Note: As is known by all readers of this story, the author owns neither Holmes, Watson, Lestrade, nor Mrs. Hudson.
My friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes has said at times that incidents that seem bizarre and interesting in their details often turn out to be quite ordinary while seemingly simple cases are really more complex than it would have been imagined. The one that follows, in fact, could be described in both ways.
I ask the reader to imagine London shortly after Holmes's return, after the passing of my poor wife, when I had returned to live at Baker Street. It was a morning in late summer when we first heard of the affair that became known as the Buckley Road Murder.
"Ah, Holmes!" I ejaculated as I entered our sitting room. "I see you have a new case with one Mr. Henry Pendergast."
My friend turned to face me, smiling slightly. "Why do you say that, Watson?"
"It's simple. It is 9 o'clock and you have risen, already dressed in your black coat, a departure from your usual habits. You are not engaged in anything in particular but are sitting here, waiting: naturally you have some sort of appointment. Lastly, I see this telegram on the table.It is signed with the name of Mr. Pendergast—as it is printed, of course, it is quite legible."
"My dear Watson, you are incorrect, I'm afraid," said Holmes, not able to banish the smile from his face. "I rose early in order to test a theory of mine, so I am waiting for Mrs. Hudson to bring our breakfast. Mr. Henry Pendergast happens to be a young student of chemistry with whom I have recently become acquainted."
I couldn't help being somewhat embarrassed at my misguided inferences,but I was saved any necessity of replying to Holmes's revelation with the sound of footsteps in the hall.
"That is our landlady," said Holmes. "I expect she is bringing a telegram or a message. I'm afraid we'll have to wait for our breakfast."
"Why do you say that, Holmes?"
"She is walking purposefully and quickly—too fast to be carrying a heavy breakfast tray yet as if she is bringing something."
Sure enough, the door opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson, bearing the message in her hand.
"The commissionaire said it's for you, Mr. Holmes," she said.
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Hudson. Ah, Watson! It is from Lestrade," said Holmes as the landlady left.
"So there is a case, after all," I put in eagerly.
"Yes, it seems to be so," said Holmes, scanning the note and tossing it to me. "Here."
The letter, which seemed to be hastily written, read as follows:
"Mr. Holmes,
"Early this morning, Mr. William Worsten was discovered dead in his house at 6 Buckley Road by a servant, who had come to bring him his morning coffee on orders from Mrs. Worsten. He appears to have died at another's hands: Mr. Worsten, a young man, was apparently in vigorous health. The affair has some unusual characteristics, and we would be grateful for your assistance.
"Lestrade."
"Do you know of this Mr. William Worsten?" asked Holmes as I folded the message and handed it back to him.
"Why, yes! He is—was—a popular young man with a considerable amount of money inherited from his late father, an official in the Raj. I cannot imagine a motive for murder, although I really know little about him."
"Nor do I," said Holmes,"but I am truly reluctant to postpone my experiment. Perhaps you would be so kind as to ask Mrs. Hudson to—"
At that moment, however, someone knocked and then entered below, and footsteps were heard on the stairs. Holmes turned just as the door opened and Lestrade himself entered.