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[center]The Adventure of the Dutch Diamonds
Part I[/center]

I called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, in the summer of 1890, to find him ensconced upon 221B’s chaise lounge, wreathed in the smoke that emanated from his pipe. His long fingers probed the toe of his Persian slipper for another pinch of tobacco to fill his bowl. I counted myself lucky at least that Holmes had chosen tobacco as his poison of the day, as opposed to the cocaine solution he was known to select in the blackest depths of his boredom. It was habits like these, among his other Bohemian qualities, that rendered him quite undesirable as a roommate for most men, thus why Baker Street had remained with a sole tenant in the year since I was wed to Mary.

“Watson! This is a surprise!” He said.

“Oh, don’t get up, Holmes,” I said, placing my hat upon the rack, and righting the newspaper I carried in my arm, “I come with something of a surprise myself.”

“Do not trouble yourself, dear fellow,” said my friend, “I intuit the nature of the surprise you purport to bring.”

“Yet you still say I surprise you? I shall count that as a victory, against one so observant as Sherlock Holmes.” My friend laughed and waved me to sit in the leather armchair opposite him.

“Only with your appearance here at Baker Street, Watson. I should have thought you engaged in mingling with Mary’s visiting relations. Though I suspect now that Mary indulges in the feminine kinship of her dear cousins, and has left you to your own devices?”

Though Holmes’ observational trickery was far from new to me, it astounded me as ever. My mouth sat agape. “How could you possibly derive such facts? I have never informed you about Mary’s relations, much less their plans for travel. Even if I had, surely the assumption would be that I am off to visit them as well?”

“You are aware of my methods, Watson. As ever, it was through simple observation. I see your tie’s knot tends to the right, indicating you have done it yourself on this occasion. As well, I see the tie has returned to its state of military tightness, as opposed to Mary’s marginally more breathable loops. On the subject of your dress, I observe your pocket square is pressed and folded in the military style, whereas your wife would have applied a more decorative flourish. Finally, I see that you have breakfasted alone, for a sparse sprinkling of crumbs still exists in your moustache. Mary would have certainly detected these and dispensed with them before seeing you out the door.”

“It is a wonder I can make it out at all without her!” I brushed my moustache self consciously.

“As to Mary's relations, it is not as impressive as it may appear… I have already read the society pages I see you carry in your underarm.”

Holmes continued, “I recalled the details of our investigation into the activities of Bartholomew Sholto. In specific, that your late father in law, Captain Morstan, has a widow, a Mrs. Rebecca Morstan, who returned to America upon his death. Her maiden name, so dutifully recorded in your notes, was Kane. I see therefore in these pages that a Katherine and Bette Kane have recently arrived in London, a pair of an approximately similar age to your Mary, from the same city Mrs. Morstan was said to retire. It was a rather simple inference from there.”

“A marvellous deduction,” I declared.

“An elementary one,” Holmes said, “but perhaps an instructive example for your writings.”

“It was a stumbling point on my part, to think you unaware of the movements of prestigious Gothamites,” I admitted. “I should think one such as yourself to be professionally invested in the goings-on of the so-called ‘Capital of Crime.’”

“It is, in fact, a point of some irritation. The appearance of society figures such as these in London are wont to drown out such features as I search for in the various rags about town. The spaces of gossip publication typically reserved for those most scintillating crimes on which I thrive is often replaced with information on the comings and goings of such individuals,” Holmes said, “as well, I allow that the innumerable crimes reported out of Gotham City are not themselves without their interesting points, but what reports of them reach across the Atlantic are given to the most extreme kind of sensationalism.”

I had known Holmes to allow certain gaps in his knowledge, but this seemed a most curious one to me. Surely, one would reason, a consulting detective of Holmes’ calibre would derive great analytical experience from the kinds of bizarre tales to originate in Gotham, but Holmes was known to eschew that knowledge not essential in his business as a London detective. In the past he has claimed no knowledge of the Earth’s orbit about the sun, and in fact, had claimed the reverse, and though I suppose he was pulling my leg, it does not fail to illustrate the theme of Holmes’ focus on specific, esoteric interests.

“A handful of crimes do manage to stand out. There was the Nashton case from last year, a criminal that baffled American law enforcement with a series of logical problems and deadly riddles. Yet for the most part, the news is too full of tales of huge bats, undead men, and all manner of esoterica. Nothing to take too seriously,” Holmes assured me.

“I have known Mary to believe some of it. Perhaps on the morrow I can solicit the opinions of her cousins and their guests?” I offered. Mary’s relations had in fact arrived with an entourage. The morning’s edition enumerated that, aside from the Kanes, London would play host to Mary’s other cousin, a Mr. Bruce Wayne, as well as a number of family friends, Misters Cobblepot, Dent, and Bennett. A number of other Gothamites had arrived alongside them (the evident recipients of the same group travel sweepstakes that allowed the Kanes opportunity to attend), though those named were the only ones I planned to host for brunch the following morning. We had only learned of their arrival ourselves the previous evening, scarcely in advance of the news, and had been kindly pressed into the arrangement at cousin Bette’s request, though Mary was not displeased with the arrangement.

Holmes only offered a shrug, and said “ as much as I appreciate the offer, such anecdotal evidence would hardly lend credence to these stories. At any rate, it shall have little bearing on our daily concerns… Or those of the familiar man approaching our doorstep.”

Holmes had rightly identified the peak of a custodian’s helmet, bobbing up Baker Street’s stairs and appearing through Holmes’ windows. Holmes was up and across the room to the door instantly, leaving his still smouldering pipe askew on his lounger. I pushed myself up from my seat, ignoring the dull, cold throb of pain from the old war wound on my leg, and hobbled to collect the pipe before its burning ashes set the good landlady’s furniture alight, as Holmes allowed our guest to enter before they had occasion to knock.

“Inspector Lestrade! To what do we owe your most singular presence?” Holmes asked. Lestrade trod in on muddy boots, having failed to clean them on the stoop. He was a thin gentleman with a weasel-like face, complete with a most animal tenacity in his approach to policework. Holmes counted him as one of Scotland Yard’s best, though to Holmes’ word, finding a good policeman in London was like finding a good surgeon in a ragged school. 

“I perceive you are in something of a rush, Inspector.” I observed, in my own small deduction.

“Furthermore, I perceive you to have come from Northern London. Bloomsbury, if I do not miss my guess,” Sherlock began, about to launch into the chain of reasoning from which he derived his conclusion, when he was cut off by Lestrade.

“If you shall let me get a word in edgewise, I would be appreciative!” Lestrade’s typically jocular manner was gone from him, and his hand remained upon the door’s handle.

“I apologise for the outburst gentlemen, but we must hurry. A body has turned up, indeed in Bloomsbury, and the inspector in charge of the case has identified it as an accident. The chain of an old chandelier broke suddenly and crashed down upon the victim's head. A miserable circumstance, but one hard to attribute to anything but that, happenstance. In truth, I have trouble arguing with his reasoning, and yet it does not sit right with me. The attending officer is closing up the crime scene shortly, so I rushed to collect your opinion.”

“Why should the crime scene be not shuttered? What about the poor fellow’s demise stands out to your intuition?’” Holmes pressed. I could see that Lestrade’s statement had already stirred the voracious detective within. He leaned forward with a keen ear, hands clasped. Lestrade's cheeks reddened, and he rubbed his hand over his forehead, finding the will to articulate the source of his doubt with appropriate brevity. He appeared almost embarrassed.

“To put it to you simply Mister Holmes, I feel the crime scene is too… [i]Wet[/i], in a word.” 

“Too [i]wet[/i]? In England?” I chuckled at the notion. “I should hardly think such a thing possible. After all, we have had that most tumultuous thunderstorm just yesterday evening…”

“Yet, the most illuminatory member of Scotland Yard still sees fit to bring it to our attention. Surely he would have already checked the establishment for leaks or any obvious cause,” Holmes began. I almost chastised him for what I thought an opaque jape, but the backhanded remark seemed lost on Lestrade. Holmes digressed, “my dear Lestrade… If it was any of your esteemed colleagues in Baker Street today, or indeed, was the colour of today’s humour anything but the dullest shade of boredom, I might deny your request for the sparsity of details you provide, but you have proven yourself over the years to be intermittently capable of identifying those cases which appeal to my sensibilities. If it would please friend Watson to join us in this endeavour, then I would be most happy to join you.” Holmes said, his eyes questing for some answer from me.

It had been nearly a year since Holmes and I had been engaged together on a case, the most recent being the matter of the ghastly Hound of the Baskervilles in the fall of last year. At the time, aside from my work on my medical practice, my schedule was largely occupied in transforming that self same adventure into a novel, as I had already done for two of our previous adventures to some success.

“A new case would most certainly help with my writing process, so long as I am returned to my Mary at a reasonable hour. I must get some small rest if I am to be a good host for tomorrow's brunch,” I said.

“You shall have time to prepare a magnificent, slow cooked roast. I do suspect this will be naught but a trifle,” Holmes said breezily, already tying his boots.

“Come along, gentlemen, I’ve a dogcart waiting to take us to the scene.” Lestrade said. He held open our mahogany door.

Coat and hat in hand, my companion and I crossed the threshold of our rooms at Baker Street, and out into our first warm night in a brand new world.