Holmes diary London 1894
The September night was refreshing to my senses and without intending to I walked far into the heart of town, and beyond, all along Shaftesbury avenue and towards Aldwych. I turned back, not wishing to dawdle in this area where bootlegs and showgirls are equally keen to set upon a gentleman in a silk hat and opera cloak.
The night air was cool and damp, but not cold. I set myself a good pace, keeping time with my cane. My mind, sick of turning over and over the bizarre events of the night, swung naturally to other things n my endless observations of endlessly interesting London.
The theatres were emptying of revellers, and ladies and gentlemen crowded into the street, calling out for cabs. Hackneymen rustled up transport from all the mews round about, rigs appearing from every street all about, and I had to dodge those over eager to collect a fare.
I cut across Covent Garden, thinking it better to avoid the debris of the day's trading than the jumble of persons from the theatres.
I was perhaps a third of the way across the cobbles when, passing a heap of orange boxes I saw the vague outline of a woman, crouched on the ground and weeping.
The market square was dim - the gaslight is infrequent here for the market was long closed - and I approached cautiously.
It had been raining, and what light there was fell in slim bands across the cobbles, drawing dark lines between them.
My footsteps roused the huddled form on the ground, and she stood, scrabbling to her feet with a swift grace which spoke of frequent exercise. A horsewoman, or perhaps -
My breath caught in my throat, for as she turned towards me I saw that she was astonishingly beautiful. Her eyes were dark, and the fine slant of her cheekbones, and set of her jaw, marked her as one from the Orient. She had freckles across the bridge of her delicate nose, and her hair hung loose in a black glossy mass about her shoulders
She was dressed - in grey twill trousers like those worn by s workman and a loose grey jacket of some fabric I could not discern in the poor light. This was peculiar to me until I recalled that in the East, women frequently wear trousers like the men as they work the paddy fields or fish in the mountainous streams. Yet this woman, by her easy grace and strong stance as she turned towards me, seemed no peasant. Everything about her spoke of confidence and high birth.
It was a shock therefore when her first words to me were blasphemy.
"Oh my god," she cried. "Where am I?" She spoke English, and fluently enough to make me abandon any idea of recent arrival from China. Her manner was direct and her words coarse and brash for a lady. American, I estimated.
"Madam," I replied, "this is Covent Garden. Shaftesbury Avenue is yonder." I pointed with my cane.
"What?" She cast wildly about. "Where the hell am I?" she repeated, patting her jacket pocket in search of some item.
I made to move away then, knowing I ought not to linger in this dark place where doubtless her associates were waiting to rob me. Yet something in her manner arrested me. "May I assist?" I asked.
She darted forward and clutched my arm, then sprang back the instant her fingers made contact with my coat. "My god," she cried again. "You're real. This is real. It's all real."
"Madam," I began, "I can assure you I am perfectly -"
But she interrupted me, flailing around and calling out, "Sherlock! Sherlock!"
And then it was my turn to gape, my breath stopped in my chest, for the name she cried out was my own.
