Sherlock Holmes' Last Case

By Robert D'Artagnan

Everyone knew that Sherlock Holmes perished in a titanic struggle with Professor Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls in the year 1891.

At least they thought they knew that. Until...

Until some three years later he suddenly reappeared in London, alive and well, the same old Sherlock Holmes...

Or...was he?

That is only one of the questions examined in the pages of Sherlock Holmes Last Case.

This manuscript among the recently discovered effects of Doctor John H. Watson, as edited by novelist Robert DArtagnan, gives us a description of what may have been Sherlock Holmes final adventure.

That adventure describes intrigue and a clever scheme to discredit an internationally known figure.

But it involves more than that.

Unexpectedly Holmes own worst enemy in some ways would suddenly seem to be himself...would seem so indeed... were it not for the ominous presence of Colonel Moriarty seeking vengeance for the death of his late brother.

And then, for Sherlock Holmes, everything is at risk ...reputation, self-esteem and life itself.

The newsletter of the prestigious and long-established SHERLOCK HOLMES SOCIETY OF LONDON says this

Sherlock Holmes Last Case by Robert DArtagnan (Xlibris, www.xlibris.com, $29.69 hardback, $19.54 trade paperback), takes Holmes and Watson to Vienna to meet Sigmund Freud, and gives a sensational new account of what really happened during the Great Hiatus - but its not a re-run of The Seven-per-Cent Solution. The year is 1908: At Martha Freuds request Holmes investigates her husbands peculiar behaviour, and Freud helps him to solve the mystery of Reichenbach and the years that followed.

Dr. Freuds persecutor, we discover, is someone who will later have a profound effect on the history of Austria, and indeed of the world. Its heady stuff, excitingly told

---- excerpted from the book review by Roger Johnson, Editor of the Newsletter, who also calls Sherlock Holmes Last Case a rattling good read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 25, 2001
• ISBN: 9781456805760

Robert D'Artagnan

Robert D'Artagnan is a pen name for an author who prefers at this time to remain in the same shadowy area he likes to write about. What he will admit to for publication is the following... He writes and has published and lectured on a number of Shakespeare research articles as well as several books on Shakespearean analysis and the Authorship Question. His Shakespeare website can be seen at Pages.Prodigy.Net/Webrebel. Under various pen names he currently has in publication ten books, with several others in preparation. These include several novels, most on adventure or science fiction themes. Street of Broken Dreams fits into both those categories, is published here for the first time ever, and he considers it one of his best...

Book preview

SHERLOCK

HOLMES’

LAST CASE

-2nd Edition

Robert D’Artagnan

Based on the Doctor Watson manuscripts

Copyright © 2001 by Robert D’Artagnan.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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Contents

NOTE 1

NOTE 2

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

NOTE 1

This manuscript has only come to light recently thanks to the efforts of Robert D’Artagnan.

He it was who tirelessly combed the widely scattered effects of the late Doctor John H. Watson . . . he who when all hope was generally lost as to finding any posthumous literary efforts, came up with the Cache that has attracted worldwide attention.

Robert D’Artagnan gave the title to the present manuscript . . . actually wrote a few paragraphs as bridges where pages were missing . . . had to decipher portions of the handwritten manuscript that were virtually illegible due to the inevitable ravages of time.

Due to his efforts, it is our hope that the present work forms a worthy addition to the literature penned by Doctor Watson, the central figure of which is, of course, as always, the legendary Sherlock Holmes.

Reportedly there are still other untitled manuscripts in this literary treasure chest, and it is our hope that under D’Artagnan’s editorship, they too, in the fullness of time, can also gain their rightful publication.

Sir William Rutgers

President

The John H. Watson Literary Society

NOTE 2

As far as can be determined at this writing, this was Doctor Watson’s last manuscript concerning the adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

There are still many mysteries concerning my discovery of the Watson papers. In SHERLOCK HOLMES’ LAST CASE, some of those mysteries are apparent . . .

Two earlier manuscripts are mentioned by name. I have not yet located them. What I do have is a jumbled collection of partial narratives and copious notes, leaving me a daunting challenge towards trying to reconstruct Doctor Watson’s lost books.

Certain characters and events are referred to in this final recorded adventure which may be puzzling to the reader . . . characters and events which I find in Doctor Watson’s notes, but which have never yet appeared in print anywhere. Of course the Doctor’s plan was to have published the adventures in chronological order, something he never lived to see done.

The best I can do under the circumstances, is to see to the publication of this last adventure first. There are good reasons for that . . .

First, this is the most nearly complete manuscript in the Watson Papers, amounting to what seems to have been something like a rough first draft. Second, there is no assurance I can ever formulate comprehensible books out of the jumble of unfinished notes that are left. Third, it is hard to escape the conclusion that someone deliberately destroyed the finished though unpublished Watson works, probably soon after his death. And while it is still remotely possible the completed manuscripts of the missing books may yet turn up somewhere, it would be a mistake to count on that, meanwhile depriving the world of the pleasure of reading about Sherlock Holmes’ final adventure.

Certain questions will strike the reader in SHERLOCK HOLMES’ LAST CASE. Who was Joy Garnett Heathrow? What exactly was the Stone Circle? What was the Shelley adventure about? The Shakespeare Case?

The answers may lie completely or partially in Doctor Watson’s myriad papers . . . or they may not. Only time and dedicated effort on my part will tell.

What I most need now is a large portion of the same good luck that led me to the Watson Papers in the first place. That was a piece of fortune against all odds. I have become convinced the situation may be just as Doctor Watson describes it herein . . . someone has done everything possible to keep both this book and the others from ever seeing print.

Which gives me my final reason for seeking publication now of this manuscript.

It will be the first step against any such prohibition. It is not my concern to worry myself as to where the proverbial chips may fall.

Doctor Watson would have understood.

—Robert D’Artagnan

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

What was missing in our lives?

Something. That was certain.

And we both felt it.

I didn’t know how to articulate what it was. Sherlock Holmes did, striding back and forth in his study like a caged tiger. . . . something to cap off my career, Watson, which more than a few are all too eager to say is long since over. What I need is a challenge for my alleged abilities, which are lying around useless . . . useless . . . rusting away like tin cans in some London back alley. But . . . Here he spread his arms wide and stood momentarily still as a statue. Where, Watson, where?

That crisply cold day of October, 1908, standing there watching him resume his restless striding, I had no immediate answer to his question.

To me it seemed that Sherlock Holmes had already attained the pinnacle of success in his chosen field and he could hardly now hope at this late date to climb still higher.

But then . . . I was only his friend and chronicler, not the great detective himself. While I might write of the ominous rumblings and churning and clouds of smoke emitted from an awakening volcano, I really had no way of knowing of the maelstrom of hidden forces inside threatening to erupt into irreversible disaster at any moment.

But on this particular occasion I sought to find a way to take the edge off his discontent.

Holmes, old man . . . we are neither as young nor as frisky as we once were and realistically—

He did not let me finish but cut in sharply. Watson, I’ll keep bees in Sussex when the time comes . . . and be happy at it, too . . . but right now . . . His voice trailed off, his gaze became distant.

My clumsy attempt at pacification had gotten nowhere fast, I saw. I could have kicked myself for having used that expression old man. While it was purely a term of affection, its timing could not have been worse.

I tried another tack . . .

Well, Holmes. One can’t control everything. Simply not possible. Fate . . . Destiny . . . the spin of the wheel . . .

He was not to be pacified with that, either. We make our own Fate . . . largely . . . at least we have the opportunity to. If I’ve done my work well, then the cases should come to me. I’ve spent a lifetime developing my sleuthing talents. All for nothing, it seems.

I viewed things in much less dramatic terms . . .

Sherlock Holmes really had no cause to complain of lack of cases.

For years now, ever since the turn of the century, he had refused to take any case that did not at least promise to be of a nature that would challenge all his professional skills and at the same time promise to have more lasting value than the mere resolution of some routine crime. Of course both he and I well knew that we could hardly expect to find such cases popping up on our doorstep every day.

Quite the contrary . . .

There would never again, perhaps, be an investigation of the sweep and magnitude of the Shakespeare case. Or, at least, so we had thought until the Shelley Case had come along. But that had been resolved in 1904 and since then Holmes had only accepted two cases, both of which, though quickly and competently solved, had proved to be major disappointments in the relatively minor nature of the revelations thereby produced.

What I hoped for now was only a slight turn in the road of tranquillity, a twist of fate with some element of danger and intrigue attached to it, that would permit Sherlock Holmes, yes, to go after his so fervently desired final triumph . . . but not put his life in danger again.

I was to be granted only half my wish.

*     *     *

Thus it was that when Miss Martha Bernays, of Vienna, Austria, came calling on us as per her scheduled appointment that bright October day of 1908, she found a receptive audience in a more than somewhat restless Sherlock Holmes.

We were living now in a large two story townhouse on London’s West End. It offered us two things we badly needed, more space and, hardly less important, more security. Exactly for the latter reason I will not make now the mistake I made in my early narratives, as a younger man in a more innocent age, of revealing in print our exact address.

Never again.

Even to mention that the townhouse is somewhere between Marylebone Road on the north and Oxford street on the south may make me guilty of saying too much in the shrinking world we live in. But let me explain such an otherwise cryptic and apparently uncalled for statement . . .

The undeniable and inescapable truth was that such was the worldwide fame of Sherlock Holmes, in spite of the fact that no new adventures of his had been published since 1900, that it simply was no longer possible to continue living any longer at 221B Baker Street.

Every reader of the stories and every criminal in London knew the address. At some point it had become counterproductive to try to continue to work professionally out of such a situation. A certain amount of privacy and confidentiality were prime requisites for the successful prosecution of any investigation, and such things were simply no longer easily attainable at the Baker Street address.

There was another factor, too.

Because . . .

Neither was it fair to Mrs. Hudson to ask her to deal with curiosity seekers and cranks who said they only wanted to look at Sherlock Holmes or see his living quarters, or question him about some matter of the most trivial or trifling content.

And so . . .

With regrets, and not without a certain sentimental treasuring of the many memories, both pleasant and harrowing, associated with our old living quarters, then, we had one night secretly and surreptitiously moved out.

Secretly and surreptitiously as far as anyone except Mrs. Hudson was concerned, that is.

We had said our goodbyes to her the previous day, and left her what I thought was a quite generous bonus, but which Sherlock Holmes said was little enough compensation for all the many trials and tribulations and extra troubles she had been put to over the 26 years we had stayed there.

Something else struck me at the moment of parting from our long-time landlady . . .

Mrs. Hudson embraced us both, amid such smiles and tears as would be expected from someone with as warm a heart as she possessed. Poor woman, I could not help but note how up in years she suddenly looked at that parting, something she had seemed almost impervious to during our long residence there . . . perhaps because she had prematurely become rather matronly and grey by the time we met her, and so did not seem to suffer the subsequent passing of the years.

Holmes and I, of course, were hardly the sprightly young men who had first moved into the second floor flat on Baker Street either. That year of 1908 I would celebrate, if that is indeed the apt word, my fifty-fifth birthday, while Holmes himself would pass his fifty-fourth anniversary of life upon this troubled earth.

Tempus fugit. But . . .

We had already passed our aging crisis brought on by the shock of the entrance of the new century and the fear that we might be left in the backwater of history due to the wave of technological progress that accompanied that entrance.

That had been turbulent and traumatic enough, but . . .

That was long ago over, and now neither of us any longer felt in the least threatened or diminished because of advancing age . . . in the strictly physical sense, though philosophically was another matter. I was witness to Sherlock Holmes’ occasional kicks and protests against the encroaching net of time, and I was not so altogether reconciled to having my own existence cancelled out merely due to some abstract chronological requirement.

But in many ways we functioned better than ever as a team. There were good reasons for that.

What had been lost in youth and alacrity had been made up for with maturity and judgment. Selectivity in all things was a major key towards accomplishing more than ever. And certainly with the major milestones of the Shakespeare and the Shelley Case to our credit, not to mention our investigation into the circumstances of the now 42 year old Lincoln assassination in America, we both felt, with considerable justification, that as an investigative force in the world we were at the very summit.

But, life at the summit can sometimes bring a little tinge of dullness with it, as I mentioned, if the routine is not occasionally enlivened by a really challenging or interesting case.

And, while something told me from the very start that this could prove to be no ordinary investigation, still both of us tried to be cooly professional from the moment Miss Martha Bernays rang the front doorbell.

*     *     *

She impressed me immediately as a very composed person, one of those people with a place for everything, and everything in its place . . . on both the mental and the physical levels. She was a lady of, I would guess, around forty years of age, was dark of hair and skin and also the possessor of large, dark eyes.

I might have described her as mysterious had it not been for the modification that her personality made upon her actual physical characteristics.

That is . . . there was something very down-to-earth and matterof-fact about her, that did not allow any mystery to show through. To me this was characterized both by her steady gaze and the severe parting in the exact middle of her head of her dark and abundant hair, and its being tightly pulled to both sides behind her ears and into braids that were partly concealed within her dress.

The first floor of the townhouse was where the consulting was now done.

Both Holmes and I had offices there, side by side. I had everything I could want both for my writing needs and for the many personal arrangements and administrative functions necessary to being the assistant of Sherlock Holmes, including the telephone with its private, unpublished number.

I did my writing, sometimes on the new and elegant typewriter which had captured my affection, but often also sitting at my large oak desk and scribbling away in my old fashioned manner in a large, unlined notebook . . . or even occasionally resorting to filling up one of my old blank medical casebooks.

Holmes had a very well outfitted office for his purposes, too, I thought, with his large and ornate mahogany desk, rather ample library of books at his immediate disposal, and still sufficient shelf space available to have on display a few selected mementos of certain of his more famous cases.

Both offices, I thought, were businesslike and functional, and yet retained a certain homey, friendly quality. At least I had done my best to make them that way . . . partly by strategically placing thick Persian carpets atop the hardwood floors, which I thought helped conserve the silence and serenity of the atmosphere . . . and having some carved wood panelling put on the office walls to give a more intimate feeling, mahogany in Holmes’ office and oak in mine.

Holmes met us in the hallway.

Miss Martha Bernays, this is my friend and associate, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. So I introduced her now to Holmes.

She extended her hand, which Holmes took and surprised me by giving to its slender loveliness an accomplished continental brush of the lips.

Miss Bernays, charmed. Dr. Watson tells me that, according to your letter, you have come from Vienna on a matter of some urgency.

That is correct, Mr. Holmes.

Please step into my office, and if you don’t mind I will ask Dr. Watson to sit in with us. He is my indispensable right hand man, factotum, partner and longtime friend. Anything that you might say to me can just as well be said to him, and in either case absolute confidentiality is assured.

That will be fine, Mr. Holmes.

It’s a little early for tea, I said. But if you like, I can have some served. Or some other refreshment. Coffee, or perhaps a lemonade. We have a kitchen with a very well supplied pantry at our disposal, and it would be Mrs. Arthur’s pleasure to bring you something.

Some lemonade might be nice, thank you.

Soon Holmes and I were sipping at coffee and Miss Bernays at her lemonade as we listened to her strange story.

First of all, I have not been completely honest and aboveboard with you, she began. And for that I must apologize. But it is a precaution that I felt I must observe in the interests of preserving my anonymity in this country. To which I am not a stranger, as you may have guessed from my conversation. As a young girl I spent 3 years here with my aunt, attending school. It is not myself I seek to protect but rather the reputation and standing of my husband. She paused and took a sip of lemonade.

I leaned towards her, already fascinated. So it is not Miss Bernays after all?

Martha Bernays is my maiden name. I am married to Doctor Sigmund Freud.

My fascination immediately doubled . . .

THE Doctor Sigmund Freud of Vienna, the pioneer of that new branch of medicine, the investigation of the subconscious mind and all that . . . can’t think of the term, though I’ve read about it, I said.

Psychiatry, she said.

And Dr. Freud is a psychoanalyst or psychiatrist, isn’t that the correct terminology? Holmes asked.

"Yes.

Which, I believe, Holmes continued, involves one in investigating all possible aspects of the subconscious mind and its effects on human behaviour.

Yes.

And is it not Dr. Freud’s basic theory that much of this affecting of behaviour by the subconscious mind comes from some sort of repressed sexual desire?

Mrs. Freud reddened slightly at Holmes’ remark. I believe that is correct. Understand me, that I do not agree with that theory myself, and have told Sigmund so many times. But he is convinced that it is true, although he sometimes admits that there are other motivations that occasionally apply. But I have very little to do with his practice, and he does not discuss his practice or his theories with me on any kind of a regular basis. As for myself, I have decided that it is best for me to stay apart from all that, and concentrate my own energies on raising our family and running the household. Which leads me to my problem. That has become very difficult to do successfully, recently.

To raise the family and run the household? Holmes raised his eyebrows.

Yes. The problem is to some extent an economic one. I would not want us to end up on the brink of ruin.

But surely Dr. Freud earns a considerable amount of money. More than sufficient, I would think, I said.

Yes, he does. It is in the expenditures that the problem lies.

Mrs. Freud, Holmes said in what I perceived to be a somewhat disappointed tone, I’m sure you must realize that economic and budgetary problems are not my field of expertise. I’ll certainly hear all you wish to tell me, but perhaps I could refer you to someone more specialized in the areas mentioned.

Her large eyes opened wide and she quickly leaned forward.

Oh, no, Mr. Holmes. I have not travelled all this way only to be referred to someone else. It is you I want on this case. Were it not so, I could easily have found someone in Vienna. You have not yet heard what the heart of the problem is.

Go on, then, please.

The economic difficulties I have mentioned are only peripheral to the main issue. I . . . he . . . Here she dabbed at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief, seemed to struggle for control. Then blurted out a sentence that sounded like, and was, a lament. I feel that my husband is under the power of some evil spirit!

Sherlock Holmes’ expression at Martha’s astounding declaration was almost oriental, a study in inscrutability.

As for myself . . .

I still didn’t know what was missing in our lives. But I felt somehow that if we . . . Holmes and I . . . could just put right what was missing in this enchanting lady’s life . . . that perhaps, in the process, in some way I did not understand, we would find out.

CHAPTER 2

Holmes and I looked at each other without speaking after Mrs. Freud’s strange outburst.

She quickly pulled herself together and went on . . .

It’s his behaviour I’m talking about. It has recently undergone a great change, and I have no explanation for it. He has no explanation for it. Or rather, he doesn’t even know that his behaviour has changed. In short . . . in short, he does not remember what he does.

Well . . . Holmes was restraining himself, but I could sense the hard edge of interest beginning to emerge by a little gleam of light deep inside his grey eyes. Well, perhaps it is merely not convenient for him to remember it. He may not be telling the strict truth about that.

Mrs. Freud sighed. But that would be a great change in itself, without precedent. He has always prided himself on being a straightforward, courageous, truthful man. And he has been. Up until this great behaviour change.

Holmes sipped at his coffee. Time to get down to specifics. Why don’t you describe for us just exactly what you mean about his behaviour. And Dr. Watson, I’d like you now to take detailed notes on this part of the conversation, please. Go on, Mrs. Freud.

I was grateful for Holmes asking me to do what I longed to do anyway. I pulled out notebook and pen from my breast pocket.

Well . . . let’s see if I can, in a way so you can see what I’m getting at. We live at 19 Berggasse Street in Vienna. It is a five story house in the city, more than ample for our family needs, and my husband has his professional offices on the ground floor. Six days a week he treats his patients there, consults with new ones, writes up his cases and does other writing for books or other works he wishes to publish. It keeps him very busy, he is an extremely hard working, dedicated man, who often has to try to make headway against a great amount of criticism.

Once again she paused and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.

But always before, no matter what the situation, barring some life or death emergency, he would stop work at five and climb the stairs to be with us, his family, for the rest of the day. He would take some refreshment and chat, not anything about his work, but about normal family matters or the local or foreign news, things of that nature . . .

Here she pressed her small, slender hands together and paused before going on.

"Oh, yes, each Wednesday evening at our house we hold a meeting of the Vienna Psychoanalytical Society which my husband himself founded. But then, one day, he did not come at shortly after five o’clock as he always and invariably has. Nor at six or seven or eight or nine. I have made it a point never to interrupt his work, so I kept my patience and did not go down to his office.

When he finally arrived I was frantic. He seemed surprised and asked the time. When I told him, it was as if he could not believe it. It must have been, he said, that his clock in the consulting room had stopped and he, working away on some writing project, had not noticed. Yes, that was surely it, he said.

And was it? asked Holmes.

No. On subsequent days as it happened again and again, I would make it a point to descend to his office quarters, and no, he was never there. Not once.

I see. And how did he explain that?

He did not. He rather began to have doubts about my sanity, Mr. Holmes. According to what he said, each time, he had just completed his work in the office immediately prior to climbing up the stairs to home. And he did not understand why I should think otherwise. Well, it is true that he normally goes down the street for cigars at five. Twenty a day is his normal consumption . . . he feels it helps his concentration in his work, so he buys a fresh supply of twenty at the end of each day . . . as a kind of reminder of his objectives for the following day.

Did he seem sincere in having doubts about your own sanity? asked Holmes.

Absolutely.

How, then, did he account for the lost time?

He didn’t feel there had been any.

But the clocks, the darkness . . . surely you indicated those to him.

Of course. But he, without in the least being perturbed about it, merely gave the most absurd explanations imaginable and accepted them as fact himself, going tranquilly on his way as if nothing had happened.

And this became a standard pattern? Holmes asked, glancing at me as I struggled to get the gist of everything down in my notebook.

Yes.

And he never lost his temper over your questioning?

Never. But he did begin to voice concern about my own mental and physical health, insisting on examining me in his office several times.

And he found nothing wrong?

Nothing.

What happened next?

We arrived at a sort of unspoken agreement. I stopped asking questions and he stopped being concerned about my health.

And he still continues in the same pattern?

Yes.

I see. Holmes’ look was now intense. Now, about the economic problem?

"It’s simple and frightening enough. I draw on our checking account for my monthly household expenditures, trying to stay within a certain amount and usually succeeding. As a result, both our checking and savings accounts have grown steadily over the

years until they are considerable . . ."

Here she sighed heavily before continuing.

But . . . on the first month that the new behaviour pattern commenced, I noticed that our checking account had gone down considerably. I mentioned it to Sigmund, and he seemed incredulous at first, and later quite resentful. He maintained that he had drawn out nothing. And yet, later, when I investigated I found the withdrawal slips with his signature.

You’re sure it was his signature? I said.

I don’t think any forger could be so clever as to duplicate my husband’s unpredictable and illegible medical signature, Mrs. Freud replied with a faint smile.

And this is an ongoing phenomenon? Holmes asked.

Yes. To the point that our former substantial checking account is at a very low point . . . and now I find that he has started to withdraw funds from our savings account, too.

Her attractive face clouded up . . . tiny hands coiled into fists at the end of her trembling arms . . .

Oh, how I wish . . . if ever I have the chance to get the person behind this . . . there is someone behind it, I know it, Mr. Holmes . . . Sigmund is not like this, he isn’t!

At this point Sherlock Holmes rose from behind his mahogany desk, and paced slowly, the thumb and forefinger of his right hand stroking the outlines of his chin, while we watched in silence.

At last he spoke. Mrs. Freud. As specifically as you can, now, in your own words, tell me what it is that you expect me to do, should I decide to take this case.

I should expect you, Mr. Holmes, you and Dr. Watson, to first find out what is going on. Where my husband spends his missing time. What he spends the money on. For that I realize I did not have to come to London, but could have hired an investigator in Vienna. But my interests go far beyond the surface facts . . .

Her large dark eyes, still moist, reflected her inner sadness.

"I want to know why my husband does these things, and just as urgently, why he denies doing them, and in all sincerity seems not even to be conscious of them. If it is a health problem, then I would want to know how to help him, and how to get the appropriate treatment for him in a manner that he would accept.

I feel that there is some deep mystery here, which idea I have sought to express by my metaphor of my husband being possessed by some evil spirit, something that would be well beyond the capabilities of an ordinary investigator but not, I hope, beyond the well-known powers of Sherlock Holmes.

It was my perception at this point that Sherlock Holmes had been very favorably impressed by Mrs. Freud.

You have expressed yourself in such a way that you make it very hard for me to turn down your proposition as stated, he said with a smile. And therefore I shall not do so unless my associate has some objection. Dr. Watson?

I think it sounds like a case that could capture our interest, and I certainly have no reason to object to your taking it.

"Good, then. That’s decided. As to the particulars, Dr. Watson has been so good as to have printed up a pamphlet explaining our fee schedule, including expenses and so forth which you may read over at your leisure.

If convenient for you, why don’t we sleep on this and tomorrow you can come by and sign the standard papers. At that time I will give you some idea of the general line, but hardly all the line as you may appreciate, of our investigation, as well as information on how to contact us in an emergency and so forth.

Mrs. Freud’s aspect had visibly brightened as Holmes spoke. She now rose and extended her small and slender hand, which he took.

Thank you, Mr. Holmes. It is a great relief to me to know that you will be working on this terrible problem. Just one more thing . . . is it at all possible that we might have met somewhere before in the distant past? She looked up at him and seemed to be perusing the features of his face.

Holmes looked a little surprised. I’m sure I would not forget meeting such a person as yourself, he said.

You’ve never been to Vienna?

Never.

Well that resolves that. I thought I might have seen you somewhere on the street and your face just stuck in my memory for some reason.

Perhaps in London. While you were here as a student.

Yes. That would explain it.

Holmes left the office while Mrs. Freud and I arranged for the appointment the following day and went over some other