Here is the opening to The Adventure of the Tired Captain.
In July of 1889, I was still
settling into the role of being a husband to my bride Mary. Since my mid-thirties
I had suspected that I just might remain a bachelor for life, for as Benedict
stated in Much Ado About Nothing; ‘When I said I would die a bachelor, I just
meant that I didn’t think I’d live until
I got married.’
Married life was a considerable adjustment, especially for someone who had led a somewhat vagabond lifestyle. On the whole, I liked married life, and now for the first time, I was the master of my own home, which comes with its own obligations and responsibilities. It is a milestone in a man’s life when he begins to think of his legacy, how he plans to mark his life and considers what evidence he will leave behind to prove that he lived and accomplished something worthwhile.
Since my marriage, I had seen less of my friend Sherlock Holmes, who now usually contacted me only when a case came his way that he thought might interest me.
It was a rainy night in July. My wife and I were enjoying a quiet evening at home. After dinner, we retired to the sitting room as raindrops made pit-pat sounds on the window. I was reading by the lamp between our chairs. My wife was working on her petit point. A peal at the bell caused us to look at one another expectantly. The maid answered the door, I heard a familiar voice, then the sound of steps upon the linoleum. A moment later our maid, Mary Jane, ushered in Sherlock Holmes. We were both surprised and pleased to see him. He, in turn, greeted us warmly.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Holmes?” my wife offered. “Something to drink perhaps?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Watson, I am afraid I cannot stay,” he said with a hint of urgency. He cast me a sidelong glance. “I have a cab waiting.”
My wife picked up on this immediately.
“I understand,” she said. “Well, John, you best put on your galoshes and take an umbrella from the stand.”
At the door, she tied a cravat about my neck and kissed me goodnight. Holmes and I walked out into the rain and into his waiting cab. In the dim light of a streetlamp, I thought I saw a slight smile touch his lips.
“If it isn’t too presumptuous, may I ask where we are going?” I asked my friend.
“Not at all. We are destined for the docks in the East End.”
Married life was a considerable adjustment, especially for someone who had led a somewhat vagabond lifestyle. On the whole, I liked married life, and now for the first time, I was the master of my own home, which comes with its own obligations and responsibilities. It is a milestone in a man’s life when he begins to think of his legacy, how he plans to mark his life and considers what evidence he will leave behind to prove that he lived and accomplished something worthwhile.
Since my marriage, I had seen less of my friend Sherlock Holmes, who now usually contacted me only when a case came his way that he thought might interest me.
It was a rainy night in July. My wife and I were enjoying a quiet evening at home. After dinner, we retired to the sitting room as raindrops made pit-pat sounds on the window. I was reading by the lamp between our chairs. My wife was working on her petit point. A peal at the bell caused us to look at one another expectantly. The maid answered the door, I heard a familiar voice, then the sound of steps upon the linoleum. A moment later our maid, Mary Jane, ushered in Sherlock Holmes. We were both surprised and pleased to see him. He, in turn, greeted us warmly.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Holmes?” my wife offered. “Something to drink perhaps?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Watson, I am afraid I cannot stay,” he said with a hint of urgency. He cast me a sidelong glance. “I have a cab waiting.”
My wife picked up on this immediately.
“I understand,” she said. “Well, John, you best put on your galoshes and take an umbrella from the stand.”
At the door, she tied a cravat about my neck and kissed me goodnight. Holmes and I walked out into the rain and into his waiting cab. In the dim light of a streetlamp, I thought I saw a slight smile touch his lips.
“If it isn’t too presumptuous, may I ask where we are going?” I asked my friend.
“Not at all. We are destined for the docks in the East End.”
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