I find it recorded in my notebook that it was a foggy evening in late November 1895 on which the singular series of events that became known to the public at large as “The Case of the Cornish Pasty” first began. Holmes and I were seated on either side of a blazing log fire in our Baker Street rooms; he was apparently engrossed in the latest edition of the Strand magazine and all the time muttering the odd word about sensationalism which I took as reference to my humble attempts to publicise his work to the general public. I vowed to take no notice of these mutterings and continued to read an article in the Lancet, a fascinating but patently absurd piece about the transplanting of human organs, even myself as a medical man could see what ineffable twaddle this was, and moreover, the piece in question soon became extremely tedious and I confess that, after a few minutes, I had fallen into a brown study.
Suddenly, Holmes looked up from his reading. “I notice, Watson,” he said, “that you have visited your hairdresser this morning.”
“Merciful Heavens, Holmes!” I ejaculated. “How could you possibly have known that?”
“You know my methods,” my friend murmured, almost to himself " Must I explain everything to you my friend ?"
Then suddenly, Holmes’s mood appeared to change in an instant, as he jumped up and waved his magazine excitedly in my face. “But tell me, Watson, what do you make of the little piece on the back page of this most estimable periodical.”
I took the paper from Holmes’s hand and began to read aloud from a half-page advertisement. “Amazing treasure hunt! Solid gold Cornish pasty buried in grounds of new restaurant by eccentric millionaire Sir Peter Rattenbury. Location of the restaurant to be revealed once the item has been found. Finder may keep the treasure and be the first guest at the Lemon Tree restaurant located…where?”
“A pretty puzzle, I’m sure you’ll agree, Watson.”
“A pretty puzzle indeed. But surely, Holmes, the chances of us.. or anyone...being able to find the treasure with so little information provided are so small as to be infinitesimal.”
“On the contrary, Watson. In fact, I fancy we may be able to solve this little mystery without leaving the comfort of our arm chairs.”
“Surely not, Holmes!” I protested.
“Look, Watson, at the photograph of Sir Peter at the bottom of the page, which the caption states was taken on his spacious estate near Lyme Regis on the south coast."
“I confess that I can see nothing of interest whatsoever,” I admitted.
“You see, Watson, but you do not observe. Make deductions as I have shown you so often in the past. If you do, then you will arrive at the inevitable conclusion that Sir Peter Rattenbury has buried the precious comestible, and therefore intends to set up his restaurant, in the grounds of his own home.”
“Really, Holmes, this is too much. I fail to see how you have arrived at that conclusion.”
“Think, Watson. The name of the restaurant. Now look again at the picture of Sir Peter standing next to this subtropical arboreal plant and the crop of yellow fruit it so obviously displays.”
But how…?!” I spluttered.
Holmes looked at me. A wry smile played across his face.
“It’s a lemon-tree my dear Watson.”
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