

“A lovely chair, Holmes,” I said, “and quite a bargain!”

© Peter Rogerson 2.08.17