Sherlock Holmes Short Story Thread
random73
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http://m.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2014/01/great-news-now-anyone-can-write-and-publish-a-sherlock-holmes-story/282897/
anybody interested in writing Holmes stories for fun and comradarie?
anybody interested in writing Holmes stories for fun and comradarie?
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Holmes could only think back to that sabbatical he and Watson took in Wales 3 months ago. How could it have come to this?
The sitting room at 221B Baker Street was warmed by a blazing fire and Holmes had been staring into it for the better part of the evening. It was an unusually cold January but Mrs, Hudson kept the kindling well stocked.
"Watson, I'm Bored!" Holmes lurched from his chair and began pacing the length of the room in long strides.
"I know but...Wales!?".
"Look here!" Holmes snatched up a newspaper article from the desk and half flung it at Doctor John Watson M.D.
Watson scanned the page and his eyes grew narrow then wide,"Oh, my." He said.
"Good God, Holmes, this Clara Dubois business is exactly the thing, a true mystery," Watson exclaimed. Sherlock snorted a dismissive chuckle.
"She's run off with an employee of her father's. She'll be found in the next day or two, happily married. Though I expect a certain Lord John Campbell-Chorley, to whom she was promised will be disappointed." Watson's ears stood at attention when he heard the name. "Ah yes, you recognise the name, Watson. He was involved in-oh what puerile name did you give it in the Strand- The Adventure of the Seven Rusted Kettles. He approached me a week ago, but I have no interest in a domestic situation... I was refering to the advertisment beneathe it."
Watson ran his finger down to the bottom of the page and saw a short personal ad.
"To the woman who stole my watch on Tues. from Preston & Sons Bakery. Please return. Desperate. WILL PAY"
Sherlock curled he spidery fingers around his pipe and bit down. "Now that is a mystery."
Holmes fixed him with a quizzical look. "Ah Watson, it is in the mundane that we find true mystery, for the very repetiveness of everyday events can obscure a deeper meaning. This personal advertisement for instance. Fairly typical in the scheme of things. But read closer, and you can deduce an entire biography from these 19 simple words."
Watson frowned, then read again. "To the woman..."
"Stop right there! " Holmes exclaimed. "To the woman, Not 'To the lady', that opening line is intended derogatorily. The man who placed the ad knew her"
"How can you be so sure whoever placed the ad was male." asked Watson.
"The syntax is clipped, hard edged, masculine. Particularly the last two words. why are they in bold face? I believe the man intended a specific message for this poor lady Watson, I don't think he means he will pay a reward for this "watch", if that is in fact what it is. I'm convinced what he means is that she WILL PAY for stealing from him if it is not swiftly returned."
At that moment, Mrs Hudson entered the room, "Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, your cab has arrived"
Watson stared at Mrs Hudson, then at Holmes. "Cab?"
"The cab to take us to Waterloo station" explained Holmes with a smile. "We have just enough time to catch the overnight train to Swansea Bay, Wales, where Preston & Sons Bakery is located. Come Watson! The game is afoot!"
"What about my..." John began.
"Packed!" Holmes called from the bottom of the stairs.
"Holmes, I have appointments with patients..."
"I called them all and cancelled, your calendar is clear, now come, Watson!" As he said this last he patted his leg as though summoning a slightly dim dog.
"What could you possibly expect to find in Swansea, Holmes? I can not make heads or tails of your reasoning for this trip." Watson ask with his usual exasperation.
"Possibly nothing. It is altogether likely a man's watch was stolen and he wishes it to be returned. If that is the case we will have wasted half a day... On the other hand, if my suspicions are correct, we will find something extraordinary is going on. Now finish you breakfast Watson, we arrive." Sherlock collected his newspaper and folded them carefully before putting them in his valise.
He asked,"Watson, are you familiar with the Pirate of Swansea Bay?"
"I don't believe so, no"
"Around the turn of the last century there was a story told of a covert branch of the Royal Navy". Holmes began lecturing, "They were charged with keeping shipping lanes clear for Her Majesties 'unofficial' allies."
Watson nodded but still clearly did not see the connection. A taxi stopped and he followed Holmes up into the cab.
Holmes continued in full professorial mode,"Being largely secret anyway it did not take long for this group to degenerate into piracy. Swansea, being a major port, became home to the most brazen of these pirates, namely the Pirate of Swansea Bay".
"I see...no, no I don't see. What does this have to do with a stolen timepiece?" Watson struggled to follow Holmes' train of thought.
Holmes stopped and looked Watson in the eyes,"Before they descended into piracy this covert navy was known as The Watch!"
"The link. if I'm not mistaken, is to be found at Preston and Sons bakery." replied Holmes. Despite the long voyage, his eyes were fairly aglow with anticipation.
The cab rattled over rough storm lashed roads into Swansea city, a bustling town perched on the edge of the coast, looking out into the Bristol Channel. Holmes stared out at the water.
"Take heed Watson, for you are looking at one of the most treacherous shipping lanes in the world. With it's 7 knot winds and tides rising as high as 43 feet, it is a constant danger to ship and man alike. Why, a new kind of boat had to be specifically designed to aid the larger vessels through these potentially fatal waters. Observe!"
Moored in the local harbour, there she sat. Compact and sleek, designed for speed and manoeuvrability, and there, painted on the bow, was it's name. The Preston.
" Holmes," began a bemused Watson "That is not a bakery. Besides, the full title is Preston and Sons."
" I checked the local directory at the train station. There is no Preston and Sons bakery, the only business with that name in Swansea city is this Channel Pilot cutter. We've found the Preston Watson, lets go speak to the Son."
"The Son?" asked Watson.
"By the son I mean the pilot, of course."
Watson frowned. "Holmes, I have yet to be convinced that you're not just chasing some red herring. And that is still not a bakery."
"I'm well aware of that my dear fellow, that is why all of this is so damned compelling. Besides, I can't be chasing a red herring, they aren't in season."
With that, Holmes climbed out of the cab, and proceeded to the dock.
Holmes was completely non-plussed by the man, though very little intimidated him. "Hallo" he repeated almost jovially, "Are you the owner of this fine vessel?"
"Aye" the man replied.
"Did you, two days ago, place an advertisment inquiring about a stolen watch?" The man's jaw dropped almost imperceptively, but he quickly recomposed himself.
"Aye, but the matters been settled." Watson saw Sherlock smile his wolfish grin. He had caught the scent of something.
"Goodday to you sir," Sherlock called. He tipped his hat and the man mimicked the gesture before quickly disappearing to the galley.
Once they were safely away Holmes turned to Watson urgently.
"You must run some errands for me," he began. "First you will send a telegram to Inspector Lestrade requesting a letter of introduction to the constabulary here in Swansea. Then find us acceptable lodgings, and finally request that an inspector meet us there for tea."
"But why old chap?" Watson exclaimed. Sherlock rubbed the tip of his chin. Watson could see he was becoming manic.
"The man on that boat was not her owner. Furthermore, he has never been on a boat in his life. Did you see the way he handled himself on the bow... one wave and he would have been tossed into the sea. Add to this the coal stained clothing, early symptoms of black lung, I'd say this man was a miner by trade."
"He could have just as easily been in the engine room."
Holmes shook his head. "His body betrays him. He still swings the pick axe as he moves. And then there was his palour, which I'm sure even you must have taken notice. Have you ever met a sailor who wasn't weatherbeaten and reddened? No, that man is a poor imposter, and the true owner is dead." Holmes grabbed Watson by the shoulders. "I have theories I must investigate. Do not tarry with your assignments, and meet me at train station at 3 o'clock."
Holmes observed a yellow haired girl with a wicket basket of baguettes. He saw an urchin filtch a satsuma orange from a wheelbarrow piled with fruit. A blacksmith apprentice brushed hair back from his face. A woman haggled with the fishmonger.
Sherlock caught the urchins eye and have him a whistle and a wink. The boy causally veered into Sherlocks orbit. Holmes held out a hand and said,"Up for a bit of fun?"
The boy looked warily surrendered his freshly stolen fruit. Holmes waited. A heartbeat happened. Holmes bowled the tiny sphere at the fruit wagon just as the blacksmith boy came out of his hut to flirt with the baguette girl.
Holmes turned and opened his valise.
An avalanche of produce tumbled out of the wheelbarrow and under the smith boys feet. He spun and lurched grabbing the girl and sending the bread end over end through the air. It landed with a squishy splat in front of the fishmonger and splattered the woman. She stepped back and found a grapefruit beneath her heel was enough to send her pinwheeling into the mud.
The urchin boy laughed and clapped at this delightful show till tears streamed from both eyes. He turned back to Holmes to congratulate him on a well placed shot. Holmes was gone. In his place was a wizened, hunched, old codger who looked old enough to have tossed nets with Poseidon.
The boy blinked.
The geezer winked,"I need you to round up some friends ".
Watson entered the post office and dashed off a telegram to Scotland Yard. He searched the bulliten for possible lodgings. Swansea was a working city and not particularly friendly to visitors. It took some time and a long conversation with the postman behind the counter to find a suitable hotel. Watson left rubbing his leg. His old war wound was flaring up again.
"Damned sea air," he scoffed and headed south to the Glevdon Inn. He cursed himself later for not realizing it sooner, Holmes would have noticed it before the post office for sure, but he was being followed. Two men of similar build to the "owner" of the Preston had been trailing the doctor since the incident at the pier. He had seen them twice already but had dismissed it as being a bit disoriented in an unfamiliar city. He dashed down the nearest alley and heard frantic footsteps follow behind. The alley was a dead end.
Watson found a cargo crate and hid himself from view.
"He came down this way," the first thug said.
"No way for him to get away now," said the other. "Anson will be happy after we lost the other one."
"You lost you mean," said the first.
"Oy, weren't my fault. I didn't start that ruckus." Watson smiled. But then the men drew knives. He was cornered, his only option was to surprise them. As the first man passed Watson pushed the crate on to him. He shouted as the second ruffian chased Watson toward the mouth of the alley. The pain in Watson's leg had grown and was slowing him down. The second man would overtake him before he made it to the open street, and the first man had recovered and was now also giving chase.
The second man pulled at Watson's coat and spun him around. He raised his knife. Watson reacted instinctually. He grabbed his sidearm and fired. The man fell back, while the other ducked for cover. Watson ran into the street and back toward the post office. He looked back only once but saw both men run in the opposite direction, one clutching his blood-soaked sleeve.
When he heard the constables whistle Watson decided that at the very least they had made his last task much simpler. He only hoped Sherlock would be able to find him when he did not rendevous at the train station.
"This way Mr Watson sir."
Watson was led down a corridor into a small yet well appointed office.
"I'll leave you here sir. Mr Jacoby will be with you shortly."
"Mr Jacoby?"
"Our Chief inspector sir. Apparently he wishes to speak with you personally."
Ten minutes later, Watson found himself seated opposite a tall man with a face like stretched toffee. He leaned across the table, hands clasped firmly in front of him. Rain began to drum against the office window.
"So you're here on a sabbatical Dr?"
"Yes, that's right."
"And this companion of yours, a Mr Shylock..."
"Sherlock Holmes, surely you've heard of him."
"Not much of a Strand reader myself sir. I prefer The Times. And these men you claimed were after you..."
"Yes. You didn't catch them did you?"
"Not as such. You owe them money or something?"
"No. Nothing like that."
"Then how do you know them?"
"I don't."
"I see. So you arrive in our fair city. on what you claim is a sabbatical, where your companion desserts you..."
He didn't dessert me! He had...other business to attend to."
"What business?"
"Um...I'd rather not say. Well, actually, I have no idea what this business was."
"Ofcourse you don't. So. Your companion attends to his business, while you look for lodgings. You planning to stay long in Swansea Doctor?"
"Probably, possibly. Inspector, honestly, I was the victim here."
"Well, here's the thing sir, I can only go on the information you've given me. All very covert this is."
Well, I needn't waste your time. Surely you could assign one of your underlings to interrogate me."
"Nobody is interrogating you my good man!"
"I'm sure the confusion can be cleared up if you were to meet with Mr Holmes at the lodgings I've acquired. At least, I hope so."
The Inspector sighed. He drew his fingers up to his chin. As he did so, Watson noticed a pale mark on his right wrist. On closer inspection, he realized it was a Tattoo. A naval tattoo.
Watson looked up at the Inspector. He was staring at Watson darkly.
The Preston was still moored, as Sherlock had assumed it would be, but the men were no where to be found. Neither was the ringleader, a man he overheard the others call Anson. But he had a contingency for that. Sherlock found the urchin from earlier, dining on a luscious apple he no doubt purchased with Holmes' money.
"Have you done what I asked," the old man said to the boy. The boy kicked his feet against the side of a crate as he nodded. He hopped off the box and took the detective by the hand leading him down the road. Eventually they stopped in front of Winton Family Mortuary. There was blood on the frame of the door.
Sherlock tossed the boy another sixpence and patted him on the head. He found a suitable place to discard his costume and quickly made haste to the local newspaper office. He asked to see the obituaries from six days ago. It was not long before he had found what he was looking for. Holmes had discovered a likely location of his body. Under the grave of a Miss Olivia Hollingsworth, aged 87. It was the only burial performed by Winton in the correct time frame, and Winton did not do cremations. After an hour or so of research he had discovered the man's name as well. Alistair Preston, owner and operator of Preston Cargo, a small shipping operation that mostly ferried goods between Wales and Scotland.
Holmes knew he had almost everything he needed and it was time to involve the police officially. He could collect Watson and the same time. But something in him stirred uneasily. Sherlock had discovered so much already but the question that had brought him here remained unanswered... Who was "the woman?"
"Your friend, Mr. Holmes is here asking after you."
Watson could not fathom how Sherlock had found him so quickly considering the unexpected turn of events but he was no longer surprised by the frightening omniscience Sherlock regularly presented.
"He also says he is here to report a murder."
Holmes was shown into the interrogation room. "I'm sorry," he said as he sat next to Watson and reached into a pocket for his pipe. "This matter has become more urgent and I did not think it could wait for tea." The inspector was visibly annoyed by Holmes' self-importance. He had also been handed a telegram by the constable who had shown Holmes into the room. Jacoby did not appreciate Londoners coming down to his city and walking around with imperial arrogance. Did they think he was impressed by Scotland Yard? Jacoby would hear what they had to say and put them on the first train back to Paddington Station.
Holmes finally turned to the inspector. "A man has been murdered in your city. I fear it is not the last one that will be committed in the course of this case, as there is a young woman out there who is currently being pursued by the criminals. I also believe this is part of a larger criminal enterprise, but to what, I only have suspicions that will only be confirmed by finding this woman before they do."
"And who do you propose was murdered Mr. Holmes," the inspector sneered.
"I am afraid you knew this man Inspector Jacoby. Tell me, when you were in the navy did you ever serve with an Alistair Preston?"
The inspector nearly fell from his chair.
"He was an officer, like me. Ali Babar we used to call him, because he'd served in South Asia during the Egyptian/Ottoman War.. He could have made captain, for he was an excellent sailor. But he fancied a more prosperous future for himself. He was an odd sort of a chap, given to wild fancies. He always maintained that he would one day strike it rich. We treated it as a joke, but he always seemed deadly serious."
"Tell me Inspector." interrupted Holmes. "Did Mr Preston ever speak to you of a covert Navy operating at the turn of the last century, known as The Watch?"
The Inspector looked uneasy. "Oh yes, constantly. The covert Navy has always been a point of conjecture amongst our official rank and file. I myself didn’t believe it ever existed, but Ali did, with all his heart. I can still hear him rhapsodising about 1792, the year the covert Navy was said to have been initiated.
"Why 1792?" asked Watson.
"Well, that was the year of the notorious sinking of the HMS Worthington. It ran aground whilst on manoeuvres in the Bristol Channel, and sank into the icy waters with all hands lost. But Ali was insistent on the idea that the whole thing was an elaborate ruse on the Navy's part, and the supposedly lost ship and it's crew became this fabled Watch."
"Fascinating!" grinned Holmes. " Such a compelling narrative, yet you were not convinced."
"Never. I always argued that Captain Payne was far too good a sailor to have allowed his
vessel to run aground."
Holmes started. "Captain Payne? What was his name in full?"
"Why, Captain William Payne." replied the Inspector.
Holmes gazed intently at the Captain. "Of course! That explains the capitalization of the last two words!"
Holmes explained the advertisement that had begun this whole business.
"To the woman who stole my watch on Tues. from Preston & Sons Bakery. Please return. Desperate. WILL PAY."
Watson made the connection. "WILL PAY, it isn't just a warning, Will Pay stands for William Payne. He is the Pirate of Swansea Bay! Whoever sent that message signed the damn thing! "
"Indeed." concluded Holmes. " For how else was she to know the message was intended for her. But the mystery still remains, who is this Woman?"
The three man were distracted from their musings by the sharp THUD of steel striking timber. Inspector Jacoby's men had uncovered the coffin. Upon opening it, the body of Alistair Preston was found, his throat cut ear to ear.
Inspector Jacoby stared remorsely at the body of his old friend. Then he turned to Holmes. "We'll need to notify his next of kin. I'm dreading telling this to Abigail."
"Abigail?" asked Holmes.
"His daughter, Mr Holmes. Poor young lady. An only child. She'd only recently lost her mother to consumption two years previous. Now this. Horrible"
Holmes eyes lit up. Inspector, you refer to Miss Abigail as a young lady. How young?"
"Ohh... I'd place her at 19 years at least."
"Wait Holmes." gasped a startled Watson. "You don't think..."
"If my suspicions are correct my dear Watson, this young lady is the Woman."
"North Hill Road... er... 27 I think" Inspector Jacoby told the driver. He leaned back into the seat with a heavy sigh while Holmes filled his pipe and lit it. Jacoby felt an instinctual fear when he looked into the detective's eyes. 'Hard as diamonds,' he thought, 'and twice as sharp.'
"I am sorry about your friend," Holmes said, as if to answer some unspoken question. "Were you close."
"Aye," the inspector grumbled. "At least we were. Served together and all that. And our wives are cousins. Met them together on a shore leave, lost them both within a year. Afterwards, well, I guess everyone mourns differently. Ali, he just threw himself into this nonsense with the Watch. Every day and every night. Got to be so that there weren't any talking to him. Looked in on him less, he came round less. It's been nearly two years..." Jacoby paused as his brain hooked on to something. "Except, there was an incident a month ago-"
The carriage came to a sudden stop in front of 27 North Hill Road. Sherlock snapped his head toward the modest two story home. "Do you smell that? Smoke!"
He leaped from the carriage and flew into the house. The front door had been forced open. Jacoby rushed in close behind. The house was in complete disarray. Every cabinet, every drawer was open, every cushion torn to shreds. Jacoby's heart sank. They were too late.
"Upstairs," called Holmes. At the top of the stairs they could see into the young woman's bedroom. The door had been knocked clear off it's hinges. A small fire had begun to spread from a tin waste basket and a smashed kerosene lantern. Jacoby called out for the woman.
"Abby," he yelled. "Abigail it's David Jacoby, please come out." Holmes smothered the fire with a heavy duvet. Once it was extinguished he immediately began examining the ashes.
"Abby dear!" Jacoby called.
"She is not here, inspector."
"Is she..."
"Dead? I don't believe so. The men who came here were not looking for her." Sherlock reasoned.
"But how do you know?"
"Young women are rarely found in cabinets or cushions. No, they came here looking for whatever it is she stole from them. A document of some kind I suspect." Holmes looked at the inspector's face and divined his next question before he could even form the words. "The ashes of which are at the bottom of this waste can. She is a clever girl. Once they realized she was in the house they came for her. She barricaded the door and set fire to the documents. They broke their way in she showed them what she had done and, I believe, told them she memorized the whole thing. Whatever they are after, she is their only key." The inspector's face screwed in tightly. The man was a devil reading tea leaves.
"How do you know they did not just... kill her."
"They surely know about the discovery of Preston's body by now. Their secret is out. If these men killed Abigail they had no reason to hide the body. But she has not saved herself, only bought herself some time. If we are to save her we must get ahead of these men. I believe you were about to tell me about something that happened a month ago."
“On July 27th, I received a visit from a very distraught Abigail Preston. She was deeply concerned with her father. Apparently Ali had been acting even more distracted and agitated, always looking over his shoulder. Sometimes he would disappear for days, returning covered in coal dust, but he would tell her it was worth it, that eventually he would find what he was looking for, and that they would never have to worry about money again.”
Holmes’ eyes flashed. “He was experiencing financial difficulties.”
“Indeed sir. Preston cargo was ailing. If it weren’t for the Channel Pilot cutter, which is always in demand ‘round these parts, his whole business would’ve gone under. Then Abigail told me of the incident of July 28th. It was about 10 o’clock at night. Abigail was awoken by the sound of weeping coming from her fathers study. She quietly approached the door, which was half open. It was Ali, his head in his hands.”
“Had Abigail any idea why he was so distraught?” Asked Holmes.
“It had something to do with the two items on his desk. One item was an old piece of paper, quite fragile looking, the other was a newspaper. he looked at both with a look of complete terror, then quickly arose from his chair, and moved towards the door. Abigail quickly rushed back to her bedroom.”
“Hmmm.” Mused Holmes. “ What was your response to all this?”
“Well, like I’ve said Mr Holmes. I just put it down to another one of Ali’s wild fancies. Still, out of concern for Abigail, I told her to keep in touch concerning any future developments.”
Holmes surveyed the scene before him. “Well Inspector Jacoby! What do you make of current developments! Coal dust, eh?.... Let us review again that newspaper message based on what we now know. "To the woman who stole my watch on Tues. from Preston & Sons Bakery. Please return. Desperate. WILL PAY." We know who the woman is, Alistair Prestons' daughter Abigail. We know the ”Watch” she has stolen has something to do with the covert Naval Watch, and based on these charred remains, are important documents of some kind. We know she took them on a Tuesday, the nearest Tuesday gone by my reckoning, from Preston and Sons Bakery. We know that the mastermind behind this enterprise is The dreaded Pirate of Swansea Bay, William Payne.”
“Very well then” said Jacoby, “ But three details perplex me. How do you figure the nearest tuesday as being when she took the documents. And the detail about coal dust, why did you react so when I mentioned it. And what in blazes does a Bakery have to do with all this?”
Holmes grinned at Jacoby. “In order to answer those questions Inspector, we must rejoin my faithful companion Watson. I need to take another look at the unfortunate Mr Preston.”
It was dusk by the time Holmes and Jacoby entered the coroners office. There they were met by Watson, who had by now made a thorough examination of Mr Preston.
“Time of death, approximately 3pm, 20th August. A Thursday.” Said Watson.
“As I thought!” said Holmes. “Committed as a warning to his thieving daughter, who had received the newspaper message a day prior on 19th August, Wednesday.Given the time frame it is therefore natural to suppose that she took the documents a day prior to receiving the message! A Tuesday! Now Watson, did your examination include the items of clothing.”
“Oh yes Holmes. The boots! Covered in coal dust!”
“Yes!” Exclaimed Holmes. “Like the man on Prestons clipper, and the two men pursuing you. Coalminers by trade. Alistair Preston was obviously in cahoots with them, and they with William Payne. Preston had somehow come across documents that were of interest to Our Pirate, and was refusing to hand them over to him.”
“How could you possibly know all this?” asked a bemused Jacoby
A peel of giddy laughter ejaculated from Holmes. “Ha! Now I present to you both the crowning glory to my initial investigations into this fascinating case.” Holmes opened his valise, and extracted from it a neatly folded newspaper. He placed it on a nearby desk, and opened it at the personals section. “There gentlemen. The newspaper that contained the message that started this whole business. But! This edition is dated July 28! Look gentlemen!”
There, in the personals section, was a message. “To the man who stole my watch on friday. From the old bay. Please return. WILL PAY.”
Watson and Jacoby stared at the message, then at each other, then at Holmes. "This is the newspaper item that Alistair Preston was weeping over." said Watson softly.
“Like I said Watson,” said Holmes “ It is in the mundane that we find true mystery, for the very repetiveness of everyday events can obscure a deeper meaning. It wasn’t the message that I first bought to your attention that excited me, it was the fact that it was a sequel to a previous message I’d read a week prior, intended for Mr Preston, the second message, for his daughter. Two messages, written by the same person or persons concerning the same item, to two different people. Why?”
“Well Holmes” Watson said “Being the vorocious newspaper reader you are, I could see now how this would pique your interest. Now how on Earth were you able to trace this to Wales?”
“We have Inspector Lestrad to thank for that. He was able to convince the Editor of the Times to give us information concerning who paid for the advertisement. Unsurprisingly, whoever requested the ad wanted to remain anonymous, but we were able to get a look at the cheque used as payment. The cheque belonged to The Bank Of Wales, Swansea branch.”
Inspector Jacoby beamed. “It is most gratifying Mr Holmes that you have so fully lived up to your reputation! However, this case is far from resolved. Abigail is still missing."