I have endeavoured to present the public with accounts of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, and of his singular intelligence, his vigour and his courage. He often joked with me that his great fame was due solely to my embellishments. He would have preferred to lead a quiet existence, engaged with his chemical experiments, and would no doubt have done so were it not for the exigencies of crime and his need for the stimulus of unsolved questions.
 
I have had the honour to accompany him on many of his adventures and must confess that I always leapt at these opportunities, often I fear to the detriment of my wife and of my medical practice.
 
It is with hesitation that I now take up my pen. The sensitivity of some of our adventures has necessitated their omission from my records on account of their connection to Government affairs, or to the Royal Houses of Europe. The occasion upon which I now write was not among that variety. My hesitation is due to the catastrophic effect this case had on my old friend. However, it was so singular and unlike any that had come before that I believe it must be recorded.
 
It began innocently enough. It was a day towards the end of February in ‘06. My practice had been quiet and my wife was away on a visit to friends. The cold and damp of the season were bothering my old Afghani wound, as was often the case at that time of year. The pain and the inclement weather caused me to feel melancholy, so I decided to call on my old friend. It had been some time since we had last met.
 
I took a hansom cab and when I arrived at Baker Street found Holmes engaged with his violin. He threw it down upon the sofa as I entered. The intimacy between two gentlemen who had lodged together left me well acquainted with his eccentricities but his nonchalance with the instrument surprised me nonetheless. He was fastidious in his affairs but had a carefree attitude towards his possessions. In the days when we had lived together I would often find his pipe tobacco in a slipper and his garments strewn haphazardly over the furniture.
 
“Watson, what luck!”
 
There was a gleam in his eye and an energy across his features that presaged a new adventure. He pulled a chair close to the hearth.
 
“Sit here by the fire. It will relieve your pain. I shall ask Mrs. Hudson to bring us up some tea.”
 
He had no doubt noticed that my shoes were clean and that I had therefore arrived by cab and knowing my preference for walking, had deduced that my wound was bothering me. This did not impress me as it might once have done. I had become accustomed to his habits, though I never ceased to appreciate his extensive and rapid observation of detail.
 
“Do you have a new case?”
 
“We are expecting a visitor, a Mrs. Violet Saunders. She wrote to me by morning post requesting a consultation. It has been a fallow period, Watson. I think perhaps I have been too successful in my work.”
 
I was glad to see Holmes in such high spirits and it elevated my own mood. Mrs. Hudson served us tea and afterwards we sat back with cigars.
 
“Do you have any particulars of this case that you might share with me?”
 
“Nothing at all” said he as he sprang from his chair and leapt to the window. “I believe our guest is arriving now. She has a fine pair of horses.”
 
I rose to join him at the window. The horses were fine indeed, as was the carriage. This was a lady of substance.
 
Moments later we heard her on the stair outside the door and then she entered. She was a presence that commanded attention. I estimated her age to be in the middle thirties. She was a figure of exquisite beauty and intelligence, but these were not the only qualities that drew me to her. She had another quality, which try as I might I was unable to determine.
 
Holmes summoned the charm that came so easily to him, “My dear Mrs. Saunders, please be seated.”
 
During the many years we had been acquainted, Holmes had never shown any remote interest in women. I imagine he considered them ruled by emotion, a state so antithetical to his own nature. However his lack of interest had in no way diminished his gallant manner when communicating with the female sex. He offered her the chair I had just vacated.
 
Mrs. Saunders settled herself by the fire and Holmes perched on the arm of a chair opposite her. I stood next to the table, allowing myself to rest against it and take the weight off my painful leg.
 
“This is my colleague and biographer, Dr. Watson. You may be as candid with him as you would be with me. Before we proceed, may I offer you tea?”
 
“No thank you, Mr. Holmes, though I would very much like a cigar.”
 
This was an unusual request but Holmes, without a trace of emotion and with his customary energetic grace, produced the box and lit her cigar, striking a match against his shoe.
 
“Pray tell us what has brought you here.”
 
Mrs. Saunders drew on her cigar before answering. “There have been some strange occurrences at my house.” She sat back again with her incongruous cigar.
 
“The details if you please,” said Holmes with a hint of impatience.
 
“There have been frequent break-ins.”
 
“And what may I ask has been stolen from you?”
 
“Nothing at all.”
 
“Where might you reside?”
 
“Cavendish Square, number sixty-eight. Nothing has been taken, Mr. Holmes, quite the reverse, things have been added.”
 
Most clients arrived in a state of nervous exhaustion or indecision and helplessness but Mrs. Saunders seemed very much at ease. She was in no hurry to state her business, something I knew would vex Holmes, though he repressed any expression of annoyance.
 
“What are these things that have appeared in your house?”
 
Mrs. Saunders leaned back in her chair in a rather uncouth manner. Her graceful neck was adorned with a string of delicate pearls. Her dress was cut scandalously low, even for the fashion of our modern times.
 
“The first thing to arrive, Mr. Holmes, was a flute. Farrel discovered it on the davenport, beneath some papers.”
 
“Who is this Farrel?”
 
“He is my butler.”
 
“And there have been other appearances?”
 
“Yes, almost every day something else shows up. After the flute there was an oil painting lying flat on the carpet in the drawing room. I believe it to be that famous painting The Duchess of Devonshire.”
 
“Are you certain it was that painting? It was stolen, you know, from Mr. Agnew some thirty years past and I believe it is now in America. Is it still in your possession?”
 
“It is not, and I cannot be sure whether it was the original painting or merely a copy. I am not well versed in these matters. You see, Mr. Holmes, the items that appear in my house disappear soon after.”
 
“How many servants are in your employ, Mrs. Saunders?”
 
“Six. A butler, three maids, a coachman and a cook.”
 
“They all reside with you?”
 
“All but the coachman.”
 
“Does your husband have an opinion on the matter?”
 
“Alas, I am a widow and I live alone.”
 
“What other items have mysteriously appeared and vanished?”
 
“A spinning wheel, a child’s doll, a stack of leather-bound books concerning occult esoterica, and a terracotta urn in Grecian style. I think that is the sum.”
 
“When did these appearances start to occur?”
 
“On the night of February 14th. I remember clearly because on that evening I attended a gathering of friends. I stayed out late and it was upon my waking the next day that Farrel discovered the flute.”
 
“Where did this gathering take place?”
 
“I do not consider that to be relevant, Mr. Holmes.”
 
This was the first time I noticed a tension growing between them.
 
“One of the first lessons in the business of detection, Madam, is that no detail is irrelevant no matter how insignificant it may appear until proven otherwise. The address if you please.”
 
“One hundred and forty-three Cleveland Street.”
 
“The occasion of the gathering?”
 
Mrs. Saunders fingered her cigar, avoiding his keen gaze for a second or two.
 
“It is the studio and residence of an artist friend, who hosts a salon there from time to time.”
 
“Thank you. I take it you have informed the police about these occurrences?”
 
“I have not. I decided to approach you first, Mr. Holmes. Your reputation is widespread and impeccable. Any fee you may require is no hindrance.”
 
I could tell that Holmes had garnered all he wanted from this woman but she showed no inclination to leave. He rose and went to the window, seeing as I did myself that the fine carriage was still waiting in the street below. The horses were muzzled with nosebags.
 
“Thank you Mrs. Saunders. This concludes our interview at present. I now have other matters to attend to, but I shall look into your case and hope to provide you with an answer in a few days’ time.”
 
After our visitor had left, Holmes poured two tumblers of brandy and we sat in front of the fire, I resumed my original place. We spent a few minutes in silence as Holmes packed his pipe and I watched the dancing flames.
 
“What do you make of it, Watson?
 
I had not yet formed an opinion. The whole affair made no sense to me. I felt that he was testing my powers of observation and inference when he asked this question, which he invariably did whenever I was witness to one of these interviews. He was always far ahead of me and knew it.
 
“What perplexes me Holmes, assuming her account to be truthful, is what possible object a man might have that would lead him to deposit random items in someone else’s house. Theft I could understand. It is of course illegal to enter a residence surreptitiously and without invitation but beyond that I cannot see what crime has taken place here.”
 
“What makes you assume there was an illegal entry? These acts may just as well have been committed by a person already on the inside, or they may not have been committed at all. Items that appear then vanish may never have appeared in the first place, so then there would be no entry, illegal or otherwise.”
 
“Do you have a solution?”
 
“I must first acquire information and arrange the facts. Tomorrow I shall go to Cavendish Square and make an examination of the premises. I believe this case may well be more profound than we had initially supposed.”
 
We relaxed back again to silence, enjoying the warmth of the fire. I was thinking through the affair and trying to apply my friend’s methods.
 
“Another thing that strikes me Holmes, is that she did not report this matter to the police. One would expect that they would be the first recourse for most people in such a circumstance. That lends doubt to her veracity. My intuition tells me she is not completely to be trusted.”
 
“Excellent, Watson. It amuses me to wonder what the police would make of it. As we well know, Scotland Yard has the ability to gather facts but not to comprehend them. However, your reliance on intuition disappoints me. It is not worth much unless supported by facts, and when that is the case it is no longer intuition. Do you recall her reticence about providing the address in Cleveland Street?”
 
I nodded.
 
“That street is the very heart of Bohemia, a place where the normal divisions of society do not apply. Aristocrats mingle with ladies of the night, artists, anarchists, gypsies and so forth. Our Mrs. Saunders is a Bohemian. One thing is certain, she is not who she would have us believe her to be. A woman with a coachman and a carriage of that quality and a fine pair to draw it would not depart with a half-smoked cigar, even if such a person should smoke cigars. She would have left it in the ashtray. Did you not notice that?”
 
I went home in an unsettled mood without knowing the cause. In hindsight I see it as a sense of foreboding about those events surrounding my friend, an emotion he would have vehemently decried.
 
The following day I resumed the duties of my practice. I was glad to find that the condition of my wound had ameliorated. I discussed the case with my wife, now returned. She held the same opinion as me, that Mrs. Saunders was not to be trusted. One aspect of our conjugal harmony was our enjoyment of discussing these cases. 
 
As always, when embarked on a venture with Holmes, I was filled with excitement and impatient curiosity. The hours of the day passed slowly but as soon as I was able I returned to Baker Street. Holmes was not there when I arrived so I smoked several cigarettes and tried to amuse myself with a novel.
 
I had not long to wait before Holmes burst into the room with the energy of a hound on the chase.
 
“It is just as I thought, Watson. Mrs. Saunders does not exist, and there never has been a Mr. Saunders.”
 
“Pray elaborate.”
 
He took off his coat and threw it across the sofa, then reached for his box of cigarettes.
 
“The property at the address she gave us in Cavendish Square belongs to a gentleman named Sir Robert Foote. He was present and was kind enough to invite me in. There have been no strange events at the house and neither he, nor his wife, nor their servants have ever seen or heard of our beautiful Bohemian. What do you think of that?”
 
“It only confirms my intuition. Mrs. Saunders, whoever she may be, is not trustworthy. The whole thing was probably a prank, an unfortunate consequence of your fame perhaps.”
 
“It is more than that, Watson. Much more, and it does not bode well.”
 
I did not understand the gravity he attached to this situation.
 
“What is your concern, Holmes?”
 
“Someone is attempting to manipulate me. It is like one of those card tricks. The conjurer invites you to pick a card. With some sleight of hand he determines the card you have picked. He stacks the cards into piles and asks you to select one. Knowing its location he leaves the pile on the table if it contains your card and removes it if it does not. The process continues until there is one pile left, which is then subdivided into individual cards. The game goes on until only one card remains. The conjurer turns it over. It is the card you have chosen. You are amazed but the conjurer has known the outcome all along. He has guided your choices. The decisions you thought you had made were in fact his own. Something like that is going on here, Watson, but I am fully aware of it and not credulous.”
 
“What will be your course of action?”
 
“It will be to visit the address she gave us in Cleveland Street. If she was truthful on that account, which I believe she was, it will confirm my suspicion that someone of equal intelligence to mine intends me to go to Cleveland Street, and go there I shall, but forewarned.”
 
The case was fast exceeding my expectations.
 
“Do you foresee danger?”
 
“I do, which is why I ask that you accompany me, should you be willing.”
 
“Of course.”
 
“You should make sure you bring your revolver with you, Watson. However, before we make this excursion I shall have my street Arabs reconnoitre for us.”
 
Holmes made use of this gang of urchins on occasion. They were the perfect choice for intelligence gathering, able to move unobserved and unsuspected. Their youthful alacrity and hunger for coins, with I imagine a little coaching from Holmes, made them very effective spies. The information they provided was of benefit more often than not.
 
“But what is the object in luring you to Cleveland Street?”
 
“I do not yet know, Watson, but it is no doubt malign. Mrs. Saunders is a professional actress and a good one. The carriage in which she arrived tells us that there are considerable funds behind this venture and that only makes the situation graver.”
 
“Why would she give you an obviously false address in Cavendish Square? Anybody would know that you would see through such a simple ruse. What is to be gained by that?”
 
“Everything she did from the moment she arrived, and even before, was done by design. Her request for a cigar was to throw us off guard. The account of the appearances and disappearances was calculated to titillate the imagination with an inherent absurdity that could be interpreted as a mystery. Even that distinction had a purpose. The mention of the famous Gainsborough painting, an improbability, seeing that after its rediscovery by the Pinkertons it was gobbled up at auction and returned to America, was introduced to sow doubt.”
 
“Why should she wish us to doubt her story?”
 
“Because, my dear Watson, the manipulator must control doubt just as much as credulity if he is to have the greatest effect upon his victim but pray allow me to continue. The address in Cavendish Square, so easily proved false, was intended to show me that I was being manipulated and that I was not the one with the upper hand. I was foolish enough to fall for her reticence about revealing the address in Cleveland Street. Her intention was to rouse my curiosity and nudge me towards where they want me to go.”
 
“This is madness, Holmes. If you are being manipulated as you say, then why would you go where they want you to?”
 
“Someone is at my game, Watson, and with a singular skill. There is beauty in a contest between equals.”
 
“You are well known and respected for solving perplexing questions but does this even constitute a case? As far as I can tell, no crime has been committed.”
 
“Not yet, Watson. Not yet.”
 
There was a rustle at the door and a boy stood before us, barefooted and grimy with London soot. This was Tom, the leader of the urchins Holmes employed. I had met him before. On previous occasions the whole gang would show up when summoned but this had so distressed Mrs. Hudson that Tom now came alone. He would disseminate the instructions he received, along with the pay, to his young colleagues somewhere far from Baker Street.
 
Holmes explained what was required and included a very detailed description of Mrs. Saunders, down to the shape of her jaw. He dropped a florin into the outstretched palm. It seemed an overly generous amount to me. Then the boy was gone, just as he had arrived, quickly and silently.
 
“And when do you propose we venture into Bohemia?”
 
Holmes reached for another cigarette.
 
“Tomorrow night if all goes well. A curious thing happened at Cavendish Square this morning. The maid showed me into a drawing room where I awaited Sir Robert. As I wandered about examining the furnishings, the gewgaws and the books on the shelves I heard a distinct ticking from inside the wall, like a timepiece. Have you an idea what that was?”
 
“Can’t say I do. Very rum.”
 
“The deathwatch beetle, Watson. An insect regarded by many as the harbinger of doom.”
 
Upon my return I sat up late pondering the case, if it was in fact a case. Something seemed awry. Over the many years that I had known Holmes I had often been confused by his reasoning or his strange antics. Ultimately he would be proved correct. What was unintelligible became clear. It was his genius alone that illuminated the darkness. This ability had made him famous. It might very well have been the same on this occasion, and I with my befuddled intellect could not see what he saw, but my intuition, which Holmes scorned, told me otherwise. The case seemed to be running in reverse. Instead of approaching clarity it was becoming ever more obscure as it progressed.
 
The following evening, after I had closed my practice for the day I took my revolver from the desk drawer, cleaned it and loaded it with bullets. I then went to Baker Street to meet Holmes as arranged. He seemed in fine fettle and not the least bit apprehensive about walking into a trap.
 
“I visited my brother Mycroft at his club today and put the case to him.”
 
“What opinion did he have?”
 
Mycroft was a man of high erudition and intelligence, which Holmes with unaccustomed modesty stated was greater than his own. He would seek his opinion from time to time when a particularly vexing problem arose. Unlike his brother, Mycroft was a man with no affinity for physical action. He spent his time between the Foreign Office and his club a few doors away, the Diogenes Club, an establishment that catered to gentlemen who eschewed conversation.
 
“He suggested that I keep in mind the theories of Thomas Bayes, namely Inverse Probability.”
 
I had no skill for mathematics and was unaware of such a theory.
 
“You will have to educate me on that subject, Holmes.”
 
“There is not time enough for a lengthy explication, but in short one assigns a probability value to unknown quantities, say nought or one, and then adjusts the values as the quantities become known. One refers backwards from effects to causes.”
 
“ I see.”
 
“There are a lot of quantities unknown at present, Watson, but we must set forth. I received intelligence from my young spies that the address is indeed bonafide. The inhabitant is an artist by the name of Lawrence Wheeler. They saw no sign of our Bohemian, though they did tell me that they saw the Prince of Wales arrive in a nondescript hansom cab in the company of two questionable women.”
 
“The Prince of Wales? That is highly unlikely.”
 
“True. In their ignorant zeal they may well have mistaken him for another gentleman, but I think we have come across a bawdy house, Watson.”
 
We made our way to Cleveland Street on foot. It was a foggy night and the gaslights glowed in dim, caliginous circles. Our footsteps rang hollow in the streets. We walked mostly in silence, there were few others abroad. When we reached our destination, Holmes rapped sharply on the door with his cane. There was some delay before the door was eventually opened and a portly man stood in the frame. His frock coat was faded and shabby, some of the stitching beginning to fray. His cheeks bristled with unruly bushes of whiskers. He surveyed us with suspicion and undisguised contempt.
 
“You are who?”
 
“I beg your pardon?” Said I.
 
“Wheeler Mr. with speak to wish we.” Holmes enjoined with fluency.
 
“You with off be,” the man croaked as he slammed the door shut in our faces.
 
“What an unpleasant fellow. Is that affectation or lunacy, Holmes?”
 
“Affectation indubitably. As I said, everything here is done by design.”
 
I felt the weight of the revolver in my pocket. Faint light shone through the curtained windows above us. It was a strange and anticlimactic outcome. A creeping lassitude subsumed me and chilled me to the bone. Holmes was silent and seemed indecisive. We wandered a little further down the street and waited, for what I know not.
 
The silence was suddenly broken by the sound of hooves on cobbles and an undertaker’s carriage pulled by two black horses turned the corner and thundered down Cleveland Street at breakneck speed. I saw the driver hunched in his seat, a scarf tightly wound around his face, the reins in one gloved hand, a whip in the other. The carriage came to a halt outside the door from which we had recently been refused. We approached, Holmes with an enraptured and crazed look in his eye. The door swung open, and dirty light spilled on to the pavement. A few words were exchanged but they were muffled and indeterminate. Three men left the building and climbed into the carriage. Then it was gone, its wheels splashing us with mud as it passed. The door it had obscured was closed firmly again as if it had never been opened. Stillness and quiet returned. Without speaking we both knew that there was nothing further to be accomplished and we made our uneasy way back to Baker Street.
 
I stayed in my old room that night, turning in upon arrival as neither of us was in the mood for conversation. When I awoke Holmes was gone. I suspected he had been up all night, as was his wont. I ordered some breakfast and Mrs. Hudson brought in eggs with rashers of bacon and piping hot coffee. I had a remarkable hunger and felt much improved from the repast. After breakfast I had just sat back with the day’s newspapers and one of Holmes’ cigars when he slipped into the room. He was wearing a disguise and looked quite the convincing dandy with a purple velveteen jacket and a rumpled silk cravat, a wide-brimmed hat set at a jaunty angle. The image was marred by his state of dishevelment.
 
“You were back at Cleveland Street I presume? Did you learn anything new?”
 
“The facts change as I gather them. I am undone, Watson.”
 
“Let me have Mrs. Hudson bring you some breakfast. She is top notch today. Afterwards a hot bath will do you good.”
 
“Not at present.”
 
He turned and stumbled into his room. I glimpsed his face. Not even in his deepest depression had I ever seen Holmes with such an expression, a mask of abject desolation. I became alarmed, and going to his door called out to him but he gave no response. I put my ear to the door and heard him fumbling in his medicine cabinet and then the sound of him slumping into a chair. I knew exactly what he was doing. He was injecting himself with cocaine. As a medical man I could not condone this foul habit of his but I could understand it. When he was involved in a case he existed in a high state of stimulation. It was often between cases when his mind was not operating at such a level that he tended to lapse into depression and would resort to the drug as a means, I believe, of regaining the lost stimulation. This circumstance was different. He was involved in a case and would usually not take cocaine. My concern grew steadily and I felt a sickness in the stomach.
 
I sat back down in a quandary until moments later I was up again, pounding on his door.
 
“Holmes?”
 
There was still no reply. I paced around the room until I could bear it no longer. I returned to his door and tried the handle but it was locked, so I forced entry. Holmes was lying on the floor. He was unresponsive but still conscious. Mrs. Hudson, who had no doubt heard the commotion came fussing into the room. I told her to go back downstairs in no short order. I needed to devote my full attention to Holmes and could tolerate no distraction.
 
I raised him on to the bed and checked his pulse. It was normal, as was his breathing. A thorough examination convinced me that he was in no immediate danger.
 
I rang for Mrs Hudson, apologised for my curtness and had her send a message boy to my wife, explaining the situation and to my neighbour requesting that he should cover my practice for the day. That being done I remained by my friend’s bedside.
 
For six weeks Holmes suffered from severe brain fever. I visited him daily, administering doses of laudanum to calm his anxiety as the need arose. This was a double blow, witnessing the sufferings of my dear friend and at the same time as his doctor searching for a cure I was not confident I would find. It caused me to doubt my abilities and I often wondered whether he would not be better served by an alienist. I was also in a state of dread that it might devolve upon me to have to commit him to a lunatic asylum.
 
Thankfully Holmes recovered and we were once more able to engage in meaningful conversation. He never however quite regained his former self. He was as intelligent as ever but in some way humble. I thought at first that this was an effect of the illness and would pass with time but it never did. In fact as the weeks went by I realised how profoundly he had changed. He no longer had any interest in pursuing his former work and as far as I know has not taken on a case since. He never mentioned this most recent case, which I call the Bohemian Adventure. Instead he talked of subjects in which he had previously shown no interest, such as horticulture and spiritualism.
 
After about a year, Holmes gave up the lodging we had long shared on Baker Street, a place I hold so dear in my memory. He moved out of London and took up residence in Oxford. Alas, our friendship waned. I wrote to him several times, thinking to go up and visit him, but he never responded. I do get a yearly note on the occasion of my birthday, so he has not forgotten me completely.
 
I often puzzle over the Bohemian Adventure. It sometimes keeps me up at night. On occasion I see the case merely as an outward expression of the onset of his illness, where seemingly inconsequential events had such a profound effect but there is an ambiguity to the whole thing that leaves me unconvinced. Holmes hated ambiguity. I remember those strange words he had uttered on that fateful morning, something to the effect that facts are changed by gathering them. It seems so paradoxical. Facts are after all the unblemished units of truth. How could they change and still remain facts? Would it not be a case of the facts being proved false? They could not then be considered factual. I have the sense though that this is not what he meant. I recall his face in a spasm of absolute horror. It is something I can never forget. He had told me he was undone. What could have been the cause? It was not physical trauma, my examination of him at the time had confirmed that. Then it must have been something mental. He had the look of a man lost to the point of no return and aware of it, a man whose every tenet of existence had been swept away, who had become a mere fiction to himself. What did Holmes discover there in Cleveland Street while I was sleeping? When he said that facts changed when you gather them, did he mean that he was influencing the case by investigating it? Then logic, at which he was so adept, and by which he had always governed his life would have become nothing more than a chimera. That would be a devastating realisation. These are heady thoughts indeed.
 
Yet there were indisputable facts about the case. We had been visited by the so-called Mrs Saunders, there was a fine carriage in the street, she had requested a cigar. I had witnessed this all myself. If Holmes had been speaking correctly, with full sanity and not from febrile imagination when he told me he was being manipulated, then his enemy had managed to finish him off, neutralise him, in effect kill him without committing a single crime. It was devilishly ingenious.
 
John H. Watson, MD.

Camberwell, 1909.
 
 

©Tom Newton 2023.