This morning, Finch arrived before the kettle had even begun to sing.

He carried beneath his arm a newspaper folded to a most alarming headline.

“Another mystery?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “Only speculation.”

I poured the tea and waited.

“There seems,” he continued, “to be no shortage of people willing to explain matters before they possess the facts.”

I could not help but smile.

“That, Finch, is one of mankind's oldest habits.”

He looked at me curiously.

“Surely there is no harm in forming an opinion?”

“There is every virtue in forming an opinion,” I answered. “The danger lies in becoming so fond of it that one refuses to exchange it for the truth.”

He considered this while stirring far more sugar into his tea than any physician could reasonably approve of.

“The truth,” I continued, “is rarely offended by our questions. It is only our pride that objects when the answers prove inconvenient.”

For a few moments, neither of us spoke. The only sounds were the crackling fire and the gentle ticking of the clock upon the mantel.

At length, Finch folded his newspaper closed.

“I suppose that is why you ask so many questions.”

“Precisely.”

“And why you never seem in a hurry to solve a case.”

“A hurried conclusion is often merely a comfortable mistake.”

Mrs Kettle entered, carrying a fresh plate of buttered toast.

“You gentlemen have been discussing murders again, haven't you?”

“We have not,” I replied.

She looked from me to Finch with an expression that suggested she believed neither of us.

Without another word, she placed the toast upon the table and quietly confiscated Finch's newspaper.

“I find breakfast is much more pleasant without speculation,” she said.

For once, I was unable to disagree.

 

– Dr Percival Thorn