Trowelms has never been one for Christmas. He aligned himself with the Scrooge school of seasonal disinterest.
So, it would come as no surprise to anyone that this snowy Christmas Eve found the master detective and myself quietly reading in our sitting room. I could tell he was on the verge of boredom (despite the recent problem of Mr. Bran), which was always a dangerous state for Trowelms to be in.
Therefore, when the snowball came crashing through the window, that evening, Trowelms had a huge grin on his face as he rushed to the window.
As he gazed through the window, he saw five urchins running off in the deepening snow.
"Whyson!" He exclaimed. "I recognise the five reprobates who are running off towards Marylebone Road!"
"Indeed, Trowelms! Who are they?" I replied, pleased to see the great man returning to something of his former self.
"I do believe that it is the Vulpyne brothers, George, Edward, Mark, David and their sister, the interestingly named Powell."
"Have you any idea as to which one threw the offending article, Trowelms?" I enquired.
"Not as yet, Whyson, but I shall make my displeasure known amongst the Baker Street Irregulars and hopefully something will come to light," he said. "I do have suspicions of the mastermind behind this occurrence, however."
"Trowelms, look!" I cried, pointing at the rapidly melting snowball. "There was something hidden within the icy missile!"
A small container was to be seen in the puddle on the floor, which explained it's ability to break the window so easily.
"Open it, Whyson, with all possible haste!"
I did what was asked of me and was confronted with a scrap of paper with a most singular inscription upon it.
"Trowelms," I ejaculated. "What can this mean?"
"I think I understand, Whyson," said the great man. "let me smoke a pipe over it…"