The Red-Headed League

You are a keen investigator newly hired by Sherlock Holmes.

This autumn afternoon you arrive at his Baker Street flat to find him with a stout gentleman whose hair blazes red.

Perfect timing. We have a singular case.

Mr. Wilson here requires our assistance.

In April I answered an advertisement for the Red-Headed League.

The work: copying the Encyclopaedia Britannica for four pounds weekly.

Location: Pope's Court on Fleet Street, ten to two daily, for eight weeks.

Then the office closed with no explanation. The League was dissolved.

I have lost my income and I haven't the faintest notion why.

Tell me about your household, Mr. Wilson.

I have one employee: Vincent Spaulding. Small, stout man, very quick in his ways.

No facial hair despite being nearly thirty. An acid splash marks his forehead, his ears are pierced.

He joined me a month before the League advertised.

He works for half wages and spends hours in my cellar developing photographs.

Holmes sits forward abruptly, his entire bearing transformed.

Why does a capable young man accept half wages?

Wilson cannot answer. Holmes falls silent, watching you intently.

His sharp gaze moves between you and Wilson, calculating.

The autumn evening has turned crisp as you step out onto Baker Street with Holmes at your side.

He walks with quiet purpose toward the hansom cabs, already lost in thought about Saxe-Coburg Square.

You arrive at the square in the gathering dusk.

Holmes moves methodically along the pavement, tapping his cane, examining the buildings and alleyways.

Notice the position of that building—the City and Suburban Bank.

It stands directly adjacent to Wilson's pawnshop, separated only by a narrow lane.

Underground, the distance would be trivial. A tunnel would be entirely feasible.

Holmes examines the cellar entrance with intense scrutiny, his expression hardening.

This is far more than a hoax, I assure you.

And I intend to discover exactly what lies beneath.