Sherlock's Home

by Steve Emecz

  “I presume this is leading somewhere interesting?” Holmes asked impatiently.

  “I’m seeing someone else Mr Holmes, who I care about a great deal someone who makes me happy. I’m not proud of it but in private Todd is cold, it’s like he doesn’t really want me but won’t let anyone else have me. If he finds out, he’ll destroy us both. I’ve been so careful, but something has happened – this evil, manipulating...”

  Her voice choked as big fat tears tumbled from her wide, blue eyes. Gareth fished out a tissue and handed it to her. She composed herself enough to continue, holding Holmes’ attention with her earnest expression.

  “His name is Charlie Milverton. He preys on celebrities by getting his hands on anything which he can sell to the tabloids or spread on gossip websites. Then he makes contact and demands a fee in return for his silence. He’s got so much dirt that everyone’s afraid of him so his name never comes out – remember the MPs expenses scandal? The phone-tapping allegations? That young pop-star who killed himself after the papers published pictures of him taking drugs? All Milverton.

  “Now he’s set his sights on me and I don’t know what to do. He has a security tape of me in a hotel lift...kissing this other man. He’s threatened to sell it unless I pay £200,000. I have nothing of my own; I can’t pay Mr Holmes – not without Todd knowing. But if this comes out, my reputation will be ruined and that of the other person involved – who really doesn’t deserve this. Please help me.”

  Doctor Watson enjoyed escaping normality to visit Holmes at 221b. But it was difficult now that he had commitments, tea on the table when he got home and Sunday lunch with the in-laws. However, he had received a summons from Holmes and obediently made his way round, while his wife was at Pilates. As instructed, he brought with him all the information he had found from the internet about Charlie Milverton.

  Holmes always acted impassively when Watson returned to his old rooms, but the doctor knew that his friend was secretively pleased to see him.

  “Well,” Watson exclaimed, throwing a pile of papers down on the coffee table, “I’ve been busy doing what you asked.”

  “Though not busy at work,”

  “How do you know? I could have done all this at home.”

  “The paper quality is too good, you only buy cheap paper for home – that is clearly office stationary.”

  Watson was never particularly busy at work. He worked for a private medical practice, mainly seeing a stream of wasters sent by their sister company, a firm of solicitors specialising in ‘no-win-no-fee’ cases. Watson’s job was to sign the forms confirming the person had whiplash, stress, a breakdown – even if they didn’t.

  “Charlie Milverton was a tabloid editor,” Watson began, hoping to impress. “But he was ousted over drink problems. He retreated into the shadows and used his vast media contacts for dark purposes. He is obsessed with celebrities. He’s the go-to person if you have a tape, incriminating email, leaked document he will purchase it from you then sell it on. He is believed to be behind several websites, mainly celebrity gossip but one which is more political and serious – though no one can prove it.”

  Watson sat back in his chair feeling hopeful that perhaps, for once, his friend might be impressed with his findings.

  “A sterling effort Watson, though you have failed to discover the most important thing.”

  “Which is?” asked Watson, hurt, but not altogether surprised.

  “The legalities man! You work with lawyers I need to know whether he’s breaking any laws.”

  “I work for lawyers Holmes, there’s a difference.”

  “Well, fortunately I anticipated your deficiencies and have consulted someone myself – a Mr L Pike, a well-known celebrity lawyer who owed me a favour. Milverton acts fast, he makes sure the material is released before a Super Injunction can be sought – and the courts are becoming increasingly reluctant to protect self-serving celebrities. I have no choice but to negotiate with him on behalf of my client, he will be here within the hour. Do stay Watson, your wife intents to visit friends after Pilates that’s why she took the car and you came here in a cab. I can see the receipt sticking out of your trouser pocket, so useful for claiming expenses from those lawyers you slave for.”

  Charlie Milverton shuffled into the room. Overweight, ugly and short, clearly blackmail was his only way of getting close to the ‘beautiful people’ who had become his obsession.

  Holmes tried to negotiate but the stubborn little man would not budge. A reduced fee or the promise of payments by instalments was not acceptable to him. Any attempt to play on his sympathies failed. Watson observed that Holmes became unusually flustered at Milverton’s resolve, losing his usual cool in the face of such obstinacy. He finally rose from his seat and asked Milverton to leave, looking dejected and exhausted as the strange media-beast made his way to the door – smiling victoriously.

  “Payment by Saturday Mr Holmes, or full disclosure will be my only option. Tell your client to pay up or face the consequences.”

  Holmes slammed the door behind him and sat back in his chair. Watson let the silence settle between them as Holmes’ mind frantically worked over the problem. Eventually, knowing that his wife would be returning home soon, he stood to leave.

  “My wife will flip out if I’m home late.”

  “Dreadful Americanism,” grumbled Holmes. Then, suddenly, he rose and grabbed Watson by the shoulders. “America! Brilliant Watson! Yet again you have proved to be invaluable without even realising. See yourself out...”

  With that parting remark, Holmes grabbed his jacket and rushed from the room – full once again of that furious energy which usually spelt doom for his foes.

  Accustomed as he was to his friend’s rapid concluding of cases, even Watson was shocked when he turned on the TV news Friday morning and saw that Milverton had been arrested. The ex-tabloid editor had been taken from his home during a dawn raid and was now in police custody. Watson didn’t wait to hear the reporter’s version of events and rushed straight to Baker Street. This was worth being late for work and risking the wrath of the ever-watchful lawyers.

  “America Watson,” Holmes proudly announced, looking like a man who had been up all night but was buzzing with victorious energy. “I owe you an apology, you’re findings did prove crucial after all.”

  Watson was unaccustomed to apologies from Holmes. Usually his efforts were rewarded with criticism. After his first book had been published, Holmes was pretty scathing and described it as sensationalist, not focusing enough on his ‘method’. But it was Gareth Lestrade who had suffered the most.

  Holmes had always been happy for his name to be kept out of the papers and despite helping Scotland Yard solve high-profile cases, he never took the credit. As far as the public were concerned, Gareth and his colleagues had solved the cases themselves – their name and achievements lauded in the press. But when Watson’s book was published, even though some years had passed, the public felt angry that the police had taken credit for the work of an amateur. Tax payer’s money had been spent but it was an ordinary citizen who had saved the day. There was an outcry, an investigation, and ultimately Gareth paid the price. Though he hadn’t been the only police officer to accept Holmes’ help, he was made the scapegoat – which suited the Chief Superintendant very well considering his relationship with Gareth’s wife.

  There was a suspension, a disciplinary hearing, the option to remain at Scotland Yard if he took a demotion but the damage was already done. Gareth salvaged whatever dignity he had left and resigned – shortly followed by the departure of his wife and a very costly divorce.

  “I looked through your notes,” Holmes announced. “You mentioned that Milverton was behind a political website, www.ileaks.com. Interesting stuff particularly the allegations of corruption in the White House. This was exactly what I needed.

  “You see
, though Milverton’s activities were not illegal here, the Americans take a dimmer view of such matters – especially if there is any suspicion of risk to national security. I just needed to find something which would be a breach of American law and then I could by-pass our own legal system. The US has powers under the Extradition Act of 2003 to extradite UK citizens for offenses committed against US law or security, even though the offense may have been committed here. Only a low level of proof is required, suspicion is enough for the US to demand that the person is taken into custody prior to extradition being granted.

  “Well, Interpol were very interested when I gave them the findings of my little investigation into ileaks. Our friend Milverton has been using information acquired from a White House mole and by publishing it he has stirred up the wrath of our American cousins. The police have impounded his computers, documents and storage devices, even his phone. But fortunately, thanks to a few remaining contacts on the force, I did manage to salvage some salacious bits and pieces – including...”

  He held up a memory stick in front of Watson’s startled face.

  “Is that Della’s lift footage?”

  “I can’t guarantee that there haven’t been copies made, but no editor will now touch anything from such a risky source.”

  Several weeks passed before Watson was able to sneak away from domestic bliss and visit his friend again. Once installed in his usual chair, Watson pushed for more information about Della and what the future now held for her. If he was going to write this up for his next book, he needed a better ending.

  “This solves her immediate problem but she’s still stuck with that awful man controlling her life,” Watson commented.

  “Not so. An opportunity is coming for her to walk away with the public firmly on her side. She wasn’t the only person to be caught on camera with someone else that night.”

  “Carter was with someone too? How do you know?”

  “I managed to find the source of the tape, a member of staff at the hotel. Fortunately, after a quick check with the Home Office, I confirmed that he was working here illegally. The threat of deportation was enough to ensure his compliance and I got him to search through the security footage from the corridor outside Carter’s room. Carter brought someone back and they most helpfully began their ‘enjoyment’ outside in the corridor. The images are now with every tabloid editor, a little gift from me. Your Sunday paper should make interesting reading.”

  “That’s brilliant. But, I have to admit being surprised that you would go to so much effort to help Della problems matter to you, not particularly the people involved. You’d already stopped Milverton, why go the extra mile?”

  “To help a good man get his woman, I suppose. Perhaps I felt I owed it to him. And I had nothing better to do.”

  “You mean the man in the lift with her? So you did watch it? Who was he? Celebrity-type I suppose.”

  “See for yourself...”

  Holmes pushed the memory stick into his laptop and opened up the file. Watson watched the screen intently. There, he saw Della walk into the lift followed by her protection officer. Once the doors closed, she flicked a switch which caused the lift to shudder and stop. She laid a hand on Lestrade’s arm and pulled him close as he kissed her.

  “Oh my God,” Watson exclaimed, watching in disbelief. “Did you know?”

  “Of course I knew.”

  “Did he tell you?”

  “No.”

  “Then how...?”

  “It was the socks. They were both wearing identical socks when I met Della, clearly men’s. Pop-stars don’t generally share socks with their security guards. They were wearing the same expensive make of watch too, and the insignia on her bag was the same as on his belt. Matching socks, matching brands, even you could have worked it out Watson. Besides, if Carter really was watching her that closely, the lover had to be someone around her every day who he didn’t suspect – a middle-aged security manager matches that profile rather well don’t you think?”

  “So the good guy takes the girl,” smiled Watson, “with a little help from his friends...”

  The Case Of The Crystal Blue Bottle

  By Luke Benjamen Kuhns

  London, UK

  It was a windy April night in 1886 and Sherlock Holmes was reading through his papers, smoking a pipe. The fire roared while Watson sat in front of it, with a glass of brandy in hand and his eyes closed. The wind made a soothing, hissing noise as it passed through cracks in the Baker Street windows. The time was just after 10pm and the streets outside were quiet as the darkness of the night had settled in and the cool, windy air drove people inside.

  There was a knock on the front door and Holmes and Watson could hear Mrs Hudson’s feet race to answer. She soon was showing a young police officer into the study.

  “Mr Holmes?” he asked looking at the detective who was slouched over and whose face was buried in his notes and letters.

  “Yes,” said Sherlock looking at the officer and standing upright.

  “Lestrade asked me to come get you at once. There’s been a murder.”

  “Where?”

  “Kensington High Street. A young girl, name’s Deseray Underwood.”

  “What’s the cause?”

  “We don’t know, that’s why we need your help.”

  Sherlock turned to Watson who, by this point, was open-eyed and standing.

  “Watson, would care to accompany me?” he asked.

  “I would!” returned Watson and the three men were out the door.

  When they arrived at the house, there were police all around and the neighbouring public could not help but watch the events unfold. Sherlock and Watson were shown into the chambers of this young girl where she lay fallen on the floor. There was no sign of a struggle and nothing in the room seemed out of place.

  “Thank you for coming Holmes,” said Lestrade.

  “What do you know?” replied Holmes.

  “Her name is Deseray Underwood, age 27, she’s a governess for local family, her father, Everett, and brother, James, both live on Healy Street in Camden. Other than that she’s engaged to this man,” finished Lestrade waving at the officer to bring someone in.

  “Was engaged,” remarked Sherlock.

  A man was escorted in the room by another officer. He was tall about 6’1, well built, with dark black hair and vivid brown eyes. His face was covered with a beard and he wore tiny speckled glasses.

  “This is Samuel Mortimer, the girl’s fiancé. He found her body and called us,” said Lestrade.

  “When did you find her?” asked Holmes.

  “About two hours ago,” said Samuel Mortimer. His voice cracked, shaking from nerves and sadness.

  “You had reservations tonight?” Holmes said.

  “Yes, but how did you know?” he asked.

  “I can’t imagine anyone walking about in a suit, newly shined shoes, and wearing such precious silver cuffs and watch for a night in,” said Holmes.

  “I see, well yes. I was meant to meet her for supper tonight. We had reservations and I was to meet her at the restaurant at 7. I waited for over an hour and knew something had happened. It was unlike my Deseray to be late. So I left and came straight to her house. I pounded on her door and no one answered but I could see a light on. I went outside and tried to climb up and see in the window, to see if I could make anything out. When I did, I saw her on the floor. So I rushed in and broke her door to get to her but, I was too late she was dead,” and with that the man welled up and tears fell down his face.

  Holmes walked over to the body and began to looking at it.

  “Her eyes are yellow,” said he, “possibly kidney failure. Mr Mortimer, was your fiancé ill?”

  “No, not in the slightest.”

  Holmes bent down and sniffed t
he woman’s neck, “something’s there,” he said under his breath. “I want everybody out of the room apart from Watson and Lestrade,” demanded Holmes.

  When everyone had cleared out he picked up the fallen chair which she had clearly been sitting in.

  “She smells of something,” said Holmes sitting in her chair looking at her vanity unit. “She sat here, prepared herself, put her makeup on, and finally... her perfume.”

  On the side of the vanity unit was a blue crystal bottle. Holmes picked it up and sniffed the cap.

  He violently jerked the bottle away from his face and stood up walking to the other side of the room.

  “There’s your killer. That’s not simply perfume, it’s a bottle of liquid cyanide masked to look like perfume.”

  “Someone poisoned her with cyanide perfume?” questioned Lestrade, “for what reason?”

  “That’s what we need to find out.” said Holmes.

  “What do we know of her fiancé?” asked Watson.

  “He’s a wealthy business man, no criminal past, no criminal connections and a well respected family. They own a large portion of office buildings in Central London,” said Lestrade.

  “What could he gain from her death?” Watson asked.

  “Ms Underwood, her family is well off too. Her dad spent time in America as a gold miner and returned very rich. The live modestly but they have a lot saved up. I’d reckon her insurance would be rather large,” said Lestrade.

  “But surely he’d want to kill her after they got married to claim that if that were the case?” said Watson.