A quick peek...............

.....at the opening of 'Sherlock Holmes and the Scarborough Affair'.

   I find it recorded in my notebook that it was the summer of 1901and one of those almost unbearably hot days that Londoners seemed to be destined to suffer in silence and with stoicism that natives of some European cities would find incomprehensible. The sunlight poured off the tall buildings and swept down to the over-crowded pavements below. The sun’s rays bounced off the windows of the city and radiated throughout the busy thoroughfares.

            The heat of the day was no less noticeable in our Baker Street sitting-room and the open windows failed to alleviate the uncomfortable conditions. Sherlock Holmes, however, was not affected to any great degree by these hot-house conditions, bent over his chemistry table as he was, intent on his experiments. Although my experiences in India and Afghanistan had to some extent made me accustomed to the heat, I was in desperate need of fresh, albeit warm air. Not that I was particularly in need of exercise, I had only just recovered from my exertions on the continent on the trail of the vanished Lady Frances Carfax; I was fortunate in that Lausanne displayed none of the heat that we had been subjected to of late. Although it had been a barren year for Holmes by way of remarkable cases, the cases we had been involved in seemed to require more physical exertions on my part than I had become used to. In May we were called on to look into the abduction of Lord Saltire, the son and heir of the Duke of Holdernesse, a case which ended successfully with the safe return of son to father although there were certain aspects of the resolution of the affair that caused me some disquiet, although this is perhaps not the place to air that disquiet. This investigation required a certain amount of traversing the moors of the Peak District, ‘uphill and down dale’ is the phrase which springs to mind       When, added to this were various trips to Lyme Regis to see my intended, Mrs Beatrice Heidler, including the splendid occasion of her son Nathaniel’s marriage to Elizabeth Hill, then I felt perfectly justified in feeling somewhat jaded. Beatrice was going to be away throughout the latter part of August and the early part of September visiting a cousin in Margate whose confinement was fast approaching. In the meantime, Nathaniel would take over the running of his mother’s boarding house ably assisted by young Lydia, but knowing Lydia as I did, I suspected it was Nathaniel who would be doing the assisting. I knew I would be a distraction or worse to Beatrice were I to inflict Margate with my presence, but I felt the need to get away from the city for a while if my dwindling funds would allow such a course of action.

    “I am going for a stroll to Hyde Park, Holmes, would you care to accompany me or do you prefer to be shut up here with your chemicals and test tubes containing God knows what?”

 “You go if you wish, Watson. I am content to remain here, this particular experiment is at a crucial juncture and the delights of Hyde Park do not hold a candle to the outcome of this test, assuming I am right in my hypothesis.”

“Very well. I will see you a little later.”

    I returned some two hours later, no less warm, but certainly rejuvenated, to find Holmes stretched out on the chaise-longue, his eyes closed and looking for the world as if he were asleep. His eyes flicked open as I approached him.

            “Sorry to disappoint you, Watson, I am not so enfeebled yet as to require an afternoon nap.”
            “It would be of no consequence to me whatsoever, Holmes, I assure you.” I said, as I seated myself.
            “I sense an eagerness to remove you from the city, am I correct?”
            “I could say when are you not? But, yes, I do feel in need of a break to recharge my batteries. Do you not feel the need yourself, Holmes?”
            “Work is the best antidote to everything and my work is my life,
I have no need to be rejuvenated by days by the sea or in the countryside when the cases that come my way serve that very purpose for me. And my friend, remember, my last two experiences of life by the sea were in Lyme Regis and you know full well what happened on those occasions.”
            “I hardly need to tell you of all people, that crime can occur anywhere and the fact that we encountered such evil in Lyme Regis hardly negates the fact that Lyme and many other resorts have much to recommend them to the flagging spirits of jaded souls.”
            “To me, the notion of taking the sea air for one’s health is a foreign one. The effect must perforce be temporary and all too soon those that proclaim the merits of such remedies are thrown back into their commonplace existence. My little problems help me to escape that commonplace of existence.”
            “Is not that effect temporary too?”
            “No, because one is followed by another; a never-ending chain of conundrums and puzzles,” he answered
            “If that were true, Holmes, you would never have had the need to artificial stimulants.”
            “In order not to offend your sensibilities, perhaps I should say it is generally true. Perhaps the letter which arrived this morning while you were out will provide an opportunity for your escape from the metropolis,” Holmes said, waving a bony hand towards the table.
            I picked up the envelope which bore both a House of Commons imprint and a Surrey postmark. As I slid out the contents, some tickets fell out onto the carpet.  On picking them up I was much surprised to see they were passes to every day’s play at the Scarborough Cricket Festival. An explanation for those unfamiliar with the festival is called for; The Scarborough Festival is an end of season series of cricket matches featuring Yorkshire County cricket club, which has been held in Scarborough, on the east coast of Yorkshire, since1876. The ground, at North Marine Road, sees large crowds of holiday makers watching a mixture of first class county cricket, one day fixtures and invitation XIs in the early September sunshine every year. Many of the world's greatest cricketers have played in festival matches in recent years.
            In the envelope was a covering letter from the Hon. William Thomson. His name was immediately familiar to me, not only because he was a rising star in Lord Salisbury’s government, but also as a cricketer of some note. A former Oxford University cricketer who now plays his cricket for Surrey, when his tenure in the government allows him the time to do so. 
 
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            Our paths had crossed earlier in the year when he and his wife were thrown from a hansom cab whose driver inexpertly negotiated the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street, colliding with a furniture van. It was the time of the heaviest congestion and I had observed the accident as I was making my way towards the junction. The incident caused a good deal of chaos and whilst a number of people became involved in attempting to disentangle the frightened horses, I observed a lady lying immobile and seemingly unnoticed, in grave danger of being trampled by the horse of the furniture van, who, once freed, attempted to take flight.  I instinctively pushed my way forward through the melee and whilst protecting her from the horse, gently pulled her to safety.  As I was examining her for injuries, a dazed figure approached.  Although bleeding from a head wound, the man’s only concern was for the lady’s condition.  It was evident that he was her husband and I allowed him to kneel beside her and take her hand. 
            With necessary brevity, I informed the man that I was a doctor and returning my full attention to his wife, ascertained that she was suffering from concussion and a fractured leg.  My action in pulling her from the area of danger may have exacerbated the seriousness of the fracture, but instinct and medical training told me that this had been the only course of action open to me in order to prevent far greater or even fatal injury.
            My immediate concern was to immobilise the broken leg and to that end I set about fashioning a splint from an advertising hoarding which had also been a casualty of the accident.  I instructed the man to assist, requesting he remove his braces in order to bind the splint with them.
            As we were completing this task, the lady was just recovering consciousness and was clearly in great distress.  At this point, I was relieved to hear the clanging of the ambulance bell.  I suggested to the man that he allow me to examine his head wound when his wife was lifted onto a stretcher.  Instead of which, he took me by surprise by grasping my hand and thanking me profusely.  I just had time to hand him my card with the utterance of further help, if required, dying on my lips as the injured man sprinted up the road after the ambulance.  Any concern for his well-being was tempered by the fact that Barts was only a few minutes away and he would receive any necessary treatment there.
            I was approached by one of the constables, a PC Hackett, attending the scene and gave him a full account of what I had witnessed.  I continued my way home, going over the events in my mind.  The injured lady’s husband was vaguely familiar, but I could not place him.  On my return home, I was in time for afternoon tea.  I felt it extraordinary that life, such as it was, at 221b Baker Street was continuing in the usual ritual way and yet a young lady almost lost her life in a brief interlude.  It does not, however, do, to dwell on the fact that life and death is played out daily on our streets. 
            I regaled Holmes with the events of the afternoon, simple relief at the lady’s survival causing me to play down my actions.  Although giving only the bare bones of the story, his look of extreme languor and indifference silenced me before I could muse further on the identity of the couple.
            The following morning, I found Holmes already partaking of his breakfast.  He glanced in my direction and then without a word returned his attention to his ham and eggs, however, not before I had caught a mischievous look in his eye. 
            “Another mystery solved and before breakfast at that,” Holmes said, laughing in his peculiar silent fashion. 
            Before I could question this puzzling statement, Holmes slid the morning paper across the table to me.  It was evident that he had already read it as its condition was a crumpled mass.  Each morning it was my fervent hope that I would get to the newspaper before Holmes.  Although I could have my own copy delivered, I succeeded more often than not owing generally to Holmes’s irregularity of routine.  The small triumph I felt on beating him to it far outweighed the occasional effort required to straighten each and every page.
            I was taken by surprise to see my name beneath the headline on the leading story.