For his visit to Crick’s End, Alfred Weit had chosen a somewhat rusty suit of black-and-white herring-bone tweed, a tie composed of thin pale blue stripes on a black background, and heavily-brogued shoes and cloth spats. In his left hand he held a pair of yellow chamois gloves. My friend Marsh had mentioned seeing Weit with Van Beers, Sir Julius and Siviter at a private club on Whitehall Gardens at the height of the Anglo-Boer hostilities.
Separating from Sir Julius, Weit crossed the room towards a fine, thick piece of bulbous-headed wood known as a Penang lawyer. For his country residence he maintained Salisbury Hall, a little manor-house near St Albans, with a fine garden surrounded by a moat, once Nell Gwynn’s petite maison. He had the face of a Disraeli, lividly pale, with finely-arched eyebrows, though the eyes were beryl rather than intensely black. The eyes spoke of repeated contact with Tropical diseases. Ancient fires flickered in his sallow cheeks.
At their entry Siviter rose to his feet quicker even than I, rushing across to greet them, pursued like a hind by the terriers at his legs.
‘Ah, and in excellent time,’ Siviter cried. ‘Mr Holmes, Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson, I see already you recognise our guests. I might say they have helped me greatly with my investments - more than ten thousand pounds in Kaffirs - or I would never have kept my driving habit alive. As Polonius said, ‘Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel’.’
He gestured from the two men to us.
‘Dr. Watson has steered us safely through to three o’ clock, though you must be sorry you have missed his gripping talk on coats and hats. As you may be aware, Dr. Watson is Holmes’ panegyrist, Ruth to his Naomi, obliging us by inspiring awe of his colleague’s deductive powers to steer a determined course between Scylla and Charybdis. He alone has dissuaded us from transmogrifying the Kipling League into a syndicate of crime, I can tell you.’
At Siviter’s words of introduction Holmes stepped forward from the fireside towards the new arrivals.
‘We are greatly honoured,’ Sir Julius Wernher stated, looking intently at Holmes.
‘Most certainly,’ affirmed Weit. ‘We are well acquainted with your reputation and that of your estimable colleague Dr. Watson.’ He gave a courteous bow which I, though not Holmes, mirrored to the inch in Japanese style.
Weit’s complexion, while darkened by the sun, displayed a disturbing pallor as though a splash of milk had been mixed in. He would not be the first to have his constitution shattered by living a life abroad. Sensing my eye upon him, he turned to engage me directly. ‘And Dr. Watson, as a medical man, can you see from my complexion my health is not the best from too long in Tropical climes?’
I answered his query with a sympathetic nod.
He continued, ‘Therefore, as my own doctor is at his best compounding for French horses, may I ask you a question, deeply personal to me, though not to you?.’
I begged him to consider my medical knowledge entirely at his service.
‘How much longer would you give me to live?’
I reeled from this unexpected question but answered openly. ‘You have suffered a brain attack and have recovered. This may give you a tendency to depression. To avoid a recurrence of the stroke, you must restrict your habitation to altitudes no higher than Chamonix. May I recommend regular visits to Töplitz. As for a tonic, I have particular confidence in the unfailing powers of quassia, obtained from the wood and bark of the Surinam Tree, bitter, it is true, but a fine medicinal drug.’
Again Weit pressed. ‘And as to length...?’
‘At least the span, if you follow my advice.’
Weit looked pleased. ‘I shall do so assiduously, Dr. Watson.’
I turned to find myself under Sir Julius’ scrutiny. Upon this cue I responded, ‘And you, Sir Julius, like several in this room, have suffered from Blackwater Fever. Its fevers and vomiting put great stress on the human body. I perceive a cataract in your right eye. You must temper the glare of the Tropical sun. Whenever you are outdoors in Africa I advise you to wear a broader-brimmed hat than the one you hold in your hand.’
At this, Holmes broke in.
‘Sir Julius, in the matter of headwear, I see you follow our King in your choice of hats.’
Sir Julius appeared startled at Holmes’ observation. He looked down at the green felt object in his hand. Before he could reply, Holmes continued, ‘though I see you have worn it for the first time today.’
Sir Julius had been taking advantage of the change of speakers to take snuff from a tortoise-shell box, brushing away the wandering grains from his coat front with a large, red silk handkerchief. At Holmes’ words his head swung round. There was an indefinable, faint expression on his lips. He began, ‘Why, Holmes, how in the name of good-fortune...’
‘I assure you it is nothing especially clever,’ Holmes responded with an airy wave.
‘Perhaps so, but do explain,’ Sir Julius requested, his eyes fixated on my companion’s face.
‘Have you not just returned from the outside, where you spent an hour or two?’
‘Why, yes.’
‘And in the open air, not confined within a carriage,’ Holmes continued, gesturing at a mix of clay and chalk on both arrivals’ shoes.
‘Quite so,’ came the reply.
‘In rather inclement weather?’
‘Indeed.’
‘In which you would be expected to wear a hat?’
‘As you say.’
‘When you entered this room, you had a faint imprint on your forehead from wearing a hat a half-size too small - the mark already fades. Had there not been rain you might not have worn it at all for it must have pressed upon the temple. Certainly you would not continue to wear it by choice. Closer to your home you would have exchanged it at once. I therefore assume you have worn it for the first time to-day.’
Before Sir Julius could respond, Siviter clapped his hands. ‘Bravo, Holmes! Now gentlemen, gentlemen, we must proceed!’
At a clap of her Master’s hands, a maid-servant entered to remove the household dogs. Pained expressions brimmed in the terriers’ eyes as, even while the door was closing on them, they offered their master a last chance to let them stay. Sensing a malleable soul in the parlour, one of them looked across to me with a most comical cock to his head. His engaging behaviour was to no avail. Siviter pressed shut the door firmly behind them.
Holmes returned to the fireplace and took up a stance, feet apart, straddling two Dutch copper milk pails. He began again: ‘I shall try to offer by a few examples an explanation of sorts of the deductive skills by which Watson and I make our way in life. Wholly due to the literary skill of my amiable and long-suffering friend who sits before you, I have gained a reputation I sometimes feel approaches myth, but which myth-building I earnestly encourage.’
Polite laughter and ‘hear hear’ came from the audience.
‘I have watched him writing up his notes in a room full of people talking at the top of their voices, or in a train with the hum of conversation around him, or in a cricket pavilion during a match while waiting for the rain to stop. Before Watson’s heaven-sent arrival as my faithful friend and biographer I was alone, attempting to create... at least a decade before I had done sufficient work required for fame... the sort of reputation I felt could best be used to serve the purpose of fighting criminality. I was indeed a Dr. Johnson without a Boswell in sight.’