Sherlock Holmes: A Study in Scarlet - Chapters One and Two | Full Audiobook - Chapter by Chapter

Welcome to this episodic audiobook presentation of Sherlock Holmes in this series. Each chapter brings the classic tales to life, unfolding the mystery, atmosphere, and adventure that have captivated readers for generations. Before we begin, a brief note. This presentation of Sherlock Holmes is a modernized retelling of the original Canon. The cases remain faithful to the stories that generations have loved, while the language and structure have been carefully refined to create a smoother, more immersive listening experience for today's audience.

What you are about to hear is not a change to the mysteries themselves, but a restoration of their flow, allowing the world of Sherlock Holmes to unfold clearly for the modern ear. And now we open our first case, Book 1, A Study in Scarlet, Chapter 1. Mr. Sherlock Holmes In 1878, I earned my Doctor of Medicine degree from the University of London and proceeded to Netley to complete the required training for Army surgeons. After finishing my studies, I was assigned as Assistant Surgeon to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

The regiment was stationed in India and before I could join them, the Second Afghan War erupted. Upon arriving in Bombay, I discovered that my unit had already advanced through the passes and was deep in enemy territory. I followed along with many other officers in similar circumstances and eventually reached Kandahar safely, where I joined my regiment and began my duties. The campaign brought honours and promotions to many, but for me it was a series of misfortunes and disasters. I was transferred from my brigade to the Berkshires with whom I served at the ill-fated Battle of my Wand.

There a gazelle bullet struck my shoulder, shattering the bone and grazing the subclavian artery. I would have fallen into the hands of the ruthless Ghazis if not for the bravery and dedication of Murray, my orderly, who managed to hoist me onto a pack horse and bring me safely back to the British lines. Exhausted by pain and weakened by the prolonged hardships I had endured, I was transported, along with a large number of wounded, to the base hospital at Peshawar. I had managed to rally and was well enough to stroll through the wards and even enjoy a bit of sun on the veranda when entering fever struck, a relentless scourge of our Indian territories.

For months my survival was in doubt. When I finally regained consciousness and began to recover, I was so frail and wasted that a medical board insisted I'd be sent back to England without delay. Thus I was shipped off on the troop ship Arantes and arrived a month later at Portsmouth Jetty, my health irreparably damaged but with the government's blessing to spend the next nine months trying to restore it. With no family ties in England, I was as unencumbered as the wind, or at least as unencumbered as one can be on an income of 11 shillings and sixpence a day.

Naturally, I drifted to London, that vast cesspool where all the Empire's Drifters and idlers inevitably converge. I took up residence for a while in a private hotel on the Strand, living a bleak, aimless life and spending my money far more liberally than was wise. My financial situation soon became so dire that I realized I had to either retreat to the countryside or drastically change my lifestyle. Opting for the latter, I resolved to leave the hotel and find a more modest and affordable place to live.

On the very day I reached this decision, I was standing at the Criterion Bar when someone tapped me on the shoulder. Turning around, I recognized young Stamford, who had been a dresser under me at Bart's. In the vast wilderness of London, the sight of a familiar face is indeed a welcome relief for a lonely soul. In the past, Stamford and I had never been particularly close, but now I greeted him with genuine enthusiasm and he seemed equally pleased to see me caught up in the joy of our unexpected reunion.

I invited him to lunch at the Holborn and we set off together in a handsome cab. What on earth have you been up to, Watson? He asked with open curiosity as we navigated the bustling streets of London. You're as thin as a rail and as tanned as a walnut. I gave him a brief account of my recent adventures, barely finishing by the time we arrived at our destination. Poor fellow, he said sympathetically after hearing about my hardships. What are you doing now? I'm looking for a place to stay, I replied, trying to figure out if it's possible to find comfortable lodgings at a reasonable price.

That's interesting, my companion noted. You're the second person today to mention that to me. And who was the first? I inquired. A guy working in the chemical lab at the hospital, he replied. He was lamenting this morning because he couldn't find someone to split the cost of some charming rooms he'd discovered, which were beyond his budget. By chove, I exclaimed. If he's truly looking for someone to share the rooms and the expenses, I'm the perfect candidate. I'd much rather have a roommate than live alone.

Young Stamford gave me a curious look over his wine glass. You haven't met Sherlock Holmes yet, he said. You might not find him to your liking as a constant companion. Why? What's wrong with him? Oh, I didn't mean there's anything wrong with him, he's just a bit peculiar in his ideas, quite passionate about certain scientific fields. From what I know, he's a decent enough chap. A medical student I assume? I inquired. No, I have no clue what he's planning to pursue. I believe he's quite knowledgeable in anatomy, and he's an excellent chemist, but as far as I know he hasn't enrolled in any formal medical courses.

His studies are rather erratic and unconventional, yet he's gathered a wealth of obscure knowledge that would surprise his professors. Have you never asked him what he's aiming for? I asked. No, he's not someone you can easily coax into conversation, though he can be quite talkative when the mood strikes him. I'd like to meet him, I said. If I'm going to share a place with someone, I'd prefer a person with quiet, studious habits. I'm not yet strong enough to handle much noise or excitement. I had my fill of both in Afghanistan, enough to last a lifetime.

How can I meet this friend of yours? He's bound to be at the laboratory, my companion replied. He either avoids the place for weeks or works there from dawn till dusk. If you'd like, we can drive over together after lunch. Certainly, I agreed, and the conversation shifted to other topics as we headed to the hospital. After leaving Holborn, Stamford shared a few more details about the gentleman I was considering as a roommate. Don't blame me if you don't get along with him, he said. I only know him from occasional encounters in the lab.

You suggested this arrangement, so you can't hold me accountable. If we don't get along, it will be easy enough to part ways, I replied. It seems to me, Stanford, I added, scrutinizing my companion, that you have a reason for distancing yourself from this matter. Is this guy's temper really that terrifying, or what's the deal? Don't hold back, it's tough to put into words. He replied with a chuckle. Holmes is a bit too scientific for my liking, almost to the point of being unemotional. I can picture him giving a friend a dose of the latest plant based toxin, not out of spite mind you, but purely out of curiosity to understand its effects.

To be fair, I think he'd try it on himself just as willingly. He seems to have an obsession with precise and exact knowledge. That's commendable, sure, but it can go too far when it involves hitting cadavers with a stick in the dissecting room. It takes on a rather odd form. Hitting cadavers, yes, to see how bruises can form post mortem. I witnessed it myself. And yet you say he's not a medical student. No, Who knows what his studies are really about, but here we are and you'll need to form your own impressions of him.

As he spoke we turned down a narrow lane and slipped through a small side door, entering a wing of the sprawling hospital. The place was familiar to me and I needed no guidance as we climbed the stark stone staircase and walked down the long corridor lined with white wash walls and dull colored doors. Near the far end, a low arched passage branched off, leading us to the chemical laboratory. This was a high ceiling room, cluttered with countless bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered throughout, bristling with retorts, test tubes, and small Bunsen burners with their blue flickering flames.

Only one student was present, bent over a distant table, absorbed in his work. At the sound of our footsteps, he looked up and leapt to his feet with a cry of joy. I found it, I found it, he shouted to my companion, rushing toward us with a test tube in hand. I've discovered a reagent that is precipitated by hemoglobin and nothing else. The delight on his face was as if he had unearthed a gold mine. Doctor Watson, meet Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Stamford introduced us. How do you do? Holmes greeted warmly, shaking my hand with a surprising firmness.

You've been in Afghanistan, I gather? How could you possibly know that? I asked, taken aback. Never mind, he replied with a self satisfied chuckle. The matter at hand is hemoglobin. Surely you grasp the importance of my discovery. It's intriguing from a chemical standpoint, certainly, I replied. But in practical terms, why? It's the most significant medico legal breakthrough in years. Don't you see? It provides an unfailing test for blood stains? Come, have a look. He eagerly pulled me by the sleeve over to the table where he was working.

Let's have some fresh blood, he said, pricking his finger with a long needle and collecting the drop in a pipette. Now I add this tiny amount of blood to a litre of water. You see, the mixture looks just like pure water. The blood concentration is no more than one in a million, yet I'm confident we can still detect the characteristic reaction. As he spoke, he tossed a few white crystals into the vessel, then added several drops of a clear liquid. Instantly the mixture turned a dull mahogany colour, and a brownish sediment settled at the bottom of the glass jar.

He exclaimed, clapping his hands with the Glee of a child discovering a new toy. What do you make of that? It seems to be a very refined test, I observed. Exquisite, Exquisite. The old Zircum test was crude and unreliable. The microscopic examination for blood corpuscles is just as flawed. It's useless if the stains are more than a few hours old, but this test seems effective whether the blood is fresh or aged. Had this been invented earlier, countless men walking free today would have long since faced justice for their crimes.

Indeed, I murmured, criminal cases often pivot on that single issue. A man might be suspected of a crime months after it occurred. His clothing is scrutinized, and brownish stains are found on them. Are they blood stains, mud stains, rust stains, or perhaps fruit stains? What exactly are they? This question has baffled many experts. And why? Because there was no dependable test. But now we have the Sherlock Holmes test, and such mysteries will no longer pose a problem. His eyes sparkled with excitement as he spoke, placing a hand over his heart and bowing as if acknowledging an imaginary audience's applause.

Congratulations are in order, I said, genuinely taken aback by his enthusiasm. Consider the case of von Bischoff in Frankfurt last year. He would have certainly faced execution if this test had been available. Then there was Mason from Bradford, the infamous Muller, La Favre from Montpellier, and Samson from New Orleans. I could list dozens of cases where it would have been definitive. You seem like a living Almanac of crime, Stamford chuckled. You could start a publication along those lines. Call it the police Chronicles of yesteryear.

It could make for quite fascinating reading, Sherlock Holmes remarked, applying a small piece of plaster over a prick on his finger. I must be cautious, he continued, turning to me with a smile. As I often experiment with poisons. He extended his hand as he spoke, and I noticed it was covered with similar plasters and stained with strong acids. We're here on business. Stamford said, settling onto a tall 3 legged stool and nudging another toward me with his foot. My friend here is looking for a place to stay, and since you mentioned you couldn't find anyone to share with, I thought it best to introduce you to Sherlock Holmes.

Seemed quite pleased with the prospect of sharing his space with me. I've got my eye on a suite in Baker Street, he said, which would suit us perfectly. You don't mind the smell of strong tobacco, do you? I smoke ships myself, I replied. That's good to hear. I usually have chemicals around and occasionally conduct experiments. Would that bother you? Not at all. Let me think what else might be an issue. I get into moods sometimes and might not speak for days. Don't assume I'm being unfriendly when that happens.

Just leave me be and I'll come around. Now, what about you? It's best for two people to know each other's quirks before they start living together. I chuckled at the interrogation. I have a bull pup. I said. And I avoid conflicts because my nerves are frayed, I wake up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and frankly, I'm incredibly lazy. When I'm in better health. I have a different set of vices, but those are the main ones for now. Do you count violin playing among the disturbances you dislike? He asked with a hint of concern.

It depends on who's playing. I replied. A well played violin is divine. A poorly played one, however. Oh, that's fine. He interrupted with a cheerful laugh. I think we can consider the matter settled, assuming the rooms suit you. When can we see them? Meet me here at noon tomorrow and we'll go together to finalize everything. He said. Agreed. Noon sharp. I replied, shaking his hand. We left him engrossed in his chemical experiments and walked together toward my hotel. By the way? I asked, suddenly, stopping and turning to Stamford.

How on earth did he know I came from Afghanistan? My companion gave a mysterious smile. That's just one of his quirks, he said. A lot of people are curious about how he figures things out. Oh, a mystery is it? I exclaimed, rubbing my hands together with anticipation. This is quite intriguing. I must thank you for bringing us together. As they say, the proper study of mankind is man. Then you must study him. Stamford replied as he took his leave. You'll find him a tough puzzle though. I bet he'll learn more about you than you will about him.

Goodbye, goodbye. I replied and continued on to my hotel, feeling quite intrigued by my new acquaintance. In the previous chapter, Doctor John Watson recounts the events that brought him back to England after war, injury and illness. Alone in London and short on means, he begins searching for affordable lodgings. A chance meeting with an old acquaintance introduces him to an unusual figure, a brilliant, eccentric man working in a hospital laboratory. That man is Sherlock Holmes. Their first encounter reveals Holmes's extraordinary powers of observation, his passion for science, and a mind already immersed in the study of crime.

Before the day ends, Watson finds himself considering not only a new place to live, but a new companion, one whose habits and intellect promise mystery, curiosity, and unforeseen adventure. In this chapter, their strange new association begins to take shape. Book 1A Study in Scarlet. Chapter 2. The Science of deduction. We met the next day as planned and went to see the rooms AT221B Baker Street, which he had mentioned during our meeting. The place comprised 2 cozy bedrooms and a large, airy sitting room, cheerfully furnished and lit by two wide windows.

The apartments were so appealing in every respect, and the terms seemed so reasonable when split between us, that we sealed the deal on the spot and immediately took possession. That very evening I moved my belongings from the hotel and the following morning Sherlock Holmes arrived with several boxes and suitcases. For a day or two we were occupied with unpacking and arranging our things to best suit the space. Once that was done, we gradually began to settle in and adapt to our new environment.

Holmes was certainly an easy man to live with. He was quiet in his manner and his routines were consistent. It was uncommon for him to be awake past 10 at night and he always had breakfast and left the house before I even got up in the morning. Some days he would spend his time at the chemical lab, other days in the dissecting rooms, and occasionally he would embark on long walks that seemed to lead him into the most impoverished areas of the city. His energy was unmatched when he was in the throes of work, yet there were times when a lethargy would overcome him, and for days he would lie on the sofa in the sitting room, barely speaking or moving from morning till night.

During these periods I noticed such a distant vacant look in his eyes that I might have suspected him of indulging in narcotics if not for the temperance and cleanliness that characterized his entire lifestyle, which dismissed such a thought. As the weeks passed, my interest in him and curiosity about his life's purpose grew steadily. His very presence and appearance were enough to catch the eye of even the most indifferent passerby. He stood a little over 6 feet tall and his extreme leanness made him appear even taller.

His eyes were sharp and penetrating, except during those spells of lethargy I mentioned, and his thin hawk like nose lent his expression an air of alertness and decisiveness. His chin was prominent and square, a feature that often signifies determination. His hands were perpetually ink stained and marked with chemicals, yet he possessed an extraordinary delicacy of touch, which I frequently observed when he handled his delicate philosophical instruments. You might think me an incorrigible meddler when I admit how much this man piqued my curiosity, and how often I tried to penetrate the veil of silence he maintained about his personal affairs.

But before you judge, consider how aimless my life was. With so little to capture my interest, my health kept me indoors unless the weather was exceptionally mild and I had no friends to break the monotony of my daily routine. In such circumstances, I eagerly embraced the small mystery surrounding my companion and devoted much of my time to trying to unravel it. He wasn't studying medicine. He had confirmed Stamford's opinion on that matter when I asked. Nor did he seem to be pursuing any academic path that might lead to a degree in science or any other recognized gateway into the scholarly world.

Yet his passion for certain subjects was remarkable and within his peculiar range. His knowledge was so extraordinarily detailed and extensive that his insights often left me astonished. Surely no one would work so diligently or acquire such precise information without a specific goal in mind. Casual readers rarely exhibit such precision in their learning. No one fills their mind with trivial details without a compelling reason. His ignorance was as striking as his knowledge. In the realms of modern literature, philosophy, and politics, he seemed to know almost nothing.

When I mentioned Thomas Carlyle, he innocently asked who that was and what he had accomplished. My astonishment peaked when I discovered he was unaware of the Copernican theory and the structure of the solar system. The idea that any educated person in this 19th century could be oblivious to the fact that the Earth orbits the sun was so extraordinary to me that I struggled to comprehend it. You seem surprised, he remarked, smiling at my astonished look. Now that I know it, I'll make an effort to forget it.

To forget it? I exclaimed. You see, he explained, I believe a man's brain is like a small empty attic, and you must furnish it with the items you choose. A fool fills it with all sorts of clutter he encounters, so the useful knowledge gets crowded out or at best, mixed up with so many other things that it's hard to retrieve. The skilled Craftsman, however, is very selective about what he allows into his brain attic. He keeps only the tools that will aid him in his work, but he has a wide variety of those, all in perfect order.

It's a mistake to think that little room has elastic walls and can expand indefinitely. Trust me, there comes a point when for every new piece of knowledge, you forget something you previously knew. It is crucial, then, to ensure that trivial facts don't crowd out the essential ones. But what about the solar system? I objected. What does it matter to me? He cut in, clearly irritated. You say we orbit the sun. If we orbited the moon instead, it wouldn't make the slightest difference to me or my work.

I almost asked him what exactly his work entailed, but something in his demeanour warned me that such a question would not be well received. Still, I mulled over our brief exchange, trying to draw conclusions from it. He had stated he would only learn what was relevant to his purpose, thus all his knowledge was tailored to be of use to him. I mentally listed the areas where he had demonstrated exceptional expertise. I even took a pencil and noted them down. I couldn't help but chuckle at the list.

Once it was finished. It read as follows. Sherlock Holmes, His boundaries One. Knowledge of literature, none. 2. Philosophy, none 3. Astronomy none Four. Politics weak 5. Botany inconsistent. Well versed in belladonna, opium, and poisons in general. Lacks any skill in practical gardening 6. Geology, practical yet limited. Can instantly distinguish different soils after walks. He has shown me stains on his trousers and identified their origin by colour and texture, pinpointing exactly where in London he acquired them.

Seven Chemistry profound, 8. Anatomy precise but disorganized. 9 Sensational literature vast. He seems to know every detail of every atrocity committed in the century. 10 plays the violin skillfully. 11 is an expert in single stick boxing and swordsmanship. 12 has a solid practical understanding of British law. After compiling this list, I tossed it into the fire in frustration. If I can only figure out what he's aiming for by reconciling all these skills and finding a profession that requires them all, I thought to myself, I might as well abandoned the attempt entirely.

I mentioned earlier his skill with the violin, which was indeed extraordinary, though as unconventional as his other talents. I knew he could handle complex pieces, having heard him play some of Mendelssohn's leader and other favorites at my request. Yet when left to his own devices, he rarely played recognizable tunes. Instead, he would recline in his armchair in the evenings, eyes closed, and absent mindedly draw the bow across the violin resting on his knee. The sounds he produced varied, sometimes deep and mournful, other times whimsical and bright.

These melodies seem to mirror his inner musings, though whether the music inspired his thoughts, what was merely a product of his whims, was beyond my understanding. I might have found these impromptu performances trying if he didn't usually conclude them by playing a rapid succession of my favorite tunes, as if to make amends for testing my patients. In the first week or so we had no visitors and I began to suspect that my companion was as solitary as I was. However, I soon discovered he had a wide circle of acquaintances from various walks of life.

1 frequent visitor was a small sallow man with a rat like face and dark eyes introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade who appeared 3 or 4 times in a single week. 1 morning a young woman arrived, impeccably dressed and lingered for over half an hour. Later that afternoon an older man with graying hair, looking rather shabby and resembling a Jewish peddler, visited. He seemed quite agitated and was soon followed by an elderly woman in disarray. On another occasion, an elderly gentleman with white hair met with my companion, and at another time a railway Porter in his velveteen uniform came by.

Whenever these peculiar visitors appeared, Sherlock Holmes would request the use of the sitting room and I would retreat to my bedroom. He always apologized for the inconvenience. I need to use this room for business, he explained, and these people are my clients. Once more I had the chance to ask him directly about his work, but my sense of propriety stopped me from pressing him to share his confidences. I assumed he had a strong reason for his discretion, but he soon dispelled that notion by bringing up the topic himself.

It was on the 4th of March, a date I recall vividly, that I woke earlier than usual and found Sherlock Holmes still at breakfast. The landlady, accustomed to my late rising, hadn't set my place or prepared my coffee with the unreasonable irritation common to humanity. I rang the bell and tersely indicated I was ready. Then I picked up a magazine from the table, trying to pass the time with it while my companion quietly crunched on his toast. One of the articles had a pencil mark at the top, naturally drawing my attention to it.

It's rather grandiose title was The Book of Life, and it aimed to demonstrate how much an observant person could discern through a meticulous and systematic examination of everything encountered. It struck me as a curious blend of insight and absurdity. The reasoning was sharp and intense, yet the conclusions seemed to me to be overreaching and exaggerated. The author claimed that with just a fleeting expression, a twitch of a muscle, or a glance of an eye, one could delve into a person's deepest thoughts.

According to him, deceit was impossible. For someone trained in observation and analysis. His conclusions were as certain as mathematical proofs. To those unfamiliar with his methods, his results would seem so astonishing that they might consider him a magician until they understood the processes he used to reach them. From a single drop of water, the writer asserted, a logician could infer the existence of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of either. Thus, all life is a vast chain, the nature of which is revealed whenever we are shown a single link.

Like all other arts, the science of deduction and analysis is one that can only be mastered through long and patient study, and life is not long enough for anyone to achieve its highest perfection. Before tackling the moral and mental aspects which present the greatest challenges, let the seeker begin by mastering simpler problems. Let him, upon meeting another person, learn at a glance to discern the individual's history and the trade or profession to which they belong. Though it may seem childish, such an exercise hones one's powers of observation, teaching where to look and what to seek.

A man's profession is clearly revealed by his fingernails, his coat sleeve, his boots, the knees of his trousers, the calluses on his forefinger and thumb, his expression, and his shirt cuffs. That all these indicators combined could fail to inform a skilled observer is almost unimaginable. What utter nonsense. I exclaimed, slamming the magazine onto the table. I've never read such drivel in my life. What is it? Sherlock Holmes inquired. This article. I replied, gesturing at it with my egg spoon as I settled down for breakfast.

I see you've read it. Given that you've marked it. I won't deny it's cleverly written, but it annoys me. It's clearly the theory of some armchair philosopher who concocts these tidy little paradoxes in the comfort of his study. It's impractical. I'd like to see him placed in a third class carriage on the underground and asked to deduce the occupations of all his fellow passengers. I bet 1000 to one against him. You'd be wasting your money, Sherlock Holmes said with a serene confidence. As for the article, I penned it myself, you did indeed.

I have a knack for both observation and deduction. The theories I've laid out there, which you find so fantastical are actually quite practical. So much so that I rely on them for my livelihood. And how is that? I asked, unable to hold back my curiosity. Well, I have a unique profession. I believe I'm the only one of my kind. I'm a consulting detective, if you can grasp what that means. Here in London we have plenty of government detectives and private ones. When they hit a dead end, they come to me and I usually manage to steer them in the right direction.

They present all the evidence to me and with my extensive knowledge of criminal history, I can typically set them straight. There's a certain pattern to crimes and if you have the details of 1000 cases at your fingertips, it's peculiar if you can't solve the thousand and 1st. Lestrade is a well known detective. He recently found himself baffled by a forgery case, which is what led him to seek my help. And the others? They're mostly referred by private inquiry agencies. They are all people grappling with some issue, seeking a bit of clarity.

I listen to their stories, offer my insights, and then I collect my fee. Are you telling me, I asked, that you can untangle a mystery from your room that others, despite seeing every detail first hand, can't solve? Exactly. I have a knack for it. Occasionally a case is more intricate and I need to get out and see things for myself. You see, I possess a wealth of specialized knowledge that I bring to bear on the problem, which makes things much easier. Those deduction principles outlined in the article you mocked are incredibly useful in my work.

Observation is second nature to me. You seem surprised when I told you during our first meeting that you had come from Afghanistan. You must have been informed. Not at all. I knew you were from Afghanistan. Through long practice, my thoughts move so swiftly that I reach conclusions without being aware of the steps in between. But those steps are there nonetheless. The chain of logic unfolded as follows. Here stands a gentleman with the demeanour of a military man, yet clearly of a medical profession.

An army doctor. Then his complexion is darkened, suggesting recent time spent in the tropics. Though his natural skin tone is lighter, as evidenced by the fair skin on his wrists, his gaunt appearance speaks of hardship and illness. His left arm is held stiffly, indicating an injury. Where might an English army doctor have faced such adversity and sustained an arm injury in the tropics? Afghanistan is the obvious answer. This entire thought process took less than a second. I then mentioned your return from Afghanistan and you were taken aback.

It's quite straightforward when you lay it out, I replied with a smile. You remind me of Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin. I never imagined such people existed outside of fiction. Sherlock Holmes stood and lit his pipe. You probably think you're flattering me by comparing me to Dupin, he remarked. In my view, Dupin was rather unimpressive. His habit of interrupting his friends thoughts with a timely comment after a long silence is flashy but ultimately shallow. He possessed a certain analytical brilliance, undeniably.

Yet he was far from the prodigy Poe seemed to envision. Have you read Gabriel's novels? I inquired. Does Lecoq match your vision of a detective? Sherlock Holmes scoffed with a sardonic air. Lecoq was a hopeless bungler. He retorted, his voice edged with irritation. His only redeeming quality was his energy. That book made me physically I'll The challenge was to identify an unknown prisoner. I could have solved it in 24 hours. Lecoq took six months or more. It could serve as a textbook for detectives on what to avoid.

I felt a surge of indignation at seeing 2 characters I admired dismissed so offhandedly. I moved to the window, gazing out at the bustling St. This man might be exceptionally clever, I thought to myself, but he is undeniably arrogant. There are no crimes and no criminals these days, he complained, his tone petulant. What is the point of having intellect in our field? I am well aware that I have the potential to make my name renowned. No one, living or dead, has devoted the same level of study and innate talent to crime detection as I have.

And what's the outcome? There's no real crime to uncover, or at best, some clumsy misdeed with motives so obvious that even a Scotland Yard officer can figure it out. I found his arrogant manner irritating and decided it was best to steer the conversation elsewhere. What do you suppose that man is up to? I asked, gesturing toward a sturdy a plainly dressed man who was slowly making his way down the opposite side of the street, anxiously checking the building numbers. He held a large blue envelope, clearly delivering a message.

You mean the retired Marine Sergeant? Sherlock Holmes replied, full of himself. I thought he knows. I can't confirm his guess. No sooner had this thought crossed my mind than the man we were observing spotted our door number and hurriedly crossed the street. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below and the sound of heavy footsteps climbing the stairs for Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He announced, entering the room and handing the letter to my friend. Here was my chance to deflate his ego a bit. He hadn't anticipated this when he made that off hand remark.

May I inquire, young man? I said in the most amiable tone. What line of work you're in, Commissioner, Sir? He replied gruffly. Uniforms out for repairs. And you were? I asked, casting a slightly mischievous glance at my companion. A Sergeant, Sir. Royal Marine Light Infantry, Sir. No response. Very well, Sir. He snapped his heels together, raised his hand in a salute, and departed. You've been listening to Sherlock Holmes The 221 B Chronicles, an episodic audiobook presentation of Sherlock Holmes.

Thank you for joining us. We'll be back with the next two chapters in our next release. Until then, the case continues.

The Story