was more important to you than ever before. I suspect Miss Lotty Bicknell does not come cheap.”
“That is a monstrous thing to say!” said Follett in a low, dreadful whisper.
“Perhaps. At all events, you conceived a most cowardly campaign. You would discredit Cropper - not just in his business life, that might raise suspicion, but also personally. As his world collapsed around him, you would seize the opportunity to retrieve day to day contact with the principal clients for whom he acted. At the same time you would masquerade as a caring master. With the new contract, the devil was in the detail. I have spent a little time in the study of English jurisprudence and I noticed that Cropper was barred from working for any clients of this firm if he left. Had he signed those covenants in restraint of trade, he would have been handcuffed to you. He would no longer have been your servant, he would have become your slave.”
“I taught him all he knows,” Follett said feebly.
“I doubt it. Now you must survive or perish on the strength of your own labours. Cropper is free to exercise his professional skills elsewhere. As well as to marry the woman he loves.”
Follett put his head in his hands. “I shall be ruined. Lotty has done more than taken up all my time, she has spent all my money.”
Holmes shrugged. “Perhaps the time has come for the two of you to part. You should be free to concentrate your energies on rebuilding your practice. Or what is left of it once you have written to the clients whom you sought to entice away from Cropper, saying that you can no longer handle their affairs and commending the young man to them.”
“I cannot!” Follett cried.
“It will be easy,” Holmes said, pulling his chair up to the table. “To help you, I shall even dictate the text. But this time, please, no cuttings from the newspaper, and you must sign your name at the foot of each letter.”
“Shall you go to the wedding?” I asked when we were back at Holmes’ villa.
“I think not, Watson. These days I seldom like to stray too far from home.”
“You were willing to accompany Arabella to Brighton,’ I pointed out.
“Yes,” he said, “but a man’s good name was at stake.”
His voice faded away and I wondered if, despite himself, he was brooding about the malicious rumours concerning his move from London. Wanting to cheer him, I said, “It was just like old times. The two of us together, seeking out an unknown adversary.”
“Good old Watson,” he said, and I thought I detected the welcome hint of a smile. “Ever constant, ever true. Come, if this is to be an evening for nostalgia, let me look out my violin and I shall play to remind you of the days we spent hunting together in 221b. Happy days, Watson, a more innocent age.”
And for a terrible moment as his voice broke, I feared he might shed a tear.
The Case of the Sentimental Tobacconist
Mr Sherlock Holmes possessed a mind unlike that of any other man I have met. Events of the profoundest political significance meant nothing to him, yet his knowledge of minutiae was encyclopaedic. He could converse fluently on an extraordinary range of topics and it was by no means uncommon for his conversation to traverse the works of Goethe, the latest developments in toxicology and the geography of London’s East End within minutes. The treasure-house of information in his brain was supplemented by the wealth of detail stored within the twenty-six indexed volumes lining the bookshelves in our sitting room. The index married a concise record of hundreds of investigations to a compendium of strange and neglected facts and items clipped from newspapers and magazines. Nothing which caught his eye was commonplace, nothing bizarre and out of the ordinary failed to excite his interest.
One Saturday morning, the last before Christmas, we were enjoying a companionable silence after breakfast. My friend was composing a letter to Francois le
“That is a monstrous thing to say!” said Follett in a low, dreadful whisper.
“Perhaps. At all events, you conceived a most cowardly campaign. You would discredit Cropper - not just in his business life, that might raise suspicion, but also personally. As his world collapsed around him, you would seize the opportunity to retrieve day to day contact with the principal clients for whom he acted. At the same time you would masquerade as a caring master. With the new contract, the devil was in the detail. I have spent a little time in the study of English jurisprudence and I noticed that Cropper was barred from working for any clients of this firm if he left. Had he signed those covenants in restraint of trade, he would have been handcuffed to you. He would no longer have been your servant, he would have become your slave.”
“I taught him all he knows,” Follett said feebly.
“I doubt it. Now you must survive or perish on the strength of your own labours. Cropper is free to exercise his professional skills elsewhere. As well as to marry the woman he loves.”
Follett put his head in his hands. “I shall be ruined. Lotty has done more than taken up all my time, she has spent all my money.”
Holmes shrugged. “Perhaps the time has come for the two of you to part. You should be free to concentrate your energies on rebuilding your practice. Or what is left of it once you have written to the clients whom you sought to entice away from Cropper, saying that you can no longer handle their affairs and commending the young man to them.”
“I cannot!” Follett cried.
“It will be easy,” Holmes said, pulling his chair up to the table. “To help you, I shall even dictate the text. But this time, please, no cuttings from the newspaper, and you must sign your name at the foot of each letter.”
“Shall you go to the wedding?” I asked when we were back at Holmes’ villa.
“I think not, Watson. These days I seldom like to stray too far from home.”
“You were willing to accompany Arabella to Brighton,’ I pointed out.
“Yes,” he said, “but a man’s good name was at stake.”
His voice faded away and I wondered if, despite himself, he was brooding about the malicious rumours concerning his move from London. Wanting to cheer him, I said, “It was just like old times. The two of us together, seeking out an unknown adversary.”
“Good old Watson,” he said, and I thought I detected the welcome hint of a smile. “Ever constant, ever true. Come, if this is to be an evening for nostalgia, let me look out my violin and I shall play to remind you of the days we spent hunting together in 221b. Happy days, Watson, a more innocent age.”
And for a terrible moment as his voice broke, I feared he might shed a tear.
The Case of the Sentimental Tobacconist
Mr Sherlock Holmes possessed a mind unlike that of any other man I have met. Events of the profoundest political significance meant nothing to him, yet his knowledge of minutiae was encyclopaedic. He could converse fluently on an extraordinary range of topics and it was by no means uncommon for his conversation to traverse the works of Goethe, the latest developments in toxicology and the geography of London’s East End within minutes. The treasure-house of information in his brain was supplemented by the wealth of detail stored within the twenty-six indexed volumes lining the bookshelves in our sitting room. The index married a concise record of hundreds of investigations to a compendium of strange and neglected facts and items clipped from newspapers and magazines. Nothing which caught his eye was commonplace, nothing bizarre and out of the ordinary failed to excite his interest.
One Saturday morning, the last before Christmas, we were enjoying a companionable silence after breakfast. My friend was composing a letter to Francois le
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