There was a point when I would never have taken up a pen in this manner. It has long been the duty and pleasure of my friend Watson to record our adventures, as he so loves to call them. I have long disapproved of his tendency to embellish the plain, hard facts and to weave a tale of wonder where there should simply be facts. However, you are no doubt aware the fact that I am no stranger to the writing up of my own cases. In the case of the Blanched Soldier, so aptly named by my good friend Watson, I admitted to having the realization that one must present a case in such a way as may interest the reader.
In the case of this particular adventure, however, I must admit to not caring if readers find my tale to be of interest.
It has come to my attention that certain members of the public (who shall remain unnamed for the time being, though the observant reader will know exactly to whom I refer) have been publishing false accounts of the past few months in more than one prominent newspaper. This is unacceptable and I have thus decided that it is my duty to inform the public of the true circumstances behind the death of Martha Hudson, the fire at the Tower, and the disappearance of John Watson.
This case is complex and has the potential of becoming tedious if I record the facts from memory. Therefore, I shall be brief in my own commentary and compile other sources in order to present the most accurate account within my power.
Naturally, much to the dismay of his faithful readers, the commentary of John Watson will not appear with the exception of diary accounts that I now make public with his express permission. The reason for this permission will become apparent in time. In addition to these diary entries, I will also include drafts that were composed, as Watson had begun to write up this case before his premature departure.
I shall begin my tale by calling to mind a series of events that will likely be fresh in the reader's mind: the great cholera epidemic, which ended two years previous to the publishing of this account in the year 1895.
The common reader will be unaware of the true villain behind the deliberate spreading of the disease. Suffice it to say that the epidemic was triggered at the hand of the Napoleon of crime, Professor James Moriarty. Not directly, naturally. But it was his doing that sponsored the contagion, if you will. Together with Colonel Sebastian Moran, they set out to secure my attention.
At this point of my story, my friend Watson would surely accuse me of self importance and inform me that the reader would call me vain. But if the reader would care to stretch his mind so far as to read Watson's compilation of this case, he would discover this to be undeniably true. And this simple fact became a great deal more apparent as time when on.
I must crave the reader's indulgence now, before I get to the true narrative. It is my intention to report the facts of this story as they occurred, without any hint of sentiment. But I fear that my own sadness will give the entire tale a hint of sorrow. And for that, I humbly apologize.
As I write these words, my attention now turns to numerous diary pages that litter the table on which my page rests. The crisp, practiced handwriting of Martha Hudson stands out, though the pages are spattered with an unhealthy combination of cooking grease, numerous batters, as well as blood. The scrawl of the accomplished writer John Watson sings proudly from pages with ragged edges and torn accounts.
In addition to these private accounts of sentiment, I am now possessed of a great many letters composed specifically for this project. These letters have been composed by the inspectors frequenting Scotland Yard and I am indebted to them for their assistance.
Any other accounts will be written by myself or other trustworthy eyewitnesses.
And now, I can see no point more fit to begin this tale than that which was decided upon by Watson himself. Therefore, I leave the reader in his capable hands.
