… London’s Criterion Bar, of course. It’s empty except for a seated chap slumped over the bar, and another who stands on the other side, wiping it. Lestrade is pleased they have the place to themselves. He decides to skip the brandy in favor of whiskey. Holmes wonders where everyone’s gone, whether the fellow on the stool still has a pulse, and if the man with the cloth is getting rid of gory evidence. He is not ready to theorize, but will continue to gather data. (An exaggerated example of Holmes’ induction vs. the usual deduction (in which the fact that it’s a bar heavily influences conclusions.)
and the Remaining Improbable
The Game is not afoot. The Better-Every-Day world of 1895 is gone, even hard to recall, as WWI ends. Holmes fills out entry papers at the rundown Le Dieppe Clinic and Sanatorium on the Normandy coast. Confronted by a question as to his “treatment goal,” he hesitates, aware that his real goal far exceeds the capacity of any clinic. Like a tiny explosion unaccountably shifting a far-reaching landscape, the detective’s scribbled response churns desperate action and interlocking mystery into the lives of Holmes’ friends and enemies both.