The Red-Headed League, part 1

aɪɡ ˈkɔːld əˈpɒm maɪ ˈfrend | ˈmɪstə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz | ˈwʌn ˈdeɪ ɪn ði ˈɔːtəm əv ˈlɑːs ˈjɪər | ən ˈfaʊnd ɪm ɪn ˈdiːp ˈkɒnvəˈseɪʃn̩ | wɪð ə ˈveri ˈstaʊt | ˈflɒrɪd ˈfeɪst ˈeldəli ˈʤentl̩mən | wɪð ˈfaɪəri ˈred ˈheə || wɪð ən əˈpɒləʤi fə maɪ ɪnˈtruːʒn̩ | aɪ wəz əˈbaʊt tə wɪðˈdrɔː | wen ˈhəʊmz ˈpʊl mi əˈbrʌpli ˈɪntə ðə ˈruːm | əŋ ˈkləʊzd ðə ˈdɔː bɪˈhaɪm mi

ju ˈkʊbm̩ ˈpɒsəbli əv ˈkʌm | ət ə ˈbetə ˈtaɪm maɪ ˈdɪə ˈwɒtsn̩ | hi ˈseɡ ˈkɔːdiəli

aɪ wəz əˈfreɪd ðəʧu wər ɪŋˈɡeɪʤd

ˈsəʊ aɪ ˈæm || ˈveri ˈmʌʧ ˈsəʊ

ðen aɪ kən ˈweɪt ɪn ðə ˈneks ˈruːm

ˈnɒt ə ˈtɔːl | ˈðɪs ˈʤentl̩mən ˈmɪstə ˈwɪlsn̩ | həz biːm ˈpɑːtnər ən ˈhelpər | ɪm ˈmeni ə maɪ ˈməʊs səkˈsesfl̩ ˈkeɪsɪz | ən aɪ ˈhæv ˈnəʊ ˈdaʊt | ðət il ˈbiː ə ði ˈʌpməʊs ˈjuːs tə mi | ɪn ˈjɔːz ˈɔːlsəʊ

ðə ˈstaʊt ˈʤentl̩mən ˈhɑːf ˈrəʊz frəm ɪz ˈʧeər | əŋ ˈɡeɪv ə ˈbɒb əv ˈɡriːtɪŋ | wɪð ə ˈkwɪk ˈlɪtl̩ ˈkwesʧənɪŋ ˈɡlɑːns | frəm ɪz ˈsmɔːl ˈfæt ɪnˈsɜːkl̩d ˈaɪz

I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.

“You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said cordially.

“I was afraid that you were engaged.”

“So I am. Very much so.”

“Then I can wait in the next room.”

“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also.”

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes.