A Canonical Number Conundrum

Regina Stinson

Unaccustomed as I am to writing of poems,

It tickled my fancy this time

To honor the great Mr. Sherlock Holmes

By playing “the game” in rhyme.

It’s a number game, you’ll realize,

With a rhythmical, whimsical bent;

And I hope an enjoyable exercise

As the clues I begin to present.

Of the various numbers the Canon contains,

One number stands out in my mind.

Remove the impossible, whatever remains;

You know the rest of the line.

As Sherlock would say in his masterly voice,

“You know my methods; apply them.”

Focus on details to make the right choice.

The rest of this poem will supply them.

It’s the minutes remaining upon the old clock

At Victoria Station that day;

The number of spatters of mud on her frock

That gave Stoner’s dogcart away.

Old Frankland had lawsuits; the number of which

Were the same as the number of guys

Birdy Edwards amazed when he finished his switch

And the number of Drebber’s young wives.

The years Ronder lived at Mrs. Merrilow’s house

And wouldn’t reveal her face;

The years Mr. Rucastle spent with his spouse

At their Copper Beeches place.

Sherlock had this many different schemes

For viewing a telegram;

Stuffed in his pocket, or so it seems,

Cadogan had this many plans.

The foolscap sheets Jabez took to write

Numbered as many as these.

His carelessness led to his oversight;

He should have examined Clay’s knees.

At Briarbrae Hall, it’s the number of rooms;

Mr. Shafter charged this much in rent.

It’s the depth of the pit that formed Brunton’s tomb,

It’s the cocaine solution percent.

It’s the number plus ten of steps going aloft

To their sitting room cozy and warm.

It’s the number of years between Holmes and Mycroft,

His brother of corpulent form.

Surely, by now, you’ve made a guess,

Though it’s a shocking habit truly.

What number appears to you out of this mess?

You’ve had ample clues, unduly.

If you think it’s number nine, you blunder,

Neither six, nor eight, nor ten;

If you haven’t got it yet, I wonder,

If you’re really a Sherlockian.

I’ll tell you this; it’s not eleven,

Nor five, nor four, nor two;

Of course, you’ve got it—number seven!

My deerstalker’s off to you!

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