‘Holmes!’ I called, ‘I insist you rise at once and then join me for lunch. I shall simply not allow you to just fade away.’
Holmes slowly raised himself on his elbows and began rubbing his bloodshot eyes.
‘So you are going to save me from myself, once again, eh Watson?’ He asked wearily.
‘That is certainly my intention,’ I replied. ‘I was hoping that the opportunity of closing one of your old files would be of sufficient interest to rouse you from your melancholy. This morning’s papers and my own resurrected notes certainly seem to make that a possibility.’
‘May I see those now, please?’ Holmes asked somewhat sheepishly.
‘Not until you have taken some lunch,’ I insisted with mock indignation.
‘I fancy a shave would also not go amiss.’ He smiled, the first I had seen on his face in a long time.
He emerged from his room, clean-shaven and suited, just as Mrs Hudson arrived with our lunch tray.
‘So, Lazarus has risen at last,’ she remarked.
‘No less than I deserve, Mrs Hudson, I owe you a thousand apologies for my recent boorish behaviour. Now what lurks enticingly beneath those lids? I am absolutely ravenous!’ Holmes rubbed his hands together excitedly.
Holmes devoured his rack of lamb with great gusto; not until the last morsel had been consumed and Mrs Hudson had removed the tray did we settle into our chairs with our cognacs and cigars, to discuss the disappearance of James Phillimore.
I passed the newspapers to Holmes, but he declined these, though in a less dramatic manner than had been his custom of late.
‘No, no, Watson, I would much rather reacquaint myself with the case through your old notes than digest any new information the papers might contain.’
Therefore, I began to read from my notes instead.
‘There was a particularly stormy October morning when the equinoctial elements seemed to be throwing down the gauntlet against our civilized world of brick, though thankfully in vain, that will long live in my memory. The branches of the leafless trees were being bent backwards and forwards into unnatural contortions and the few brave passers-by were engaged in a constant battle to keep their coat collars up and their umbrellas pointed in the right direction.’
I paused when I observed Holmes showing signs of impatience and agitation. He was crossing, and recrossing his legs whilst drawing on his cigar as if it was a cigarette. Then he held up his hand as a gesture of remonstrance.
‘Watson, Watson! I beseech you to edit your narrative,’ he exclaimed.
‘I do not understand,’ I replied. ‘I have barely begun to read.’
‘Whilst I appreciate your undoubted skill with words, I am not one of your beguiled readers hanging on every one of them. To me your fine prose acts as nothing more than hindrance and obfuscation. They hinder the skilled detective from obtaining the relevant facts that will, eventually, lead us to a solution. Though they present a fine piece of romantic adventure to the untrained reader, to me they obstruct what would otherwise be an exercise in the pure, logical science of criminology.’
Not for the first time during our long association Holmes seemed to take some misplaced pleasure in heaping scorn on to my humble, though rather elegant literary accomplishments.
‘I am sure that I have always given due regard to your deductive and scientific achievements throughout each narrative of our adventures, while at the same time making each tale more palatable to the wider public by employing the crafts and skills of a romantic author. I do not consider that your criticism is worthy and I am sure that your reputation has been greatly enhanced as a result of my work,’ was my indignant response.
‘Of what use is any reputation that I may have acquired if the merits of logical thought and analysis are buried beneath an avalanche of meaningless verbosity? However, I do not mean to detract from your skills with a pen and perhaps some of your less flowery chronicles may have had a beneficial effect on criminal detection on a broader base. Now pray continue, but please employ economy in your narration!’ Holmes implored as a conclusion to his lamentable attempt of an apology.
Still feeling somewhat aggrieved, I sipped my cognac and continued reading, though now more hesitantly as I conscientiously edited the less relevant details.
‘As you will undoubtedly recall, the most singular case of James Phillimore’s disappearance was first brought to our attention by his brother, Montague, whose lamentable demise was reported in yesterday’s newspapers. Mrs Hudson was visiting her sister at the time, therefore Billy brought up his card and subsequently presented him to us, just after breakfast on a particularly wet morning.’ I should point out that Billy was the butcher’s son and a most presentable young lad who took over some of Mrs Hudson’s duties during her infrequent absences.
‘Montague Phillimore had been well prepared for the inclement weather and it took us several minutes to disentangle him from his sodden outer garments before handing these to Billy so that they might dry off by the parlour fire downstairs. Phillimore had been most grateful for the tea that Billy poured for him and sank down wearily into our visitor’s chair by the fire.
‘He was clearly in a state of great agitation and perplexity and this was made evident by the way he constantly wrung his hands together. Phillimore was a man in his fifties, of medium height and build and dressed like a solicitor or financier. He could evidently have been successful at either of these professions, had he so chosen, for his clothes were of the finest quality and despite their recent drenching, retained a sharply pressed crease. His prematurely white hair was frizzled and sparse.
‘I have transcribed our conversation with him should you wish to hear it.’ I suggested.
‘By all means, Watson, this is far better than your earlier ramblings!’
‘“Gentlemen!” Phillimore suddenly began. “Let me simply cut to the chase. My brother, James, has disappeared under the most bizarre set of circumstance one can think of!”
‘Holmes, the expression of excitement on your face, upon hearing Phillimore’s pronouncements, was in as marked a contrast to your earlier one of lethargy as can be imagined. You leant towards him as a pointer dog might towards his quarry and, despite our client’s obvious discomfort you could not suppress a smile of anticipation and excitement from playing upon your lips.’
‘Précis please, Watson, précis,’ Holmes urged with an exaggerated gesture of exasperation. ‘The interview itself is far more important than my reaction to it.’
‘Very well then, I shall continue with the transcription.
‘“Mr Phillimore,” you addressed him, “with all due respect, I should point out that I seldom involve my practice in a missing person’s investigation. However, if you inform me of the exact events and circumstances that led you to my door, on so inclement a morning, I can assure you that I shall devote my full attention to your concern.”
‘Phillimore bowed his head in appreciation of your offer and then added: “Mr Holmes, this is not simply a missing person’s investigation, for my brother has disappeared in the literal sense of the word. However, I am ahead of myself. Let me first explain something of the nature of my relationship with James. My brother and I inherited a less than successful investment brokerage from our late father. Despite having careers of our own at the bar, we both resolved to turn our father’s company around and we established a partnership, the terms of which were agreeable to us both. We are not twins, indeed James is six years younger than myself; however, there is a family resemblance between us that borders on the uncanny. Gentlemen, imagine myself with a somewhat fuller head of hair and you have my brother!