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Authors: Ken Greenwald
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between Holmes and
Moriarty began. Little did we realize then what this first meeting would portend
in the future. It was a time of beginnings for both men, and, if I may humbly
add, for myself, in practice as a newly established doctor and friend to Holmes
and his many adventures.
Return to table of
contents
THE CASE OF THE AMATEUR MENDICANTS
MY friend Sherlock Holmes, whatever he may be with his moody and driven nature,
always placed human justice and the natural flow of life before all other
things. He abhorred fools and despised the cunning who took advantage of
others. He especially hated the murderer, for that kind was the worst, taking
life from a human being and bringing grief and pain to everyone.
And yet, if it
were not for the murderers and thieves, there would be no Sherlock Holmes. How
strange that his intense hatred for the criminal is the one thing that
continues to make my good friend so productive. It was thoughts such as these
that reminded me of one of the most unusual cases I and Holmes found ourselves
involved with. It began on a rather stormy November night in 1887. The rain had
been pouring for days, and the only consolation was the clean and breathable
air it had provided.
On this night in
question, I was nodding in front of the fire, a good book of stories in my
hands. I’d had a very tiring day, I remember. It was about the hour that a man
gives his first yawn and glances at the clock, when suddenly, the front
doorbell jangled discordantly.
Mrs. Hudson had
long since retired to bed, and Holmes, after a long and arduous day’s work, was
also asleep, so it was I who crossed to the window and opened it. The rain and
cold came rushing in as I tried to prevent as much water as possible from
soaking the rug. It was extremely dark, but I could just see the outline of a
figure standing on my doorstep. It looked like a woman. Suddenly a cultivated
voice called up to me.
“Is the doctor
in?”
“Yes, madam,” I
yelled through the wind and rain, “I’m the doctor!”
“Then please
come at once! It’s a matter of life and death! I have a carriage waiting!”
I could sense
the pain in her voice and I reassured her that I would be down immediately. I
closed the window, scribbled a note to Holmes, grabbed my coat, hat, and my
bag, then went downstairs and into the rain.
A carriage was
standing at the curb, but I could not see any trace of the lady who called me.
The only person in sight was an old and repulsive looking beggar woman, dressed
in rags and tatters. After a moment of bewilderment, I approached her.
“My good woman,
did you see a lady leave here a moment ago?”
“No doctor, she
didn’t leave, she’s still waiting for you.”
I was
astonished, for the voice coming from this sad woman in tatters was that of the
cultured voice that had called up to me in my rooms.
“Forgive me,
madam, but those clothes of yours . . . I thought you were a beggar woman.”
“There isn’t any
time to discuss that now!” she said frantically. “Please get into this
carriage!”
“But, my good
woman, where’s the driver?”
“I’m going to
drive. Please get in!”
I entered the
carriage, then turned and stuck my head out as she pulled herself up into the
driver’s seat.
“Are you sure
that you can handle those horses, Madam?”
“Of course I
can!” she yelled, then snapped the whip in her hand and we were off! I could
not help thinking how absolutely extraordinary this all seemed to me.
As the carriage
rushed through the rain-soaked streets I tried to find out where we were going,
but the woman insisted I not ask her any further questions. I sat back, the
cobble stone streets whirling by under our feet and the rain running down in
rivers against the glass of the carriage windows. I pulled my coat tight up
around me for it was bitterly cold. And as I was bumped and jostled throughout
this mad, racing drive, my thoughts turned back to my home where, only
Moriarty began. Little did we realize then what this first meeting would portend
in the future. It was a time of beginnings for both men, and, if I may humbly
add, for myself, in practice as a newly established doctor and friend to Holmes
and his many adventures.
Return to table of
contents
THE CASE OF THE AMATEUR MENDICANTS
MY friend Sherlock Holmes, whatever he may be with his moody and driven nature,
always placed human justice and the natural flow of life before all other
things. He abhorred fools and despised the cunning who took advantage of
others. He especially hated the murderer, for that kind was the worst, taking
life from a human being and bringing grief and pain to everyone.
And yet, if it
were not for the murderers and thieves, there would be no Sherlock Holmes. How
strange that his intense hatred for the criminal is the one thing that
continues to make my good friend so productive. It was thoughts such as these
that reminded me of one of the most unusual cases I and Holmes found ourselves
involved with. It began on a rather stormy November night in 1887. The rain had
been pouring for days, and the only consolation was the clean and breathable
air it had provided.
On this night in
question, I was nodding in front of the fire, a good book of stories in my
hands. I’d had a very tiring day, I remember. It was about the hour that a man
gives his first yawn and glances at the clock, when suddenly, the front
doorbell jangled discordantly.
Mrs. Hudson had
long since retired to bed, and Holmes, after a long and arduous day’s work, was
also asleep, so it was I who crossed to the window and opened it. The rain and
cold came rushing in as I tried to prevent as much water as possible from
soaking the rug. It was extremely dark, but I could just see the outline of a
figure standing on my doorstep. It looked like a woman. Suddenly a cultivated
voice called up to me.
“Is the doctor
in?”
“Yes, madam,” I
yelled through the wind and rain, “I’m the doctor!”
“Then please
come at once! It’s a matter of life and death! I have a carriage waiting!”
I could sense
the pain in her voice and I reassured her that I would be down immediately. I
closed the window, scribbled a note to Holmes, grabbed my coat, hat, and my
bag, then went downstairs and into the rain.
A carriage was
standing at the curb, but I could not see any trace of the lady who called me.
The only person in sight was an old and repulsive looking beggar woman, dressed
in rags and tatters. After a moment of bewilderment, I approached her.
“My good woman,
did you see a lady leave here a moment ago?”
“No doctor, she
didn’t leave, she’s still waiting for you.”
I was
astonished, for the voice coming from this sad woman in tatters was that of the
cultured voice that had called up to me in my rooms.
“Forgive me,
madam, but those clothes of yours . . . I thought you were a beggar woman.”
“There isn’t any
time to discuss that now!” she said frantically. “Please get into this
carriage!”
“But, my good
woman, where’s the driver?”
“I’m going to
drive. Please get in!”
I entered the
carriage, then turned and stuck my head out as she pulled herself up into the
driver’s seat.
“Are you sure
that you can handle those horses, Madam?”
“Of course I
can!” she yelled, then snapped the whip in her hand and we were off! I could
not help thinking how absolutely extraordinary this all seemed to me.
As the carriage
rushed through the rain-soaked streets I tried to find out where we were going,
but the woman insisted I not ask her any further questions. I sat back, the
cobble stone streets whirling by under our feet and the rain running down in
rivers against the glass of the carriage windows. I pulled my coat tight up
around me for it was bitterly cold. And as I was bumped and jostled throughout
this mad, racing drive, my thoughts turned back to my home where, only
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