Petr Macek - Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Cold-Served Revenge

The publishing sensation that I caused with my manuscript describing the case of Golems shadow took a long time to die down. Indeed it was here that I detected the true reason for Holmess retirement at the end of 1903, and thus finally eased my conscience. For many years I had been compelled to lie or at least mask the truth.

My promise to my publisher Mr Doyle, who had refused to print my work, still applied. I therefore undertook to write about another, less controversial case, but one that would still sate the publics hunger for the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, while at the same time offering something new and unexpected. I had no desire to return to the years that I had already minutely described in several previous books.

The events of the spring of 1911 still loomed. I was no longer contributing to The Strand and Holmes had retired from public life. At no time earlier had there been a reason to make the case public. Indeed, for a number of years, up to the end of the Great War, parts of the case had been kept classified. I trust, therefore, that the reader will forgive me that in the interests of several highly placed people related to the royal family I have changed several names.

I am aware of the shame of letting these days fall into oblivion. Although while living through them old memories returned to us, some of them were unkind. But there is one man above all who deserves to be remembered: he who put us on the chessboard of this case and almost gave us mate.

Back when the new century was growing into its adolescent years, when motorcars were replacing hansom cabs and gas was giving way to electricity, Sherlock Holmes and I saw much less of each other. He was occupied with beekeeping at his country farmstead in Fulworth near Eastbourne in Sussex, and I divided my time between my medical practice and my wife. The days when the famed detective and I would plunge into Londons dank alleyways or struggle through the inhospitable marshes of innumerable counties in pursuit of a felon seemed irretrievably lost. Our intercourse was reduced to intermittent visits and only marginally more frequent correspondence.

At that time both of us were well into our sixth decade and enjoyed the dignity that was our due. On occasion, during my ambles through the city, I would stray inadvertently into Baker Street and pause nostalgically at 221B, where seventeen steps led to our old lodgings. But the number of steps was the only thing that had not changed. The apartment was occupied by new tenants; young people better adapted to their rapidly changing surroundings. Old buildings were being demolished and new ones were rising up in their place. Everything was being modernised. The explosion of building at the beginning of the twentieth century affected every aspect of life and trampled all that was old into the dust.

But I am not one to bemoan times ever-increasing pace or to linger in the past, with the exception, of course, of my literary accounts of our adventures. And so, on one of those visits to these parts, I only reminisced briefly about bygone glories before again returning home.

Indeed it was here that, quite unexpectedly, one of my last adventures with the great detective got underway. It began in the same way as many others; with a hastily written telegram sent in distress.

But this time there was one alarming difference: the telegram had been sent by our former housekeeper, Mrs Hudson, and directly concerned Sherlock Holmes!

My blood turned cold.

Alas those few words written on a slip of paper did not describe exactly what had occurred. Mrs Hudson only mentioned Holmess dire health and urged me to come as quickly as possible. I gathered that he had probably suffered a coronary thrombosis.

I replied at once to expect me tomorrow and reserved a seat on the morning train to Sussex.

That night I could not sleep. To my knowledge, except for a touch of rheumatism that he complained of in his letters, Holmes did not suffer from any grave ailment. I must concede, however, that his lifestyle during our years together was a recipe for a coronary. The strain and stress and his generally unbalanced regimen must surely have taken their toll. But why had they culminated now? After all, in recent years his sole occupations had been tranquil philosophising, literary studies, and a bit of farming.

On the journey the next day, despite the breath-taking view of sun-bathed fields and pastures from my compartment, I was beset by troubled thoughts. I did not even read the morning Times, the front page of which was devoted to the latest crisis in Morocco. France and Germany were vying for it with unceasing persistence. Each was attempting to forge an alliance with England, which only heightened already elevated tensions in Europe. The recent military defeats had been a shock to Englands self-confidence and had revealed the Empires unpreparedness for war. The paper speculated that King Edwards and the demands of the working classes. Nothing new under the sun. Nothing to unburden my mind of its cares.

There was only one item all the way in the back of the foreign affairs column that piqued my interest, story about the violent death of the famous Italian factory owner Vito Minutti. He had been shot in his office right in the middle of the day and they only found his body several hours later. The culprit was being hunted by the police commissioner heading the investigation, who did not want to discuss suspects or motives. Clearly they were dumbfounded. Indeed, I had been infected by Holmesian scepticism towards the police and their work.

I only raised my eyes from Minuttis obituary as the train pulled into the station. A coach was waiting for me and immediately took me to Cuckmere Haven. For those last few miles before reaching my destination I sat on the coach box next to the coachman as though on tenterhooks. My heart was racing. I feared whether I might be too late.

Good Mrs Hudson, who had taken care of Holmes for many decades and had even left her native London to follow him to the countryside, was already waiting at the doorstep. As soon as she spied us she waved her hand and hurried over to the coach.

Doctor! Dear doctor, thank God, I am so happy that you are here, she cried, extending her arm towards me before the coach had even stopped.

How is he? I asked, in lieu of a greeting.

The pastor is with him, she said, breathing heavily. At her age she tired quickly and any excitement exhausted her.

I hopped down from the coach and gently embraced the diminutive woman.

Last rights? I gulped.

Not yet, she said, crossing herself. Do not paint the devil on the wall or he will appear. Pastor Barlow is a friend of Mr Holmes; he runs this parish and often visits us. Today he came in order to cheer him up a little. In truth yesterday evening I feared that Mr Holmes would not live to see you.

What happened? I inquired, while Mrs Hudson led me into the house.

His heart, doctor, his heart, she sighed. For several weeks now it has been ailing him, but in the past few days it has gotten worse. He had his first heat attack the day before yesterday. The doctor prescribed him some medicine and confined him to bed, but he still does not look well. He is pale and listless and does not eat.

I had guessed correctly.

May I see him?

Yes of course, that is why I sent for you! she said, tears forming in her eyes. Never had I seen her so wretched.

I quickly found my medical bag among my things and while the coachman unloaded the luggage Mrs Hudson and I entered the house.

As soon as I entered the vestibule I detected the unmistakable scent of Holmess tobacco which some might call a stench and which I could never forget. The house was permeated with it just as our old lodgings had been. I recollected the times before we lived together when I would return from visiting him. My clothes had been so redolent with his tobacco that I immediately had to take them to be laundered.