About the Author: Michael Mallory is the author of the "Amelia Watson" and "Dave Beauchamp" mystery series, as well as eight nonfiction books on pop culture. He lives and works in Los Angeles.
For every puzzling matter that has been untangled by my friend and colleague, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, there have been many more propositions for which he has refused participation. For those instances in which a prospective client’s problem has been dismissed as lacking in intellectual challenge, or when Holmes intuits the person consulting him is not presenting the full truth of the matter, it has fallen to me to employ the so-called “bedside manner” of my profession to help the troubled caller over their disappointment. Most of those who fail to engage Holmes in their cases have left Baker Street with a sense of understanding, though one or two have reacted with anger, most notably a relative of the victim in the notorious Pemberton murder case, which was made redundant after it was discovered that the killer, Pemberton himself, had died. But none has ever returned after being rejected, which is why, upon hearing a rap at the door, I was surprised to see a very large, familiar man wearing a dampened tweed suit and matching waistcoat, a full, auburn beard that could have used a bit more trimming.
“How are you, Dr. Watson?” Bram Stoker asked, thrusting forth his hand, which I shook. “The landlady let me in. I am here to see Mr. Holmes.”
“I’m afraid he is not here,” I told him. “He is out braving the bleakness on a quest to obtain a new Bradshaw. Our old one has been reduced to tatters through overuse. Is there something I can help you with?”