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    SHERLOCK HOLMES
    THE ADVENTURE OF THE ANTIQUARIAN'S
NIECE
    (by John H. Watson, M.D.)
    by
    Barbara Hambly
     
     
    In my career as the chronicler of the cases
of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have attempted (his assertions to the
contrary) to present both his successes and his failures. In most
instances his keen mind and logical deductive facility led him to
the solutions of seemingly insoluble puzzles. Upon some occasions,
such as the strange behavior of Mrs. Effie Munro, his conclusions
were astray due to unknown and unforseen facts; on others, such as
the puzzle of the dancing men or the horrifying contents of the
letter received by Mr. John Openshaw, his correct assessment of the
situation came too late to save the life of his client.
    In a small percentage of his cases, it was
simply not possible to determine the correctness or incorrectness
of his reasoning because no conclusion was ever reached. Such a
case was that of Mr. Burnwell Colby and his fiancée, and the
abominable inhabitants of Depewatch Priory. Holmes long kept the
singular memento of his investigation in a red cardboard box in his
room, and if I have not written of these events before, it is
because of the fearful shadow which they left upon my heart. I only
now write of them now in the light of the new findings of Mr. Freud
concerning the strange workings of the human mind.
    Burnwell Colby came to the lodgings that I
shared with Holmes in Baker Street in the summer of 1894. It was
one of those sticky London afternoons that make one long for the
luxury of the seashore or the Scottish moors. Confirmed Londoner
that Holmes was, I am sure he was no more aware of the heat than a
fish is of water: whatever conditions prevailed in the city, he
preferred to be surrounded by the noise and hurry, the curious
street-scenes and odd contretemps engendered by the close proximity
of over a million fellow-creatures than by any amount of fresh air.
As for myself, the expenses incurred by my dear wife's final
illness prevented me from even thinking of quitting the metropolis
– and the depression of spirits that had overtaken me from the same
source sometimes prevented me from thinking at all. While Holmes
never by word or look referred to my bereavement, he was an
astonishingly restful companion in those days, treating me as he
always had instead of offering a sympathy which I would have found
unendurable.
    He was, as I recall, preparing to concoct
some appalling chemical mess at the parlor table when Mrs. Hudson's
knock sounded at the door. “A Mr. Burnwell Colby to see you,
sir.”
    “What, at this season of the year?” Holmes
thumbed the card she handed him, angled it to the window's glaring
light. “Heavy stock, one-and-six the hundred, printed in America in
a typeface of a restraint generally only found in the most
petrified of diplomatic circles but smelling of…” He broke off, and
glanced at Mrs. Hudson with eyes suddenly sharp with wary interest.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I shall see this gentleman. Watson, if you
would remain I would much appreciate an outsider's unbiased view of
our guest.”
    For I had folded together the newspaper which
for the past hour I had stared at, unseeing, preparatory to making
a retreat to my bedroom. To tell the truth I welcomed the
invitation to remain, and helped Holmes in his rapid disposal of
alembic and pipettes into his own chamber. As I reached down for
the card, still lying on the much-scarred rosewood, Holmes twitched
it from my fingers and slipped it into an envelope, which he set in
an obscure corner of the bookcase. “Let us not drip premature
surmise into the distilled waters of your observation,” he said
with a smile. “I am curious to read what would be writ upon a tabla rasa .”
    “Behold me unbesmirched,” I replied, throwing
up my hands, and settled back onto the settee as the door opened to
admit one of the most robust specimens of American manhood that it
has ever been my privilege to