The interview with Murray ended reluctantly and Watson was quiet on the train back to London. As he had so often done for me, I allowed him his silence. At last he shook himself from his reverie and smiled at me. "I hope you were not too bored when Murray and I began arguing over vasomotor changes in tabes dorsalis."

"No, not at all," I replied honestly. "I engaged in solving Murray's mystery of the second telegraph."

"I cannot imagine that took very long," Watson said, with a hint of laughter.

"No," I admitted, "but it would have occupied me much longer had you not revealed the name of the chief suspect."

"Ives? Yes, it would be very much in character for him."

"And what sort of man possesses such a character?"

Watson's eyebrows shot up. "I suppose, Holmes," said he, dryly, "the same sort of man who would use the name of his flatmate in Times advertisements and sends telegrams declaring 'come at once if convenient; if inconvenient, come all the same.'" (3)

When I gaped at him, he laughed. "In some ways, the two of you resemble one another. I was struck by it when we first moved into Baker Street. I do not consciously seek out such people; you always seem to find me, no matter where in the world I go."

"Those were but one-time occurrences," I protested feebly.

Watson chuckled again. "If I truly minded, Holmes, you would know of it" – which was of little comfort to me. I had sworn to myself to overcome my blind spots where Watson was concerned. And I did not especially care to be compared to a doctor who would send correspondence about a patient behind that patient's back. I found that I very much wanted to meet this man.

"Will you be paying Dr. Ives a visit soon?"

"Would you care to come along, if I do?" Watson asked knowingly.

Had I become so predictable since my return to London? How disconcerting. I shrugged, feigning carelessness. "I should not decline an invitation," I replied with dignity.

The look on my friend's face told me he was not fooled. "This Thursday, then . . . if it is convenient."

"If inconvenient, I shall come all the same," I said, and Watson laughed again.

xxx

According to my research, Dr. Ernest Fuller Ives had continued to run a field hospital in Peshawar well into 1891 when, at the age of seventy, he was discharged. He had taken up residence in the outskirts of London, tended by a housekeeper and a personal attendant. He had not gone into practice in England. All this had gone into the list I gave to Watson.

A few details I omitted. Ives had suffered a heart-attack in '91, which precipitated his discharge. He fiercely resented his discharge. His health was a deterrent in seeking a practice. The current attendant was a trained nurse, working to pay his way through medical school.

Why had I not told Watson? In short, because I was unsure of how close they had been in Peshawar. Ives had written the report for Watson's first medical review, as well as the supplement report, but I recognized my friend's turn of phrase in the supplement. An attending physician who allowed the patient, albeit a fellow doctor, to assist in his own medical report had to have implicit trust in the patient.

I had sought to spare Watson a little anguish for a friend but in hindsight I realized how unintentionally cruel it was not to prepare him. On the cab ride to Ives's residence, I quickly told all I knew. Watson was angered at first, both at my deception and at the circumstances in which I revealed the information. "You could not have told me before?" he snapped, before glaring out the window. I apologized, quietly, and let him be. After a while, he regained his composure.

"You have a deplorable sense of timing, Holmes, but I am glad you told me," he said at last, tearing his gaze from the window. "I should hate to have no inkling of his condition going into it." I nodded, understanding I was forgiven, at least for the most part.

The house was small but kept in good repair. Mrs. Davies, the housekeeper, met us at the door. She was a small personage, rather rotund, who favored cooking with potatoes, used lye soap frequently but had a weakness for Pear's soap for her own skin, knitted with worsted wool quite often, and though she was not overly fond of Dr. Ives she was steadfast in her duty to him. "I'm very sorry, gentlemen, but Dr. Ives does not receive visitors. Especially those who call unannounced," she added with a touch of maliciousness.

Watson dug into his pockets for the stub of a pencil and one of his cards. He printed three words on the back, which I was unable to read, and handed it to Mrs. Davies. "If the doctor reads this and still does not wish to see us, we shall leave then, but not before." Sourly, Mrs. Davies agreed and closed the door in our faces.

"Such an amiable woman," I observed sardonically. "Let us hope she does not portend what is to come." Watson only smiled and shook his head slightly, as though he fully anticipated a less than cordial welcome.

"What did you write on the card?" I asked to pass the time. Before Watson could reply, however, Mrs. Davies reappeared, looking sourer than ever.

"Dr. Ives says that although it is a great personal inconvenience, he supposes he can deign to spare an hour or two to see you." She allowed us entry and stormed her way down the hall to the sitting room. If this was the housekeeper, I wondered how much worse the master of the establishment could be like.

"Was Ives always this gracious?" I murmured.

"Oh, no," Watson replied, quite blandly. "Sometimes he was downright rude."

"And I resemble him in some ways?" I asked, slightly indignant. His response was almost too soft for me to catch although it sounded very much like, "if the shoe fits." Before I could reply myself, Mrs. Davies announced us and we entered.

(3) STUDY IN SCARLET and CREEPING MAN, respectively.

Again, please do not pelt the author with rotten fruit. Or even fresh fruit. I've seen Monty Python and know how to disarm a madman armed with fruit. So there!