A Study in Burgundy
A Lost Sherlock Holmes Mystery
My name is John Watson MD and I can now reveal for the first time the mystery that had confounded the best minds of Great Britain. One chilly November evening, I had been soaked to the dregs from a blustery storm on a damp, foggy, tempestuous London night. I stumbled into the mutual lodgings of myself and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the worlds’ foremost consulting detective, at 221B Baker Street. Holmes was finishing his nightly intake of a massive overdose of cocaine, while also pensively playing his priceless Stradivarius violin. Changing into drier and more suitable attire, I sought his masterly opinion on the case that was currently occupying his full attention.
“Holmes,” I said, “What the deuce do you make of that newest client of yours and the utterly perplexing post that he mailed to you?” Holmes' cat-like features suddenly blazed with an intensity of unrivaled, astute deduction. “I have only that brief missive to reference, so I can merely state the obvious: that he recently has been in the tropics in Afghanistan, he is left handed, that he has a pronounced squint in his right eye, is of considerable stature and wears a size 14 shoe, that he was a former Sergeant Major in The Royal Marines, that his pocket watch has been pawned and reclaimed several times and that he is perplexed by a conundrum of extraordinary complexity. Also, he is currently hurrying to our humble abode in a hansom cab at a pronounced rate of speed. Beyond that, I know next to nothing and I cannot - at this early stage of my investigations - come to any definite conclusions. It would only be the labor of a fool to make further, unsubstantiated suppositions at this early point in a devilishly complex narrative.”
“Holmes,” I said, “Afghanistan isn’t in the tropics, it’s smack dab in the middle of Asia, which is where, in my recent Army service, I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet.” Holmes immediately waived away my inopportune, irrelevant remark and we tensely awaited the arrival of his mysterious client. Soon, a heavy tread was felt on the staircase and a thunderous knock pounded on our door. Holmes swung the door open and the massive frame of a human giant dipped his head to clear the door opening and enter our sitting room.
“Sherlock Holmes”, he bellowed, “I have been told that you have the finest mind for this type of problem in all of England, indeed in all of the wide world. I’ll pay dearly to solve a problem that has been confounding me since I was a young stallion, full of youthful verve, energy and joy. Now I am a man of mature and contemplative years, yet still vexed by that same quandary: when I wish to quaff a Pinot Noir of substance and complexity must I abide with Burgundy alone, or would the juice of that same vine from California, Oregon, or New Zealand serve my purpose equally well?”
Holmes folded his long, elegant fingers together and spoke with a quiet, competent certainty: “Your dilemma has consumed some of the finest intellects of our time. I too was troubled by this and other perplexing and puzzling wine questions. Finally, I realized the need to summon the counsel of Gilmo The Wine Pro. He can easily be found in Chicago, located in The Heartland of our American cousins. His unimpeachable advice will make you: An Instant Wine Insider and it will be elementary that You Will Never Fear A Wine List Again.”
Our massive visitor mumbled his thanks and laid his purse of gold on the table. After his thunderous departure, Holmes filled his pipe with a special blend or rare Oriental tobaccos, taken from a vintage Persian slipper of museum quality. He sighed deeply and posed one final quandary: “Watson, are you certain for a fact that Afghanistan is not in the tropics?”
