Chapter 9: Teamwork

All throughout April 1895, our team continued to work, sifting the large backlog of data, cross-checking names of companies, employees, products, corporate histories, and employment histories. They used data from colleges and universities to compile names of students and graduates, matching them whenever possible to companies that employ such graduates. Slowly over time patterns began to emerge, but despite the best efforts of everyone there were gaps we could not resolve. Not every name could be matched to a list, or to a history of employment; far too many people who might have the skills necessary for creating sophisticated medical products or pills could not be traced. In modern times, people were becoming far too mobile, especially the well-educated. It quickly became obvious that some of the most promising names were people who had left the country, moved into other fields of endeavor, or had simply disappeared – or at least were no longer traceable by traditional means. Our lists didn't even begin to account for those who had come to the country to live, work, or share their research with their British colleagues. The scope of the task before us was daunting at best, with no breaks in the case. The only thing that became clearer was that highly suspect, even poisonous medications were not likely being made by a conventional organization.

Sergeant Thomas, Inspector Radisson, the two young constables Campbell and Newton quickly emerged as the main drivers of the investigation, as they were the primary manpower contributions from the Metropolitan Police. They worked with the four outside consultants daily, with Mercer, Holmes, Lestrade, and Gregson helping whenever they could. I too pitched in, largely by helping Holmes as he compiled the lists and results from the team's efforts. Even though Holmes spent at least twenty hours per week on the project, he was still being pulled into numerous other investigations, both from Scotland Yard, private independent requests for aid (which he did his best to defer), and from police forces outside London, especially Manchester, Birmingham, and Edinburgh.

As the days ticked by, I saw ever less of Holmes. He would be gone in the morning when I came down for breakfast and often would still not be home when I retired for the night. Mrs. Hudson told me that he wasn't eating much at all. "It's just coffee most mornings, and sometimes a bit of toast," she said, clearly exasperated with her absent tenant. "I don't know when he eats, or what he eats, if at all. It's beyond me how he keeps body and soul together." To help ease her concern, I suggested she leave plates of sandwiches, and cold food, out for him at night – as well as packages of bread and cheese which Holmes could stuff into his coat pockets as he left for the day. This seemed to work for everyone, as it made Mrs. Hudson and me less anxious, and it obviously worked for Holmes because the sandwiches would always be gone in the morning, and he always took the bread, cheese, and cold meats she gave him before he left for the day. She also proudly told me that he would leave her notes of thanks: her care and attention was not going unnoticed.

This daily pattern continued into May. Then Holmes was gone entirely for several days in a row, once early in the month, and again on the 15th. Holmes was gone for three days before he showed up after 11:00 PM on the 18th, looking pale, thin, and exhausted. Before I could ask, he said, "Hello Watson. A busy week I see. I've got the latest data from our good colleagues at the Yard. I spent the last three days in Manchester with Inspector Peter Spinner regarding the Spinelli sisters' murder, and even got a bit of leg work done on our poison pill case. Not a bad three days of work, but I am in need of a few hours in my own chair, a pipe, a glass of our best single malt, and a bit of anything to eat!"

I laughed at Holmes, as I took his coat and hung it up. "Well Holmes, I have known you many years, but that might be the most far reaching yet concise greeting I have ever heard from you as you walked in the door. No doubt, you gave me all that to forestall of lot of questions that would take longer answer."

He smiled. "No doubt! Be a good chap and see if you can rustle up something from Mrs. Hudson. Anything at all. I am famished. I'm just going to change and clean up a bit."

Holmes went into his bedroom, and I went downstairs to beg something from our ever-saintly landlady. I was gratified to see she had already roused herself and was busy in her kitchen. "I heard him come in, doctor, and I just knew Mr. Holmes would be hard up for something to eat. Give me a few minutes and I'll make you both up something."

I thanked her profusely and told her I would carry the food up, to save her from the late-night trip. In fifteen minutes, she had a generous amount of baked beans, buttered toast, and fried eggs ready for me, along with a fresh pot of tea. I brought the tea tray up first and went back for a large tray of food, enough to satisfy both of us. She had even included some canned peaches, which she knew we both enjoyed.

"Wonderful Watson, thank you!" said Holmes upon setting his eyes on the tray. Our Martha Hudon is indeed a treasure!" Holmes served himself a large plate of beans, three eggs, and some buttered toast. I followed his example, and for a while we just ate – Holmes satisfying his hunger while I enjoyed the rare indulgence of a late evening feed. Neither of us said much about anything until we were drinking the last of the tea and starting on some Scotch.

"I'm not going to ask how you knew my week was especially busy, Holmes. No doubt I left clues all over the flat: the arrangement of the newspapers, I would wager." A quick grin from Holmes told me I was right. "I would much rather know about the murder case, or even better, the latest on our cases from Raddison and Thomas. You brought home the latest notes, I see. Anything new worth reporting?"

"No obvious breakthroughs so far except a hot, young chemist named Antonio Curry, who shall be interviewed in a few days. He's one of the geniuses coming over from the states. He's starting some post doctorate research at Cambridge in a few weeks. Until then, he's teaching a few classes to the new lab employees at Finegold's. Definitely worth a chat."

"What are you hoping for, Holmes? If he's young and just arrived he certainly can't be involved in our case at all."

"Very true, Watson, however, he's one of the very best to come out of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology recently. He might give us a fresh perspective on what to look for. I would also like to see if we can enlist his aid – have him keep an ear to the ground. I have been thinking that besides our little team, we need more eyes and ears on the inside, in the places where the newest research is happening. If the last weeks have shown us anything, the answers are not going to be found in the open. Whatever this work is, wherever it is, it's possibly happening in the margins. This is deeper and darker than we originally thought. That one fact is both good and bad: good that some large company isn't going out of their way to kill many hundreds of people, but bad that this is an obscure, well-hidden laboratory. I, we all, need to cultivate a team of 'irregulars' – spies in the corridors of higher learning, and places of advanced research, or we may never get a lead at all."

"Is it as bad as all that, Holmes?" I asked.

Holmes paused a few moments, staring into the fire clearly considering how to answer. "Unfortunately, it may well be. We need definitive proof of some linkage in all these cases – something well our vague suspicions of correlation. We need clear proof of causality. Right now, we have none. Our good friends at the Metropolitan Police have gone all out. I can't fault their dedication and commitment. In some ways, their attitudes about these deaths are an indication of how far the force has come. Twenty years ago, every case here would have been recorded as a suicide and nobody would either care or be the wiser, regardless of what I said. Now, they have matured, and they know to at least look a little deeper, and not make so many assumptions. Truthfully, I am impressed. I also know that they have committed all this time, effort, and money largely on my say so: a rather extraordinary thing. Years ago, the Yarders would not give me the time of day. Then they grudgingly came to me for help, but they still didn't trust me or understand my methods. Now, there Is trust, at least some understanding, and quite a lot of respect."

"Things have come a long way, thanks to you, Holmes," I said.

"And to you too, my friend," said Holmes. "I don't like the way you over sensationalize so many of my cases in your narratives, but I have undoubtedly become far more famous and well-known, thanks to you. All that fame has created its own momentum and credibility, which definitely helped make this team possible. There are also all the contributions you made in the cases themselves, always ready, always by my side. I've said it before, Watson, you undervalue yourself too much!"

I warmed to Holmes' unexpected words of praise. "I only ever wanted to help whenever possible. Besides, someone had to have your back and keep you out of trouble!"

Holmes smiled and raised his glass to me in a salute. "And, so you did, dear boy. I owe you my life several times over. You're awfully handy to have around in a fight, and so is your trusty service revolver. Sadly, that revolver is of little use in our current circumstances. The uncomfortable truth is that not every case gets a solution. Consider the Ripper cases, where everyone knew there was at least one dedicated murder on the loose, sometimes the criminal manages to stay one step ahead, and is never caught. In our cases, we don't even have absolute indications of willful murder. Without a solid break in any of these deaths, we will eventually have to move on. That's why I want to at least consider a network of spies – watchers to keep a subtle eye out, so that we have a greater chance of catching that much needed break. Even if it doesn't come right away."

"How much longer can the investigation go on?" I asked.

"With the current expanded team, not much longer. It would be different if we were making any measurable progress, just a little. Then our ongoing team would be justified. Sergeant Thomas, Lestrade, Gregson and Raddison will all keep going, or at least they will keep themselves actively engaged in any way they can. But even the Yarders will be forced to bow to pressure eventually and put all their attention on other things. Pressure from the top is now building by the day. We have another week, maybe two, and that's it. I'll stay active on this for months if I must, as you well know. I believe Thomas will do the same, at least in his free time."

"You have my commitment as well, Holmes. This entire situation is obscene. It's monstrous. It cannot stand!"

"Good old Watson! I know I can always count on you. Your dedication, decency, and morality – I can always rely on them when all others have abandoned me. But fear not, Watson, the Metropolitan Police have not given up yet. We have some days yet!"

Considering the lateness of the hour, we both decided to retire for the night shortly thereafter. As the following day was Sunday, we both spent time catching up on sleep, and the tedious but necessary process of polishing and cross-referencing the case notes. Holmes said needed a lot of time to think, so I decided to spend the evening at my club, leaving him to the flat, and numerous pipefuls of his favorite, noxious shag tobacco. Holmes was still staring into empty space when I got home and was already gone for the day when I got up the following morning. Our time was short, and he clearly intended not to waste any of it.

On Monday, my plan was to run some errands, and do some banking that morning, but my breakfast was interrupted by a telegram, asking me to come to St. Barts somewhat earlier for a consultation. I was surprised to see that it was from my old colleague, Dr. Charles Sears, which had me wondering if Annie Kendell had relapsed somehow. I hurried through my sausages, eggs, toast, and coffee, and made my way to Barts as quickly as possible. I found a floor runner as soon as I arrived and asked him to find Dr. Sears and have him meet me in my favorite consulting lounge. Fifteen minutes later, I saw Dr. Sears come in, followed by another doctor I knew well, Dr. Kenneth Blakely. Blakely was somewhat younger than Sears and me. He was tall, and almost as thin as Holmes. Blakely had a head of flaming red hair and a full beard and mustache. He was only recently married, having spent years rather famously single. He was a handsome man with an air of confidence and a flair, which many women found irresistible. We who knew him had thought he would never marry, as he was having far too much fun being a bachelor. He was ultimately captured by the youngest daughter of Lord Seymour and was reportedly as happily married as he had once been single. Blakely was a specialist in mental disorders; he also saw a great deal of female patients regarding overall issues of health and well-being. This led me to immediately suspect that the cause involved Mrs. Kendell or at least another woman.

"Charles, Ken, you're both looking well. It's good to see you. Ken, I hope married life is still agreeing with you."

Blakely laughed. "Elaine hasn't raised any objections yet. In fact, she seems inordinately pleased with herself these days. I must be doing something right, even if only by mistake."

"She's not the only one going around looking like they have just got a lease on a place in Belgravia," Sears said. "You should see him John, he's insufferable on most days. Nobody should let that happy, at least not without a royal warrant."

"So, what brings you around to Barts, today? Surely it can't be just to chuckle and gloat. Do you have a case of interest?"

"Indeed, we do, John. In fact, we have several cases to discuss," said Sears. Considering your experience and level of interest, and how helpful you were a couple of months ago with Annie Kendell, I figured this case was something you would find interesting. I have a patient here who is going to be transferred today to Colney Hatch Hospital, as she appears to need more help and care than the facilities here can provide."

I was surprised as Colney Hatch was a huge psychiatric hospital. Whoever this woman is she must be in seriously difficult circumstances. "Sounds serious," I said. "What are her symptoms?"

Dr. Blakely took the lead. "She is Susan Crossford, age 34, a resident of the Enfield area. Mrs. Crossford owns and manages a successful tobacconist, along with her husband. Their shop does well, and they do a brisk business in a wide range of pipes, cigars, and related products of all sorts, including some of the rarer and hard to get foreign blends. She was visiting a friend of hers, one Margaret Taft, for a few days when she was found wandering along the roadside. She was incoherent, in a state of confusion and mania, with periods of what can only be described as an ecstatic trance. She has no idea how she got there, and seems to have no memory of who she is except for the most basic details. It was all that could be done to learn her name, and a little bit about where she is from. Her current state is, well, not good. The mania and odd euphoria have passed, leaving her in a mostly catatonic state, which is why she is being transferred to Colney Hatch. It's the closest hospital for the mentally disturbed to where she lives. Her husband, Benjamin Crossford, is understandably extremely distraught. He wants to be able to visit her daily, in the hope that his presence will help bring her back to her senses."

"How long has she been like this," I asked?

"She has been here for five full days. This is now the sixth."

"How did both of you get involved?"

"Mrs. Taft's sister is a patient of mine," said Sears. "She contacted me on behalf of her sister. Ken and I both have some considerable experience in mania cases, Ken especially, which is why I brought him in. You have a broad background yourself, John, as well as an interest in odd and unexplainable cases. It helps that you also regularly consult on staff here – so here we are, bringing an oddity to your door."

"Let's go see her before she leaves," I said.

As we walked over to the ward where Mrs. Crossford was staying, Dr. Blakely spoke up again, "We mentioned multiple cases. What's really odd is that strange as this case is, it's not the only one of these cases I've seen recently. In fact, there are two very similar cases, both fairly new, that I know of at Colney Hatch. I also know of one at Middlesex, and three at Bethlem. The case at Middlesex is a man, a history teacher at a private Catholic school, and the cases at Bethlem are also gender mixed: Two female, one male. The cases at Colney Hatch are one male, and one female."

"So, this is not entirely a female thing," said Sears. "Now you can see why we thought of you. We're also thinking of bringing in Paul Case.

"You may as well bring in the big guns," I said. "I would think that Paul is involved already, being that mental diseases, especially manias, are right in his field of study."

"He may be involved," said Blakely. "He's a regular consultant at Bethlem and Middlesex. Not so much at Colney Hatch, which is why we are going to check with him. It's very possible that the staff at each facility is unaware of cases and trends at other mental hospitals. We may be the only ones aware of a trend. Unlike contagious disease trends at all major local hospitals, incoming patient data is not so readily shared for cases like these. Here we are."

We arrived at the room of Mrs. Crossford. Another woman was in a bed in the far side, with Mrs. Crossford closer to the door. "Hello, Mrs. Crossford. Do you remember me?" said Dr. Sears gently. He came forward, with Dr. Blakely standing behind him, while I stood near the door. Mrs. Crossford was a tall, thin, woman, with long brown hair and brown eyes, in a well-formed face. She would be considered quite attractive but for her flat expression, and the pervading sense of confusion and loss that hung around her. As the moments dragged on, it appeared as if she hadn't heard Sears or perhaps wasn't even aware of our presence.

"We have found that if you continue to talk to her, and just wait patiently, she will responded after a fashion in a limited way," said Blakely to me quietly. "If you stay long enough and work with the delayed response, some communication is possible."

"Is she eating, or attending to her basic biological needs?" I asked.

"A little bread and meat to the first question – anything she can pick up with one hand. Spoons and bowls seem to be too much right now. As for selfcare, apparently not. However, she gets highly distressed when she comes to her senses and realizes she soiled herself. You can tell that she's still somewhat aware – or at least trying to be. She's fighting. Not entirely lost yet."

While Blakely and I were talking, Dr. Sears had continued to talk gently to Mrs. Crossford. He was starting to get a response from her. She was gradually orienting herself to him, and was showing signs that she was aware of him. As I watched, I marveled at his caring, bedside manner. He treated her tenderly, as if she was a young child. Not many doctors had such a light, caring disposition. As he continued to speak, he motioned to Blakely and me to step forward. He introduced us, reminded her that she had met Dr. Blakely before, and introduced me as a consulting colleague who was here to help. Mrs. Crossford continued to gradually come to herself, although it was an obvious struggle to stay with us. It appeared that if we left the room, she would quickly sink back down into the dark depths of whatever held her mind.

"I'm here to tell that you that you're going to be moved to another hospital, one much closer to your home, so that your husband can come visit you often," said Dr. Sears. "Both Dr. Blakely and I, along with other doctors at the new hospital, will be doing our best to make you well." He paused to see if she had absorbed any of this new information. "Your husband will see you there. Do you remember Benjamin?" At the mention of her husband's name, Mrs. Crossford reacted with something like a start. She remembered his name, and their connection at least. She struggled with the thought for a few moments, and whispered one word, "Ben." It was the first word she had said since we entered the room.

"Yes, Ben," said Dr. Blakely. "I spoke with him last night. He's worried about you and misses you. He hopes to see you soon."

Both doctors took turns talking with her, telling her about her move later that day. She was to be taken by ambulance to Colney Hatch by a nurse and two orderlies. Both doctors continued talking with their patient, trying to draw her out of her fog, and establish any form of connection. However, it had become obvious that she just could not stay focused enough. They eventually gave up, gently telling her that she was going to be transported soon, and they would see her when she got to Colney Hatch.

"Well John, what do you think?" asked Dr. Sears when we had left Mrs. Cessford's room.

"A very severe case of catatonia, possibly combined with major depression," I said. "I have only seen someone this bad four times before in my career. All of them were committed to asylums in the end. Two of them got better, in time. I was expecting her to exhibit symptoms like Annie Kendall, but she's unfortunately far worse. In my experience, severe depression and catatonia do not come crashing out of the blue. Usually, there is some significant event, or a series of events, that trigger a gradual decline. Do you know of significant changes in Mrs. Crossford' s life that would account for this?"

"Her father died of cancer three months ago," said Sears. "She was close to him and was grieving. However, his illness was fairly prolonged, and he was suffering enough, such that death was a mercy – which she understood. Her husband says she was handling it as well as could be expected. Her friend Mrs. Taft seems to think that she was affected far more than her husband believes – but still not enough to account for this."

"Was she being treated by anyone?"

"Mrs. Taft believes she was, although she doesn't know who it was. That surprised Ben Crossford because he knows nothing about it. It's entirely possible she sought some treatment without her husband's knowledge. Mrs. Taft believes that Mr. Crossford is not fond of doctors and has a fear of medical treatment in any way. He cares more than enough for his wife, though. He's raised no objections to any care options offered by either Ken or me – or anyone here at this hospital, so it's hard to tell how deep his objections go."

"It's possible she sought care from someone other than a traditional doctor," said Blakely. "A nurse, chemist or even some type of faith healer. We have looked through her pockets and personal effects, and Mrs. Taft has gone through the valise and clothing Mrs. Crossford had at her house, which she brought for what was supposed to be a short visit. Nothing noteworthy was found. For what it's worth, she does not rule out the possibility that she sought some form of help, even if it was from an unusual source. She seems to think it's something Mrs. Crossford would do."

"I supposed some investigation could be done," I said. "But it's going to be hard to find answers without at least of bit of information from the patient. If she comes to herself in a moment of lucidity, it's the first think I would ask her, right after trying to determine how she got out wandering on the road."
Both Sears and Blakely agreed, and said they would send instructions for the staff at Colney Hatch to prioritize questions about any ongoing active care if Mrs. Crossford ever came to her senses.

Before they departed, and I left to go to my regular duties, I asked about the other recent cases, and if they were similar to this case.

"Yes and no, John," said Blakely. "All the recent cases seemed to start with certain common elements: agitation, mania, some form of euphoria, followed by confusion, memory loss and a level of catatonia after a few days. Yet, there are differences enough, both in the manic euphoria, and the catatonic state that followed, to be certain of any form of connection. We need more communication among the treating physicians, and much more awareness about the other cases to be sure. It's possible as we said that only we two are aware that there are so many – and even we may not be aware of them all. To the best of our understanding, all the patients came to the attention of doctors, or the authorities, only after they had been in their current state for some time, so details regarding triggering causes are sketchy. Nobody knows of any common thread, or exactly what the earliest attributes or abnormal behavior were. It's possible that Mrs. Crossford is the only one anyone has real information on, regarding earliest symptoms. Thank Mrs. Taft for that level of detail. We were able to piece together enough data to know that Mrs. Crossford was only out wandering for a few hours before she was found. In the hours before that, she was well enough, at least according to Mrs. Taft. Perfectly normal in fact."

"Is anyone looking into this further, especially any common connections?" I asked.

"So far, not that we know of," said Sears. "I believe that basic information is being sought and will be noted if any of the patients becomes lucid enough. Still, the larger context regarding so many patients is probably missing. Blakely and I will keep an ear to the ground in case anything becomes noteworthy. We will also try more cross-institutional notification. It may depend largely on how well any of these patients recover over time. It's my understanding that at least one or two of the current known cases are starting to improve. But it's a long road, with nothing certain currently. We both will keep you informed."

Dr. Blakely then left us with a promise to me to communicate soon and assurances to Dr. Sears that they would talk the following day. After he left, I asked Sears how Mrs. Annie Kendall was doing.

"She's entirely recovered, and back to normal, but she has little memory of her time in the hospital and no memory or understanding at all about how she got in the state she was in. She's back to work with the Horton Family, apparently none the worse for her experience. Mrs. Horton says Annie is somewhat quieter than she used to be, clearly embarrassed by her episode and worried about it occurring again. If Mrs. Kendall suddenly remembers anything – or experiences an odd change, I will be informed immediately. However, for now, all is well."

"I would say that the case is similar to Mrs. Crossford, but the length of time and the severity of Mrs. Kendall's symptoms would preclude any such diagnosis – at least for now," I said. "Some commonalities, yet quite different, I would say."

"I agree," said Sears. "Anyway, John, I've taken enough of your time. I'll let you get back to your regular duties. I believe Dr. Davenport is on staff today. Please give him my best if you see him."

We warmly bided each other goodbye, and I walked back across the main wing to my regular duty ward to check in and begin my daily rounds and activities. We were a bit short staffed that day, so it was busier than normal. I didn't get a chance to think much about Mrs. Crossford, or our ongoing case. It wasn't until the day was over, and I was riding in a cab back to Baker Street that I was able to give a thought to the status of our case. Without a substantial breakthrough, all indications are that our team investigation will be coming to an ignoble end. Holmes invested an extraordinary amount of effort and persuasion to convince Lestrade and Gregson to back his plan, which then pulled in Radisson. It was a hard-won effort to convince Sir Edward Bradford to sign on to such a bold proposal. Outsiders to investigate possible murders, which might not even be murderers? Even getting superintendents and Bradford to accept the theory had been difficult. It was only Holmes' personal reputation and the odd, highly unlikely show of unity from three senior inspectors, which had finally made this special investigation possible. Holmes had gone to great lengths to set expectations, repeatedly telling Bradford that results would likely not come quickly, or even be guaranteed. However, it was one thing to know failure was possible in theory - quite another to face it in fact. The next few days we're going to be critical.

As I expected, Holmes was not home at Baker Street when I arrived. He had called and earlier sent word to Mrs. Hudson not to expect him for dinner, but to leave some bread, cheese, and cold meats on the sideboard for him to eat when he came in late. While Mrs. Hudson much preferred to make us both a full dinner, she could accept that Holmes would not be home - if he gave her enough warning. She served me an excellent mutton pie and told me that Holmes had warned her that it would be a week of early mornings and very long nights for him. As I ate, I resigned myself to the fact that Mrs. Hudson would likely see Holmes more this week than I would- even if it was only for a few minutes each day.

My prediction proved to be correct. I didn't see Holmes at all the following day, and only saw him for a few minutes on Wednesday morning. He gave me a short, but warm good morning, and asked if I was well. He was already mostly through a quick breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and strong coffee. I could tell at a glance that he was in need of the coffee, as he looked tired and worn - clearly as a result of long days of burning the candle at both ends. Knowing I would only get a few minutes at best, I asked for a quick case update.

"It doesn't proceed well, Watson," he replied. "I warned everyone from the start that this whole endeavor was going to be a long, hard climb at best, with success not guaranteed. Yet, the powers that be are petulantly dismayed by our lack of progress. They intellectually know that data is being gathered, and that both the methodical elimination of companies and significant experts of all sorts are in themselves a form of progress, but they are rather desperate for positive leads - anything to chase down that actually goes somewhere other than dead ends. I expect it won't be long before there is some form of reckoning."

"Is there anything I can do?" I asked.

"No, my friend, at least not presently. You have done plenty already. The current work is essentially simple leg work, the type of thing Scotland Yarders and our young experts are quite good at. Our young, eager beavers are good at what they do, if not a bit impatient. To be expected, I guess. We're all straining for results. What you can do is an extensive review of the data we have. I have my own copy of everything now, which fortunately I haven't had to continually update myself. Lestrade was good enough to finagle some clerical help for the team, so there's a complete copy here, as well as a copy with Radisson. Radisson has been a brick, Watson. I don't have nearly the extensive history with him that I have with Lestrade, Jones, or Gregson, but he's been fully committed since this project was activated. I couldn't ask for more."

"What about other work, other cases?"

"Holmes gave a short bark of laughter. "That's the tough nut in the bag. All the regular work goes on. I help keep our investigation going, and I have had to do double duty and be fully engaged in just about everything of significance that crosses everyone's desk. They're taking full advantage and running me all over London like a scared rabbit. I need their full cooperation - one hand washes the other as they say, so off I go."

"Well, leave out all your latest notes, and I will spend my evening giving everything a close review."

"Thank you, my friend. Your help is appreciated. Sorry I can't stay and talk longer, but I'm already late." Holmes ducked into his bedroom and emerged with a large box. "It's all there, Watson. Have at it when you can. Just keep it all in order." With a wave, and a grab for a last piece of toast, he was gone.

Mrs. Hudson brought me my breakfast soon after. I gave the morning Times a quick glance. A possible murder on Threadneedle St. and an early morning robbery in a warehouse specializing in expensive imports of carpets and Asian china were the prominent local stories. It seemed like Holmes was going to be run ragged again today. I can only hope his stamina will hold out and there will be a break in our case soon. I decided to head to Barts early. An early start would make it more likely I could get back home - and give me a solid few hours to work my way through the files Holmes left for me.

My shift at Barts was busy, but rather unexceptional. Except for a brief note delivered in the afternoon from Dr. Sears, telling me that Mrs. Crawford was safely settled at Colney Hatch, along with a rather cryptic statement that there was another possible similar case at St. Bethlem, a recently retired soldier. Sears promised to send me more details if they became relevant. I couldn't help but wonder what Holmes would think of it all, but considering everything he was juggling at the moment, it seemed best to leave this strange medical mystery to myself and my colleagues.

I managed to extricate myself from Barts at a somewhat earlier hour than normal and headed back to Baker Street. A cold early evening rainstorm left me wet and out of sorts by the time I made it home, even though I was in an enclosed cab. Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson took one look at me and pronounced that a pot of tea and biscuits would soon be following me upstairs. I lit a fire, dried off, and took a quick glance at the early evening papers. The Threadneedle St. murder proved to be an easy solve, thanks to quick intervention early in the day by Sherlock Holmes. At least I knew something about how he spent his day. He came to Scotland Yard's rescue again.

After a dinner of roasted chicken with curried rice, I got busy with the large pile Holmes had left me. I separated everything into piles by chronological order, then went back to the beginning. Most of the data was familiar, as I had previously reviewed it and even helped create it. I was looking for changes if any, or fresh insights into older data, based on what we now knew. Fortunately, there were no changes to be made, except for side notes clarifying a few facts. I had done a lot of work on the side to keep informed. I was glad to see that it showed.

I then spent time reviewing the data on Antonio Curry, the brilliant young chemist with a genius for biology and an erratic work history. It seemed he held some radical political views leaning towards taking drastic steps to improve the conditions of poor laborers, but nothing to indicate he advocated violence. If anything, he seemed to advocate publicly for international treaties to outlaw wars of all kinds. Holmes and Radisson believed the man possessed no threat; I had to agree.

Some of the data over the last ten days was new to me and so that material got most of my attention. A few new contacts in France, Germany, Canada, and the United States, and an innovative biochemist from Switzerland who was currently doing a research project in Glasgow. As I reviewed the entirety of the data that the team had gathered over weeks, even months of work (considering Sergeant Thomas' earliest efforts), I was left both impressed and uneasy that we were not any closer to cracking the case. This case, or more appropriately the series of cases, was now more than three months old. I could not remember a more baffling case in Holmes's experience. Never had a case taken so much effort, over so much time, without producing at least a few substantial leads or progress. Holmes had the occasional case that took months - with one taking seventeen months to close, but each of those cases had yielded clues, showing progress, and slowly evolving clarity, over time. Holmes had the skills, dedication, imagination, and contacts to carefully pry tiny clues from mounds of obscurity. By now he was a genius at finding needles in the oldest haystacks - but not this time.

I worked long past midnight, taking notes, and jotting down my impressions. I decided I would leave my notes on the pile where Holmes would see them in the morning. After long hours, I felt the need to summarize my impressions. However, upon reflection, it seemed I had only one overriding concern and question. I wrote one sentence and left it on top of all my notes:

Where Haven't We Looked?

When I came down the following morning, Holmes was already gone. He left a one sentence reply for me on my place setting, "Where indeed?"

We were doing our best, but apparently our best wasn't enough. Even a little progress would not only boost our morale, but also strengthen our position regarding ongoing investment in the dedicated team. With discontented murmurings growing at senior levels at Scotland Yard, it was clear that things would not continue as they are for much longer.