Chapter 26: From Doctor Watson’s Archive

It was a dank November morning. The oily yellow fog which had enveloped London for two days dispersed by ten o’clock, giving way to a murky light. Rain seemed likely and as always in such weather, my old shoulder wound, a reminder of my part in the battle of Maiwand, was aching persistently.

As I looked out of the sitting-room window of the lodgings I shared with Mr Sherlock Holmes at 221B, Baker Street, I was far from enthusiastic about taking the air. However, dismal though the prospect was, it seemed marginally more agreeable than the continued society of my companion. Holmes was in one of his taciturn moods and had spoken little for almost a week. As I prepared myself for an outing, he sat by the fire, staring moodily at the flames, his profile presenting what some people referred as an aquiline aspect. To my mind, vulturine was more accurate.

I donned my overcoat and departed, with a few brusque words to Holmes, who merely nodded. My return was delayed because I had to take shelter from a shower, and it was five minutes after midday when I opened the door to find Holmes sitting exactly where he had been earlier. However, he was fully clothed, whereas he had been clad in dressing down and slippers when I had left. “Ah,” I said, “I see you emulated me in venturing out, and that you got back less than three minutes ago.”

Holmes smiled. “You are right,” he replied, “and the walk has refreshed me, but however did you deduce that I had returned so recently?”

“I have noticed several times that when you have been out in the rain, it takes fully three minutes for the drops to cease falling from the earflaps of your deerstalker, which they are still doing. Also, your boots are wet and there is water on the rim of that ridiculously large calabash pipe which you smoke largely for effect.”

“Bravo, Watson,” said my companion. “We shall make a detective of you yet. It is true that I have been back here for about the length of time you state. Mrs Hudson intercepted me downstairs and gave me a note sent by Inspector Stanley Hopkins of Scotland Yard, together with this brown paper bag and whatever it contains, which the inspector says is one of two clues in a robbery he is investigating. He does not indicate what the other one is. I shall examine this at once. Hopkins wants my opinion of it and he intends to call here as soon as possible.”

Settling down in a chair opposite my fellow-lodger, I immediately dozed off. When I opened my eyes, our clock showed half-past twelve. Holmes, magnifying glass in hand, was just finishing his clearly lengthy perusal of Hopkins’s offering. “Well, well, Watson,” he said. I fear this does not help us at all. What do you make of it? Not much, I predict.” Smirking, he tossed over to me a tweed flat cap, much used, stained, discoloured and exuding a variety of odours.

I spent two minutes looking closely at the grubby object, turning it this way and that and sniffing at it, then threw it back to Holmes. “Headwear is occasionally informative,” I said. “However, that item is less so than many I have seen. I cannot infer anything beyond the obvious facts that it appears to belong to a Norwegian seaman who wears spectacles, smokes Mather’s black shag tobacco in an uncommonly short clay pipe, has visited the Limehouse area in the last day or two and has recently been in contact with a number of spices.”

Holmes stared at me. “Astounding, Watson,” he said.

“Elementary, Holmes,” I replied.

He shook his head in wonderment. “You never cease to amaze me, old fellow,” he said. “Pray tell me how you drew your conclusions.”