Disclaimer – ACD owns the characters of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson of course. Although this story mentions real people, the events are fictional. I have used accurate locations wherever possible.

Prologue

14th October 1882

The doctor walked quickly across the Common, along the muddy gravel track he knew so well. He had made this journey – for any number of different medical reasons – dozens of times. It was one of the drawbacks of his job, he knew, being out in all weathers and at all hours of the day or night, but he was pleased nonetheless. The birth had been complicated and at one point the mother had been despaired of; but thanks to him, the world was now graced with one additional hearty pair of lungs and an extra mouth to feed.

The track was wet underfoot after the recent rain. Clouds raced across the night sky, so that within a short space of time he could be either walking in clear moonlight or in dark gloom. Nonetheless the sea air was bracing. High tide had been about an hour ago, and in the wind he could hear, over the slow crashing of waves on the shingle beach, the creaking of the masts from ships moored a little way offshore. The storm of the previous day had blown itself out, and all was fresh and clean in the late autumn air.

He passed the old ruined windmill – half way home. He was looking forward to his warm fire – even though due to his financial situation he wasn't able to stoke it very high. He wasn't bitter – even though his partner had left him saddled with debt when he had pulled out of the deal to set up the present surgery. The doctor stopped for a moment, looking out over the grassland towards the sea; wondering what it was like at that moment in Plymouth, where he had started practising only a couple of years previously, and where his former employer still worked. Still, it had been a good move – he now had his own practice, rather than one shared with a not entirely trustworthy associate – and, more importantly, a steady stream of patients, most of whom were able to pay their bills in a timely fashion. The debt collectors were not at his door yet! Perhaps Doctor Budd had unwittingly done him a favour after all. It had been hard to come to terms with being sacked – and over such a trivial disagreement. But there was no way that he wanted his name linked with one who was so obviously descending into reckless madness.

Trudge, trudge. Even though he knew the track ran level across the Common, tonight it felt as though it was a steep uphill trek. The Common was slowly becoming less totally desolate – it had been cleared of vegetation for the past hundred or so years, in order to give the town's guns a clear line of fire in the event of attack. But now, in more peaceable times, and with new technology available to the generals and admirals which increased their ability to kill and maim at a civilised distance, it was being allowed to grow over again, and in places avenues of trees had been planted. The town was expanding beyond the garrison walls, and what was being built was most fashionable – although, perhaps, a little exposed. With a smile he recorded that, already, the trees were bent over by the almost constant wind, leaning somewhat drunkenly to the north-east. In the daylight hours it was becoming quite the 'place to be', a veritable pleasure ground; beaux and belles alike walking together, probably not noticing the stunning scenery – or the constant building work under way along the northern edge of the Common. Slowly but surely its edges were being nibbled away – he felt certain that, give a few years, there would be little of it left, and what was left would be unrecognisable.

But at night it took on another character. Only a few days beforehand, a traveller had been accosted and robbed at gunpoint close to where he was now walking. The police were still having a hard time dealing with the last of the footpads who had treated the place as a safe haven for so many years previously. Then again, he thought with a rueful smile, the police were having a hard time dealing with anything, full stop. The only thing they had succeeded in doing recently was removing the old gibbet down on the beach – because it did not give the right impression to the numbers of visitors now arriving daily to sample the town's delights.

The lights of the first houses of his part of the town drew close by, and shortly the track became hard underfoot as the mud gave way to cobbles and the ordered avenues of the town. The cry of an owl echoed around the houses now lining the street, whose grand fronts were illuminated by the new gas street lights, and light shone dimly through some of their windows. The doctor turned one last corner and before him was his own house – number ten, Hampshire Terrace, Southsea.

Well, not his own house, of course – he only took rooms. He was young and single, but lived simply. He paid his weekly rent, always on time, to the kindly owner, an ancient lady of some reputation as a shrewd but fair businesswoman. She was presently away on holiday with relatives in Bournemouth, another seaside town growing rapidly in popularity for 'taking the waters'. He sometimes had to go without, but a doctor could not be without a surgery.

He cleared the three steps to the front door in a single bound, and a few moments later was standing in the relative warmth and security of the porch. He turned the key in the lock, and then he stood gratefully in the hallway, closing the door behind him against the raw elements. The house was dark, but he knew where to reach on the wall in order to turn the small wheel to increase the flow of gas to the light.

Four o'clock in the morning. He replaced his pocket watch into his waistcoat, and walked through the hall and into the kitchen. Turning the gas light on in that room, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. What a mess! More washing! he thought with a groan. The birth had been long and had required much effort – both on his part and of the mother. However, he thought, all's well that ends well.

A drink? Perhaps not, of alcohol. Tea, perhaps. The drawback to being a single practitioner was that you were always on call. For all he knew, he might not even sit down before being summoned again by an urgent knock at the door. His reputation had gone before him, and whilst others in the profession were still somewhat loathe to be disturbed during the silent hours, not so with him. After all, if one is to be a doctor, one cannot require illnesses to only exhibit themselves in convenient hours! And, of course, a good reputation paid the bills.

He poured water into his kettle and hung it over the fire. As the water started to heat up, a knock at the door sounded through the house. He quickly removed the kettle from the heat, and made his way to the door. Opening it he cast a glance out into the street and saw nothing. Who could be playing such pranks at this time of the morning? he thought angrily.

He was ready to close the door when a quiet groan attracted his attention. It was coming from the foot of the stairs leading to the door, and as he looked he saw in the dim light the figure of a person, lying on the pavement. He leapt down the step and knelt at the poor wretch's side.

It was a woman, probably in her mid twenties. She was clearly under some intoxicating influence, but was for her part well dressed and, he rapidly surmised, of no little breeding and wealth. Seeing that she had fallen down the steps, he carefully helped her to her feet, and gingerly assisted her back up the three steps and into the hall.

"Can you speak?" he asked. In reply, the woman looked pleadingly into his face. Her voice was indeed of one well educated, but its news brought coldness to his heart.

"My husband. Francis. They – they've taken him."

"Who are 'they'?" he asked in reply.

"The order. The order…"

He noticed blood was coming to her lips. He laid her on the chaise in the hallway and turned the light up to its full extent. A growing pool of crimson on the floor surrounded the woman. He fell to his knees beside her, steadying her as she slumped from the chaise onto the floor, revealing in her side a gunshot wound. His hands, he realised, were covered in blood from where he had assisted her.

"Please …." She fought for breath, and held onto the lapels of his jacket as she struggled to speak. "You must stop them. You must stop them finding …."

"I will attend to you. I will be gone only a moment, to get my bag," he assured her, and left her side and ran into the kitchen where his medical bag was still on the table. He returned to the woman – but it was too late. She had expired.

He sat next to her in silence for a few moments. 'Order'. Whose order? Or did it mean some group or company? His musings did not continue for long, as there was another knocking at the door. Slowly he rose to his feet, tidied himself and opened the door. Two policemen stood there.

"Good evening, Doctor," said the first, "I believe you may have a young lady with you? The trail of blood leads to your door."

"Yes, officers," he replied. "She knocked my door not five minutes hence. Please, come in. I fear some evil has been committed locally tonight. She talked of her husband being taken."

He ushered the two policemen into the hallway where the body of the young woman was lying on the floor.

"Cause of death, sir?" asked the second officer, getting out his notebook.

"She has been shot. Once, in the chest. At least one of her lungs has been punctured by the bullet, and it is my opinion that she bled to death."

The policemen looked at each other, and then the first continued, "Do you know this woman, doctor?"

"No, I have but recently returned from a birth over towards Eastney. I had only just put the kettle onto the hearth for a drink when the door was knocked, and I found her here. Her husband is called Francis, and ...."

This answer seemed to please the officers, who interrupted, "Thank you, sir, I think we'll take it from here. We will arrange for the removal of the body immediately."

"Well, actually, I don't think that will be possible. I have to issue a death certificate. You will of course have to make enquiries as to her identity, but the medical process must be completed first."

"I'm sorry, sir," replied the second policeman. "I don't think you understand. We will take the body. Now."

At this the doctor found himself staring down the barrel of a revolver. As he started to protest, he heard the arrival of a horse-drawn wagon or cab. "Into the kitchen, please, sir," said the first officer, with a hint of menace in his voice. "We don't want any more deaths tonight, do we? And not a word of this to anyone – otherwise we cannot answer for your future safety."

With that the doctor was frog-marched into the kitchen. The door was closed behind him and he heard a chair – probably the chaise – being placed against it to hold it shut. The sound of the front door opening, muffled voices, and then shutting again. Silence.

He pushed his way out of the kitchen and ran to the front door. He opened it and saw the cab – for cab it was – racing away. He leapt down the steps and stood in the middle of the road, his head full of anger and bitterness at the audacity and injustice of what had just happened. Surely the two who had visited him and taken the body of the unknown woman were no more policemen than he was.

After a few moments he decided his course of action. The real police would have to be involved, in spite of the threat to his life – and in spite of his low opinion of them.

The Police Station was a few roads away, near the former eastern gateway to the town. He made the journey at a full run, and arrived, breathless, after some five minutes. He struck a number of heavy blows on the door before the resident officer answered the door, and took no time in explaining the situation. To his dismay, it seemed that the young policeman had little interest; either that, or was out of his depth. His face was a picture of disinterest, and what notes he took were incomplete and would be of little use. The possibility of a kidnapping, on top of the murder, passed him by, and he barely took note as the doctor told him of the woman's desperate pleas.

"The cab!" the doctor exclaimed. "What about the cab? With the body ..." His already low opinion of the local constabulary was sinking without trace. He realised that the body was the only evidence for the strange visitation that he had received. He knew what he must do. Taking his urgent leave of the policeman, he sprinted through the gas-lit streets, praying to see the cab ahead of him.

But it was to no avail. His running slowed to a brisk walk, as the shock and gravity of what he had experienced started to dawn on him. He felt sick. And then – he saw the cab. Ahead, under the railway bridge upon which was located the town's railway station.

With a start he realised that it was five o'clock, and the first train for London was at the platform and due to leave. Perhaps he would be in time ....

And then he saw them. With the aid of a porter, the two men he had seen earlier were just finished loading two large trunks into the goods carriage and, dressed now in civilian clothes, were boarding the train at the platform. He cried out, but he was too far away and with the noise of the stream engine they did not hear him. He broke anew into a run, but the train was already pulling away as he reached the bridge. With a feeling of total despair he watched as the train pulled out of the station and disappeared into the early morning autumnal gloom.

If only.... It was always thus. 'If only' the young policeman had not been so slow in taking the details. 'If only' he hadn't opened the door to the two visitors earlier.

'If only' there was someone he could trust to do a proper job of investigating what had happened. He held no hope of any justice – or even help - from the local Force. With so many Service personnel about, civilian matters came low down their list of priorities.

And with a thrill he knew what he must do. He ran to the post office, which was just opening its doors to receive the first load of packets just delivered from the recently departed train. He quickly dictated a telegram, paid the clerk and watched as it was despatched.

JOHN STOP DESPERATE NEED OF YOUR HELP STOP KIDNAP AND MURDER STOP ARRIVING ELEVEN THIS MORNING WATERLOO BRIDGE STOP ARTHUR

Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle allowed himself his first smile since the awful events of that morning had taken place. It would be good to see John Watson again.