In the Autumn of 1881, I was returning from an early stroll around the neighbourhood when, upon unlocking and opening the front door, my pet Snubbull tensed on the cleared threshold.

It became evident that it was not with the consumed slab of marble that little Harriet’s preoccupations laid, as she proceeded to sniff the scent trapped in the carpet from the atrium to the first floor, where she entered our rooms and launched in a series of fairly powerful barks.

There came my turn to be agitated, for I had left my room-mate lounging on the sofa and I was afraid to find that something had happened to him or the rooms. I made my way up the stairs and, with relief, I could ascertain that both Sherlock Holmes and the locale were in as fine a state as they had been at the time of my departure.

My friend was now sitting in his armchair by the fireplace, his hands before his mouth, joined by the fingers, his eyes alert and fixed on my own. To my questioning stare he replied by nodding towards the sofa, where a young girl was now uncomfortably settled, with her head turned in my direction and her features troubled by the intrusion.

“Quiet, Harriet!” I chided my Snubbull, who was still aggressively barking from the entrance. “Is this the way to treat another lady?”

“Thank you, sir,” the girl said, “but I believe your Harriet has an objection to my dog rather than to my person.”

“Your dog?” I advanced into the room to see a mildly alarmed Growlithe resting on the cushions with its paws on her lap. The Pokémon was well kept, but from the girl’s washed-out clothing and curved posture one could easily discern that, although agreeably polite, its owner was not of elevated social standing.

“Say, Watson,” Sherlock Holmes chimed in, “why don’t you bring Harriet upstairs with Mrs. Hudson? Then Miss Abby here could repeat her story for your benefit.”

“For his benefit?” The girl wondered.

“And my own.” Holmes replied. “Dr. Watson is a close associate of mine and his services may be of use to us both.”

“Very well.” She consented.

I did as my friends asked, then returned to our sitting-room and sat on the armchair opposite to his.

“The reason for my visit,” the girl started, once she got a hold of my attention, “is that I felt the need to get some help.”

“What about?” I asked.

“Events of a strange and unfortunate nature.” She fiddled with her skirt. “A week ago, a young man came to the shop where my master, Mr. Jazeb Wilson, works as a pawnbroker, in order to ask for his permission to display an advertisement on the door of his small business.”

“Was this young man‘s behaviour in any way suspicious or inappropriate?” I suggested, sensing her nervousness.

“Oh, the young man was of no relevance. It was the advertisement itself that lead us to participate in yesterday’s ill-fated competition. I brought the fly-sheet for Mr. Holmes to inspect, if he will hand it to you.”

My companion extended to me the piece of paper to me. So it read:

“THE RED-COATED LEAGUE: A selection will be held to choose, amongst Wyndon’s Pokémon population, a Growlithe or an Arcanine suited to compete in The Red-Coated League, an international tournament which will take place next spring in Castelia City. The trainer of the chosen competitor will see all their training and travelling expenses covered by our foundation; a permanent income of £4 a week will be awarded to the winner of the tournament. All Growlithe and Arcanine who are sound in body and above the age of one are eligible. The Red-Headed League was founded by the late Ezekiah Hopkins of the United States, who, on account of his great love for the evolutionary line, decided to create an organization with the aim to scout and reward its finest specimens, in order to assure their wellbeing and reproduction. Apply in person with your Pokémon on the 5th of October at eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Champion’s Court, Fleet Street.”

“I have never heard of this league.” I commented.

“Nor I or Mr. Wilson.” Abby responded. “Yet the Growlithe line is one of my master’s most pronounced fixations and he couldn’t help taking an interest in this tournament, if not for the fact that he himself owns one.”

“You brought it along.”

“Oh, no. Mr. Wilson’s Growlithe is my Pokémon’s mother. He was kind enough to let me have one of her puppies.”

“That was benevolent of him. So, did Mr. Wilson decide to be interviewed for the tournament?”

“He did, much to my disbelief. Although in the prime of his years he used to travel with his family, with age he came to be of a very sedentary disposition. These days he never leaves the shop unless absolutely necessary. It turns out,” she continued excitedly, “that battling competitively with his Growlithe had always been one of the dearest ambitions of his youth, but lethargy prevented him from dedicating time to training and finding adequate monetary support, and this dream has now become one of his greatest regrets. You see, The Red-Coated League presented itself as such an opportunity that seemed to require very little effort and he was adamant that we should at least pay a visit to the League’s offices. On my part, I had no doubt that he could not win with an unevolved, mostly untrained Pokémon, but, being Mr. Wilson my master, I had no choice but to humour his wishes. On the 5th, when we went to see Mr. Duncan Ross, I became even surer that we would not be selected for the competition, as dozens of other Growlithe were already crowding Champion’s Court.”

“Growlithe is undoubtedly a popular Pokémon.”

“Still I could not help but notice the oddness of the whole set up. One would wonder why there was not a single Arcanine in the court and then one would wonder why most of the Pokémon had no trainer at their side.”

“Odd indeed, why would so many trainers leave their Pokémon unattended in the middle of the city? And why not a single Arcanine? Quite odd. And did this Mr. Duncan Ross thought your master and his Growlithe were fit to compete in the tournament?” I further enquired.

“He initially took note of Mr. Wilsons’ name and address and told us that he would let us know the outcome of the interview only after visioning the other candidates. I didn’t really expect to hear from the League ever again, until, the day after, a telegram came to the shop, requesting Mr. Wilson’s participation to an unofficial qualifying competition, held at Champion’s Court, intended to determine which dog on a list of four preferred ones would be selected by the organization for the international tournament. I was surprised by Mr. Wilson’s inclusion in the list, but I was far more surprised by seeing my own name printed in the letter, for I had only been accompanying my master and had not applied for the position.”

“Do you have any experience in Pokémon battling?”

“None whatsoever.” She said.

“Miss Abby is but fourteen.” Holmes offered.

“As for the unofficial competition,” the girl explained, “it took place yesterday afternoon. Three battles occurred just has they had been planned in the program. I fought and lost against Mr. Wilson, while Mrs. Sunday Merryweather—a friend of mine who had received under her care another if my master’s puppies and who had come with us to be interviewed on the first day—fought and won against a certain Mr. Jones. The final encounter was between Mrs. Merryweather and Mr. Wilson, but I am afraid to say that Sunday easily beat my master; she had all the advantages of being an active trainer. Before we left, Mr. Ross received a note and, soon after, he declared that we would have to come back the following day to demonstrate our skills in a Pokémon contest, as, after all, battling isn’t everything in this world.”

“That must have softened Mr. Wilson’s disappointment for his loss.” I said.

“That was nothing more than temporary consolation, considering what he discovered once they returned to the shop.” Holmes commented.

“The place was wrecked.” Abby clarified. “It looked as if somebody had tried to rob the place, but we spent the night checking the inventory and nothing of value was missing. Would you think, Dr. Watson, that the day could end any worse that? And yet it did! Just before going to bed, the news reached us that both Mrs. Merryweather and her Growlithe had lost their senses during the evening due to an unknown cause and had yet to regain their consciousness. A doctor had been sent for, but as of this morning it is still unsure whether they will make it.”

“My dear lady!” I cried. “If these events resulted in two lives being at stake, why did you come to us and not go to the police?”

“I did go to the police,” she answered, “and they assured me they would investigate the matter, yet, as far as I could tell, no move was taken.”

“Then what do you say Miss Abby,” Holmes stood from his armchair and walked up to her, “if Dr. Watson and I looked into your case ourselves, no fees charged, to compensate for the inevitable deficiencies of Stoutland Yard?”

“I would be infinitively thankful!” The girl cried.

Holmes shook her hand and started pacing around the room.

“First we will visit your friend Mrs. Merryweather.” He said. “Second we will visit your master and third we will attend today’s Pokémon contest!”

“But Mr. Holmes,” the girl said, “only the performers on the list are admitted to the contest.”

“Then we will participate as Mrs. Merryweather and her husband.”

We travelled by the Underground as far as Elder’s Gate; and a short walk took us to Axew-Drilbur Square, a poky, little, shabby-genteel place.

“That is Mr. Wilson’s shop.” Miss Abby pointed at a two-storied brick house in the corner, sporting a brown board over the entrance with “PAWSBROKER” written in white letters next to an inverted dog’s footprint, designed to fit into its digits the relief of three spheres which designate the pawnbroker’s profession. “And that on the other side of the square is Mrs. Merryweather’s habitation.”

She led us into the second building and, from there, to the unconscious lady’s chamber, where we found a doctor standing by her bedside, taking her temperature.

“Never before I’ve seen signs of such an illness.” The doctor explained after we introduced ourselves. “Mrs. Merryweather grows weaker and remains unresponsive, but appears otherwise uninjured. It certainly looks like a case of moderately aggressive poisoning, but I can think of no toxin that matches all symptoms. I cannot prescribe an antidote unless I understand the exact origin of the venom; those drugs are too varied and unstable, I would not risk introducing an invasive substance into the patient’s body unless I could understand its effects.”

I was allowed to examine the comatose lady and my perplexities were aligned with those of my colleague. Holmes austerely looked over the woman’s form and leaned close to her face, but had nothing to say on the state of her health. Her Growlithe shared the same condition.

We learned that the Mr. Jones, who had battled against Mrs. Merryweather the day before during the competition, had come to enquire after the lady, although Abby could not tell us how he had come to know about her illness or whether a prior connection stood between the two.

Afterwards we proceeded to visit Mr. Wilson’s shop. Our entrance was met by a couple of loud barks coming from a Growlithe crouched in a basket by the door, which was soon joined by Abby’s own pet companion. Behind the counter stood a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with a head of fiery red hair.

“I see you have already cleaned the place.” Holmes exclaimed. “It would have been of so much more use to me if you had left it just as it was after the intrusion.”

“Abby, who is this?” The man asked, thoroughly perplexed.

“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, sir.” The girl said with trepidation. “He says he will look into the affair, no fees charged.”

“And what has he to gain out of it?” Mr. Wilson demanded.

“The pleasure of a stimulating case.” Holmes said.

“And the pleasure of helping poor Mrs. Merryweather to regain her consciousness.” I added.

“I have not requested your services.” Said Mr. Wilson.

“But Miss Abby did,” Sherlock Holmes rebutted, “and, since we are already here and we will not cost you a penny, I see no reason for you not to accept our offer.”

“Do as you please.” Mr. Wilson growled, lowering his head to focus on a group of small items on the counter. After some instants, he looked up again and opened his mouth, blood flowing to his cheeks. “But do not mix up any of the articles in my shop!”

While respecting Mr. Wilson’s wishes to keep the shelves in order, Holmes was very meticulous in his examination of the shop. He went through the lines of forgone valuables and family relics with keen eyes and a magnifying glass. Rings, earrings, necklaces, clocks, pocket watches, pocket balls, knives, silverware, finely carved boxes, exotic statuettes, foreign medicinal bottles, an assortment of musical instruments, fishing tackle; they all passed under my friend’s attentive scrutiny. A couple of times he even asked to check the inventory book.

In the spirit of good camaraderie, I brought up to Mr. Wilson our shared love for dogs. He asked me to see a picture of my Harriet and was greatly disappointed when he learned that I didn’t carry one with me. He reprimanded me and produced what he considered to be an example of diligent dog ownership out of his pocket, a small photographic portrait of him sitting with his Pokémon enclosed in an elaborately decorated portable frame. Holmes, a dog owner and enthusiast himself, approached the counter to compliment the picture.

“I note that the frame bears the impression of a scorching bite.” Holmes said. “While in other cases I would consider a marring in such a beautiful object a pity, the Growlithe marking the portrait of you two together must have added to its sentimental value.”

“I can’t say I ever appreciated that bite,” Mr. Wilson said, “but, as you say, at least it comes from a beloved source.”

More than an hour passed by and as further conversation was unwelcomed by the only two men present and Miss Abby had left the shop to take care of her other duties, I started going around the articles of the shop myself. Regrettably, I have to say that I failed to grasp any connection in them to suspicious and injurious events our client had described; to compensate, my resourceful imagination did nevertheless manage to make up this or that tumultuous story concerning the past of the shelved pawns.

When Mr. Wilson absented himself for a few minutes, Holmes called me to his side with a soft voice.

“Watson,” He said, nodding towards a group of half-a-dozen partially consumed potions on a nearby shelf, “have you seen these Chinese medicines? Some of them are quite rare and would be a prized possession for any doctor. Should I contemplate them as a possible Christmas present?”

“I can hardly tell what they are. I do not know the language.” I told him.

Holmes took the rightmost bottle of the lot in his hand and pointed at some characters which were to me incomprehensible.

“This one is called Parasect Heal as it is made out of the Pokémon’s spores. The two vertical curves under its name represent the number eight, which is considered an auspicious number.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of the remedy. Those of my colleagues who got a chance to test it where very satisfied with its capabilities. Once the spores have been steeped and boiled, they can treat a variety of common ailments.”

“I wonder why this potion is not widely sold in our pharmacies, since Parasect could be easily breed in multitude and their spores harvested.” Holmes said.

“The spores produced in our climate can’t quite reach the same level of quality and unprepared Chinese spores lose their curative properties very rapidly unless they are turned into a potion, making their acquisition pointless. The finished product is much heavier and sizable, thus quite expensive to import, and the substance is only useful to treat non-life threatening illnesses, so only the richest are fuelling its trade. What is there in the other bottles?”

“They are all healing potions used to cure conditions inflicted by the Paras line.”

The noise of Mr. Wilson’s steps announced his imminent return and Mr. Holmes surprised me by dragging me to the music section to comment on an old Artesian violin bow. Soon after, he resumed the investigation, but his new talkative mood hadn’t left him yet.

“So, Mr. Wilson,” Holmes started casually, while studying the spine of the first volume of an Encyclopaedia Galarica, “I see you’ve been in China.”

Mr. Wilson startled at the suggestion and froze with his eyes fixed on my companion.

“How could you know that?” he shouted afters some moments.

“The Magikarp that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist could only have been done in China. That trick of staining the scales of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to the country. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple.”

Mr. Wilson laughed heavily.

“I thought at first that you had done something clever,” he said, “but I see that there was nothing in it after all.”

“I begin to think, Watson,” Holmes said, turning in my direction, “that I make a mistake in explaining. My poor little reputation will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid.”

“I fancy you will be done with your investigation by lunch?” Mr. Wilson changed the subject. “I have a Pokémon contest to attend in the afternoon.”

“You mean to leave the shop alone? After yesterday’s events?”

“Whoever broke into the shop while I was gone thought nothing was fit for being stolen.”

“In any case,” Holmes said, “I suggest that you leave Miss Abby to look after the place. After all, she fought very poorly in yesterday’s competition and it’s unlikely that she will do better today. While she lays sick in bed, we might send a friend of ours to pose as Mrs. Merryweather. It will allow us to appraise the conditions of the tournament and the integrity of its organizers. Now, I’ve seen enough of this room and we have our own engagements in the afternoon; it’s time for me and Dr. Watson to leave for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Watson, would you buy that dainty Artesian bow for me? I’ll be a moment in the kitchen to pay our respects to Miss Abby.”

Having departed from the pawnbroker’s shop, Holmes purchase tightly wrapped under his right arm and my hand loosely hanging from the other, he brought me to a nearby vegetarian restaurant.

“It is so convenient to eat outside with someone who shares my views on the matter of diet.” I remarked, once our meal had been served.

“It would be hard for anyone living in a vegetarian household not to grow accustomed to the mentality.” Holmes answered.

“That is not your case, tough. I have it from Martha that you refused meat for dinner on the first day of your acquaintance, long before moving in 221B.”

“So that’s how I gained your esteem.”

“Hardly, but for some weeks I thought that you might not be touching any to avoid getting dragged into one of my rants.”

“You rants were always charming and I only take pleasure in witnessing your vigour. To think that when we met you were thin as a lath and lazy as a Slakoth. Now have you put some fat and I can even count on you to be up in the early morning. I’m glad to see you have recovered from the war.”

“As I am glad to be.” I smiled behind a glass of water.

My companion was in the best of spirits, and prattled away about Artesian fiddles, fiddle makers and fiddle compositions. Later the discussion moved to ensemble music and finally the opera.

“Have I told you about Irene Adler?” He asked.

“That opera singer? You mentioned her as one of your favourites.”

“She’s currently living in eastern Europe, but she’s rumoured to be of a mind to move to Wyndon in some years. I had the opportunity to hear her magnificent voice only once at La Scala and, if she comes to Wyndon, I shall be delighted to be able to do so again without travelling. You and I should go together to one of her performances someday.”

“You have an excellent taste, I shall be happy to accompany you to any performance, any day!”

“I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life and that you will no doubt enjoy this little escapade of ours.” Holmes teased me, as I was in the act of awkwardly tying the laces of a fine ivory gown around his person.

“I would enjoy this escapade more if you only took the time the inform me of your plans.” I said. “What are we doing?”

“We are dressing me up as Sunday Merryweather, so that I can enter the competition.”

“You don’t look like her at all.”

“I will after I’ll have applied cosmetics.”

“And why did we withdrew Toby from the shelter?” I asked, pointing at the cheerful Houndour wagging his tail and playing with an old scarf in the corner of Holmes bed-room.

“Because I need Pokémon to compete in the contest.”

“But he’s neither a Growlithe nor an Arcanine, the League will not admit him.”

“I don’t have a Pokémon of either species that will respond to my commands and available on such a short notice.” Holmes said. “Toby is my dog, still a fire type and of the appropriate height and he will no doubt look just enough like a Growlithe after I have put him into his costume.”

“His costume?”

“Look under my bed, second chest from the head. Possibly.”

Fifteen minutes later, I had in my hands a big round bowl framed by red and cream-coloured fur. Holmes, who had by then already finished dressing, called me at his side, took the bowl from me.

“This is not a real Growlithe’s head.” He said after turning the mask around so that I could see it from the right angulation. “Nevertheless a magnificent reproduction I got from the Crittermon Theatre. Just like his trainer, Toby is a bit of an actor. The fur is authentic though and also fireproof.”

“They lose quite a bit of it without harm, these dogs. But dear god, Holmes,” I exclaimed, after raising my eyes and seen what he had done to his face, “aren’t you a beautiful lady? Under all those red locks, I could swear there’s the twin of Mrs. Merryweather.”

I believe my companion blushed at the compliment, beneath the layers of paint in his cheeks. Distracted by the rich scarlet dye around his smile, I did not realized that he had lifted the mask and placed it on my head.

“It’s a bit too small for you,” He laughed. “but, if you want the role of the Growlithe, that is yours. You always had a somewhat canine way of moving and self-expression.”

“I will be fine acting as your husband.” I answered.

“And you?” Holmes said to my Snubbull, who had started barking at our feet. “You want to audition for the role as well?”

“I am sorry, Harriet dear,” I said. “But you are not a fire type and you are not of the appropriate height.”

For a moment, my dog stared at me with an offended look in her eyes, then run to my bed-room to curl up in the basket with the house cat.

As soon as we were ready, we left for Champion’s Court and the Pokémon contest.

“We shall not only pay close attention to the judges, but to the other competitor as well, Mr. Jones might be one of their associates.” My companion said.

“You think the intrusion at the shop and Mrs. Merryweather’s illness are connected to The Red-Coated League?”

“Yes, although in different ways.”

The location of the contest was devoid of any form of decoration that would suggest the occurrence of such an event. A shabby table demarked the position of the jury; only two men were standing behind it. The other participants were already at their spot, prepared to initiate the performance.

Holmes gracefully walked towards the line of competitors, a hand upturned behind his back for Toby to follow. He curtsied at the jury and apologised for the delay, blaming it on an indisposition.

To better conceal the nature of his altered features, he had pinned a thin veil to his hat. Once he turned to Mr. Wilson, he forged a temperate smile, while the latter returned the gesture with a perplexed face. Yet, when my companion turned to his other rival, Mr. Jones, one of his hands shot before his mouth and he lowered his gaze, so that I could not discern his expression.

One of the judges impatiently informed Holmes that Miss Abby had withdrawn from the competition and that, being all the performers present, the event could finally start.

The contest itself involved a demonstration of coolness and beauty. All competitors attempted to show the former through a display of Roars and Leers. Both Mr. Wilson and Mr. Jones decided to parade the beauty of their Pokémon by having them create a Flame Wheel and launch it in the sky. Holmes’s Houndour wasn’t evidently capable of this fairly standard move and opted for blowing a weak Ember instead, a choice the jury was quite displeased with. I dare say though, that, despite the varying levels of approval indicated by the given scores, the judges appeared dissatisfied throughout the entire competition and that I would have expected a higher degree of enthusiasm from two professionals specialised in the evolutionary line.

By a small margin, Mr. Wilson was awarded the first place, which, combined with the second place he had gained the day before, granted him a spot to compete in The Red-Coated League. Mrs. Merryweather had dropped out favour after Toby’s unmoving performance.

Before departing from the court, Mr. Jones enquired about the state of the false Mrs. Merryweather’s health and approached the judges concerning other opportunities to join the international tournament. On the street, with one foot on the step of the hansom, Mr. Wilson was still boasting about his win and anticipating the night’s celebration of his accomplishment.

Holmes then urged me in the next cab, paying little to no attention to any of those who were left at Champion’s court. With an acute voice, he ordered our driver to carry us to our lodgings in 221B, Baker Street.

“Holmes, I see the fire of the game burning in your eyes.” I said. “What have you discovered about this league during the contest?”

“About the League? Nothing that I couldn’t already imagine.” He sighed.

“Then this entire charade was a waste! Our time would have been better spent looking for a cure for Mrs. Merryweather!”

“Not a total waste, Watson. I learned something rather interesting about one of the contestants. Beside I am confident that when we visit Mrs. Merryweather in an hour or so, we’ll find her already on the way to recovery.”

“How so? What is her illness? What was the cure? How did you gain such knowledge? When did you-

Holmes hushed me with the side of his fist.

“Bear with me for a bit longer. First I need to change my clothes, then we will pay a visit to the lady, to be sure everything went as planned.”

Once we reached the privacy of our rooms, Holmes crawled out of his feminine garments and Toby was freed of the Growlithe costume. As soon as we were all ready to leave, the three of us took the same cab to Axew-Drilbur Square.

When we arrived in the neighbourhood, the sky had already darkened, but the square remained brightened by the gaslight. We landed in front of Mrs. Merryweather’s house and, with a sense of relief, I could see that the poor woman was not in bed but standing at the window, full with concern.

A youthful voice called Holmes’ name and mine in the distance. We turned to the sight of a pale figure running towards us, which, upon closer inspection, we could identify as Miss Abby.

“Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson!” She cried. “There’s been another!”

“Another what?” Said Holmes, launching ahead and putting his hand on her shoulder in a calming gesture.

“Another burglary!” She said.

“Was something taken this time?”

“I don’t know yet, but it doesn’t seem so. The shop was untouched, the intruders made a wreck of the first floor, where we eat and sleep.”

“Are you and Mr. Wilson unharmed?”

“It all happened during the contest, while Mr. Wilson was still away from home and I was with my friend Sunday. Oh Mr. Holmes, she recovered so beautifully after I followed your instructions! How could you know what was affecting her when even the doctors couldn’t?”

“We’ll talk about this later.” Holmes said. “In the meantime it is essential to alert the police. I will send a message with my Houndour.”

“But will anyone come?”

“I am sure someone will. It is my habit to make fun of the official force, but amongst their numbers there’s one or two constables that aren’t completely inept at their profession.”

Holmes scribbled a note and attached it to Toby’s collar. After making sure that the paper was properly fastened, he unleashed the dog and gave him the order to deliver the message to Stoutland Yard’s front desk.

We watched Toby disappear behind the corner and, after he was out of our sight, Miss Abby invited us to come inside her master’s house.

“I suppose, Mr. Holmes, that now you’ll want to stick your nose in the rest of my habitation.” Said Mr. Wilson after sharing with us a modest, yet adequate dinner. “But I checked and checked again and I am confident that nothing was stolen today or yesterday.”

“Then what do you make of these intrusions?” Holmes asked.

“Some unlawful rascal must be set on damaging my possessions. You meet all sort of poor, desperate vagabonds in my profession; good-for-nothings forgoing family heirlooms for a bit of cash and then blaming the person who afforded them the money to save them from their troubles.”

“And how would this be connected with The Red-Coated League?”

“It isn’t!” Mr. Wilson cried. “I am never away from home and the scoundrel must have seen a rare opportunity in my absence, which reminds me that you, Abby, did not have my permission to leave the house this afternoon.”

“I am sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” The girl apologised.

“It’d better not, if you want a roof over your head.”

“It is I who should apologise,” Holmes intervened, “for it was I who gave her instructions to leave the shop.”

“And why ever would she follow your instructions rather than my own, which, as you will remember, came themselves out of your own mouth in the first place?” Our host lamented.

“I have to confess that I have played a little deception on you, but it will all soon be explained. I have my own ideas about The Red-Coated League and, in order to avoid a repetition of the exposition, I will relate them only after the arrival of a police officer.”

“It’s not like I can coerce you to share your ideas, so we’ll just have to wait. Ah, not for long at all, they are knocking at the door. It’s time to make sense out of these incidents, so that I can concentrate on my trip and the incoming tournament.”

While we all expected Mr. Wilson to return in the dining-room accompanied by the police force, he came back with the other participant in the two qualifying competitions, Mr. Jones.

The new guest sat with us at the table, while his Growlithe retreated in the corner with the other dogs.

“What a surprise, isn’t it Mr. Holmes?” Mr. Wilson said. “Or at least it is a surprise to me, because Mr. Jones tells me that he came here following your invitation. You treat my home quite like if it was yours.”

“It was all in the interest of your household, so that we could discuss the intrusions and questionable affair of The Red-Coated League. Unfortunately, Mr. Wilson, you wilfully fail to connect the two matters and are set to overlook the fact that the League was a set up business to draw you out of the house.”

“A set up!” Mr. Wilson shouted. “A set up he says! I’ve had enough of your unfounded claims. This might as well be an attempt to make me withdraw from the tournament. Do you work for Mr. Jones? Or is it Mrs. Merryweather? Abby? Would you do this to me Abby?”

“Calm down, Mr. Wilson.” Holmes said. “My claims are not without foundation. Apart from the evident correlation between the days of the qualifying rounds and the days of the intrusions, the organization of the competition had many elements which would have raised the suspicions of a sceptic, as Abby herself pointed out during our first consultation.”

“Name one.” Said Mr. Wilson.

“Did you not wonder why on the day of your first contact with Mr. Duncan Ross so many of the dogs waiting to be examined had been left in Champion’s Court without a trainer? Did you not wonder why all of these supposedly competitively trained Pokémon in line to be interviewed for a battling tournament were at the first stage of the evolutionary line with no Arcanine in sight?”

“Why should I have wondered about such nonsense? My considerations were fully concentrated on my own Pokémon.”

“Had you had any consideration for such nonsense instead, you would have realized that there is a unique answer to this peculiar arrangement.”

“May I add,” intervened Mr. Jones, “that none of the Pokémon had the slightest variety in proportions, colour of the fur and temperament? For this reason and those you listed I decided to investigate the affair and I attempted to join the competition with my own Growlithe.”

“Investigate?” Cried Mr. Wilson.

“You see,” Holmes said. “Mr. Jones—I’ve known him for some months—is an agent of Stoutland Yard and the very police representative we were all waiting. I requested for him specifically, as I’ve known he was involved in the investigation since I learned he was one of the contestants.”

A small choir of gasps formed in the room.

“You see, Miss Abby,” Holmes continued, “the police was after all already quietly looking into your case.”

“Now, the answer to the issues brought up by Mr. Holmes and myself,” said Mr. Jones, calling the attention back on himself, “is that apart from your and you companions’ Growlithe, there was only another Growlithe in the court and all the others were the result of a Double Team. Hypothesis I readily tested by trying to pet one of the Pokémon; the projection dissolved in thin air.”

“Just as I thought.” Holmes said. “You will also see, Mr. Wilson, that you, your maid and the friend you’ve brought along were the only people who had come to know of the interview, all through the singular advertisement that was brought at your shop. The League and the procedure to be accepted in it as an international competitor are clearly not genuine ventures. It was a masquerade, whose scope can only have been to draw a sedentary man away from his home, when no other excuses could; a deception to infiltrate into his premises. The people behind the League have probably accosted you under the guise of costumers to discover what was the occurrence that would secure your absence and you are so fond of prattling about your dog. Complex as the scheme might seem at first, in the end it only required a poster for the advertisement, a small office, an authorisation to use a relatively obscure court for a couple of hours and a Growlithe able to generate a Double Team.”

“But nothing was taken during our absences!” Declared Abby.

“After three elaborate attempts, you may assume that there was nevertheless something to be taken and that if nothing was taken it was because nothing was found.” Holmes explained. “There has been a clear progression in the purposes of the intrusions. On the day of the first interview, we can suppose that the shop might have been searched discretely, in fact none of you noticed anything amiss. Let us say that they did not find what they were looking for and you were eventually informed that all the inhabitants of the house had been chosen to participate to a qualifying round, leaving the shop once again unattended and accessible to the burglars. Mr. Jones and Mrs. Merryweather must have been invited to give the phony competition a semblance of veracity. This time the shop was search invasively and, once again, the thing was not found. Before long you are informed that an additional qualifying round, about which you had not being previously notified, would be held the following day. The shop is unattended for the third time, but, as the ground floor had already been searched, the intruders make an attempt with your living quarters on the first floor. For the third time nothing is found.”

“Your suppositions do fit the events, Mr. Holmes.” Said Mr. Jones. “Are you saying that whatever these people wanted is still in the building, laying unfound?”

“That is possible, but what I think more likely is that, while Mr. Wilson and Miss Abby were gone from the house, that whatever left the house with them. I am saying that it must be something that they carry about their persons.”

“Mr. Holmes,” Abby cried, “I carry nothing of value but the money necessary to buy what is needed.”

“And I, Mr. Holmes,” Said Mr. Wilson, “I never go out. When I did, I only brought with me my wallet and the portrait of my Growlithe.”

“Then you shall put on the table the portrait of your Growlithe, which I’ve already seen this morning and about which I have already made some considerations.”

Mr. Wilson complied with Holmes’ instructions. My companion then took the portable frame in his hands, rolled it around a couple of times and took a look at all of the external and internal panels.

“The motif on this piece is decisively feminine,” Holmes said, “and its quality of a far more expensive taste than yours, suggesting that the object had a previous owner. How did you come to have it?”

“It was one of the items pledged at my shop. The fellow who brought it got a pretty penny it and never returned to claim it.”

“Can you remember anything about him?”

“Yes, Yes! He was a quite a peculiar fellow.” Grunted Mr. Wilson. “He had a white splash of acid on his forehead and pierced ears.”

“Is that frame what the League is after, Mr. Holmes?” Asked Abby.

“No, the frame is not nearly as valuable, my dear. It must be the picture inside it that they are attempting to recover.”

“Our Growlithe’s picture?”

“No, the picture behind it!” Holmes exclaimed. “You can see that the frame is has been marked on all panels by a scorching bite. The picture of your master and his Growlithe is without burns, which means it was inserted after the damage was caused, but behind the same panel you can see the photographic paper is still burnt, indicating the presence of two pictures. I could add that your portrait was already visibly crammed in that space. And here we are!”

Holmes had removed the layer of paper from the panel and, with some effort, divided it in the middle to show us that there was not one, but two photographs stacked inside the frame.

You’d think nobody in that moment could be more surprised than his audience was by his deduction and yet, after taking a brief look at the revealed second picture, Holmes himself audibly inhaled in his astonishment.

“My god!” He short of shrieked. “Is this not Irene Adler?”

“That one which is among your favourite singers?” I asked.

“She!” He answered.

“I didn’t know she had a husband, who is the man sitting with her so intimately?”

“I am positive that is no more and no less that the King of Bohemia itself!”

“Then this picture has a scandalous nature and it’s no doubt that the woman would want to recover it.”

“Knowing the morals of the woman and the notorious religious disposition of the king, I rather think that the latter wants the photograph to be recovered and he has certainly more means and men at it service to attempt to do so.”

“Well, now that the case is solved,” said Mr. Jones, standing up from the table, “I should bring this picture at Stoutland Yard.”

“Had I known the significance of this picture, I surely would have unravelled the mystery myself,” said Mr. Wilson, “but I had no idea who those two personages were. The photograph means nothing to me and I would have freely given it to those scoundrels. At the end, there is no one who lost as much as me in this whole business. You detectives gain the satisfaction of a solved case, Abby got the privilege of sharing the battleground with competitors far above her capabilities her and I lost the opportunity to participate at an international tournament.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Wilson,” Holmes said, “I think you gained the opportunity to go on nice stroll. And have you already forgotten about Mrs. Merryweather and her Growlithe? They were gravely ill for a full day and their ability to ever recover was in question.”

“Surely what happened to them is not of much consequence. I’ve heard that they are recuperating splendidly, already on their feet!”

“I doubt that they, being the poisoned victims, would share this sentiment, but I can see how this sentiment would originate in you, being their poisoner.”

“Their poisoner? Our host growled. “How dare you. Get out of my house!”

“If you please,” intervened Mr. Jones, “Holmes has on one or two occasions been of use to the police and I insist on hearing what he has to say.”

“I will need some items to give you a proper explanation.” Holmes said. “Abby, could you bring us all the Chinese medicinal bottles at the shop and the inventory book?”

When the girl returned, Holmes thanked her and waited for Mr. Wilson’s protests to die down before starting the exposition of his reasoning.

“In front of you there are six bottles, six beneficial potions, sharing a model and evidently part of the same set. Each of them is marked with a different Chinese numeral, the numbers going from one to eight; four and seven are missing. Being this a pawnbroker’s shop and being some of the bottles partially empty, I wouldn’t normally be surprised by an incomplete set. What made me suspicious was the fact that the missing numbers corresponded to those in the range considered unlucky by Chinese tradition, being four the number of death and being seven the number of ghosts. I read the inventory book. Not only the bottles four and seven were listed, but they were also checked as not stolen by yesterday’s intruders when they were actually missing. There it became evident that whoever checked those two lines in the book was trying not to draw attention to the bottles and that they had taken the items themselves. Thanks to the inventory, I knew the contents of the missing bottles—Parasect’s toxic and soporiferous spores respectively. There I understood that the doctors could not adequately attribute all the symptoms to a singular cause because the cause was multiple. The patients were both poisoned and under a forced sleep due the spores having being mixed together. With the help of Abby, who renounced to participate at the contest in order to assist me, I had the contents of bottle number three, the antidote against Parasect’s toxins, administered to Mrs. Merryweather and her Growlithe. Then we fetched Doctor Watson’s Chansey, so that she could wake the two patients with a Heal Bell, move which also helped with the poisoning, even if it couldn’t have done much on its own. And that’s the only reason why, Mr. Wilson, your victims are on their feet.”

“My victims!” Shouted Mr. Wilson. “And tell me, Mr. Holmes, how is it that you suspect me instead of Abby? She also checked the inventory after the intrusion. Or is your judgement so clouded that you completely missed this possibility?”

“Mr. Wilson, my judgement is sound enough that it took in account the girl’s gentle nature and her role as the person who brought the case to my attention. I would also have been blind not to take into account how you are the only suspect with a motive, the only one who benefited from Mrs. Merryweather’s absence at today’s contest and the very one which won the competition as the result of it. I suppose you gave her the drug, probably by offering her food, after learning another qualifying round would take place and that you had another chance to join The Red-Coated League. You might even have brought some contaminated treats at the first round with the idea that you might use them on your adversaries in case things got particularly tough. I don’t doubt that you were not trying to kill anyone, but you are no doctor and, while you might be able to read some Chinese, you do not know how to dose poisons.”

“You have no proof of any of this.” Mr. Wilson muttered, his face pale and his features livid.

“My cure worked, so there is proof for some of it, and the rest of my reasoning might be considered sound enough for conviction by many a judge.”

“It is enough for me to take you into custody.” Said Mr. Jones.

“Do not despair Mr. Wilson.” Holmes said. “After all, by now his Bohemian Majesty’s men will have figured out that you’ve been keeping the photograph on yourself and at least you’ll be sheltered from their attacks.

Holmes convinced Mr. Jones that he if would let us take the photograph to 221B for an hour or so, he could have performed some additional test and gained more information regarding the circumstances of the scandalous picture.

Prospecting the unavailability of my companion, I was prepared to retire for the night, but, when we arrived home, he dragged me into his room and pushed a bundle of theatrical clothes into my lap.

“Wear these!” He said.

“What for?” I enquired, gingerly.

“We are going to play a little prank on an annoying king.”

Not before long, Holmes was again in his ivory dress, applying cosmetics at the mirror, and I found myself tangled in some elaborate ensemble, cut out of cheap fabric but sewed into an outfit fit for a stage monarch.

When he deemed our appearance suitable, he covered each of us with a black cape and led the pair of us out of the building and through a ten-minute long walk about Wyndon’s gaslight streets. Eventually, we reached a rowdy crowded local, whose occupants I would have ascribed to the acting profession. There, we entered into an extravagantly decorated backroom, where a throne-like armchair was soon placed in front of a photographic camera and a picture was taken of me and Holmes, sitting on that chair and wearing those facetious disguises.

Before the morning light roused the inhabitants of the city, the picture had been developed and, by then, I had already guessed the devious idea my friend had concocted. He retrieved the portable frame from his coat and took out the portrait of the affectionate couple, only to replace it with our own.

“Our next stop is Stoutland Yard.” Holmes said. “The frame must be reunited with Mr. Wilson’s other personal effects.”

“You deprived me of a night of sleep to let this photograph rot into a cabinet?” I reproached him.

“In some hours his Majesty’s burglars will have learned of Mr. Wilson incarceration and will attempt to recover it at the police headquarters.”

“And will they succeed? Do you not plan to catch these thieves?”

“It would not do to cause a political scandal over a pretty frame and a bit of paper. I will instead put some words to unsure that thet get their hands on the photograph with as little interference as possible.”

The very evening, Mr. Jones dropped at our home to lament the disappearance of the photograph and ask us for any lead regarding the identity or the location of the men of The —apparently dissolved — Red-Coated League.

Holmes, with his Houndour flapping about on his lap, replied that he was much obliged to have been considered by the official force, but also that, at the moment, he was already very much engaged with the intriguing conundrum of The Black-Coated Wriggler.