The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [189]
“Well, Holmes,” I said, jovially as I could, “I see that your bullet holes of yore are still here.”
“It would be strange indeed, Watson, had they disappeared,” my old friend answered, with somewhat more fire than he had earlier greeted me.
He laughed then in a melancholy enough fashion.
“Yet I could wish that they had vanished between one night and the next morning,” he added. “It would at least provide my mind with some matter to work upon.”
My spirits sank at the words. Holmes had always needed stimulation, and if no problem was there to arouse his mind a seven per cent solution of cocaine awaited.
“But have you no case on hand?” I asked.
“Some trifling affairs,” Holmes replied. “A commission for the Shah of Persia, a little question of missing securities in Pittsburgh. Nothing to engage my full attention. But, you, my dear Watson, how is it that you have been visiting a patient in Hertfordshire?”
I turned to my old friend in astonishment. I had said nothing of the reason for my being in the vicinity.
“Oh, come, doctor,” he said. “Do I have to explain to you once again the simple signs that tell me such things? Why, they are written on your person as clearly as if you carried a newspaper billboard proclaiming them.”
“I dare say they may be, Holmes. But beyond the fact that Baker Street station serves that particular county and that I nowadays visit you chiefly when I chance to be in the locality, I cannot see how this time you can know so much of my business.”
“And yet the moment you removed your gloves the characteristic pungent odour of iodoform was heavy in the air, indicating beyond doubt that your excursion had been on a professional matter. While your boots are dust-covered to the very tops, which surely means that you travelled for some little time on a country lane.”
I glanced down at my boots. The evidence was all too plain to see.
“Well, yes,” I admitted. “I did receive this morning a request to visit a gentleman living near Rickmansworth whose condition was causing him anxiety. An unhealed lesion on the abdomen complicated by brain fever, but I have high hopes of a good recovery.”
“My dear Watson, under your care who can doubt of that? But I am surprised to hear that your practice now extends to the remote Hertfordshire countryside.”
I smiled.
“No, no. I assure you none other of my patients necessitates any journey longer than one performed easily in a hansom.”
“And yet you have just been down to Hertfordshire?”
“Yes. I was called on this morning by the manservant of a certain Mr Smith, a trusted fellow, I gathered, though of European origin. He told me that his master had instructed him to seek out a London doctor and to request a visit as soon as possible. Apparently, Mr Smith has a somewhat morbid fear of any of his close neighbours knowing that he is ill and so prefers a physician from a distance, even if the visit means a considerably greater financial outlay.”
“You were well remunerated then?”
“I think I may say, handsomely so.”
“I am not surprised to hear it.”
“No, there, Holmes, you are at fault. My services were not asked for because of any particular reputation I may have. In fact, the manservant happened to be in my neighbourhood upon some other errand and, so I understand, simply saw my brass plate and rang at my door.”
Holmes raised himself upon one elbow on the sofa. His eyes seemed to me to shine now with a healthier light.
“You misunderstand me, Watson. You had already indicated that your services were called upon more or less by chance. But what I was saying was that the size of your fee did not surprise me, since it is clearly evident that you were required for a quality quite other than your medical attainments.”
“Indeed?” I answered, a little nettled I must confess. “And what quality had you in mind?”
“Why,