From Ennui Enigma: "It's poison, Mr. Holmes!"
"Good morning," Holmes said when the door opened. "I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Doctor Watson. We have an appointment with Mr. Birdwhistle."
The doorman eyed us suspiciously. "I was not informed of it," he said in a shrill, nervous voice that grated on my nerves. "Mr. Birdwhistle is indisposed and does not want to see any visitors."
Holmes' polite expression never wavered. "Nevertheless," he said, "He will want to see me. In fact, he dispatched a telegram to that effect this very morning." He handed the telegram to the doorman. The man unfolded it and held it up to the light. Through the paper, I could see the seven words printed upon it.
Matter Urgent STOP Come at Once STOP
"As you can see," Holmes said. "We are expected. Please inform Mr. Birdwhistle we have arrived."
The man's eyes darted nervously from us to the telegram. For a moment, I thought he would leave us on the doorstep, but then he reluctantly waved us into the parlour and gestured us towards chairs where we could wait. Then, with a shrill little sniff, he disappeared.
"A fitting character for one of your stories, Watson," Holmes said wryly.
I sat in one of the chairs the doorman had waved us to. "Why do you think Mr. Birdwhistle wanted to see you, Holmes?"
"There may be any number of reasons," answered Holmes. "Yet it would be a mistake to theorize without any data. We shall know soon enough."
No sooner had he said this when we heard running footsteps. I rose hurriedly to my feet. A moment later, the doorman came sprinting into the room, horror on his pinched little face.
"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. You must come quickly! Someone has murdered Mr. Birdwhistle!"
Holmes' eyes lit with interest and his nostrils flared, the eager face of a bird dog on a hot scent. "Show me."
We hurried after the doorman into a cramped little bedroom at the back of the house. Even with the door open, the air felt stifling and close. A thin man in a rumpled dressing gown lay face down on the ground. This, then, must be the unfortunate Mr. Birdwhistle.
"It's poison, Mr. Holmes!" the doorman wailed.
Holmes' eyes ticked up to mine. "Watson."
Yet I was already bending down to check Mr. Birdwhistle's pulse. "He's not dead," I said at once, for the pulse beat strongly under my fingers. A horrible stench assailed my nostrils and my eyes went to several empty bottles partway visible underneath the bed. "In fact, Holmes, I would say he is merely dead drunk." I reached for one of the bottles and winced. "On extremely bad brandy."
As though on cue, Mr. Birdwhistle groaned.
Holmes raised an eyebrow. "It would seem," my friend said in his very driest tones, "that Mr. Birdwhistle's nerves were not able to sustain him through the few hours between sending the telegram and our arrival."
The doorman looked embarrassed.
"We will return in one hour," Holmes said coolly. "Should Mr. Birdwhistle become conscious in that time, I will deign to hear his case."
A/N: Imagine my delight when I found "Birdwhistle" on a list of unusual English surnames from the Victorian era!
