George Mann - Associates of Sherlock Holmes

When I tugged the window closed I half expected the catch to be broken, but it was not. Whoever last opened it must have failed to fasten it properly, leaving it to be caught by a stray gust of wind.

I walked back to Mary’s alcove to find her sound asleep, that same peculiar smile still on her face.

Inspector Baynesof the Surrey Constabulary is something of an anomaly in that he appeared in only one Sherlock Holmes story, “The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge”, but he’s also the only police officer to have ever successfully matched wits with the great detective and come out on top. In fact, Holmes goes so far as to outright congratulate Baynes, remarking: “You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct and intuition.”

It’s something he’s never said to poor old Bradstreet, Gregson or Lestrade, despite their best efforts.

Baynes is described as being on the stout side with florid cheeks but possessing extraordinarily bright eyes hidden beneath the heavy creases of his solid, yeoman features. The intimation is that there’s a keen intellect at work behind that everyman exterior. Given that he’s also a provincial policeman, there’s the temptation to write him off as an almost comic aside, but that’s where you’d be wrong. He’s very much a precursor to Columbo, in that his appearance, methods and mannerisms often lead people to underestimate his abilities. Even Holmes himself is a little taken aback when Baynes spurns his offer of help and successfully solves the case in his own way.

I would have loved to have seen Baynes and Holmes cross paths in a few more stories, which is why I jumped at the chance to use him.

“Well, Doctor, what is your diagnosis?”

“Of what?” I asked.

“Why me of course.” came the curt reply. “For a full thirty minutes now, you have been perusing me from behind the horizon of your newspaper.”

Before I could respond, he brandished an index finger in my direction. “Do not deny it. You may as well have been sending out a semaphore for all your interminable rustling.”

I sighed and patiently folded my newspaper. I knew too well from past experience how Sherlock Holmes railed against inactivity. I had often reassured him that it was merely a passing inconvenience to be endured. Much like his sour mood.

“Holmes, this is merely a fallow patch,” I replied. “You have been through them before and will no doubt do so again. In fact, it has only been… what? Two weeks since the conclusion of our last case?”

“Long enough for the ink to dry on your latest tawdry narrative.”

“Holmes!” I rose sharply to my feet and was about to slam down my copy of The Times to punctuate my displeasure when I thought better of it. There was enough petulant behaviour in the room already. “You are my dearest friend, but there are occasions, such as this, when I find your company difficult to endure.”

Holmes folded his arms and turned to face the window.

“Surely the origin of that must lie with your friend Stamford for introducing us in the first place.”

I snatched my overcoat from the stand and proceeded to the door. “I am going for a walk. Some time apart may benefit us both.”

Without turning, Holmes gave a faint, dismissive wave.

“Oh, and when you pass Inspector Baynes of the Surrey Constabulary on the stair please tell him to come straight in, there’s no need to knock.”

“Inspector Baynes?”

“Of the Surrey Constabulary, yes. You’ll recall his most erudite handling of the incident at Wisteria Lodge?”

“Certainly. But how do you know he’s here? I didn’t hear the bell.”

Holmes turned to face me, a dark silhouette backlit by the sharp, winter daylight.

“The good inspector is somewhat on the stout side, therefore his weight upon the stair causes it to creak with a different timbre should you or I or Mrs Hudson bring pressure to bear.” He crossed to the fireplace and selected a long-stemmed pipe from the rack on the mantel. “Also, he pauses on every fifth stair to catch his breath, suggesting he is in ill health, although nothing more serious than a head cold.”

I was readily aware of Holmes’s methods but even I was briefly confounded by this deduction.

“You saw him out of the window didn’t you? He was arriving as Mrs Hudson was leaving to visit her friend in Worthing, ergo no door bell?”

Holmes gave a flicker of a smile but I sensed something else behind it, a suggestion of discomfort. He studied the pipe as if puzzled by its presence. He placed it back in the rack and elected to take a cigarette instead. His hands were trembling. Holmes has often said it is the observation of trifles that are the most revealing.

“Holmes, are you quite alright?”

“Clearly I am not, or you would not be asking such a question.”

“Then what is it that troubles you? I am both your friend and physician, remember?”

He lit the cigarette and drew deeply upon it before slowly exhaling a roiling cloud of grey smoke. The tension that hung about him seemed to dissipate along with it.

“Sleep, Watson, sleep. It and I have never been on the best of terms, but these past few nights my sleep has been sorely tested. I awake in the morning… exhausted.”

Before I could answer there was a knock at the door.

“Come in Inspector Baynes,” said Holmes. “The door is open. There is no need to stand on ceremony.”

“Ah, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. A very good morning to you both!”

Baynes had changed little since we met the year before. A short, solidly built fellow with a slight puffiness to his features and a red bloom to his cheeks. His frame suggested a family heritage of stout yeoman stock, of honest toil working on the land. His eyes, however, were bright, keen and ever watchful.

It was during the case of Wisteria Lodge, of the murder of Aloysius Garcia and the uncovering of the vile Central American despot Don Juan Murillo – “the Tiger of San Pedro” – that his talents came to the fore. Eschewing Holmes’s offer of aid, he ploughed his own course, revealing both murderer and motive at the same time as my friend. I distinctly recall him praising Baynes’s exceptional abilities. “You will rise high in your profession,” Holmes had declared.

And now Baynes was here in Baker Street and, after sneezing explosively into his handkerchief, was clearly full of cold.

“Forgive me gentlemen. It sounds far worse than it feels. Although I shall endeavour to keep my distance for fear of spreading same.”

“Will you take a brandy?” I offered.

“Thank you, no, Doctor. This is but a sniffling trifle; it will work its own way clear in due course. I am not a great imbiber, and I fear a glass of spirits would dull my senses even more.”

“Then pray take seat,” replied Holmes. “It is the least we can offer.”

“That I will, Mr Holmes. Thank you.”

I took Baynes’s heavy overcoat and wide-brimmed felt hat – the same, I noted, that he had been wearing when we first met. He seated himself at the dining table and laid a large leather satchel before him. Holmes was clearly intrigued.

“Am I correct in assuming this is not a social call, Inspector?”

“I wish I could say otherwise Mr Holmes but no, it is not. It is more by way of a consultation.”

“We are all ears,” Holmes replied.

The inspector unfastened the satchel and withdrew a thick cardboard envelope. From this he took six large photographs and laid them on the table.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said, wheezing slightly. “Tell me what you make of these.”

The images were of a corpse, the same one in each but viewed from a different angle and distance, to take in not only the form but also the situation in which it was lying. It was male, judging by the clothes, but the body itself had been denuded of all the soft tissue. There remained only a few shreds of matter and wisps of hair clinging to the bones.