Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are the creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. If you didn't know that, I can't believe you're actually reading this; but never mind, I assure you I'm not so deluded as to think it's I who single-handedly keeps the Strand Magazine alive... (and it's dead. Look, that's PROOF that I'm not ACD!)
I. Bloody Footprints
In the summer of 1886, my friend Sherlock Holmes was for some months absent from the metropolis which had until then formed the source and centre of his investigations. He left it with some reluctance, but leave it he did at last; for his assistance in a case of great delicacy was eagerly sought, no less than his interest aroused by this same case. It is impossible for me to describe the curious circumstances attendant upon this vital investigation, nor the almost superhuman reasoning displayed by my friend in its solution; for those who would profit by such intelligence live and read freely still. Suffice it to say that the solution occupied many weeks and implicated several of the chief personages in our country and abroad. Yet after the conclusion of his investigations, Sherlock Holmes remained at large - tasting the country air for the first time since I had known him; and the history which I now propose to recount was no more to him than a day or so's occupation. For others, however, his involvement has shaped their lives since; and even Holmes himself admits that the case was not entirely devoid of interest.
I will begin, therefore, on the Scottish island of Arran, whither we had been led by the mere vagaries of whim. The whim was my own, of course; in Holmes, although he was certainly no stranger to whimsy, the whimsical humour always took the form of veto. But he had been urged by no whim to object to the plan I had formulated; and we arrived on Arran in a sunny mid-afternoon, tired from the ferry-boat, too warm and irritable. As we walked glumly along the coast road through a small village named (as we later found) Whiting Bay, a startled cry reached us from the beach some ten feet below.
To descend to the beach from the village's main road, it was necessary to clamber down rocky outcroppings all slimy, wet and covered in moss. Holmes did not hesitate; he walked down by the rocks as if by our own staircase with such sang-froid that I feared either his eyesight or his sanity. For my own part, in endeavouring to expend a preternatural care I scrambled down without either speed or safety, eventually landing in a somewhat undignified manner at Holmes' feet.
"Watson, Watson," he chided in a whisper as he assisted my rising with no gentle hand, "must you make so much noise? Undoubtedly everyone on the shore is now aware of our arrival."
"I'm sorry," I retorted with some heat, "I am neither an Alpine goat nor a kangaroo, which seem to me the only creatures for whom that entry is at all suitable. Had you -"
Our quarrel was interrupted by a young woman, perhaps eighteen years of age, running around the promontory ten yards ahead and addressing us.
"Come quickly, please sir!" she cried breathlessly, her Scotch accent proclaiming her a native of the locality, "There are footprints, footprints all over the sand - and they're all marked out with blood!"
She returned, running, clearly to lead us to these footprints. Holmes started in that direction, but I caught him by the sleeve.
"This was meant to be a holiday, Holmes!" I hissed, and he smiled.
"My dear Watson, could you ignore a case of a rare tropical disease? Bodiless footprints are, to me, equally fascinating."
He started around the promontory after the girl and I followed as I had to, but with no good grace. He was at the rocks before I caught up with him - Holmes walked exceeding fast when he had a mind to!
It was with some surprise, as we rounded the promontory, that I noticed the singular absence of the girl who had summoned us. I forgot her, however, as soon as I saw that the footprints were there indeed - the grotesque record of some ghastly journey. All bespattered with blood the man whose feet had made them must have been, for not only were the marks edged with fresh, wet blood - as if the walker had trodden in a great pool of gore - but the sand around was liberally bestrewn with red flecks.