Being a reprint from the reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D., late of the Army Medical Department

Edited by Callum J. Stewart

CHAPTER ONE

Mr. Sherlock Holmes

It was a dreary but otherwise nondescript morning in September when, upon arriving at 221B Baker Street, I discovered my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes in a singularly bizarre position. When I entered the room, Holmes was lying on the floor with one arm tied behind his back and he was pointing a revolver directly at my heart!

"Steady, old boy!" I exclaimed, fearing Holmes might think me an intruder and fire, but upon seeing me standing there, Holmes broke into a warm smile and bade me welcome. "Help yourself, Watson," Holmes said, signalling with the gun towards the remains of his breakfast which lay, in a state of some considerable disarray, on the table.

"My dear Holmes," I began, "what are you up to?" Holmes sprang to his feet and sat opposite me.

"Proving my theory. You remember, of course, the case of the Screaming Skull. I have just proven that Hardy could easily have murdered Vanderbilk from his prone position on the floor." Holmes began searching the room, lifting cushions and rummaging through drawers as he continued. "Hardy's defence lay in the fact that he had his right hand tied behind his back and, being right handed, could not have fired the shot that killed Vanderbilk. But I have proved otherwise." Holmes stopped and laid a hand on my shoulder. "Stand up, Watson."

"Whatever for, Holmes?" I enquired.

"Watson, as I have told you many times," Holmes began, "when one has eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however unlikely, must be the solution. Therefore, you are sitting on my pipe." I rose to my feet and, sure enough, wedged between the seat and the back of the chair, lay Holmes' favorite Calabash pipe. He picked it up and smiled slyly. "Have you a match, old boy?" he enquired and, sharing a laugh, we sat down. "Now, to business." Holmes produced a silver cigarette case from his hip pocket. "What do you make of this, Watson?"

"Now, Holmes, you're the detective" I said, taking the case from him. Holmes took out a magnifying glass and handed it to me.

"Here is the lens - you know my methods; apply them. Tell me what you deduce."

Turning the case over in my hand, it struck me as a perfectly ordinary cigarette case. "Obviously well used," I noted and Holmes nodded his assent. Opening it I discovered eight cigarettes and a book of matches. I handed the case back and said, "I see nothing, Holmes."

"On the contrary, Watson, you see everything. You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You are too so timid in drawing your inferences. From an examination of this case one can infer many things of import."

"Oh? Such as?"

Holmes leaned across the table. "The owner of this case is well to do. Despite its as you so rightly pointed out 'well used' appearance, this case is of the finest silver and was not inexpensive." Under the glass Holmes pointed to a series of small hallmarks, "these stamps beside the right hinge bear this out. Furthermore, it has not been in the gentleman's possession for a great length of time and holds very little sentimental value to him. In fact, until recently, it was in a pawn shop, most likely the one on Montague Street in Whitechapel."

This was a deduction too far. "Holmes," I started, "you cannot be serious! How can you deduce this from merely looking at it?"

"A man does not leave a family heirloom in the home of a stranger, Watson. Furthermore, observe the slight discolouration of the silver here." Holmes handed me the glass and, true to his word, the silver was discoloured slightly one on half of the case. "Silver becomes discoloured in the sun. It is therefore safe to infer that this has been displayed in a window. Now," Holmes held the box under my nose, "think back to your schooldays and tell me what you smell."

I inhaled through the nostrils and could, at first, smell nothing, but as I inhaled more deeply I detected the distinct smell of chalk. "Chalk. Very faint, but undoubtedly chalk."

"Exactly, Watson. Chalk. The pawnbroker had chalked the ticket number onto the case." Holmes continued examining the case, opening it and removing one of the cigarettes he studied it under the glass.

"But, Holmes," I asked, "how did you know which shop the item was purchased from?"

"The discoloration of the silver only extends halfway across the case, Watson. Therefore the buildings on the opposite side of the street from the pawnbrokers must be tall enough to block out the sun for a substantial portion of the day." Holmes held up his hand until the shadow cast by it covered half of the box. "Until, oh, at least half past two. The only pawnbrokers in London that matches this description is the one on Montague Street."

"Amazing, Holmes" I said, awed.

"Elementary, my dear Watson. Furthermore, the owner of the case is a man of science. Perhaps a chemist. Here, smell this." Holmes passed me the cigarette he had been examining. Holding it under my nose, I was surprised to find it fairly reeked of chemicals. "The owner had kept these cigarettes in a laboratory before he transferred them to this case. Only a scientist or a doctor, such as yourself my dear fellow, would keep such a common item as a cigarette in close proximity to such an unusual item as a vial of" Holmes sniffed the cigarette again and looked at me quizzically "amylobabitone pentathol, isn't it?"

"Precisely, Holmes." We sat for a moment or two in silence, before I remembered what I had come to ask Holmes about. "Hello," I said, "have you seen today's newspaper, old boy?"

"Of course I have, Watson, don't be ridiculous.

"They're calling it 'The Autumn of Terror' now."

"So I observed" Holmes said pointing at the headline which read 'LONDON GRIPPED IN THE AUTUMN OF TERROR.' Holmes puffed on his pipe and said, "the police are wrong."

"How'd you mean, Holmes?" I enquired.

Holmes stood up and walked to a large map of London which hung above the fireplace. There were pencil marks all over the map that marked the locations of various crimes we had investigated in the past. Holmes hunted for a pencil and, upon finding one, drew a circle on the map. "Now, Watson, this, as you know is Hanbury Street." I nodded my assent, and Holmes continued. "As you will no doubt be aware from," he indicated the newspaper on the table, "that sensationalist rag, Hanbury Street is where the police discovered the body of Annie Chapman on the morning of the eighth of September."

"Right you are, Holmes" I agreed.

"Lestrade and his men said two things that interest me. One, that the unfortunate woman was killed in Hanbury Street and, two, she had been murdered by having her throat cut by an instrument similar to one which a medical man such as yourself might use. This was reported in the newspapers, was it not?"

"Of course it was Holmes," I said, slightly irked, "but surely you can't suggest that a respected member of the medical community could be capable of such a hideous crime!"

"All men are capable of murder, Watson, you should know that by now," Holmes snapped. "But, I apologise, it was not my intent to discredit your profession, my dear fellow. Besides, it is on one of these two points that the police are mistaken."

"Go on," said I.

The familiar fire that burned in Holmes' eyes whenever he was on a case glowed as he returned to the table and sat opposite me. "Point one is correct and can easily be proved" he began. "I myself examined Miss Chapman's body on the morning she was discovered and found on her boots conclusive proof that the deceased was at least very near Hanbury Street at the time of her murder."

I smiled at my friend. "Mud again, Holmes?"

"Mud again, Watson. The mud which caked the soles of Miss Chapman's boots is only to be found in one part of this great city, old man. Whitechapel. Most likley Hanbury Street. The second point, that the murder weapon was a surgical tool is also nonsense. Based on my examination of Miss Chapman, I have concluded that any blade larger than a pocketknife could have caused the wounds on Miss Chapman's neck. Why even, this knife," Holmes indicated the knife with which he pinned correspondence to the mantelpiece, "could have killed the woman."

"So Lestrade's on the wrong track again" I laughed. "He's out hunting for surgeons when in fact any butcher, leather worker or cook in the city could be the culprit!"

"Indeed, Watson. Now, shall we eat the remainder of this breakfast?"