The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter: Part One

The series will be delve into the files of fiction's most brilliant detective, following his keen mind and unerring instincts from the first subtle clue to the final dramatic revelation. This time, Holmes and Watson receive a visit from the captain of the Cambridge Rugby team.

This star player, Godfrey Storton, has vanished without a trace just before a critical

match against Oxford. No note, no clue, only a mysterious telegram and a trail that seems to lead nowhere. As Holmes and Watson chase the missing athlete from the bustling streets of London to the

“quiet cloisters of Cambridge, they uncover a secret far more tragic than either of them”

we could have expected. From the noise of podcast network, this is the adventure of the missing three-quarter, part one. We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker Street, but I have a particular

recollection of one which reached us on a gloomy February morning, some seven or eight years

ago, and gave Mr. Sherlock Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was addressed to him and ran thus. Please await me, terrible misfortune, right wing three-quarter missing, indispensable tomorrow. Overton. Strand, postmark, and dispatched 1036 said Holmes reading it over and over.

“Mr. Overton was evidently considerably excited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent”

in consequence, "Well, well, he will be here," I dare say, by the time I have looked through the times, and then we shall know all about it. Even the most insignificant problem would be welcome in these stagnant days. Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to dread such periods of inaction. For a new by experience that my companion's brain was so abnormally active, that it was dangerous

to leave it without material upon which to work. For years, I had gradually wind him from that drug mania which had threatened once to check his remarkable career. Now I knew that under ordinary conditions he no longer craved for this artificial stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was not dead, but sleeping.

And I have known that the sleep was a light one, and the waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen the drawn look upon Holmes' ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep set and inscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton, whoever he might be, since he had come with his enigmatic message to break that dangerous calm which brought more peril to my friend

than all the storms of his tempestuous life. As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender. And the card of Mr. Cyril Overton of Trinity College Cambridge announced the arrival of an enormous young man, 16 stone of solid bone and muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad shoulders and looked from one of us to the other with a commonly face which was haggard with anxiety.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes, my companion, bowed. "I've been down to Scotland Yard Mr. Holmes, I saw, inspect a Stanley Hopkins, he advised me to come to you. He said the case so far as he could see was more in your line than in that of the regular police. "Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter. It is awful, Mr. Holmes, simply awful. Now under my hair isn't gray. Godfrey stones and you've heard

of him, of course. He's simply the hinge that the whole teen turns on. I'd rather spare two from the pack and have Godfrey for my three quarter line, whether it's passing or tackling or dribbling, there's no one to touch him. And then he's got the head and can hold us all

“together. What am I to do? That's what I ask you, Mr. Holmes, there's more house first”

reserved, but he's trained as a half and he always edges right in onto the scrum instead

of keeping out on that touch line. He's a fine place kick, it's true, but then he has no judgment, he can't sprint for nuts. Why? Morton or Johnson, the Oxford Flyers could rump round him. Steamers in his fast enough, but he couldn't drop from the 25 line under three quarter, who can't either pound or drop, isn't worth a place for a pace alone. Oh, Mr. Holmes, we are done! Unless you can help me to find Godfrey Stolton. My friend had

vigor and earnestness, every point being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand

“upon the speaker's knee. When our visitor was silent, Holmes stretched out his hand and”

took down letter S of his commonplace book. For once, he dug in vain into that mine of varied information. There is Arthur H. Stolton, the rising young forger, said he, "There was Henry Stolton whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey Stolton is a new name to me. It was our visitors turned to look surprised. "Why? Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things," said he. "I suppose

then if you have never heard of Godfrey Stolton, you don't know Cyril over to neither."

Holmes shook his head, could you, wouldly. "Great, got!" cried the athlete. "Why? I was first reserved for England against Wales, and I've skipped the varsity all this year, but that's nothing. I didn't think there was a soul in England who didn't know Godfrey Stolton.

“The crack-three-quarter, Cambridge, Black-Eath, and five internationals. Good Lord, Mr. Holmes,”

where have you lived?" Holmes laughed at the young giants naive astonishment. "You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton, is sweeter and healthier one. My ramifications stretch out

into many sections of society, but never I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which is the best

and soundest thing in England." However, your unexpected visit this morning shows me that even in that world of fresh air and fair play, there may be work for me to do. "So now, my good sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell me slowly and quietly exactly what it is that has occurred, and how you desire that I should help you." "Young Overton's face assumed the bothered look of the man who is more accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but by degrees with many repetitions

and obscurities, which I may have met from this narrative, he laid his strange story before us. "It's this way, Mr. Holmes, as I have said, I am the skipper of the rugged team of Cambridge varsity, and Godfrey Stolton is my best man. Tomorrow, we play Oxford." Yesterday, we all came up and we settled at Bentley's private hotel. At ten o'clock,

“I went round and saw that all the fellows had gone to roost for, I believe, in strict training,”

and plenty of sleep to keep a team fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey before he turned in. He seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I asked him what was the matter. He said he was all right just a touch of headache. I paid him good night and left him. Half an hour later, the porter tells me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a note for Godfrey. He had not gone to bed and the note was taken to his room.

Godfrey rigid and fell back in a chair, as if he had been polaxed. The porter was so scared that he was going to fetch me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of water, and pulled himself together. Then he went downstairs, said a few words to the man who was waiting in the hall. And the two of them went off together. The last that the porter saw of them, they were almost running down the street in the direction of the strand.

This morning, Godfrey's room was empty, his bed had never been slept in, and his things were all

just as I had seen them the night before. He had gone off at a moment's notice with this stranger, and no word has come from him since. I can't believe he will ever come back. He was a sportsman was Godfrey down to his marrow, and he wouldn't have stopped his training and let down his skipper, if it were not for some cause that was too strong for him. No, I feel as if he were gone for good, and we should never see him again. Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention

to this singular narrative. "What did you do?" he asked. I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him there. I have had an answer. No one has seen him. "Could he have got back to Cambridge?" Yes, there is a late train called a past eleven, but so far as you can ascertain he did not take it. No, he has not been seen. "What did you do next?" I wired Lord Mount James. "Why to Lord Mount James?" Godfrey is an orphan and Lord Mount James is his nearest relative,

richest men in England. So I've heard Godfrey say, and your friend was closely related?

“"Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly 80. Ground full of gout, too. They say he could”

chalk his billion cue with his knuckles. He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life,

for he is an absolute miser, but it will all come to him right enough. Have you heard from Lord Mount James?" No. "What motive could your friend have in going to Lord Mount James?" "Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it was to do with money, it is possible that he would make for his nearest relative who had so much of it. Though from all I have heard, he would not have much chance of getting it. Godfrey was not fond of the old man,

he would not go if he could help it." Well, we can soon determine that if your friend was

going to his relative, Lord Mount James, you have then to explain the visit of this rough-looking

“fellow at so late and hour, and the agitation that was caused by his coming.”

Cyril overton pressed his hands to his head. "I can make nothing of it," said he. "Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look into the matter," said Holmes. "I should strongly recommend you to make your preparations for your match without reference to this young gentleman. It must, as you say, have been an overpowering necessity which tore him away in such a fashion, and the same necessity is likely to hold him away. Let us step round together to

this hotel, and see if the porter can throw any fresh light upon the matter."

Sherlock Holmes was a past master in the art of putting a humble witness at his ease, and very soon, and the privacy of Godfrey's tauntons abandoned room, he had extracted all that the porter had

“to tell. The visitor of the night before was not a gentleman, neither was he a working man.”

He was simply what the porter described as a "medium-looking chap," a man of 50, beard, grizzled, pale face quietly dressed. He seemed himself to be agitated. The porter had observed his hand trembling when he had held out the note. Godfrey's taunton had crowned the note into his pocket, taunton had not shaken hands with the man in the hall. They had exchanged a few sentences of which the porter had only distinguished the one word "time," then they had hurried off and the

man had described. It was just half past ten by the hall clock. "Let me see," said Holmes, seating himself on Stornson's bed. "You are the day, porter, are you not?" "Yes, sir. I go off duty at 11." "The night, porter saw nothing, I suppose?" "No, sir. One theatre party came in late, no one else." "Where you on duty all day, yesterday?" "Yes, sir." "Did you take any messages to Mr. Stornson?" "Yes, sir. One telegram." "Ah, that's interesting. What a clock was this?"

"About six." "Where was Mr. Stornson when he received it?" "Here in his room?" "Where you present when he opened it?" "Yes, sir. We did a see if there was an answer." "Well, was there?" "Yes, sir. He wrote an answer. Did you take it?" "No, he took it himself." "But he wrote it in your presence?" "Yes, sir. I was standing by the door and he with his back turned at that table. When he had written it, he said, "All right, porter, I will take this myself."

"What did he write it with?" "He pens, sir." "Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?" "Yes, sir. It was the top one." "Homes, rose." Taking the forms, he carried them over to the window and carefully examined that which was uppermost. "It is a pity he did not write in pencil," said he, throwing them down again with a shrug of disappointment. "As you have no doubt frequently observed what's in the impression usually goes through,

the fact which has dissolved many a happy marriage." "However, I can find no trace here. I did joys, however, to perceive that he wrote with a broad pointed quill pen, and I can hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this blotting pad. "Ah, yes, surely, this is the very thing." He tore off a strip of the blotting paper and turned towards us what looked like a hieroglyphic. Cyril Ovidsen was much excited. "Hold it to the glass," he cried.

Here it is," stand by us for God's sake. "So, that is the tail end of the telegram,

“which God first taunt and dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at least”

six words of the message which have escaped us, but what remains," stand by us for God's sake, proves that this young man saw a formidable danger which approached him, and from which someone else could protect him, us, mark you, and another person was involved. "Who should it be but the pale faced bearded man who seemed himself in so nervous a state? What then is the connection

between God for his taunt and the bearded man? And what is the third source from which each of them

sought for help against pressing danger?" Hardingquiry has already narrowed down to that. "We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed," I suggested. "Exactly, my dear Watson, your reflection, though profound, had already crossed my mind, but I dare say it may have come to your notice that if you walk into a post office and demand to see the counterfoil of another man's message, there may be some disinclination on the part of

the officials to oblige you. There is so much red tape in these matters. However, I have no doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse, the end may be attained. Meanwhile, I should like

in your presence Mr. Everton to go through these papers which have been left upon the table.

There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks which homes turned over and examined with quick nervous fingers and darting penetrating eyes. Nothing here," he said at last. "By the way, I suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow, nothing amiss with him." "Sound as a bell. Have you ever known him ill?" "Not a day. He's been laid up with a hack, and once he slipped his knee cap, but that was nothing."

“"Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think he may have had some secret”

trouble. With your descent, I will put one or two of these papers in my pocket in case they should bear upon our future inquiry." "One moment, one moment!" cried a querulous voice and we looked up to find a queer little old man jerky and twitching in the doorway. He was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad brimned top hat and a loose-white neck tie,

the whole effect being that of a very rustic person or of an undertaker's mute. Yet in spite of his shabby and even absurd appearance, his voice had a sharp crackle, and his manner had quick intensity which commanded attention. "Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this gentleman's papers?" he asked. "I am a private detective, and I am endeavoureding

“to explain his disappearance." "Oh, you are, are you, and who instructed you, eh?"”

This gentleman Mr. Storton's friend was referred to me by Scotland Yard. "Who are you, sir?" "I am Cyril Overton. Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord Mount James. I came round as quickly as the Bayeswater bus would bring me. So, you have instructed a detective." "Yes, sir, and are you prepared to meet the cost?" "I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him, will be prepared to do that."

"But if he is never found, eh, answer me that?" "In that case, no doubt his family, nothing

of the sort, sir!" screamed the little man. "Don't look to me for a penny, not a penny. You understand that, Mr. Detective. I am all the family that this young man has got, and I tell you that I am not responsible. If he has any expectations, it is due to the fact that I have never wasted money, and I do not propose to begin to do so now. As to those papers, with which you are making so free, I may tell you that in case there should be anything of any value among them,

you will be held strictly to account for what you do with them." "Very good, sir," said Cyril Holmes. "May I ask in the meanwhile, whether you have yourself any theory to account for this young man's disappearance? No, sir, I have not. He is big enough, and only enough to look after himself. And if he is so foolish, as to lose himself, I entirely refuse to accept the responsibility of hunting for him. "I quite understand your position,"

said Holmes, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Perhaps you don't quite understand mine. Godfrey's taunt and appears to have been a poor man. If he has been kidnapped, it could not have

Lord Mount James, and it is entirely possible that a gang of thieves have secured your nephew

“in order to gain from him some information as to your house, your habits, and your treasure."”

"The face of a unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his neck cloth." "Heaven't, sir. What an

idea. I never thought of such villainy, what inhuman rugs there are in the world. But when Godfrey

is a fine lad, a staunch lad, nothing would induce him to give his old uncle away. I'll have the plate moved over to the bank this evening. In the meantime, spare no pains, Mr. Detective. I beg you to leave no stone unturned to bring him safely back." "As to money?" "Well, so far as a fibre, or even a tenor goes, you can always look to me." Even in his chasant frame of mind, the noble meiser could give us no information which could help

us, for he knew little of the private life of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated telegram, and with a copy of this in his hand, homes set

forth to find a second link for his chain. We had shaken off flawed Mount James, and Overton had

gone to consult with the other members of his team over the misfortune which had before them. There was a telegraph office at a short distance from the hotel. We halted outside it. "It's worth trying Watson," said Holmes. "Of course, with a warrant, we could demand to see

“the counterfoils, but we have not reached that stage yet. I didn't suppose they remember faces”

in so busy a place, let us venture it." "I am sorry to trouble you," said he in his blandest manner to the young woman behind the grating. "There is some small mistake about a telegram I sent yesterday, I have had no answer, and I very much fear that I must have omitted to put my name at the end. Could you tell me if this was so?" "The young woman turned over a sheath of counterfoils. What a clock was it?" she asked.

"A little after six, Holmes it too?" Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. "The last words in it were, for God's sake," he whispered competentially. "I am very anxious at getting no answer." The young woman separated one of the forms. "This is it, there is no name," said she smoothing it out upon the counter. "Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer," said Holmes. "Dear me, how

very stupid of me to be sure, good morning, miss, and many things were having relieved my mind." "He chuckled, and rubbed his hands when we found ourselves in the street once more." "Well, I asked, we progress, my dear, what's in we progress? I had seven different schemes were getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could hardly hope to succeed the very first time, and what of you gained. A starting point for our investigation, he held the cab. King's

cross station," said he. "We have a journey, then." "Yes, I think we must run down to Cambridge together, or the indication seemed to me to point in that direction." "Tell me, I asked, as we rattled up Graze in road, have you any suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance?" "I don't think that among all our cases I have known one where the motives are more obscure. Surely you don't really imagine that he may be kidnapped in order to give information against his wealthy uncle."

"I confess, my dear Watson, that does not appeal to me as a very probable explanation." "It struck me, however, as being the one which was most likely to interest that exceedingly unpleasant old person." "It certainly did that, but what are your alternatives?"

“"I could mention several. You must admit that it is curious and suggestive that this incident”

should occur on the eve of this important match, and should involve the only man whose presence

seems essential to the success of the side. It may of course be coincidence, but it is

interesting, amateur sport is free from betting, but a good deal about side betting goes on among the public, and it is possible that it might be worth someone's wild to get at a player as the ruffins of the turf get at a racehorse. There is one explanation. A second very obvious one is that

and it is not impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom might be concocted. These theories

“take no account of the telegram. Quite true Watson, the telegrams to remain the only solid thing”

with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our attention to wonder away from it.

It is to gain light upon the purpose of this telegram that we are now upon our way to Cambridge.

“The path of our investigation is at present obscure, but I shall be very much surprised if”

before evening we have not cleared it up, or may they considerable advance along it.

Next time on Sherlock Holmes' short stories, a surly doctor proves a match for Holmes,

“raising the great detective's suspicions, but frustrating every attempt to pin him down,”

and a faithful hound called Pompey is summoned to help sniff out the truth. That's next time. Can't wait a week until the next episode? Well, listen to it right away by subscribing to Neuser Plus. Head to www.neuser.com/subscriptions for more information, or click the link in the episode description.