However, the year 1887 just erupts with cases featuring the bizarre, the grotesque, and the extraordinary that came before the attention of my good friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Most of these exploits have not, as yet, been chronicled, but I do endevour to lay them before the public eventually.

As I peruse my notes of '87 My mind takes flight to those days in vivid detail as I scan the packets adorned with cryptic headings. I perceive the notation for the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious room in the basement of a furniture wharehouse, and the insidious account of the peculiar adventure of the Paradol Chamber. I discover the quite singular adventure of the Grice Pattersons, residents of the Isle of Uffa, the account of the Camberwell poisoner, and the loss of the British Barque "Sophy Anderson." The two most singular cases of '87 were the problem of Romanov substitution, which nearly cost Holmes and I our lives, and the diabolically repulsive Adventure of the Zayat Kiss that I must relate, even now, with a tell tale shudder.

The 23rd of March was a wild and Hellatious night enveloped in Stygian blackness. The rain fell with a ferocity I could not remember. The giant drops had long since changed into all enveloping sheets of water that beat with a vengeance everything in their path. The driving wind moaned as it ran between the buildings like some horrible night goblin. Death had to be afoot on a night like this. A strange event was transpiring in a hidden room totally unaffected by the raging storm outside.

A weird, mellow light pervaded this somber, black walled room. The glow had a purplish tinge, and its strange rays centered themselves in a single corner, where they reflected the shining surface of a polished table top as a spectral clock chimed nine o'clock.

All the room within was pregnant with silence. It bore the semblance of a chamber of death; and most mysterious of all was the spectral figure that sat immobile before the table. Clothed in a full length oriental garment of jet-black hue, with a visage obscured by the darkness that ruled above the desk lamp, this personage possessed the eerie quality of an apparition.

A ghostly being, shrouded by darkness, he awaited a message from some outside source. The very walls of the room in which this statue like person dwelt seemed to melt away into nothingness.

Somewhere within the Limehouse district of London, in this amazing spot that was known to himself alone, the Celestial was formulating an attack to thwart the plans of the forces of good.

A light glowed across the table. Its sudden appearance brought a strange response from the being garbed in black. A creepy sound shuddered through that secret room-a sibilant laugh tempered by maniacal glee, uttered by unseen lips.

The laugh died away; but its echoes responded from the hidden walls. Those echoes were convulsive reverberations that might have been the cry of a host of ghoulish demons, so unreal was their tone.

A hand the colour of aged fine parchment stretched forth from the black robe. Its appearance was uncanny for it moved like a detached creature as it crept across the surface of the table. The alabaster hand stopped upon a switch that was attached to a small black box on the wall. The switch clicked softly. A whispered voice spoke through the purplish gloom.

"Speak."

A quiet voice answered from the wall.

"The mission was accomplished perfectly, and there are no tell tale clews to betray our presence," responded a hushed Oriental voice. The unseen Celestial hissed, "Excellent, you will receive further orders tomorrow, you are off duty."

A second parchment like hand appeared on the desk holding a thin slip of paper bearing a list of Chinese characters. Of the twelve lines the first six were crossed out with a thick black line. The Celestial seized a bottle of ink and placed it next to the paper. He slowly and deliberately picked up a writing brush that he dipped carefully into the ink, and he brusquely crossed through the characters that reposed on line seven. He leaned forward exposing his Satanic face in the light of the desk lamp as he smiled murderously in satisfaction. His plans were proceeding perfectly.

A seventh man had gone to his doom by a horrible death. And then-

All was calm and serene within our lodgings at 221 B Baker Street. Holmes was curled in an armchair, his pipe steadily rising a column of smoke heavenward, as he gazed fixedly out the front window. Holmes appeared lethargic as his face registered that all to familiar "dreamy expression." Holmes had recently retuned from Russia the day previous after a fortnight's absence. He had engaged himself during the day jotting down his notes of what he called the "Romanov Substitution" case. This done we dined at one in the afternoon while Holmes devoured the contents of the previous fourteen days issues of the London newspapers and, surprisingly, his dinner as well.

I had noticed Holmes' brow contracted in serious thought the more he read. It was as plain as a pikestaff to me that the game was somehow afoot. He spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening curled in his chair smoking pipe after pipe. I was resting before the blazing fire that crackled and popped life giving warmth enjoying a recently purchased volume of war memoirs. My reading was enhanced by partaking of a most pleasurable and luxurious smoke from a newly imported cigar. However, this blissful setting was unexpectedly shattered in a quite surprising manner.

Without a word or warning of any type Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet most expeditiously with the lithe fluid movement of a highly skilled athlete. A veritable mountainous explosion of newspapers scattered in all directions from him from this unlikely outburst.

"Ah-ha," Holmes exclaimed.

I was visibly shaken, and it took some moments for me to gather my wits enough to voice an objection. "Really, Holmes, I must protest, you have given me quite a start," I said haltingly.

"Ah, Watson, I do beg your pardon, but my mind was consumed over the recent rash of 'heart failures' among the nobler citizens of the realm," Holmes apologized. "I must confess amazement that Scotland Yard has not seen fit to investigate six prominent deaths in as many days," said he.

I was surprised at this pronouncement by Holmes, And my mind was awhirl. "Holmes, I know nothing whatsoever about that which you are postulating," said I. "Pray elucidate!"

The first effect of my words upon Holmes was that he stepped quickly back two steps in amazement, but he instantly recovered and plunged across the sitting room to my side like a lithe powerful Tiger. This sudden outburst of extreme energy was rather unsettling for me that I shrank into my chair at his zealous arrival.

Holmes seized my arm firmly below the elbow. "Watson, has Scotland Yard inquired for me during the past week," questioned Holmes determinedly. I replied that to the best of my knowledge they had not as I rose to the edge of my chair. To my ears came the clatter of a four wheeler, above the storm's din, in the street below. Holmes all but flew to the windows as he strained to see who was arriving on such a miserable night as this.

"Watson," cried Holmes! "We have a client arriving, and we do need to make our rooms more presentable," said Holmes hiding the newspapers under the corner chair.

A wild peal of the bell hurried our efforts to place our rooms and ourselves in proper order. Shortly there followed the slow, heavy measured tread that was the tell tale mark of the Scotland Yarders. Holmes' eyes twinkled as he rubbed his hands gleefully together. "Come in Inspector Stanley Hopkins." called Holmes prior to there was ever a knock upon our door.

The door swung open to reveal a young, slender, and very excited man. It was, indeed, Inspector Stanley Hopkins, and he promptly entered our room with the most dismal expression upon his countenance.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm at my wit's end over this recent rash of sudden deaths, and I do request your assistance in clearing up this matter," Hopkins said extending his hand.

Holmes accepted the proffered hand briefly, and waved Hopkins into an easy chair as he collapsed into his favourite chair sitting upon his crossed legs. Holmes languidly filled his cherrywood pipe from the toe of his Persian slipper, and turning towards the Scotland Yarder he applied flame to it sending smoke billowing upwards.

Stanley Hopkins was a very recent addition to Scotland Yard, and Holmes saw promise in the youthful inspector, despite being closely associated with Gregson, Lestrade, and company, and desired for him to succeed. Hopkins appeared rattled. He was drawn and pale like he had seen a ghost. In addition he shivered spasmodically at frequent intervals during the narrative that followed.

"Mr. Holmes, we're looking into these deaths unofficially for the nonce as there is nothing to indicate foul play as yet. This business just has the look of something extraordinary and grotesque about it to me. I need your help Mister Holmes to satisfy my mind one way or the other," Hopkins explained.

Holmes, his eyes closed, lay back in his chair, with that annoying dreamy expression on his face gently puffing his pipe. Holmes was in his element, and contented to be so.

"Inspector Hopkins, you obviously retain information that has not as yet appeared in the newspapers. If you would be as so kind as, pray elucidate the facts," drawled Holmes in an exasperated voice.

"Yes, indeed, you are quite right Mister Holmes," as he extracted a notebook from his inner coat pocket, "let me lay the particulars before you now," Hopkins said.

"The facts briefly are these," he said, "Every day for the past seven days a prominent person has died of apparent heart failure. Now, all of these men were in excellent health, and, this is the eerie part, they all died in a locked room quite alone."

Holmes' eyes glittered with expectant glee as he leaned forward to catch more of the bizarre details.

"Are you quite sure that all seven died within a locked room alone, as he jotted notations upon his left shirt cuff," queried Holmes?

"Not only that Mister Holmes, but the rooms were located on the second or third floors," announced Hopkins!

Holmes' eyes narrowed to slits suspiciously. "Are you suggesting that some sort of flying creature caused these so called heart failures, Hopkins," asked Holmes sarcastically?

"O my gracious no, Mister Holmes, It is totally beyond me, and I haven't the foggiest what could possibly have induced those heart failures if they were not natural," replied Hopkins.

Young Stanley Hopkins stopped reflectively for a few moments pondering whether or not to reveal to Holmes what had crossed his mind during his recent discourse. This was clearly evident from the expressions changing his visage. In moments he had reached a decision as he slowly rose to his feet, crossed to Holmes's side, and spoke in a slow and deliberately whispered manner.

"Mr. Holmes, I have reason to believe that there is a woman involved in these deaths, but in what manner I am not able to fathom," he explained lighting a villainous looking cigar.

Holmes settled back into the familiar recesses of his chair favouring a nondescript facial facade, which I knew hid the active workings of his keen intellect. The game, obviously, was afoot! Holmes puffed meditatively on his cherrywood for a few tense moments until he turned languidly towards Stanley Hopkins, and spoke with exasperation and sarcasm in his voice.

"My good inspector what evidence is there, pray tell, to implicate a woman into this series of deaths that by your own previously stated admission occurred within a locked room," Holmes asked?

"Yes, Mister Holmes, you have a right to dispute my assertion, but I have further information to verify what I have postulated," he said. Stanley Hopkins leaned over between Holmes and myself to whisper haltingly his findings.

"On each of the seven men to die in the last week, Mister Holmes, all of them bore the mark of the kiss a woman's lips on either their right or left hands," Hopkins announced.

Holmes' eyes flew open to their widest at this news, and the smoke billowed faster from his pipe in time with his racing mind. "Have you examined these lip marks to verify the type and manufacturer of the lip paint," Holmes inquired settling back again?

"I did not think it necessary as it must be a coincidence since all died within locked rooms," Hopkins replied reseating himself.

Holmes groaned dismally under his breath as he slowly shook his head. "I'm afraid you missed evidence that may have been useful in bringing this small problem to a successful, and most expedient, conclusion," Holmes remanded.

"That thought struck me, which is one of the reasons I have called upon you tonight," Hopkins explained reflectively puffing his cigar. "I have just come from the scene of the seventh mysterious death namely, Sir Geoffrey Stephens of the Far East Company, shortly before seven-thirty in his rooms at the Explorers Club. The room has been sealed and nothing touched, and I would like to know if you would do me the honour of accompanying me in the four wheeler waiting by your door to the scene. There you may execute a thorough examination and pray offer any advise you can share upon the matter," Hopkins announced rising?"

"Mrs. Hudson!," called Holmes springing to his feet with a suddenness that took me by surprise, "we are going out, and pray do not stay up for us," said he.

Holmes crossed quickly to the coat rack where he disposed of his dressing gown in favour of his heavy Inverness coat and deerstalker over his inner jacket. I likewise changed into garments more suitable to the current offerings of the elements, and I slipped a couple of small flasks of Brandy into my medical bag just to be prepared.

Fortified against the elements we descended the familiar 17 steps to the door where we hurried across the pavement to the sudden yawning door and invitingly dry interior of the carriage. No sooner had we ensconced ourselves into our cushioned seats then the crack of a whip was heard and we set off at a gallop. We all sat in grim silence in our traveling haven against the fearsome elements. The drive was a relatively short one that seemed longer due to its very nature.

We came to a halt in a dimly lit side street to arouse as little interest as possible, with the storm somewhat abated in its fury. A large beefy faced constable separated from the intense shadows, and hurried to open the door of our carriage. Hopkins acknowledged the officer's salute.

"Thank you Sergeant Weymouth," said Hopkins authoritatively, "have there been any further developments since my departure?"

"No sir, Inspector Hopkins, all is as it was when you hastened to see Mister Sherlock Holmes," Sergeant Weymouth said saluting crisply. Holmes, Hopkins and I hurried into the inviting doorway, while Sergeant Weymouth reassumed his post in the shadows outside the entryway. Hopkins led us through a maze of narrow corridors into the deep recesses of the building. Finally we came upon a lift designed for moving freight that was guarded by a pristine looking constable .

"Very good Bunyon we will ascend to Sir Geoffery's rooms now, and do not allow anyone else to utilize this lift until we return," Hopkins ordered.

We ascended at a frustratingly retarded pace, and I must confess that a sense of dread came over me within the confines of this small space that it was impossible to leave until it finally reached its destination. The cold clammy hand of fear was gripping my overwrought heart like a vise squeezing repeatedly. Holmes must have noticed my manifestations as he quietly placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder that steadied me. I was much relieved as the door of the lift was opened by Hopkins onto the brilliantly lit marble hallway resplendent with numerous fine tapestries of the third floor. Two constables were on duty here who curtly saluted as Hopkins led us down the hallway to our right to the unimposing door in its gloomy dead end. Again two constables were on duty, and at a wave of Hopkins' hand the officer on our right produced a key and opened the door. It swung inward bathing us in resplendent brilliance from the foyer's impressive chandelier.

Holmes quickly sprang forward placing his arm across the opening effectively blocking our entry.

"Inspector Hopkins, is there any one within these rooms," asked Holmes?

"No sir, Mister Holmes, Sir Geoffery's man one, Holmes Tyrell, was so beset with grief at his master's death that he immediately took leave of his senses, and has been removed to St. Bart's until he can regain consciousness," Hopkins explained.