by Steve Emecz
“Bring him in, I wish to speak with him,” said Holmes.
Samuel Mortimer was brought in the room once more and sat in a chair. Holmes pulled another and sat across from him.
“When were you two to be married?” he asked.
“Next week, on the Friday,” Mortimer replied.
“Can you think of any reason why someone would want her dead?”
“No Mr Holmes I honestly cannot!” he cried.
“Not even for her insurance?” Holme said raising his eyebrow.
“Mr Holmes if you are insinuating that I had anything to do with this you, are mistaken!”
“Where did she get this?” said Holmes, pointing to the blue crystal bottle.
“That? She got it from me, it was a gift.”
The air in the room went stiff. Lestrade looked ready to pounce and Watson grabbed the butt of his cane tightly, but Holmes sat there cool and emotionless.
“Where did you get the perfume from?” Holmes asked.
“From a man named Whitaker, on Brick Lane, near Liverpool Street. He’s got a perfume shop. I ordered a custom-made scent.”
“Thank you Mr Mortimer. We will let you know what we find out.”
Mortimer left the room leaving the three men alone with the body once more.
“This man is hiding something.” said Lestrade.
“Don’t be too hasty now,” said Holmes, “Watson and I need to speak with Mr Whitaker. We’ll see him in the morning and let you know what we find. For now keep her cause of death quiet, not even her family needs to know yet.”
Holmes, reaching for the bottle, noticed a picture that was face-down on the vanity unit and he lifted it up. It was a picture of a Deseray with what looked like her father and brother. “I’ll be taking this too,” said Holmes and they retired for the night.
The next morning Holmes and Watson were on their way to Brick Lane where they found the perfume maker’s shop. The outside of the shop was painted red, but the paint had begun to chip and fade. The windows were cloudy and clearly not been cleaned for some time.
Holmes and Watson entered the store and a small bell rung. The shelves were untidy with bottles all over them and on the floor. The sun shone through the dirty windows and onto the bottles, causing a display of lights to fill the room. On the floor Holmes noticed there were a dozen boxes filled with bottles, he peered through a door leading to the back and noticed someone coming. A moment later they were greeted by an elderly man.
“Hello gentlemen,” said the man.
“Good day sir,” said Holmes.
“I apologise for the store’s disorder, but I am packing things up,” said the old man.
“Packing for what?” asked Holmes.
“I’m moving closing shop. Recently inherited a large sum of money and it’s time to retire,” said the man. “So what can I do for you?”
“Well all the best in your move” said Holmes before continuing, “Mr Whitaker, I have a bottle of perfume that I cannot discover the scent, would you mind?”
“Ah yes, I would be happy to tell you. Where is the bottle?” he replied.
“It’s here,” said Holmes pull it out and putting it on the blue crystal bottle.
The man’s eyes widened momentarily as he gently picked up the bottle.
“Go on, I’m very interested to know” said Holmes.
“I – I,” stuttered the man.
Holmes reached out and put it closer to the man’s face and put his finger on the trigger of the perfume’s bottle.
“Let me help you,” said Holmes and the man pushed Holmes’ hand away and fell back into the cabinet behind him.
“Whats the matter?” Watson asked.
“Get that bottle away from me!” cried Whitaker.
“Why?” asked Holmes.
The man picked up a large container and threw it at Holmes and the blue crystal bottle was knocked from his hand and shattered on the floor. Holmes and Watson covered their faces and saw the man run out the back. Watson started to run after the man but Holmes called him back. Behind the counter Holmes saw a picture of Whitaker with a face he recognised.
“Come Watson, there’s no time to lose!” yelled Holmes.
“Where are we going?” Watson asked Holmes once they got outside and away from the deadly fumes trapped inside the shop. Sherlock handed Watson the photograph and pointed to the man.
“Who is that?” asked Watson. Holmes reached into his pocket and pulled out another photograph he had taken from Deseray’s vanity.
“It’s her father,” said Holmes, “we need to find him right away.”
Holmes and Watson called a cab and told him the address of Mr Underwood in Camden and they were off. When they arrived at the address Mr Mortimer was seen leaving in a hurry. As he walked down the steps they heard an angry voice yell out, “don’t ever show your face here again!”
“Mr Mortimer!”
“Oh Mr Holmes, I’m sorry I didn’t see you.”
“What was that about?” he asked.
“Everett. Even now in the event of his daughter’s death, he still hates me.”
“Hates you?”
“Very much. He’s tried to keep me and Deseray apart for so long. And now he’s got his wish at the expense of great pain.” Mortimer continued.
“Let us have a word with him,” said Holmes.
“I wish you more luck than I had,” Mortimer finished before walking away.
They walked up the steps to the door and knocked. A young chubby man with blonde hair answered.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I am Mr Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr Watson. We are looking into the death of your sister and would like to have a word with you and your father immediately. The man looked at the detective and doctor intently before widening the door to let them in. They were shown into a small sitting room where moments later they were greeted by a tall bulging man with thin grey hair.
“Mr Underwood?” asked Holmes.
“Yes, what do you want?” replied the man angrily.
“To talk to you about your daughter and Mr Mortimer.”
“Mortimer that swine!” blurted Underwood, “he’s done nothing but destroy my family!”
“You must understand he is suspect in the murder of your daughter... any information you have will be of great use” said Holmes
“Well I can assure you he is responsible for the murder.”
“How are you so certain?”
“He destroys everything he touches.”
“Will you explain yourself?” asked Holmes.
The man hung his head low before continuing, “They were meant to be married here soon in an unholy union! That man spoiled my girl.”
“She was pregnant?” asked Holmes.
Underwood stared at Holmes and Watson, and his son fidgeted in his seat.
“Yes,” came the voice of James Underwood.
“Son!” roared Everett.
“They’ll find out anyways!” he shouted back.
“There’s nothing to find out, I already know. I could tell from her body when I examined it and your father’s choice of words made it clear that he knew and disapproved” said Holmes.
There was a fire in Everett Underwood’s eyes that would have scared the devil out of hell, but he soon cooled and looked at Holmes and Watson and spoke.
“It’s true. My Deseray was with child. It was the only reason they were getting married. Fact is, she was going to call off the wedding but caved in only because of this child. I told her I’d be happy to send her away, pretend she was on an extended holiday then do away with it. For a time she considered the idea but that infernal boy changed her mind. But I reckon he came to his sense and instead of
letting her go he poisoned her, being rid of the whole situation!”
“Mr Underwood,” said Holmes, “Do you know a Mr Whitaker, a perfume maker on Brick Lane?”
“No, never heard of the man in my life. What business do I have with a perfume maker?”
“Curious,” said Holmes, “could you explain this then?” placing the picture of Everett and Mr Whitaker in front of him. Before he could continue an eruption came from the back of the house.
“They’re on to it Everett, I’m getting out of town,” said the man who rushed into the room.
“Ah, Mr Whitaker, so good of you of you to join us.” said Holmes. The old man stood there baffled to see both Holmes and Watson in the lounge.
“Watson! Stop that man,” said Holmes and the Doctor rushed over and grabbed the Whitaker.
“What’s going on!” cried James Underwood.
“I am sorry to say, but it was your father who murdered your dear sister,” said Holmes. “All in the name of honour.”
“You would do the same if you had a child who is getting married to a fiend like Mortimer. His rich family buying up anything and everything. All he wanted was her money, and I ‘aint having that! That’s what his attitude was with my girl and he ruined her, so I ruined him! I took away the one thing he wanted the most her money!”
“Of that you are wrong Mr Underwood, the money had nothing to do with it,” said Holmes.
“How did you manage to get the perfume in to her hands?” Watson asked.
“It seems that is my doing,” said James Underwood, “Deseray had an engagement party this previous weekend and I knew that Mr Mortimer was getting her perfume. I asked my dad for the location of Mr Whitaker’s shop and told Sam to go there.”
“So you raced ahead of Mr Mortimer and bribed Mr Whitaker to sell a bottle of liquid cyanide and in return for this you would split Deseray’s life insurance,” finished Holmes looking at Mr Underwood. Holmes reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs, James took his dad by the arm and Watson pushed the old perfume maker towards Holmes.
Lestrade was called in and Mr Underwood and Mr Whitaker were arrested, tried, and put in jail for the murder of poor Deseray Underwood.
James Underwood moved out of the once shared lodgings, sold all his father’s belongings and never spoke to him again. Mr Mortimer, when told how Deseray died and her father’s obsession, fell out of the lime-light of society and retreated into himself a broken man never to be heard of again.
The Last Quiet Talk
By Cathrine Mathilde Louise Hoffner
Odense, Denmark
“Stand with me here upon the terrace, for it may be the last quiet talk we shall ever have.” Holmes took me gently by the sleeve and led me to the small terrace at the back of that beautiful house where so much evil had taken place. We left Von Bork tied up in the car, faced the other way, and Holmes lit both our cigarettes with the air of a man who is writing the final chapter of his life’s work. “What do you mean.” I asked, trying a little not to sound too melancholy, which was almost impossible, for the night suddenly felt cold and unkind, with the light of the moon ruthlessly unveiling bittersweet memories of bygone days and the blurred vision of an unclear future. “I mean you and I may never see each other again, Watson,” he said, his grave tone resounding through the distance between us. “You mean tomorrow?” Holmes gave a quick smile, his eyes still fixed at the dark horizon beyond the gloomy waters. “I mean never, Watson.” “But surely, Holmes…” “I am quite serious, Watson. You know that I always speak the truth.” He gave me a quick glance, and returning to his cigarette, he made the night feel even more unkind. “Except when you spoke to Von Bork only moments ago,” I replied as sharply as I could manage, as I tried desperately to keep his eyes only a moment longer on me. Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders and made a dismissive gesture in the air, the long, white fingers waving a thick cloud of smoke towards the car. “That was different, and you know it.” He sighed deeply and shook his head in a manner I knew only too well from the days when he used to be engrossed in cases of serious crimes. “The truth of it all, Watson,” he continued, his gaze still held somewhere far away, “is that before dawn, this country will be at war, and the peace and safety we know will have to yield to wickedness and death. A murder in Birlstone will become the smallest of drops in an endless ocean of inhuman crimes. Who knows what might happen to the two of us, Watson? With you rejoining the army, and me continuing to work for our government? It is not over with the capturing of Von Bork, you know. That was only the beginning.” We stood for a little while in silence. A painful feeling suddenly overwhelmed me, the very same feeling I had felt all those years ago, when I thought Holmes had met his death at the Reichenbach Falls in his fateful struggle with the late Professor Moriarty. The whole world seemed again to stop around me, if only for a brief moment. The final traces of sunlight faded away into the realms of the night, and up above little stars twinkled down upon us from another world. It was with a heavy heart that I almost turned upon my heel to return to the car, when next to me, Holmes suddenly, and to my great surprise, chuckled mildly to himself. I observed him, remembering all those times I had done so in the past, and trying unsuccessfully to read his great mind as read others’. His thoughts appeared to be far away, somewhere pleasant, although where, I could not imagine. “What is it, Holmes?” my voice was almost drained for hope, barely above a whisper, but still, there was nothing or no one upon this mighty earth who could stimulate my curiosity like this man beside me. He smiled, a broader smile this time, and returned once again to this moment only to bring me with him into our shared past. “You remember the night at Stoke Moran, Watson? I know it has been many years.” The weight upon my shoulders seemed suddenly lifted, as Holmes reminded me of one of those adventures, which had once made out the whole of my life. “Of course I remember,” I ejaculated. “The first of our many stakeouts. I can hardly remember ever being so nervous in my entire life!” “It was certainly a most novel and interesting case, that one,” Holmes added, in his old professional voice. “Hardly as novel as the affair of the red-headed league, surely,” I answered warmly, suddenly feeling all the years of working together with Holmes vividly coming back to me. Holmes burst into a violent laugh at the memory of his red-headed client and the mystery that surrounded him and his little shop for a while. “Hardly that, Watson, hardly that.” Captured, I am sure, by the moment, Holmes suddenly spoke rapidly and in high spirits. As always I tried my best to keep up with him, and together the two of us remembered our old cases and our many thrilling adventures, as if they had happen only yesterday. I could have sworn, then and there, that for a brief moment, it was no longer August of the year 1914, and I was not standing on some random terrace in a chaotic world on the brink of war. All of a sudden, I could feel the warmth of the cracking fire next to me, as I once again found myself seated, opposite Holmes, in our old rooms in Baker Street. Outside, the wind, the rain and the thick fog ruffled against our little windows behind the drawn blinds, while inside we sat quietly, having our tea, me behind the evening paper, and Holmes enthusiastically bent over his beloved scrapbook. Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson was preparing dinner, and the lovely smell of her English cooking slowly climbed each step of our narrow staircase and made me famished. Then and there, on that summer evening in August, all my senses became overpowered by the everlasting memories of Baker Street: the tobacco smoke which always made my eyes sting in the evening; the sweet and calming sounds of the strings of the Stradivarius on Sunday mornings; the perfect view of the streets, shops and people from our sitting room windows; the thrill in my heart, whenever a new client with a new story to tell and a new case for us to solve would enter the front door and leave a mark upon our lives forever. Holmes was right. It had been many years, but while the future might be unpredictable, no one could change the past. No one could take away those years we spend at 221b Baker
Street right in the heart of the great city of London. Somehow, no matter what was going to happen, that place would always be home to me. “We did have it pleasant there, Watson,” Holmes suddenly replied, as in answer to my thoughts rather than my words. He had turned towards me. It had been many years. I saw that now, standing only a few feet away from his moonlit face. I noticed for the first time the new, fine lines around his eyes and his mouth. I noticed, too, the deeper hollowness of his cheeks, the higher expanse of brow and the recent silver tinges in his raven hair. He was an old man now, I reminded myself, suddenly realising that for two whole years I had not spent a single moment with him. “Times change, Watson, and I am afraid we have no choice but to change along with them.” His voice was slightly hoarse, and his accent mildly influenced by the American. Searching his face, I thought I traced the smallest hint of sadness in his dignified features, because there was truth in his words. Times had changed. The world he grew up in, a world that was his, no longer existed, and the lives we used to live could, for reasons over which we had no control, be no more. Gaslights had made way for electric lights, horse and trap for cars. The telegrams, which Holmes had sent and received daily, whenever he was on a case, were outdated and rarely used anymore, while his controversial and unique methods, which I had so often heard ridiculed and questioned by the official police, had now become a permanent part of every investigation at Scotland Yard. Holmes used to be famous for his innovative mind and admirably energetic lines of action, singled out as the leading criminal agent in the world. Now, he belonged to times long past along with a series of humble, little tales that painted the slowly fading picture of the life of a remarkable man with remarkable powers. I flattered myself that they also spoke of friendship, loyalty and devotion in its strongest form. These thoughts did not do me well, and I could not help but smile a little at myself in the mist of my endeavour to control my emotions, which, I had discovered, and not to my great surprise, grew more sensitive with the passing of the years. Turning my face towards the silvery lane winding through the heavy, dark grass, which separated us from the blackness of the water’s edge, I tried in earnest to convince myself that all this was past, and past for the best. No more stakeouts, no more cases. No more Mrs. Hudson or Baker Street. No more ‘friend and colleague, Dr. Watson’. I could feel the early autumn breeze, though warm it was, chill my very bone, as the reality of it all suddenly became as clear and true to me as the light from the moon far away over the rolling hills. We could never go back. Things would never be the same again. All of a sudden, when clearing his throat, Holmes once again broke in upon my thoughts, and I was forced to return to the lonesome terrace and the chilly night air. I could feel my legs rapidly weakening under me as well as my head slightly spinning, which was of course perfectly normal given the day I had had. “You alright, Watson?” Holmes’ voice was very gentle this time. No doubt he could sense my despair, since I had never succeeded in hiding anything from him before. “Perfectly,” I lied. It was all I could say, but his continuous stare informed me that, indeed, he was not convinced. It was then, in that minute moment, that the fog banks surrounding my heart evaporated, just as quickly as they had condensed. His grey eyes, eyes I knew so well, outshining even the stars above our heads, penetrated me with all the powers of the bond between us. He had not changed after all. Nothing had. I saw that now. He showed me. For the shortest of moments he looked his old, sleuth self, grinning mischievously with all the warmth, which his otherwise restrained body could muster. I must have laughed heartily, for he did the same, as if he had been following my every thought this whole time. I saw once again before me the strong, young man of a mere 26 years of age turning upon his heal, test tube in hand, and with all the enthusiasm of youth, sparkling with boundless dedication to the work, which fortunately was to become his very existence as well as mine. That image of our first meeting did not last very long, but it lasted long enough. God only knew how many years it had been since that fateful encounter in the laboratory beneath the hospital – and yet here we were, ever the friends and colleagues we had always been. “Come what may,” he said. And he was always right.