Thus it was that on a clear April morning I found myself alone in a first-class carriage with the engine panting for the off, awaiting my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes. There was but three minutes remaining when his gaunt figure appeared, the chill breeze lifting the skirts of his grey travelling-cloak as he hurried down the platform.

"It is very good of you, Watson, to undertake this task with me. It is an odd case, and one where I feel your special knowledge may be of the utmost importance".

"You think, then", I said, "that it may be madness in a medical sense"?

Holmes made no reply, but handed me a visiting card on which was engraved "Professor Ivan Mycroft, Harley Street".

"My nom-de-plume for the occasion, I think. I have little confidence that the Colonel will not penetrate our little subterfuge, for which he must forgive us, but that may be for the best in any case".

Holmes fell into a contemplative mood from which I knew better than to dislodge him, and I turned my attention to The Times.

The weather had changed by the time the train drew in at Tunbridge Wells. Lowering cloud and an icy drizzle met Holmes and I as we left the station. It was 15 miles or more to the Warburton estate and we were both chilled and hungry as the trap turned into the muddy avenue of elms leading to the ancient home of the Warburton family.

It was a lofty grey stone mansion in a vast untended park, with leaves piled deep in the pillared entrance porch and windows shuttered against the thin daylight. Although I am an old campaigner, I confess that the grim weather and the great blind-eyed house sent a shiver through me.

Our welcome attested to the unfriendly state of mind of the mansion's queer master. Our cards were taken without a word and shortly afterward we were led up a flight of dusty steps into an echoing Elizabethan hall. Here we waited for a few minutes until the sound of approaching footsteps indicated the arrival of our quarry.

Colonel Warburton even in his old age retained a military bearing: a tall, thin, upright man in neat tweeds, razor featured. He strode directly to me and peered into my face.

"Dr Watson?"
"I am Dr Watson"

He turned away from me with an impatient noise.

"I see you are all I feared, Dr Watson. An interfering amateur, like your colleague, Mr Sherlock Holmes, who chooses to come here under the name of Mycroft and bearing a title to which he is not entitled. Do not think that these matters can be concealed from me".

The Colonel seated himself on a carved wooden chair and bent his pale blue eyes upon me.

"My son, Dr Watson, is a fine soldier, and my sole wish that he should continue to enjoy that success which has so far been attendant upon his career. For that reason, I have chosen to submit myself to an examination - a medical examination - in order that he may return to his regiment with an easy mind. The village doctor, a sensible man named Evans, has prepared a room for this purpose".

The Colonel cast an icy glance at Holmes.

"I wish this matter to be concluded as quickly as possible. Mr Holmes may wait here. Doctor, follow me".

I glanced at Holmes, but he was apparently deep in study of an equestrian portrait of Henry, Prince of Wales. As I followed the Colonel from the room, however, Holmes' incisive voice rang out:

"One moment, Colonel, if you please. How is it that you first became aware that Nana Sahib had come to England?"

I have never seen a man so discomfited as the Colonel in that moment. His erect frame visibly sagged and his cane clattered on the flags from his nerveless hand. I saw the hard light fade from his eyes and leapt forward in time to catch his limp body before it struck the hard stone floor.

"I fancy", said Holmes easily, "that the Colonel will be more accommodating of us when he recovers".

Go to Part Six