The Sensible Necktie and Other Stories of Sherlock Holmes by Peter K Andersson

me.”
    â€œAm I anywhere near the truth?” I asked, exposing my lack of belief in my theory.
    â€œAfraid not, old man.” Holmes took back the paper. “Your theory of a royal commission is most intriguing, not to say flattering, but if this really was a commission from the actual Princess Louise, then why would the only real piece of information in the message be the stating of her name? No, I am more inclined towards the simple interpretation.”
    â€œI thought mine was the simple interpretation.”
    â€œThe interpretation of the name as referring to one of Her Majesty’s daughters was the simple part, then it forced you into considering quite unlikely things, including ciphers.”
    â€œAll right, I got the point the first time.”
    â€œNo, the name ‘Princess Louise’ must surely refer to the celebrated public house of that name which opened a few years ago in Holborn. It is not an ordinary pub, in the sense that it caters to a somewhat higher class of people than most London public houses, and as such it is rather lavishly furnished. Mr Winstanton I take to be the proprietor of the establishment, and although his message is vague on the details, the writing does betray some of the pub-owner’s habitual taste for banter, what with referring to my ‘thirst for the unusual’.”
    â€œYou don’t think it is a trap of some sort?”
    â€œYou are right to be suspicious, Watson. It does seem like an attempt to lure me into a trap, but who would trap me in such a public place as that? The purpose of the note is probably just to arouse my curiosity, and in this endeavour, it has succeeded. So, how about it, Watson?”
    I was not one to go against Holmes’ wishes when he was on the scent, and I was just as intrigued by the prospect of adventure as he was, so I threw away the newspaper I had been reading, and within a quarter of an hour a hansom deposited us at the patriotically named establishment of the message. It was only six o’clock, but already the place was filling up with a colourful collection of assorted clerks from the surrounding office buildings, as well as academics and intellectuals streaming down from nearby Bloomsbury. But this collection did not automatically mean a mixture, for as Holmes had mentioned, this was a more sophisticated pub than the average one, and as we entered through one of its two entrances, a corridor led into four separate rooms, all of them abutting onto the same counter, but divided by high walls decorated with panes of frosted glass. The first room that we looked into was the noisiest, and the men assembled there could be described as skilled workers, or what some have termed the “labour aristocracy”. Here, however, they were at the bottom of the pyramid, for the next room contained a more modest group of well-dressed men who looked to me like lowly clerks and the odd office boy, and the ascension continued in the next rooms, until the back room, which was very much like stepping into the lounge of the Athenaeum.
    It was here that a man approached us. He seemed a bit out of place among the distinguished gentlemen scattered around the room, as his appearance rather called to mind a dubious businessman or vulgar music-hall proprietor, with flamboyant ginger side-whiskers and a gold-embroidered waistcoat.
    â€œAh, Mr Holmes,” he said in a strong voice which reverberated throughout the room. “My name is Arnold Winstanton, the proprietor of this humble establishment. I’m glad my note managed to lure you here.”
    â€œIt lured me this far,” said Holmes, “but I proceed no further without more information. The note was sparse in the extreme. Why this secrecy?”
    â€œWell, if you will at least proceed up the stairs with me, all will be explained.”
    Mr Winstanton showed us to a flight of stairs at the back of the lounge, and we climbed up to a private bar which, it