LITMIR.BIZ

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a holiday posted on my surgery door, and a word to a colleague who would take up any urgent cases, I was off within the hour.

       CHAPTER 2

       221B

      It was thus with considerable pleasure and a free conscience that I found myself later that morning in the sitting-room of 221B Baker Street, awaiting the appearance of my dear friend. Whether he would welcome an extended visit, I had no idea.

      The room, as usual, was awash in newspapers, dirty ashtrays, and odd items. The chemistry table held a series of jars containing what appeared to be human fingers, and on one table was an elephant’s tusk, stained brown at the pointed end.

      How I missed our close association!

      I noticed that several newspapers including two weeks’ worth of The Illustrated Police Gazette had been laid out on the dining table, their pages folded back to specific articles. I was reading the third, tirades much like the one Mary had shown me, with mounting alarm when I was startled by a voice inches behind my left ear.

      ‘Dear Watson, are you finding the Gazette edifying?’

      I started and turned to see my friend, who must have entered the room on a cushion of air, for I had heard nothing.

      ‘Holmes! You gave me such a fright!’

      ‘Apparently I am having quite an effect on any number of people,’ said he with a laugh. He was still in nightclothes, his hair uncombed, and a cigarette already in hand. ‘Coffee, please, Mrs Hudson,’ he called out over his shoulder. Then to me, ‘You will join me, Watson?’

      ‘Thank you, no. I have been up for hours. My God, these articles! This Gabriel Zanders, fellow—’

      ‘Disregard him. He is a muckraking master of schadenfreude. He’s first to the scene of any crime and loves nothing more than to publish lurid details even before the family is notified. I took him to task for this in front of the man who happened to be his editor. He has been going after me ever since.’

      ‘I am sorry to hear it. He seems bent on doing you harm.’

      Holmes shrugged dismissively, then turned his focus to me. He smiled. ‘You have been busy of late, but you have decided on a holiday. What brings you here, instead of to some pastoral paradise with Mary?’

      ‘Do not make me ask how you deduced this!’

      ‘Perfectly simple. You have discarded your professional costume. You lack the expensive polished boots with which you attempt to dazzle your new patients, but which cause you pain in your left big toe, and the rather ostentatious gold watch which announces that you are more well established than you actually are. Instead, you are in your old suit and your comfortable brogues, which have served you well on our many wanderings, and with that old timepiece of your late brother’s, also gold but rather worn, which provides sentimental value but conveys less prestige.’

      ‘All right, Holmes. I know that you— Wait! The left big toe?’

      ‘Remember I have visited you in your surgery, Watson. I have noted your very different attire, shoes and watch, which I have never seen you wear elsewhere, and have drawn an obvious conclusion. In those terribly shiny boots which complete your impressive costume, I discerned a small protrusion in the area of your left big toe, and having seen your feet free of encumbrances on a number of occasions while you lived here on Baker Street, I am aware of a slight deformity which makes shoe-fit difficult. Those you are wearing now you had stretched by the cobbler on Paddington Street in March four years ago, and you have since worn them for some time, and on some very long rambles.’

      I sighed. It was simple observation, coupled with that prodigious memory. ‘Really, Holmes, you risk overcrowding that brain attic of which you are so proud.’

      Holmes laughed. ‘You need not worry, Watson.’

      ‘Though it has served you well. I read you were being considered for Queen’s honours!’

      ‘And today dismissed as a fraud!’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘Or rather a false conjurer. Ah, the press. It is as worth riling oneself over them as it is the weather.’

      ‘Today was a particularly vitriolic attack, Holmes. Were you wrong about the Danforth case?’

      Holmes yawned. ‘Of course not. Do not believe all that you read, Watson,’ said he. ‘The press seeks to create heroes and villains, angels and devils, where mere mortals exist.’ He took a deep draw on his cigarette and sank into the basket chair.

      Mrs Hudson entered wordlessly and set down a coffee service on the table, not bothering to remove the newspapers laid there. With a friendly nod to me and a look of remonstrance at Holmes, she exited in silence.

      I had meanwhile glanced at two other Zanders articles. I shook my head in anger.

      ‘Good old Watson. Like most people I see that you are drawn like a moth to a flame to those trifling bits of opprobrious news.’ He looked at me closely. ‘And you are transparently outraged!’ This appeared to amuse him.

      ‘Here’s another headline: “Baker Street Braggart Sherlock Holmes fails spectacularly.”

      ‘I know. Let me apply some coffee to my fogged cerebrum.’ He poured himself a cup and once again sank into the chair.

      I drew the offending paper from the table and sat opposite him in my old chair. ‘Shall I read it aloud?’ I asked.

      ‘No, thank you. I have tasted those bitter spirits two hours ago.’

      I turned my eyes to the article and finished it with increasing revulsion. I looked up. Holmes was lighting a second cigarette to accompany his coffee.

      ‘What a ghastly business, this Sebastian Danforth murder!’ said I. ‘A well-respected MP and esteemed philanthropist who made his fortune in paper, stabbed sixteen times with a dull letter opener by his own son!’

      ‘Seventeen times. And yes, a son did it.’

      ‘This article says you named the wrong person.’ I pointed to the fourth paragraph and read aloud ‘“The erroneous evidence provided by that deranged poseur Sherlock Holmes” – “deranged poseur”, great heavens!’

      ‘Your indignation should be directed at the word “erroneous”, Watson, not “deranged poseur”. My evidence was flawless and damning. The eldest son Charles Danforth was clearly the culprit. There were a number of indications, but a tiny splatter of blood on the murderer’s watch chain was conclusive.’

      ‘Well, this Titus Billings fellow disagrees vehemently. Why? And who is he?’

      ‘Billings is an unknown quantity, late of the foreign office and has been given some kind of sovereignty over at the Yard that I cannot fathom,’ he remarked casually – then vigorously exhaled a plume of smoke. I noted his foot tapping silently.

      ‘Tell me of the case, Holmes.’

      Holmes leaned back in his chair. ‘This murderous son, Charles Danforth, who was initially gaoled on my evidence, believed his father had suddenly written him out of his will. Charles was already known to be unstable, and upon hearing this news – false, as it turns out – a shouting match ensued, with the son cursing like a fiend at his father. Shortly after, the old man was discovered, expiring from multiple stab wounds. Upon my evidence, Charles was arrested, but “new evidence”, to which I was not privy, was submitted, supposedly implicating Sebastian Danforth’s younger son. As of last night, Charles was running free. His younger brother – quite innocent – was charged with the crime and waits in gaol. But it will all be set right soon.’

      ‘I should hope so,’ said I, ‘if nothing more than to clear your name.’

      ‘My reputation is nothing

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