Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

" 'Grave importance', " Holmes said, turning his back to the fire crackling in the grate. "Capital!" He glanced across at me and waved a dismissive hand. "Do continue, Watson."

I returned my attention to the letter.

" 'A situation has arisen,' " I resumed, " 'here in Harrogate which, I feel, requires a level of experience and a depth of knowledge that I am in all honesty quite unqualified to provide, despite some thirty years with the Force.' "

"Force?" I enquired of Holmes. "The sender is a policeman?" "Read on, read on," Holmes instructed, and he walked to the window and stared into the street.

I returned to the letter. " 'We are plagued with a villain the likes of what I have never encountered,' " I read, " 'a madman in whose wake we now have three deaths and little or no explanation as to the reason behind them. It would be not proper for me to outline the manner of these inhuman atrocities in this letter but I feel sure that they will be of sufficient interest to warrant your visiting us at your earliest availability.' "

The letter closed with the writer's assurance that, in the event of our accepting his invitation, rooms would be arranged for us on our behalf at a nearby hostelry, and at no cost to ourselves. It was signed Gerald John Makinson, Inspector of the North Yorkshire Police.

"What do you say to that, Watson?" Holmes said, warming himself against the fire, his back arched like that of a cat.

I did not know quite what to make of it, save that the Inspector's grasp of the King's English was somewhat lacking and I told my friend as much. "For that matter," I added, "who is this Makinson fellow?"

"I was introduced to him by our very own Lestrade, last June as I recall. The fellow was down in London to attend a series of presentations on the increasing use of behavioural science in law enforcement. His address was most enlightening."

"Apparently the meeting made something of an impression," I observed.

"And one beside that of simple grammatical impropriety," said Holmes. He stepped away from the fire and rubbed his hands gleefully before removing his watch from a pocket in his waistcoat. He glanced at the timepiece. "Almost five and twenty past seven,Watson." He returned the watch and smiled, his eyes narrowing. "There is a milk train which leaves King's Cross station at four minutes past ten o'clock. It is my intention that we be on it."

I was about to protest, fully realizing that it would be to no avail, when Holmes turned around and strode purposefully from the room. "Might I rely on you to pack some suitable clothes, old fellow?" he requested over his shoulder. "And please do bear in mind that Yorkshire is not a county renowned for the clemency of its weather, particularly at this time of the year." With that, he slammed his bedroom door.

I glanced down at the single sheet of paper in my hand. It never ceased to amaze me at how little it took to propel my friend to levels of great excitement, and at how quickly those levels could be so attained. It was a trait that was at once both enviable and despairing to behold, for these high moods when he was absorbed in a case were countered by depths of depression when he was not. It was at times such as this that Sherlock Holmes reminded me not so much of a sleuth as of a young schoolboy, so pure were his beliefs and motivations.

I set to preparing overnight bags for the two of us, including sufficient clothes for a few days' stay, and, when Holmes reappeared, we left our rooms and, without further conversation, ventured out into the cold evening.

We boarded the train at five minutes to ten o'clock and made our way immediately to our sleeping compartments. At the prescribed time, the train departed King's Cross and headed

for Yorkshire. As the gently rocking motion of the carriage lulled me towards sleep, I watched the dark countryside pass by the window, noting somewhat ominously that the fog was growing seemingly thicker with each yard we travelled northwards.

We arrived in Leeds at a little after a quarter past six on the following morning.

I had had a reasonable enough night's sleep, the rocking of the carriage keeping me quite comforted. Holmes, however, appeared not to have fared so well and, when I first saw him in the corridor, he looked pale and drawn, his eyes pouched and discoloured. He was fully dressed and clearly ready to disembark and begin the next stage of our journey.

"Sleep well, old fellow?" he enquired in a tone that suggested the answer was less important than the fact that, in his opinion, he had been waiting too long to pose it.

"I did indeed," I replied. "And you?"

He gave a slight grimace and adjusted his gloves. "As you know, I dislike periods of enforced inaction. Periods during which there is little to demand my attention." He clapped his hands together and his face beamed beneath his ear-flapped travelling-cap. "However, we are but some fifteen miles from our destination. There is a train leaving on the half-hour." With that, he lifted his bag and walked along the corridor to the door.

Harrogate is a delightful town, a criss-cross of busy streets and thoroughfares surrounded by an interlocking grid of cultivated grassland called "The Two Hundred Acres" or, more commonly, "The Stray", which we had seen in all of its early-morning, mist-enshrouded finery as we approached the station.

A brisk walk ensued and we arrived at the police station as a distant clock chimed ten, to be greeted by a tall, burly, uniformed sergeant whose face displayed a florid expression and the most singularly inquisitive eyes.

"Now then, gentlemen," he boomed, "and what can we be doing for you this fine morning?"

It transpired that my friend had telegraphed Inspector Gerald John Makinson the previous afternoon, informing him of our intended arrival time. "So you're Mr Sherlock Holmes, then?" the officer enquired.

Holmes set down his bag on the station steps, removed the glove from his right hand and held it out. "I am he," he said.

The officer gave, I thought, a somewhat forced smile and shook the proffered hand once. "And you must be Mr Watson," he said turning to me.

"I am, indeed, Doctor Watson," I said, accepting the hand. The shake was as brusque as his manner.

"I'm Sergeant Hewitt. Come on inside," he said, lifting both of our overnight bags. "There's a fresh pot of tea made and it'll take but a minute to do you some toast. Inspector Makinson will be along presently. Perhaps you'd be kind enough to wait in here, gentlemen," he said, ushering us into a small, square room ringed by chairs around a circular table. He rested our bags on one of the chairs and proceeded to help us off with our coats and hats, which he then placed on a hatstand next to a blazing fire. "Tea'll be along in a minute. Will you be having toast?"

"That would be most welcome," Holmes said.

"Right then, toast it -" The sound of a door banging outside interrupted him and he turned to see who had just entered. "Ah," he said, turning back to us, "Inspector Makinson has arrived. I'll be back presently."

Hewitt stepped back to permit entrance to a short gentleman with quite the most bristling moustache I have ever seen. The man removed his bowler and nodded to the officer who backed out and closed the door gently behind him. "Good morning, gentlemen," he said offering his hand which, ungloved, was freezing cold to the touch. "Gerald Makinson."

We made our introductions and took seats by the fire.

"Mr Holmes, it's a great pleasure to meet you again, sir," Makinson began as he rubbed his hands together vigorously in front of the flames, "though we might've hoped for more pleasant circumstances."

"While Patience may well be a card game from which I have derived some considerable pleasure," Holmes responded with a thin smile, "it is not, I fear, my strongest suit. I wonder if you might give us some indication of your situation. If I am not mistaken there had been further developments in the case even as we were travelling here from London."