Extract from the annals of Doctor John H. Watson MD. 221B Baker Street, London. 1902

I have always supposed that Holmes was a man of keen perceptiveness and a dry wit. When he is lost in reflective melancholy, one never knows whether he is deep in some nostalgic dream, or caught up in the spell of a self-induced cocaine habit. At such times he may indulge himself with his pipe, which compels me to open a window. Then again, he may attempt an air on his violin, which induces me to shut him in the bathroom and very firmly close the door.
        There was, however, one memorable evening when Holmes sat moodily at one side of the fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, while I, at the other, was deep in one of Clark Russell's fine sea-stories, until the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend with the text, and the splash of the rain appeared to lengthen out into the long swash of the literary sea waves.
        A knock at the front door and the appearance of Mrs Hudson was the prelude to one of the most fascinating cases of our mutual career, and offered a further demonstration of the extraordinary intellect of the man generally recognised as the greatest detective of all time. Our housekeeper entered to announce Mrs Isabel Bateman. This lady followed close behind, in anticipation of being granted an audience with the Great Man.
Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with an easy courtesy, and, having closed the door and ushered her into an armchair, looked her over in the intimate and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him.
        "Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is a little trying to do so much typewriting?" "I did at first," she answered, "but now I know where the letters are without looking." Then, suddenly realizing the full purport of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and astonishment upon her face. "You've heard about me, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "else how could you know that?"
        "Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is my business to know things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. Or I may have read one of your short stories. No matter. Why have you come to consult me?"
        "I came to you, sir, because you have the most excellent reputation for solving other peoples’ problems. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I'm not rich, but still I have a small income in my own right, besides the little that I make by my efforts at writing, and I would give it all to know what has become of my father.”
        Holmes raised an interrogatory eyebrow. “You may not be rich at present, but surely you must have expectations? I recall that your father is Karl Frederick Hanson, the Scandinavian industrialist. He is one of the richest men in the world. Some of his fortune will undoubtedly come your way.”
        “Not necessarily.” The lady responded. “He disapproved very strongly of my marriage to an Englishman. He can’t come to terms with the fact that I love David. He had plans for me with the son of one of his Danish associates. He is as implacable as any Viking warrior of old. I believe that he intends changing his will.”
        “If he hasn’t changed it yet,” countered Holmes, “then we have an excellent motive for causing him to disappear.” “No! Indeed no!” replied Isabel. “I adore my father. I would never hurt him. Indeed, I was to meet him for coffee a few days ago, and he never turned up. Since then, no one has laid eyes on him.”
        Holmes continued. “Then what of your husband? Would he not be eager to pursue the matter of your inheritance?” “I suppose so,” she faltered. “But I haven’t seen him either, not since I informed him that there was a possibility of a reconciliation.”
“Tell me,” asked Holmes, “Did he know when and where you were to meet?” “Well, yes! I suppose David must have been aware of our intentions. He also knew of my father’s attitude towards him.”
“And you haven’t any idea where he might be?”
“None at all. We have a horse and trap which we normally stable in the mews, but it too has gone.”
Holmes’ face darkened as he followed some inner train of logic. “Then we must go to the mews and see what we can see. Come Watson. Let us hope that we can clear this mystery sooner rather than later.” After we had examined the stable Holmes looked grave. “I fear the worst,” he said. “Does your father own property of any description near water?”
“Sometimes I wonder, Mr Holmes, as to whether you are a magician, or at the very least, a psychic. My father owns Holbeck Ghyll, one of the Lake District's finest country houses.”
        “Then that is where we shall continue our investigation,” Holmes said gravely. “There are clues which point to the fact that something terrible has happened. We have some frayed sacking, an empty bottle of chloroform, and a stick of Kendal rock. We must inform Inspector Lestrade. Then we will make our way north, to the Lake District, as soon as possible.”
Baffled, but in accord with the detective’s wishes, we complied. The Inspector provided us with motorised transport, using one of the new horseless carriages presently being used to some good effect by our modern police force. We made good time, in some instances attaining a speed of thirty miles an hour, and reached Windermere in less than a day.
The house was indeed beautiful. It sat in splendid isolation, overlooking the lake like some great guardian of the environment. However, such beauty was lost on Holmes. With a singularity of purpose he strode down to the water’s edge and scanned the area.
“Watson,” he called out. “Keep Mrs Bateman away from the scene. There are some sights a lady should not be asked to look upon. Lestrade, you must put out an alert for the apprehension and arrest of Mr Bateman. His greed has been his undoing. He has obviously rendered his father in law insensible with the use of the chloroform. He then ensured that the poor man came to a sticky end by bludgeoning him to death with a stick of Kendal rock. That same rock, incidentally, that leads me to believe that he had made a previous visit to this area to plan this premeditated and cold-blooded murder. Then he tied him up in sacking and attempted to conceal his abominable crime by tossing the poor man into the water. If he had not left such an obvious trail and the body had remained submerged, he might well have succeeded in his dastardly deed. Unfortunately for him, he forgot the old adage.”
Lost in admiration for my very distinguished roommate, I had to ask the question. “What adage is that Holmes?


“Elementary my dear Watson!” Holmes exclaimed triumphantly, in that patronising tone that he uses on such occasions, that makes me want to break his aristocratic nose with a well-aimed fist because it makes me appear to be a moron.
“You can take a Norse to water, but you cannot make him sink.”

Copyright © 2004 Thomas Vaughan