Sherlock Holmes: Before Baker Street by David Marcum (books to read to be successful TXT) 📗

over the course of the twentieth century and now only see each other in person on rare occasions, we still remain good friends by way of the post. Holmes surprised me a few days ago when I received a letter from him which did the unusual job of paying me a compliment. When the letter was handed to me, I sliced it open and read it immediately. In his typical fashion, the man included no pleasantries and went directly to his point:

My Dear Watson,

 

Over the years, you have often asked me if you could tell the story of my honorable instructor, Mr. Chen, the man I have respectfully referred to as Master and whom you have bestowed the title of The Third Man, though I’m not certain if you call him that more to show the stature of the man or as a slight jab at my own incapabilities. It has been years since the man’s passing, and I’d wager forty since I, myself, told you his tale. With the passing of time I feel it is finally appropriate to begin to reveal to your readers the story of Mr. Chen, a story the world must hear.

 

I concede that some, but not all, of the reasons I kept your pen stilled these years has, with our own increased time upon the Earth, disappeared. The world should know of Mr. Chen before we join him in the Undiscovered Country. Though I can’t yet allow the retelling of all of my encounters with Mr. Chen, I believe relating the story of my first encounter is now warranted. At times, I have expressed my own interest in telling of my lessons with Mr. Chen. However, I am humble enough to admit that while my skills are strong in terms of technical writing, you are the superior crafter of narratives.

 

Therefore, I ask that your next published adventure be that of my first lesson with my dear Master.

 

Good day Watson, and I remain respectfully your true friend,

 

Sherlock Holmes

The story of Mr. Chen! I could finally tell the story of Mr. Chen! I felt as giddy as a young lad receiving his first bicycle. But how should I tell such a story? Should I relate the first lesson in isolation or as part of a longer narrative? I sat at my desk, pen in hand, and made several attempts, yet I couldn’t grasp where to make my starting point. Should I start with Lestrade? Holmes in Montague Street? Should I try a more modern take with Holmes attending the man’s funeral and having the entire tale told in flashback?

By the late afternoon, I had a collective pile of discarded and crumpled up paper at my feet. This was a story I had to get right, but I couldn’t even find how to begin. Then, it dawned on me. Why not let the reader hear it as I first did, and my pen magically transported me back to the final day of September, 1887. Holmes had just finished explaining to me how he had set a trap for Captain James Calhoun, the man responsible for the death of Mr. John Openshaw, as I have relayed in the story, “The Five Orange Pips”.

At the time, since Holmes did not yet know that Mother Nature would thwart him in his mission to apprehend the criminal and his mates upon his arrival in the state of Georgia, the detective was in a rather cheerful mood. That evening we drank, smoked, and played cards in celebration. While I enjoy a good game of poker, my merriment was not quite that of my companion, as Holmes wanted to play just for sport and refused my persuasions at incorporating some low wagers. With a few glasses of brandy in me and a Turkish blend of tobacco filling my lungs, I found my tongue loosened, and since I could not enjoy a gamble, I thought I’d strike up conversation.

“Holmes,” I said, while eyeing three deuces in my hand and hoping my faithful opponent had no more than two pairs in his, “when your dearly departed client, Mr. Openshaw, first met with you, and he explained that he hired you because you have never been beaten, you countered that you have in fact, been beaten on four occasions – three times by men, and one time by a woman.”

Holmes was analyzing his hand, and I could see the cogs in his mind working over his cards. He gave a slight nod acknowledging my statement.

“The name of the woman is quite obvious,” I admitted, “and I believe that I can identify two of the men, but the third . . . I don’t recall him.”

Holmes joyfully slapped down his hand, which only contained a pair of aces. “Ah, Watson, that would be Mr. Chen, one of the finest men I have ever known in my lifetime. If you would prefer ending our cards and retiring to our chairs, I could tell you about him. The man had an extraordinary impact on my detective work.” Holmes looked down as I revealed my winning hand. “Looks like you took this one, old man.”

Even with my winning hand – absent the joy of winning money – I had no interest in continuing our game. I told Holmes I would prefer hearing of this extraordinary Mr. Chen, a man he had never once mentioned in all my years residing at Baker Street.

“This takes me back quite some time Watson,” Holmes said after we had settled into our arm chairs and refilled our glasses of brandy. “It was ten years ago, back when I resided in Montague Street.

“As I’m sure you recall Watson, in those days I did most of my consulting work within the confines of my room. A member of the force would bring me a case, I’d untangle a puzzling knot, help solve the