Chapter 1: The Client

The case began as so many do: in our rooms at 221b Baker Street. Holmes was in a dark study and was teasing a melancholy strain from the strings of his violin. Under normal circumstances I would beg him to desist, though having just endured an hour-long tirade on the dearth of intelligent criminal activity in London, I was disinclined to interrupt him lest he resume that broken thread.

The sound of hooves on the street below roused me from my study of the newspaper and I moved to the window to observe the source of this small interruption. It was a splendidly decorated brougham drawn by four of the finest specimens of horse-flesh that one might encounter in London. As I watched, a pair of footmen in fine livery leapt from the back; one opened the near-side carriage door while the other placed a wooden step upon which the occupant, an imposing figure in a dark cloak and top-hat, quickly alighted.

"A case, I perceive, Watson," Holmes raised an eyebrow with as much curiosity as I had seen from him in a fortnight.

"It would appear so, Holmes," I agreed as I watched the man mount our steps and knock at the front door.

We heard the familiar sounds of Mrs Hudson answering the door, a brief exchange, and then heavy footsteps on the stairs and finally a knock on our own door.

Holmes rose and took a place by the mantle from which he enjoyed a superior perspective on our visitors, making them walk across the room to greet him, thereby giving him additional time to observe those all-but-invisible markers that tell him everything that a man would keep secret.

This of course left me to answer the door, which I opened with some surprise to admit a large man in both height and breadth, now removed of his top-hat, but still attired in a handsome travelling cloak. He was, as I said, very large; at least 6'3" with powerful shoulders and a strong handshake, an unruly mop of dark hair and an untrimmed moustache.

"Good afternoon, Sir," I greeted him. "My name is Dr John Watson, and..."

"And this would be the esteemed Mr Sherlock Holmes," the man completed my half of the introductions as he strode across the room to shake hands with Holmes. "Thank God, for I have come to the right place. Gentlemen, I require your assistance in a matter of the greatest delicacy."

"Welcome to Baker Street, Lord Palmerston," Holmes began with a twist of a smile curling the corner of his mouth. "As you can see, Watson and I have both intuited your identity, if not your purpose, so if you would be more comfortable you may remove that ridiculous false moustache and wig."

"I should have known better," the man said, abashed. "But the disguise was more to protect my identity from those who may watch the door of the world's greatest detective than from the man himself."

Holmes preened at the flattery as our guest peeled off his moustache and hair, revealing a clean-shaven face and blond features that indeed looked nothing at all like the man who ascended our stair.

"If you will humour me, Mr Holmes," he continued. "I have read Dr Watson's accounts of your cases with great interest and I am curious as to your methods. Would you enlighten me as to how you so easily defeated my disguise?"

"Of course, my Lord," Holmes smiled genially. "But this is hardly detection; in this case I think Watson probably picked up the very same clues. What say you, Watson? Would you care to explain how you saw past Lord Palmerston's misdirection?"

Holmes delighted in this charade, for he knew very well that I had no idea as to our guest's identity before he himself revealed it. This was, in fact, a little production on Holmes's part to demonstrate the superiority of his powers, where not even a learned member of his inner circle could duplicate his methods.

"Well, dear Holmes," I began in my familiar servile manner. "It is possible that I did not collect all of the same markers as yourself, but I dare say that like me, you observed the upright grace and noble bearing of our guest and correctly identified him as a member of the peerage."

"Go on, Watson," he smiled.

"And from there, no doubt," I pressed on blithely, "you measured his great height and physical presence, of which you have no doubt heard mention in your brother Mycroft's Diogenes Club in connection with the person of Lord Palmerston. A simple matter, to be sure."

"A splendid display, Watson. Bravo," Holmes enthused. "And you were absolutely correct in precisely one aspect of your analysis."

"And which aspect was that, dear Holmes?" I tried to keep the pained sigh from my voice.

"The one where you admitted that you did not collect the same markers as myself," Holmes shot back in clipped tones. "For example, I did not need to see Lord Palmerston's fine bearing to identify his peerage, for that was revealed much earlier in the arrival of his brougham. I heard, I believe, four distinct sets of hooves; and as you know, Watson, there are no cabs or owners of private vehicles in the narrows of London who would suffer such an ungainly conveyance.

"Along with the footsteps of not one but two footmen, this placed our visitor as a wealthy gentleman from out of town. Now like myself, Watson, you will have noted the haste with which Lord Palmerston mounted our stair; it is still early afternoon, so I infer that he wishes to return to his country estate this day, very probably with our good selves in his company. This of course would suggest a Barony closer to London; no further removed than, say, Middlesex? Would you say my Lord?"