The Montague Memoirs: Stories Before Baker Street

By James R. Stefanie

Little is known of Sherlock Holmes’ life prior to his association with John Watson beginning in 1881. What little information we do have comes in dribs and drabs. Watson’s recounting of Holmes’ “first case” - The Gloria Scott - introduces us to Victor Trevor, a classmate at Oxford. Again, it is a college chum who involves Holmes in the Musgrave Ritual.

Beyond those adventures, we have a few, but not that many, references to cases Holmes had been employed on previous to 1881, cases with interesting names such as The Case of Vanderbilt and the Yeggmanand The Dreadful Business of the Abernetty Family of Baltimore.

These cases were taken up at a time prior to Holmes’ installing himself in Montague Street, London, where he remained for three years, fully developing his powers. The previous cases were accidental, in that he had been in the right place and at the right time, and was able to afford some support in their solution. It is the Montague Street cases, however, that preceded Holmes' historic meeting with Watson which are explored in this memoir.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James R. Stefanie
• Release date: Aug 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005655648

James R. Stefanie

James R. Stefanie is a business analyst with a long interest in science fiction, Sherlock Holmes, and mischievous writings! He started writing at age 12, his first published piece was in the Sherlock Holmes Journal of London. Since then (which is a long 'since then') he has contributed to several Sherlockian journals, edited and published various journals, held membership in professional and literary associations, and published his first Sherlockian novel in 2001.

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The Montague Memoirs

Stories Before Baker Street

By James R. Stefanie

The Montague Memoirs

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Copyright 2021 James R. Stefanie

All Rights Reserved

Discover other titles by James R. Stefanie

The Charters Affair: Being a Reminiscence of John H. Watson

The Life and Times of Professor Crypto

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Disclaimers

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner, except, of course, when they are not. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The Case of Vamberry the Wine Merchant first appeared in Curious Incidents

Copyright James R. Stefanie 2001

Mrs. Farintosh and the Opal Tiara first appeared in Curious Incidents 2

Copyright James R. Stefanie 2003

Dedication

To My Wife, Bonnie

To The Reader

It was in early January of 1881, in the 44th year of our Queen’s reign, on a date long forgotten, if ever truly known, that I was introduced to a personage whose accomplishment, abilities, and dedication adjusted my life forever. In the bar of the Criterion Restaurant in Piccadilly Circus, I was introduced to Mr. Sherlock Holmes who, at that time, I would never believe I would become his associate and then, through the years, his closest friend.

It was his desire to take on new, larger lodgings, for which he could not afford the rents on his own, that he was in search of someone to share the burden of the cost. Thus begins a partnership and friendship that lasts to this day.

I learned, during Holmes’ recitation of the Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual, that in the four years prior to our association, he had lodgings near the British Museum, on Montague Street. Over my years in association with the man, I came to know more and more about his life and experiences during those four years, but not without first exerting every effort to have him divulge slices of secrets taken from those days.

Holmes had collected scraps of paper with notes from cases he had undertaken at that time as well as more complete notebooks and case-books in which he diligently recorded the substance of those cases and their outcomes, with notes to himself as to where he had failed to live up to his own high expectations. This treasure trove of history he kept locked in an old grey tin dispatch box, which he kept, not in our common parlour with all the other bits and pieces of our lives, but closeted in his own room.

I, of course, had my own resting place for adventures and cases which, to this date, have yet gone unpublished. It is a battered tin dispatch box which I had acquired in the Afghan campaign and was the single piece of luggage which returned with me from that horrific time in my life. I, unlike Holmes, kept my collection of notes and stories out in the sitting room, alongside my chair. I believe it often provided a distraction to Holmes, for it was locked and he, like I with his tin box, wondered on what mysteries lay within.

Over the years, however, Holmes, as I had expressed earlier, with my aggressive demands he recount some of his earlier adventures, would condescend and we would spend an enjoyable hour or so as he recounted a tale from a time before Baker Street.

In some cases, he would suggest I take the narrative and frame it in my own way as an adventure or tale I could at some future date publish at will. In other cases, Holmes himself would author his own narrative in which event the tale was told on paper and not by him to me before the fire.

I have, in this collection of stories, provided a memoir of those days before Baker Street. There are other tales still to be told from those years when Holmes was developing his extraordinary powers and learning all he could from the city of London, its inhabitants, and their customs, all in an effort to further broaden his understanding of the place where he lived.

It is this homely collection which I now publish with the hope it enlightens the Reader’s minds as to Holmes’ life before Baker Street and the career which rocketed to the heavens after 1881.

John H. Watson

London

Table of Contents

Dedication

To The Reader

The Case of Vamberry, the Wine Merchant

The Singular Affair of the Aluminium Crutch

Mrs. Farintosh and the Opal Tiara

The Adventure of the Old Russian Woman

The Tarleton Murders

The Bishopgate Jewel Case

The Case of Ricoletti of the Club-Foot and his Abominable Wife

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About the Author

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Preview the Charters Affair: A Reminiscence of Dr. John H. Watson

The Case of Vamberry, the Wine Merchant

Monday, 17 September 1877

Since my marriage, I had not the opportunity to visit my old friend and close associate, Sherlock Holmes. In truth, my new residence on Queen Anne Street was a mere few steps from Baker Street, but the raging winter of 1902-1903 occasioned an inordinate demand upon my time as a medical practitioner. It was not until mid-March, on one especially raw day, as the late winter winds ripped and roared through the streeted valleys of London, that I found myself on Baker Street in answer to a patient’s summons. As I passed 221b on my hurried excursion, I quickly glanced up at the old familiar rooms and resolved I would return, if time permitted, after my appointment.

I was indeed fortunate that the call was of short duration; my patient’s sole complaint was no different from thousands across the city. The frigid weather had set a raging fever upon the populace followed by a hacking cough. It took but a moment to diagnose the complaint, and little time to provide a soothing restorative to quell the fever. I further prescribed an elixir that would be required once the wracking tussis began. After reminding my patient it was imperative to adhere to the medicinal regimen I outlined, I set out onto Baker Street with time enough before my next call to make good on my desire to visit 221b.

On opening the accustomed door, I stepped into the hall and was immediately greeted with the yeasty warmth of bread baking in the hearth. I listened to the muted clatter of cooking utensils and bowls informing me of Mrs. Hudson’s industry as I stood at the stairway leading to the old rooms. With care and quiet, lest I should distract my old landlady from her culinary tasks, I tread those worn steps and, at the landing, stopped short of opening the door. These rooms, long the centre of my homely universe, were strangers to me now. I had no right to them, nor should I have the presumption to merely span open the door and freely enter as I had thousands of times before. These lodgings were now the sole property of my old friend, who I wished to neither disturb nor distract by an unannounced entry. I considered retreating to the foot of the stair and requesting that Mrs. Hudson show me in properly, but was I stopped by a loud voice issuing from beyond the door.

Watson, why do you hesitate?

In response to the implied summons, I threw open the door to find Holmes standing, back to the window, a staggering pile of yellowing documents at his feet. On the table reposed his large tin dispatch box, removed from its usual place in Holmes’ room. My friend raised a quizzical eyebrow as I entered and dropped my medical bag in its accustomed station at the foot of the hat-stand.

I was not certain that I should enter unannounced, I replied. And how the deuce did you know it to be me on the landing?

Holmes removed the long cherry wood pipe from between his teeth, pointing me toward my old chair near the crackling fire. As I fell into my comfortable old friend, Holmes poured two brandies, offered me one which I accepted with chilled thanks, then sat opposite me.

You have a distinctive tread, Holmes replied, leaning back. And it is all too familiar to me to have not known who was ascending the stair. The hesitation at the door was obvious. You are predisposed to bowl into a room, even under the most usual circumstances. Your unwarranted indecisiveness – hence your hesitation at the top of the staircase – could only be overcome by my loud welcome, I’m afraid.

You’re right, of course, Holmes. In some strange way, I felt an intruder onto your territory. I had seriously considered having Mrs. Hudson announce me.

Holmes chuckled away my comment. Though you may have taken a wife and re-established your residency some short distance from here, 221b will always be your home, he contended. You are as much of this place as the very walls themselves, old man. One does not stand on ceremony when entering his own house.

Warmed both by Holmes’ comment and the first flush of brandy, I began to thank Holmes for his gracious remarks, but he, seeing what I intended, shook his head. It is resolved, then, that you should be content to move freely in and out of Baker Street, Watson. It is only logical that you do so.

I nodded in quiet acceptance and turned to the matter of Holmes’ current state of affairs. He grimaced in response.

I have entered a void in my practice, said he. However, it has provided me with an unexpected opportunity. Placed, as I am, flat-footed on a vast temporal desert, devoid of any criminal activity, save for the petty, common variety, I have the time to resume cataloging my earliest cases. I fear I have put off the task for much too long, said he, pointing to the tin dispatch box that lay open on the side table.

I admittedly gazed with undisguised hunger at the treasure-trove of Holmes’ early years – the experiences which formed and forged the man Holmes was to become. My friend noted my look and replied to it.

If it is of any interest to you, he began diffidently, even as you arrived downstairs, I came across a case of some interest. It is a singular affair, one that came to me not through the usual agency – old school chums who occasionally set me upon a puzzle – but was occasioned by me being in the appropriate place and time. You have touched upon the matter in one of your earlier tales, or at least mentioned its existence.

Holmes waited for my response, the nature of which he had already divined.

I would be delighted to hear the tale, I said, with no little excitement shaking my voice. Holmes’ reticence over the years to uncover his past prior to my association with him, and even during the earliest days when a client would appear at the door and I would remove myself to my room, I have recorded elsewhere. Holmes’ freely offering a glimpse into his early professional career was both curious, and unanticipated.

Holmes settled back into his chair, drew out a match, struck it, relit his cherry wood, and flicked the spent match over the low fender into the fire. For long moments Holmes stared into the crackling firelight, the flames setting off shadows that danced across his thoughtful features.

"I was, as you recall, ensconced in rooms on Montague Street. Comfortable as they were, they were small and I, constantly short the shilling, could not provide anything but the most minimal trappings for the old place. Thus, unlike here where I have my chemical apparatus, books, and the other necessities required of my practice, Montague Street was barren and the rooms provided little distraction. The greater extent of the time I spent at the British Museum, the reading room especially, although I would often take long walks through its cavernous halls. I was like a sponge from the Northeast Pacific, absorbing everything I saw and read, filtering it for the most useful data and rejecting the rest.

"When I was not involved in my researches, I would find myself trawling the streets of London. I became intimately informed of the metropolis’ highways and byways, for I had more than sufficient occasion to survey and mentally catalogue both the diversity of the geography and the population which inhabited it.

But that is a needless aside, Holmes commented, poking at the red-orange coals in the fireplace. "You should, however, know that I frequented a small public-house opposite the museum. This humble place not only served up a respectable lunch, which went soft upon my purse, but a veritable gallery of mankind. The cavalcade of humanity which passed between those unassuming walls provided additional grist for the deductive mill. It is one thing to observe passers-by along a thoroughfare, where the occasion is of the moment, and quite another to survey individuals at close range, and within a confined space over the course of an hour’s time or more.

"The innkeeper, a burly sort of chap with an expansive chest, bulging arms, and florid face framed with thick black hair and bushy side chops, took an interest in me, as I had taken an interest in his patrons. Donnelly, was his name, and he had an intimate knowledge of those who regularly patronized his bustling establishment. Often, I would assess an individual, deduce what it was I could of his occupation, state of his marital relationship, or whatever, then seek out Donnelly for confirmation of my reasoning. The book of man, Watson, was opened to me – not in university – but in the yellow, smoke-misted light of a common pub. Donnelly served me well in those days, providing guidance and approbation as I turned over each leaf in this magnificent tome!

"It was late of an afternoon, before the public-house was washed again with a high tide of humanity. Only a few patrons cosied themselves by the broad windows overlooking Great Russell, so I occupied some time with Donnelly, surveying and assessing the little stock of subjects spread thinly before us. The conversations wafting through the pub were uninspired – little more than commentaries on the day’s news – another streetwalker murder in the East End; the latest heist in a string of jewel robberies in the south of France; the increasingly worrisome situation in Austro-Hungary, and the discovery of canals on Mars.

I was at the bar, Donnelly having provided me with refreshment my poor pocket could not afford, and was fixed upon a chap in the corner of the room who I took to be a printer, when the corner door (for there were two entrances – one set out at the corner of the inn; another facing direct out to Great Russell) crashed open and an intense young man of some five and thirty hurried to the bar. I could tell at a glance that Donnelly knew this harried individual.

"The man came directly up to Donnelly, his Arctic-blue eyes betraying his anxiety. With a perfunctory nod in my direction, he addressed himself hurriedly to the innkeeper.

"‘Mr. Vamberry! Have you seen him within the last day or so?’ he demanded in a breathless voice. It was apparent the man was in distress and had been exerting himself strenuously over the past little while. His face was swelling with the exceptional physical effort; thin rivulets of red traversed his visage – tiny capillaries erupting under the untoward pressure. He was breathless, forcing out his question as if it were the last push of a bellows.

"Donnelly was understandably taken aback by the sudden eruption of this sandy-haired chap into the midst of a tranquil afternoon.

"‘No,’ Donnelly reflected, wiping his hands across his apron. ‘Haven’t seen the man for near a week, I reckon. Why, Mr. Jameson?’

"The fellow tossed a glance around the pub, his eyes wide with alarm. ‘He’s gone missing. These last two days no one’s seen nor heard from him. It’s not right – not right at all,’ he pronounced with conviction.

"Donnelly judiciously pulled a pint of best bitters, set it before the agitated newcomer, and put on his most calming voice.

"‘When did you last see him, Jameson?’ he asked with studied casualness.

"The fellow took a long draught from the proffered glass before replying that it had been two nights previous, when he took leave of him still working at his desk. ‘And he’s not at home, I suppose,’ Donnelly noted.

"‘No,’ replied Jameson. ‘It was my first thought, of course. You must understand that Mr. Vamberry is very particular about his work. He is at his desk every day, which includes some few hours on Sunday. He’s a widower, you know, and has little but his business to occupy his hours.’

"Donnelly cocked an eye in my direction. ‘Sounds like a bit of a puzzle,’ he commented almost as an aside. Jameson followed Donnelly’s gaze in my direction and appeared to notice for the first time that I was attendant upon the whole of the conversation.

"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes,’ Donnelly said to Jameson. ‘He has a somewhat remarkable brain – one that might suit your needs at this moment.’ The sandy haired chap nodded in my direction.

"‘Donald Jameson, sir. Are you in some fashion connected with the police?’ he asked with a narrow band of suspicion.

I shook my head. ‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘I am merely a private citizen who has an interest in this sort of puzzle". To be honest, sir, I am directing my time and resources to fashion a singular career.’

"Jameson tilted his head and enquired ‘And what career might that be, Mr. Holmes?’

"‘As a consulting detective,’ I replied. The chap’s eyes lit with interest.

"‘Then you would not be averse to investigating Mr. Vamberry’s disappearance,’ he stated flatly, a thin ray of hope illumining his words.

"‘It would be instructive,’ I replied with caution, ‘to assume such an investigation. I must caution you that I may not be successful in resolving the matter.’

"Donnelly chuckled broadly. ‘Sherlock is too modest for his shoes,’ he stated with a grin. ‘You would do far worse than employ him to look into the matter.’

"Jameson reached out and shook my hand. ‘I have already been to the police, but they are reticent to initiate an investigation. They informed me that most disappearances resolve themselves within a few days. They tell me to wait, but I find it is impossible to watch time pass – time which might be gainfully employed in discovering my employer’s whereabouts – only to have waited until the trail has turned cold and the task made impossible’

"‘Did they offer any other suggestion, save to wait?’

"‘Only that I should visit the places Mr. Vamberry would be known to occasion. In his case, Mr. Holmes, that includes little more than his house, his business, and an occasional visit to his customers.’

"‘In what business is Vamberry engaged,’ I asked. ‘And, further, what is your association with the firm?’

"‘Mr. Vamberry is a wine merchant, and I am his clerk and occasional representative to the trade, such as Donnelly here. Vamberry Wine Merchants imports wines from across Europe, generally in large quantity, both casked and bottled. Our customers are restaurants and pubs; no private sales are encouraged or permitted’

"‘How many are in the firm’s employ?’ I asked.

"‘There are drivers and warehousemen, to be sure, Mr. Holmes. But of the office staff, there is only Mr. Vamberry, myself, and a chap who manages the accounts. He comes down to the business two days a week, having other clients with whom he works the rest of the time.’

"‘You last saw your employer two days ago, am I not correct?’ I asked. Jameson took another pull at the bitters before replying.

"‘Yes, it was on Monday. I had spent the better portion of the day at the warehouse. A large consignment of wines from one of our key suppliers had been delivered. I am responsible for ensuring that the order, the manifest, and the actual delivery are all in accord. Mr. Vamberry does not usually engage himself with the ordinary matters of the day – he is primarily responsible for the overall operation, including the management of his employees and ensuring orders are filled and new inventory ordered.

"‘In late afternoon I returned to the office and went to work. My desk is located near the front entrance. Mr. Vamberry’s office is situated in a loft, up a flight of wooden stairs and at the rear of the building. I had been occupied on some papers for the better part of an hour when an individual entered. I enquired after his business, for the nature of our trade is such that we receive few visitors to our office.

"‘He was smartly dressed, I can tell you that, clean-shaven, dressed in a Continental style. He was a man around Mr. Vamberry’s own age, which would put him late into his forties. He answered my enquiry by drawing out an envelope and instructing me, in a voice with an accent similar to Mr. Vamberry’s, to bring the envelope to my employer immediately.

"‘I took the envelope as proffered, and informed the gentleman that I would see to it Mr. Vamberry received it before the day was out. At this the gentleman became most insistent. He demanded, in a rising voice, that I see to its delivery immediately – in fact, he would not leave until he saw I had discharged this unusual demand.

‘I rankled at this, as you can well imagine, Mr. Holmes, but I thought it prudent to see to his request and give him no reason to stay on any longer. Might I say who is calling?" I asked with sarcasm.

Vamberry will know by the message you carry," he replied cryptically. Seeing nothing further could be gained with this fellow, I stepped from my desk, took the flight of stairs to Mr. Vamberry’s office, and was admitted on the first knock. Stepping in, I handed the envelope to my employer, briefly outlining the conversation that had taken place.

"‘Mr. Vamberry immediately tore open the missive, read what apparently was a short message, then rolled the paper into a ball, flinging it with some force against the far wall. Taken aback by this singular reaction – one so out of character for the man – I stepped out of the office and hurriedly closed the door. Mr. Vamberry had neither instructed me to go or stay, so prudence overtook curiosity and I quickly made my way down the stairs and back to my desk.

"‘You must understand, Mr. Holmes, that from the top of the stairs one can easily look down onto the platform where I sit, and out to the main door. When I glanced down to see if my unwelcome visitor was still awaiting my return, I was somewhat surprised to see he had gone.

‘An hour or so later, just prior to leaving, I climbed back up to Mr. Vamberry’s office, opened the door as I had done on countless occasions before, and wished him a good evening. On every previous night he would respond with the same And a good evening to you, Mr. Jameson". But that night he merely waved me off, saying nothing and barely looking in my direction.

‘That, Mr. Holmes, was the last I saw of him.’

Sherlock Holmes abruptly quit his recital of his involving story on Mrs. Hudson’s arrival. She bore with her a great tray filled to overflowing with sandwiches, cut fresh, and a large urn of steaming coffee. We took a few minutes to clear away a portion of the table to provide a place for the tray, then filled our plates with sandwiches, our cups with coffee, and reseated ourselves by the fire. Holmes added more coal then turned his attention toward me.

What do you think, Watson? Shall I continue? He sipped his coffee whilst awaiting my reply. My mouth being filled with the warm bread and thick slab of roast beef, I could only offer an enthusiastic nod in response to his enquiry. Settling back comfortably, Holmes cautioned me to stop him should the story become overly long or uninteresting, then continued his narrative.

"Jameson took a last swallow of his ale and carefully placed the empty glass back on the bar. It was evident he had told his tale and was reflecting on its implications.

"‘When did you discover Mr. Vamberry had gone missing?’ I asked.

"‘Straightaway the next morning,’ the man replied. ‘I arrived, as is my custom, at 7:00. When I came to unlock the front door, I noticed a peculiarity.’

"‘Hold,’ I said. ‘What did you find ‘peculiar’?’ I asked

"Jameson replied, ‘There are two locks on the front door. Mr. Vamberry always arrived well before me and would leave one of the locks unlocked. I would unlock only the other. On this particular morning, I was required to unlock both locks. I had remarked to myself of the anomaly, but told myself that Mr. Vamberry, for whatever reason, had re-engaged both locks on entering.’

"‘And, when you reached Vamberry’s office, he was not there?’ I asked.

"‘Precisely.’

"‘Was anything amiss in the room? Were there signs of a struggle, perhaps, or some actions which would have left a sign?’

"‘No, the room was quite as I had left it the evening before. There were some changes in the papers on the desk, but that is to be assumed as Mr. Vamberry would have been at work well after I had left.’

"I considered Jameson’s response carefully, attempting to feature the geography of the building in my mind’s eye. ‘In order to continue, sir, I must view the premises. When would that be possible?’ I asked.

"Jameson evidenced relief on hearing my question. ‘Immediately, if not sooner, Mr. Holmes,’ he cried. ‘I fear too much time has already been lost in working to discover my employer’s fate!’

"We bid Donnelly a good day, and he wished us luck in our enterprise then gave me a broad wink as we hurried out into the road.

"I further learned from Jameson that he had gone, on foot, from restaurant to pub throughout the area; wherever Vamberry’s wines had been sold. It was this mad dash across the city that had left my client exhausted. As a result, we did not attempt to walk back to the office. Instead, Jameson hailed a cab and we set off across the city, Jameson urging the cab man to greater speed.

"Understand how I felt at that moment, Watson! Here was a true client, not a chum from my university days. An established merchant had gone missing. Evidently a man of some means, having learned of his house address.

The sheer luxury of a cab to transport me where only my legs and tired arches could carry me before. As we approached the warehouse district and our immediate goal was in sight, a slight tremor of trepidation came upon me. I was truly setting out to fully employ the skills I practiced. The light touch of anxiety accompanied me as I alighted from the cab and followed Jameson into the offices of Vamberry Wine Merchants & Co.

Holmes stretched his long legs and resettled himself more comfortably in his chair.

"You must understand, Watson, that the premises occupied by the firm was comprised of two distinct buildings. The first, the one facing Kilreddy Street, was presumably built to serve solely as an office. It is a rather solid building constructed of grey brick and mortar, a single broad window facing out onto the street. The structure has both a front and rear entrance; the rear leading to a wide courtyard and, beyond, a large warehouse. There is also a cellar that can be reached from the office by raising a small trap door. The cellar itself is quite voluminous and reaches out under the courtyard and back to the warehouse proper where a larger entryway had been cut into the ground and a staircase built. Jameson informed me the cellar, due to its constancy in both temperature and humidity, was used for the storage of the most noble vintages and the highly delicate products from a narrow range of suppliers.

"Vamberry’s office was located in the building facing Kilreddy. It was apparent to me that the whole of the ground-floor had been, at one time, occupied by another firm, and littered with desks occupied by a small company of clerks. The interior structure housing Vamberry’s office was presumably added some time after the office building itself had been erected. This elevated office provides an all-encompassing view of the floor below. A large window had once been cut into the wall, but was later bricked in on Vamberry’s order.

"A rickety wooden staircase leads up from the ground-floor to this overlook; the structure clinging to the side of the brickwork wall. On the ground-floor, a rail and gate separate the front entrance from Jameson’s desk and chair. One could easily imagine the misty ghosts of a previous firm’s occupancy infusing the wide, empty floor with the chatter of conversation and the scratches of pens on paper.

"Once I had surveyed the geography of the place, I turned to a careful examination of the front door and its locks. There were, as Jameson attested, two of them, one positioned directly above the other. My examination of the devices offered no appreciable insight, nor did my examination of the stout door hinges and the rock wall to which they were affixed.

"‘When you arrived that morning, did you note the back door? I presume it, too, was locked.’

"Jameson nodded. ‘Save for both locks having been engaged, there was nothing else unusual.’

"‘The trapdoor?’ I enquired. Jameson shrugged. ‘The access way in the warehouse is secured. Mr. Vamberry and I hold the only keys. As to the trapdoor in this building, there has never been a requirement to secure it.’

"Having completed a brief survey of the ground-floor, I turned to Jameson.

"‘Vamberry’s office,’ I instructed. ‘We will start with the last place he was seen.’

"Our steps