One second-hand carpet bag, English make.

One suit, ash-grey, English make.

2 white shirts, Continental make.

2 pairs of cuffs.

2 collars.

1 hat, grey with black band, English make.

One nightshirt, Continental make.

One shaving kit, Continental make.

One gentleman's travel toiletry kit, Continental make.

One costume, Italian priest, comprised of a black cassock, hat, and bits of putty.

One guidebook of Switzerland, written in English, French, Italian, and German.

One railway timetable, Swiss track.

One alpinestock.

One silver cigarette case, embossed.

One letter, 4 pages long, notebook paper and blunt pencil, addressed to me.

Each item neatly tucked away into the worn carpetbag. Everything fit, with room to spare. I could not credit it. How could this paltry jumble of worldly possessions be the summation of the man who had been a genius, a hero, and a champion of justice? These were the remnants of any ordinary, commonplace man – never Holmes. This was not the sort of legacy the remarkable man I had called my dearest friend ought to have.

It was this that caused me an even keener grief than the knowledge of my abandonment of him at Reichenbach or even the actual loss of him: that all his accomplishments and successes might in turn vanish from memory. That he himself might be forgotten. Sherlock Holmes deserved better.