The Riddle of Satan’s Tooth
Matthew Booth
We were so accustomed to visitors at any hour of the morning or night to our little sanctum in those Baker Street lodgings which I shared for so many years with my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, that it was seldom a surprise to hear the ring of the bell even when the darkness of twilight had descended over London. I had known Holmes be consulted when the sun settled to its sleep as often as when it rose at the break of dawn. As I had the pleasure and the privilege to be his companion in those commissions which he agreed to accept, I had learned to accommodate his own demand on my presence irrespective of the hour. My notebook tells me that it was a winter’s night towards the end of 1887 that one of those twilight intrusions into our lives of which I
