I have no idea what started it, and indeed, initially I was entirely in the dark (as indeed were the main participants in this particular village competition) but just before Christmas I called in to see Seth. A couple of days earlier, he had mentioned he had some spare seed trays which might be useful to me, so I had dropped by to collect them. Seth went to open a cupboard to find them for me.

Instantly, Ellen, his daughter, said sharply, “Don’t touch that cupboard door. Tell me what you’re after and I’ll find it for you.”

“Sorry,” Seth muttered, “I forgot.”

Ellen found the seed trays and Seth and I departed for the church as we had choir practice in readiness for the Christmas services.

“Don’t tell me Ellen’s hidden your Christmas present and doesn’t want you to find it,” I said to him as we crossed the village green.

“Nothing like that. You mean you haven’t heard about the battle of the bulbs?”

“Not a word.”

“Quite a few people within the village are growing hyacinth bulbs this year and everyone’s striving to be the first to have three bulbs in bloom.”

“And Ellen’s are in that cupboard?”

“Precisely!”

I was dubious as to whether the bulb growing was as serious as Seth was making out, but on taking our places in the choir I could hear several conversations as to how far various choir members bulbs had progressed. In fact, the curate had to raise his voice to get their attention and then tetchily announced that we were present to sing praises to the prince of peace and not to discuss horticultural matters.

“What’s horticultural?” one of the contraltos whispered to her neighbour.

“I think it’s something to do with angels,” her companion whispered back. “We haven’t got to that bit yet.”

The curate ignored this, and we launched into ‘Oh Little Town of Bethlehem.’

When I was back home, I asked Holmes if he’d heard of the battle of the bulbs.

“Yes, it seems to be generating quite a lot of ill-will, not to mention one or two underhand tricks. Constable Redding consulted me yesterday to see if I had any idea who had been responsible for some of the petty acts which have been occurring. I was able to make one or two suggestions.”

“Well, you can be sure I shall not be participating,” I remarked.

“That is because Wordsworth dug most of yours up.”

I grimaced. I had not been pleased with the cat that day. Not just because my bulbs had been uprooted – I had replanted them and had hopes of at least some flowers to brighten the cottage – but the soil had gone everywhere and had necessitated me in emptying the cupboard in order to clean it, a task I did not really have time for.

“If you were a betting man,” I continued, ignoring Holmes’ last remark, “who would you put your money on as being first?”

Holmes gave me a stern look and I hastened to deny any intention of laying a bet on such a contest. “I would consider the vicar’s wife,” he said.

“Surely you’re not going to cite the power of prayer.”

“No, but she’s determined hers will bloom before those of the curate.”

“So that’s why he was so cross about the mention of bulbs at choir practice!”