In the spring of 1893, my wife and I were invited to Oxford to spend a few days with the Hungerfords. Adrian Hungerford was a fellow of Grenville college and he and Augusta were distant relatives of Mary's. Despite Mary's insistence that I should enjoy meeting her cousins it was with no very great enthusiasm that I accompanied her from Paddington station on the short journey to England's most ancient centre of learning. As usual my beloved helpmeet was right. The Hungerfords were an intelligent and relaxed couple of middle years who gave us a welcome as warm as it was genuine.
It was on the second evening of our stay that Adrian Hungerford invited me to dine with him at his college. I enjoyed an excellent meal on the high table in Grenville's ancient hall over which I was able, with some effort, to hold up my end of an erudite conversation with the master and the dean. After dinner I retired with the dozen or so fellows to the senior combination room where, over the ritual of claret, port and cigars, discussion, somewhat to my relief, ran into less scholarly channels.
"Am I not right in thinking, Dr Watson, that you were at some time associated with that detective fellow… what was his name… Hutchings?" The speaker was a shrivelled little man enveloped in a rather gangrenous master's gown who had been earlier introduced to me as Blessingham.
"Holmes, Sherlock Holmes," Hungerford corrected before I had a chance to reply. "Watson helped him with several of his cases, isn't that so, John?" He turned to me with an apologetic smile. "You must forgive our isolationism, old man. We spend most of our time here behind a raised drawbridge protected from the more sensational doings of the outside world."
"Helped with several cases, did you say?" Blessingham, who was obviously hard of hearing, cupped a hand to his ear and leaned closer. "Well, you weren't here for his first case, were you?" He reached for the claret decanter, drained it into his glass and brandished it in the direction of a steward who hurried forward with a replacement.
"You refer, Sir, to the Gloria Scott, I assume," I said.
"Gloria who? Never heard of the woman."The old man gulped his wine. "No I mean the nonsense about that painting."
I was suddenly aware that other conversations had stopped and that all eyes had turned towards Blessingham. Several of them registered alarm.
Rather hastily the dean said, "Our guest doesn't want to hear about that lamentable incident."
By this time my curiosity was, of course, thoroughly aroused. "On the countrary," I said. "I am always eager to hear anything about my late friend."
The master made a flapping gesture with his hand. "It was nothing and best forgotten. Holmes was only with us for a short time."
"Holmes was here?" I asked with genuine surprise. "At Grenville? I had no idea…"
"Yes, 1872, I think… or was it '73? I know it was around the same time that Sternforth was up. He's making quite a
name for himself in Parliament now. Have you heard from him recently, Grenson?" Skilfully, the master turned the talk to other matters.
It can be imagined that this unlocking and hasty refastening of a hitherto unknown part of Holmes's early life stirred
considerable excitement within me. It was with difficulty that
I contained all the questions I was longing to ask about it. Not until the following afternoon did I have the opportunity to
interrogate Hungerford on the matter. Mary and I were taking a stroll through Christchurch Meadows with our host and hostess and I contrived to urge Hungerford to a slightly faster pace so that we might walk on ahead.
"What was that talk last night about Sherlock Holmes and a painting?" I enquired. "It seemed to embarrass some of your colleagues."
"A number of the older fellows are certainly still troubled by the episode even after all these years," Hungerford mused, directing his gaze along the river. "I must say that surprises me rather."
"But what was it about?" I almost shouted in my exasperation. "Old Blessingham called it Holmes's first case yet I have never heard of it."
Hungerford smiled at my impatience. "Well, Holmes was obviously an honourable man. The people over at New College enjoined him to secrecy on the matter and he faithfully kept silence."
"But surely there's no need to maintain the mystery any longer," I urged.
"I suppose not. It was really nothing more than a storm in an academic teacup; and yet in a closed little world like ours such incidents do tend to assume greater importance than they merit."
"Look, Hungerford," I said, "you can tell me the story. We doctors are able to keep confidences, you know."
Thus prompted my distant cousin related the story which, with a few emendations and name changes (made to honour my side of the bargain) and with additional details furnished later by Holmes himself, I can now set before the public.
It all began, as far as Holmes was concerned, at Paddington station. It was the autumn of 1873 and he had just enrolled at Grenville College after a year or two at Trinity in Dublin. On this particular late afternoon he was returning to Oxford after a day spent in the British Museum Reading Room. He had selected an empty, first-class smoking compartment and was looking forward to a quiet journey in the company of a recent dissertation on alkali poisons derived from plants in the Americas. The train made its first clanking convulsion preparatory to departure when a distraught figure appeared on the platform and grabbed the door handle. With a sigh of resignation Holmes leaped to his feet and helped a young man with a flapping topcoat into the compartment.
As Holmes slammed the door and the train gathered speed the stranger collapsed onto the seat opposite, spreading a pile of books and papers and other belongings out beside him. "Thank you, sir, thank you," he panted.
"Not at all. I perceive that you have had a particularly harassing afternoon." Holmes surveyed a young man in his late twenties of startlingly pale appearance. Even though flushed with exertion, his cheeks were as though drawn in pastels. His hair was the colour of white sand and the eyes that peered through thick-lensed spectacles were of the lightest blue. "It is always aggravating to mistake the time of one's train and then to have one's cab stuck in traffic – quite wretched."
The other man leaned forward, mouth open in astonishment. "You cannot possibly… Are you some kind of spirit who consorts with mediums?"
Now it was Holmes who was momentarily nonplussed. "Do you mean am I a medium who consorts with spirits?"
"That is what I asked, sir. If you are I must tell you straight out that I don't disapprove of such dabbling in forbidden waters… no, not at all."
Holmes laughed. "Then let me set your mind at rest. I am a student of very terrestrial sciences. There was nothing otherworldly about my observations. As to your mistake about train times, I simply perceived that your Bradshaw was out of date." He pointed to the bulky Bradshaw's Railway Guide which lay among the stranger's papers. "This particular train has been departing ten minutes earlier since the end of September."
"To be sure; to be sure," the other muttered, "but your reference to the traffic?"
"Even simpler, sir. It has been raining lightly for the past ten minutes yet only the upper part of your clothing is wet. Clearly you were obliged to leave the protection of your cab before reaching the station. That you did so in some haste is evidenced by the fact that, having paid the driver, you are still clutching your purse in your hand."
"Remarkable," said the stranger, sitting back in the seat. "You are obviously a very observant young man. May I know your name?"
"Sherlock Holmes, undergraduate of Grenville College, at your service, sir."
"Grenville, eh? Then we are close neighbours. I am…"
"William Spooner, fellow of New College. Please, do not register surprise, sir. You are one of the celebrities of Oxford." "The Spoo", as the young lecturer in Ancient History and Philosophy was known to undergraduates, had already acquired that reputation for eccentricity which was later to spread well beyond the confines of the university.