by Steve Emecz
Distraction
By Ariane DeVere
Erith, UK
Sherlock hasn’t had a case for eighteen days and is bored witless. On day nineteen John abandons him for over six hours; when John finally arrives home, his left shoe – still on his foot – is wrapped in a plastic bag.
“Right,” he announces. “I’ve been all over London: took a taxi to six different places and stood in the soil at each place. Your task is to work out exactly where I’ve been, and in which order.”
Sitting down on the sofa, he swings his left leg up onto Sherlock’s lap and grins madly at him. “The game’s a foot.”
The Adventure of The Mad Colonel
By Evgeniya Zimina
Kostroma, Russia
“Well, Watson, you have been to war, haven’t you? You know what it is like,” said Holmes. Although he said it with a smile, I could see he was upset. Our rooms were in a terrible mess. The air was thick with dust. “My war was… er… different,” I replied, picking a piece of broken china from the carpet. “No bombs. No raids. I feel a hostage here, in London. They are bombing us, and we are sitting doing nothing”. “We can’t do much,” said Holmes, examining the window shattered by the shockwave during yet another air-raid of the infamous London blitz. “So, we have to keep calm and carry on, as that new poster says. Have you seen it, Watson? That’s the true British spirit!” “Even the toughest of Britons lose their minds there days. Colonel Warburton, for example: a most tragic situation. You must have read – ah, I have forgotten. You never read anything except the criminal news and the agony column”. “So, what is it about Colonel Warburton?” “He went mad after losing his son. A young officer, apparently, in charge of a bomb disposal unit. You know, the Royal Engineers. No experience. An unexploded bomb went off. The old colonel wanders about the city, calling him and asking people whether they know where he can find his son.” The doorbell interrupted our talk, and Mrs. Hudson, our housekeeper, announced that a lady wanted to see my friend. “She is upset, poor thing”, added Mrs. Hudson. “Strangely enough, people don’t come to me when they are happy,” said Holmes, somewhat acidly. A second later the lady entered the room. She was dressed with taste; her face would have been pleasant, had it not been for the look of total confusion and embarrassment in her eyes. Her lips were trembling. “Do sit down,” said Holmes. “Mr. Holmes,” she said, “I have heard you can help, and help is what I need most of all now. My name is Elizabeth Warburton; I am the wife of Colonel Warburton. You may have heard-“ “Yes,” said Holmes, glancing at me with some surprise. “I was sorry to hear about the tragedy in your family. The loss of the only son-” “Mr. Holmes,” interrupted the lady, and her voice suddenly became firm, “that’s why I am here. The problem is that we have never had a son”. I could see that Holmes, who was prepared to demonstrate his skills of deduction to the lady by giving her the information about her own life, was astonished. “But. Mrs. Warburton, your husband, or, rather, his condition… Isn’t it your husband who says he has lost a son, David Warburton-” “Yes, he says it so very often. Sometimes, though,” she hesitated a bit, “I don’t think my husband is really mad. You see, Mr. Holmes, when James thinks I am looking the other way, his face changes. He looks perfectly sane. But then he starts talking about ‘his son’, and I don’t know what to think. Isn’t madness based on some true events? What if he had a son? An illegitimate son, of whom I knew nothing, whom he really lost and whose death drove James mad? I have already heard nasty rumours about it.” “Why don’t you consult a psychiatrist? It seems the most reasonable thing to do,” I asked. “I have already done so. A family friend invited Dr Brown to dine with us a week ago. Dr Brown thinks my husband might be mentally disturbed, but admits that it is impossible to jump to conclusions so hastily.” ‘Well, the doctor and you could wait and see, couldn’t you?” “But the fantasy about the son could not appear out of nothing, could it? There must have been another woman and that boy, that young man. If his death was such a blow to James – Mr. Holmes, please, find out at least something about Lieutenant Warburton!” “Excuse me,” said Holmes, “but I usually do not take such cases. Unfaithful husbands, sane or insane, and illegitimate sons are of little interest to me.” “Oh, Mr. Holmes, please! I have nobody to confide in. Any information would help me to decide what to do next and how to behave. Just try to find facts about the son, this David Warburton.” “Very well,” said Holmes. “I’ll see what can be done”. When our visitor left, Holmes looked gloomy. “I call this ‘degradation’,” he said. “Me, and the case of an illegitimate son! The old colonel obviously had his secret; his madness opened the door of the family cupboard and the skeleton of his son-” “It’s black humour, Holmes,” said I. “The woman is in distress, and we can help her.” “I have foolishly made a promise in the moment of weakness, caused by the condition of the room after the raid; I have given this woman some hope instead of recommending a good doctor for her husband!” “It can’t be difficult to find out about the young man and decide whether he really existed or has been invented by the mad mind of the poor old man. Besides, Holmes, you have never been worried about the mess our rooms are. Why bother now?” “Well,” admitted Holmes grudgingly, “it is still better than no puzzle at all. In the face of the enemy criminals forget to commit crimes, and if there is nothing more thought-provoking, I’ll try to find the information about the son, if I can.” “Besides, there is something strange about the colonel’s behaviour, according to his wife. One second he looks normal, another-” “As a doctor, you know it is extremely difficult to diagnose madness. Human mind is a dark thing,” said Holmes, yawning. “Not mine, though. But I am an exception, I am afraid. As for the lady, she, naturally, wants her husband to be sane and can’t believe what she sees and hears.”
The next two days brought us nothing new. The only thing Holmes managed to find out was that the colonel indeed behaved like a madman. He was walking near military offices, at the railway stations, asking each soldier and officer whether they knew anything about Lieutenant Warburton. However, he was harmless. Many people recognised him and paid him no attention, although their faces grew sad when they saw the tall figure begging: “Can’t you tell me anything about Warburton, David Warburton? He is my son. He can’t be dead, I know he can’t.” But the enquiries Holmes made failed to show that the Colonel had had any children at all, legitimate or otherwise. I failed to understand anything at all about this strange business, because every time I tried to make a deduction, I was sinking deeper and deeper in the ocean of nonsense. “So, to sum up, he wants to find a son whom he never had and whose imaginary death drove the old man mad? Holmes, it is absurd! It doesn’t make any sense at all!” “Of course, there is no sense – we are talking about a madman!” replied Holmes. “What are you reading, Watson? Hamlet? Another madman?” “Holmes, if you don’t like drama, it does not mean it is entirely useless. Besides, Prince Hamlet was not a madman, as every educated person knows. Just listen: Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t…”
One day I came home to Baker Street and understood we had, had a visitor – the strong smell of favourite cigars of Mycroft Holmes was hanging in the air. “You are right, Watson,” said Holmes, watching my fruitless attempts to cope with the cough, “Mycroft left about a quarter of an hour ago”. “What did he want?” “No more and no less than find a spy and, as he says, save the world. There is a leak. The War Office is worried. Some of our secrets are known to the enemy.” “There’s a leak in the War Office?!” “No, Mycroft thinks it to be most unlikely, and yet-” “What are you going to do?” asked I. “Well, the first thing to do is get rid of that Warburton business. David Warburton is a myth – I have made all the enquiries imaginable. He is the product of the Colonel’s imagination. The most difficult thing will be to tell his wife that the person she needs to talk to is a doctor, who might be able to explain the cause of this unfortunate condition of the old gentleman. “Mind yo
u, Watson,” Holmes continued, “when Mrs. Warburton came to us, it was you who told her that a psychiatrist is needed. It will be kinder to the poor colonel to find him a place in a good mental home than let him wander about London in this state. If he is indeed up to something, as his wife thinks, there has been no proof whatsoever. She simply does not want to admit the unpleasant truth. It will be difficult for her. She is depressed because of the husband, and the financial position of the family leaves much to be desired. But the colonel needs special care, I am afraid.” “He is a curious person, this colonel,” I said. “I’d like to have a look at him, out of professional interest”. “Excellent! You will be able to support my point of view when I talk to Mrs Warburton. Then I’ll immediately set about resolving the problem Mycroft asked me to pay all my attention to. You said the other day that we cannot sit doing nothing. Here is a chance to improve the situation and do something useful for the country – and more challenging, too. Public-spirited. Now about Warburton. We may go and look at him now, and then drive to his wife to dot all the ‘i’s.” “But how do you know where to find him? We may spend hours looking for this weirdo!” “There is nothing simpler than to find Colonel Warburton. He does exactly the same things almost every day. You could think he is some bank clerk who leaves home and goes to work at exactly the same...” Holmes stopped as though struck. His lazy expression, which appeared on his face every time he was talking about Colonel Warburton, changed. “Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t…” Watson, how many times have I told you that as a conductor of light you are unrivalled? Hurry up, or it will be too late!”
Grey airships in the grey sky were floating over the grey city. Holmes was almost running and I found it difficult to keep up with him. “Holmes, half an hour ago you didn’t know how to get rid of this case, and now you are running as though you were a madman, not the Colonel!” “Method, Watson, method!” “What do you mean, Holmes?” “Right now I can only say that I was blind, so blind that if you ever decide to record the events of today, you will have to write about it without hiding my error, if you are a man of honour, Watson! I have made the same mistake I have so often accused you of, Watson! I was watching, but not observing!”
When we found ourselves at the station, the old gentleman was there, on the platform. He looked miserable, asking his usual questions. People were pushing him off their way. My heart was pierced with pity when I saw him. “Why have we been running, Holmes? Is he in danger? From whom?” “Watch him, Watson, and tell me what you think,” Holmes said quietly. As I was watching, the feeling of pity was intensifying. The sufferings of the man were unbearable to look at. A group of young officers came out to the platform; they were talking, laughing, and discussing something. The old colonel was standing with his back to them and we could see his profile. “Well, Watson,” said Holmes, and I heard triumph in his voice, “what is he doing now?” The lips of the old man were moving, as though he was counting or repeating something to himself. In doing so he raised his head and I was astonished to see his shrewd and calculating expression. He slowly turned and saw us. His cold look was perfectly sane. “Quick, Watson!” yelled Holmes. The colonel made an attempt to draw his revolver, but with the officers behind his back and with Holmes darting to him like a lightning he stood no chance at all.
Mycroft had just left, but the smell of his cigars was still in the air. He was in a hurry to interrogate Colonel Warburton. “Two cases cracked in an hour,” I said bitterly, “and I have to admit that I feel a fool. I still haven’t understood what happened there, at the station, except that the colonel was arrested.” “You shouldn’t be so bitter about it, Watson”, replied Holmes. “Wasn’t I a fool myself? Mrs. Warburton gave me the essential fact; she said that her husband looked sane more than often. But, as a woman, she was more interested in her theory about the colonel’s possible affair, and when I heard this theory I lost interest in the matter. I watched him several times and in my irritation I failed to see the pattern in what he was doing until you asked me how to find the colonel. He was talking only to the military, and he always looked as though he was memorising or repeating things. This case needed thorough observation, but my pride was hurt when I was offered such a trivial case, and I was a very careless observer. Besides, I ignored one important aspect that you, Watson, never ignore.” “What is it?” asked I in surprise. “Feelings. I was trying to apply logic, and he banked on feelings.” “Whose feelings do you mean?” “The feelings of people who surrounded Colonel Warburton. Some people were curious, in a vulgar way, about the colonel’s affair, real or imaginary. Gossip-mongers, greedy for every bit of scandalous facts. Other people who met him felt sorry for the old scoundrel. You, Watson, did feel sorry, didn’t you? People who lost their nearest and dearest sympathised with him. And he was manipulating these feelings, creating the combination of improbable facts, pretending to be mad, though there was method in his madness. People, however, thought him to be a victim, as he wanted it to be.” “And he was a spy. Why did he do it? The money? You said the financial situation of the family was bad.” ‘It must be so”. “It is disgusting, no matter what the motives were. But the disguise was unusual, wasn’t it? You would think a spy is likely to keep a low profile, and he manifested his madness all over the city. Do you really think he managed to hear a lot by loitering around and talking to the military?” “A word here, a word there. He was clever enough to assemble the whole picture, or its significant bits. But it is pleasant to think that we have put a stop to it and made a step, however tiny, towards the victory. By the way, Watson, have you seen the new government poster? ‘Loose lips sink ships’.” “Mycroft’s idea?”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“I Walk A Path Of Cyclicality”
By Katharine McCain
Rosemont, PA, USA
Sit, beside two men of note
Watch, as they dip hands –
Unfettered by locking joints
Unblemished by spots and stains –
Dip, into jars of honey
Golden and burnished by the sun
Sweetened through years of labor
Perhaps supplying them with more
Than nutrition and taste.
I can walk beyond the vibration of bees
And hail the man on the corner.
Beaten from his beat
He leans heavily against the smog
Asking if I’d share with him a cigar
But all I want is to know his name.
Are you Gabriel
George
Gary
Or Greg?
I walk on and see the men who are not seen
Those who sit, calculating in their webs
One, comfortably encased in leather
Wood paneling, fires,
Copious amounts of food
The other,
Sustained on a diet of coercion
And chalk dust.
Continuing on,
Trailing fingers over a familiar door
Until I find myself in an equally familiar hospital
Where amid the dying begins a relationship
With an inordinate amount of life
What can we
Deduce from that?
Farther still
And there’s a student with his dog
(Not, it seems, named after a prime minister
or the synonym of a happy rock)
Who allows that mutt access
To another man’s leg
The bite that leads directly
To words above.
Moving as far back as I’m allowed
I finally peep through a nondescript window
Situated in an unknown location
Where this faceless family gathers
I wa
tch as a naming takes place
A decision of -
Thankfully, not Sherrinford -
But Sherlock
I can do all this,
Leaving footprints of ink
And still return in time
To share honey and tea.
The Beginning
By Annabelle Hammond
Norfolk, UK
John Watson hobbled into the classroom, only slightly leaning on his injured ankle. Lots of brightly coloured paintings glared at him from all sides of the room. He sighed in frustration. He certainly didn’t feel all bright and cheery.
The class fell into silence. The teacher approached him. She was an elderly lady with short greying hair. She smiled at him sweetly. “You must be John, I’m Mrs Hudson. I’ll be your teacher for the next year. Welcome to year 5,” she said clapping her hands in delight. Her smile broadening like her face was going to crack. “Please go and find a seat, anywhere you like,” she said giving him a little push on his shoulder. He stumbled slightly. The other children snickered and chuckled. “Oh, I’m ever so sorry, do you need any assistance? I didn’t realise you have a bad ankle,” she said with a frown.
John’s face creased in annoyance. Just because he had a bad ankle didn’t make him immobile, he could still look after himself perfectly fine. “I’m ok,” he said but that didn’t stop Mrs Hudson taking hold of his arm. He shrugged her off and moved away. “Really, I’m perfectly fine, I can do this myself,” John said turning his back to Mrs Hudson. John’s backpack was weighing him down. His parents had packed it full of books that he didn’t need.
John looked around for an empty seat and there was only one. The other children whispered as he made his way over to it. The table was at the back of the classroom, its surface was clear. The boy who was sitting there didn’t seem to be listening to anything that was going on around him. The boy was very tall and had dark curly hair, his fringe hanging in his eyes. He was pale and had high cheekbones. You could just imagine him looking down his nose at you in disgust. He wore a black shirt and trousers. He looked too mature to be in a class with John; after all they couldn’t look more different.