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Chapter Text

London was sweltering in the late August heat. My friend Sherlock Holmes seemed to be in high spirits, having solved several cases the previous week. I had myself just finished writing up the sensational case of the Three Garridebs and just yesterday sent it to the publishers.

Holmes was out that evening, owing to his usual engagement with his brother this time of month. Uncharacteristically, and this is perhaps a sign of the utmost esteem in which he holds his brother, he had taken care that his toilet be immaculate.

I was attempting to read the evening paper when the bell chimed. Holmes had yet to return from his outing and so it was me who first laid eyes on our visitor. He was a man of no less than forty years and clad in a light suit with stripes. His glasses seemed to be slipping down his nose from agitation as he wrung his hands.

“I have come to consult with Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said and shook my proffered hand.

I offered him a seat and poured him a glass of water from the jug good Mrs. Hudson had brought up earlier.

“I am afraid Sherlock Holmes is currently out.” I glanced at the clock. “But I see that it is past five already. Should you be able to wait a short while, I am sure that he will return within the hour.”

“Most appreciated!” our visitor exclaimed, and proceeded to introduce himself as one Lee Humphrey, associate at a well-known auction house in Mayfair. He continued to fiddle with a small drawstring purse he had procured out of his rather utilitarian leather bag upon sitting down. We continued to chat amiably until just about a quarter of an hour had passed. Then, fast, and light footsteps on the landing outside the flat announced the arrival of my colleague.

Sherlock Holmes stepped into the room, his hair quite ruffled from some breeze or another. He did not seem surprised to find our rooms occupied. After introductions had been made, he peered at our visitor.

“I see that you are working with antiques. Now, nothing has been stolen, no – you are clearly here to ask for my help concerning a small object which has come into your possession recently. Pray tell me, what is it that you wish to know?”

Mr. Humphrey startled at this and gently laid down the drawstring bag onto the side-table. Being used to Holmes’ work, I could immediately see how he arrived at the conclusion that the thing within the drawstring bag was the subject of the visit.

“Yes,” cried Mr. Humphrey and quickly untied the bag. From it, he nimbly shook a piece of clay and held it out for Holmes to see. “You see, we are all quite puzzled. Really, at first glance, it’s just a case of a well-made forgery –”

Holmes took the tablet and turned it in his long fingers, letting the sun catch in the small grooves present on the upper side. I recognized it as ancient writing from Persia, as I had seen in the British Museum before.

Holmes hummed and fell quiet again for a few minutes.

“It’s really quite baffling,” Mr. Humphries added.

“Assyrian, I presume?” Holmes asked suddenly.

“Yes, quite right! Distinctive variant, too, with its vowel forms. Even the shape and size of the tablet corresponds well with other examples we know of. This type would have been used for letters,” our guest explained.

Holmes turned to him. “You are certain?”

“Most certain! We have had a translation made by an eminent expert from the university of Oxford earlier this week. His letter arrived just this morning.”

“And yet, it must be a forgery. The clay used for this tablet is good old Cornwell soil and much too light,” Holmes added and held out the piece to me. “See how the fabric contains almost no impurities? This must surely be industrial clay.”

“Quite right,” our visitor interjected. “However, the expert’s translation does not make any sense. Should it not – surely someone took great care to encrypt a message –“ He wrung his hands and added, “My employer has assured me that I am reading too much into this matter and told me to discard the object. It really is quite worthless. But I felt a certain dark premonition when I read the translation, nonsensical it may be. Hence, I came here, straight after work.”

He once again looked at Holmes. My friend placed the tablet onto the drawstring satchel and appeared to contemplate its meaning.

“Did you bring the translation?” he asked Mr. Humphrey. Our visitor produced a sheet of paper from his bag and handed it to Holmes who scanned it quickly.

“And, at last, one more question: How did this tablet come into your possession?”

Mr. Humphrey hesitated.

“I can guarantee that everything you say will be treated with the highest discretion,” I assured our client.

He seemed to find some comfort in that and answered Holmes’ question, “this clay tablet comes out of a rather large collection, one that was gathered by an obscure but wealthy expert in antiquity. He died this winter and his heirs have no use for this particular part of their inheritance. My firm was called in to appraise the pieces, which is when we discovered this curious forgery.”

“Most interesting,” said Holmes and added, “my colleague and I might need some more information – we will, of course, take the case and unravel this particular mystery. How can we reach you?”

Our client offered his card and, glancing at the clock, his farewell. He appeared relieved at my friend’s words and left the room rather calmer than he arrived.

“Most curious,” my friend said to me. “This could prove to be rather more than meets the eye, dear Watson.”

Afterwards, he scooped up the objects Mr. Lee Humphrey had left and proceeded to spend the evening looking them over, sometimes consulting his large filing card system. I bid him good-night after dinner and returned to my room to sleep. In my mind, the case was a curiosity but I could never have imagined the serious implications my friend would uncover in the course of the next week.

Chapter Text

When I woke the next morning, I found Holmes already up and unusually grim. Next to his untouched breakfast, he had laid out the morning edition of the Times which he always read with the most fastidious care. He looked up as he heard me enter the room.

He greeted me rather more quietly than he usually did. When I sat down to partake in coffee and a hearty breakfast, he handed me the newspaper. I scanned the page but could not find anything of note nor any hint at the sombre mood of my companion.

“It is Humphrey,” Holmes announced, tapping the page quickly. My eyes directed this way, I read the corresponding article.

Auctioneer assaulted on city bus

The Times understands that hitherto unknown ruffians pursued an affluent auctioneer last night from at least six in the afternoon when he was walking along Baker Street. They finally robbed their unsuspecting target on a public bus which caused much alarm to the passengers. Numerous witnesses have been called forward by Scotland Yard who are pursuing these criminals with the utmost urgency. The police ask any members of the public with further observations to come forward. The victim continues to be tended to in hospital; a full recovery is expected.

“Cor!” I exclaimed. “How do you figure that it was our visitor?”

“Probability,” Holmes replied. “He left us just at the right hour. The final confirmation came in the shape of a telegram. I have taken the liberty to wire Scotland Yard directly.”

He was interrupted almost simultaneously by the bell.

“And here is the man himself,” he interjected. Immediately jumping up from his seat, my friend rushed towards the door. I had already surmised that a policeman was to join us and hastily drew another chair towards the table, almost knocking over my plate in the process.

Indeed, it was only seconds before a bedraggled looking Inspector Lestrade entered the room. I took the opportunity to call for another set of cutlery as the inspector sank heavily into the chair.

“This is a matter of utmost importance,” he announced. “The unfortunate incident has already stirred up public opinion, calling for more safety on the public transport.”

My friend – having retaken his seat – leant forward.

“And Humphrey?” he prompted eagerly.

“Has not seen a thing. He is rather poorly, the thugs have broken several of his fingers.”

“A shame,” my friend announced just as the maid entered with the surplus tableware as well as some additional morsels for the inspector. I have long suspected Mrs. Hudson to have a soft spot for the man.

Holmes watched as Lestrade buttered some bread and helped himself to a selection of cold cuts and cheeses. Then he continued, “Nevertheless, I have reason to believe that yesterday’s incident was more than just a random attack. Mr. Humphrey came to us yesterday -”

“I suspected,” the inspector said. “Whenever the element of crime veers into the gothic, the absurd, and the macabre, you, Holmes, are never too far.”

“The macabre? The gothic?” I asked incredulously. “Why, inspector, the Times only reported a gang robbing a passenger on the bus!”

“Be that as it may,” the inspector answered. “Humphrey has not woken for more than five minutes. And yet during these few moments he constantly asked for a clay tablet from the Near East. Balderdash, if you asked me then. The fanciful ramblings of a man who has lost his wits. But then – yes, then – I find myself at the Yard, looking at the time, thinking of home, a quiet day with the wife – and Mr. Sherlock Holmes sends along a telegram inquiring about a Mr. Humphrey.”

He stared deeply into his cup, looked up sharply and raised his eyebrows at Holmes.

“So you tell me straight – what is it that you know?”

Holmes chuckled despite himself.

“To the point, Lestrade, to the point. Unfortunately, I cannot give you any information other than the facts of Mr. Humphrey’s visit yesterday. The assault came as a shock to me as well,” my friend asserted. He quickly recounted yesterday’s events.

"And this, inspector," he concluded, "is how I came into possession of a forged Assyrian tablet." With a flourish, he produced the very object from our side table. Lestrade leant in to get a closer look and started laughing raucously.

“Certainly, Holmes: You have to concede that this object alone is outlandish to the point of being absurd. No writer could tell the story, lest he be called an amateur!”

Even my stoic companion smiled at that. “I assure you, Lestrade, friend Watson will always find the interpretation of the true romantic in our adventures,” he chuckled.

They fell silent again as if they had remembered just what had happened to our esteemed visitor. Lestrade – richer in information but finding an even more entangled web of facts – took his leave soon after finishing his tea.

Holmes resumed studying the curious object and its translation for the remainder of the morning.

Chapter Text

I realize now that I have talked much about the outlandish translation of the clay tablet; and yet, I did not include it. As Holmes so often complains, I am a romantic at heart when setting my scene. However, without it, the account would be incomplete. I preserved the original missive in my papers, as I usually do when accompanying my friend on his cases. Here it is, then, the puzzle that stumped even our learned compatriots:

„To Ishtar say: Thus says Adonis. Live well! May the gods attend to your welfare, the welfare of your house and your sons. You have written to me concerning baskets. On the topic of these baskets: I have brought them to the river. Do not let yourself be concerned with the messenger who knows the eagle-omens. Your messenger has come to me quickly and my messenger will reach you promtly.“

A veritable trove of symbols! Clearly, this was the work of a romantic and a scholar. I expressed as much to Holmes when I finished reading the short paragraph. But my friend was already lost so deep in his own thoughts that I do not reckon he even heard me. Since I had my practise to attend to and knew that I could hardly be of assistance in this matter, I left him on the sofa in our shared quarters.

I returned after not quite three hours. Holmes appeared to have not moved, his face impassive and his hands stapled together underneath his chin. The only indication that he had not spent the afternoon in this one position was the tea set perched on our small end table. When I approached him, he seemed to finally shake his intense inward focus. His piercing blue eyes fell on me. He must have seen that I had just returned from rounds – I was still holding my bag and my shoes had not yet been cleaned.

„Watson,“ he greeted me jovially. „I see that your patients today have not been too ardous. What do you say, old man? Care for another excursion?“

„Certainly,“ I replied immediately „Where to?“

His eyes shone with excitement and I knew immediately that some idea must have come to him during my absence.

„The library!“ he exclaimed and made to collect his coat and hat. I followed him into the hall.

We soon found ourselves in a cab headed towards the British Library, the very heart of learning in this country. In my own excitement, I still carried my own doctor’s bag with me. Along the route, Holmes amused himself by observing the comings and goings of the London crowds. Occasionally, he would laugh that peculiar, silent laugh of his. Even though poor Humphrey was still in hospital, I, too, found myself in high spirits.

„I must admit,“ Holmes started and patted my hand. „I must admit, that – as omniscient as you paint me at times – I have little knowledge on the ancient myths. This trip should clear up some little ideas I had while reading the text.“

At this point, we alighted the cab and I went to pay the fare. Holmes, meanwhile, was already marching onto the white staircase and climbing rapidly. I followed at a more measured pace. Holmes cut such a distinctive figure that it was hard to miss him, after all.

After a brief explanation to the librarian, we were shown to the section with books on the Assyrian myths. Surprisingly, a rather sizeable number of our fellow countrymen seem to have taken up the topic in large volumes. Not to speak of the Germans and the French! Sure enough, we found information on everything we were looking for and left the hushed halls to discuss our findings in an atmosphere better suited for conversation.

It was one of the many cafès right down the street that we found ourselves at. Holmes and I were seated beside a window and for a bit I watched the traffic while my friend was sorting through his notes. Several new omnibusses with their colorful advertisments went by.

He explained that he had come to the conclusion that the very names and themes mentioned in the letter might shed some light on the mystery.

„It is a rather haphazard string of sentiments. First, we have Ishtar and Adonis: How may they relate? I have become quite convinced that these are real people living in our times. The goddess Ishtar is the deity of love, Adonis her lover. Albeit a bit skewed by today’s understanding of the myth, I’d wager this is a matter of the heart. And an unhappy one at that.“

„Then, friend Watson, there’s the baskets. Why baskets? Why the river? The finer points have eluded me but we may assume that there has been an exchange of goods.“

„Finally, we have the person who knows the eagle-omens. Perhaps a man of the church, perhaps someone who is privy to their secrets. This person has been made to stay silent. Hum. Their identity might yet prove to be invaluable.“

„Well,“ he concluded. „It might not be much but I feel that we might find real progress in this direction.“