The Problem of Threadneedle Street (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 2) by Craig Janacek Page A

case. At first glance, it appeared that Holmes had very neatly tied up all of the loose threads, sending both Parker and Windibank on well-deserved trips to Newgate and possibly even the gallows after that. However, the arrival of the encoded telegram, with its Sphinx-like riddle ascribed to one Mortlock, whomever he may be, suggested that we swam in far deeper waters than I had originally suspected.
    I nonetheless did my best to set down the facts as I knew them at the time. Over the nearly three decades of our association, I have learned several artifices from my good friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes. One is to conceal the links between a series of deductions, so as to suddenly present the conclusion and thereby produce a startling effect. He has performed this act innumerable times for the benefit of his clients, the inspectors of Scotland Yard, and even me. However, in this particular case, I felt that some cruel trick was being played upon Holmes himself, for he had been presented with a disquieting close to an apparently simple case. Could he shake off the mental rust that must have accumulated over the last six years of his retirement and reason back from this message, and the crimes that preceded it, to the prime mover of the drama? Who was Mortlock?
    It was with these thoughts turning over in my brain that I lay down for a restless sleep. When I finally awoke the following morning, I found the lanky form of Holmes pacing back and forth in the sitting room of the hotel’s suite, his chin sunk upon his breast, and his hands thrust into his trouser pockets. His aquiline face was drawn and his grey eyes shone with grim determination. I could deduce from the fact that the room was literally ankle-deep in newspapers that Holmes had experienced little repose the prior night.
    “Ah, good morning, Watson,” said he, amiably. “I see that you too had a late night.”
    I was heartened to see that he was in a good humor, despite the threat which loomed over us. “Let me guess, Holmes. You deduced this from the dark circles under my eyes and the hasty way by which I have shaved my cheeks.”
    He laughed merrily. “You are making progress, Watson, my dear fellow, but you forgot the most important clue of all, from which the final inference could be made.”
    I glanced over at the mirror hanging upon the wall. Even after all this time, I was still somewhat surprised to not find the once thin-as-a-lath fellow of nine and twenty years, but rather a stout, thick-necked, middle-sized man of fifty-seven. Only the moustache over my square jaw remained unchanged, even as it fell from the passing tides of fashion. Some things simply fit a man’s face and cannot be altered. But I could not spot Holmes’ final clue. “And what is that, Holmes?”
    “I believe that I have stressed to you before, Watson, the critical importance of observing any peculiarities upon a man’s hands. In this case, your right hand has both a heightened redness upon the callus of the second finger and numerous stains of a blue iron gall ink. From this, one may safely conclude that you have been engaged upon the task of setting down the events of the last two days into one of your little sketches. Since I am well aware that once you start upon such a task, you like to see it through, it is simple enough to hypothesize that you remained up late through the night working upon it.”
    “Indeed, Holmes, and I must say that I am disquieted by the message from the so-called Mortlock.”
    He nodded in agreement. “As you know, Watson, when I was in active practice, it was my method to never miss any advertisements in the agony columns. They are a wealth of information and a hunting-ground for the student of the unusual. During my retirement, I have entirely given up such habits. But if I am to deduce the identity of our Mr. Mortlock, I need to revert to my previous ways. As you can see, I have therefore arranged for the local news agent to send up not only fresh