Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Pigtail Twist

by M J H Simmonds

  Once I had recovered enough, I rose and poured two large brandies. They were not the last we enjoyed that evening.

  Epilogue

  Wednesday 23rd July 1884

  The very next day, the weather changed. The rain returned and London became, once again, a grey and miserable place. Holmes lasted another few days before the black fog of ennui returned to weave its evil way into his very being. He sat motionless in his chair, legs pulled up underneath him, wrapped in his fawn dressing gown. On more than one occasion, I saw him staring at the black leather-lined box that still sat, untouched, upon the mantel.

  The memories of the previous weeks’ excitements were slowly fading, so I did my best to record what I could during the following days, my note keeping having been sporadic and irregular at best.

  A week had passed since that wonderful evening when we had talked and laughed and taken too much brandy. I was sitting at the writing desk, turning my notes into the most complete account of our adventure that I could. Holmes was in his chair, staring at a fixed point somewhere in front of him.

  Without a word, Holmes suddenly rose from his seat. He walked purposefully towards the fireplace and stretched out his right arm towards the mantelpiece. My heart sank, as I knew exactly what he intended. I have rarely felt such utter sadness.

  His outstretched hand opened to pick up the leather and Macassar wood box. His fingers touched the top of the small case. I sighed and slowly shook my head in quiet despair.

  Holmes’ hand was stilled by a sudden sound. From downstairs came the familiar sound of the doorbell and, with it, the promise of a new adventure.

  The End

  A Ball of Pigtail Twist

  Picture used by kind permission of Gawith Hoggarth & Co Ltd, Kendal

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