Meets    

     James Bond grabbed his mail as he entered his flat. He kicked off his shoes and settled into his favorite chair. He rifled through the letters without opening them. None of them were interesting. He then looked at the large manila envelope that was at the bottom of the letter stack.
     He slipped his finger under the flap and tore the envelope open. The folder contained a small stack of foolscap paper and a short note written on newer paper. Bond read the note.
     

Mr. Bond,

           I have recently bought a house in London and discovered that the house briefly belonged to Dr. John Watson. After his tenancy the house was owned by an old man whose name I have not bothered to learn. This man apparently did not spent much time in the small attic, for it was only a cursory search that yielded the papers you now hold. I must admit my curiosity got the better of me, and I read them. I was intrigued by the tale they told and figured that the papers have some importance. I wanted to send them to someone who would properly keep them. Since Dr. Watson has apparently been dead for some years, as well as his friend, I decided to send the papers to you, since you were both locatable and connected to the events recorded in the papers. I hope you have some use for the papers, if only to refresh your memory of an apparently interesting case.

                                                                                                                                                                                                  Tony Pryce

      Bond smiled at the name of Watson and began to read the papers, which were handwritten, with much interest.

     It was a particularly blustery Lady Day, and I was making final preparations to pay my quarterly dues, when the final case I took part in with Sherlock Holmes began. The post had just arrived, and it was with immense pleasure that I discovered a letter dispatched from the Eastborne post, addressed by the hand of my old friend.

     Dear Watson [it read],

           Mycroft has died. You are welcome to attend his funeral.

                                                                        S.H.

      Several hours later I was in Holmes’ presence, offering condolement for the death of his brother. “I am sorry to hear it,” said I.
      “Nonsense, Watson. Mycroft lived his full term. His death is not unexpected. I guess I shall follow him before many years pass.”
      Another man may have been surprised at Holmes’ lack of emotion over the death of his only brother, but not I, who knew him best. Holmes was a highly intellectual being and chose to be the master of his emotions at all times.
      “It is true that neither of us is in the spring of our lives, and I don’t suppose that device helps you in the matter,” said I, indicating his pipe.
      “Surely, if I smoke a pipe or two of an evening it will not hasten my arrival at the grave to the extent that I should deny myself one of the last pleasures of my declining years.”
      I did not argue with Holmes, for I had never been successful in changing his habits. We continued to talk, but it was not long before we set off for the church. Holmes had not sent the letter to me with much time to spare. The short ride to the church was spent in silence. I took no offense, as I was used to Holmes’ taciturn nature, which had undergone no change. Just as his habits were not altered since last I saw him three and twenty months ago, neither was his appearance. Holmes had made his toilet exactly as he always had. A small emerald tie pin, given to him by the queen for services rendered to her country, was the only item which augmented his appearance on the solemn occasion.
      We arrived at the church and discovered that, save ourselves, the church was nearly barren. In the foremost pew there was a small group of people, whom Holmes told me were members of the Diogenes Club. Mycroft must have been well-liked by the normally unsociable men to merit their outing from their haven in Whitehall.
      I took a prayer card off the suppedaneum, which the church mis-used as a shelf, and seated myself next to Holmes. The service was nice, though dry, and Sherlock delivered a brief speech in honour of Mycroft, with the emotion of an auditor reading a tax report. It was after the service that the day became interesting.
      A man, whom I had not noticed when entering the church, walked from the back pew and approached my friend. “Mr. Holmes,” said he, “I’m sorry for your loss.” The man extended his hand, which Holmes took.
      “I wondered how long after the service it would be before you approached. I am most glad to see you wasted no time.”
      “Do you know who I am?” the man asked.
      “I do not know you by name, but I suppose I know certain things about you.”
      “Such as?”
      “You are a government operative, or perhaps an undercover policeman, but my suspicion leans greatly toward the former. You have been in that profession for at least three years, but not more than eight. You are right handed, and have recently spent time in Japan.
      To my surprise, the man showed no amazement at Holmes’ statements. “I see you are as good as I have read, Mr. Holmes. May I ask you to indulge me? I assume I know how you made two of your deductions, but I am not entirely clear about the other two.”
      “Surely,” began Holmes, “you realize how I determined you are a government operative. You followed Watson and me from my house to this church. You were quite subtle, and I am sure that any untrained eye would have never discovered you. This told me that you were well trained, meaning you were either an agent or a professional criminal. The gun well-hidden beneath your jacket supports either of these theories. By approaching me before the guests left the church, you have shown that you mean no malice toward me. Had you waited until there were no witnesses, I would have been more wary. [Continued]