Part II

Chapter 11: Three Violent Lunatics

7th of September, 1895: Saturday

The summer of 1895 found Holmes almost frantically busy with new cases. Most of the spring had been devoted to the one large case, along with the numerous side cases the Scotland Yard inspectors had brought him for consultation. The one private case exception in the spring was the case I later wrote up and published that April as "The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist." Holmes only took the case because Miss Violet Smith seemed to be in unusual peril, and it appeared that resolving her concern would not take too much time. Both assumptions proved to be true. The cyclist case allowed both of us a much-needed break from the city, even if it was only for a short while.

As soon as the formal involvement of Scotland Yard (and the team) in the pill case ended, both Holmes and I were free to pursue the "poisoned pill case" (as we were now calling it) alone at different pace. Once his time was freed up, Holmes also found more time to pursue a large backlog of cases from earlier in the year, including several cases for his brother. As I have indicated in other narratives, Mycroft Holmes was all too eager to use his brother's talents in pursuit of cases of interest to the government, especially where espionage, treason, national security or delicate internation affairs were involved. That summer, Mycroft piled the work on with a will, quite oblivious to his brother's protests that he had cases of his own and a living to pursue. What I haven't mentioned before is that Mycroft could pay his brother quite well for his services, largely because Mycroft employed Sherlock on a select, per case basis, as a specialized consultant and agent. Mycroft always tried to pretend he did not have many resources to hand, but in truth as the head of a critical, highly trusted organization, his resources were considerable and extensive. More often than not, both Holmes and I were paid very well by Mycroft – largely at Holmes' insistence. Holmes would not readily interrupt his own affairs, without compensation, and he would not bring me into government cases without making sure I was equally well paid for my time and inconvenience. The compensation also mattered because very often such cases for Mycroft came with elements of personal danger.

Two private cases of note occurred in the summer of 1895, which I ultimately wrote up and published: "The Adventure of the Three Students," and "The Adventure of Black Peter." Neither of these took much time to solve. Throughout that summer, Holmes worked on eleven significant cases for his brother, not including numerous short consultations with Scotland Yard and the police forces of several other Metropolitan areas across the country, some not taking more than a few hours. As I look back on that summer, it was all the cases that Holmes rather reluctantly took on at his brother's urging that took the majority of Holmes' time and attention. This only became important in hindsight as this narrative will ultimately illustrate.

I was involved in only one of Mycroft's cases that season. I spent 10 days with Holmes in Southern France and the lakes area of Northern Italy in July, chasing a counterfeiter of British currency. Due to the sensitive nature of the case, it will never be published by me in my lifetime or even discussed in the press. It's only the disclosure of this manuscript, planned for 1970, that makes the case mentionable at all. All other cases Holmes worked for his brother throughout the summer were worked alone, without my direct involvement. Some cases, Holmes was allowed to discuss in detail with me, as he made it clear to his brother, as well as to most of his private clients, that discussing cases with me was critical to "his process." However, some of the work he did in those summer months in 1895 was so sensitive he could not even discuss the cases with me. As such, long periods of time passed when I had no idea what Holmes was working on.

As a result of all his government activity, Holmes was abroad for much of the summer. This proved to be very inconvenient for his many private clients, as well as the inspectors at Scotland Yard, who counted on Holmes being mostly in London or at least reachable by telegram for consultation. One series of cases left Scotland Yard particularly frustrated as the incidents occurred during August at a time when Holmes was working on something so secret that I could not even tell either Lestrade or Gregson what country Holmes was in, what he was doing or when he would return. I only knew of the inspectors' cases because both Lestrade and Gregson came to me frequently to discuss the cases out of their need for any insight at all – and because I was called in to view the bodies of the victims.

The first indication of trouble was when constables were called to investigate a violent altercation at "The Pheasant and Quail," a pub for well-connected government officials and financial experts, on Old Bond Street, near Piccadilly. Unlike the average corner pub in London, this was a quiet, refined, upscale establishment with educated, civilized customers calmly going about their affairs. Friday night, the 6th of September was different. Two men had quarreled loudly with a third companion – with the third man disappearing and the original two eventually turning on each other with loud, passionate, if somewhat irrational screaming. The two men came to blows, a fight that turned expressively violent, even for the worst type of dockside slop house, let alone an upscale establishment. The fight spilled over into the street where one man stabbed the other repeatedly, even as his companion smashed at him violently with his walking stick. The result was two well-dressed men left bloody, unconscious, and eventually dead by each other's hand, outside on the street.

"The two victims, if you can call them that are Harold Plinken and Caldwell Adders," Inspector Bradstreet explained. "The argument appeared to be started by the third man, one Kevin Stalls. He got as loud as the other two, but left before the actual violence began. All three men were well known at the pub by the management. They were all regulars, and they each knew each other at least to converse with, if somewhat more than that. There was a fourth man with Mr. Stalls at the beginning of the evening, who the manager – one James McAdams – has seen before but cannot name. He's the only one who was not a regular. The mystery man does not appear to have anything to do with the fight. He's not a person of interest at this time. We are looking for Stalls, not as a suspect, but only as someone who might shed some light as to the events of the evening, and the relationship between Plinken and Adders."

"Who was the one stabbed? Can you determine who first struck a deadly blow?" I asked.

"Plinken wielded the knife, but it's not certain at this time which of the of the two turned the brawl into something that ultimately proved fatal. Apparently, they both were equal in escalating the violence – both in intensity and irrationality. According to witnesses, neither appeared to be incredibly drunk, having only been on their third round of ale. The fight was "most odd" according to McAdams, both for how quickly it escalated, and the level of damage done to the establishment. Glasses, cutlery, chairs, tables, ash trays and pretty much everything that could come to hand was quickly employed."

"Good Lord! That is most unusual! Who were these men? What did they do for a living?" I asked.

"Plinken worked in a senior role in Whitehall as some type of economic analyst. Adders was a highly regarded financial broker for the Bank of England. Something of a genius so I'm told. That's just it, Doctor. Both men were mature, sober, extremely well regarded and not known for erratic behavior. They were similar in age: Plinken was 34 Adders was 35. Same social status, and almost identical educational backgrounds. They were Oxford men. Knew each other at university in fact."
"Were they married? Have any children?"

"Both men were married and yes, they both had children. Plinken had two daughters while Adders had a daughter followed by twin boys. It's a tragedy for both families."

"I have to ask inspector, what did they argue about?"

"It started as a rather obscure event arcane discussion of government policies and the impact on the ebb and flow of the stock market and market values. It probably made sense at the beginning, at least to experts. However, witnesses said it wasn't making any sense at all by the time the serious violence started. Almost gibberish, really."

"And you're absolutely sure heavy drinking was not involved?"

"That's just it, Doctor. The barkeep and all witnesses agree that only moderate social drinking was involved. I know it's a Friday night and all, but this type of thing is unprecedented even for a pub in the worst part of London."

"I wish Holmes was here to offer advice. I can come down to the yard and look at the bodies if that will help."

"Thank you, Doctor. At this point any other insight or a fresh pair of eyes would be most appreciated."
Without much further discussion, I got my umbrella and medical bag and headed downstairs with Bradstreet to catch a hansom cab. On the way the inspector asked me about Holmes, but I had to confess I knew very little about many of his recent cases, including the one he was engaged with currently. "He's been churning through a backlog of client requests while also doing work for his brother – somewhat reluctantly, but in the end, Holmes will not refuse a direct request from Queen or country. He's as loyal and patriotic as any man. More than many, in fact."

It was not a long cab ride from Baker Street to Old Bond Street. Like Bradstreet, I was surprised at the location. The area had the pervasive air of sober, professional affairs. I decided that a view of the scene would be useful before we continued to the morgue. The Pheasant and Quail was everything Bradstreet had told me it was, which was the opposite of a place prone to the kind of violence and chaos he had described. The signs of extraordinary damage were evident once we went inside, especially because it was so unexpected for the establishment, and the local area. A few gaps in one corner of the room showed where tables and chairs used to be. Patches of fresh plaster on the walls were mute testimonies to the objects hurled across the room, while one large pane of glass in the front bay window overlooking the street stood out as obviously new and just replaced. James McAdams, the manager, was supervising the two young men unpacking crates of glasses and as well as a selection of whiskeys and scotches. "Good morning, Inspector," he said, smiling weakly. Signs of stress and strain were written on his face. Here was a man who had not slept the night before – which was understandable under the circumstances. "What can I do for you? As you can see, we are working hard at it to ensure we can reopen, perhaps as soon as this afternoon. I called in some favors on the plaster work and with the glazier. The new windowpane set me back a pretty penny especially at short notice, but I didn't feel very comfortable opening up without. I can the ran the place with a few less tables and chairs but not the rest of it. I can get the furniture I need early next week."

"Good morning, Mr. McAdams. This is Doctor John Watson. He's the right-hand man of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Holmes is not in the country at the moment, but I brought the good doctor around to take a look at the place. We're looking into the deaths of your two patrons, and still trying to determine how two respectable gentlemen found themselves killing each other last night out in the street. I've already explained the events in detail, but perhaps you can clarify any questions Dr. Watson may have."

"I'm happy to answer questions you may have, Doctor, sir," said Mr. McAdams. "I've read all your stories about Mr. Holmes, sir. My wife and children love them. I apologize for the way you see us. Ordinarily it would be a real pleasure to meet you. But, not like this. Most unfortunate, sir. Very tragic and unexpected. In fact, the two men did each other out in the street, but that's almost random chance. The way they went after each other. Lord! You had to be here to understand. It was . . . unnatural. The violence and scandal of it all!"

The poor man looked worn out, frazzled, overwhelmed, anxious, but angry too. Here was a respectable businessman, proud of his fine establishment. His castle had been violated without warning, and he did not even have anyone living he could point to or blame - not anymore, as both parties to the mayhem were dead. He alone was left to explain the inexplicable and pick up the pieces.

"It's good to meet you, sir. I am so sorry this chaos has landed on your doorstep. Inspector Bradstreet has already made it clear to me that you have no fault or blame in this tragedy. It's just that I am hoping you might have remembered something that might provide further clarity. Any signs of previous problems, any prior animosity, bad history or perhaps signs of odd drug use, subtle forms of intoxication? Anything really."

"Nothing at all, doctor," McAdams said. "The two men were regular customers. Most every Friday night, and sometimes the during the week – either in the evening, or sometimes for lunch. They knew each other well enough. Not mates or chums you understand, but men who meet regularly enough either here, or in professional circumstances. Many of our regulars know each other that way. The people who work or do business on this side of London make up their own circle, being close to the financial and governmental buildings. Whitehall isn't so far away, nor are the big banks and brokerage firms. I know Mr. Adders got a significant promotion only a few months back. A big name he was. A rising star who was rising even higher. Mr. Plinken, he was established, a fixture of prominence in his area. Both men commanded respect, and both respected the other as best I know. No scandal, no indications of problems at home. Not a hint of trouble with a woman, either of them. Sober, solid, respectable. And now we have this." Mr. McAdams swept his arms wide, indicating the room around us, obviously meaning the business he was frantically trying to put back together.

The inspector and I asked a few more questions but it was obvious that Mr. McAdams had little to add. The other men tending to customers during the mayhem were not there. Bradstreet already had their names and their statements. He also had the names of all the other patrons and witnesses to the brawl in the street. We therefore said good day to McAdams, wished him good luck, and departed for the morgue.

"Do you want to interview the witnesses, Doctor?" asked Bradstreet. "I can line up a few for you, the employees at least."

"I'm not sure it will be insightful, Inspector. Let's see if the autopsies and investigations down at the morgue yield any information."

The Trip to the morgue was not long, considering it was midday on a Saturday. The medical Examiner on duty was one Dr. Fred Hill, a promising young scientist whose detail-orientated approach I entirely approved of. With a friendly, quick greeting, Hill got down to business. "Nice to see you again, John, inspector. I have just started my preliminary examination of Mr. Plinken. He is very banged up, with a lot of severe bruising, and significant indications of blunt force trauma. He's got broken arms, both of them. Crushed ribs, most likely, and multiple skull injuries. My best guess so far is that of the two of them, he expired first. Very much smashed to death with the assault continuing quite long after he was unconscious - certainly after he was no longer a threat. There's so much bruising and trauma that it's going to be hard to determine which broken bones occurred after death. I believe, Inspector, that your report says witnesses reported that he kept swinging until he dropped. Am I correct?"

"Indeed, you are, Doctor. Multiple witnesses say they would have pulled Mr. Adders off earlier, but for the extreme madness indicated in his violence. Nobody felt they could get near the man - seriously injured as he also appeared to be."

"How soon after the brawl ended did the constables arrive?" I asked.

"Possibly as quickly as 30-45 seconds. Someone had already blown a whistle to summon help. Mr. Adders had finally collapsed by then and was fading fast. He was semi-conscious when constable James Alton arrived. He took one look and blew the signal for reinforcements and medical assistance. Senior constable Roy Lawrence arrived about 3 minutes later, along with a rookie trainee. He promptly sent the lad off for an inspector - who turned out to be me. The scene shook the trainee something fierce, I'll tell you."

"When did Mr. Adders die?"

"He was gone before I arrived on the scene. Nobody was tracking time, but Laurence said he died about five minutes after Lawrence arrived."

As Bradstreet was giving us these details, I had removed my coat and tie, rolled up my sleeves, and donned an apron. Doctor Hill welcomed the help, and I was determined to do what I could to assist. Mr. Plinken had been a well-built, handsome man in life, tall, angular, with little to no fat on him, and all the signs of having lived an athletic life. Unfortunately, the handsome face and well-balanced physique were badly marred by the outcome of such extreme violence. At least five severe blows were indicated to the skull and face, with obvious breaks in both the upper and lower portions of his right arm. Along with a badly damaged hand the left forearm was also broken - with many signs of torso impacts. This was going to be a long and brutal postmortem, with the same procedure to follow on Mr. Adders.

After a quick consultation with Hill, I turned to Bradstreet. "Sorry inspector, but this is going to take us hours. The rest of the day most likely, especially if you want this work done thoroughly. It's midday. Perhaps you can send out for tea and sandwiches for both of us? Ham and cheese or roast beef would be fine. I don't see any value in you staying down here. We'll report our findings to you when we are done. Is that all right with you, Fred?"

"Agreed, John. We're going to be in this deep for hours. Not much you can do for us here other than keeping us fed and watered for the rest of the day."

"Thank you both," said Bradstreet. "Sorry for stealing your entire day off Doctor Watson I'll make sure you are well compensated for your time."

"This is my regular shift," said Hill with a grin. "As the youngest member of the team down here, I got stuck with the Saturday posting. It's good to have amiable and experienced company for the day."

Bradstreet promptly went to find a way to bring us our sandwiches and we got down to our grim work.

It was just after 7:30 PM when we were finally done with our work, and all the necessary paperwork and reports were complete. The report on Mr. Plinken did not indicate any preexisting conditions. The results were surprising in that the number of blows, and the overall damage was even worse than we expected. Many blows appeared to have landed after death. Along with the injuries likely from Mr. adders heavy walking stick, there were numerous indications of cuts, abrasions, and impact injuries, most likely inflicted by the flying glasses, crockery, tables and chairs. The question wasn't so much how he died, but how the fight had lasted as long as it did. A more sober, rational man would have withdrawn, if for no other reason than to save his life. Instead, all evidence pointed to a man driven to further engage by his injuries and rage.

The results on Mr. Adders were equally puzzling he had multiple serious cuts, abrasions, and bruises along with a broken nose, slashed face, five broken ribs and a twisted ankle on the right. Four severe stab wounds to his torso, each one capable of causing death eventually if not promptly treated, pointed to the savagery of Plinken' s counterattack - as well as Adders dogged commitment to continue fighting long after any sane man would have withdrawn. Like Mr. Plinken, Adders had been a handsome man, a little shorter than Plinken, but with similar indications that he had led an athletic adulthood and had taken care of himself. Both men had similar stomach contents: pub ale and the fish and chips they had both consumed. Any other unusual indicators or substances would have to be determined by additional lab analysis.

"What a terrible waste of two lives, John," said Hill. "I don't understand this at all. I can see why Bradstreet called you in on this. He wanted your colleague Holmes too for obvious reasons. There's got to be something more here, something we're missing, or at least an explanation. Right now, we don't have much else to add here. All we can clarify is a detailed explanation as to how they killed each other. A lot of 'how' but absolutely no 'why.' What is anyone going to tell the grieving families?"

"Bradstreet isn't done yet. There's possibly more to get from the witnesses. Professional colleagues and mutual acquaintances have yet to be interviewed in any way. Don't lose heart just yet. I admit I'd really like to talk to Holmes right now, but honestly, I don't even know where he is, let alone he will return. I will definitely give him all the particulars, especially if he comes back in the next day or two."

With our reports finished and filled, we did the last of our personal clean up. We mutually agreed we had earned ourselves a good meal, and perhaps some fine wine. We had a preference for some Italian cuisine, so we took a cab to a new restaurant named "Ronelli's" for some restoration and the kind of idle gossip that doctors left to their own devices will eventually get into…

The following day I got a telegram from Bradstreet thanking me again for my time and reiterating that my time would be paid for - as well as our very fine meal at Ronelli's. I spent Sunday at my club, and catching up on my personal correspondence. I also had notes from home summer cases to polish. The week at Barts was slower than normal. I spent Monday and Tuesday working my normal duty shifts but was scheduled to serve elsewhere as a locum for a colleague with a well-established private practice, Doctor Winston Nixon, while he took some holiday time with his young family at the coast. July and August were always lucrative times for those doctors who had the experience and inclination to fill in for others. As Holmes still had not returned, it seemed a good time to take the extra work while it was available. Wednesday and Thursday were extra-long days as such temporary assignments can be. Nixon's patients and the practice were not entirely familiar to me, so I took extra care with the patients and the associated case notes. It wasn't until 8:30 that I made it back to Baker Street, feeling weary, and had a well-earned dinner. I had just finished eating, and had poured myself a brandy, when there was a late-night caller downstairs, which Mrs. Hudson went to answer. To to my surprise it was two Scotland Yard inspectors: Bradstreet and Lestrade. I invited them in, offered them both brandy and cigars, which they both declined. I could tell they had significant news, so after the usual exchange of pleasantries, I got right to it and asked them what had happened.

"It's an odd business Doctor - and bad too. Quite bad. We could really use Mr. Holmes on this one," said Bradstreet. "Is there any indication when he will be back?"

"No word at all, I'm afraid," I replied. "He could be working more than one case for all I know."

Lestrade winced, then said, "It's most unfortunate, Doctor. It's exactly the type of thing Holmes likes to look into."

"It's about Mr. Kevin Stalls we have come, doctor," said Bradstreet. "If you remember, he's the missing third man, the one who might have started the argument at The Pheasant and Quail last week. He's come up again, but in a bad way. He got involved in a raging argument, which escalated into violence, mayhem and madness at Paddington station tonight. Apparently, he got caught in a crowd, at a time when he started acting in a very anxious and aggressive manner. He then started what appears to be a pointless heated argument with a young man and woman, a newly married couple, out for the evening, and returning home. Stalls started carrying on about being shoved by the man. When Stalls started getting aggressive, the wife stepped in, trying to calm him down. He struck the wife, and the husband naturally stepped up to protect his wife and her honor. It appears Mr. Stalls went completely out of his head. He started bashing on the husband with his walking stick, knocking him out. The platform was fairly crowded so a number of nearby men maybe as many as a dozen, attempted to restrain him. He flailed around, screaming that he would kill them all. Unbelievably, he fought the lot of them off - as outnumbered as he was. There were lots of injuries, and even more noise and chaos. The whole damn thing started heading towards a riot. All manner of police whistles were blown, and the railway constables came running – six in all! It was absolute bedlam!"

"Who were the husband and wife?" I asked.

"One Ryan and Dorothea Malone, married this past May. He's a bank clerk. She's a music and piano teacher to upscale clientele," said Lestrade, looking at his notes.

"The situation ended badly," said Bradstreet. "The six constables who arrived did their best to restrain Mr. Stalls. He broke away, and grabbed an elderly passenger waiting on the train, and attempted to throw him on the tracks in the path of the incoming 7:55 train. The Sergeant on the scene, a Collin West, had no choice but to shoot Stalls right on the spot. The man died within moments."

"Good Lord! How utterly ghastly!" I said. "How badly hurt is Mr. Malone? How significant are the injuries among those who intervened?"

"Mr. Malone has a broken arm and wrist, along with a significant concussion. His wife was knocked senseless." Said Bradstreet. "Lestrade has the list of the other people and their injuries: two other concussions, numerous likely cracked ribs, sprains, bruises, contusions and abrasions galore."

"Nobody involved is being charged on this," said Lestrade. "It's clear that all those involved just stepped in to help the young couple. It's not every day that a crowd sees a pretty young woman being violently assaulted. Certainly, the common man, anyone of decency, can't be expected to stand by and do nothing."

"Indeed, Lestrade," I said. "But still, gentlemen, there must be some form of explanation behind this! First Plinken and Adders and now Stalls! This can't be some random, tragic coincidence. Three respectable men, all well employed, well connected. All completely losing their sanity and self-control in a descent into violent madness what is the connection?"

"That's just it, Doctor. We cannot find even a remotely plausible answer," said Bradstreet.

"What is known about Kevin Stalls?" I asked. "Surely you looked into him after last week's incident at The Pheasant and Quail."

"He's 31, single, an analyzer of European financial market trends for the Treasury Department. He has been in his current post a bit over four years. Something of a genius in his area. He was horrified when we approached him about the death of his friends, especially the manner of it all. He admits he started the discussion, and that it started getting heated, which is why he left. 'We are three minds with high education exceptional insights, vast understanding and even vaster egos,' is how he explained it. He said that passionate, engaged discussions, even heated debates among the three of them, and some select others in their professional peer group were not uncommon. All those in their little circle welcomed such debate, welcomed it, and found such discussions, even heated and intense, both stimulating and professionally useful. It kept their minds sharp, as it helped to debate complex issues with others who had exceptional minds and strong opinions. By doing so each kept their skills honed and ready for those moments when they had to explain or defend their positions on the job, especially to those with lesser minds or far less understanding. It always helped to leave such discussions if the exchanges became too intense. They all did it, as it was understood that debate would pick up in the future, when everyone calmed down, and had an opportunity to reconsider their positions. All in all, he seemed a very intelligent, well-spoken, genial, and level-headed fellow. Now this, just days later."

"It sounds unusual, but all very gentlemanly and civilized." I said. "Hardly the breeding ground of madness and killing violence. If I remember correctly, there was a fourth man with them at the pub last week. Did you ever find out who he was?"

"I did, Doctor," said Bradstreet. "He's one Martin Bay, a friend of Stalls, an independently wealthy writer and historian. It appears he's doing some research on the economics of England in the time of Henry VII, something about the evolution of the nation's treasury. He was introduced recently to Plinken, Adders and some other government and finance types as they all shared a common interest in such history. Seemed perfectly reasonable enough. He apparently left The Pheasant and Quail even before Stalls did."

"Did you ever talk to him?"

"No, we never did, although I am definitely going to try tracking him down now," said Bradstreet. "As someone who knew all three men, I'm hoping he can shed some light on the lives of these tormented souls."

"I don't know what else I can add, inspectors. I will send a message to the yard letting you know as soon as Holmes returns, or even if I can determine where he is."

"Are you available to help with a medical consultation if needed?" asked Lestrade. "I don't think you will be required, but it's good to know, and to give you a nod that such a request may be coming, and why."

"I am available, but perhaps not during the day. I am standing in for a colleague at his private practice, while he is on summer holiday with his family. I can of course come in the evening after office hours. Who will be the doctor doing the medical examination?"

"It's Fred Hill again, Doctor," said Bradstreet. "At least you know it's a man who knows his business darn well!"

"Thank God for small mercies!" I exclaimed. "Rest assured the job will be done thoroughly and well. I am filling in for Doctor Winston Nixon at his practice on Cherry Rd. Number 27. That's where you can reach me during the day. A telegram will reach me, and I can stop by the morgue, likely sometime after 8:00 PM. Sorry it can't be earlier, but filling in at an unfamiliar practice carries an extra overhead of logistics and paperwork."

Lestrade sighed wearily. "Speaking of paperwork, Bradstreet and I had better be getting back to the yard. There is a mountain of paperwork and forms after an incident like this. Sometimes I feel that my entire life and career are nothing but an endless backlog of papers to rate, review, sign off on, and ultimately file. The young constables look at the sergeants and inspectors with envy. If only they knew!"

I bid the two tired inspectors goodnight and let them go about what was clearly going to be an exceptionally long night for both. I poured myself another brandy and opted for a pipe rather than a cigar. I tried settling into the evening paper, but in truth the events just related to me were profoundly troubling. The violence and deaths in an upscale pub were bad enough, but public endangerment at Paddington involving a young woman no less, and by a related colleague - it was all too much! Not for the first time I wished I possessed Holmes' skills of observation and deduction. The problem with Holmes was that there was only one of him. While his tireless efforts had improved the overall skills and efficiency of the Metropolitan Police over the years, the sad reality was that there still wasn't anyone at the Yard with his experience and skills. It's times like this that the shortfall was most keenly felt. I could only hope that whatever business Mycroft had him doing would conclude soon. Not only did the inspectors at Scotland Yard need Holmes' services, but the growing pile of correspondence on his desk indicated that many others did too.