It was a cold morning in January 1927.   The wind whistled through the trees outside and the rain pelted against the four small panes in the upstairs window of the two-storey Sussex home.

A local G.P. of little renown, Dr Theodore Carringbush, I had at first cursed my luck at being called out of my warm bed so early on such a desolate morning, until finding myself in very illustrious company indeed.   Across from me, while I bent over my patient, stood a literary giant and renowned spiritualist, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.   Beside Conan Doyle, looking almost as hagged as the man I had been called out to treat, was seated Doyle’s co-author of many years, Dr John H. Watson.   Upon the small bed, the greatest consulting detective of them all, Sherlock Holmes, lay dying.

Fighting for the life of my patient, a victim of a common stroke, I had little time to notice my surroundings, other than to note the small wooden bedside table, a large cupboard near the foot of the bed, and the high-back chair upon which sat the stout figure of Dr Watson.

Having done as much as I could for the grey-haired detective, I stepped back from the bed and stretched to ease the ache in my back, from having been stooped across the bed for more than two hours.

As I straightened and rubbed at my back with one hand, I caught the gaze of Conan Doyle, who raised a questioning eyebrow.   I shrugged my shoulders in reply, admitting that I could make no promises.

Hearing the sound of tea cups jingling, I turned around to see the short, plump figure of Mrs Hudson, carrying a tray holding a bowl of broth, a teapot and four cups and saucers.   Familiar with the name, from the narratives by Dr Watson and Sir Arthur, I had at first been surprised to find the good lady still alive, imagining that she would have to be more than one hundred years of age.   However, during the course of my administrations I had overheard enough scraps of conversation to enable me to deduce that the grey-haired matriarch who placed the cane tray upon the small bedside table was named Eileen, and was in fact the daughter-in-law of the famous Mrs Hudson, who had died nearly a decade earlier.