The Adventure of the Brewer’s Son
David Stuart Davies
I woke one morning in the February of 1889 to find London enveloped in the thickest fog of the winter. Pedestrians were glimpsed as mere phantoms slipping in and out of grey dense eddies, while ghostly unseen cabs clip-clopped eerily down Baker Street.
‘Pickpockets’ weather,’ observed Holmes from the breakfast table, as I gazed out of our sitting-room window at the seething fog without.
‘Even those villains may have difficulty seeing which pocket to pick in this stuff’, I said, joining my friend.
He gave me wry grin. ‘Fog is unpredictable and so is only of use to the petty criminal. No notable villain would rely on it and therefore it is bad for business. No only does it hold up the important crime from being committed, but it prev
