Disclaimer: I imagine Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson might have something to say if it were suggested that they were the property of anyone (although Inspector Lestrade suspects that the Yard thinks it owns him); but if any man could take up the argument with them and win it would be Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, not me. I just hope he doesn't mind me borrowing them.
The January following the Grimbledyke insurance fraud had been a particularly cold and wet month, and the weather combined with a disappointing lack of cases had kept Sherlock Holmes and myself confined largely to our quarters in Baker Street. For my own part, I did not find this a great inconvenience; but the lack of activity had dragged Holmes into one of his blackest moods, and for his sake I hoped that a case would come up before he resorted to other, less favourable methods to counteract his depression.
It was along these lines that I was thinking one morning when I heard a ring at the bell of our front door.
"The doorbell has just rung, Holmes," I ventured to remark, looking over my newspaper at the recumbent form of my friend draped across the settee.
"Quite so," he answered, without opening his eyes. "You will see that I am correct in saying that boredom has a negative effect upon the mental faculties, Watson. It has led you to develop an unedifying talent for stating the obvious."
"I was merely suggesting that you may have a client."
"I think not. That pull upon the bell-rope was too feeble to suggest someone with a desperate problem in need of solution; and I think you would agree that only a desperate man would venture out in this weather." Holmes opened his eyes, sat up, and gestured to the window, which had thick sleet running down it. He paused, however, as a weary tread sounded upon the staircase. "Perhaps a caller for you, Watson?"
"I am not expecting anyone," I replied, as our unknown visitor knocked upon the door.
"Come in!" called Holmes. His eyes widened slightly as the door opened. "Inspector Lestrade! What can we do for you?"
"I was hoping you might be able to help me with a bit of a problem, Mr. Holmes," admitted Lestrade, standing awkwardly in the doorway, and dripping water steadily on to our floor from his hat and overcoat.
Holmes half-smiled. "Then come in and sit down," said he, jumping to his feet with something of his old enthusiasm, and gesturing to the settee he had just vacated. "Watson…" Hurrying to my own feet, I took Lestrade's coat and hat for him. One glance at the little professional suggested that Holmes' first supposition had not been far out, for his face was white save two feverish spots of colour in his cheeks, and he peeled off his wet overcoat as if every movement was a painful effort.
"You should not be out in this!" I exclaimed.
Lestrade gave a wan smile. "I haven't much choice," he said hoarsely, sinking into the seat which Holmes had indicated with undisguised relief. "Not until…" A fit of coughing interrupted what he had been about to say; I moved to the spirit-case, and poured a glass of brandy which I pressed into his hands.
"I won't, if you don't mind, Dr. Watson," he said, once he had got his breath back. "Thank you all the same."
"You ought to take something," I told him, returning to my usual chair. "A hot drink, at the very least…"
"It's good of you, Doctor, but I'll manage without. It's the Evans murder I'm here about."
"Ah, yes," said Holmes, settling himself in his own chair and lighting a cigarette. "The shopkeeper done to death by his own apprentice. But there is no mystery about the case, is there? I understood he had been seen in the act, and the police had lost no time in arresting the young fellow." He looked questioningly at Lestrade. "Surely you have him under lock and key at this very moment?"
"That's just it, Mr. Holmes. We don't. Certainly we found the place where the apprentice- Barnaby Miller, his name is- was lodging, and all we had to do was go to the house and arrest him. It was simple enough. He was there in his room; he didn't seem surprised to see us, and I got the derbies on him all right…" Lestrade stopped as another coughing fit seized him.
"Surely you should be at home in bed," I remonstrated with him. "I do not like the sound of that."
"I'm none too keen on it myself," retorted Lestrade weakly. "But the fact remains, gentlemen, that Barnaby Miller is still at large, and unless I can find him he is liable to get clean away with murder."
"He got away from you?" inquired Holmes.
Lestrade flushed. "He did," he admitted reluctantly.
"May I ask how?"
"He knocked me down and ran. He wouldn't have managed it had it not been for this wretched cold, but the fact remains that he took the advantage, and by the time I had got my breath back to shout for help he had stolen a bicycle and was away."
"You were alone with him?"
"No, but the imbecile constable with me was too busy checking to see if I was hurt to chase after him immediately. We managed to track the bicycle, but Miller has disappeared as if into thin air." Lestrade shrugged helplessly. "If I cannot find him my name will be mud at Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes."
"And so you hope that I will be able to aid you in unravelling the question of his disappearance," stated Holmes. "It is no doubt simple enough; the villain has a friend who is willing to hide him for a time, and you have not yet found the friend. The case hardly appears worthy of my methods. It seems, after all, that you are more in need of Dr. Watson's excellent professional advice than my own." He paused as if to consider. "However, that being so, I may stretch a point. It is possible that it will enliven a few hours of my existence."
Lestrade, who had been looking singularly downcast, raised his head at this pronouncement.
"On one condition," continued Holmes.
"Which is?"
"That you do as Watson has suggested; go home and leave me to find Miller by my own devices."
Lestrade blinked. "But…" he began.
"Those are my terms," Holmes stated. "Would you not agree that it is sound advice, Watson?"
"Undoubtedly," I replied. "You most certainly should not be chasing about London in your present state, Lestrade."
"That's as may be, Dr. Watson, but I have a job to do."
"And you will not do it any better should you give yourself pneumonia," pronounced Holmes dismissively. "No, it will not do. You have come here to ask my help in this matter, and I have promised to give it. Very well, then. You must trust me to bring the matter to a successful conclusion." He got to his feet and walked across to the window. "I see the weather has cleared slightly. I suggest you use the opportunity to take yourself home without a further soaking; no doubt you can give me the address of the constable who was present at Miller's arrest before you go? Thank you." Holmes waited while Lestrade scribbled down the constable's name and address. "Capital. Good day, Lestrade; do try not to dawdle on the way home. It is a cold day, and I am sure you would be a considerable loss to Scotland Yard should you fail to recover from your present affliction."
Lestrade rubbed his eyes at this pronouncement, his expression indicating that he was unsure of whether the bestowing of a compliment by Sherlock Holmes was merely a delusion caused by high fever; but he ceased to argue upon the point.
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes; Dr. Watson. I hope I shall hear from you soon, then," he said dazedly, allowing Holmes to help him into his still damp coat and taking his hat from the peg.
"Undoubtedly you shall," agreed Holmes. Closing the door upon our departing companion, he threw himself back in to his chair and reached for his pipe. "What do you make of it, Watson?" he asked me.
"I do not like sending him off like that. He is in for a bad case of influenza, if nothing worse; that is a serious matter."
"Then let us hope he has not made us a present of his germs, for we may yet need all our faculties about us. I trust you will accompany me today?"
"Of course, if you wish me to."
"Excellent! Then when I have finished this pipe, let us proceed to the home of the unfortunate Constable Meadows, who has so incurred Lestrade's wrath, and see what he has to tell us."