Wells collected the dust from us. He seemed angry and bitter. "Let us give up this foolishness. What a waste this all is. How many advances of the intellect have been betrayed by the weakness of the human heart? Oh, perhaps I might make a romance of this – but that is all that is left! Here! Have done with you!" And with an impetuous gesture he opened the carriage window and shook out the vial, scattering dust along the track. Holmes raised an elegant hand, as if to stop him, but he was too late. The dust was soon gone, and Wells discarded the bottle
itself.
For the rest of the journey to Paddington, Holmes was strangely thoughtful, and said little.
The Adventure of the Touch of God – Peter Crowther
It was with a mixture of trepidation and eager anticipation that, on a cold and dank November evening, having just arrived back at our rooms in Baker Street from a day-long symposium on glandular deterioration, I greeted Sherlock Holmes's announcement that we were to journey to Harrogate.
Despite being some 200 or more miles from the capital's bustling familiarity and drudgery (two indistinguishable sides of the same tarnished coin), the trip clearly promised a return to matters of detection. For though Holmes complemented news of our impending departure with the promise of bracingYorkshire air to clean clogged and jaded tubes – of both a bronchial and a cerebral nature – I suspected an ulterior motive.
That is not to say that my good friend was not given to displays of impetuosity. Indeed, he had proven to me on many occasions that he was the very soul of immediacy. It was as though he were cognizant of his own mortality. Sometimes, I even thought that he was frightened of idleness, though he was not a man prone to fear or cowardice. Rather it was, or so it seemed, the prospect of inaction that presented the most serious affront to his sense of being. Action, or "the game" as he liked to regard the often heinous crimes whose unravelling he was frequently called upon to master, was what he was here to do. It was for this singular reason that I so welcomed the prospect.
For myself, however, the approach was entirely different. Somewhat in contradiction to the cautious and even begrudging excitement I have already mentioned, it was my custom to regard the prospect of further nefarious activities with some
apprehension. On the occasion in question, this feeling was particularly pronounced.
"Might I at least remove my topcoat?" I enquired.
"No time for that, old fellow," Holmes blustered. "We are to leave within the hour. Here." He held out to me a single sheet of paper and the envelope in which it had arrived.
Affixing my reading spectacles, I glanced at the letter and its careful and practised copperplate hand. "Read it aloud, old fellow," Holmes proclaimed with a pride that suggested he himself as the missive's author.
" 'My Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes,' it begins," I said. " 'Please forgive the brevity of this note and its undoubted intrusion on your privacy but I am in dire need of advice and assistance on a matter of grave importance.' "
" 'Grave importance', " Holmes said, turning his back to the fire crackling in the grate. "Capital!" He glanced across at me and waved a dismissive hand. "Do continue, Watson."
I returned my attention to the letter.
" 'A situation has arisen,' " I resumed, " 'here in Harrogate which, I feel, requires a level of experience and a depth of knowledge that I am in all honesty quite unqualified to provide, despite some thirty years with the Force.' "
"Force?" I enquired of Holmes. "The sender is a policeman?" "Read on, read on," Holmes instructed, and he walked to the window and stared into the street.
I returned to the letter. " 'We are plagued with a villain the likes of what I have never encountered,' " I read, " 'a madman in whose wake we now have three deaths and little or no explanation as to the reason behind them. It would be not proper for me to outline the manner of these inhuman atrocities in this letter but I feel sure that they will be of sufficient interest to warrant your visiting us at your earliest availability.' "
The letter closed with the writer's assurance that, in the event of our accepting his invitation, rooms would be arranged for us on our behalf at a nearby hostelry, and at no cost to ourselves. It was signed Gerald John Makinson, Inspector of the North Yorkshire Police.
"What do you say to that, Watson?" Holmes said, warming himself against the fire, his back arched like that of a cat.
I did not know quite what to make of it, save that the Inspector's grasp of the King's English was somewhat lacking and I told my friend as much. "For that matter," I added, "who is this Makinson fellow?"
"I was introduced to him by our very own Lestrade, last June as I recall. The fellow was down in London to attend a series of presentations on the increasing use of behavioural science in law enforcement. His address was most enlightening."
"Apparently the meeting made something of an impression," I observed.
"And one beside that of simple grammatical impropriety," said Holmes. He stepped away from the fire and rubbed his hands gleefully before removing his watch from a pocket in his waistcoat. He glanced at the timepiece. "Almost five and twenty past seven,Watson." He returned the watch and smiled, his eyes narrowing. "There is a milk train which leaves King's Cross station at four minutes past ten o'clock. It is my intention that we be on it."
I was about to protest, fully realizing that it would be to no avail, when Holmes turned around and strode purposefully from the room. "Might I rely on you to pack some suitable clothes, old fellow?" he requested over his shoulder. "And please do bear in mind that Yorkshire is not a county renowned for the clemency of its weather, particularly at this time of the year." With that, he slammed his bedroom door.
I glanced down at the single sheet of paper in my hand. It never ceased to amaze me at how little it took to propel my friend to levels of great excitement, and at how quickly those levels could be so attained. It was a trait that was at once both enviable and despairing to behold, for these high moods when he was absorbed in a case were countered by depths of depression when he was not. It was at times such as this that Sherlock Holmes reminded me not so much of a sleuth as of a young schoolboy, so pure were his beliefs and motivations.
I set to preparing overnight bags for the two of us, including sufficient clothes for a few days' stay, and, when Holmes reappeared, we left our rooms and, without further conversation, ventured out into the cold evening.
We boarded the train at five minutes to ten o'clock and made our way immediately to our sleeping compartments. At the prescribed time, the train departed King's Cross and headed
for Yorkshire. As the gently rocking motion of the carriage lulled me towards sleep, I watched the dark countryside pass by the window, noting somewhat ominously that the fog was growing seemingly thicker with each yard we travelled northwards.
We arrived in Leeds at a little after a quarter past six on the following morning.
I had had a reasonable enough night's sleep, the rocking of the carriage keeping me quite comforted. Holmes, however, appeared not to have fared so well and, when I first saw him in the corridor, he looked pale and drawn, his eyes pouched and discoloured. He was fully dressed and clearly ready to disembark and begin the next stage of our journey.
"Sleep well, old fellow?" he enquired in a tone that suggested the answer was less important than the fact that, in his opinion, he had been waiting too long to pose it.
"I did indeed," I replied. "And you?"
He gave a slight grimace and adjusted his gloves. "As you know, I dislike periods of enforced inaction. Periods during which there is little to demand my attention." He clapped his hands together and his face beamed beneath his ear-flapped travelling-cap. "However, we are but some fifteen miles from our destination. There is a train leaving on the half-hour." With that, he lifted his bag and walked along the corridor to the door.