The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (2): The Case of the Water of Life (Full Thriller Audiobook)

THE CASE OF THE WATER OF LIFE by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Nora Godwin Narrated by Peter Silverleaf In the late summer of 1884, Sherlock and I were on a business trip to Scotland. Holmes had received a telegram with a new case and, to my surprise, promptly confirmed to take it. Although we were lacking information regarding this new case, Holmes only told me, ''My dear Watson, our client seems to spare neither cost nor effort, and the case might turn out to be the challenge I longed for. Hack, for a refreshing change in weather, we are going to stay in the north-eastern foothills of the Highlands.'' Our two-day journey began at ten o'clock in the morning at King's Cross Station in London. The Flying Scotsman, a long-distance train that fully deserved its name, took us to the Scottish capital of Edinburgh in less than eight hours. There we had to stop for a night. Our client had arranged for a comfortable stay at the Waverley Hotel, not far from the station of the same name on Princes Street, which divides Edinburgh more or less neatly into the southern part of the Old Town and the northern New part of town. On the second day, we also started out in the morning. The train ride to Aberdeen was not as fast as the prior and took about three hours. Meanwhile, Holmes was absorbed in chemical studies and taking notes, ignoring the breathtaking landscape and old ruins. Whenever I would dare to speak to him, he just stammered, ''Discontinuous distillation,'' and his mind wandered off into his own universe again. As we arrived in Aberdeen, where I tried in vain to generate some enthusiasm for the gleaming silver granite architecture, or at least the tidal North Sea coast, we leisurely approached a side route to Dufftown, our actual destination. Finally, on the last miles of our long journey, Holmes was ready to discuss the status quo of the case. It was Mr. George Cowey, the somewhat elderly owner of the whiskey distillery at Mortlach, who had asked for our assistance, especially from Holmes, in the telegram, clarifying the urgency by making us a considerable offer. ''Your optimism, Holmes,'' I explained, ''in terms of a potentially profound case I don't understand.'' So Mr. Cowey received a threatening letter with the ultimate call to end his business. To me, that sounds like provincial petty-mindedness or hypocritical puritanism, mediating indirectly in a little joke. Holmes nodded. ''All right, Watson. At first glance this assessment may have a certain amount of speculative substance, but you should manage that kind of carelessness out of your head right now.'' Holmes actually tapped my baffled forehead with his right fist and continued, ''Mr. Cowey takes the matter extremely seriously. His financial offer is underlining this. If it's really just a joke by the local religious fanatic or a confused moralist, that's fine by me. But I still expect more from this.'' ''Yes, but what?'' I asked. Holmes smiled. ''Death and destruction, my dear Watson? A threatening letter promises nothing else. What a fantastic prospect for investigative entertainment.'' ''Holmes,'' I said suspiciously, ''are you sure that you are not under the influence of your cocaine solution again?'' Holmes made a defensive gesture and shook his head. ''Not necessary. There will certainly be sufficient spiritual substitution, my dear Watson.'' Following my own train of thoughts, I fantasized about a whiskey storage. Of course, though I knew that Holmes had spoken of his own thoughts, he had little left for scotch. Sometimes he would have a glass of brandy, be it Spanish or French. Other than that, his habits did not include strong alcohol. Meanwhile, we finally approached our destination. Through the large window in the distance we saw, actually I saw, Duff Town and the very impressive twelfth-century castle ruin of Balvenie Castle, where once this area was ruled from. The town itself lies in a wide, evidently bowl-shaped valley traversed by the river Fiddich. The old Gaelic name Mortlach is nowadays only used by the distillery. Originally presumed to be a Pictish settlement, in the early Middle Ages it grew to become one of the first Christian settlements, which was also reflected in an interim episcopate. However, Duff Town's name has only been around for about seventy years. Esteemed veterans of the Napoleonic Wars, glorious triumphants of Trafalgar and Waterloo settled there, and the name changed after the fourth Earl of Fife, James Duff. Today, hardly more than thirteen hundred people live in Duff Town and the surrounding areas. Of course, Holmes was not impressed with my display of historical and demographic knowledge. Fascinating, he said after my lecture, fascinating with what trivialities you burden your brain! A further discussion on the qualification and evaluation of priority, secondary and utterly useless knowledge was ended before it even began, and the train entered the small Duff Town station. I hurried to gather our suitcases, because our next ride would soon depart to Inverness, where once Macbeth killed King Duncan, at least according to Shakespeare's oeuvre. As I was waiting with our luggage at the exit, Holmes rose from his seat with all ease as the train finally came to a standstill. Walking down the station to the narrow platform, a man of perhaps forty-five years approached, seemingly a burly highlander dressed in working clothes that did not really fit the situation. He spoke in a slight Scottish accent which we had to get accustomed to at first. ''Hello, gentlemen, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,'' he asked directly, first extending his hand to me. For a second there I hesitated, put our suitcases to my right and left on the floor, and responded to the gesture. ''Good day,'' I said, shaking hands with the gentleman. ''I am Dr. Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective from London.'' Holmes nodded, silently hinting that he would gladly forgo any welcome formalities with physical touches, in his opinion a continental exaggeration. ''My name is William Grant,'' the gentleman explained. ''Mr. Cowey sent me to pick you up from the station.'' He took the luggage and turned around. ''If you want to follow me to the carriage.'' The carriage, which stood a few metres away, was a one-horse-drawn carriage and was probably more used in an agricultural than transportation. Holmes ignored my reproachful look. With some difficulty, as the aftermath of my Afghan war injury still limited my nobility, I climbed into the back and leaned against our bags, while Holmes sat next to Mr. Grant on a rather improvised spot. While riding across the broad and gracefully designed main street, which was extremely bumpy due to the old weathered and ultimately just too big cobblestones, Mr. Grant finally started talking beyond the protocol. ''I would never have thought that Mr. Cowey would actually hire a private investigator from London. Certainly this will cost him a lot of money.'' ''An amount appropriate to my abilities,'' Holmes replied coolly. ''But speaking of it, Mr. Grant, how does Mr. Cowey remunerate the self-sacrificing activity of his workforce?'' ''Honestly, we hardly need fixed staff,'' said Grant. ''For the production of whisky you need at first suitable barley, supplied by the farmers at the area with a manageable price. Second, of course, water of high quality, clean and clear. Concerning this matter we are currently purchasing our own springs. Then you need a barn for the moulting, barrels for the mash, and finally stills for the distillation. Once you have the infrastructure and technical equipment, making whisky is not overly costly or labor-intensive. At last, of course, you will need a warehouse, where the whisky matures in oak barrels for at least three years. It does that voluntarily. In short, all you actually need is time and only little casual workforce. In the end what you pay for in whisky is not the labor but the time.'' Before I could call into question the poetic picture of purchased time that Grant had given us by pointing to the latest state of economic science in the field for labor theory of value, Holmes dug deeper. ''But you, Mr. Grant, you are permanently employed with Mr. Cowey's business, are you not?'' Grant laughed. ''Ay, Mr. Holmes, you could say so. I have been working for Mr. Cowey for twenty years. I am the distillery's production manager.'' Holmes raised an eyebrow. ''What exactly does this activity entail?'' ''Everything,'' Grant replied, both proud and tired. ''Without me, nothing works. I buy the raw materials, start the workers and work steps, supervise all the processes, maintain the technology, organize the sales, and take care of bookkeeping.'' ''And what is Mr. Cowey doing?'' Holmes asked. Grant thought for a moment and then smiled mischievously. ''I guess he's in charge, plus the burden of ownership.'' The carriage stopped after a short, mumpy ride in front of a slightly larger townhouse, within the sight of the striking clock-tower of Dufftown. Here resided Mr. Cowey and received guests, whereas the distillery itself was a bit outside. Grant opened the front door, apparently he had his own key for it, led us through a not-too-large ante-room and a corridor directly into the large salon. Here he asked us to wait for the arrival of Mr. Cowey. He himself said goodbye because he still wanted to check the storage today. With that he left us alone for a few minutes. Holmes inspected the salon, its furniture and other décor which I, for my part, could not find anything out of the ordinary. ''Uh-huh. I thought so,'' he said after a few seconds. I looked at him uncomprehendingly. ''What is it, Holmes?'' Holmes slightly cocked his head and began to lecture. ''Mr. Cowey is one of those petty bourgeois upstarts who slowly but surely overtake the landed gentry. Coming from a humble background, well-educated and endowed with capital for several years in the civil service, which provided him with the basis to start a business and live in acceptable prosperity. He has already outlived his beloved wife, and his son has successfully completed an academic education but is currently abroad.'' I turned around in a circle in order to recapitulate Holmes' observations, which was, of course, a futile attempt. Shaking my head, I capitulated. ''Where in God's name do you see all this?'' ''Child's play, my dear Watson,'' replied Holmes. ''Let's take a look at the furniture first. Pretty solid craftsmanship. Not cheap, but by no means converging. They were bought at random without any sense of decor. Typical of the newly rich bourgeoisie. As you can see, Mr. Cowey has little sense for art, literature, or the humanities. The spines of the standard works on the shelf show no signs of wear. They are mere decoration. The master of the house is more interested in technology and architecture. Do you see the sketches of railway bridges, trains, and train stations? The signature and years on them indicate that Mr. Cowey himself painted them quite some time ago. On his desk stands a framed photograph. A young man who, according to his clothes, just finished university at the time the picture was taken. This young man must be a close relative. There on the wall hangs the accompanying doctorate's degree, issued by the University of Aberdeen. Around the portrait is still light colour, which indicates that it just got here recently. The fact that it actually hangs here probably means that the owner is possibly not practicing, or may be on a longer journey. There are no photos of Mrs. Cowey. Only here on the wall a portrait painted twenty years ago, showing a young woman with a black, almost faded to grey, bow in her hair. Even though Holmes did not know this man, he read his life like an open book. To me this was equally astonishing as distressing. However, before I could express my conflicted feelings about this, the door to the salon opened and Mr. Cowey entered. An old man with grey thin hair, a broad pointed moustache, in an old-fashioned suit, but by no means frail. He quickly walked towards us, greeting us and assigning us seats in two large armchairs. "'Gentlemen, may I offer something to drink?' he asked promptly. "'I would like a glass of water,' replied Holmes, but Dr. Watson here is an avowed fan of Scotch whisky.' "'Well then,' said Mr. Cowey, filling a glass with water and two with Scotch. "'Dr. Watson will definitely enjoy this sixteen-year-old.' He gave us the glasses and sat down in the third of the four armchairs. "'To our health!' he shouted and lifted his glass. Holmes and I also lifted our glasses. However, while Mr. Cowey and I took a sip, Holmes placed his glass on the side table, the water in it remaining untouched. Drinking the whisky, I realized that Mr. Cowey indeed served us an extraordinary drink. I could have gotten used to this. There was a small pause as Mr. Cowey slowly panned his half-full glass back and forth. Then he rose again. "'Do you know what it is? I mean, what it really takes to produce a perfect whisky tagged for years?' "'Time,' I responded, while reminiscing Mr. Grant's parable from our carriage ride. Mr. Cowey shook his head. "'Oh no. The time caught inside this whisky is merely past. I, however, am talking about the future.' He lifted his glass again. "'In my hand is pure life, an elixir of life in a comprehensive sense. This claim challenged me as a physician a little. But, Mr. Cowey, as a doctor, I must point out that an excessive consumption of your elixir of life can lead to addiction, illness, and subsequently death.' "'Do not worry, Dr. Watson,' Mr. Cowey replied. "'My whisky is certainly not produced and sold to promote drunkenness.' "'No. We stand in the noble tradition of ancient special knowledge that once was only passed on by Celtic druids, orally from generation to generation. And they only knew too well what they had. Do you have any idea, Dr. Watson, what the word whisky means in the Celtic original?' "'I must confess,' I replied somewhat sheepishly, 'my Gaelic is a little rusty.' "'The English word whisky,' explained Mr. Cowey, "'is derived from the Scottish Gaelic expression, ushcabá, which means nothing but water of life.' He took a sip to let his statement work, then continued, ''I am over seventy years old now, and my daily ration keeps me young, especially mentally. And I have a vision. Whisky will fill Dufftown and all the surrounding areas with new life. No, in fact, we do not have much here. The usual agricultural farming, which seems anachronistic and is barely worth it. And in the midst of it, the mining and production of building lime. A dirty business that is necessary for modern architecture, but is harmful to people and the environment. Dufftown's future, though, lies in whisky production. My plan is to make our city the whisky capital of Scotland. Heck, all over Britain, or perhaps all over the world. Flourishing landscapes, jobs, and prosperity. I have the plans to expand production sitting ready in my drawer. When my son Alexander—by the way, a colleague of yours, Dr. Watson, who is currently in Hong Kong—returns home, he will start putting those plans into action.' Mr. Cowie paused and emptied his glass. He turned to Holmes, who until now had listened seemingly indifferent, or at least wordlessly. ''Now, tell me, Mr. Holmes, who could object to our plans of making Dufftown suitable for the future? Who would threaten me with sabotage and ruin and seek to kill me?' Holmes was immediately wide awake. ''Would you please show me the letter you received?' ''Of course,'' Mr. Cowie answered. He took a twice-folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and handed it over to Holmes. Holmes then scanned the text, repeating certain passages out loud. ''To the tyrants. Last warning. Closing the distillery. Leaving the city. Otherwise you will die.' Holmes raised his head and looked to Mr. Cowie with a serious expression. ''You acted properly by calling me. This is undoubtedly a serious matter, and it should be approached with all due care and precautions. Dr. Watson and I will begin our investigations immediately.' Mr. Cowie nodded satisfied. ''Thank you, Mr. Holmes. The Mortlach Distillery has been established in 1823 and existed for over sixty years. I joined the business in 1853 when I quit my job as an engineer of the North British Railways. Since 1867, shortly after the regrettable death of my wife, I am the sole owner. The story should not end abruptly, let alone through a violent death. In this case, Mr. Holmes, I would kindly ask you to hunt down my killer. It would certainly be an honour and a pleasure for me,' replied Holmes dryly. ''But it will not come that far. I intend to stop the perpetrator in advance.' After Mr. Cowie showed us our rooms, Holmes and my paths parted. While Holmes looked through Mr. Cowie's business records, I had been assigned the task to let Mr. Grant show me the distillery. I have to admit that my personal interest in whisky is limited to the main product, whereas the production process and its technical details don't spark my enthusiasm as much. This fact had, by no means, escaped Mr. Grant in the course of the tour through the facilities.' ''Don't worry, Dr. Watson,' he said with a wink. ''We have already left the heart of our production behind with the still. Let's take a look at the warehouse and the bottling plant. From there on the matter becomes a bit, well, more practical.' Mr. Grant proved to be a down-to-earth man who worked hard and obviously knew everything there was to know about making whisky. As it turned out, he himself was also not against a good drop of it. At the end of our tour he asked me to go into his office. It was extremely sparse, a simple table with two chairs, makeshift shelves with folders. He assigned one of the two seats to me and took out three unlabeled bottles from the cupboards next to the door and placed them on the table. ''Well, Dr. Watson,' he said as he sat down, ''we now make it to the pleasant part of the tour.' He opened the first bottle and filled both glasses. The liquid was yellowish in colour. This is our basis product. The three-year-old. Minimalistic, a bit harsh, very direct. Just Scottish through and through. Nothing for a real English dandy, but more of a drink for real men like those who fought alongside Robert Bruce and William Wallace. He raised his glass. I took mine and we toasted. ''Slancher, Dr. Watson,' Mr. Grant said, drank him one breath and slammed the glass on the table. Being challenged like that, I had to defend the honour of England. ''Cheers. God save the Queen,' I shouted and also emptied my glass. Grant smiled. ''So, what do you think?' I had to cough briefly. Certainly the quality of the ingredients and careful production was noticeable in the taste, but also the lack of maturity. The tart flavour attacked the palate and the neck, while it rose into the inner nasal passages. In fact, quite rightly, such was not served in London clubs. ''Extremely invigorating,' I said after I collected myself. Grant grabbed the next bottle. ''Another one?' ''Go ahead,' I answered without hesitation. While Mr. Grant filled our glasses for the second time, I tried to steer the conversation into an appropriate direction. ''Mr. Grant, you dodged that question on our first meeting. How do you assess Mr. Cowey's working conditions and the pay?' ''If you keep this conversation between us,' Grant began, ''I'll tell you how I see it.' I nodded as a confirmation as he continued. ''I think that Mr. Cowey treats his workers ill and exploits them.' Surprised by this assessment, I said, ''I only met Mr. Cowey today, but I thought he was more of a philanthropist. He has big plans, wants to create jobs.' Grant made a defensive gesture. ''He wants to make a profit, the old bloodsucker.' Again he emptied his glass in one go, and I again did not want to look inferior, so I followed his example. ''A pretty strict view,' I said, gasping for air. ''Would it be so bad if the distillery turned into a flourishing and larger business that many people in Dufftown and surroundings could live on?' Grant shook his head. ''With the prices we pay for the barley, the farmers can hardly exist, and we already take a good thirty percent of the better harvest. The workers in the distillery all only have temporary contracts and are regularly without employment and income. That is the business model of Mr. Cowey. But as a production manager you help him to maintain this plan. Why?' I asked. Pouring his third glass, Mr. Grant answered, ''That is true, Dr. Watson, but I also have plans. I save every penny I do not need to survive, and in two or three years I will be able to start my own business and open my own distillery.' I was the first to raise glass. ''To good fortune and success in your endeavours.' We toasted and drank. ''But Mr. Cowey would not like to lose his key employee,' I continued, ''especially when he is about to compete with him.' Grant nodded. ''Of course not. He wants a monopoly. He wants to control everything and everyone. Everyone should be dependent on him in every way. Did you know that Mr. Cowey used to be mayor of this town?' I involuntarily had to laugh and Mr. Grant got infected by that. But then he suddenly got serious again, locked the bottle with the three-year-old and set it aside. ''Enough of that,' he said. ''We should taste our eight-year-old now.' He took the bottle, opened it and filled our glasses. The contents were much darker this time, with a slight reddish tinge, almost coppery in colour. ''This is sort of our standard product,' said Mr. Grant. ''The whisky, after eight years, has obviously taken on a lot of colour.' He panned his glass. ''And just look how the whisky hugs the glass edges, almost like a purring cat.' I tried hard to spot the cat in my jar, but failed, and in the next moment I suddenly heard myself say, ''Here, kitty, kitty.' Mr. Grant, who had already started to drink, almost spilled his whisky over laughter. ''I'll like you, Dr. Watson,' he said. We toasted again and drank the whisky in one go. The mild softness of the eight-year-old enveloped the entire mouth and throat in cotton wool. Only the tip of the tongue seemed slightly stunned while the throat was tickled by the cat's hair. I cleared my throat and started talking about the case again. ''Well, Mr. Grant, you will have to admit that your opinion of Mr. Cowie makes you one of our suspects regarding this letter. Wouldn't you think so?' Without matting an eyelash, Mr. Grant poured a fifth glass. ''Certainly, Dr. Watson. If I would succeed in damaging my future competitors, or even outright outdoing them, that certainly would be to my advantage, on the one hand. On the other hand, for now I am still dependent on Mr. Cowie. His salary payment is my starting capital, which is not enough so far. Even if my income is sparse, it will be enough in the foreseeable future for my purposes. Furthermore, as a manager I am able to learn everything. No, Dr. Watson, I won't fry my golden goose rashly. That is why I have always behaved loyally and correctly towards Mr. Cowie.' This was an undismissible argument. Analysing Mr. Grant's last statement, I nodded. ''Indeed, Mr. Grant, this is probably true. Provided—' Grant interrupted immediately, raising his right index finger. ''Always provided that I am telling you the truth, it could also be mere targeted misdirection.' We looked at each other with a serious expression, then both of us had to laugh and empty the fifth glass. In hindsight I can't deny that the alcohol already began to unfold its effects on me, fraternising, mood-enhancing, soon mentally retarding. ''All right, Mr. Grant,'' I tried to interrogate him, ''even if you did not do it, you might be able to help us to convict the offender. Is there anything else you can tell me about Mr. Cowie's local friends and enemies?'' Mr. Grant grabbed the third bottle. ''This is our sixteen-year-old. Mr. Cowie's best friend, his only friend, to be exact. ''What about his son?'' I asked. ''Alexander,'' said Mr. Grant, while filling the top product of the Mortlach distillery in our glasses. ''He is a fine lad, but he has distanced himself as far as half the world and two oceans from his father. What do you think that means?'' Again he pushed my whisky over the small table in my direction. Despite it being a brown colour, the contents shined and its consistency seemed to be a little thick. Admittedly, I got impatient to try and took the glass quickly. ''You will not find a comparable whisky anywhere else,'' Mr. Grant claimed, ''not even in Ireland, most certainly not in England.'' He raised his glass to toast. ''To Scotland!'' As if drawn by magic, I jumped up, shouting loudly, ''Long live the Empire!'' and emptied my glass. Mr. Grant made a puzzled face for a moment. Grinning, he jumped up and jerked his heels. ''Rule Britannia!'' he shouted, pouring down his whisky and saluting with empty glass in his hand. I immediately agreed and we sang the chorus with all our fervour at least two times before we happily sank in our chairs. I am afraid Her Majesty the Queen would not have been amused by this questionable vocal performance. ''Well, Mr. Grant,'' I said, trying to hold my voice together, ''let's talk about Mr. Cowey's enemies. What do you know about them?'' Mr. Grant picked up the bottle of sixteen-year-old and looked at it. ''Many things, Dr. Watson,'' he answered, ''but that will take some time.'' ''Time is no issue,'' I replied, shoving my empty glass across the table. To my infinite regret and shame, this was the last thing I can remember clearly and without a doubt. The rest of the evening with Mr. Grant and the three whisky bottles increasingly blurred into a fog or proper, or rather improper, drunkenness. Only incoherent word fragments and mindless facial expressions haunt my brain. Under normal circumstances, this episode would have to be remembered as my biggest failure and eternal dishonour in the year of my collaboration with Holmes. The next morning I was awoken by a loud knock on my door in Mr. Cowey's townhouse. I woke up disorientated, still lying in bed with my street clothes on from the previous day. As I straightened up, a stabbing pain settled in my head that was not helped by the continued hammering on the door. ''Just come in,'' I groaned, ''but stop the knocking for God's sake.'' Holmes entered and came to my bed, obviously eyeing me. ''Excellent, Watson,'' he said. ''You are already dressed. How are you doing on this fine day?'' I sat on the edge of the bed. At least I took off my shoes and stuttered. ''Water. Could I get a drink of water?'' Holmes looked around and walked to the credenza where he emptied a jar of water into a glass and brought it to me. ''There,'' he said. ''Of course, you are a little dehydrated. A logical consequence of excessive alcohol consumption.'' ''Thanks, Holmes,'' I said, receiving the glass and taking a long drink. ''To my knowledge, I am a physician. I know the consequences of alcohol abuse. Something I don't know is how I got here.'' Holmes smiled. ''Oh, Mr. Grant was so friendly to bring you here. Together we then brought you up the stairs and into your room.'' Slowly I became aware of the extent of my misconduct. I have rarely experienced a more embarrassing situation. ''Listen, Holmes,'' I said with difficulty, ''I want to make a full apology for my behavior. It is unforgivable and highly unprofessional. I hope you do not think too bad of me.'' ''My dear Watson, you need to calm down,'' replied Holmes. ''We shall rate your infantile escapades as a singular accident. However, your vocal talent...'' He did not continue his sentence and only shook his head compassionately. I was expecting the worst. ''I did not sing, after all,'' I asked, already suspecting the answer. Holmes smiled. ''Something similar. You and Mr. Grant arrived here intoning the Scottish hymn ''A Bannock Burns March.'' ''Apparently Mr. Grant turned you into a patriotic Scotsman in no time at all.'' I finished the glass of water to save time. ''That was the whisky,'' I tried to defend myself. ''Did I say or do anything else I should know?'' Suddenly Holmes became serious. ''You don't remember?'' ''What do I not remember?'' I asked, flustered. ''What have I done? Out with it, Holmes!'' Holmes silently paced up and down the room twice, then came to a stand right in front of me again and looked at me vividly. ''After we brought you upstairs and Mr. Grant said good-bye, you fell into bed. Whenever I was about to leave the room you suddenly sat up and shouted, ''I solved the case, I know who did it.'' ''You're kidding,'' I said. Holmes shook his head decisively. ''Not at all. You insisted on having solved the case.'' ''So?'' I asked impatiently. ''Who is the culprit?'' ''I have no idea,'' Holmes answered. ''You were not able to tell me anymore. You fell asleep instantly.'' Having no more memory of this insight I was in absolute shock. ''That can't be true. For heaven's sake, Holmes, did you not try to wake me up?'' ''Of course I tried,'' Holmes replied, ''but in vain. You slept like a dead man. All you murmured was, ''Water, it revolves around water.'' Does that ring any bells?'' I thought about it intensely but could not get anywhere. ''Unfortunately, nothing.'' ''Well, that is utterly regrettable,'' Holmes replied. ''We will have to solve the case a second time.'' ''To be honest,'' I stuttered, while I felt my head pounding. ''I am afraid I am not in a state to continue. Do you still want to torment me further?'' Holmes smiled good-naturedly, which did not bode well. ''Nothing could be further from my intentions, dear friend,'' he claimed, ''but apparently the answer is in there.'' He said, as he tapped his fist on my forehead. ''For God's sake!'' I cried in pain and jumped up. ''Please refrain from doing that.'' ''Oh, wonderful, my dear Watson,'' said Holmes, unperturbed, ''now that you have gotten up, we'll help your memory getting started again. What did you and Mr. Grant talk about yesterday?'' My head still buzzing and humming, as if there was a swarm of bees in it, I felt dizzy from jumping up so quickly and had to sit back down on the bed. Before Holmes could protest, though, I made a reassuring gesture. ''All right, Holmes, all right,'' I said, ''I will cooperate. Let me think. Mr. Grant. We talked about him not liking Mr. Cowey. He wants to start his own distillery. He even drew an emblem for it, something with a stag. But Mr. Grant is not the culprit, is he?'' Holmes interjected. ''No, no,'' I replied quickly. ''Then I asked him about any conflicts in Dufftown that Mr. Cowey was or is involved in. Mr. Grant said he wanted to control everything and everyone, so he is trying to establish a monopoly, and also already partially achieved that. He is the main buyer of the barley, harvesting farmers and dictates their prices. He is also negotiating the purchase of the headwaters of the tributaries to the Fiddich, in order to have sufficient qualitative clear and clean water for whiskey production.'' ''Water?'' repeated Holmes. ''You said that water was the solution.'' ''But that makes no sense,'' I countered. ''The farmers do not need spring water. We are in the north of Scotland. There is much more water falling from the sky than is needed for the crops on the fields to grow.'' ''That's true,'' replied Holmes. ''But who else could be in the dispute over the access and consumption of water with Mr. Cowey?'' While my headache got more intense, focusing was almost impossible. ''I am sorry, Holmes,'' I whispered. ''I need to lay down again.'' The water of life completely calcified my brain, and at that moment I had solved the case again. ''Holmes!'' I exclaimed, jerking briefly at the stinging pain in the back of my head. ''Holmes!'' I repeated, a little quieter, just to be on the safe side. ''That's it. The lime production. It requires large amounts of water, which leads its partially contaminated water back into the rivers. Mr. Cowey is about to make this impossible by acquiring the Fiddich tributaries at Dufftown. Most of the lime production would have to be stopped. The owner would be ruined.'' Holmes nodded approvingly. ''Excellent, my dear Watson. That is the solution.'' Suddenly I felt full of energy. ''Well then, Holmes,'' I said, ''we have to go. We have to inform Mr. Cowey and the police. They have to arrest him immediately. The lime producer, Mr. Mr... Irrelevant. I don't know his name.'' ''Mr. McGregor,'' Holmes explained. ''The owner of the local lime production company is called Donald McGregor.'' I hesitated. ''How do you know that, Holmes?'' ''Well, whatever. He has to be arrested.'' Holmes nodded. ''Exactly. That's why Mr. McGregor has been in police custody since yesterday and was transferred to Inverness this morning while you were sleeping. There he awaits his trial.'' ''But I don't understand,'' I stuttered. ''What does that mean? Since yesterday? Already transferred?'' ''Holmes, what's going on here?'' Holmes put his hand on my shoulder. ''Calm down, my dear Watson,'' he told me like he was talking to a sick child. ''You need to rest now. Get some sleep. You have an eventful evening behind you. In the early afternoon our train goes to Aberdeen. I will wake you up in time and explain everything to you.'' At exactly two o'clock in the afternoon we were sitting in a regional train wagon to leave Dufftown. The case was solved the culprit in custody. Mr. Cowey, overjoyed at the sound outcome of the affair, delivered his generous fee. As the train left the station with several whistles, Holmes made a thoroughly satisfied impression. Only I was still not quite sure what I should think of the matter. Freed from the worst headache and again reasonably clear in my mind, I tried to make sense of the events of the last twenty-four hours. For now I was still in the dark about which games Holmes had played with me and why. I looked at him first and finally mustered up some courage. ''Tell me, Holmes, you solved the case before me, didn't you?'' ''Of course,'' replied Holmes, ''but there is nothing to be ashamed of. You actually found the solution twice and all this under mental impairment. Extraordinary impairment, I mean.'' ''Thanks,'' I muttered. ''And when? When did you know who was responsible for those letters?'' ''To be honest,'' said Holmes soberly, ''it wasn't a big deal. Right after you left the distillery yesterday afternoon, I had convicted the culprit. I had already feared something like that. My own efforts not to think of the slightly escalated whisky-tasting were completely in vain.'' ''So, Holmes, how did you convict the perpetrator apparently within a few minutes?'' ''Mr. McGregor has made it easy for me. Seemingly he is missing any talent for crime, which is somewhat disappointing. I simply looked at Mr. Cowey's business correspondences and, as expected, very quickly found some letters addressed to him which were, typographically, at the most striking points very similar to the threatening letter. There was no need for a detailed graphological expertise. The matching letters were written and signed by Mr. McGregor and thus he had written the threatening letter. When I confronted him with this fact in the late afternoon he did not even try to deny it and was arrested by the police without any resistance.'' ''So simple!'' I exclaimed. ''When, my dear friend, did you want to fill me in?'' Holmes shrugged innocently. ''I'm telling you right now.'' I buried my face in my hands and immediately my headache returned. ''Watson, are you all right?'' Holmes asked. ''I do have something for you in case you are not well. Mr. Grant gave me a little present for you. He sends his regards. Unfortunately he could not send you off, personally, because there was a lack of time in his schedule.'' Holmes pulled an unlabeled bottle of whisky out of his briefcase and held it under my nose. ''For God's sake,'' I groaned, ''take this stuff away from me.'' ''How ungrateful,'' said Holmes' piqued face. ''In the end you might even accuse me for taking this case for your sake.'' ''Because of me?'' I asked uncomprehendingly. ''What do you mean?'' ''Well,'' Holmes explained, ''as soon as I read the telegram it was obvious to me that this case was just going to be a trifle and that the long journey across almost the whole island would be a waste of time. But,'' I interjected. Smiling smugly, Holmes continued, ''My dear Watson, you lately seem so ill-tempered back on Baker Street that I thought that a little change and a little task would do you good. Little did I know that you would turn this into an infernal drinking spree. Exhausted, I let myself sink back into the seat. It started to rain and drops of water ran down the window as we crossed the bridge across the Fiddich River. I still had a good 12 hours of train ride to think about my life. ''Would you do me a favor, Holmes?'' I asked. ''Certainly,'' he replied out of friendly obligation. ''We want to bring back the spirits,'' I explained. ''Please hand me the whisky bottle.''