Sherlock Holmes and the Engineer's Thumb 1 | Page 2

George Gardener
As I looked over the old newspaper on a particularly wintry January evening, the fire
crackling merrily in the hearth opposite the handsome leather armchair I occupied, I
was alerted to the sound of a loud knocking coming from the ground floor. I peered
over at my faithful friend, Sherlock Holmes, who had barely looked up from his notes
at the sound of the knock; a busy man, he rarely had time to greet our many visitors
at the door.
‘A client, no doubt,’ I said. ‘I’ll get the door.’ I stood and strode towards the apartment
door, leaving the newspaper lying in the armchair, bathed in the heat of the orange
flames.
Hastily, I descended the stairs and opened the main door to a tall and strong-looking
man who stood framed in the doorway.
The man had a confident look and wore a bowler hat on his head that was covered
in thick white snow, a gift courtesy of the bleak winter weather that insisted on
making its presence clear to all who dared venture outside, no doubt.
His face was pockmarked with scars of all sizes, and I could see that one of his
thumbs was purple and swollen, no doubt received under similar circumstances to
the marks on his face.
‘Good evening,’ I said politely to the man, who hadn’t yet said a word. ‘I trust that
your visit is of significant importance, given that you have made an effort to appear
under such circumstances.’ I gestured to the dreary weather outside, and the man
nodded.
‘Indeed,’ he boomed, his voice so powerful that it seemed to fill my very mind. ‘May I
come in? I seek audience with Sherlock Holmes; I heard tell he possesses a certain
amount of expertise in the field of investigation.’
‘Quite,’ I replied with a smile. ‘Of course, come in, come in. Holmes is upstairs,
thankfully unoccupied, so we shall be able to hear what you have to say promptly.’
The man nodded gratefully, and stepped inside the house, removing his bowler hat
and coat as he did so, revealing only a very small patch of whitening hair sitting atop
his scalp. I led him up the stairs to our apartment, where Holmes greeted us in the
usual manner - silence.
After a few seconds of this, I cleared my throat. ‘We have a guest, Sherlock,’ I told
him, but he didn’t seem to notice so I tried again, this time with an annoyed tone of
voice. ‘Perhaps it would be polite to actually welcome the man.’
‘Ah, yes, terribly sorry,’ Holmes said finally, although he didn’t sound sorry - merely
distracted; he didn’t even look up from his notes. ‘I will be with you in just a moment
Mr…’
‘Rogers,’ our client said in his deep tone. There was silence for a few minutes after
that. I offered Mr Rogers the seat by the fire, which he gratefully accepted, and then
we waited for Holmes to finish his work. I couldn’t tell exactly what that work was, but
he appeared to be looking over some hand-written notes, his brow creased in
concentration.