Chapter 2 ― Irene Adler's Challenge (Part 1)

The first Sunday of November saw Mrs. Hudson and I sharing a carriage. We hailed it at Kawaramachi Sanjō, from which it crossed Sanjō Bridge and rolled leisurely along the cobbled streets. Our destination was the Pondicherry Lodge near Nanzen-ji, home to the celebrated spirit medium, Madame Richborough.

Mrs. Hudson had dressed herself up specially for the visit, and was acting as giddily as though she were on her way to a Sunday picnic.

“Just you wait and see, Mr. Watson, Madame Richborough will know just what to do!”

“She sounds like a formidable woman, from your telling.”

“I am afraid my telling doesn’t do her justice! She is the most formidable medium the world has ever seen, you know.”

It was Madame Richborough’s advice that had gained Mrs. Hudson a small fortune in real estate, or so she claimed. In addition to 221B the landlady owned a good many properties near Teramachi Street besides, and was well on her way to becoming a veritable tycoon of Teramachi.

“Only the other day,” said she, with a look of great self-approbation, “I snatched up the building across from 221B on her advice. The dust had hardly settled from the renovation than I’d come across just the tenant for it. Irene Adler is her name, a former prima donna of the stage.”

“Well, I daresay you stand to make a tidy profit.”

“Yes, and I’ve Madame Richborough to thank for it!”

I’d done some investigation into Madame Richborough. She claimed to be descended from a line of astrologers that had served no less than the royal court, but that appeared to be a mere fabrication; her true provenance was a mystery. Several years ago she had begun to hold seances around Kyoto, professing to have mastered the secret spiritual arts of darkest India. Now she held a considerable number of followers among high society, and was a central figure in the spiritualist fad which was sweeping the land.

As I regarded myself a man of science, if only a trifling one, I regarded the spiritualist current of the age with considerable skepticism. Yet I had tried everything I could think of to solve Holmes’s slump and come up with nothing, and if spiritualism offered even the slightest glimmer of hope then so be it.

“Something must be done about Holmes. If he spends much more time idling with Professor Moriarty it’ll spell the end of him.”

“You’re not jealous that those two have become such good friends, are you?” smiled Mrs. Hudson. “What envious creatures you men are.”

“I am not envious in the least. I am only irritated, Mrs. Hudson.”

“If you say so. I must say I never expected that Mr. Holmes would get along so well with Mr. Moriarty, being…well, the way that he is. I suppose I can’t complain, seeing that Mr. Moriarty has been as tame as a lamb ever since.”

Pondicherry Lodge was to the north of Nanzen-ji, at the foot of Higashiyama. As we drove north up Shirakawa Street from the Nanzen-ji boat reservoir, we passed to our right many lovely villas and manors, the possessions of nobles and business magnates alike. Each boasted grounds of considerable proportions, tree branches peeking over the long walls that surrounded them, and the Richborough estate was certainly not any less grand than its neighbours. Our carriage passed beneath the stone gateway, and drove up the gravel-drive beneath the shadow of the trees up to the waiting mansion.

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The arrival of November saw Holmes unmoved from his self-imposed quarantine in 221B Teramachi Street, the one difference being that Professor James Moriarty, the third-floor neighbour with whom he had so recently been ferociously feuding, now spent nearly all his time visiting. As soon as it had become clear that the professor was also in the throes of a deep slump the two had immediately hit it off.

“It’s impossible, I tell you!”

“By Jove, so it is!”

And on and on it would go the whole day through. I found the situation quite disagreeable, for I had gone to considerable lengths to restore Holmes to the work of detection only for he and Moriarty to spend the whole day commiserating, neither deigning to lend an ear to my advice.

“Surely you’re not jealous, Watson?” Holmes would tut, taking me to task for being so conceited as to worry that my position as his partner was being usurped.

“It is you my concern is for,” I entreated him. “Surely you don’t think you can sit in here doing nothing forever?”

“I am not doing nothing. I am pondering the Case of Sherlock Holmes,” said he, smoking his pipe.

“Just so!” nodded Professor Moriarty, lounging on the settee. “We are doing everything we can. Never before have we faced such an impenetrable mystery!”

Their words might have seemed rational, but by any measure they were only averting their eyes from reality.

With the eventual addition of Shinchō Yard’s Lestrade to their number, 221B Teramachi Street truly became a haunt of wretches.

“Your example has inspired me to face life anew, Holmes,” Lestrade declared. “Now, I need only to learn to solve crimes again.”

It did not escape Mary’s notice that I was still visiting Holmes. But she said nothing, and I did not bring it up.

Though she had flown into a rage at Holmes the previous month, her anger at Holmes seemed to have subsided following our rescue of the professor from certain death. But I was certain that the volcano was only slumbering, and that the next time it erupted again would precipitate one of the fiercest battles our marriage would ever face.

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The cab came to a halt before the doors of the great mansion, and a butler showed us inside to a waiting-room on the right side of the foyer. “Madame Richborough will be with you shortly,” he said.

A mere waiting-room it may have been, yet it was so spacious that it could have contained my entire residence and practice. On the left-hand wall was a magnificent marble fireplace on whose mantelpiece was arrayed a row of Indian statuettes, while a rich tapestry draped the wood panelling. Through the window on the right we could see a sun-bathed garden boasting a spectacular view of Higashiyama.

As I admired the garden, Mrs. Hudson whispered to me, “Quite a villa, isn’t it? They say it once belonged to Lord St. Simon.”

“St. Simon?” I ejaculated with some surprise. “The same whose bride disappeared?”

“It was Madame Richborough who solved that case. And ever since, Lord St. Simon’s become a fervent believer in spiritualism, and has provided her no little support.”

“We’d better not speak a word of this to Holmes.”

“Yes, I still recall how furious Lord St. Simon was at him.”

The case of Lord St. Simon’s missing bride had occurred last autumn, when signs of Holmes’s decline were just beginning to become apparent. Holmes’s inability to solve St. Simon’s household problem brought upon him no shortage of slander: quack, pretender, layabout, and other epithets of the sort. Holmes was surely too proud to seek aid from a spirit medium who counted Lord St. Simon among her patrons.

Presently the butler returned and showed us up to the second floor.

“Mrs. ___ Hudson, and Dr. John Watson,” the butler announced. When he had shut the door behind us I could hardly see a thing. A thick velvet curtain hid the window from view, such that it was nearly as black as night within the room. The only light came from a small stove on the left side of the room and a candelabra on a table at the end of the room. The flickering light danced upon a tiger hide on the floor and the Indian statuettes that decorated the room.

“Madame Richborough?” I called, and from the darkness to my right there was a sound of dripping water.

“Welcome, my dear Dr. Watson,” said an unctuous voice from the gloom. “Mrs. Hudson has told me a great deal about you.”

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I perceived a rather stout woman reclining upon a settee, surrounded by a mountain of pillows. She wore a dress of twilight ultramarine blue, and was puffing leisurely on a hookah.

“Come closer,” she drawled, beckoning us with a wave of her hand. We carefully picked our way through the gloom and sat down on two chairs in front of her.

I didn’t know how old Madame Richborough was, though I estimated she was in her late forties. She had large staring eyes set in her square face, and the thick makeup which caked her skin made it appear as though she was a disembodied mask floating in mid-air.

“I have been waiting quite a long time for this day, for the day that I would meet you.”

“Waiting, you say? Waiting to do what?”

“Ever since Mrs. Hudson told me the news, the dreadful news that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is in a terrible slump, I have longed, and prayed, that I might be of some aid to him. I can think of no　greater honour, than to deliver the famous detective from his travails. In truth, dear doctor, I am an avid reader of your chronicles of Mr. Holmes’s famous adventures.”

“Really? I would not have suspected it. It seems to me that spiritualism and detective stories are as irreconcilable as oil and water.”

“You mean, you believe that spiritualists are completely illogical,” said Madame Richborough, barely hiding a smile as she rose from the cushions. “But that is a misunderstanding, and hardly an uncommon one. We seek merely to extend the logical rigour of our modern age to the realm of the metaphysical. Many seek to demonstrate that the spiritual world exists using scientific means. We psychics offer our aid to their research by way of our professional work. Certainly you must agree that is an entirely logical approach?”

I nodded. “It is indeed.”

“Then you will also admit there is no contradiction that I enjoy detective stories as well,” said Madame Richborough with satisfaction. “You could even say I am a detective myself, albeit one that plumbs the mysteries of the spiritual realm. So you see, it is a sort of kindred affection I feel toward Mr. Holmes. Though it may be difficult for him now, I am confident that even he must one day admit to the existence of the supernatural. With our powers combined there would be no limit to what we could achieve, no mystery which we could not solve.”

I retained my misgivings toward the practice of spiritualism itself, but Madame Richborough’s words were not without merit. Her sedate disposition made me consider whether there might not be more to her than met the eye.

“On the topic of Holmes,” said Mrs. Hudson, leaning forward. “Have you any thoughts?”

Madame Richborough shut her eyes and took a puff from the water pipe. “If Mr. Holmes is to break out of his slump, we must first bring to light the cause of it. Even the most discerning often fails to understand himself. The perplexing question of Mr. Holmes’s slump illustrates this perfectly: if he does not take into consideration the part of himself with which he is least acquainted―namely, that of the spiritual realm―he will certainly have little hope of finding the answer he seeks.”

Madame Richborough languorously rose from her settee and approached the large table which occupied the center of the room. A small pedestal was set upon the table, and atop it was a crystal ball nestled on a light blue cushion. At Madame Richborough’s urging we sat down at the table across from her.

“This crystal ball concentrates the spiritual energy around us,” Madame Richborough said softly. “You might say it is like a convex lens, focussing the rays of the sun. You, Dr. Watson, are Mr. Holmes’s closest friend, and you, Mrs. Hudson, are his landlady. You both possess a measure of his spiritual energy, but only in the most minuscule quantity. Without the use of this tool, even one experienced in the spiritual arts such as I cannot bring this energy to materialize.”

Madame Richborough held her hands to the crystal ball, drew in a deep breath, and shut her eyes.

“Now, still your hearts, and gaze into the crystal ball.”

Mrs. Hudson clasped your hands tightly, and gazed fervidly at the orb. I felt rather silly, but I would have felt sillier coming all this way only to balk now, and followed Mrs. Hudson’s example. The crystal ball glittered in the candlelight. There was a haze about Madame Richborough and her twilight blue dress, and I almost fancied that I could see right through her.

After a short time I suddenly felt a thrill up my spine. The room had grown markedly colder. The candles on the table flickered, yet the door was shut, and there was nowhere from which a draft could have entered. Glancing up furtively I saw that Madame Richborough had not moved, and her hands were still placed upon the crystal ball. A ghostly aura presided over the scene.

Mrs. Hudson gasped. “I see something!”

The crystal ball was emitting a faint glow. I returned my gaze to it and, to my astonishment, saw suspended within its depths the shape of a human being.

Its head was hung low so that I could not see its face, but I could see clearly that it was the figure of a slender young girl. There was something sorrowful about her appearance. I rubbed my eyes, but the figure remained.

“Do you see her?” I asked.

Mrs. Hudson nodded vigorously. “I see her! I see her!”

“This girl calls from the other side,” intoned Madame Richborough solemnly. “It may be that she is the cause of Mr. Holmes’s slump.”

In the next instant the light of the crystal ball faded, and with it the figure of the young girl. Madame Richborough explained that the girl was the materialization of a wound imprinted deeply upon Holmes’s psyche, from a case that had occurred long ago.

“That is all I can decipher. It would be best, I believe, if I could advise Mr. Holmes himself in person. If I could only discover what happened in that case…”

Mrs. Hudson left the room, but as I made to follow her Madame Richborough laid her hand upon my arm.

“I am at your disposal,” she said earnestly, her face looming in the darkness like the moon in the heavens. There was a strange scent in the air. “If there is any aid I can dispense to Mr. Holmes, I shall be glad to do it.”

After Mrs. Hudson and I left Pondicherry Lodge we went to Nanzen-ji. The shadow of Higashiyama towered above us, and the temple was wrapped in a chilly mountain air. Worshippers filled the grounds: young officers bundled up in thick overcoats, groups of young men and women, merchants and their families. Hansom cabs waited before the gates, their drivers smoking and idly chatting among one another.

As we strolled beneath the pine trees I felt at last that we were back in the land of the living.

“An impressive woman, that Madame Richborough.”

“You’ve come around, then?”

“I must confess it was a most stimulating experience.” Once more my mind turned to the girl in the crystal ball. Whoever she was, I was certain I had never seen her before. Neither Mrs. Hudson nor I were likely to have forgotten any case which would have left a lasting wound upon Holmes’s mind, and following this inference whatever case it was must have taken place before our acquaintance.

Ten years ago an old friend from my days at Bart’s by the name of Stamford had introduced me to Holmes, and from that day on we had taken up lodging together. Come to think of it, I knew nothing of the cases with which he had been involved prior to that time.

“I believe we must find a way to bring Holmes to Madame Richborough.”

“You believe you can convince him, then?”

“I shall drag him there by the scruff of his neck if I must.”

We left the temple and hailed one of the cabs that sat idle before the gates. As it descended the slope from Nanzenji, the great city unfurled itself before us, wreathed in fog and soot, and the sun hung suspended in the haze above Mt. Atago.

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That day 221B Teramachi Street played host once again to a gathering of the Losers’ Club.

I went up to Holmes’s room and found him sitting in his armchair smoking his pipe, conversing with Professor Moriarty, who was reclining upon the settee, and Inspector Lestrade. As was their custom they were idly prattling on, using their respective slumps as fodder for their conversation.

“It is imperative that one settles oneself before setting to the task, Mr. Lestrade,” Professor Moriarty was saying. “Haste makes waste.”

“Perhaps a demotion to Ohara-no-sato would be just the thing,” mused Holmes carelessly. “You’d have all the time in the world to square up to yourself. Yes, time is what you need. We could even accompany you there. Imagine throwing yourself down in a grassy field and pondering your slump as you gaze at the clouds roll by. Would you like to come with us, Watson?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, lighting my pipe by the window. “I have Mary, as well as my practice to consider. What would I possibly gain to go with you to Ohara? And lest we forget, it is you who are in a slump, not me.”

“There you have it, Professor,” Holmes said in a loud whisper.

The professor shook his head gravely. “He who desires help most who admits it least.”

Holmes cleared his throat. “Watson,” he began; “You have a lovely wife, and the medical practice which you had so long coveted. By all appearances your life should be the envy of all. But beneath the facade all is not as serene as it may seem. Your practice groans under the weight of the debt you have shouldered, and yet you see but only a few patients from time to time. Your only hope to ease this burden would be to take up a secondary occupation, yet for nearly a year you have not written a single detective story.”

“And I tell you that it is because of *your *slump!”

“It won’t do to go on blaming me for your troubles,” Holmes exclaimed triumphantly. “Let us examine the matter. Without me, you cannot write. That is to say, anything that ails me ails you; if I fall into a slump so too do you. Yet here you go on playing the innocent victim, casting off the fault to me. Cast off the mask of self-righteousness, Watson, and look to your own faults!”

Since he had founded the Losers’ Club alongside Professor Moriarty, Holmes’s speech had tended increasingly to employ sophism. The boundless mental energies which he had once employed in the cause of solving crime were now overwhelmingly exerted in the direction of avoiding reality. Day by day his slump was only worsening.

I sighed and looked through the window-pane, whereupon I happened to spy the figure of a beautiful woman passing by a window of the house across the street. It was gone in a moment, but in some way I was reminded of my Mary. This was not an infrequent occurrence. Often while going about my way in town I would come across an enchanting woman and recognize in some aspect of her bearing my wife. Nor was this limited to women only: I had noticed her likeness in Shiba Inus, snowmen, earthenware Fushimi dolls, natsu mikan, even kibidango. In all facets of nature living or not which harbour some degree of charm, I saw the face of my beloved Mary.

Therefore this latest occurrence of the strange phenomenon I dubbed the “Omnipresent Mary” soon passed from my mind. I shook my head to regain myself, and went on the counterattack against Holmes.

“It is you who refuse to see the truth of the matter.”

“We are engaged in solving this slump!”

“You are only turning away from reality.”

“Recognizing that one’s powers have declined is hardly running away. It requires one to summon a great deal of courage and delve into a problem which affects every facet of one’s life. Yet you prattle on about working, and solving cases, and proving my worth. No, as I see it it is you who are running away. You point the finger at me, and yet refuse to see the problems within yourself!”

“Very well,” I said, suppressing my indignation at Holmes. “Let us suppose that your claim is true. I have done some thinking about your slump. Prior to our taking up lodging here together, there must have been a time when you were still a no-name consulting detective, in the infancy of your career. You must have suffered some failures as you developed your powers. Perhaps by examining each of those cases, we may find some clue to help you solve your present slump.”

“An interesting observation,” nodded Professor Moriarty. “Watson’s idea seems sound to me.”

“Holmes’s fledgling years―why, that must be over ten years ago now,” murmured Inspector Lestrade, half-closing his eyes as though in fond remembrance. He had known Holmes longer than I had. “You were so arrogant in those days, I couldn’t help but resent you. I couldn’t count the times I secretly longed to shove you into the Kamo River!”

“And Holmes’s work? Would you have called him a genius in those days as well?” I asked.

“Certainly, I would.”

“Any cases which caused him particular trouble?”

“Now that I think of it, none spring to mind.”

The queerest part about this conversation was that Holmes, who had so furiously defended himself earlier, was now completely silent.

“Well, Holmes, can you think of any cases which confounded you more than the others?” I asked.

“What gave you the idea?” replied he, with a piercing glance. “Something is afoot here.”

“What’s strange about it?”

“Come to think of it, Mrs. Hudson had dressed herself in extra trimmings when she left this morning,” said Holmes, and he narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been to see that medium.”

I said nothing. Despite his inability to solve cases, it seemed that he still possessed a degree of his fantastic powers of observation, to my chagrin.

“You have!” he snarled.

“I don’t see the harm. I thought we might gain some sort of clue,” I said with a shrug of my shoulders.

Holmes bounded up from the armchair. His fury was dreadful to behold, and seizing the poker he bent it into a curve and hurled it into the fireplace with all his might

“Useless fool!” he bellowed. “You would seek the help of a charlatan? Have you gone mad!?”

Even Professor Moriarty and Lestrade were taken aback by his savage outburst.

“Surely there is no need to be angry. I only did it for your sake…” I pleaded.

“I may not be what I once was, but I am still the greatest detective in all the land!” Holmes shouted, a blue vein pulsing in his forehead. “I will never stoop so low as to depend on something as imbecilic as spiritualism. And I know that Madame Richborough counts Lord St. Simon as one of her patrons. That puffed-up lordling! Do you understand what it is you have done? You may as well have stepped up and slapped me across the face! For my sake, indeed! I could not ask for a more worthless partner!”

With an angry tut he lowered himself back into his chair and turned his face away. Moriarty and Lestrade awkwardly averted their eyes.

Mrs. Hudson came bustling in with a tea-set.

“Now, how about a nice cup of tea to soothe your nerves?” she remarked. “I could hear the commotion from outside, you know.”

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It was clear to me that Holmes had become set in his obstinacy. Nothing in the past year had he accomplished to deserve the title of the pre-eminent detective. Clinging to his pride now would certainly not avail him much. Spiritualism or otherwise, he owed it to himself to use whatever methods would work. Perhaps Mary had been right, for it seemed to me now that Holmes had no intention of leaving the comfort of his slump.

I stood at the window, my back turned to Holmes, for I was not in much of a talking mood. Accepting a cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson, I gazed down upon the early afternoon traffic which bustled along Teramachi Street.

As I peered outside, I observed a solitary gentleman come ambling down the pavement. Both his bowler hat and his suit were made of velvet, and his whiskers were very neatly trimmed. He seemed quite well-to-do, only he was looking anxiously at the door numbers as he passed. Having observed similar behaviour for many years I was confident that he was looking for the assistance of Sherlock Holmes.

The velvet-clad gentleman stopped before the doorway of 221B and nodded as if to say, “This is the place.” But to my bemusement, instead of ringing the bell, he glanced across the street to the building on the other side. After a moment’s hesitation, he quickly strode across to it and rang the bell. A housemaid opened the door and courteously greeted him.

“That’s strange,” I remarked, but nobody was listening, for Holmes had struck up an argument with Mrs. Hudson about spiritualism. The landlady pointed to her recent successes in real estate as proof positive that spiritualism must be effective, though Holmes drily observed, “And what do the spiritual world and the real estate market have to do with one another?”

“Then what about the Benzaiten shrine on the rooftop?” Mrs. Hudson replied. “I know that you visit it every morning to pray and toss in a handful of coins. And the daruma, whose one eye you have yet to fill in as a talisman against your slump? You claim that there is no scientific evidence in favour of spiritualism―do you claim the same for Benten and the daruma?”

“I indulge in those things to soothe my own mind, nothing more.”

“Then what prevents you from turning to faith in spiritualism in order to soothe your mind?”

“Mrs. Hudson,” I interrupted. “It was Miss Irene Adler who had moved in across the street, wasn’t it? Now that she has retired from the stage, what is it that she does?”

“Goodness, hadn’t I mentioned it?” said she, with a coolness in her voice. “Miss Adler is a detective.”

Her blunt announcement dealt us all quite a shock. Holmes’s fingers tightened on the armrests of his chair.

“Mrs. Hudson,” ejaculated Professor Moriarty after a short silence; “I thought you were on Holmes’s side!”

“I am, and always have been.”

“Then why have you leased a room to a business competitor on the other side of the street?”

“It is entirely within my rights to determine who I will and won’t allow to rent my properties. And why, Mr. Holmes has refused to see a client in months. Don’t you feel sorry for those people, coming all this way only to be turned away at your doorstep? The least I could do was ensure their journeys are not in vain.”

“Yes, but I daresay she is beginning to steal Holmes’s clients outright,” I said, pointing outside the window. “I can see one of those clients now.”

“Then you can steal them back! Come sir, there’s no time to waste!”

I supposed this was Mrs. Hudson’s way of stirring what little remained of Holmes’s competitive fire. She reminded me of a stout lioness smacking her cub off a cliff to toughen it up.

Lestrade rapped on the window. “Look, there’s another one!”

A portly man in a worn coat was standing on the doorstep of 221B. He hesitated to ring the bell, glancing back and forth at the building across the street.

“For shame, Holmes!” I said. “Will you let all your clients be stolen away by Miss Adler?”

“Something must be done. I will go detain him!” said Lestrade, and he dashed from the room like a foxhound hot on the scent.

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I followed Lestrade down to the street, where the portly man had already crossed the street and was on the verge of ringing Irene Adler’s bell. Lestrade and I hurried across the thoroughfare and hailed him.

“Would you be in need of a detective, sir?”

Seeing how the man was as he turned around, I arranged my face into a fulsome smile. “It’s your lucky day, sir,” I told him. “We are associates of the well-known detective Sherlock Holmes. It so happens that Mr. Holmes has just returned after disarming an international conspiracy, and stands ready to take on any case, for an exceptionally reasonable price.”

“No thank you, gentlemen,” said the man, frowning and shaking his head. “Holmes is finished. I’ve heard nothing but bad news about him for a year now.”

As he reached to ring the bell, Lestrade took hold of his arm. “We’ll have no more of this. Come this way directly!”

“What’s the meaning of this?” cried the man, his eyes opening wide.

“Lestrade, this man is not a criminal!” I hissed.

“I just can’t stand it any more! You heard how he spoke of Holmes. And any man who speaks ill of Holmes speaks ill of me!”

“What are you talking about!? Take your hands off me!” the man demanded, and a furious tussle ensued between him and Lestrade. As the man’s cries for help echoed down Teramachi Street, passersby began to stare. Ladies beneath parasols glanced disapprovingly, cab drivers leaned out of their carriages, and uniformed manservants looked on with keen amusement.

A man in a cap approached. “What’s all this hubbub about?”

Lestrade turned and scowled when he saw who it was. “There’s nothing to see here, Peters. Be on your way now!”

“Nothing to see, you say? Well, I will be the judge of that.”

I realized this man was the reporter from the Daily Chronicle with whom Holmes had argued at the pub in Kiyamachi last month. He reached for a notebook with a look of ravenous glee. Things were rapidly devolving.

“We’d better leave off,” I whispered in Lestrade’s ear. But Lestrade stubbornly refused to let go of the man’s arm.

The door in front of us opened, and a tall woman emerged. “What’s going on here?”

This was Irene Adler.

She looked much younger than I had expected. She seemed to be about the same age as Mary. Her upright bearing and mellifluous voice spoke to her years on the stage. She was high-nosed, with a stern and distinct brow and piercing almond-shaped eyes. She wore a simple dress, but that did not hide the aura of authority which radiated from her, and it was plain to see that she was a woman of considerable energy.

“You’re Irene Adler?” the portly man called desperately. “I’m here to see you, but these men won’t let me through!”

Miss Adler opened her eyes wide in astonishment, then glared at Lestrade and me as though we were two naughty students misbehaving in our class.

“Dr. Watson and Inspector Lestrade, I presume. I’m quite familiar with the both of you. I must ask you to release that man, or do you intend to steal away one of my clients?”

There was a murmur from the spectators, and Lestrade at last grudgingly released the man.

“Who’s stealing from whom, now?” said a voice.

I turned around to see Holmes parting the crowd. He was still wearing his threadbare dressing-gown, gripping that briar pipe of his with the amber mouthpiece in one hand, while Professor Moriarty trailed behind like his own shadow.

“You must be Miss Irene Adler.”

“And you Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Holmes and Adler sized each other up.

“I must protest at you calling me a thief,” Miss Adler declared. “If you will not carry out your duties as a detective, why should I not take on the job instead?”

“You mean to replace me?”

“Certainly.”

“Then I must admire your confidence.”

“My dear Mr. Holmes, why is it that you no longer take up cases? Shinchō Yard remains as hapless as ever, and for the past year a mountain of unsolved cases has piled up. The people suffer, and yet you refuse to help them. If you have lost your determination to be a detective then your time is over. It is time for me to step back into the spotlight.”

At her valiant words the crowd showered her with shouts and applause. Beside Miss Adler, who was as radiant as if she were actually basking beneath a spotlight, Sherlock Holmes, unshaven and in his dressing-gown, cut a pitiful figure indeed. As I looked on with shame, the reporter from the Daily Chronicle raised a hand.

“If I may be so bold as to offer a proposal,” said he. “Why not resolve this with a showdown of detecting? We’ll run a special column in our paper with the number of cases that our detectives have solved. Whoever has solved the most cases by New Year’s Day will earn the title of Kyoto’s premiere detective.”

“An interesting proposal,” said Miss Adler with a smile. “What do you say, Mr. Holmes? Will you take on the challenge?”

The crowd’s attention shifted onto Holmes, who raised his eyebrows and pondered the matter over. I rushed over and took his arm.

“Don’t do it!” I whispered. For the past year he had not managed to solve a single case. There was certainly no hope of his victory. Irene Adler would gain a considerable amount of publicity, while Holmes had nothing to gain at all.

“This is not the time to turn my back!” he snapped, contemptuously flinging off my hand. “Very well, Miss Adler. I accept your challenge.”