Introduction

June 1884

The summer of 1884 was so abominable it was barely worthy of the name. A band of low pressure had settled stubbornly to the west of Ireland and spread its cold misery eastward throughout the entire month of June and beyond. The rain pelted down through the murky grey streets of London and the wind blew it into swirls that left no surface dry and many a hardy soul with a limp and a shattered umbrella.

Sherlock Holmes, lacking for a case or any other intellectual challenge, was the very mirror of this foul presence. A hawkish, dark and moody doppelganger, taken to rapid pacing followed by hours of lethargy and cadaverous stillness. Neither pipe nor newspaper gave him relief and his eyes were increasingly drawn from the silk Persian slipper beside the firedog to that small coffin shaped box that sat above the gently crackling fireplace.

At the time, I was happy and content just to be indoors catching up with my reading and indeed putting some of Holmes’ recent exploits down on paper. Any lengthy exposure to the cold and damp would certainly inflame my old war wound - the throb from the old Jezail bullet was already noticeable. My suggestions for topics of conversation were met with silence or, at best, a curt grunt of disagreement. His face was drawn, and he appeared even thinner than usual, I could not recall seeing him take any solid sustenance for several days. Holmes’ ennui had now set in to the point where I could no longer see any way of stopping him reaching for his syringe.

Although it now felt like an eternity, it was, in fact, a mere three weeks since Holmes had astounded myself, most of Scotland Yard and half of England with the most amazing and sustained display of his talent for deduction and creative reasoning I think I have ever witnessed. Over the course of six days he had solved six crimes and even hinted at the presence of a seventh, yet undetected, felony.