Chapter 1 | An Unusual Request
The Hansom loomed suddenly out of the fog and pulled against the curb.
“Are you Dr. Watson?” the driver demanded.
To be accosted in such a peremptory manner, on a dark and deserted London street late at night, was scarcely to my liking.
“State your business,” I responded.
“Are you Dr. Watson?” the fellow repeated.
I disdained a reply, but all at once the cab’s door flew open, and a dark figure descended to the sidewalk. His hat was pulled low over his eyes, and a scarf muffled his face.
“Come along, Doctor. You’re wanted.”
“Is that you, Lestrade?” I asked, responding more to his voice than his face.
“Please, sir, we’re in a great hurry.”
He stepped forward and put his hand on my arm. Despite the faint light, I was able to assure myself that the man before me was in fact a Scotland Yard inspector and not one of the many members of London’s criminal element that could wish me ill for my association with the celebrated detective Sherlock Holmes.
“What’s all this about, Lestrade?” I said rather sharply as I stepped into the cab.
“I’m not at liberty to say, sir,” he said, closing the door with a firm hand. As soon as the cab’s door slammed shut I heard the crack of the driver’s whip. We were off, and at no mean pace. I sat back in the worn leather seat and strained to see my companion in the darkness, for Lestrade had drawn the curtains of the cab, and the interior offered scarcely more illumination than a grave.
“Where are we going?” I demanded.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” he repeated.
“Is that how you’re going to respond to my every question?”
“I—please, Dr. Watson, ask me no questions, for I can give you no answers.”
“Very well. You will excuse me if I smoke a cigar.”
“Of course, sir. But please leave the curtains drawn, sir. My orders are very strict on that point.”
I lit my cigar in silence. There was something in Lestrade’s tone, at once firm and apologetic, that dissipated my anger toward the man. I was clearly being summoned on some official case of great importance, and Lestrade was an agent rather than a principal in the matter. I cast my mind over the public events of the past several weeks in the hope of deriving some idea as to the nature of the emergency, but nothing suggested itself. The mystery, complete as it was, would assuredly resolve itself in the near future.
However, I could not but regret the timing of the case, for I was unfortunately somewhat the worse for wear. Earlier in the evening I had attended a party at my club, the Galenians, for a gathering of physicians to celebrate the elevation of one of our number to a position as assistant chief of surgery at Charing Cross Hospital. At the conclusion of the festivities, I had departed with an unopened magnum of champagne, obtained with the assistance of Betty, a most charming young lady who filled in at the bar from time to time. We repaired to Betty’s house, only to find that Eunice, her mother, who operated a rooming house was still awake and possessed a substantial thirst for both, due in large part to the misbehavior of Bert, a licensed victualer of whom she was extremely fond. Common courtesy and hopes for the future required me to commiserate with Eunice for almost two hours, during which time the magnum was, of course, entirely consumed, and he opportunities for a congenial tête-à-tête with Betty, entirely exhausted.