Solving "the Mystery of the Sporting Spiritualist"

Dearest detectives,

Thank you to the many of you that wrote in by mail and at Dearholmes.com/solve with your questions and solutions to last month’s mystery, “the Mystery of the Sporting Spiritualist”. With more submitted solutions than ever, we’re still evaluating your solutions to select our next Featured Detective, but in the mean-time, Holmes would like to share with you a letter he wrote to Watson explaining how he solved the case, and how Mr. Whitby was able to perpetrate his hoax.

- The Dear Holmes Team

——

221B Baker Street

Marylebone

London

34 Cavendish Avenue

London

10 September, 1901­­­­­

Dear Mr. Stanley:

Let me begin by assuring you that your family fortune is safe, and your father is a sadder but wiser man. I must admit your first letter did little to arouse my interest. After all, there are any number of fraudulent spiritualists and more than enough willing victims.

Your second letter proved far more stimulating. The outcome of the football match was as easy to predict as a coin flip, and Mr. Whitby stood just as much chance of getting it right as wrong. If you consider the stocks, they fall into the same category as the football match-win or lose, up or down. Without inside information, anyone's chances of predicting the future in such events are on the average fifty percent.

However, choosing the winning horse from a field of seventeen is something else entirely. After consulting with my colleague, Dr. Watson, who is quite fond of the turf, I was assured that selecting Handicapper in that race was "little short of a miracle." I, for one, do not believe in miracles. To say Mr. Whitby had now piqued my interest would be an understatement. As a result, I began to make a few discreet inquiries.

I must say that locating the elusive Mr. Whitby proved a rather daunting task. However, with the assistance of my Irregulars, I was finally able to discover his real residence. He was having his mail delivered to a different address: a privilege for which he was paying the homeowner a small monthly fee. A youth from the neighborhood would pick up the mail and bring it to Whitby, who lives in a small cottage near Bexley.

Now that I had ascertained his residence, I took it upon myself to monitor Mr. Whitby's actions personally. The first thing I learned was that he is an avid letter writer, penning anywhere from twenty to thirty letters daily. One day as he was walking to the post box, I, having disguised myself as a cleric, "accidentally" bumped into him, knocking him down and causing his letters to scatter on the ground. As I helped him collect them, I committed several addresses to memory.

Upon returning to London, I contacted the people whose addresses I had memorized. They were all familiar with Mr. Whitby and told a story similar to yours. Have you tumbled to it yet, Mr. Stanley?

Mr. Whitby, whose real name by the way is Rhodes, came to London about 18 months ago. He worked as a server at several of London's better gentlemen's clubs and began putting together his list. After talking with employees at other clubs, he eventually compiled a very large list of names. One might well think of them as victims.

In this instance, he began with a list of 1,024 individuals, 1,024 being 2 to the tenth power. Half of the people on the list (512) received letters saying the first stock would go up, while the other half were told the stock would decline.

After he had done this three times-twice with stocks and once with the football match-he still had a pool of 128 individuals, and this is where Mr. Whitby/Rhodes showed his inventiveness and his nerve. With a field of 17 horses, he was able to provide the winner to seven or eight individuals-since 128 cannot be divided evenly by seven. Whitby says that he was lucky and provided the winner to eight names on his list.

Following that race, his pool of people who had received all correct "predictions" was greatly diminished. As a result of having but eight names, he began to play the favorites, picking the top contenders at the British Open and the eight horses with the shortest odds at the Derby. Although he started out with a sound mathematical base, his greed overtook him as he sought to thoroughly dupe his victims and secure a small fortune for himself.

I have also learned that Whitby had tested the scheme, albeit on a much smaller scale, in three cities up north before coming to London, hoping for one final hurrah that would allow him to retire and move to the Continent.

As you pointed out on more than one occasion, it was impossible to argue with Mr. Whitby's success. After getting lucky with the British Open and the Derby-incidentally, given the fields, the chances of picking the winners of the 2,000 Guineas, the British Open and the Derby are 1 in 42,500-your father was the last man standing. Rest assured that had your father received one incorrect prediction, you and he-as so many others will attest-would have never heard from Whitby again.

I can also assure you that Mr. Whitby's St. Leger prediction would have been, of course, nothing more than a random guess, but the previous record of success would certainly make it seem as though his selection were a fait accompli to your father.

Once I had tumbled to his scheme, I alerted Inspector Lestrade, and Mr. Whitby was arrested at his bank on Thursday last as he prepared to cash the cheque sent to him by your father. The cheque has been destroyed, and I rather doubt that you will hear from Mr. Whitby again, unless, of course, he decides to write you from Wandsworth Prison.

This case serves as a wonderful illustration of one of my favorite maxims: When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention as it proved most illuminating.

You might also remind your father of another old adage: Radix malorum est cupiditas or "Greed is the root of all evil."

Sincerely yours,