Free Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Tainted Canister by Thomas A. Turley

Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Tainted Canister
    The death of Dr. Richard Anstruther was not widely reported in the London press and aroused little interest in the city. The man himself had been quite unknown to the public, although his work on tropical diseases (a product of his years in India) had begun to win admirers in the medical community. He left no family in England and few friends, having in his last years shunned society while pursuing his research. Moreover, the manner of his demise was soon determined to be unremarkable. My readers may therefore wonder why these annals of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the celebrated consulting detective, should contain a case that provided little scope for his rare talents and, indeed, hardly amounted to a “case” at all. My reasons for including it will become apparent as the tale proceeds, as will my reasons for withholding it from publication for so many years beyond my own demise. It is to my readers of the next millennium—if any should by then exist—that I offer this account and final reckoning.
    It was early in the summer of 1894, some weeks after Holmes’ triumphant return from the exile that followed his final confrontation with Professor Moriarty. My friend was again out of England at this time, engaged in one of several cases of international importance that occupied him during that eventful year. I had agreed, meanwhile, to sell my practice and return to our old rooms in Baker Street; but the practice’s eventual buyer (who proved to be a relative of Holmes) had not as yet appeared. On that afternoon, a Tuesday, I sat alone in my consulting room, having spent the morning on an errand near the docks at Lambeth. My last scheduled patient had departed, so I was surprised when the maid announced another visitor. It was our long-time colleague, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.
    I had seen little of Lestrade since his arrest of Colonel Moran for wilful murder. During the time of Holmes’ absence, our relations had gradually become a bit remote. He had genuinely regretted what we both assumed to be the great detective’s death, and for awhile he showed an unexpected courtesy by keeping me apprised of his more interesting cases. After several episodes of suspicious death, he even requested my services as medical examiner; yet, he treated my tentative efforts to put Holmes’ methods into practice with the same tolerant derision he had once shown toward their creator. While, in his better moments, Lestrade might have acknowledged Holmes as his superior, he was not prepared to accept Holmes’ assistant as his colleague. Thus, my participation in his cases grew less frequent, and prior to Holmes’ return I had not seen him for six months. Now, however, he burst into my consulting room with all his old ebullience of manner, and a veiled suspicion beneath the self-importance that I had not experienced before.
    â€œAh, Doctor! I’m glad not to have caught you at an inconvenient moment. Are there no patients who require your services today? I hope that does not bode ill for your practice.”
    â€œDon’t worry; I had three appointments this afternoon before your arrival: two neuralgias and one incipient consumption. You do recall, Lestrade, that I intend to sell my practice and return to Baker Street?”
    â€œYes, indeed!” The inspector dropped into the chair I indicated, rubbing his hands together with enthusiasm. “Won’t that strike terror into the hearts of our criminal classes: ‘the world’s greatest private consulting detective’ and his biographer reunited in the old H.Q.! I trust I may continue to be in at the finish of your cases, if only to arrest the miscreants and earn a footnote in your latest opus .”
    â€œYou may rely on it,” I assured him smoothly. “You know, of course, that Holmes is on the Continent. I believe that Mrs. Hudson expects him back in London by