Sherlock's Home

by Steve Emecz

  “Surely, he may simply have been searching for a new spouse?”

  Holmes shook his head.

  “A matchmaker does not cater to adulterers. An honest matchmaker knows that his customers will need to know anything and everything about each other, and if he cannot supply that information in the knowledge that it will appeal to a target market, he will not supply it at all. However, this does not appear to be your average matchmakers.”

  At this point, a small balding man scuttled out of the front of Carhill’s Matchmaking Service and into the driver’s seat of a cab, which began to slowly move away down the road.

  Holmes tensed. He seemed about to leap out of his chair in excitement, but the moment passed, and he became still.

  “Watson, I trust that you recall my two possible categorisations for the murderer?

  “A young woman, or an elderly and infirm man. Surely you don’t think-”

  “I do, indeed, think, my dear Watson. I propose we make our way across the road and inquire as to the identity of our gentleman cab-driver.”

  The proprietor of Carhill’s Matchmaking Service was a small, rat-like man, who bore a pungent stench of pickles about him.

  “Well, gentlemen,” he asked, “what may I do for you today?”

  Without pausing for a reply, the man lunged at the cabinet against the wall and began foraging through one of the drawers.

  “Miss Rachel Wilson, 29, slim build, black hair, father a banker, comes with a ‘family car’ and dowry of- no, let us perhaps consider instead, Miss Lily Curtis, 32, medium build, blonde hair, father unemployed at present, but left with an inheritance from a tea company, comes with small house and a-”

  Holmes had become impatient at this point.

  “I have no interest in any of these young ladies, however enchanting they may be,” he said tersely, “but I would be most grateful if you were to give me the name of the man who has just exited your establishment.”

  I looked up to see that Mr Carhill’s face had become sullen and overcast.

  “I regret, sir,” he spat, “that we are unable to share personal information of our clients with people who are not our patrons. Good afternoon!” With that, he slammed the drawer shut and vanished into the gloomy mire of his offices.

  Holmes’ features darkened and a grim determination overspread his face.

  “What are we to do, Holmes?” I asked my companion. “Clearly the good Mr Carhill is unwilling to give us any of the information we require, but what of the cab driver?”

  The shadow of the derelict cab was still visible as the weary horse drawing it plodded over the flagstones.

  “Our cab driver, my dear Watson,” he replied, “is the key to this investigation.”

  “Holmes,” I cried, “surely we should give chase?” But my companion merely smiled and settled back in his chair.

  Once the cab had completely disappeared from view, Holmes leaned forward and began to speak.

  “That man is certainly a suspect, my dear Watson. He is an older man, incapable of killing in any other way than stoning someone to death with small, pointed rocks, and he has a motive-”

  “Motive?” I interjected, “What motive could he have?”

  “Watson, you perceive that most of the patrons of this establishment are wealthy, middle-aged men?”

  I did.

  “Our gentleman cab-driver is neither wealthy nor middle aged. He murders other clients in the simple, animalistic intention of easing the competition for a mate.”

  “Then why do we not detain him?”

  “Because,” smiled Holmes, “his guilt or innocence will depend on the identity of the next victim.”

  By this point, my patience was wearing thin.

  “How can you be sure that there will be another victim?” I asked in exasperation.

  “My dear Watson,” he replied, “I am not sure that there will be another. I can only hope.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes.

  “All right,” said my companion at last, “As no news of another victim appears to be forthcoming, I propose that we make our way to the victims’ residences and look for clues amongst their personal effects.”

  The first victim’s home was a squalid, wretched, little room filled with papers and containing no furniture other than a mat and a small brazier. When I had laboured up the stairs approaching it, I found Holmes, having arrived before me, rooting through a strongbox and flinging papers all about. At length, he emerged in triumph, holding a small envelope marked, “CMS.”

  “My dear Watson,” said he, “ this little envelope may hold the key to every one of these murders.”

  With that, he tore it open, and shook the contents out into his palm. Lying in his hand was a business card for M.Carhill of Carhill’s Matchmaking Service, and a small photograph, which he raised between two fingers for further inspection.

  “Hum! A fresh face indeed, Watson.”

  I joined him in his scrutiny. The photograph was of a young, unsmiling woman, staring almost aggressively at the photographer, and yet so captivating that I could barely take my eyes off the paper.

  “Who do you think she is?” I asked.

  “She is our link to the murderer,” replied Holmes, as he placed the photograph in his pocket. “I can only hope that we will find her again at the second victim’s house.”

  The late Mr. Benson Fforbes had resided in a double-story house in Chelsea, London, with a sizeable array of servants and a wife. I followed in Holmes wake as he made his way through the sea of wailing cooks, maids, charwomen and spouse, singular, until we reached Fforbes’ room.

  Widow Fforbes, a small, round woman with a mop of blonde hair, opened the door for us, bawling to herself as she did so. Thankfully, if somewhat insensitively, Holmes stepped aside to allow me in then shut the door in our host’s face. Within ten minutes of searching, he had recovered both a CMS envelope and a photograph of the mystery woman, which he tactfully concealed in his coat as he left.

  That evening, as we sat by the fire at Baker Street, Holmes dwelt upon the case as it drew to a close.

  “So, my dear Watson, now we wait.”

  “How long do you think we shall have to do so?”

  “How long will we have to wait until the next victim is reported? Oh, I should not say more than a few hours based on the killer’s current rate. Then, it will be a simple matter of finding the photograph, detaining the cabbie and sufficiently intimidating him so as to produce a confession... Watson, I must say, although I have enjoyed this case it has proved disappointingly shallow.”

  At that moment, there was a tremendous crashing noise downstairs, followed by the thumping of feet, the door flew open with a bang, and Lestrade appeared, pale and drained. Holmes had started out of his chair. “What is it, Lestrade?” he cried impatiently.

  “There’s been another murder,” came the response.

  “Excellent. Now all we have to do is find the photograph and detain the cab driver.”

  “Holmes, I’m afraid that isn’t going to happen.”

  My companion stopped short. “Why ever not?”

  “Because,” replied the Detective Inspector wearily, “he’s been murdered.”

  Holmes and I sat in the police cab as it sped to the scene of the crime. Holmes’ brow was furrowed and his eyes dark, and he spoke not a word. At last, he exclaimed, “It’s the woman, Watson! It must be! All this time, we’ve been on the wrong track, thinking she’s the link to the killer when she is the killer!” A search of the dead man’s pockets produced the expected photograph and a complete change of mood in Holmes. Galvanised into action, he vanished for a few hours and returned in triumph.

  “She’s his daughter, Watson!” I looked up to see a large and grubby porter making his way into the livin
g room. “Holmes?” Holmes, for it was he, removed his moustache and sat down. “The woman is Elizabeth Carhill, daughter of our matchmaker friend. She is also the murderer.” “But Holmes- how can you be so sure? Why would she kill her father’s customers?” “All of the victims were interested in her, and all of them were murdered the first time they met her. Victim 1, the Putney Butcher he didn’t suspect a thing. As a murderer himself, he was perfectly capable of self-defense, but his prospective bride discovered his past and decided that it was her responsibility to make him pay. Victim 2, Benson Fforbes- again, Carhill discovered his existing marriage and wanted revenge.” “And the cabbie? Why did she kill him?” Holmes shrugged. “The thrill? The satisfaction she got from killing an innocent, the joy she felt in having the power to do so? Who can say? Probably not even the killer herself.” “And also,” I continued, “how could she have killed them in the first place? Each of those men was at least 6 feet tall, and one was a murderer himself. It would take at least 20 minutes to kill a man with stones as small as those, and the victims would easily have overpowered their captor during that time.” Holmes laughed. “Ah, this one was clever-clever! Herein lies the genius. She arrived early at the rendezvous, slipped a time-delayed narcotic into their drink, and removed her victims to a secondary location, where she killed them. Why she used stones is beyond me.” We were each lost in our own thoughts when Lestrade reappeared in the doorway. “If you’re ready, Holmes, we’re going to make the arrest.” “Who are you arresting?” “Why, Elizabeth Carhill, of course.” “And only her?” “Yes. . .” Holmes sprung from his chair. “No, you’re not. You’re going to arrest her father as well.” Lestrade’s face went blank. Holmes continued his monologue as he retrieved his coat and began to walk down the stairs. “Elizabeth Carhill may have committed the actual murder, but she is by no means the only guilty party. I found some extremely incriminating evidence in Mr Carhill’s desk, consisting of several letters addressed to him and negotiating prices for his daughter’s murder of any given person. Hurry, Watson!” “But, Holmes,” called Lestrade after us, “who was the client who ordered the killings in this first place?” Holmes stopped. “His name is Moriarty.” “Who is he?” “That is precisely what I intend to find out.”

  The Greatest Detective

  By Amber Butler

  Bonnieville, KY, USA

  The sounds of Baker Street below

  Pipe smoke drifts, languidly in the air

  Hovering like the fog of London.

  While sitting, folded in a leather chair

  Deep eyes, incisive, look over crossed fingers

  Seeing clues in everything.

  Memories run deep at 221b

  A woman’s portrait on the desk

  A painting of Reichenbach on the wall

  And a blue diamond kept in a drawer.

  Then, lifted, a violin is playing

  Strings singing out Mendelssohn

  Suddenly, those eyes ablaze, the violin’s tossed aside

  He’s up now and at the hearth

  Statuesque, he stands confident

  The pieces are set.

  All crime falls before Sherlock Holmes

  And Doctor Watson takes up his pen.

  The Adventure Of The Black Feathers

  By Julianne Ducrow

  Normandy, France

  John Watson knew he was about to die.

  Under the blanket of grey cloud, John noted London had turned unusually quiet; the city’s soundtrack muted all the while the man opposite him, held his right hand aloft. With an index finger flexing gradually, he began applying pressure to the trigger of the gun pointed directly at John’s chest.

  At that moment, it started to rain gently as if the very heavens were weeping in anticipation of coming events. Fine raindrops gradually darkening the concrete beneath their feet, as John waiting for death to finally take him this very evening on the rooftop.

  It wasn’t the first time John had found himself looking down the barrel of a gun. Nor would the feeling of cold steel piercing his body be a unique experience for him. They had described it as a miracle in Afghanistan. Had the bullet been a centimeter or so to the left and John would have been dead before he’d even heard the shot that killed him.

  Only it hadn’t. The sniper had either made his calculations incorrectly or somebody up there loved John very much, as he had not only survived the injury, but also made a full recovery, returning home to England on honorable discharge.

  That was when he met Sherlock Holmes.

  It was hard to describe John’s first thoughts on encountering this strange, aloof but brilliant man. From their very first meeting, he had felt an instant and overwhelming bond between them, almost as if he were coming home. John was sorry to think he would now never see Sherlock again; never accompany him on a case, never watch him conduct some strange experiment in the flat they shared together, and it was thoughts of Sherlock than ran through his mind when he heard the gunfire and he knew his life was at an end.

  It was a dismally overcast Sunday morning in late April when Michael Messenger had come to visit the occupants of 221B Baker Street. John had gone out early to buy the morning papers and was sat reading them in his armchair opposite his flat mate, who was himself reading his favourite Edgar Allen Poe volume, when the door bell rang.

  Mr. Messenger was a tall man, willowy built with dark hair and fair skin, not unlike Sherlock. They even shared the same catlike movements as he navigated his way around the flat and settled on one of the chairs after accepting a cup on tea from John.

  “So how do you know each other?” John asked while pouring his own cup. Although it was commonplace for people to know Sherlock in certain circles, there seemed to be a familiarity between the two men. John would not like to term it as friendship, but it was certainly closer than a passing acquaintance.

  The slightest flicker of a smile played across their visitor’s lips, as he began to reminisce behind his blue eyes. Taking a breath as if to speak, he then paused for a moment before answering. Michael looked to be gauging how much Sherlock may have told his friend and indeed how much he would wish him to know about the particulars of their association.

  When Sherlock made no move to speak, Michael informed John, “Sherlock and I once worked together, an age ago now it seems. Anyway, we had different ideas about things and so he took one path and I another.”

  He left the last word hanging in the air as if the sentence was not quite finished.

  “And you became a solicitor and Sherlock a detective,” John smiled sensing a sudden tension in the room and attempting to smooth it over as was his way. “So not very different paths after all. You both work to keep law and order.”

  “That we do,” Michael agreed.

  “So what can I help you with Michael?” Sherlock interrupted, “It must be something of great importance to bring you here.”

  “Always straight to business,” the solicitor chuckled, and then cleared his throat to tell his story. “One of our important clients John Garrideb, has a problem, and someone with your skills I believe could help in the matter.

  “Mr. Garrideb has two bothers. Howard is his business partner and their other brother Nathan, who both men are estranged to. I don’t know the particulars, but when their father Alexander died, he left the family estate including Garrideb Hall in equal shares to his sons. The maintenance cost of a building of this size, as you can imagine, is quite considerable. A tycoon in Kansas, eager to purchase the property, has approached them. As none of them live there, they wish to sell it, however they need Nathan’s consent, which once given will entitle him to a percentage of the sale upon completion. They cannot locate Nathan, which is why I come to you.”

  Sherlock’s eyes narrowed on Michael as he steepled his fingers in a manner John had seen him do in thought a hundred ti
mes before.

  “So you would like me to locate a missing person, in order to secure the sale of the Garrideb family estate,” Sherlock simply stated.

  “Indeed,” agreed Michael, “That’s the sort of thing you claim to do these days I thought.”

  “Among others,” Sherlock concluded, “I’ll take the case. If he is alive I shall find him and visit him on your behalf. I will not promise to reveal to you his location however, if after I inform him of why you wish to contact him, he still does not want to be found.”

  Michael nodded in agreement to the terms. “Fair enough. I should think he would be more than happy, as he will be a very wealthy man after the sale of this property has gone through. It has been valued at £15,000,000.”

  John wasn’t surprised at the speed in which Sherlock found the missing Garrideb and the next day they caught a black cab across town and arrived at a newly built block of flats. John noted that Garrideb was not the name of the resident whose entry phone they pressed. Sherlock explained that Nathan had been living under a different name for some time now, even longer than when he stopped leaving his flat. One might suppose he might have died but regular deliveries of groceries had been seen by neighbours. After a few further enquiries he had discovered that the man was agoraphobic, terrified of even leaving his own front door.

  Nathan Garrideb was clearly expecting them, and after the usual formalities, Sherlock passed on the information given to him by Michael Messenger, with regard to the sale of Garrideb Hall.

  Although excited at first, the dawning realisation that he would have to leave his flat in order to sign away his part of the property, dampened his enthusiasm for his impending inheritance.

  “But I can’t leave the flat,” he protested.

  “I understand you have a condition which makes that problematic for you, but I assure you there is really nothing out there which will harm you,” Sherlock told him in a soothing tone, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder in reassurance. Nathan seemed to instantly relax at this point and John wondered if Sherlock knew of some pressure point he might have learnt as a martial arts technique.