Villard, whose advancement in the French detective service owed so much to Holmes’ assistance. Le Villard had sought his opinion on a matter of the utmost confidentiality; to this day, all I can reveal about the case is that it concerned two senior members of the clergy and a suitcase filled with twigs. Holmes had been wrapped in thought for over an hour, but now he was writing rapidly.
For my part, I was making notes concerning the remarkable story of Jonathan Small. Having previously composed a small brochure about the first investigation where I had been privileged to watch Holmes at work, I hoped that the mystery which I had tentatively entitled ‘The Sign of the Four’ might equally attract the interest of a publisher. If so, it would be more than a celebration of Holmes’ mastery of the science of deduction; it would represent a humble token of my love for Miss Mary Morstan. I had the joy of meeting her at the outset of the enquiry and at its conclusion she consented to take my hand in matrimony. Our wedding was due to take place in less than a month’s time. I would be starting a new life, as well as a new year. Yet eagerly as I anticipated both, still I relished the final weeks of bachelorhood.
A knock at the door ruptured our serenity. Holmes frowned as he blotted the letter and subjected the unfortunate Mrs Hudson to a penetrating stare as she entered the room.
‘There’s a gentleman to see you, Mr Holmes,’ she said. ‘I told him that you’d left strict instructions not to be disturbed until mid-day, but he was most insistent. When I invited him to leave his card, he said that he would not rest until such time as you granted him a consultation. He says you met him once and he hopes you might remember him.’
She presented my friend with the brass salver.
‘Josiah Buckle!’ To my surprise, a rare flash of delight crossed my friend’s saturnine countenance as he tossed the grubby card on to his desk. ‘Of course, it will be a privilege to renew the acquaintance. Please show him up without delay!’
Our landlady was a wise woman and had learned that, with Holmes, one must invariably expect the unexpected. Within moments she was ushering the visitor into our presence. He was a small, shuffling fellow, at least seventy years of age and bent with rheumatism. The rusty black frock-coat had a couple of buttons missing and his cuffs were badly frayed. Yet at the sight of Holmes, genuine pleasure seemed to flicker in his little brown eyes.
‘Mr Sherlock Holmes!’ he cried, offering a knobbly hand. ‘So you have not forgotten, then?’
‘You rendered me no small service when I was compiling my monograph,’ my friend said. ‘Without your expert guidance, I might have succumbed to an unpardonable error when it came to differentiating between the rarest Turkish brands.’
‘Not you, Mr Holmes!’ the old man said warmly. ‘You emphasised to me that you value accuracy of data above all else. You would never have made the mistake of guessing about the quality of ash. All I did was to import a few boxes so that you could make a precise comparison.’
‘Without them, my monograph would have been the poorer. That particular Latakian cheroot has never been popular in England, but I could name at least one notorious forger on the Continent who favoured it above all others. Yes, Mr Buckle, I remain in your debt. It is good to see you again, although naturally I regret the need to offer my condolences about the loss of your wife.’
‘You heard the news about Charlotte? It was tuberculosis, you know.’
My friend shook his head sadly. ‘A most wretched disease.’
I had not been idle during my time at No. 221B Baker Street. In addition to chronicling Holmes’ triumphs in connection with the Lauriston Gardens Mystery, I had relished the opportunity of observing at close quarters the methods that he employed. Often the most astonishing deductions, once understood, were based upon the simplest
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