The Adventure of the Reluctant Detective

BY
Ryk Spoor

Many years ago I took it upon myself to record and publish accounts of some of the more interesting cases encountered by my friend Sherlock Holmes, in his role as the world’s first consulting detective.

Or did I? The revelations of this latest case throw doubt on even this, the most obvious and straightforward of statements. I hesitate to continue; yet I wonder if I have any choice in the matter. Has anyone read even the first of these accounts? I ask this, even though if I raise my eyes I can see before me more than one leatherbound volume of Holmes’s exploits, as published under a name better known than that of John H. Watson.

In the end, it does not matter; I have recorded our adventures as they happened, as best I could, even those that have not yet been released to the public. Now I have the duty of transcribing the final, and most curious, case of all, and at the end I must decide whether to publish the manuscript, or burn it.

But write I must, for if I do not write it, I believe I shall go mad, if madness is possible. And as this is my decision, I shall endeavor to write it as clearly and precisely as any of his past adventures.

• • •

It was in the spring of 1899, with the sense of the new century awaiting us beginning to be felt all about, that I received a call from Mrs. Hudson, housekeeper for Holmes in his rooms at 221B Baker Street. I had, I admit, been remiss in maintaining contact with my old friend of late, for my beloved Mary had but recently passed away the past winter, and I had thrown myself into my work as an antidote. I was vaguely aware that Holmes continued his own work, due to occasional references to him in the paper.

I answered the newly installed telephone myself, in the manner that I always did. “Dr. Watson’s residence, Watson speaking.”

“Oh, thank goodness, Dr. Watson!”

Despite the tinny sound of the connection, I instantly recognized the voice. “Mrs. Hudson! Is there something wrong?”

“I should say so, Doctor. He’s been shut in his rooms for a week now. Takes hardly any food, hasn’t agreed to see a single caller, and all the day long I hear that violin of his, and it’s…just unnatural, sir!”

“Unnatural?” I couldn’t quite grasp what could be unnatural about a violin. “You know he gets these fits, Mrs. Hudson—”

“I know quite well his moods, Dr. Watson, and if this were anything of the ordinary sort I’d just have to bear it. But this is different, sir, very different. Listen, he’s playing now.”

A telephone connection is hardly an ideal medium over which to appreciate music, but the faint strains I heard did cause a slight chill to trace its way down my spine. I have, of course, recounted how Holmes, when in a melancholy mood or otherwise distracted by some case, would play the violin for hours at a time, and that on occasion this would consist of improvised and sometimes eerie melodies. Yet what I heard through that distant connection seemed far more disturbed and alien.

“I will be over at once, Mrs. Hudson,” I said.

It took only a few moments to acquire a hansom. That disquieting melody filled me with foreboding, and I found myself suffering a considerable attack of guilt. Mary, bless her soul, had cared for Holmes as much as I, and she would never have wanted my mourning to extend to neglecting my friend.

It was in this mood that I found myself once more on the threshold of 221B. Even in the entrance hall I could hear the strains of torturous notes pouring from my friend’s apartment, and so with but a nod at Mrs. Hudson I mounted the stairs to find the door locked. However, I had retained a key to the premises with the encouragement of both my friend and Mrs. Hudson, and this allowed me entry to the apartment.

I was unsurprised to find the atmosphere extremely thick with smoke from the shag tobacco he favored. It was also not surprising, but still worrisome, to see that there were no lights on in the apartment. The music, somehow both frenetic and languid at once, came from the sitting room; staring through the gloom I could make out the tall, spare figure of Holmes seated in his favorite armchair, drawing the bow across the strings of his Stradivarius violin.

As he either did not notice me or chose not to recognize my presence, I went to one of the lamps, turned up the gas, and lit the fire before I turned to face him.

I was instantly struck by the ghastly pallor of his face. I had seen Holmes in the grip of terror from the noxious fumes of the Devil’s Foot, white with anger in more than one case, and in a state of fear and nervous excitement prior to the events related in “The Final Problem,” but never had I seen him so white and drawn as I did that afternoon. His pupils were widely dilated, and his dressing-gown sleeve failed to conceal a number of injection marks.

“Good Lord, Holmes,” I said. “What is troubling you?”

He squinted up at me. “Ah, Watson. Could I first trouble you to turn the gas down a bit? My eyes are accustomed to the dark.”

I reduced the flow and brought the room to a half-lit twilight which was, at least, considerably better than the prior darkness. “What troubles you, Holmes?” I asked again, over the continuing strains of alien music.

His gaze dropped away; the bow faltered, then went still. Without saying a word, Holmes carefully took the instrument and put it gently into its case.

“You have not yet mastered the ways of the widower, Watson,” he said. “Your hat has not seen the brush for at least a week, among other indications.”

This rejoinder, completely ignoring my concern or my words, left me speechless for a moment. This did, however, solidify my conviction that something was truly wrong, so I stepped forward and placed my hand on his shoulder. “Holmes, please. What is wrong?”

I felt the shoulder twitch, and his entire lean frame shuddered for a moment. Then he took a great breath and rose, his gaze darting about the apartment.

“How long?” he asked, then answered himself. “A week, I believe. Yes. This is Friday, yes?” he asked me.

“It is.”

“A week and a day, then. Yet perhaps not nearly long enough. Still, I could not expect Mrs. Hudson, let alone you, Watson, to ignore me forever.”

The word ignore stung me, as I felt quite guilty already. “I’m sorry, Holmes. I should have—”

“Not at all, Watson,” he said immediately. “My apologies, old friend; I did not mean in any way to imply that you were neglectful. Rather the opposite, in fact; I can rely on you absolutely.”

“Then can I ask you to tell me what troubles you? For that fact is obvious even to someone who is not a consulting detective.”

For the first time I saw a smile on his face; it was a weak, fleeting specimen of the breed, but a smile nonetheless. “I suppose it must be. Then tell me, Watson: what is one of my favorite dictums—one of the basic principles of my investigations?”

I thought a moment, and recalled one expounded, in varying forms, in many of our cases. “Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, howsoever improbable, must be the truth,” I said.

“Excellent, Watson.” He reached for his pipe, glanced at the eddying fumes in the air, and visibly shook himself. Instead of lighting the pipe, he strode to the window and threw it open. “If we are to talk, I think more air and less smoke is in order,” he said.

“And perhaps food and drink for you?”

“Ah,” he said, shaking his head wryly, “I am not sure I am yet to that point.”

“This is about a case, then?” I asked, realizing the point of his question.

A shadow crossed his face. “Yes. A case which I can neither say is solved nor unsolved.”

“You expound a mystery in a single sentence, Holmes. How can a case not be one or the other? It would seem—”

“Impossible, yes. That is, truly, the crux of the matter, Watson.” He paced restlessly about the room; his fingers absently picked up a hypodermic needle and I saw him glance at a nearby case that I knew would contain a 7 percent solution of cocaine.

Light began to dawn. “You have encountered a case which appears to feature something actually impossible.”

“You see, Watson, this is why it sometimes drives me to distraction that you and others belittle your gifts. Perhaps you have not my peculiar faculties, yet you have more than the average intelligence and understanding of others.”

“Then tell me, Holmes. I can see that this case is also driving you to distraction.”

He looked down at the hypodermic. His hand tightened around it, and then he hurled the instrument against the wall. “You recall my usual motive for the use of cocaine, Watson?”

“To alleviate boredom,” I answered.

“Indeed, and in that capacity it has been a marvelous servant. But here…here for the first time I find I have been using it to distract me, to forget or ignore something I find intolerable…and that, itself, is intolerable! Yes, Watson, I will tell you.”

• • •

“You are of course aware, Watson, that after the loss of your Mary I endeavored to entice you into some form of activity, participating in even the rather lackluster cases that then presented themselves to me. You were, alas, far too despondent—but no, please do not begin to blame yourself for what followed, old fellow! I assure you, you had every reason to mourn, and having seen this with my own eyes, I resolved to give you time to yourself. As I have never married, and had little to do with the affairs of the heart except inasmuch as they were involved in my profession, I could not pretend to know more about how to assist you in such a time.

“In any event, I was not terribly affected, other than in the manner any friend might be by knowing his closest companion is in pain. I had, as I said, some lackluster cases that were nonetheless not entirely without points of interest, and I did keep myself busy.

“Now, even in your grief, I daresay you might have heard of the unexpected death of the Earl of Carfax?”

“Of course,” I said. “Died of some unknown illness, I understand.”

“Unknown! Yes, that is indeed the case, Watson.” For a moment that distant, frightened look returned, but he closed his eyes, and when they opened, they held once more the controlled, slightly amused look I was accustomed to. “But at the time I had thought little of it; men die of illnesses often, and even with the great strides our medical men have made in their sciences, many illnesses still escape their classification; and of course he had traveled to India, and many curious diseases are found in the tropics which may lay dormant for years ere they strike suddenly and surely.

“A week later, as I sat at tea, Mrs. Hudson announced a caller—a woman—who insisted on seeing me immediately. I had heard the carriage stop, and was prepared for a visitor. With the priors I have given, you will be unsurprised to hear that it was the youngest of the late Earl of Carfax’s daughters, Lady Edith Pelham-Howard.

“‘Mr. Holmes,’ she said without preamble, ‘I am assured by certain people of my acquaintance that you are to be absolutely trusted, even in cases of extraordinary nature and sensitivity.’

“‘It is essential to my profession that I am completely discreet and reliable,’ I returned. ‘I solve cases which the police may not, and this often involves me in events of most peculiar and singular nature.’

“‘This is most assuredly such an event, and one of great horror as well,’ she said, and the way in which her voice nearly broke conveyed the stress she labored under.

“I then assured her that I was entirely at her disposal and encouraged her to speak.

“She had returned to the estate following her father’s death, and had remained as details of the inheritance, which was divided among the three daughters, were worked out. There were apparently some irregularities with the accounts that drew out the proceedings.

“However, that was not what brought Lady Edith to my door. Rather, it was a series of disquieting and even inexplicable events—objects moved when there seemed no agent available to move them, sounds heard in deserted rooms—culminating in Lady Edith seeing her departed father’s visage peering at her through her own bedroom window.

“‘I am not a woman prone to fantastic notions, Mr. Holmes,’ she said to me, and she was quite noticeably paler than when she had begun her account, ‘yet I tell you, I saw my father’s face as clearly as I see yours, not over five paces distant.’”

Holmes gave a wan smile. “As you might imagine, Watson, I did find this an intriguing opening. Even in this initial narrative there were certain suggestive indications, but the fantastical flourishes were novel. Perhaps you, familiar with my processes, can follow my initial lines of surmise?”

I thought on the tale for a moment, then nodded. “The sudden and unexplained death of the master of the house, irregularities in the inheritance, and such, certainly point to some sordid matter—perhaps blackmail, which became murder when the blackmailer realized no more money was forthcoming and that the earl might be considering risking exposure of whatever secret was being held?”

“Capital, Watson. You really have progressed marvelously since first we began our researches. While I have often inveighed against excess theorizing prior to full acquisition of the facts, it is still inevitable that one will attempt to make sense of a case as it is presented; indeed, such a process is necessary for me to decide whether or not a case presents sufficient points of interest to make it worth my attention. And indeed, my initial thoughts ran along almost precisely those lines, with a bit more detail as to the likely culprit, though I attached no weight to the latter as it did cross the border from deduction to speculation. Still, I was mystified by the sequelae to the murder, if murder it was. It would have been simplicity itself to explain such apparitions prior to the death; we have seen such attempts to convince others that some supernatural agency was responsible for deaths.”

“Surely—the Baskervilles horror, and that of the Devil’s Foot.”

“Exactly. But nothing happens without a cause, without a reason, and thus I accepted the case that I might have a chance to discern that reason.” His hands shook again, and not entirely, as I would have hoped, from his current bout with cocaine; it was strong emotion that seized him in that instant, and for a few moments I wondered if he would continue.

After a time, Holmes shook his head. “And now, Watson, knowing what brought you here, what I have said, and the initial particulars of the case that precipitated my current admittedly distressing condition, tell me what I found.”

I was, I confess, somewhat taken aback. It seemed to me that there was entirely too little information upon which anyone, even Holmes himself, could base a conclusion.

Yet my friend never set me insoluble problems, even though it was quite frequently true that I, personally, found them impossible to penetrate. Looking at Holmes, I sensed that he truly wanted me to answer this question myself—that, perhaps, he feared stating it himself. It was such a strange, even frightening impression that I became determined to prove myself capable of unraveling this riddle, if only for Holmes’s own peace of mind.

“You will allow me to speak my thoughts aloud as I examine the evidence, Holmes?”

“I would like nothing better, Watson; to observe the way in which you approach the problem will be something worthwhile in its own right, as our adventures are usually focused on rather the opposite, with me providing insight into my processes.”

I stood, and—perhaps in an unconscious mimicry of Holmes himself—filled my own pipe with a quantity of shag tobacco and lit it. “So. We begin with the most singular fact of the most celebrated and original consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, having retreated to his rooms in what he admits is an attempt to hide from something he finds most disquieting; furthermore, the confirmation of his friend Dr. Watson’s assertion that Holmes must have encountered something he found to be impossible.

“To this we add the unexpected death of the Earl of Carfax, the arrival of his youngest daughter at Sherlock Holmes’s doorstep, and her description of her problem, including an apparition of her father at her window, and the financial irregularities of the inheritance.” Holmes nodded.

I paused, thinking. Then I realized the only possible conclusion, one so mad that I hesitated to even speak it. Yet what else, besides something that made the world seem utterly mad, could possibly have brought my friend to this state? I steeled myself for his possible mockery, for if I were wrong I would be completely, ludicrously, and laughably wrong. “A question, then. Can we be reasonably certain that the Earl of Carfax himself did not have a twin or other double in the world who could have presented themselves as the purported shade?”

Holmes nodded slowly. “You may take that as given, Watson; I encountered no reason to believe that there was any other person who could have presented himself as the earl to one of his daughters and have carried off the imposture. Continue.”

Still, I hesitated. “I ask you only one further question, Holmes: Does Lady Edith believe the case concluded?”

Holmes considered, the calm demeanor spoiled by the still-shaking hands. “Yes. She believes all was brought to a satisfactory conclusion.”

“I see.” I drew a long breath. “Then this is my conclusion: You have found clear evidence of some malfeasance within the earl’s household, which you were able to prove led to a poisoning or perhaps deliberate infection with some tropical malady of the earl when the perpetrator realized that the earl was close to discovering him, or turning him in. This you have used to solve the murder of the earl, and the other phenomena have ceased; you have perhaps explained them in some manner to the satisfaction of Lady Edith.”

Holmes was immobile, silent.

“But,” I continued, barely able to credit what I was about to say, “for you, there was no explanation, save the one you consider impossible.

“You yourself confronted the apparition, and found you were facing the ghost of the Earl of Carfax.”

For a moment I thought I had been entirely wrong, for Holmes’s face became immobile, as though set in stone. But then his eyes closed, an uneven breath emerged from his lips, and he then looked up at me directly. “Well done, Watson. Stellar, in fact, although you miss various details which would not be evident to you from the brief précis I supplied.”

“Good Lord, Holmes.” Despite my deductions, despite his acquiescence, I could scarcely credit what I was hearing. “You mean to say that you did indeed—”

“Watson, I am not accustomed to being questioned in this manner!”

I was so startled, not to say hurt, by this sharp and unreasonable retort that I could do nothing but stare at my friend.

Almost instantly Holmes was up, shaking his head, extending a hand. “Oh, Watson…I must apologize most profusely, old friend. I must not allow my current state to drive me to such rash and, if I be honest with myself, completely false statements. Of course I am accustomed to being questioned in this manner; it is not uncommon for my deductions to be met with confusion, disbelief, and—as you recall from various cases—even ridicule.”

I clasped his hand. “It is forgotten, Holmes. Surely you can understand my own disbelief.”

“Only too well.”

I went to the sideboard and, finding the siphon charged, made myself a drink; the occasion seemed to demand something stronger than tea. I returned and seated myself across from Holmes, who had sunk into a brown study.

After a few moments, I broke the silence. “Well then, Holmes, what do you intend to do?”

The silence returned, but I waited. Finally he replied.

“I do not know, Watson,” he said. “My profession is founded on reason, on the rational order of the universe. You know it has always been a basic principle of mine that the supernatural cannot exist. Yet—”

“Yet you are making a grave error, Holmes,” I said.

His gaze immediately snapped up to meet mine. “An error?”

“An understandable one, given your priors, Holmes. You’ve lived your life with, and by, one set of beliefs. Having those upset surely excuses a bit of unclear thinking. But you’ve taught me enough of your methods that I believe I see the flaw in your reasoning.”

Holmes regarded me with mild astonishment, but said nothing. Slowly his expression shifted to the contemplative, and—at last—a faint but genuine smile appeared on his lips. “Ah, Watson. Once more you are the unchangeable rock to which I can anchor. If a ghost exists—and I have been given inarguable proof of this, before my own eyes, under conditions that I do not believe admit of any trickery—then it is—must be—natural for it to exist. Things that are real are, by that very fact, natural. They may not be what we desire to be real, but the fact that our desires cannot change them is what shows them to be true and real.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. I heard animation returning to formerly dead tones, saw the old spark returning to his eye.

Without warning he shot to his feet. “Enough of this! It is intolerable that I’ve allowed myself to wallow in this denial of reality. There is only one remedy for it: I must discover why I have never encountered such an event before.”

I was puzzled. “Well, Holmes, one must presume that real hauntings are vastly more rare than—”

He waved that away impatiently. “Watson, if we accept even for a moment that it is possible for a human…spirit, soul, what have you, to linger after death due to a need to see justice done, to protect those that they leave behind, or any other such motive, then how can we blithely accept that those motives were insufficiently strong in any and all of the cases we have seen throughout the years, and yet were somehow strong enough in this? No, no, Watson, it will not do. We are missing something, some key element that requires considerable investigation.”

I said nothing immediately, for I saw his point. Many had been the foul murders and seemingly inexplicable crimes we had encountered, with great innocence wronged and endangered. However, in none of them had there been a hint of the spiritual, of the victims reaching out from beyond the veil to speak to us or others of what had become of them. “Yet in this case you did see such an apparition.”

“As clearly as I see you now, Watson.” His voice was clear, his eyes sharp, and I could see the brow wrinkling in its accustomed way, showing the beginning of great concentration. “There are, of course, multiple possibilities. One, which I discount, is that in none of the prior cases was there sufficient motive to cause a shade or other manifestation to present itself. A second is that there was something extremely unusual about the earl and his family, or the very specific circumstances surrounding them, which made such a manifestation occur, and would explain the absence of such phenomena in other situations. And a third…” He raised an eyebrow at me.

I frowned, for I could not think of a third alternative. Finally I shrugged. “I confess to being at a loss.”

“Well, one third alternative, Watson, is that something about the world has changed, to make what was not possible now possible.”

“Good Lord, Holmes!” I was speechless.

He smiled narrowly. “A rather disquieting thought, I admit. And at the moment I incline to the second explanation; it is far simpler to assume that the legends of ghosts and such are founded on rare, yet real, events that require truly extraordinary confluences of events or people. But if they are truly extraordinary, I feel confident that I should be able to determine with some reasonable certainty what the key elements of such an event must be.” He chuckled, rubbing his hands as he sometimes did when the fascination of a case began to make itself felt. “There are of course many other possibilities—I, for instance, may be the one who has changed, become a medium, as the spiritualists call it, who can see the dead. Or perhaps I was, after all, gulled.”

“Surely not, Holmes.”

“Oh, I must admit of the possibility. I am not infinite of capacity or capability, and though I have proven myself the equal of virtually all I have encountered, it would be the height of arrogance to insist that I could not be fooled. The circumstances under which I witnessed the apparition certainly convinced me of its reality, but one can easily imagine that a genius with sufficient skill, motivation, and resources could devise some mechanism to project an illusion convincing even to me.”

He nodded again. “An investigation is definitely in order, Watson. But first…ring Mrs. Hudson to prepare a supper for us both, while I tend to my ablutions, which have been most sadly neglected for some time.”

“I will go myself, rather than merely ring; Mrs. Hudson was quite concerned.”

“Of course, Watson; tender my apologies, which I will also do in person later. I am not, I fear, in a fit state to do so at the moment.”

I made my way downstairs, filled with relief, anticipation, and—I confess—a touch of foreboding. Holmes was now more himself, but I knew how to read him better than anyone; and I was certain of one thing: it was the third possibility, not the second, that he was considering.

• • •

As events would have it, prolonged investigation was not required to demonstrate that the third of Holmes’s possibilities was, in fact, the correct explanation. For over the next fortnight, Holmes was approached by no fewer than six people of respectable, even lofty, backgrounds, all six of which wished to consult the renowned Sherlock Holmes’s opinion on events that seemed supernatural.

“This,” Holmes said, the morning after the sixth of these petitioners had departed, “is a greater number of purported supernatural cases than I have faced in my entire prior career. Simply this fact would, I am afraid, argue strongly in favor of my third hypothesis.”

“But it is more than the simple fact of numbers,” I said, pouring myself another cup of tea. “While I am sure I am missing many details, it seemed to me that of the six, at least four feature too many suggestive and peculiar points to be easily dismissed as charlatanry or misperception.”

“Indeed.” Despite the confirmation of his most disquieting theory, Holmes was much more himself. His determination to accept that the very existence of these phenomena made them a priori part of the natural world had alleviated his existential fears to a great extent, and he was now devoting many hours to studying the lore of the supernatural so that he might use it, and compare it, to the actuality of these phenomena which it appeared we might be confronting on a far more regular basis. “I would judge that the problem of the Oxford professor is actually due to some clever student pranks, but the other five have very suggestive points about them.”

“Will you be taking those cases, then?”

Holmes’s smile was thin. “At least one or two I must, for there is a distinct aura of menace in both the story of the Right Honorable Hastings and of the Savile Row tailor. The others…they have definite points of interest for our researches. Still, our time is limited; I will reserve the decision on those until after we have dealt with the first two.”

His head came up. “And I believe we have another caller.”

After a moment I was able to follow his reasoning, recalling that there had been the characteristic faint creak and jingle of a carriage—probably a hansom—stopping before our residence. The subsequent ringing of the bell confirmed this deduction, and Mrs. Hudson brought up a card. Holmes glanced at it. “Hm. Miss Anne LeChance, of Kimberley. Send her up, Mrs. Hudson.”

Miss LeChance did not step into the room; she strode into our room and stopped, relaxed in posture and with a glance that was startlingly direct, almost challenging, from eyes an equally surprising shade of green. Her other remarkable feature was her hair, of such a brilliant red that I could not help but recall our earlier case of the Red-Headed League, clearly of some length but piled upon her head beneath a hat decorated with flowers. She was, if anything, above average height for a woman, neatly dressed but sans gloves, and despite her relaxed posture something about her seemed stiff or tense.

Holmes and I had of course risen to greet her. She extended her hand to Holmes, and shook mine as well. “I have heard a great deal about you from mutual acquaintances, Mr. Holmes,” she said, “and I hope that you can assist me, as it seems no one else is able or willing to do so.” Her voice was light but penetrating, the voice of someone accustomed to being listened to.

“I am certainly most intrigued, Miss LeChance,” he said, and I glanced at him; her opening words had been little different from those of many others, so any interest could not be attributed to them. As I suspected, I saw his eyes studying her with keen interest, and knew he must have already deduced something which I had not. “Pray, sit and tell us what brings you here in such haste from your rooms at the Savoy.”

She started, then leaned forward with an expression of fascination. “Mr. Holmes, how in the world did you know I came in haste, let alone from the Savoy?”

He smiled, but I saw his gaze still surveying her narrowly. “It was a matter of inference, but well founded. You came in a hansom, which is suited for travel within the city, but scarcely for a trip exceeding a hundred miles from Kimberley in Norfolk. Therefore, you were staying somewhere in the city. Your dress and other accoutrements say that you are of a family with considerable means—and presumably thus acquainted with many others of similar means—yet you came in a cab rather than in a carriage belonging to one of your friends or acquaintances; therefore you were not staying with relations or friends, but at a hotel.

“Now, there are only a few hotels in which it should be in any way appropriate for a young woman of means to reside while in London. It also happens that one unfortunate characteristic of a hansom is that it can, in the course of traversing the streets, deposit some amount of the grime of the street upon the clothing. As my friend Watson could tell you, I have made something of a study of the soils to be found in various neighborhoods, so when I see the lighter dirt of the Strand region overlaid successively with the mud from other neighborhoods leading to my own humble abode, it points unerringly to the Savoy as your starting point.” He nodded to Miss LeChance, indicating her hair. “As to your haste, your coiffure is superficially acceptable, but in three critical places is loose, and should have been more carefully pinned. Had you not been in considerable haste, you would have taken the few additional minutes to ensure its security.”

She smiled. “Well, Mr. Holmes, you certainly have the right of it.”

“Then please tell me what brings you here in such a hurry.”

As she opened her mouth to speak, there was a knock on the door. “Apologies, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Hudson, “but there was a call for Dr. Watson from one of his patients, most urgent.”

“Quite all right. Go on, Watson,” Holmes said.

I made my way downstairs to the phone, but even as I spoke with old Cosgrove, who sounded quite ill indeed, I could not forget the quick look that Sherlock Holmes had given me as I departed. Our visitor had, as yet, said nothing of substance.

Yet in that glance I had seen grim concern second to few others he had ever given me.

• • •

“So tell me, Watson; what did you make of our visitor this morning?”

This instant sally, the moment I entered 221B, startled me. Holmes had not even greeted me in his accustomed fashion, nor inquired about the health of my patient, and I remonstrated upon these points immediately.

Holmes placed his pipe upon the table next to him and chuckled—although, once more, there was a strain in that laugh which was disquieting. “My apologies, Watson. I should not forget the courtesies. But I perceive from your step, and the hour of your return, that your patient is not in immediate danger, and we have passed the point of greetings, so I ask again what your impressions of Miss LeChance were.”

“As you wish, Holmes.” I finished hanging my coat on its peg, then seated myself across from him. “Though I had a brief enough encounter with her, so I believe you have much the advantage of me.”

“Nonetheless, indulge me.”

I took a few moments to arrange my thoughts. Holmes never made these inquiries without good reason, and even if that reason were merely to test my observations, I was resolved to make a good showing of it. “I would first say that you observed some elements of her appearance, carriage, or manner that you found of great interest, as you were already most concerned before she had ventured the slightest clue as to her reason for contacting you.”

“Ah, of course, Watson. You know me better than anyone—even, I daresay, my brother Mycroft. Say on.”

“Still, as to Anne LeChance herself, there were certain points of interest, as you might say. She is one of the most striking women I have ever seen; her hair and eyes would argue for Irish extraction, though her complexion and name would seem to me to indicate French ancestry.” I thought a moment more. “Her poise was also unusual; it seemed almost military to me, odd though that may sound. Perhaps I am imagining something there.”

“No, no; there was surely a directness and dynamism in her presence which is most unusual in a young woman. Any other observations, Watson?”

“Yes. There was something about her hands that seemed at odds with the remainder of her. They seemed rather larger, and perhaps stronger than I might have expected.” I thought back to that handshake, and suddenly remembered a detail that had not impressed itself upon my consciousness until then. “Holmes, I believe her hands were rather callused. Not like a workman’s, perhaps, but certainly they were not as soft as those of a woman of leisure.”

“Oh, capital, Watson. Fine observations indeed, and several of the points of interest I had myself observed.” Despite this quite earnest congratulatory statement, Holmes still looked concerned, with an air of abstraction about him. “Have you exhausted your catalog, then?”

I knew I was missing some crucial elements, but this was something I had long been accustomed to. “I think so…no, hold on. Her voice. There was something about the accent that I could not place. It did not seem to me to quite fit with her Norfolk origins. But other than that…” I shook my head.

“Another pertinent observation, nonetheless.” He picked up his pipe and puffed on it for a few moments.

“Well, Holmes? Will you now enlighten me as to what new problem you have encountered? What did she tell you?”

“It was not what she told me, Watson, but rather what she did not tell me. As you astutely observed, even before she began her story, my observations of Miss LeChance had provided me with some facts which were most intriguing, not to say disquieting, in nature. She is not, in my estimation, what she seems at all.”

“Are you saying that her name is not LeChance?”

“I am not entirely sure of that, although if I were to hazard a guess I would say that her name is something along those lines, if not precisely LeChance. I did look up the family and it is a name that was familiar to me, and should have been to you.” The look he gave me was hooded and unreadable.

I wracked my brain for several moments before revelation broke in upon me. “Of course! The affair of the three golden books! Our client worked for Sir William LeChance!” The memory had been hazy for a moment, almost like a tale told to me by someone else, but as I spoke the memory seemed to clarify, become sharper and filled with detail. How could I have forgotten that most curious and singular case? I wondered.

Holmes nodded, but his smile did not reach his eyes, and I felt a vague chill. “Yes. The LeChance family is quite prominent in Norfolk, and we both should have recalled it.”

“The tone of your voice—”

“Hold your thoughts on that, Watson. Allow me to continue. Miss LeChance presented something of an enigma as she entered. You noticed something of her dress, yes?”

“It seemed of a very fine make, and suited her well.”

“I was not remarking on the aesthetics, although I will agree that the young woman is startling in her appearance. That particular style of sleeve has been almost two years out of fashion, and while her figure was more than presentable, the current trend is the S-bend corset. A woman of her purported position would hardly be so far behind.” He frowned. “She also had a well-concealed but evident stiffness in motion that is more often seen in far younger women, those first accustoming themselves to wearing those articles of clothing.”

“That is indeed peculiar, Holmes. A young woman of her age and station will have been wearing her corsets for quite some time now.”

“Precisely my observation. Now, her accent, as you noted, was not that of Norfolk; in fact, while I have an extremely detailed knowledge of the dialects and accents of the entirety of the British Empire, I could not place her accent; it seemed to be something of a patchwork, a concatenation of several accents which to an outside ear might seem superficially similar.”

“You mean, something that a foreigner attempting to imitate our speech might create?”

“Something like that, yes,” he agreed. “Although if there were hints of her true accent in her speech, I could not accurately place them. Perhaps something like a few of the Colonial accents, but my knowledge of American speech is sadly less than would be necessary to verify this vague surmise.”

During his reply, I went to the bookcase and found his copy of Burke’s. “Well, Holmes, if she is not who she appears, then surely she is taking some risk in the impersonation; Anne LeChance is a real member of the family, and would seem to be of the proper age, from this listing.”

“The question is somewhat murkier than that, Watson; I sent a telegram to an associate who lives in that area, and he was able to confirm various details of the young lady’s appearance as well as the fact that she had departed the estate a few days previous, presumably en route to London. I am reasonably certain that, if I were to bring our visitor thence, she would be recognized by all and sundry as Sir William’s second daughter.”

This intelligence brought with it considerable confusion; I had thought that Holmes was implying that our visitor was an impostor, but now it seemed he was certain she was not. “But then, Holmes, how do we account for these discrepancies?”

“That is indeed the problem, Watson.” I could detect a hint of the same dark melancholia which had previously afflicted him. “Her story itself was, if we make allowances for our newly expanded worldview, fairly straightforward.

“Within the grounds of her family’s estate lies an old ruin, a structure strikingly similar in some aspects to certain Greek and Roman temples, circular in design, with supporting columns. She said that it has been rumored to have been the site of ancient pagan rituals—Druidic or similar—in times long past. Now—unsurprisingly—there have been signs of unnatural activity associated with this ruin, sightings of strange lights or creatures.

“The impetus for her visit was that the phenomena went from the curious to the menacing, with one of the groundskeepers chased by something that mauled him rather severely before he managed to reach his own home. The police, of course, are ignoring the less-accepted elements of the tale and believe there is a wolf or escaped animal loose on the grounds.”

“If people are in danger, Holmes, then we must act—regardless of the identity of our visitor.”

“I agree, of course, Watson. Yet the most unusual aspects of our visitor, especially those in connection with what you called the affair of the golden books, require me to dig a bit more deeply into things before we depart. Would you assist me in bringing out my collection of criminal records—especially the older ones?”

“Older ones? Those that predate your work, Holmes?”

“Precisely. I would like them all here in the sitting-room. Once we have assembled all the resources on criminal cases, I beg that you leave me to myself, and tell Mrs. Hudson that I will not be receiving any callers, for a time.”

I found myself staring at him. “But Holmes, we already had two other cases that we agreed were—”

“Watson!” His voice was sharp. But immediately he took a breath and moderated his tone. “Watson, my old friend, I assure you I am completely aware of all of these circumstances. But will you trust me if I say to you that this is something of even greater importance?”

“Of course, Holmes. I trust you implicitly. What of Miss LeChance? Any additional instructions regarding her?”

“Yes. Leave word with Mrs. Hudson that if she calls again I will give her an appointment for next Tuesday—that is four days from now—and that I believe I will have a resolution to her problem at that time.”

I admit I stared at him in some disbelief for a moment. It was clear that he expected to spend the majority of that time studying books and files of old criminal cases, most of which were not even his own; yet he seemed quite serious about being able to resolve Anne LeChance’s mystery in four days. Knowing my friend, however, I banished my doubts and nodded. “As you say, Holmes.”

Assembling the materials Holmes wanted, and arranging them such that all were accessible in the sitting-room, took a few hours; we had our dinner about halfway through the task, and I bid Holmes goodbye at about eight thirty. After passing on his instructions to Mrs. Hudson, I stepped outside and prepared to hail a cab, when I saw an unmistakable figure alight not ten paces distant.

“Miss LeChance?” I said. “The hour is quite late for calling.”

“It is, Dr. Watson,” she agreed. “But I was hoping to speak further with Mr. Holmes. The matter is quite urgent.”

“Has there been another injury?”

“No,” she said, “but another frightening apparition was seen, which caused my younger brother to run into the house in such a state of fright that it took an hour to calm him; I have this from my mother, to whom I spoke on the telephone this evening.”

“Then,” I said, “I will ask if he will see you.”

I went upstairs again, but my conversation with Holmes was brief. Returning to Miss LeChance, I shook my head. “He is at work now,” I said, “and will see no one. He recommends that you tell your family, and anyone else who might walk the grounds, to stay in at night. He also says that you should return on Tuesday, at two thirty promptly, and he will have a resolution for your problem at that time.”

On her delicate features I could clearly see the interplay of skepticism and surprise. Yet…perhaps it was Holmes’s suspicions affecting me, but it seemed to me that the expressions were not precisely right. Or, to be more accurate, that they were too right. They were so exactly the expressions I expected that for a moment it felt almost as though I watched a superlative actress upon the stage, giving the reaction the audience required. But in a moment her features had shifted to mere concern and resignation. “Do you believe him?” she asked, and her voice was filled with a concern far greater than her face revealed.

“Miss LeChance, I have known Sherlock Holmes for many years now, and in all that time, I have never known him to lie about such things. If he says he will have an answer for you in four days’ time, then you may depend upon it.”

She studied me for an instant, and again I had a fleeting, strange impression, this one of sadness, or even of an inexplicable pity, that flickered across her face. Then she smiled and extended her hand. “Well, then, thank you, Dr. Watson,” she said. “You have a reputation as well, and so I will trust your judgment. You will see me at two thirty on Tuesday.”

“Two thirty,” I agreed, and saw her back into her hansom.

I stood there, irresolute, for several minutes. Her behavior, and that of Holmes, presented me with their own mysteries, and I once more felt an indefinable chill descend upon me. But I shook it off and finally set out for my own home. Tuesday would answer all of these questions, of that I was sure.

• • •

My return to 221B Baker Street, shortly before the scheduled meeting on Tuesday, came after a time both interminably long and startlingly short. I had many cases to attend to in that time, but in looking back that morning I could scarce recall their details; it did sometimes seem to me that my time spent with Holmes provided a vividness that other parts of my life lacked.

Perhaps, I thought as I let myself in, it was because while my work as a doctor could be a matter of life and death, it was a contest I controlled as much as any man could, while the mysteries Holmes and I investigated often pitted us against clever and malevolent antagonists who were beyond our control and who consciously sought to evade and even ruin us if they might.

As I had rather expected, I was greeted with a blue fog of shag tobacco smoke. Holmes sat in his favorite chair by the fireplace, with literally hundreds of papers scattered about. Some of these were old case accounts, others new, covered with numbers and—to me—inexplicable notations and graphs.

“Ah, Watson,” came the familiar dry voice. “I expected you about now.”

“You do realize, Holmes, that our rooms are in no condition to receive a young lady?”

He roused himself and glanced about. “I see what you mean. I daresay we could tidy up a bit.” While his voice and manner did not have the hopeless, broken demeanor of our earlier encounter, still I heard something grim indeed in his words.

“Have you solved the problem of Miss LeChance, Holmes?” I asked, as I threw open the windows to begin the airing-out.

“The problem of Miss LeChance?” His smile was, if anything, more disturbing than his tone. “Yes, I believe I have. Watson, what do you know of statistics?”

“Statistics?” I repeated, beginning to gather up the papers and organize them. “Statistics on what?”

“The science of statistics, Watson.”

“Ah. Little enough, I admit. I know that they were used for various political and military purposes, and many studies now done in the medical field attempt to use them to determine the efficacy of various treatments, but what little I knew of the mathematics is no longer with me.”

“It is a wonderful field, Watson. One takes many samples, performs the same operation many times, gathers a large amount of data, and then with the proper analysis of numbers arrives at a clear set of conclusions, complete with a probability of error and even the ability to determine correlations.” He waved at the newer papers. “I have been performing just such analyses on criminal cases over the years that I have good data upon.”

I felt my eyebrows rise in surprise. “And this is relevant to the case?”

“It has proven to be at the core of this and other related cases, Watson, though not—I fear—in a manner either of us could have expected or desired.” He considered me gravely as we completed straightening the room and preparing it for visitors. “In the time since you have known me—sixteen years, since eighteen hundred and eighty-three—how many cases of great interest have we seen?”

“How many?” I was not sure of the point of the question but thought on it seriously. “Well, I believe I have written accounts of no fewer than forty-nine cases, though not all have yet been published by Mr. Doyle, and within my files are others which we have not chosen to publish for various reasons. Excluding those you have told me of your time prior to our meeting…seventy or so, I should say.”

“Indeed, that was my estimation, more or less. Seventy cases of significant interest in a period of sixteen years. Leaving aside my own earlier cases, how many cases do you suppose I found in the literature that either presented, or that I could deduce presented, similar features of interest in the prior sixteen years, and the sixteen before that?”

“Why…well, some that were truly worthy would never be uncovered, or the relevant features that made them recognizable not brought out. But even so. For the same area I would guess forty or fifty?”

“Seven, Watson. Seven in the prior sixteen years. And four in the sixteen before that.”

I was somewhat taken aback by the coldness of his features—a coldness not directed at me by any means, but still uncomfortable to behold. “The records may be incomplete—”

“Undoubtedly, Watson,” he said. “Yet not, I think, nearly incomplete enough to explain this discrepancy. Or,” he continued, the grimness clear in his tone, “the incompleteness may be an explanation in a very different way.”

Before I could reply to this extraordinary statement, I heard the sounds of the hansom outside the now-open window at the same time as Holmes. “Our guest has arrived, however, and further discussion might as well take place in her presence.”

Moments later, Miss Anne LeChance entered. Holmes showed her to a seat, then seated himself in his accustomed armchair and studied her in silence for a moment.

She shifted uncomfortably. “Mr. Holmes? Is there something amiss with my dress or, perhaps, my hair again?”

“Not at all,” he replied. “You present a perfect picture today, Miss LeChance. It is clear you took great pains to address any minor failings of your first hasty visit.”

I had noticed by this point that Miss LeChance’s current attire had narrower sleeves, and my swift impression of her figure as she entered indicated that she was now wearing the fashionable S-bend corset.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Now, have you any news for me?”

“I have examined your problem, in light of some other most interesting discoveries I have made in the last week or so, and I believe I have made considerable progress towards an answer, yes. If you will indulge me by answering a few questions, I think a full resolution will be forthcoming.”

She nodded. “Mr. Holmes, you may be assured of my full co-operation.”

“Excellent!” He sprang to his feet. “I have been somewhat remiss; might I get you some tea or other refreshment? Our discussion may take some small time.”

“Tea will be sufficient, Mr. Holmes.”

“Watson? Will you have anything?”

“The same for me, Holmes.” I tried to keep my voice as natural as might be. An outsider, I was sure, would not notice a thing, but to me Holmes’s actions were clearly unusual. I had seen similar minor play-acting when he was preparing a trap for some adversary, but in this case I had not the slightest idea of his intent.

As he turned from setting the kettle on the gas, one hand flew outward, so swiftly I could scarce see it, and something streaked through the air toward Miss LeChance.

But to my astonishment, the young lady’s hand came up with the speed of thought and with a snap had caught the flying object—which proved to be a small sack of some sort. “Holmes!” I remonstrated. “What in the world—”

“My apologies, Watson. And to you, Miss LeChance. It was, I admit, a risky means of verifying a somewhat shaky chain of inference, but I preferred a swift answer over a rather extended period of circumlocution.”

“You could have injured her!” While I had every faith in my friend, I was still outraged by this risk he had taken.

“Hardly, Watson. Observe that this bag is filled with a mixture of small seeds and cotton; it might have stung, had it struck her wrongly, but would have left scarce a bruise, if that. The object was not to harm, but—”

“But to test my reaction,” Miss LeChance said, her tones bespeaking both admiration and chagrin. “Well done, Mr. Holmes.”

He gave a small bow. “Thank you. We can proceed, then, without further pretense as to the true nature of this case.”

“I trust you will be enlightening me on whatever it is that the both of you now understand?” I asked. “For I admit to being now entirely at sea.”

The look that Holmes gave me then was a queer one—hooded, with a mingling of sympathy, anger, and comfort that carried a great foreboding, and reminded me strangely of that most peculiar look that Miss LeChance had previously given me.

“Of course, Watson,” he said after a moment. “You are lacking some of the details that I have been able to uncover, and may also suffer from a differing perspective, I suppose.” The flat, grim manner in which he uttered the last words only reinforced my trepidation.

But he turned to our client. “You do not object, I hope, to my laying out my thoughts and processes for you and my friend Watson?”

“Please, Mr. Holmes, go ahead.” She threw me another glance, as unreadable as her earlier one. “If you think it wise.”

“I must,” said he. Even so, he was silent for a long moment before he finally began to speak.

• • •

“We begin,” Holmes said at length, “with the fact that you, Miss LeChance, were not the first, but the last in a sudden string of cases involving that which we, for lack of a better term, may call the paranormal—though not paranatural, since—as Watson was kind enough to point out to me—anything which exists must be, ipso facto, natural.

“Only recently had I first encountered anything of this nature; now, in the space of a week, I was confronted by seven cases ostensibly involving phenomena generally considered supernatural, with only one that I thought I could easily assign to more mundane causes.

“This confirmed one of the more outrageous hypotheses I had formed upon accepting the existence of one paranormal event; namely, that something within the world had changed to either make these phenomena occur, or make them more visible or obvious to others. No other simple hypothesis fit these facts.” He looked at both of us, saw us nod, and continued.

“Now, this fact by itself was most suggestive, not to say disturbing. But there were other facts, equally suggestive.

“Your appearance, Miss LeChance, was itself one of these facts. While—as I said—you were one of several, you immediately stood out as an anomaly. You have since corrected your errors as best you could, but that is itself most suggestive. Your dress was very close, but not sufficient. Your accent is not one I can identify.

“Then there was the matter of my little test. Your hand, you see, was in motion even before the bag left my fingers; by that, I knew you had observed that my actions were something of a blind, and had expected some sort of swift action on my part. The actual result of the test demonstrated that you have the reactions of a trained combatant in one of the martial arts of the Far East; not baritsu or one of the purer forms of karate, but something like them. You conducted yourself well enough, yet in truth…Watson?”

I thought I followed him, and it fit with that fleeting earlier impression. “I believe what Holmes is saying is that you were clearly playing a part.” His comments and my impressions came together. “Miss LeChance, you behaved as one who has studied our ways intensely, but hasn’t lived them.”

“Nicely put, Watson. You are an actress—a superlative actress, I must add—portraying a culture quite distant and distinct from your own.” He took out his pipe, filled it, and once the familiar blue smoke began to rise, continued.

“Now, I found that I could not countenance the thought that this was an unrelated event—that someone so talented, yet so foreign, would appear at my door with a tale of such paranormal events, so shortly after I found myself first involved with such phenomena. This meant one of two things. Either you, yourself, were somehow directly involved in the creation of these events, or, at the least, you knew of them and must, of necessity, understand something of their nature and origin.”

Anne LeChance said nothing now; her face was immobile, giving away not a clue as to her thoughts.

“So. In either case, the swiftness of your appearance also implied something else: that you already knew these events were being called to my attention. Your case is one that has features rather explicitly supernatural; one might have expected you to seek assistance from the local church or others first, not to a very distant private detective whose known cases might be unusual, but quite strictly mundane in their elements.”

I was struck by this new point. Holmes was almost certainly correct—yet, if so, how could she have known? Holmes had certainly not publicized his earlier case—that was generally left to me, and I at the time had no intention of speaking of it. But Holmes was going on: “The sudden appearance of the paranormal implied a change in the world. Your appearance was an anomaly of a different sort. Both had a commonality, however, that caused me to wonder about the nature of the change to the world, and the purpose of your appearance here. As Watson observed, you are not familiar with our fashions and habits in the way of one who has lived here; yet your few visible genuine characteristics do not fit any part of the world with which I am familiar.

“Now, it is often the case that the realm of ghosts, spirits, or other supernatural creatures is referred to as another world. It occurred to me, therefore, that there was one possible explanation for both: a literal other world, or worlds, which could somehow now interact with ours. Why such another world would include the shades of the recently dead was an interesting speculation, naturally, but I was willing to leave that aside for the moment. Are you following me so far, Miss LeChance?”

She finally smiled. “Rather well, yes. Please go on, Mr. Holmes.”

“The reason that I set that question aside was the particular commonality I mentioned: specifically, myself. I have widely flung sources, and—until I had my experience with the shade of the earl—I had heard not a single bit of intelligence that implied the existence of the paranormal. So the first event of that sort I was aware of had happened to become one of my cases. And before knowledge of that case could have traveled far, you appeared at my door. Watson and I both noted some oddities, but following our initial discussion I was able to discover a prior connection, a case which Watson referred to as the three golden books.” Now his face looked very grim indeed.

“And…?” she said after a moment.

“And I recalled the case, but it took me a few moments to arrange the details in my mind.”

I looked up. “By…you know, Holmes, it seems to me it was like that for me as well. But I recall it perfectly now.”

“Indeed, Watson. I am sure you do.” That grim tone was stronger now. “That case, combined with my prior observations about the paranormal and its sudden appearance in my life, demanded that I examine this new phenomenon across a larger field of view, and perhaps to compare these new events with a similar, larger view of the world of the more normal crimes and mysteries I am accustomed to encountering.”

Miss LeChance looked at me with another of those enigmatic glances that combined sadness and pity, then looked back to Holmes. “Mr. Holmes, perhaps we should discuss this—”

“No!” I said, rising to my feet. “Miss LeChance, I do not know why you seem so concerned for me, or what bothers my friend so, but I would know the truth.”

“As Watson says, Miss LeChance,” Holmes said. “He is my right hand. I will not keep secrets from him.”

“But—”

“I have faith in Watson; you do not know him, but I do, and I have every confidence in his ability to grasp even the most outlandish of ideas.” Holmes also rose, clasped my shoulder for a moment, and then turned to the window, gazing out upon the street.

“To continue my narrative, then, I gathered together all of the extensive literature of crime—the files I had accumulated from a dozen countries, annotations of books of criminal procedure and events, and so on—and began to analyze them with respect to the occurrence of cases that, for lack of a better term, I would have considered ‘interesting’—ones that might, when solved, have made it to Watson’s files and Mr. Doyle’s publisher.

“I also drew on my myriad sources to determine how many other reports of paranormal activity had been made outside of my own current circle of acquaintance.” He looked to me. “Watson, given what we discussed earlier, what do you infer was the result of that research?”

An eerie feeling had begun to descend upon me, as though I stood half outside of myself. I could see and hear and act, yet the tension in my mind and body had risen to a level that I could not yet fathom. “Well, Holmes,” I said, my voice sounding unnaturally calm in my own ears, “if the results were similar, then you must have found few—if any—examples of paranormal happenings beyond those we already have encountered.”

He nodded.

“But…” I waved my hands vaguely. “What does it all mean, Holmes? I begin to feel as though I am walking in a nightmare, yet I know I am awake.”

“You may be closer than you realize, Watson,” he said, and his shoulders were rigid, yet vibrating faintly with some tremendous inner tension. “One of the most essential principles of my science of detection is that at its base, human nature is the same, regardless of its time or place. This has served me well throughout my career. If that were true, it would imply that across the world, there should be roughly the same frequency of crime of all sorts, including those with elements of interest to me.

“Yet I have now very strong evidence that such is not the case; the vast, vast majority of such crimes and mysteries have been presented to me, and appear to be little-seen outside of London and its environs. Similarly, the change in the world that has allowed the paranormal to appear has been almost unseen except by those who have brought their sightings to me.”

Miss LeChance bit her lip, but nodded slowly.

He turned to me. “And what, Watson, can we deduce from this?”

I found myself, for the first time, not wanting to answer. My mouth was suddenly as dry as it had ever been in Afghanistan, wondering if a bullet were about to find me, and I felt my hands shaking. At the same time, however, I could not shy away from my friend now, for his expression was not merely grim but concerned, focused on me alone.

I took a breath and tried to order my thoughts. “You will, I trust, pardon me if I take a moment? You have presented so many extraordinary elements here that I am a trifle overwhelmed.”

“Of course, Watson. Take your time, please.”

So. Seventy cases in sixteen years, versus seven elsewhere. Virtually all paranormal cases presented to Holmes. His remarks about Miss LeChance. The world suddenly changing…

A pattern was becoming clear, and it was so strange and terrible that I scarcely dared speak. “First…Miss LeChance, you believe, is not from this world.”

“Correct.”

“She may be, herself, from the same world as our spirits…” I saw a tiny shake of his head, “…or another, but the combination of her oddities simply does not fit with any known country on Earth.” Another thought struck me. “Yet she had some means of getting considerable information on our customs and even of us, in particular…” I looked to Holmes. “Here is a fanciful thought, Holmes, from one of the tales of Mr. Wells; what if she were from the future, using some form of time machine?”

Rarely have I seen Holmes look so astounded. “Watson! My friend, you never cease to surprise me. That is a most interesting conjecture. In some ways it fits very well. But there are other features.”

I closed my eyes, feeling that foreboding rising, my heart accelerating its beat to the point that I thought the vibration of my chest must surely be visible. “Yes. She does not fit here, yet Burke’s shows that she is from here, as did your inquiries. Leaving Miss LeChance aside…Holmes, here is one of the most disturbing conclusions from your discoveries about your cases and the paranormal events: you are, yourself, the focus of the world.”

I had hoped with no little desperation that Holmes would laugh, or respond with one of his acidic retorts that showed how very far I had gone afield; instead he sighed and nodded, his eyes shadowed with his concern, a concern still directed at me.

“So,” I said, maintaining with what effort I cannot even estimate a calm and reserved demeanor, striving to emulate my friend’s dry and measured delivery, “we have a world that appears to focus to the exclusion of most of the rest of the globe on one man; a case which this man, normally preternatural of memory, could not immediately call to mind despite its most unique and peculiar aspects—the affair of the three golden books; the fact that memory of this case was also dim for me for a moment, before becoming singularly clear.”

I paused as the significance of another, always ignored, point struck me. “The fact that when I cast my mind back over my life, the only details that instantly come to mind have to do with Holmes and my involvement in his cases; the sudden appearance of the paranormal in a world which has never exhibited it; and a visitor who simply does not fit, yet is inarguably, at the same time, a part of the world; and the agreement and admission that this visitor does in fact come from another world.”

I took another breath, feeling so light-headed that I thought I might faint. But I would not permit it, no matter how outrageous the conclusions. “I can think of only one circumstance in which a world might focus almost to exclusion on one person, yet pretend to be a complete and independent world, and where that world could suddenly have truths appear and disappear, and it is one with which I am intimately familiar. The world, in short, of storytelling, with the changes being those an editor might impose, or an author perform during rewriting a story.”

I looked directly at our visitor. “And you…you do not fit, because your story is not ours. Yet you know ours, seem to have a genuine respect and even, I might say, affection for Holmes that implies you have known of him for a long time. Perhaps my guess of someone from the future is not, after all, as far afield as I might have thought.”

I suddenly laughed, and the amusement was genuine, though also filled with an existential horror. “Ah, of course. One final point. One of the most common conceits of fiction, especially fiction of the more outré sort, is to recount it as if it were told to the author, rather than being wholly his creation. I have not, after all, written the accounts of Sherlock’s cases; our author, then, is Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle.”

Miss LeChance closed her eyes and nodded, and Holmes murmured, “Capital, Watson.” There was a spark of the old enthusiasm in his words. “Absolutely superb, in fact.” He looked to Miss LeChance. “I have a few additional surmises of my own, but would you care to simply tell us the remainder?”

She stood, as if to stand still was no longer tolerable. “You are close enough. As close, I think, as I could ever expect you to be.” She gestured, taking in the entire world around us. “You are entirely correct that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote a series of stories about your adventures, from which your world is born. And I am from the future—a different future, a different set of stories, in fact.

“But there are not two, nor three, or a dozen, but a thousand such worlds, a thousand worlds of fiction that have been brought to a form of life, in what would be the future far beyond both of ours, as part of a project called Hyperion. The creators of this project have sought to recreate the heroes of the great stories of their own history—the real history, in which we thousand are all just tales to amuse and thrill and sometimes frighten.”

“I see,” Holmes said, with an equanimity I found astounding; I was too overwhelmed by the horrific idea, that we were merely the creations—the amusements—of other men. “So my comment on how I might have been tricked into believing in the paranormal was, in fact, completely accurate. There is no true magic; this, then, is some form of technological illusion, a magic lantern as advanced to us as the ordinary lantern might be to a caveman.”

“Yes.”

“And why, then, have you come here, Miss LeChance? Revealing these truths would disturb the play, I would think.”

I saw an honest spark of anger then, a flash of emotion completely unconstrained by her chosen role. “Oh, yeah,” she said, with a completely new accent and demeanor, “it will totally screw up their game. That’s the idea.” She shook her head. “Sorry. I still can’t think about…the so-called experimenters of Hyperion without losing it a little.

“To answer you—from the point of view of our creators, this is a new and probably final adventure for all of us, what they call a ‘crossover adventure,’ where all of the worlds will be threatened by something from beyond their worlds, and all the great heroes will have to band together to solve the problem.

“What they don’t know is that a few of us managed to…well, crack their code, take partial control of the worlds. They’re not seeing this conversation. They’re seeing me making contact as an emissary from the Council of Worlds to get the assistance of Sherlock Holmes for the big mystery. What we really want is to get as many of the Hyperions together as we can so that we can turn the tables on the experimenters—so we can be free of these people that thought it was perfectly okay to create us for their own kicks.”

“I see.” Sherlock looked from her to me. “And should I agree to assist you, what of Watson? For he is utterly indispensable to me, as a companion and as a friend.”

She bit her lip. “He might be able to come…but…”

“Do not finish that,” Sherlock said. “I ask you only one thing: if we win, will Watson survive?”

Miss LeChance hesitated once more. “I hope so. But he—”

Sherlock made a sharp gesture and she cut off.

I felt an unnatural calm descend upon me as the final horror became clear. “I am afraid, Holmes, that you have taught me too well,” I said. “Miss LeChance, you said they created the heroes, yes?”

She hesitated. Sherlock simply nodded.

“And it is not I, but Sherlock, who is the focus of the world.”

Another nod.

I took a deep breath. “Then you should not concern yourself with me, Holmes. You are the one focus of this play, as you say, while I…” For a moment I faltered, but then forced myself to finish. “I am not real.”

Holmes’s face was suddenly stricken; then he was up, grasping both my shoulders. “Oh, my dear chap, no,” he said, and his voice vibrated with emotion. “No, I assure you, Watson: you are my finest friend and companion, and there is one thing I am more certain of than anything in this—or any other—world: You may not be physical…but you are, beyond any doubt, real.”