The news of Henry Gordon Jago's disappearance had already reached the pages of The Globe, and his esteemed colleague, Professor James Litefoot MD, was beginning to panic.
It had all started to go wrong when that chap Holmes came onto the scene, thought Litefoot. First he offered greater rewards to the Street Arabs and the Mudlarks of inner London, and then he announced through his advertisements to all the world that he was Britain's first "consulting detective". The damned cheek.
Jago had gone straight over to the Baker Street address - a devil to find, but no problem for someone with Henry's powers of observation - to have it out with Holmes personally. Of course he'd been further incensed by Holmes' dismissive manner, and naturally he'd thrown down the gauntlet, challenging the upstart to a battle of wits. Jago and Litefoot versus Holmes and Watson, indeed. Henry must have been completely mad to treat the business of solving crime like one of his old vaudeville acts. And to let Holmes choose the crime that they must race to be the first to solve? Sheer lunacy.
Of course Holmes had chosen well. The Mystery of the Blackfriars Circle had gone unsolved for a quarter of a century. That Litefoot's superior knowledge of poisons had allowed him to identify the anaesthetic resin used in the abduction of the Thames Street urchins had taken their investigation far further than that of Holmes and Watson was without doubt. However, Jago's blind barge into the drug den of a powerful Limehouse voodooist had not only set back their case, but severely reduced their manpower. The bird had flown, and the case had become infinitely more complex.
But fears of losing to Sherlock Holmes couldn't have been further from the Professor's mind. Indeed, he was already thinking about hiring the fellow to assist him in Jago's retrieval.
"If only the Doctor were here . . ."
As if on cue, Litefoot recalled the grinding and churning of air that had accompanied the mysterious Doctor's departure all those years ago. It seemed to become louder - more tangible somehow. Removing his spectacles and pinching the bridge of his nose, the Professor turned to look across his study at a spot once occupied by a certain Chinese cabinet, and where now there stood a tall blue box . . .
Litefoot blinked hard - once, twice. The vision remained, and even as he watched the wooden doors opened, and the flowing Inverness Cape that had once been his own made an entrance topped only by the figure around whom it was draped. Tall and dignified, he resembled none other than the playwright Oscar Wilde - aquiline nose and curly hair topped by a deerstalker which completed the ensemble of the smoking jacket, the fancy waistcoat and the wing-collar shirt replete with a flamboyant necktie. The Doctor looked exactly as he had when he solved the Weng Chiang Affair all those years ago.
Except for the scarf.
Immeasurably long and striped with varying shades of burgundy, it looped around him like a domesticated python - relaxed, yet ready for action.
In his gloved hand the Doctor was clutching a rolled up newspaper - The Globe.
"My dear Litefoot, I came as soon as I heard about your predicament!"
"Doctor? Is it really you?"
"As me as it ever can be," beamed the Doctor, prodding his chest self-consciously, "although I did feel that I had to dress for the occasion."
Before the Professor could comment his guest had crossed the room, spreading his notes and newspaper clippings across the table. His eyes took in the information quickly and efficiently while his mouth concentrated on a request for the best Darjeeling tea with lots of milk and lots more sugar.
"Sugar infusion is one of the most efficient sources of energy, you know. Speaking of Caribbean imports, have you tried the Dessalines Warehouse off the West Ferry Road. The name suggests a connection with Haiti if my history is correct . . ."
"Of course! And it's only a few hundred yards from the Limehouse drug den where Jago was kidnapped."
Filled with enthusiasm once more, Litefoot reached for his cloakroom to retrieve his own street clothes. "I do believe you've solved the case. This'll show Sherlock Holmes . . ."
"Sherlock Holmes?" The Doctor looked up, surprised. "Are you telling me that you're in competition with a detective called Sherlock Holmes?"
Litefoot nodded, shrugging on his coat as he returned from the hall.
"He's been operating out of Baker Street for the last six weeks . . ."
"Well, why didn't you say so man? We'd better get our skates on if we want to get there first . . ."
"Do you know Sherlock Holmes?"
"I know of him, Professor. Predictable, two dimensional, yet an absolute enigma whose deductive powers were, in all likelihood, based on my own. Now let's get going, Litefoot. The game is afoot . . ."