From the personal diary of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Entry dated 9 June 1896

I have to admit that the experience I endured has been preying on my nerves ever since that terrible day. Against my better judgment, it's made me a bit skittish and nervous. The good doctor and Mr. Holmes have assured me that I am no longer in any danger as long as I am careful when deciding whether or not to let visitors into the flat when they are not home. However, I am still careful to keep the house locked tight, especially after dark. I'd rather not leave anything to chance during times like this.

Mr. Holmes has been in touch with the inspectors at Scotland Yard, informing them of everything that occurred. He promises me that they will sort everything out. Of course, this does little to soothe my worries. The mere fact that Mr. Holmes doesn't seem to be taking an interest in this affair is most troubling. I can only imagine that he has some kind of reasoning behind it.

I have decided to try a new recipe for apricot tarts. They are a favorite of the doctor, and one that I don't make very often, for pastry remains an art form that I have not yet mastered. However, Mrs. Wilson, my grocer's wife, told me that this particular recipe is foolproof. I shall have to wait and see! However, I must remember to stop by the store and purchase granulated sugar and cracked pepper. I seem to have let my supply run low. I am also in need of baking flour and soda.

Entry dated 10 June 1896

Had just enough sugar to finish the tarts, though not quite enough baking flour. Stopped by Wilson's Grocery and made all of the necessary purchases. I do so hate it when I run low.

From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 10 June 1896

[Neatly folded between the pages of the diary, I found several sheets of paper that contained an early draft of Watson's writing endeavor at this time. The pages are smudged from his haste in writing so that they are almost illegible. This particular project was very important to him, and had an overbearing influence on the case.

S.H.]

I have been hard at work at a revision of a relatively new case that had been requested by my editors. This afternoon, I was putting a few last touches on the draft before sending it to my publisher for approval. Needless to say, Holmes was not impressed with the prospect of a single case receiving so much publicity.

"If you simply wrote the logical facts instead of trying to tell a story, Watson, you would not have to write so quickly that you ruin an entire page," said the wry voice from the other side of the room as I wrote. "Yet another example of why this is so important."

"People don't want to read just logical facts, Holmes," said I, turning in my chair so that I could see the top of his head over the newspaper that he was holding. "They like a good story."

"Then they can read other stories," shrugged Holmes. His pale face glanced up from over the paper. "I do not wish to be portrayed as a literary hero."

"It's the money from the sales of these stories that helps to keep us living in this flat," I felt obliged to point out.

"Ah, but that is certainly true."

"If you wish, I could spend more time at the surgery so that I would be able to make more money for the rent."

Holmes rolled his eyes with an expression of surrender and shook his head. "You put me in the most awkward positions, Watson."

I chuckled, replacing the cap on his bottle of ink and casting my gaze over the new title: The Illustrious Client. My publisher had decided that my previous title was far too presumptuous.

"Didn't you publish this in the past?" asked Holmes, for he had been aware that I was revising this case.

"Of course," I said, gathering up the many loose pages and putting them together in a single stack.

"Then I must confess that I find myself puzzled as to why you are calling it a new case," said Holmes. His newspaper was cast aside as he stretched luxuriously. "It is, after all, a singularly unimportant case."

"My publishers have asked me to rewrite part of it so that they may publish it in a new paper once more."

"You're printing it again?" mused Holmes. "That is singular."

I chose to ignore him. I got up from his chair and stretched muscles that ached from several hours of sitting hunched over the page. As I did so, he happened to glance out of the window and saw that Lestrade was standing outside on the street. "I daresay that we are about to receive another case, Holmes," I remarked.

"We will see," scoffed Holmes. "London is singularly dull when it comes to crime as of late. I can't just accept any case."

"Well I do wish that you would accept this case," said I, moving over to the table to pour myself a cup of tea from the pot that Mrs. Hudson had just brought in a few minutes before. "You are intolerable to live with when you are bored."

"A case that does not stimulate my brain will make me worse than bored," countered Holmes. "But I would not expect you to comprehend such a concept. It is not your fault that your brain is unable to process the same amount of material as my own."

Any retort that I might have been able to offer was cut short by a knock at the front door.

"I do suppose that we should feel honored that Inspector Lestrade has seen fit to grace us with his presence," said Holmes after listening for the pattern of the knocking.

"Do give him a chance, Holmes," I implored him. "It might be a great deal more interesting than you believe."

"I daresay," said Holmes, though he did not look convinced by my words.

There was a knock on the door to our flat, and Holmes called for Mrs. Hudson to enter the room. She did so, bringing the inspector right inside along with her. "Inspector Lestrade to see you, Mr. Holmes," she said.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," said Holmes, springing up from his chair and gesturing at the sofa that stood across from his preferred chair. "Do sit down, Inspector. Can I interest you in some tea?"

Lestrade sat in the appointed spot and nodded congenially. "Yes, I think that would be just lovely."

Holmes seized the teapot from where I had left it a few moments before. "Some fresh tea, perhaps, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, holding it out to her so that it tipped precariously in his fingers.

Mrs. Hudson rescued the teapot with one swift movement. Her eyes scolded Holmes so irately that I was forced to contain a chuckle. "Do be careful, Mr. Holmes," she scolded. "I'll not have you spoiling yet another of my teapots."

"Do forgive me, Mrs. Hudson," he said apologetically.

She shook her head, still looking annoyed at him, before she left the room. As the door closed behind her with a click, Holmes turned his attention back to our visitor.

"To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, Lestrade?" he asked, seating himself in his preferred chair. "You have not been around to Baker Street in quite some time. I assume that some diabolical scheme has been discovered."

I sat down in the chair next to Lestrade and picked up my pipe from the table. I nodded my greeting as I struck a match and lit the pipe. "Afternoon, Lestrade."

"Good afternoon, Doctor," he said in a voice that was falsely cheerful. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes." He paused, seeming to take a moment to collect his thoughts together. "You are correct in assuming that I need your assistance in clearing up a certain matter."

"Dangerous?" asked Holmes. There was no missing the glint that came into his eyes as he spoke.

"Potentially," allowed Lestrade. "Would you be willing to investigate the matter?"

Holmes chuckled at the words. "Now, now, Lestrade," he said. "Surely you know me well enough by now to realize that I will not commit to any case without first hearing the facts."

"Yes, I do know that," said Lestrade dryly. "But I do rather think that you shall be most interested by this case."

"Then, pray continue," said Holmes, closing his eyes and lacing his fingers together.

"A young man was found dead on the banks of the Thames this morning," said Lestrade.

"Where on the Thames?" asked Holmes, a note of impatience coming into his voice.

"On the eastern end of the Plaistow Marshes, in between the Victoria and Royal Albert docks," said Lestrade. He sounded a bit disgruntled at the interruption, though I would have thought that he would be used to that sort of thing by now. "In the abandoned shipyard."

Holmes raised an eyebrow, apparently intrigued by this piece of information. He nodded for Lestrade to continue his story.

"Victim was probably in his late twenties, and rather wealthy, going by the state of his clothes. Hasn't been identified, but that should only be a matter of time."

"How did he die?" I asked, slowly inhaling the smoke from my pipe.

"At first glance, it seems that he drowned," said Lestrade.

"What do you mean 'at first glance'?" I took another draw on my pipe, trying to get a visual of the entire situation.

"I mean, that's what it looked like," said Lestrade. "But when we examined the body further, we discovered something a bit more interesting. It appears that whoever was trying to do him in attempted first to strangle him with his hands, going by the bruises on his neck. But there was too much water in his lungs for the body to have been chucked into the Thames after death."

"So, presumably, the murderer tried to strangle him but it wasn't working for whatever reason?" I said slowly. "So he threw the body into the Thames to let the river finish him off?"

"It seems ridiculous," admitted Lestrade. "But that's what it looks like."

"Did the handprints on his neck look like they belonged to a man?" I asked.

"Yes, they certainly did," said Lestrade grimly. "What I can't understand is why they would throw him into the river before he was dead. It just doesn't make any bloody sense." He turned so that he was now facing Holmes. "That's why I decided to bring this one to your attention, Mr. Holmes. I thought that you would be able to come up with something."

"Is there anything else that you can tell me?" asked Holmes. His eyes opened and he looked the inspector over several times, apparently deep in thought. "Anything about the victim or the crime scene?"

"Well, like I said, the victim hasn't been identified, but we believe that he was very wealthy. He didn't have any form of identification on him. I assume that was removed by the man who killed him."

"What sort of clothes was he wearing?" asked Holmes.

"Very fine," said Lestrade. "The style was quite old, but it had been maintained most impressively, though the finer details were lost in the river."

"Then he was wearing clothes," said Holmes quietly, more to himself than to either of us. "That's most interesting."

"How's that?" asked Lestrade.

Holmes appeared to snap out of whatever mental process he had been absorbed in and he shrugged. "Never mind," he said. "Just thinking aloud. Do continue."

"I have a man coming in to potentially identify the body tomorrow afternoon," said Lestrade. "I'd like it if you were there for the process. You and the doctor."

"Well, I don't see why not," said Holmes, putting on a rather cheerful tone of voice. "This could be of great interest."

"Then you'll come?" Lestrade sounded undeniably relieved.

"If Dr. Watson raises no objections?"

I shook my head, offering Lestrade a smile. "I should be delighted."

"Then it is settled," said Holmes, getting up from his seat and opening the door of the flat to admit Mrs. Hudson even before she had knocked. "You will stay for some tea, of course, and we shall not talk about this case until the identification of the body tomorrow."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade.

Holmes set the tea tray down on the table, and picked up the teapot, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's glance. "You must be careful, Mr. Holmes," she said, obviously not trusting him to do so. "Or I shall be forced to not allow you to use my china without supervision."

I made my way over to the tea tray, also not trusting Holmes to pour for me. I caught sight of a particular treat laid out on a plate and a smile came over my features. "Why, Mrs. Hudson!" I cried out. "You made apricot tarts!"

She returned the smile, looking very pleased at my reaction. "I thought that you would enjoy them, Doctor."

"I do indeed," said I, sweeping her up in a hug. "You're too good to us, my dear Mrs. Hudson."

Author's Note: The observant reader will probably have noticed that I'm mixing up the canon order of cases, as The Final Problem was set in 1891, and Ghost Map took place in 1895 with Moriarty as a character and Illustrious Client was not set till many years after this. Just a note to say that this is indeed deliberate!