Sherlock Holmes (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle) short stories

What a Lovely Thing a Rose Is

"Holmes," I called as I turned the knob with my free hand and pushed open the door.
He was seated in his favorite chair, facing away from me. His violin was on the floor beside him along with a high stack of the last month's newspapers. The Persian slipper was on the side table and a thin trail of smoke rose from his pipe. He hadn't turned around, only briefly lifted a hand in greeting. Obviously he didn't have a case, and was brooding about it, his only comfort being the cherrywood pipe clamped between his teeth.
"You'll never guess what I found," I said, gently shifting the bundle in between my arm and my chest.
"A dead body?"
"No."
"Then it doesn't concern me."
"I found a live one," I said.
Holmes still didn't turn around. "I hear those are rare in London."
I huffed. "Holmes, they left her in an alley. I couldn't just leave her there."
The baby I held let out a little sound.
"Her?" Holmes went erect, then slowly turned around in his chair. "What is that?"
"It's a baby," I explained, holding her away from me so he could see her. "Someone left her in the alley down the road. She could have gotten sick. I had to bring her here."
"What would we have to do with a baby?"
"I don't know," I said, shrugging. "Evidently her parents didn't want her anymore. Most likely they couldn't afford to keep her."
"And you think we could with business so slow lately?" Holmes asked, incredulously.
"No! No, I never said we were going to keep her. We could take her to the orphanage or try to find her parents again."
Holmes stood, then walked up to the baby and looked at her for a brief second. His gray, colorless eyes quickly turned to the white blanket she had wrapped around her. "This was with her when you found her?"
"Yes."
"Was she crying?"
"No. The white blanket was what caught my eye as I went past, and I stopped to see what it was."
"Ah. You are wrong about someone not wanting it or not being able to afford it. It is clean, its fingernails are trimmed so as to not scratch its face, and she appears to be satisfied when it comes to nutrition. It is not thin in the slightest, ergo it was cared for. Its family is rich by the look of its bonnet and clothes: both are made of expensive silk. Even I can recognize the beauty of the child, something uncommon amongst the vulgar peasants who would not be able to afford to take care of it. Beautiful women have a tendency to take advantage of their comeliness and marry rich. It bears every sign of a mother's tender love."
"Ah, I see..." I said bitterly. I wasn't angry at Holmes, only at myself for not having realized this from the first. "No doubt you could tell me where she lives?"
"It lives in a large house with an apple orchard and a dog. A collie, to be exact. No doubt this is their first child, and both the father and mother have been trying to have a baby for some time but were unable to until some years later."
"How could you tell that?" I said, astounded. The baby cooed and wriggled in my arms.
"First of all, the large house was obvious from the earlier deduction that they were rich and could afford rich clothes their baby would grow out of in a few months. Its clothes smell of apple blossoms and bear traces of fur which I can identify as a collie's fur. This blanket it is wearing looks older and has dulled in color, but is not worn down from use as it would have been had they had a child before it. The blanket smells of cedar, and no doubt the chest they kept it in is made of such. From all of this, I guess that the mother and father purchased the blanket in anticipation of their first child, but after their first year lost their zeal and put it away in a chest. The fact that it is white rather than blue or pink also indicates this. It is worn in the corner from where the mother tenderly rubbed her thumb over it in sentiment."
"How absurdly simple!"
"Yes. Quite elementary."
The baby reached out with her tiny hand and touched my friend's cheek.
Holmes froze. "What is it doing?"
The baby cooed.
"You don't have to call her 'it'. It's a she."
"Yes, yes, of course," he said, stepping away from her and sinking back into his chair. He snatched a chunk off the stack of newspapers and began to search them for advertisements. "I believe I remember seeing something of it—"
"Her," I cut in.
"Her," he repeated slowly, "in last week's paper."
I sat in my chair and held the baby on my knee, patting her back. "She looks to be about seven or eight months old," I said, looking her over.
Holmes was silent for a moment as he sped through the papers. Then he found what he was searching for. "Aha! Here it is."
He held it out to me, and I took it and read.