retrieval of the Admiralty plans for the Bruce-Partington submarine, stolen from Woolwich Arsenal, the world outside our rooms was moving on. It was becoming a more dangerous place.
In particular, to one who had seen something of imperial warfare, all was not well with Britain and her empire in South Africa. The shadow of defeat which had lain over Isandhlwana soon extended elsewhere. This was all the more important because it coincided with the discovery and development of the new diamond fields and gold mines by the Dutch Boers of the Transvaal. Their territory had been annexed by Britain, but I arrived home from India to hear of the uprising against British rule and an invasion of our own South African province of Natal by the Boers themselves.
After a British column was ambushed and almost wiped out by Boer Commandos, a momentous battle followed at Laings Nek. British casualties were numbered in hundreds and those of the Boers scarcely in dozens. So complete was the rout that Her Majesty’s colours were never carried into battle again.
As I read of this in The Times or the Morning Post, I truly wondered whether there was not some purpose or pattern of events behind it all. Isandhlwana now appeared like a prelude to the loss of the whole of southern Africa. And what would follow in India and elsewhere? I said as much to Holmes several times, but he was not to be drawn into this discussion. He was less interested in British imperial policy than in the identification of bloodstains by haemoglobin.
In any event, before my question could be answered, there was a decisive encounter at Majuba Hill. British losses included the death of their commander General Sir George Colley. These losses once again ran into hundreds. Those of the Boer Commandos amounted to only half a dozen.
A returning medical colleague assured me that the enemy’s fire had been so accurate and lethal at Majuba that burial parties after the battle found five or six bullets in each skull of some fallen Highlanders. Red-coated infantry were no match for camouflaged guerillas. There could only be one outcome. Two months later, the vast territory was lost and the enemy was in Natal. Within three months, our surrender was signed. So much for the boast of General Sir Garnet Wolseley that “so long as the sun shines, the Transvaal will remain British territory.”
Even then, being settled into Baker Street, I assumed that I had heard the last of my own military career and everything to do with it. I had little enough to do with the dreadful events in Zululand or the Transvaal. Our detective practice continued to prosper. The case of the Brixton Road murder came and went, followed by a succession of lesser mysteries which wait to be written up. Before I could set my pen working on these, I received a letter which assured me that certain horrors of the past were anything but forgotten.
* “The Ghost in the Machine” in Donald Thomas, The Secret Cases of Sherlock Holmes.
5
The letter in question came from Mr. Samuel Dordona. It arrived following breakfast on a cold March morning, some time after my return to England. Sherlock Holmes had been studying several envelopes. He never overlooked the evidence of an unopened letter. The skeletons of two kippers lay on his neglected plate.
“I beg your pardon, Watson, this one is for you. See what you can make of the address.”
He handed across the table an envelope of ivory bond paper, such as one buys in any good stationer’s shop. It was directed to me with punctilious care, my precise medical qualifications following my name. Someone had clearly “looked up” my history. Before opening it, I studied the handwriting.
“It seems nothing out of the ordinary, Holmes. However, I believe my correspondent is not in his first youth. The script has an italic slope which the younger generation no longer acquire or, if they do, it is abandoned for something more casual once they are out of tutelage.”
“Well done, Watson! Just so! The death of English copperplate hand!”
“The address …” I studied it carefully. “The form of address is courteous, almost deferential. I am usually ‘Mr. J. Watson’ or perhaps ‘Dr. John Watson’ to my correspondents. This time we have the whole bag of tricks. John H. Watson, Esquire, M.B., B.Ch., St. Bartholmew’s Hospital, but directed ‘care of’ our present Baker Street address. Our new friend has clearly found me in the Medical Register.”
“Who, then, I wonder?” Holmes