by Sir Arthur Conan Jazz

I was sitting at the centre table in our rooms at Baker Street writing out one of Holmes' previous cases, "the Adventure of the Man without a Scar", and Holmes was seated by the fire fiddling on the pipe whilst smoking his violin. I had just reached the part of my narrative where Holmes deduced the colour of the murderer's eyebrows by studying the depth of his footprints, when suddenly the great detective leapt from his seat and in an instant was peering out of the window.

"We have a client, Watson!" lie exclaimed. I hurried over to join him, and saw in the street below a young lady scurrying along the streets. "By heaven, Holmes! How can you tell that she is a client?"

"Do you not see the map of London protruding from her bag with a large red cross drawn over 221B Baker Street, Watson?" lie inquired.

I sprang to the ceiling. "Good Lord, Holmes! You have keen eyesight indeed. But what could she be coming for?"

"I fancy she has lost her priceless prize-winning wombat, and wishes us to retrieve it for her," Holmes stated, gesticulating in the air.

I again sprang to the ceiling and, rubbing the bruise that resulted, gesticulated in return (I should note that the floor was spread with newspaper to prevent this ruining the carpet). "How on earth do you deduce that, Holmes?"

"My dear Watson, do you not see the specks of hair on her stockings, and the particles of dirt on the soles of her shoes? Have you not read my monograph on marsupial excrement?"

I had to confess that I had not, but made a mental note with mental paper and pencil to do so as soon as possible, for I had no doubts as to its value in future life.

"Holmes continued: "Those are clearly wombat droppings, Watson, and high class ones too. As to the wombat's prizewinning status, it is obvious. The lady is clearly rich, but has not married into money, as there is no wedding ring on her finger. She cannot have a regular daily job as these are working hours now and yet here she is, nor can she have a night job, else to hurry here at this time of the day would make her undoubtedly very tired, yet I see no bags under her eyes. She is clearly not acquainted with the daily city life- see how she looks about her uneasily, and how she has just been knocked over by that hansom. Not only this, but look at her hands- they are marked and course. Do you not recognise the particular markings on her fingers, Watson- they can have been made by naught else but the continual use of a wombat comb."

I stepped back in awe, and fell out of the window. When I got back up to Holmes' room, the lady was already there. Holmes was questioning her.

"When did you last see Lulu?" he demanded.

"Good Lord, Mr.Holmes!" she cried. "How did you know the name of my wombat?"

"I would have thought that was obvious, Miss Blotchington," Holmes replied. "You love the creature so much that you have had its name tattooed behind your left ear."


"Of course, and how did you know my name?"

"Miss Blotchington, if you were wishing to keep your identity a secret you should have removed the engraving of your family crest from the top button of your blouse. Now answer my question."

"Well, Mr.Holmes, I was taking Lulu for a walk not one hour ago in Regents Park when a grisly looking man attacked me from behind and pulled me down onto the freshly cut grass- see how my back is covered in it."

We saw, then she continued: "He grabbed Lulu and ran. I am frightened that it is an old rival wombat-breeder of my father's trying to gain his revenge. Oh, what shall I do, Mr. Holmes?"

"Madam, I would suggest you stop wasting my time and oxygen, and go home."

I turned to Holmes."Come, Holmes- surely we should help the poor lady."

"Watson, the grass on Miss Blotchington's back is from St.James' Park and is of a totally different variety to that in Regents. Not only that, but this is the second Tuesday of the month and Regents Park grass is not cut until the third Tuesday. Miss Blotchington, I suggest that you are after the insurance money on Lulu and are trying to frame an innocent-wombat breeder whom your father disliked- not unlikely considering he was a thoroughly bad tempered old brute who treated man and marsupial with the same lack of respect; good day, Miss Blotchington."

We never saw her again.