The Yellow Face
A Husband’s Worry
One spring morning, Holmes and I were at 221B Baker Street in London. Holmes was restless, craving a puzzle. That’s when Mr. Grant Munro burst in, visibly rattled. He was a tall, kind-hearted hops merchant, but his eyes were filled with fear.
“Mr. Holmes, my wife, Effie, is hiding something,” he said. “I’m worried she’s in trouble.”
Holmes leaned forward, attentive. “Tell me everything,” he said.
Grant explained that he and Effie had been married for three years, living happily in Norbury, a small town outside London. Effie was warm and loving, but lately, she’d been acting odd—sneaking out at night and dodging his questions. When pressed, she pleaded for his trust without explaining.
“Then I saw something eerie,” Grant said. “Someone new moved into the cottage across the street. I haven’t met them, but one night, I saw a face in their upstairs window—a pale, yellowish face that looked wrong, almost inhuman. It gave me the chills.”
“A yellowish face?” Holmes said, intrigued. “Go on.”
Grant revealed that Effie had been secretly visiting the cottage. He followed her once and saw her enter. When confronted, she grew upset and refused to explain. Grant feared she was being blackmailed—or perhaps unfaithful.
“I love Effie,” he said, his voice trembling. “But I need to know what’s happening. Can you help?”
Holmes nodded. “Meet us in Norbury tonight, Mr. Munro. We’ll investigate that cottage.”
A Wild Guess
That evening, we hopped a train to Norbury. On the way, Holmes tossed around ideas.
“This yellowish face sounds odd,” he said. “It could be a mask hiding someone’s identity. Effie lived in America before you, right?”
“Yeah,” Grant said. “She was married there, but her husband died of a fever. She doesn’t talk about it much.”
Holmes rubbed his chin. “What if her husband is alive, hiding in the cottage, blackmailing her? The yellow face might be a symptom of disease—or someone trying to scare people away.”
I wasn’t convinced. Holmes’ ideas seemed far-fetched, though he was often right. Still, something felt off.
We arrived in Norbury after dark. Grant’s house was cozy, with a neat garden. Across the street stood the cottage, its windows glowing faintly. Grant pointed to an upstairs window. “That’s where I saw the yellow face,” he whispered.
We crept closer, staying silent. The cottage looked ordinary, but Holmes noticed fresh footprints by the door. “Effie’s been here,” he said. “Let’s go inside.”
The Cottage Surprise
Grant hesitated. “Should we knock first?”
“No,” Holmes said. “If someone’s up to no good, we need to catch them unaware.”
The back door was unlocked, and we slipped inside. The cottage was dim, smelling of dust and a sharp, paint-like odor. We climbed a creaky staircase to the room Grant had mentioned. A heavy crate blocked the door, but Holmes pushed it aside.
We stepped in, and my heart raced. A young woman sat on a chair in the room’s corner, dressed in a white dress and long black gloves that accentuated her slender arms. Her face was striking—smooth skin, elegant facial features, and a serene expression. She was in a private moment, one hand beneath her dress, moving rhythmically in self-pleasure, her body slightly arched. Muffled moans escaped her as she remained completely unaware of our presence, lost in her own world.
Grant froze, his face flushing with embarrassment. “What…?”
Holmes cleared his throat. The woman startled, yanking her hand away and smoothing her dress, her head turning toward us, the calm expression on her face unchanged. She stood, gloved hands trembling, clearly mortified.
Holmes stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied her face. He paused, then reached out, touching her cheek. “This… this is a mask,” he said, astonishment in his voice. “A remarkably lifelike one.” He leaned in, his tone firm but polite. “Madam, please remove it.”
The woman, still shaken, nodded and gripped the edges of the mask, pulling it off with effort to reveal a different face—dark skin, bright black eyes, and curly black hair. She clutched the mask, avoiding our gazes, her cheeks burning from being caught in such an intimate act. On a nearby table lay another mask—older, yellowish, with a crude, eerie design that looked ghostly in the dim light.
Effie Munro rushed in, her face pale. “Lucy!” she cried, then turned to Grant. “Jack, I’m so sorry!”
The Truth Uncovered
Holmes gave me a nod, as if he’d pieced it together. “Mrs. Munro,” I said gently, “you owe your husband an explanation.”
Effie’s shoulders slumped. She took a deep breath. “Jack, this is Lucy, my daughter. Before I married you, I lived in America and was married to John Hebron, a black man. We had Lucy, but John died of a fever. I brought Lucy to England, but I feared people here would judge her because of her race. So I hid her in this cottage.”
Grant stared at Lucy, still processing the awkward moment and the revelation. “But why the masks? Why all the secrecy?”
Lucy spoke up, her voice soft but unsteady, tinged with embarrassment. “Mask is my idea. I ordered some because I love wearing them. That yellowish one was older. This one I was wearing is newer. I just got it recently...” She stopped abruptly, clearly uncomfortable with oversharing further.
Effie nodded, her eyes pleading. “I let Lucy wear her masks because she likes them, and I thought they’d keep neighbors from gossiping. I visited her secretly because I love her, but I was too afraid to tell you, Jack.”
Grant looked hurt, his mind grappling with the scene and the truth. “You should’ve trusted me, Effie.”
Holmes cleared his throat. “Mr. Munro, your wife acted out of love. Lucy’s mask collection—and her private habits—are unconventional, but they’re her way of navigating a harsh world. Let’s focus on the family matter at hand.”
A Family Together
Grant stood quietly, looking at Lucy. She held the realistic mask, its smooth surface catching the light, and glanced at the yellow one that had startled him. Then he softened, stepping forward. “Lucy,” he said, “you’re Effie’s daughter, and that makes you family. Masks or… personal moments, you don’t need to hide from me.”
Lucy’s face lit up, relief washing over her, and she hugged Grant tightly. Effie joined them, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Thank you, Jack,” she whispered.
I felt a warmth in my chest, and even Holmes, who keeps his emotions locked away, seemed moved. As we left the cottage, he turned to me. “Watson, I got this one wrong. I mistook her masked face for real and thought the yellow face was blackmail or a hidden husband. Instead, it was a young woman’s art, a private moment, and a mother’s fear. If I ever get too confident, just whisper ‘Norbury’ to remind me.”
I nodded, smiling. This wasn’t about crime—it was about love, acceptance, and understanding.