Mr. Alexander Holder, one of the principles at Holder & Stevenson (the second largest private banking concern in the City of London), has agreed to accept the Beryl Coronet (which he describes as “[o]ne of the most precious public possessions of the empire”) as collateral on a four day, ₤50,000 pound loan. Holder doesn’t feel comfortable leaving the coronet at the bank so he takes it home with him and locks it in a bureau of his dressing-room.

The owner/curator of the coronet (who is not disclosed) admonishes Holder:

“I rely upon you not only to be discreet and to refrain from all gossip upon the matter but, above all, to preserve this coronet with every possible precaution because I need not say that a great public scandal would be caused if any harm were to befall it. Any injury to it would be almost as serious as its complete loss… “

Through some shenanigans from his family, the coronet is stolen. During the theft, Holder’s son attempts to regain the coronet from one of the thieves and in the process, it is bent and a corner is broken off with three stones (beryls) attached.

OK, here are my concerns:

If any injury would be “almost as serious as its complete loss, why, after Holmes recovers the broken corner (with the beryls attached), does Mr. Holder exclaim:

“You have it!” he gasped. I am saved! I am saved!”

Saved? The coronet is severely damaged!

I also wonder that Mr. Holder, after having been admonished to “refrain from all gossip upon the matter” proceed to tell his son and niece the whole story and where he is going to leave the loot?

And why does not the younger Holder realize the coronet has been broken? Holmes says that a break would make a noise “like a pistol shot”. Certainly the “pistol shot” would have occurred concomitant with the release of the cornet from Burnwell’s grip, wouldn’t Holder hear it?

Think I’m being too picky? Well, how about this: why did he take the coronet from the bank in the first place?

“We have shared this same room for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by sharing the same cell.”

In any event, the die is cast, Holmes has made the decision to step outside of the law, Watson has forced him into taking him along, and they set out to commit the crime. While burgling the home, they discover that Milverton is awake and sitting up when all intelligence had indicated he would be sound asleep.

As it turns out, Milverton has an appointment with a client who has promised to give him some compromising letters. The client shows up one-half late and is not whom she has told Milverton she was; she is a woman who Milverton has ruined because she failed to pay the blackmail for some letters. Milverton released the letters to her husband who, as a result of a broken heart, dies.

After a short exchange, she pulls a pistol and kills Milverton. Watson and Holmes are secreted behind a curtain where they had retreated when Milverton came into the room and they witnessed the murder. After Milverton is dead and the assailant has fled the scene, Holmes quickly retrieves the letter that compromised his client (as well as all other letters Milverson had), hurls them into the fire, and he and Watson bolt from the house.

There were five rounds fired and the alarm was quickly raised:

“I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so swiftly. Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light. The front door was open, and figures were rushing down the drive. The whole garden was alive with people, and one fellow raised a view-halloa as we emerged from the veranda and followed hard at our heels. Holmes seemed to know the grounds perfectly, and he threaded his way swiftly among a plantation of small trees, I close at his heels, and our foremost pursuer panting behind us. It was a six-foot wall which barred our path, but he sprang to the top and over. As I did the same I felt the hand of the man behind me grab at my ankle, but I kicked myself free and scrambled over a grass-strewn coping.”

Forgetting for the moment that these two middle aged men easily negotiate a six-foot fence, I wonder what happened to the woman who actually killed Milverton? Where did she go? I will allow that Holmes and Watson spent some additional time in Milverton’s office because Holmes (without Watson’s help) made multiple trips from the safe to the fireplace but, according to Watson’s narrative, the servants were almost instantly on the scene. In fact, they were banging on the locked office door even as Holmes was dumping the material from the safe into the fire.

So where did she go? We know she exited the house because Watson felt the outside air enter the room:

“She looked again, but there was no sound or movement. I heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew into the heated room, and the avenger was gone.”

But how could she have eluded the staff when they were apparently (almost) immediately at the door?

Watson was actually caught by the heel as he scaled the fence so clearly people were about, why would they not have seen the woman?

For sure he wasn’t a homosexual. In The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot, he specifically tells Watson:

“I have never loved, Watson, but if I did and if the woman I loved had met such an end, I might act even as our lawless lion- hunter has done.”

In the Valley of Fear, Holmes mentions his feelings toward women. Speaking to Watson:

“Should I ever marry, Watson, I should hope to inspire my wife with some feeling which would prevent her from being walked off by a housekeeper when my corpse was lying within a few yards of her.”

In Charles Agustus Milverton, Holmes goes so far as to become engaged to be married to one of Milverton’s house maid:

“You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?”

No, indeed!”

“You’ll be interested to hear that I’m engaged.”

“My dear fellow! I congrat –”

“To Milverton’s housemaid.”

“Good heavens, Holmes!”

“I wanted information, Watson.”

“Surely you have gone too far?”

“It was a most necessary step. I am a plumber with a rising business, Escott, by name. I have walked out with her each evening, and I have talked with her. Good heavens, those talks! However, I have got all I wanted. I know Milverton’s house as I know the palm of my hand.”

“But the girl, Holmes?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“You can’t help it, my dear Watson. You must play your cards as best you can when such a stake is on the table. However. I rejoice to say that I have a hated rival, who will certainly cut me out the instant that my back is turned.

Two things here.

When Holmes asks Watson, “You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?”, Watson responds with, “No, indeed!” (Emphasis Doyle’s).

In other words, it struck Watson as quite out of the ordinary that Holmes would consider marriage. Also note that, even though Holmes expects to be “cut out” by a hated rival, it is certainly not a prerequisite to Holmes’s courting – some might say seducing – of Milverton’s housemaid. 

Later in the same story, Holmes is contemplating burgling Milverton’s home in order to retrieve some letters that compromise his female client.  Watson is quarrying him on the risks and Holmes counters with:

“Since it is morally justifiable, I have only to consider the question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should not lay much stress upon this, when a lady is in most desperate need of his help?”

So there is no evidence that Holmes was a homosexual. There exists no real evidence that he was a misogynist either. I think it more likely that Holmes was simply asexual.

Holmes did indeed enjoy the company of men more than women. Most of his professional work brought him into contact with men but we also know that Watson was only able to cajole Holmes to visit Colonel Hayter – one of Watson’s patients from his service in Afghanistan – when he (Watson) was able to assure Holmes that that there would be no women present.

“A little diplomacy was needed, but when Holmes understood that the establishment was a bachelor one, and that he would be allowed the fullest freedom, he fell in with my plans and a week after our return from Lyons we were under the Colonel’s roof.”

In The Sign of the Four, Holmes describes the lovely Mary Morstan – the woman Watson subsequently married – as a “unit”.

“What a very attractive woman!” I exclaimed, turning to my companion. He had lit his pipe again and was leaning back with drooping eyelids. “Is she?” he said languidly; “I did not observe.”

“You really are an automaton — a calculating machine,” I cried. “There is something positively inhuman in you at times.”

He smiled gently. “It is of the first importance,” he cried, “not to allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities. A client is to me a mere unit, a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning.

Mary Morstan was a unit and Violet Hunter was quickly forgotten after a successful conclusion to the Adventure of the Cooper Beaches and this was after Holmes took an initial interest in her:

I could see that Holmes was favourably impressed by the manner and speech of his new client.

Though after Holmes closed the case, he completely dismisses her:

As to Miss Violet Hunter, my friend Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of one of his problems.

One has to wonder, was Watson hopeful that Holmes and Miss Hunter would have something in common?

Watson sums it up pretty succinctly in A Scandal in Bohemia:

It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer — excellent for drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. 

And this from the Greek Intrepter:

His aversion to women, and his disinclination to form new friendships, were both typical of his unemotional character…

Sherlock Holmes is exactly what you think he is: Sherlock Holmes.

The story is straightforward enough and Holmes solves it easily enough though he does go through some consternation before coming to his conclusion by pulling an all-nighter and, not for the first time, “… sitting upon five pillows and consuming an ounce of shag.”

And to his credit, he acknowledges his blunder:

“I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now.”

And later:

“I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.”

Just one question?

When Holmes scrubbed the make-up off of Neville St. Clair’s face, we find a “… a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned”.

Smooth-skinned? Here’s a man who hasn’t shaved in three days and Doyle describes him as smooth-skinned? Possibly by smooth-skinned, Doyle meant smooth-skinned as opposed to the rough-skin created by the make-up?

It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles.

As an aside, I seriously considered trying this ploy when I was once at “low-water”. I wasn’t going to necessarily use make-up but I was going to wear dark-glasses and carry a cane for the visually-impaired. I went as far as to buy a cane (off of eBay) but never went through with it.

“We are going well,” said he, looking out of the window, and glancing at his watch. “Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half miles an hour.”

“I have not observed the quarter-mile posts,” said I.

“Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixty yards apart, and the calculation is a simple one.

So how did Holmes calculate the speed of the train? According to Watson, Holmes was looking out of the window then glanced at his watch so we will assume he counted a set number of poles, then noted elapsed time.

Let’s assume Holmes decided to count, say, 25 posts, how many seconds would have elapsed when he again looked at his watch? We know that the rate of the train divided into the distance equals elapsed time (Rate x Time = Distance → Time = Distance ÷ Rate). In this case we know the rate is 53.5 mph and the distance of the 25 posts is 1500 yards (the posts are 60 yards apart). After Holmes counted 25 posts, he would have consulted his watch and noted that 57.35 seconds would have elapsed. The calculation would have been: 1500 yards/57.35 seconds = 53.5 mph. Maybe not a simple calculation but for Holmes, apparently it was.

But wait, we’re talking Sherlock Holmes here, maybe he had a better way? Let’s think… he would know, for example, that 29.33 posts is one mile, therefore, glancing at his watch after he counted the 29.33th  post, he would note 67.29 elapsed seconds. Now, he knows the rate of the train, it’s one mile per 67.29 seconds. Dividing 67.29 into 3600 seconds (the number of seconds in an hour) yields: 53.5 mph. Voilà.

I do wonder, though, that even Sherlock would feel confident enough to estimate the speed of the train at fifty-three and a half miles an hour? But hey, he’s Sherlock Holmes.

Silver Blaze — the first story in the collection — is a perennial favorite among Holmes fans.  It has a little something for everyone and one thing for everyone: “The curious incident of the dog in the night-time” has become almost cliche for something that is counter-intuitive and is sure to ferret out Holmes fans if uttered in a group of any size.

“Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention?”

“To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.”

“The dog did nothing in the night-time.”

“That was the curious incident,” remarked Sherlock Holmes.

Beautiful.

Holmes handily solves the problem — though Watson too was first rate, recognizing the possibility of Silver Blaze walking out of the stable behind the stable boy and the likelihood that John Straker’s leg wound was accidentally self inflected — and makes a pivotal conclusion that Fitzroy Simpson could not have anticipated curried-mutton was to be served the night of the horse abduction (which would have masked the taste of the powered opium) thereby eliminating him as a suspect. And of course the curious incident of the dog in the night-time in which Holmes garners a clue based on what the dog didn’t do.

The story itself is very tightly written but there were some fairly egregious errors made in describing the sport of horse racing. Author Conan Doyle acknowledges these errors in an essay entitled “Highlights of Sherlock Holmes”:

“I have, for example, never been a racing man, and yet I ventured to write “Silver Blaze”, in which the mystery depends upon the laws of training and racing. The story is alright, and Holmes may have been at the top of his form, but my ignorance cries aloud to heaven. I read an excellent and damaging criticism of the story in some sporting paper, written clearly by a man who did know, in which he explained the exact penalties which would have come upon every one concerned if they had acted as I described. Half would have been in jail and the other half warned off the turf forever.”

I noticed at least one of these when I first read Silver Blaze. It occured to me that Silas Brown — the horse-faker who, at Holmes instruction, was holding Silver Blaze at Mapleton until the day of the race — stood to gain a great deal even though he was culpable in the abduction of the horse. Brown was the only one who knew that Silver Blaze was going to run (other than Holmes) so could have — and apparently did — influence the betting in his favor. It’s unlike Holmes to allow a criminal to profit.

No, other than the errors that Doyle has himself acknowledged, Sliver Blaze is Holmes at his finest. The only irregularity I found — and remember, Holmes is held to a higher standard than regular men — was that Dawson, the stable-boy from Maplon was offered half a crown from Holmes but was prevented from collecting by the arrival of Silas Brown and yet there is no mention of any further interaction between Dawson and Holmes. Surely Holmes didn’t stiff the kid? That’s not at all like Holmes. We’ll assume he left it atop a fence post on his way off the Mapleton property. No doubt young Dawson was watching from a distance and Holmes would have been aware of that.

I did though wonder how Silas Brown was able to keep the disguised Silver Blaze hidden until race day? Probably Holmes had it right when he observed of Mr. Brown:

“Oh, an old horse-faker like him has many a dodge.”

“He said that you could solve anything.”

“He said too much.”

“That you are never beaten.”

“I have been beaten four times—three times by men, and once by a woman.”

We can be reasonably sure the woman Mr. Holmes refers to is Irene Adler from A Scandal in Bohemia. The remaining three (men) are not altogether clear but surely Mr. Holmes counts the defeat he suffered at the hands of Baron Adelbert Gruner in the The Adventure of the Illustrious Client.

While it is true Holmes brought the case to a successful resolution, he could have never done it without the unexpected — and serendipitous — actions of Miss Kitty Winter. Holmes has dispatched Watson to occupy Baron Gruner while he (Holmes) attempts to burgle the Baron’s house. In the process, the Baron hears Holmes and rushes into the room being burgled.

Watson describes the incident:

“The window leading out to the garden was wide open. Beside it, looking like some terrible ghost, his head gin with bloody bandages, his face drawn and white, stood Sherlock Holmes. The next instant he was through the gap, and I heard the crash of his body among the laurel bushes outside. With a howl of rage the master of the house rushed after him to the open window.

And then! It was done in an instant, and yet I clearly saw it. An arm – a woman’s arm – shot out from among the leaves. At the same instant the Baron uttered a horrible cry – a yell which will always ring in my memory. He clapped his two hands to his face and rushed round the room, beating his head horribly against the walls. Then he fell upon the carpet, rolling and writhing, while scream after scream resounded through the house.”

Had not Miss Winter stopped the Baron, by throwing vitriol in his face, surely he would have apprehended Holmes? How could he not? Holmes was injured (and had only just gotten out of the hospital) so all the Baron would have had to have done would be to simply overtake him and retrieve his property. No?

Was the Baron up to it? Well, Holmes himself considers the Baron:

“Mighty dangerous. I disregard the blusterer, but this is the sort of man who says rather less than he means.”

And Miss Winter notes:

“Adelbert is no coward. His worst enemy couldn’t say that of him. He can look after himself.”

So it’s pretty clear that Baron could have handled an injured and unarmed Holmes.

Holmes may not have been up to snuff either.  How could Sherlock Holmes not have noticed that Kitty Winter secreted a bottle of vitriol under her coat?

“Therefore I gathered the girl up at the last moment. How could I guess what the little packet was that she carried so carefully under her cloak? I thought she had come altogether on my business, but it seems she had some of her own.”

He apparently observed that she had something under her cloak because she carried it carefully, but he failed to make the connection to the case. I suggest he was off his game, possibly do to his injuries, making it even more likely the Baron would have bested him had he not been stopped by Kitty Winters.  

Clearly Baron Gruner is one of the three men who have beaten Holmes. Now, who were the other two?

A Study in Scarlet — the first Sherlock Holmes story — opens with Watson recounting his wartime service in Afghanistan:

“I was removed from my brigade and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery.”

He was struck on the shoulder by a Jazail bullet. Pretty unequivocal.

Why then, in the very next Sherlock Holmes installment, The Sign of the Four — published just three years later — does Watson say he was wounded in the leg?

“I made no remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg. I had a Jezail bullet through it some time before, and, though it did not prevent me from walking, it ached wearily at every change of the weather.”

And, later in the same story:

“I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently about the room with considerable bitterness in my heart.”

There are some explanations that could fit the facts but the whole thing is a bit suspect.

We know Watson cannot have confused his shoulder and his leg because both had physical manifestations. In the case of the shoulder, when Holmes, in A Study in Scarlet, describes to Watson how he knew he (Watson) had been in Afghanistan, he specifically mentions the arm:

“Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.”

In the case of the leg, Watson himself describes nursing his wounded leg and he has an actual limp.

These have to be two separate wounds.

What causes all the consternation is that the two stories were written so close together; A Study in Scarlet was written in 1887 and The Sign of the Four was written in 1890. You may argue that three years is long enough for an author to forget some of specifics from his first book but would not Doyle have referred to his original story before writing the second? And even if he didn’t, was not the second story edited?

No, these are two separate wounds. They have to be. After all, isn’t this what Sherlock Holmes would have deduced?

“How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, HOWEVER IMPROBABLE, must be the truth?”

Watson also notes that his wounded leg ached wearily at every change of the weather. Can we not assume that London was enjoying particularly nice weather when Watson first met Holmes? If that was the case — and we have no reason to think it wasn’t — Watson would not have thought to mention the leg wound because he would not have been in any pain.

If Watson was indeed wounded in the shoulder and the leg, then there is no other explanation other than he was wounded twice — both times by a Jezail bullet.  Hey, stranger things have happened.

It’s a little suspect Mr. Doyle but we’re going to have to give you the benefit of the doubt.

Specifically I refer to Holmes interview with Miss Violet Hunter. Hunter has just shown Holmes the letter from Mr. Rucastle where he offers he a job as governess.

“That is the letter which I have just received, Mr. Holmes, and my mind is made up that I will accept it. I thought, however, that before taking the final step I should like to submit the whole matter to your consideration.”

“Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that settles the question,” said Holmes, smiling.

“But you would not advise me to refuse?”

“I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a sister of mine apply for.”

“What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?”

“Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself formed some opinion?”

“Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr. Rucastle seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not possible that his wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the matter quiet for fear she should be taken to an asylum, and that he humours her fancies in every way in order to prevent an outbreak?”

“That is a possible solution—in fact, as matters stand, it is the most probable one. But in any case it does not seem to be a nice household for a young lady.”

“But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!”

“Well, yes, of course the pay is good—too good. That is what makes me uneasy. Why should they give you £120 a year, when they could have their pick for £40? There must be some strong reason behind.”

“I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so much stronger if I felt that you were at the back of me.”

“Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I assure you that your little problem promises to be the most interesting which has come my way for some months. There is something distinctly novel about some of the features. If you should find yourself in doubt or in danger—”

“Danger! What danger do you foresee?”

Holmes shook his head gravely. “It would cease to be a danger if we could define it,” said he. “But at any time, day or night, a telegram would bring me down to your help.”

Sherlock Holmes answers her questions precisely and succinctly avoiding any conjecture. He only answers the questions he is asked, not reading any more into the question than is there, which is an all to uncommon trait when talking with people.

When Miss Hunter asks, “What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?”, he answers, “Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself formed some opinion?” In other words, he resists the temptation to be sucked into useless conversation, conversation not supported by data. He only answers the question as asked and only based on the data he actually had.

He then goes onto do something only the most confident professional is willing to do: he asks Miss Hunter her opinion. It is unlikely that she will suggest anything Holmes has not already considered but she might reveal some information that she has, for whatever reason, failed to disclose.

The mystery itself is quite transparent to Holmes once he has the facts and he

Finally, Holmes demonstrates some acute psychological insight that is rare even today:

“The most serious point in the case is the disposition of the child.”

“What on earth has that to do with it?” I ejaculated.

“My dear Watson, you as a medical man are continually gaining light as to the tendencies of a child by the study of the parents. Don’t you see that the converse is equally valid. I have frequently gained my first real insight into the character of parents by studying their children. This child’s disposition is abnormally cruel, merely for cruelty’s sake, and whether he derives this from his smiling father, as I should suspect, or from his mother, it bodes evil for the poor girl who is in their power.”

By the way, you will notice that the motives of the father, Mr. Rucastle, is identical to the motives of Mr. Windibank in The Case of Identity.

When Holmes returns from his investigation into the Openshaw case:

“He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and thrust them into an envelope…

Two things here, when Holmes squeezed out the pips and then thrust them into an envelope, wouldn’t they still be wet?  On the three previous occasions when we hear of orange pips, they are specifically noted to be “dry”.

1. When Col. Elias Openshaw opened the original letter, “… out there jumped five little dried orange pips”
2. When Joseph Openshaw (Elias’s Openshaw’s brother and John Openshaw’s father) opened the Dundee letter, “… and five dried orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one.”
3. In John Openshaw’s (the nephew) letter from East London, “… he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips.”

We can’t even argue that the other orange pips were put in their respective envelopes while still wet (from the orange juice) and later dried. If that had been the case, they would not have jumped out (in the case of Col. Openshaw) or shaken out (in the case of John Openshaw), they would have dried to the inside of the envelope.

You think I’m being picky, right? Well, how about this: after Holmes thrusts the five (wet) orange pips in the envelope, what does he do then? He seals and addresses the envelope!  Can you imagine addressing an envelope with orange pips inside? Or coins? Or anything other than flat paper? No, simple human expediency would cause anyone to first address the envelope then add the enclosure. Holmes would never have done it otherwise.

I also wonder at the newspaper account of young John Openshaw’s death. The morning after Openshaw’s Baker Street interview, Holmes prepares to go out and investigate the case.  Watson writes:

It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.

“You will excuse me for not waiting for you,” said he; “I have, I foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young Openshaw’s.”

“What steps will you take?” I asked.

“It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may have to go down to Horsham, after all.”

“You will not go there first?”

“No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the maid will bring up your coffee.”

As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill to my heart.

“Holmes,” I cried, “you are too late.”

“Ah!” said he, laying down his cup, “I feared as much. How was it done?” He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.

“My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading ‘Tragedy Near Waterloo Bridge.’ Here is the account:

“ ‘Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham.’ ”

I have two questions here. First, would not Holmes have already glanced at the newspaper?  It was laying on the table when Watson picked it up, wouldn’t have Holmes at least glanced at it?  No?  OK, maybe he was preparing to go out and didn’t bother to pick it up — even though he told Watson he had anticipated an attack on Openshaw. 

I also wonder if the story would have made it into the newspapers at all?  The murder took place between “nine and ten” (according to the newspaper, which corresponds with Openshaw leaving Baker Street before nine) so the body would have to be recovered, identified, the newspapers would have to (somehow) learn of the incident and dispatch a reporter, and then include it in the morning paper. Could it happen? Maybe.

OK, enough of that. In some ways this is my favorite Sherlock Holmes stories because Holmes give John Openshaw some of the best advice possible, not just for this circumstance but for anyone in despair.

“What have you done?” asked Holmes.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“To tell the truth”—he sank his face into his thin, white hands—“I have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions can guard against.”

“Tut! tut!” cried Sherlock Holmes. “You must act, man, or you are lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair.”

Later Holmes reiterated the necessity of doing first things first:

“Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I think that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our web to weave, while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is to remove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to clear up the mystery and to punish the guilty parties.”

“You must act, man, or you are lost. Nothing but energy can save you.”   What brilliant advice and how many times would action have saved the day and yet we do nothing.