It's often said that doctors make the worst patients and I was feeling fretful enough to prove the point. Still, it was a day that would cause any Londoner to chafe at having to remain indoors: high summer and a cloudless sky outside as the sun warmed the cobblestones of Baker Street and smiled through the opened windows of number 221B. The chemical retorts stacked on the acid stained workbench glistened, dust motes danced over the piles of books lying in untidy heaps and only the unused fireplace seemed mournful.
Candidly though, the fireplace was not the only thing in the room which seemed to be of no present utility to anyone. That description might well have been applied to me, John H. Watson, MD, late of the Medical Department of the Indian Army. For I was temporarily crippled by a sharp attack of gout in the toes of my left foot, an attack of such severity that I was compelled to spend most of my time sitting in my armchair by the empty fireplace with the afflicted foot resting on a footstool. Not only were my toes paining me, but the affected nerves also extended to my old Afghan bullet wound, summoning up frequent sharp twinges as unwelcome reminders of past service on the North West Frontier.
It ill becomes an old campaigner to complain about minor afflictions but such was my mood that I would have gladly welcomed the chance of a few minutes conversation with that brash young author, Mr Kipling, so that I might have told him what I thought of all the tosh he writes about the Great Game. In my humble opinion, if the Russians or anybody else want to rule Afghanistan, we Britons should offer them every encouragement to try to do so. That blighted territory has caused nothing but trouble for anybody foolish enough to meddle in its barbaric affairs and always will do.
But since there was neither Mr Kipling nor anybody else present to talk to, I perforce attempted once again to find something interesting to read in the books Mrs Hudson had placed by my side. It was not an occupation which could divert my restlessness for long. Unusually for one of my normally placid temperament I now had some inkling of the oppressive boredom which settled on Holmes when there was no case of interest to apply his mind to. For me, a brisk walk in the fresh air and a half pint of best bitter afterwards in "The Cask and Greyhound" would have settled my nerves admirably. Yet even those small pleasures were presently denied me.
Perhaps, though, the matter of most concern was the absence of the world's greatest detective. For Sherlock Holmes was carrying out one of the most important investigations of his career, and doing so far away from his usual haunts. He had been gone from London for over five days and I believed him by now to be somewhere in Transylvania.
"I have no wish at all to be dispatched on this mission, Watson," he had told me from amidst a cloud of his favorite shag tobacco on the eve of his departure to Dover. "But the request came not only from the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary: there was also an appeal from an even more majestic level, one which no loyal Englishman could deny. Indeed, never before can I remember such concern in the highest of circles, not even when the plans for the Bruce-Partington submersible vessel went astray. So I'm bound for the Balkans, and no discussion is to be entered into."
"But, Holmes, what could happen in those primitive areas to affect British interests?" I'd asked of him in surprise.
"Why, Watson, anyone who takes the trouble to read the daily newsprints knows that the Austro-Hungarian Empire is a ship of state with many in its crew ripe for mutiny. Now we have certain word that the Black Hand Gang of Serbia is planning to strike a blow which will be deemed a casus beli for a general uprising against the Imperial authorities. I agree that in times past that would have been a matter of little interest to London, but we live in a changing world. One of the most important capitals in Europe has now passed into the control of a vainglorious peacock with a thirst for military adventures. Let a spark strike in the Balkans today and it might set off the whole of Europe like a gigantic powder magazine. That is a tragedy that any man must do whatever is in his power to prevent. So now I fear I must make my departure for the boat train."
I'd struggled to my feet to shake his hand and bid him God speed. "I only wish that I might come with you, Holmes, but with this accursed foot I would be more hindrance than help."
"Come, Watson, cheer up. Even if you were able to chronicle this case it's an absolute surety it could never be published, not for as long as the Austro-Hungarian and British Empires endure. And I fear you would find the foothills of the Carpathanian Mountains but a poor substitute for our usual lush hunting grounds in the home counties. No, it's best you stay and hold the fort against my return, stout fellow that you are. Farewell."
Well, if I was still holding the fort, it was as a forlorn and crippled garrison. As Holmes had done so many times before me, I wished that something would happen which would occupy my mind. And how soon and how fully was that idle wish to be granted!
"Doctor, excuse me, but there's a young lady on the doorstep who wishes to speak to Mr Holmes."
I looked up to see Mrs Hudson's honest face at the doorway. It seemed odd that she should have troubled to ascend the staircase for such a pointless announcement.
"Then she is unfortunate in her timing, as well you know, Mrs Hudson. Mr Holmes is abroad and not expected back for some time. Whatever the lady's difficulties, she must seek her help for them in some other quarter."
Mrs Hudson was as little affected by my blast of irritation as an oak tree by a gentle breeze: "Yes, Doctor, but this is not quite an ordinary young lady. Her name is Miss Oakes."
I felt my brows crease in puzzlement at her words. Was I supposed to be acquainted with this female personage?
"Miss Maude Oakes," Mrs Hudson repeated with a touch of asperity and suddenly I realized whom she was referring to.
"You mean the tennis player? The All England champion?"
"Yes sir, that Miss Oakes. The girl who won at Wimbledon last year and will again tomorrow, when she beats that American upstart, Daisy Cavanah."
Mrs Hudson's already sharp voice became even sharper with disapproval.
"Can you imagine that, Doctor, some Yankee coming over here and thinking they can beat the English at their own game? And yet that may well happen if Miss Maude has to go out onto the court in the same condition she's in now. In no fit state to represent her country, poor dear, I can see that much for myself."
I had no idea that Mrs Hudson had such an interest in any sport, but it was indeed possible that she might approve very strongly of Miss Oakes. Certainly everybody in the country knew about the young female champion, even those not normally interested in tennis. For Maude Oakes was in the way of being England's sweetheart and I was astonished at my own slowness in not noting her name as soon as I heard it. I well remembered once seeing her play and it was a treasured memory. A tall strapping Amazon of a girl with a figure which made men catch their breath as she ran across a court, the hem of her skirt brushing against the grass so swiftly it sometimes seemed more like flying than fleetness of foot.
Yet it was not only her athletic and sporting prowess had made her a favorite of the press, but also her beauty, and it seemed there was always some excuse for her photograph to be published in the papers once more, almost always with her tennis cap perched jauntily on top of her tresses of blonde hair.
Again, I reflected that Maude Oakes seemed the most unlikely of visitors to be expected at Sherlock Holmes' lodgings. Whatever had brought her here there was probably little enough that I could do to help her. Still, she was more than welcome to enter, for the sight of her would light up my morning as surely as the sun was brightening up everybody else's day. And presumably a few minutes conversation could be of no great matter to Miss Oakes, whatever the urgency of her business.
