June/July 2003

It was a cold winters day in the February of 189- when my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes first became involved in the odd case of the Missing Grail. We were sitting around the fire in his rooms at 221B Baker Street; I was idly leafing through some old back copies of Punch, and rubbing my shoulder (which twinges most abominably in cold weather – a legacy of a jezzail bullet I caught near Kandahar). Holmes was sorting through his collection of interesting soil samples – he often said he could locate a man to within five hundred yards of where he had been, simply by examining the soil on his shoes. Our quiet study was interrupted by the entry of Mrs. Hudson, who indicated that a rather odd gentleman was here, and insisting on seeing Holmes.

“Is he sober?” I asked.

“Seems to be, Doctor.”

“Well, then, show him up.” Holmes put in. “He shan’t be the first odd character we have seen, eh, Watson?”

The gentleman in question, when shown in, proved to be a fair-haired man of around thirty; his hair was cut rather longer than the norm, and he wore a most unfashionable beard. His dress was indeed odd; a large cape covered most of it, but underneath he seemed to be wearing tight leggings, high boots, and I also noticed he was armed – with a sword.

“Are you the famous Mr. Holmes?” he asked, addressing me.

“Good Lord, no. I am Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes' companion; this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Mr, Holmes, we are well met,” the man said earnestly; “I seek your aid, sir.”

Holmes inclined his head gravely, and spoke;

“Suppose you tell me the nature of the problem …….. your Majesty.”

The fair man started, and stared incredulously at Holmes.

“How know you that?” he asked, astonished. “I had taken great pains to conceal myself.”

Holmes gave a wry smile.

“A mere trifle,” he observed; “I have made extensive study of heraldry, and at once marked the arms you bear on the clasp of your cape. Besides, if you walk about London wearing a broadsword your identity shall not remain concealed for long.”

“Do you know him, Holmes?” I asked, once more awed by my friends omniscience.

“We have never met, Watson, but I believe this to be a very distinguished guest indeed; may I introduce you to Arthur Pendragon, King of the Britons, and Lord of Camelot.”

“Good Lord.”

“I am he,” the man - I should say King – admitted, “and I seek the aid of the great Holmes in solving a mystery that has sore troubled all at Camelot these last months.”

“Be seated,” Holmes said, “and tell me all the facts of the case, making sure you omit no detail, however insignificant it may appear to you.”

“Well,” began the King, “to begin; have you heard aught of the Holy Grail?”

“I have,” I put in; “it’s supposed to be the cup that Our Lord drank out of at the last supper. Very holy relic.”

“Indeed,” Holmes observed, “although I have never thought it a very likely story, myself. Probably a Celtic horn of plenty motif that has been Christianised. However, that is by the by; proceed, your Majesty.”

“Some months ago I and my knights, being seated at feast in Camelot, were granted a vision of this Grail; it was borne through the hall by a file of men in holy orders, yet none saw from whence they came nor yet where they went. It shone with a holy and blinding light, all of itself, for all that it was covered in cloth.”

“What sort of cloth?” asked Holmes keenly.

“White samite, as I recall. Does it matter?”

“It might prove to be of the first importance, sir. Do go on.”

“To cut a long story short, we decided that we had been called on a quest to find this Grail, and I and all my knights spent many long days in search of it, but despite hearing many rumours, and seeing many strange signs and wonders, none could find it. Then at last – about four days ago – the three most pure in heart of all my knights, namely Sir Percival, Sir Galahad and Sir Bors, were led through a forest of thorns, and after many adventures found therein a hermit’s hut. And the hermit led them inside, and there they were granted a vision as it were of Paradise, and the hermit became an angel, and the hut a mansion of surpassing splendour, and the angel showed them a splendid altar, and upon it was a cloth of – yes, they said it was white samite; the angel moved the cloth aside, and beneath it was - ”

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Not a wrack, sir. And the next thing they knew they were lying in a thicket, all with dreadful headaches. The Grail, Mr. Holmes, the most sacred relic in history, had been stolen.”

Holmes sat back and lit his pipe, lost awhile in thought. Then he said;

“Tell me, your Majesty, have you any idea who might have perpetrated this foul deed?”

“I have, sir; it came to my mind that my son Mordred might be the party we seek.”

“But you have no proof of this?”

“None, sir, and I was sore puzzled as to how to resolve matters, until Merlin suggested we seek the aid of yourself.”

“I see. Well, your Majesty, I can see many possible outcomes of this matter, and while I have much pressing business to attend to, the case is not without its features of interest. You may look to see us in Camelot within a few days.”

“You have my gratitude, sir, and you, good Doctor; I shall make all ready for your arrival. Until then, farewell.”

Once he had gone, Holmes clapped his hands and gave a grim smile of satisfaction.

“Capital, Watson,” he cried. “It is rare these days to find a case with so many novel features. I have never before undertaken to work for a mythical character, and still less in connexion with a theft of an equally mythical artefact. I can see this being interesting. Get out the Bradshaw, Watson, and look up trains to Camelot.”

“Certainly, Holmes. Er – where is it?”

“You had it last.”

“No, I meant, where is Camelot, exactly?”

“Ah, I see. Great Western Railway, page 233.”

“Oh. Right-oh, Holmes.”

It was a few days later when we arrived at Camelot, and at the castle gate we were greeted by King Arthur. With him was a grey-bearded old man clad in a flowing robe, and a tall fellow in knightly apparel.

“Mr. Holmes, good Doctor, we are well met,” Arthur said; “I present to you my advisor and old tutor Merlin,” and he indicated the greybeard, who bowed and said “Hail,” most impressively; “and my champion knight Sir Lancelot.” The knight nodded surlily.

“Sir Lancelot’s exploits are well known to me,” Holmes replied, “and as for Merlin, I believe you were up at Balliol with my brother, sir?”

“Bless my soul, so I was,” Merlin said, astonished. “How is Mycroft?”

“Well, sir, if a little sedentary. Gentlemen, shall we begin our investigation? Perhaps we might start by examining the scene of the first appearance of the Grail?”

We were led by the King into a wide hall, in the midst of which stood a large oaken table; it was fashioned in the shape of a ring, with gaps here and there through which servants might pass, in order to serve the knights at table. About the table the walls were hung with rich tapestries some of which hung down to conceal the doorways through which servants passed between the hall and the kitchens. It was from behind one of these that a young man clad all in black stepped.

He was fair, and handsome, but had on his face such a sneer of cold command that it gave me to think that this was not a pleasant man to know.

“Well, well,” said he. “If it isn’t the great detective. Come to find Father’s cup, have you?”

Holmes looked at him levelly.

“I hardly think, Sir Mordred, that the loss of the greatest artifact of Christendom can be spoken of so lightly,” he reproved. The young man gave a contemptuous smile.

“Ah yes,” he sneered, “the great detective shows off, as usual. Doubtless you have some superficially convincing line of deduction to explain how it is you know my name?”

“Not at all; you referred to the King as ‘Father’, and I am not aware he has any other son.”

“Very smart, Mr. Holmes, very smart; are you sure, though, that you did not deduce it from my bearing, or from the minute specks of porridge on my chin, or from some conveniently visible tattoo about my person? No? Well, what can you deduce from observing me? “

“That you had a difficult childbirth, as I can see from the manner of your limp; that you spent your youth in Scotland – I should say Orkney, from your speech – and that you think uncommon well of yourself.”

Mordred smiled icily.

“Well done, Mr. Holmes; though of course you could have just read all that in the Morte d’Arthur. I have little time for such trickery as your ‘deductions’, myself. There are no clay beds peculiarly suited to the imprint of feet here, and nobody smokes, so you will have no cigar-butts to examine. There are no witnesses to the alleged crime, and no scope for displaying your prowess in recognising the marks of various trades upon people’s hands. In Camelot there are only two trades; knight and peasant. I suspect you may be in for a thin time, Mr. Detective.”

Holmes gave Mordred a keen look, and asked;

“Why do you say ‘alleged crime’, Sir Mordred?”

Mordred laughed.

“See?” he cried. “The Great Detective is at work, and has a suspect already! I say ‘alleged’, Holmes, because there cannot be a crime if the object stolen never existed in the first place.”

“I take it you did not participate in the quest for the Grail, then?”

“Not I. I am not a man to waste his time chasing moonshine. Let those who believe in such things run after fairy gold. Some men have real matters to attend to, and I have more pressing business than to stand about chaffing with copper’s narks. You play with your magnifying glass, Holmes, and the best of luck to you, and I hope you find your grail and the Giant Rat of Sumatra, too; but don’t drag me into it. And anyway, if you’re so good, how come you never caught Jack the Ripper?”

And with that he turned on his heel and left the hall, limping slightly as he walked.

“My pardon for my son, Mr. Holmes,” the King said, once Mordred had left; “his tongue mayhap run rough, at times. He that is a son of a King, but no heir, does not find life easy at court. He oft strikes first, when yet no blow has been offered.”

Holmes merely smiled.

“It is of no consequence, your Majesty,” he said. “Tell me; where was it the Grail appeared, exactly?”

King Arthur explained that the Grail had appeared at one end of the hall, under the minstrel’s balcony, and had progressed through the Round Table until vanishing at the south end, near the door to the kitchens.

“Did no-one try to speak with or follow those who carried the Grail?”

“Nay, sir, for we were all sat in amaze, as we were nailed unto our seats.”

“Indeed. Tell me, were all your knights present at this spectacle?”

“Why, yes, for it was the Feast of the Annunciation, and all were gathered in celebration.”

“I see. Was your son present?”

“That he was, and Merlin, and my Queen Guinevere, and all the company of the court. Oh; save only for good Sir Lancelot here, of course.”

Holmes raised one eyebrow quizzically.

“And where was Sir Lancelot at this time?”

“Fightin’,” said that worthy. He did not seem inclined to enlarge upon this statement, so Arthur explained that Sir Lancelot had been engaged on an errand of honour, defending a maiden named Elaine against the ravages of one Bruce sans Pitie.

“I trust you were successful, sir?” Holmes inquired.

“Chopped his head off,” Lancelot grunted.

“Very well. Now tell me, your Majesty, what lies behind the arras at the north end, from whence the Grail first appeared?”

“There is a corridor down to the main gate; and staircases leading to apartments above.”

“And whose apartments lie directly above that stair?”

“Why, those of my lady Guinevere.”

“And would you say, sire, that the conditions of lighting in the hall were at the time much as we see them now?”

“Why, yes, I believe so.”

“Thank-you, your Majesty, that was most enlightening. Now, presently I shall need to ask questions of those who were here present when the Grail appeared, and also those who were working in the kitchens and the Queen’s apartments at the time. I especially wish to interview the three knights who were present when the Grail disappeared. But for the moment, your Majesty, I should with your leave be grateful for a moment to examine this hall and it’s surroundings alone.”

Arthur consented to this, and, taking Merlin and Lancelot with him, left us. Holmes turned to me, a smile of grim satisfaction playing about his keen features.

“Watson,” said he, “I believe I already have some idea of the solution to this problem!”

“Good Lord, Holmes! We’ve hardly been here above a minute!”

“Indeed so, but yet I have in that short time made a number of deductions from the considerable evidence placed before me. I should be interested to hear of any thoughts you might have on the matter?”

“Er, well, I can’t say I understand it much, but that Mordred fellow seemed a bit suspect, if you ask me.”

Holmes gave one of his rare laughs.

“Dear old Watson!” he cried, “as usual you have seen the evidence but failed to make the obvious deductions!”

“Yes, well, suppose you tell me what’s obvious about it, then,” I replied, a little peevishly. There are times when playing the straight man to an arrogant genius can pall somewhat. I must confess some of Sir Mordred’s remarks had chimed with me rather; when I think of …. But I digress.

“The vital thing, Watson,” Holmes went on, his enthusiasm not a whit abated by my sour remark, “is to consider the terrain. Why, do you suppose, did the apparition first appear from beneath the Queen’s chamber, and why did it progress into the kitchen, of all places? This is the crux of the question, Watson. Be so good as to stand in the kitchen doorway, please.” I did so, while Holmes sat himself down in one of the seats around the Table. He gazed keenly at me, and then nodded in a satisfied manner.

“Just as I thought, “ he said, and rubbed his hands in pleasure. “Come, Watson. Let us try to flush out the game!” With that, he strode from the hall, I following.

Our next interview was with the Queen, but so far as I could tell it was singularly fruitless; she added nothing to the account already given, and Holmes seemed listless throughout. Only one thing caught his attention; he remarked to Queen Guinevere that it had been a pity Sir Lancelot had not been present.

“Oh – yes,” said she; “it is always a loss when our champion knight lists away from us. He does this too often, but then for a man of his temperament I daresay Camelot can be an oppressive and busy place. There’s no privacy in a castle, you know. Still, he was sorry to have missed such a splendid vision, and urged all who saw it to dedicate themselves to finding the Grail, that he might see it for himself. Why, he even lent Sir Gawaine a horse, that he should quest as well as all the rest, and paid for provisions to succour the knights upon their journeys. He has a generous soul.”

“Indeed,” Holmes concurred, and returned to his withdrawn manner.

Our next meeting was with the three knights who had eventually found the Grail; they were all young men, keen and well-scrubbed, and seemed very anxious that Holmes should find the missing article.

“It is a most holy relic,” Sir Percival explained, earnestly, “and one I should give my life to behold again, even if it were but for a second. I deem it the greatest gift of my years that I had seen it once, and to be granted a second vision is the dearest wish of my heart.”

“Amen,” the other two chimed in, and all three bowed their heads in reverence awhile. Holmes took a detailed description of the Grail from them, and then asked them, as if casually, what they had last eaten before the ending of their Quest.

“We had long outrun our provisions,” Sir Bors told him, “but by chance, if chance it was, we happened upon a clearing full of mushrooms, and feasted thereon.”

“Did they look like this, by any chance?” Holmes asked, pulling a copy of The Field Guide to British Fungi from his pocket, and pointing at an illustration.

“Why yes, those are they.” Holmes smiled, and made a note in his notebook.

Our final witness was Sir Lancelot, who avoided us for as long as possible, but was run to earth in the kitchens, of all places, where he was in deep conversation with a steward.

“Sir Lancelot,” Holmes began, “I think I am beginning to understand a little of what has occurred here.” The knight’s eyebrows shot up.

“Have you?” he asked.

“Indeed. It occurs to me, for instance, that the Grail must, apart from its value as a sacral artefact, must have quite a considerable intrinsic value. It is possible it has been stolen by a person or persons quite unaware of its significance; rubies carry a high price, after all.”

“Emeralds,” Lancelot corrected him.

“To be sure, so they were. Do you know of any such people in the vicinity who trade in such articles?”

Lancelot gave us a long list of robbers, fences, crooked jewelsmiths and other unsavoury characters in the country round about, and Holmes thanked him profusely for his information.

Once we were alone again, Holmes clapped his hands in triumph.

“Watson,” said he, “I am now convinced my original theory was correct.”

“Well, you might tell a chap what it is, Holmes.”

“All in good time, my dear Watson, all in good time. But I will say this; Sir Mordred, for all his surly manner, was on the right track.”

The final event of out brief stay in Camelot was a feast in the Great Hall, where Holmes and I were treated as honoured guests. We heard many marvellous songs and stories, including one from Sir Gawaine about a green fellow he had fought once. “Funny chap,” he remarked, “nice enough as a rule, but you wouldn’t like him when he was angry.”

At length Holmes contrived to speak a word in King Arthur’s ear, and the King in turn summoned a herald, and then was announced;

“Pray silence for Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

All fell quiet, and Holmes rose to his feet to address the company.

“I believe, “ he began, “that I have solved the mystery of the missing Grail. I know how it was done, and I fancy I know why. It is now my duty to reveal to you my conclusions, and the identities of those responsible. I regret to say that they are of this company. The names I shall speak are known to you all. Your Majesty, good Knights of the Round Table, ladies and gentlemen of the court; there are criminals among us.”

Note to readers: all the clues for the solution of this mystery have been given to you in the above story; can you follow the same deductions as the great Sherlock Holmes and find out the truth? Send your suggestions to us at WN@JasperFfordeFfanClub.com and we will include the best in the next edition of Whatever Next, along with the thrilling conclusion to the story itself!