Of all the adventures which I have shared with my friend, Sherlock Holmes, during our years together, I am not certain that any had a more unusual beginning than that which involved the late Ralph Prescott.
The events that make up the bulk of the case began in the summer of 1894, shortly after Holmes’ miraculous resurrection from the waters at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls. As you might expect, upon his return from the “dead” and following the apprehension of Colonel Sebastian Moran, Holmes had been besieged with cases. Displaying his usual preference for the outre, he had refused to accept the vast majority of them, describing many of them as “mundane” or proclaiming about others that the solution was “so patently self-evident that even a Scotland Yard inspector could not fail to arrive at the correct conclusion.”
One morning in late July, after I had once again taken up residence at Baker Street, I made my way home after an early morning medical emergency.
Holmes was in a fine mood, and we were chatting amicably over lunch about the violin concert he had attended the previous evening, when our long-suffering landlady knocked on our door. In his usual brusque manner, Holmes replied, “Come in, Mrs. Hudson.”
She entered clutching a small envelope and said, “I am so sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, but this just arrived by messenger for you, Mr. Holmes.”
Taking it from her, he opened it, and as she turned to leave, he said, “Mrs. Hudson, if you please.”
After perusing it twice, Holmes looked at her and said, “Kindly inform the messenger I will not be at home at the appointed hour, and please stress I am not accepting any new cases at the moment.”
“I would, sir,” she replied, “but the messenger didn’t wait for a reply. He simply delivered the envelope, and then he hopped on his bicycle and pedaled off toward Marylebone Road.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. That will be all.”
“What does it say, Holmes?”
He then handed me a single sheet of note paper, which had been folded in half. Upon opening it, I read the following:
Dear Mr. Holmes,
I shall call upon you this afternoon precisely at half three. I expect that you will make yourself available as it is a matter of some urgency – and delicacy.
I look forward to making your acquaintance.
Sincerely,
Ralph Prescott
“What do you make of it, Holmes?”
“Actually, I make rather little of it. The paper is of exceptionally fine quality and quite costly. The writer has employed a high-quality fountain pen, quite possibly a Waterman or a Wirk, although I am inclined to lean strongly towards the former. The hand that composed the note is strong and confident. Further, Mr. Prescott has gone through the expense of having had it delivered by messenger service rather than post.
“I should also wager that he is an Englishman, despite the use of an American pen, given his use of the expression ‘half three’ rather than the more American ‘half past three.’
“All of that tells me that he is a man of some means and one who is quite used to issuing orders and having them obeyed without question. I find the line ‘I expect that you will make yourself available’ most telling.”
“A military man, perhaps?” I offered.
“Quite possibly,” replied Holmes.
“Given that he declares it to be a matter of ‘some urgency – and delicacy,’ aren’t you even the least bit curious?”
“Not at all,” replied my friend dismissively. “The ‘matter’ – whatever it may be – is no doubt considered to be urgent and delicate by Mr. Prescott, but since I know nothing of it, I find it neither. Moreover, I have a number of pressing errands to which I must attend this afternoon.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
“Yes. I must visit the stationers in order to replenish my supply of paste so that I may add these articles to my indexes,” he said brandishing a sheaf of papers that he had culled from the various newspapers which he devoured each morning. “Also, I need to restock my store of tobacco. Pressing business, indeed,” he said, tapping the ash from his favorite briar.
“So you are not the least bit curious?”
“I have often wondered, how does one measure curiosity, Watson? Is it in bits or degrees? I have always opted for the latter, although I am certain it can be both.”
At that point, I knew there was nothing to be gained in arguing with him when he had already made up his mind. Truth be told, I knew that the tone of the note had nettled my friend. Although my own sense of inquisitiveness was yearning to know more, I decided to accompany Holmes. Secretly I harbored hopes I might be able to steer him back to Baker Street in time to meet with Mr. Prescott.
After we had lunched, we set out on Holmes’ “pressing errands.” The afternoon began with a stop at James J. Fox on St. James Street. During the cab ride, Holmes was his usual taciturn self. However, once we arrived at the tobacconist, he became quite animated and began by purchasing enough shag to last him several weeks. Although it is a word I should never have thought to use in describing my old friend, I must say that when it came to replenishing his supply of cigarettes, Holmes positively dithered over the possibilities. Finally, after sampling more than a dozen different types of tobacco and discoursing on the merits of each, he refilled both his cigarette case and mine and purchased several dozen more for the future.
Although there was a stationery store on the next street, Holmes insisted that we must travel to Harrods, claiming that store alone carried the particular brand of paste that he preferred for his year-books. Never having known him to express any preference for paste in the past, it finally dawned upon me that my friend was trying to prolong the shopping excursion in order to avoid having to meet with Mr. Prescott.
After Holmes had concluded his performance in Harrods, I glanced at my watch and saw that it was nearing five o’clock. I said to Holmes, “I think you have accomplished your purpose.”
“Oh,” he remarked, the very picture of innocence, “I wasn’t aware I had a ‘purpose,’ as you put it, aside from procuring tobacco and paste.”
“Are you honestly trying to tell me there was no intent on your part to avoid your appointment with Mr. Prescott?”
“Who?” he inquired, and I almost believed him but for the slight twinkle in his eye.
“Come on, old man. I am certain he has departed by now.”
So we hailed a cab and conversed about any number of subjects, from the cases he was working on to the tobacco he had just purchased to his experiments at Montpelier during his absence.
Order appeared to have been restored to the world as we stepped down from the cab in front of our lodgings. However, no sooner had we entered than Mrs. Hudson met us at the foot of the stairs.
“Oh, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I am so glad you have returned.”
“Pray tell, what is troubling you, dear lady?” said Holmes.
“You had a caller, a very proper gentleman, arrive some time ago, perhaps an hour or more. Truth be told, I believe he rang the bell at exactly half three.”
Holmes rolled his eyes and then said, “Yes, I was rather expecting him. I do hope you informed him of my absence and sent him on his way.”
“I tried, Mr. Holmes. As God is my witness, I did.”
“Tried, Mrs. Hudson? Tried? Would you care to elaborate?”
“I told ’im that you weren’t in and I ’ad no idea when you’d return.”
“And?” inquired Holmes.
“He nearly broke down in tears and begged me to let him wait for you. He said it was most urgent – a matter of life and death.”
“Mrs. Hudson?”
“I’m truly sorry, sir. He’s upstairs in your rooms. I couldn’t bear to turn him away.”
“You have left him alone in our rooms?”
“I waited with him much of the time, but then I had to leave in order to start preparing supper. I do hope you understand, sir.”
“We shall discuss this later,” said Holmes as he bounded up the stairs. I was right behind him when he threw open the door.
There sound asleep in Holmes’ chair was a well-dressed man, perhaps forty-five or fifty years old. He appeared to be quite a good-looking fellow with a head of thick black hair that was beginning to grey. I could easily see how he might have charmed Mrs. Hudson. However, I knew Holmes would not be swayed.
On the table next to the man was a nearly empty decanter of brandy and a single glass.
Turning to me, Holmes seethed, “This is insufferable! This man arrives uninvited to an appointment to which I have not agreed. He then charms his way past our landlady and drinks himself into a stupor.”
With that Holmes strode across the room, shook the fellow roughly by the shoulder and said, “Wake up, you rascal.”
So violently had Holmes shaken him that the man toppled forward from the chair and fell on the floor face-down.
I bent over the fellow to see if he had been injured in the fall, all the while Holmes kept remonstrating – both with himself and our unconscious visitor.
Finally, he paused, looked at me and asked, “Well, just how drunk is he, Watson?”
Having finished a cursory examination, for that was all that was needed, I looked up at Holmes and replied, “He’s not drunk. He’s dead!”
