Dr. Watson

To Sherlock Holmes, master detective and loyal friend, whose adventures have brought considerable, shall we say, fame to a certain retired doctor now living in Northern California.

Well, now, suppose I might as well get on with tonight's story.

In Baker Street on a windy December evening at the turn of the century, a young, white-faced boy sat in front of our blazing fire.

And as he told us his strange story, the flickering firelight danced weird patterns on the walls.

The young man was Alexander McMorris, the seventh Earl of Lochner.

Even in this day and age, the tragic history of violent death seems to dog the footsteps of the Loch Nair family.

But to return to my story.

On that December night in 1900, we heard the whole history of the limping host of Loch Nair.

The first Earl had lost a foot at the Battle of Plodden Field in 1513.

In spite of this terrible handicap, he fought on valiantly until he died on the battlefield from loss of blood.

From then on, right until the time this story begins, the limping ghost, clad in a suit of armor, always appeared at Lochner Castle before and after the death of the current Earl.

Yes, Mr. Bartell, it was a strange story that Sherlock Holmes and I listened to that night.

A story of death and horror over the centuries, punctuated by the limping clank...

of ghostly armor.

And that's the story of the Loch Nairs, Mr. Holmes.

You were instrumental in sending my great-uncle to the gallows, a fate which he richly deserved, I'm told.

So it seemed only natural to come here to Baker Street and consult you now that I'm in trouble.

I shall be most happy to do anything I can to help you, sir.

I don't remember anything about your sending the old Lochner to the scaffold, Holmes.

Well, he did, Dr. Watson.