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hunter’s sights. “No it isn’t!”
    But the constable’s whistle was already at his lips. He blew three sharp blasts and shouted for his fellows, then turned to Holmes—who was engaged in extricating his trouser leg from the wrought-iron railings that topped the wall—and cried, “Warlock ’olmes, I charge you stand in the name o’ th’ lawr!”
    Warlock didn’t stand. Instead he toppled backwards into the neighbor’s azaleas, shrieking. When at last he was free of both masonry and shrubbery, he endeavored to take to his heels, but accomplished no more than three steps before being tackled by two burly constables. A third arrived a few moments later, huffing and panting. He must have been embarrassed to have missed the apprehension, for he made a point of re-tackling Holmes, right out of the arms of his comrades.
    My walking stick bounced free of the melee and clattered into the street. I made sure to recover it before wading in to save my friend. It is good to have something to lean on when dealing with constables—they can be tiring.
    “Wait! I didn’t do it this time!” Warlock was protesting as I approached. “Oh! I mean: ever! That’s what I meant to say: I didn’t do it, ever!”
    “Officers, what is the meaning of this?” I inquired, in my most imperious tone.
    “We har hengaged into th’ haprehension of this suspicious hindividual! Stand haway, sir!” One of the peculiarities of London’s police force is that they are all recruited from areas of Britain where folk use no h’s at all, or far too many.
    I almost protested that Warlock Holmes was not a suspicious individual, but caught my tongue just in time; it was not an argument I could have won. Instead, I told the red-faced constable, “This gentleman, whom you have just collared, is here on the particular request of Detective Inspector Grogsson, to assist in the solution of this crime.”
    “I don’ know habout that,” he said. I rolled my eyes at the man, reached into Warlock’s overcoat and withdrew Grogsson’s letter. I presented it to the constable, who glared at it for the barest instant before huffing his disapproval and waving his friends away.
    “We don’t need none o’ ’is mumbo-jumbo,” one of them protested, as he wandered back to his post. Warlock gave me a look of deep relief and sidled away towards the garden path, by the side of the house.
    “Hand ’oo might you be then, my fine friend?” the constable barked at me, as if the murderer might make the mistake of approaching the police to argue the innocence of other suspects.
    “My name is Dr. John Watson; I am here as a friend of Warlock and to lend my knowledge to the case. You may want to take note of my name and address, Constable, in case anybody asks you to identify me later.”
    He nodded curtly, as if to say that was going to be the next thing out of his mouth (which it was not, of a certainty) and began searching his pockets for a notebook and stub of pencil. He took down my information and even ventured to get a little free work done, which is a hazard of my trade.
    “Medical doctor, then?” he inquired.
    “I am.”
    “Hi wonder ’f you’d take a look at me back, Dr. Watson, sir. Pains me somethin’ hawful now.”
    “No need, man. There are three courses of cure for you: take the clerk’s position the next time they offer it, spend more on shoes, or spend less on pastries,” I said, gazing around his bulk towards the door.
    “Hoi! Wait there! I said me back!”
    “Your back is in sad shape because you have been walking your beat far too long in cheap shoes on cobblestones. The whole situation is not aided, Constable, by the fact that you have doubled your weight since joining the force—observe the stretch marks on your neck and your original-issue academy stockings, which are swollen almost to bursting. This has ruined your feet and the waddling gait you have adopted to pamper them has begun to work upon your spine. I am told that