| Preface |
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| The name, Sherlock Holmes, is surely as famous now as it ever
was when he was alive. I have had some little part in this,
by chronicling the various escapades that can now safely be
told without fear of reprisals upon the man himself. Life has
not been the same since his departure. I am not the only one
who feels the loss but, whereas the public are not in possession
of the one man who allowed them to sleep easy in their beds
for so many years, I am the one who feels a personal loss that,
I fancy, can never be made good. |
| I have saved long enough to purchase the flat in which, I
now realise, I spent the happiest years of my life. Mrs Hudson
is still here, though she is more a reminder of past times than
an effective employee for age has, as with me, crept up and
spread its long bony fingers firmly around our hearts. |
I often look into the corner and think about trying to finish
Sherlock Holmes's last chemical analysis. His apparatus remains
set up as he left it in the study of his house on the Sussex
Downs. The temptation of cantering and filtering the opaquely
blue liquid from the conical flask under the suspended pipette
is only defeated by the knowledge I would not be able to reach
a result worthy of the man who started the process.
I have at last taken the advice of my own practitioner and removed
the bust of Sherlock Holmes from the chair he had made his own.
Those familiar with my accounts will remind themselves that
Holmes himself had this bust made to entrap the vicious criminal,
Colonel Sebastian Moran. Though the bullet meant for my long
time friend damaged the forehead of the wax bust, I sent it
back to its creator, Monsieur Oscar Meunier of Grenoble, where
he set to restore it to its former glory. On its return, I placed
it in the chair, slightly away from the fire, lest it should
melt, and draped one of Holmes's old cloaks around it. When
my own practitioner saw this he remarked that, being constantly
reminded of my old friend in this way would play havoc with
my nerves and so, on his advice, I had it removed and placed
under an old blanket in the corner of the room. I must confess,
however, that when I chance upon a queer case of criminality,
I creep to the corner and give the facts of the case to this
representation of Sherlock Holmes. |
I have, at times, despaired at the injustice of outliving
my old friend these last few years and feel somewhat saddened
at having to redress one of the major omissions from my previous
accounts of his singular nature. However, it would not do him
justice if the occasions, of which there were markedly few,
where he failed to reach the bottom of a case, were not recorded.
I think Holmes would admit that, despite his exasperation, he
often learned more from these experiences and so was able to
bring many of the most evil men and women to justice.
The case, or at least, collection of three intertwined incidents,
that I recount here are the most perfect example of Holmes being
able to turn foil to his own advantage. |
| I shall be long gone by the time this collection is made public,
if, that is, it ever will be. But before I may be accused of
cowardice I would be obliged if the reader allows me the chance
to explain the long secrecy. Perhaps, with the benefit of hindsight,
you will understand when I tell you that there are some things
that are beyond the realms of mortal man. At times, The Case
Of The Scarlet Woman would be well placed in this unique categorisation
and I should only want the intimate details to be known when
I myself have a better understanding. I fear this will only
come when I tread with angels or their diabolical equivalent.
Both myself and Holmes remained taciturn on the subject of this
case and even now, in my twilight years, I question the pertinence
of elucidating the details contained herein. |
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- JOHN H. WATSON, M.D.
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