Also...

The cache at Pooh Corner | A.A.Milne turns in his grave   |

The Cache of Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes threw down his newspaper with an exclamation of disgust: "Commonplace, Watson - nothing but commonplace. Oh for a case to challenge the intellect! Are all London's criminals asleep?"

I made no reply, for my own copy of the paper had some interesting illustrated advertisements for ladies' foundation garments, and these commanded my full attention. Just then, Mrs Hudson entered, bearing a visiting card on her tray: "There do be a gentleman to see 'ee, Muster 'olmes. In a right lather, 'e is, an I do say so..."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Why are you talking in that extraordinary accent?"

"This was the only acting job I could get."

"I see. Well, let us not keep our client waiting. Show him in Mrs. Hudson, show him in..." The door opened to admit a man of medium height, much reddened in the face, and wearing a curious assemblage of outdoor clothing.

"Sit down, Sir and compose yourself, for you are sadly winded I fear. A glass of Dr. Watson's brandy, perhaps? Good..." Holmes glanced at the card: " Mr. Lucas O'Zade, is it not? You must tell us what brings you to Baker Street, for at present I can only say that you are of Irish ancestry, your middle name is "Casper", you live at the lower end of Mornington Crescent and you are obviously a licensed vintner by trade."

"Upon my word, Holmes!" I cried, "The ancestry I allow, but how could you possibly deduce these other details?"

"They are printed on his card." replied Holmes, impatiently. "Do be quiet Watson. Now, Mr. O'Zade - if you have quite recovered your faculties - what is the cause of this unseemly haste?"

"I scarcely know where to begin, Gentlemen," said our visitor "but the matter - in its essence - concerns what is commonly called Geocaching..."

"Geocaching?" Holmes looked thoughtful, "I recall an item in last week's Times by some fellow calling himself "The Forester". It appeared on pages nine, ten, eleven, twelve and thirteen - a substantial monograph, without doubt." He turned to me: "This Geocaching', Watson, seems to be a kind of recreational activity, popular among the lower orders, ne'er-do-wells and social misfits. Am I correct, Sir?"

"Quite correct, Mr. Holmes," replied O'Zade "and it serves to keep us out of the gin shops and gaming-houses. Better a man should be out-of-doors for a cache, than at home beating his wife, they do say. Not but that my own wife doesn't appreciate the occasional spank, by Jove - when I think of her pert little..."

" - and you are the owner of one of these Geocaches?" interrupted Holmes, hastily.

"I am indeed - or rather, WAS the owner - for I must tell you, Mr. Holmes, that my cache has been stolen! Stolen this last day, or my name's not Luke O'Zade!. Of course, I reported the theft to Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard, but he told me to 'b***er off' - beggin' your pardon, Gents - and that Geocaching was 'a waste of Police time.' So now I have come to you, as my last hope."

"And I shall do everything in my power to help you." Holmes was now alert, like a dog on the scent: "But tell me, where was this.. item, placed, when it went missing?"

"In Epping Forest, on the South side of the road."

"Where EXACTLY? It is of the utmost importance."

"Oruvaq gur guveq fghzc ba gur yrsg, naq bire n ovg." said O'Zade, and grinned: "In our secret language, which is to say - behind the third stump on the left, and over a bit."

"I know the exact spot!" Holmes snapped his fingers and our client looked startled. "Er... the ground there is a distinctive reddish clay, which is found nowhere else. There are specks of it on your left boot."

"That is paint, Mr. Holmes - on account of I was doing the dado rails in a nice pale vermilion, last week."

"It is of no consequence. Well, Mr. O'Zade, I shall take your case, and you may rest assured that it is as good as solved - for I believe that we may already know the identity of the culprit. When my investigations are completed, I shall be in touch. Mrs. Hudson will show you out. Good day to you, Sir..."

When our visitor had departed, I was none the wiser: "You have over-reached yourself this time, Holmes. How can the stolen cache be found, with almost no information to go on?"

"It's really quite elementary, Watson. You remember when I went out yesterday, in disguise?"

"Yes. You were dressed as a sailor with a blonde wig, if I recall."

"No, No - the OTHER time." Holmes moved, cat-like, towards a table by the window. "The fact is, I made my way to Epping Forest, last night - where I found THIS..." With a flourish, he produced a small translucent box, adorned with green labels in a curious script.

"This is the stolen cache? But Holmes, one assumes that you were supposed to replace it in the original position - not bring it back here?"

"Ah, there you are mistaken, Watson, for there's more to this case than you imagine..." A foreboding gripped my heart at these words. "... in this 'Geocaching' phenomenon I detect the work of the Napoleon of Crime himself - Professor Moriarty!"

"Calm yourself Holmes, I beg..."

"It's Moriarty who has planned the whole thing! Don't you see, Watson - don't you see? He has done this to divert my attention from his nefarious activities. It's all of a piece - the newspaper article - who do you suppose this mysterious 'Lactodorum' is - Moriarty again, I tell you!" Flecks of spittle appeared at the corner of his mouth: "The game's afoot, Watson! Fetch your trusty service revolver, and we'll catch the villain this time, for certain."

"Of course we will, old friend," I said soothingly, as I reached for my medicine bag, "Just take your nice little tablets, as we agreed, and everything will be all right."

This was the worst attack yet, and the treatment was having little effect. Perhaps a stronger dose, from now on...