Denis Smith - The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

Thus it was that I found myself busily making acquaintance with all manner of folk, and if I had hoped to learn something of the eccentricities of the human race as I learnt something of their bodily infirmities, I was not disappointed. For although it was not a large practice that I had inherited from Dr Farquhar, it was certainly a varied one. Scarcely a day passed but I encountered some surprising novelty of human behaviour or experience.

One frail old lady, whose delicate and refined appearance had led me to suppose that she had never in her life travelled beyond the bounds of London, surprised me greatly one day, when she began to speak of the twenty-five years she had spent in the jungles of Borneo. Another of my patients, an unexceptional-looking, middle-aged man, a railway employee at Paddington station, turned out to have the most profound and erudite knowledge of Anglo-Saxon coins and medallions, upon which subject he had written numerous monographs. There was also, I regret to recall, Mr Septimus Witherington. He was a softly spoken, learned-looking man and I had mentally marked him down as something of a scholar. Unfortunately, scholar though he may have been, he was also a monomaniac.

Upon my expressing enthusiasm for English literature, in response to some casual remark of his, he at once launched into the most rambling and long-winded disquisition that it has ever been my misfortune to hear, the chief theme of which was that the works generally ascribed to William Shakespeare were in fact written by someone else altogether. I had no especial objection to this thesis; indeed, the detective-work which was involved in it appealed to my inquisitive nature; but his mode of argument was quite intolerable; for, like all true fanatics, he was unable to present his views except in the most violently abusive of terms.

In vain I attempted to interrupt him; in vain I shuffled the papers upon my desk and rearranged my medical instruments; in vain I consulted my watch ostentatiously, stood up from my desk and wound the clock upon the mantelpiece. Nothing, it seemed, could stem his flow. At length I was obliged to be a little brusque with him, whereupon he at once took great offence, informed me that I was as big a fool as I looked, and stamped out of the room in high dudgeon. Of Mr Witherington and his theories I have since heard no more, but I cannot say in all honesty that this state of affairs has ever caused me any great regret.

Not all my patients turned out so eccentric as this, however – perhaps fortunately, from the point of view of their physician’s good humour – and I was privileged to be the recipient of many interesting – and some most surprising – anecdotes. Perhaps most memorable of all is the story I now propose to relate, which concerns the curious adventure of Mr Alfred Herbert and the oriental idol. This was remarkable not only for its surprising turns of events and unforeseen outcome, but also because chance decreed that I was myself to play an active part in the matter – and because, also, it provided an opportunity for me to observe once more the singular talents of my remarkable friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes.

It was a bright, sunny period in August, the very type of the perfect English summer, with blue skies from dawn to dusk and a gentle breeze to moderate the heat. The weather being so good, there were few calls upon my professional services and I was taking the opportunity to catch up on my reading of the medical journals when Mr Herbert was shown into my consulting-room, early one evening. He was a short and stockily-built man of about my own age, with a large, round, clean-shaven face and slightly protruding eyes. His ailment was mild but chronic bronchitis, which, surprisingly, had not improved at all during the fine weather. I applied my stethoscope to his chest and listened for a moment to the tell-tale rattle from within.

‘Well, well; it is not too bad,’ said I. ‘A little squill in syrup should help.’

‘I dare say you have seen more interesting cases, Doctor,’ he remarked with a smile, as he pulled on his jacket. ‘My illness must be a fairly dull one from your point of view, I imagine.’

‘Not at all,’ said I, amused by his tone. ‘Of course, it is true that yours is hardly the first instance of bronchitis to come my way, but it is none the less interesting for that. It is rare to find two cases exactly the same, even during an epidemic. That is what makes the study of medicine so interesting. The general symptoms of every common complaint are, of course, well known to the newly qualified man, fresh from medical school, but it is only from personal experience that he can gain an appreciation of the amazing variety of forms that each complaint can take. To the man with an enquiring mind, these oddities of variety are endlessly fascinating.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Herbert, nodding his head. ‘A fellow spirit, I see! I, too, have a taste for oddities, Doctor, although not generally of the medical variety. If you are interested, I can give you a real oddity for your collection! You will never imagine what happened to me the other day!’

‘Oh?’ said I after a moment, for he stared at me in silence, his eyebrows raised in encouragement, and showed no inclination to proceed until I had responded in some way. It was clear from the look in his eye that he was keen to tell me something, and I confess that I was filled with apprehension as the memory of my interview with Mr Septimus Witherington came back to me.

‘I met an old school friend,’ he continued at length.

‘Really?’ said I, as he fell into silence once more, his protruding eyes beckoning me to respond. My experience with Mr Witherington had served as a salutary lesson to me and I was wary of appearing too enthusiastic in my interest.

‘I’ll wager you don’t think that a very odd incident, Doctor!’

‘It does not sound especially remarkable,’ I conceded.

‘But wait until you hear the rest of it! Then I’m sure you’ll agree that it is quite the oddity of the year!’

‘Excuse me one moment, Mr Herbert, but were there any other patients in the waiting-room?’

‘No, sir; I am your last nuisance for today! That gives me an idea, Doctor: what would you say to a bench in a sunny garden, with a glass of the most excellent beer in your hand? I know a splendid place where we can sit and discuss my odd experience.’

I hesitated. In my position it was not desirable for me to be seen frequenting the local public-houses, especially as several of them enjoyed somewhat dubious reputations.

‘It is a very quiet and respectable house,’ added Herbert, evidently reading the expression upon my face; ‘I know the landlord, a smart man by the name of Henderson.’

‘What, Tobias Henderson of the Star and Garter?’

‘The very same. You know him, then?’

‘Only professionally. He got his toe crushed under a hogshead of beer a few weeks ago. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, considering the somewhat trying circumstances of our meeting.’

‘You will come, then?’ urged my companion. ‘It is a matter upon which I should very much value your opinion, Doctor.’

At that moment I heard the sound of my wife’s footsteps as she bustled about upstairs, and this gave me an idea.

‘Very well, then,’ I agreed with a smile. ‘But I cannot stay long. My supper will be on the table shortly.’

In a few moments I had explained matters to my wife and was strolling along the sunny street with Mr Herbert. At least I now had a ready-made excuse to take my leave of him should he reveal himself to be some sort of fanatical bore in the mould of Septimus Witherington. He could scarcely follow me home from the pub, after all, I reasoned. Had we pursued the conversation in my consulting-room, on the other hand, it might have proved difficult to dislodge him had he chosen to ignore my hints.