by Steve Emecz
“What a shame it’s a ruin,” Lucy said softly, looking at the dilapidated building. “You can tell it was a beautiful house, once.” She then started looking at the trees surrounding the house, before one seemed to catch her attention. She looked at it for a long moment before walking towards it, Sherlock and John following at a short distance. When they joined her beside it, she was looking towards a ruined tower in the distance.
“This is it,” she said. “She’s here.”
John and Sherlock looked at the ground beneath the tree. They knew what they were looking for, so it was easy to see that there was a definite mound, and that the grass covering it was of a different shade to the rest. They looked at each other, and then John pulled out his phone and dialled Lestrade.
John did not think that Lucy needed to see the forensics team exhume whoever lay in that lonely grave, so he left Sherlock with Lestrade and his assistants and took her back to the nearby village, to the pub where they had booked rooms for the night. He found a table by the fire for them and went to get a glass of wine for her and a beer for himself. Returning with the drinks, he sat down and looked at her.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said with a rather wan smile, and took a sip of wine. She looked at him. “What about you?”
John gave her an equally wan smile.
“A bit … freaked out, to be honest with you. Sherlock can look at a person and tell you everything you need to know about them within minutes, but that’s because he notices details and adds them all up. This is something else entirely. You really dreamed of that exact spot?”
“That exact spot,” she confirmed, wryly. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t happen that often. And this is the first time it’s been about a missing person. That’s what I mean when I said I’m not psychic. I can’t do it on demand, so to speak. Sometimes, I just know things. That’s the only way I can explain it.”
John nodded. He could see signs of strain in her face so he changed the subject to something a bit lighter. Soon they were so engrossed that they did not notice time passing until Sherlock appeared and pulled up a chair at their table.
“They found a body,” he began. “They’ll need DNA tests to confirm, of course, but they found a locket on it, with “From Aidan to Melanie” engraved on it.” He glanced at Lucy and looked away again.
John could see that he was every bit as unsettled as he himself had been, more so, probably. Sherlock did not trust things that could not be proven, tested and measured. Even in his greatest leaps of deduction, he always had evidence to support his theories. The fact that dreams and intuition had led them to Melanie would not sit well with him at all.
“Oh, and Lestrade wanted to know what we were doing there,” Sherlock continued. “I told him that Lucy was your latest girlfriend, John, and that you’d come down here for a break.”
“And you just happened to come with us, is that it?” John asked in disbelief.
“Well, Lestrade didn’t seem to see anything strange about it!”
“No, he probably didn’t,” John muttered. “Hope you don’t mind, Lucy.”
“I don’t mind if you don’t!” Lucy replied with a smile.
“So I told Lestrade we’d gone to have a look at Undershaw,” Sherlock continued before John could respond, “and that we found the grave while we were exploring the grounds.”
“Good story, Sherlock. If this Lestrade is anything like you, I don’t think he would have believed my story.” Lucy said.
“No. If anything, he would probably have taken you in for questioning,”
“Sherlock!” John’s voice was a warning not to go any further.
“Are you saying I’m a suspect?” Lucy said, very quietly.
“No. He isn’t,” John replied, “He’s just angry because you were right.”
Sherlock and John were still glaring at each other when Lucy broke the uncomfortable silence.
“Look, Aidan Crawley’s on the telly again,” and pointed to the TV on the wall. The programme was a chat show, and the guest was indeed Aidan. It wasn’t quite loud enough for them to hear, but Sherlock and John recognised the expressions and gestures, and guessed that he was telling the host the same story he’d told them. The camera went to a photo of Melanie for a moment, before returning to a close-up of a predictably teary-eyed Aidan.
The bartender noticed their attention and came over to join them.
“Sad, isn’t it?” he said. “Melanie grew up in this village, you know. She and Aidan often came back for mini breaks, they’d always stay here, too.”
“So you haven’t seen them recently, then?” Sherlock asked.
“Well, Melanie was here about six months ago, but not Aidan. I did wonder if everything was all right, but then Aidan turned up and swept her back to town.”
“Aidan came and collected her?” Sherlock asked.
“In a manner of speaking. He wanted to surprise Melanie, but she’d gone out. He went looking for her and found her up near Undershaw, she always loved to walk out there, and they decided to go back to London.”
“So Melanie came back here and got her things, did she?” Sherlock pressed. The bartender looked a little surprised, but replied anyway.
“No, Aidan did, actually. He said Melanie wanted to stay at Undershaw a bit longer, so he left her up there and came back to collect her things and pay the bill. Excuse me, I must serve these customers.”
He left, leaving a stunned silence behind him. John and Lucy looked at each other, then at Sherlock.
“When Aidan got her text, he guessed she was here,” Sherlock said. “He came straight down and was lucky enough to find her at Undershaw. It’s isolated, nobody around for miles, a perfect place for a murder and a hidden grave. No need to worry about an expensive divorce any more. He then made it known that she left him, pretended to look for her and then after six months referred the “case” to me! You heard what he said,“If Sherlock Holmes can’t find her, nobody can.” When I failed to find her, then all hope would be gone and he could move on to Caroline Cooley without suspicion. Even if foul play were suspected, who would know where to start looking? Oh, very clever!”
“But can we prove it?” Lucy asked doubtfully.
“Once the DNA tests show the remains to be Melanie’s, and once the police hear the bartender’s story, it will be very hard for Aidan to explain his way out of it,” Sherlock replied. “By his own admission he found her up at Undershaw. He came back for Melanie’s things, the bartender never saw her again. I’m certain an investigation of Melanie’s bank accounts and mobile phone records will show that none of them have been used since the day Aidan came here. That’s some pretty strong circumstantial evidence already.”
“So now we wait for the DNA tests to come back,” Lucy said.
“Yes. Now we wait.”
The DNA tests came back positive. The remains were those of Melanie Crawley, and, as Sherlock predicted, once Lestrade heard the bartender’s testimony, Aidan Crawley was taken in for questioning. Knowing there was no way out of it, he eventually confessed to Melanie’s murder. It was one of the biggest news stories in ages.
“Poor Melanie,” Lucy said. She had dropped into Baker Street at John’s invitation, prior to their going to the movies, and they were watching the report on the news. “I’m so glad justice is being done for her. “
“If it wasn’t for you, it might never have been done,” John replied.
“Oh, Sherlock would have solved it eventually,” Lucy said, looking over to where he sat at the table, glued to his microscope.
“No need for false modesty, Lucy,” Sherlock answered, without looking up. “I might not like it, but your intuition, in this case, was correct. “
“And so was yours,” Lucy responded. That did make Sherlock look at her, and with some d
ispleasure.
“Explain,” he said.
“John mentioned that you thought Aidan had murdered Melanie. There was nothing that had suggested that to John, but you knew. Just like I knew Melanie was at Undershaw.”
“It was obvious,” Sherlock said, tersely.
“But you couldn’t explain why, could you? Any more than I could explain how I knew where she was. Maybe that’s why you were so scathing when I first told you about it. Your intuition was no more provable than mine. You knew it and you hated it. Was that why you took a leap of faith and actually went with me to Undershaw?”
“No. I was hoping to prove you wrong,” Sherlock said, returning to his microscope.
“Of course you were,” Lucy said drily. “How silly of me to think otherwise. We’d better go, John, or we’ll be late for the movie.”
A Detective Worth Your Money
By Jacoba Taylor
Albany, New York, USA
So you’re looking for a detective
One who’s not ever been beat?
I’ll tell you where to look, mate
Try 221b Baker Street.
He’s the finest on the planet
Yes sir, he’s mighty good
He solves crime better than the others
(Though Scotland Yard wishes they could).
His intelligence is truly astounding;
I never met a man so smart
He knows everything there is to know
From violin, to bees, to art.
But he’s at his most incredible
When he applies his knowledge to crime
He can deduce from the subtlest of clues
Your riddle will be solved in no time.
And he also comes with a bonus;
A helpful doctor friend
While your man does all the thinking
His assistant sees you through to the end.
You need him to keep a secret?
Just tell him so at the start.
He’ll swear his live to secrecy
He’ll never tell any part.
This man is also agile
He boxes, fences, and shoots
So he isn’t *only *smart
But he’s also fair in riding boots.
He enjoys his job quite thoroughly
With his Doctor at his heels
Together they solve all the criminal
And at very reasonable deal.
You have just one question:
Who are these men, you say?
Sherlock Holmes and Watson
Are here to save the day.
The Blind Violinist
By Amy White
Hampshire, UK
Several times I have heard Holmes scraping upon his own violin, often to assist his own thinking upon a case. Tuneless musings, however, were often followed by excellently played and well-known pieces, as if to apologise for the tuneless playing of before. Therefore, when a case arose at the centre of its murderous plot was this instrument; it was only natural for Sherlock Holmes to take it up. It was around a year after my own marriage, the time when I was least in touch with Holmes. I had received a telegram requesting me at Baker Street. When I arrived, Holmes was curled up in his armchair, wearing a blue silk dressing gown, and sitting opposite him was one of the most prestigious violin players in Europe, Joseph Tsaikov. His long, agile fingers were tapping impatiently on the arm of his chair, and when he entered, he looked up sharply; despite the fact his eyes were a milky white colour. Tsaikov had been blinded by carbonic acid at the age of seven, and the scars still showed. “I take it this is what we were waiting for, Mr. Holmes?” “Dr Watson has proved invaluable to me in many cases, maestro. I am hoping he will do so again.” The agitated finger tapping stopped. “In that case, I shall tell you my story. I was sent here by an Inspector Lestrade, who seemed to believe you would handle the case better than he would. In my house, my study is dedicated to practicing my violin. I leave my Stradivarius locked safely in there each night, and the only keys that exist are in the possession of me and my housekeeper, whom has been with me for twenty-two years and I trust absolutely. Last night, around eleven o’clock, I was aroused by the sound of a sudden cry from my study. I sleep lightly, so I was the only one awake as I rushed to the source of the sound. Fumbling with my keys, I unlocked the door and my foot knocked against something warm. Walking along, I heard gargling, and after about a minute, I realised it was my butler, Worcester, lying on the floor with the Stradivarius in one hand, the bow in the other and an ugly slit at his throat.” Holmes smiled. Whenever this happened, it was rarely good news for everyone. He put his fingers together and rested his chin on top. “How long has your butler been with you?” “Since I was a young child. When I moved here, he was the only member of my old household to come with me?” “What of the rest of them?” “They chose to stay in their home country.” “Is it definite that the violin and bow are yours?” “Most certainly. I have had them engraved with a specific pattern so I can recognise them with one touch.” “Who did this work?” “A good friend of mine, Hans Bolkov. I have known him many years.” “Has your butler been behaving oddly at all?” “No more than usual?” “What do you mean?” asked Holmes sharply. “Worcester has always had a… odd temperament as long as I have known him. I think he had an argument with my parents when I was just starting school, and as such has no warm feelings towards me.” “And yet you still employ him?” “He is an excellent butler. He is the best of his kind I have ever had.” “I see. Well, Watson, I perceive it is time for us to have a look at the crime scene.”
Before we left, Holmes took his own violin case from the table. I didn’t ask him about it, knowing he most probably wouldn’t answer, so the cab drive to Tsaikov’s manor house was in silence. When we climbed out, we were greeted by Lestrade, who rubbed his hands together, partly out of excitement, partly because of the freezing temperature. “I thought this would be right up your street Mr. Holmes,” he wheezed, “what with the violin and everything. Well, it’s a neat enough little murder, very well planned too. The butler, Worcester, is in his late sixties, and joined the Tsaikov residence when he was twenty-one. That’s the little information I’ve managed to gather, so I’d be grateful if you’d have a look.”
The late Andrew Worcester was killed by a thin but fatal slit to the carotid artery, and the amount of blood loss meant he was dead before any medical help arrived. His hair clotted together in a pool of blood as Holmes swarmed around him, bent double. Using his lens, he examined the wound, the victim’s fingers and face, before moving onto the violin and bow still in the dead man’s hands. He tested the weight of the instrument, before comparing them with his own violin he had brought along with him. When he lifted both his bow and Tsaikov’s up to the light, his face lit up just for a moment before returning expressionless again. He had solved the case. “Lestrade, I have your men.” “Men?” “Indeed. Call round to Baker Street in an hour, and I shall hand them over.”
“It may please you to know, Watson, that I was definite of the murderer before we even finished our interview with Mr Tsaikov.” “My dear Holmes!” We were sat opposite each other in our apartment, awaiting the arrival of Inspector Lestrade and the men who had caused the death of Worcester. “The violinist let on far more than he should have.” “You don’t mean to say…” Before I could finish my sentence, we were interrupted by the arrival of Lestrade, Tsaikov and a frail, white haired man who looked as if he had seen no more sun than I had of him. Holmes stood up and gestured to him. “Gentlemen, may I introduce Hans Bolkov, the accomplice in this dastardly plot of master and servant, where the blinded murderer determined to set up the murder of his butler who blinded him as a child with his cleaning agent, at the cause of an argument with the boy’s parents.” “I will not stand here and liste
n to this preposterous tittle tattle!” “Hang on a moment, sir!” Lestrade laid a hand on the maestro’s shoulder, who had just risen from his chair in a fit of rage. Holmes ignored this outburst, and turned to the official detective. “Lestrade, I believe you brought along Mr Tsaikov’s bow?” “Indeed, although I can hardly think why you wanted that and not the instrument itself,” he handed over, and Holmes lifted the latch which normally released the taught horsehair from one end of the bow. Instead, the tip popped off of the wood about an inch or so, revealing a sliver of shining metal. Holmes slid it out to reveal a long, thin, beautifully crafted sword that was almost invisible when turned sideways. “I give you,” he said softly, “the murder weapon. Tsaikov lured his butler into the study, slit his throat, placed the Stradivarius in his hands and raised the alarm as if he had just found him there?” “But why?” I asked. “You alluded to it earlier, but I confess I am still rather in the dark.” “Aye to that,” said Lestrade, nodding gravely. “Tsaikov told us himself that Worcester had argued with his parents. He also told us that around the same time he had carbonic acid thrown at him. It would not, even as a child, to realise this was the acid his butler used to clean with.” Tsaikov sat down, spluttering with rage. Bolkov, on the other hand, was looking at Holmes with awe and respect. “You must be magical,” he uttered, “to realise such a thing. That, or in league with the devil. How in the name of all that is holy, did you figure it out?” “With great ease,” said Holmes, smiling. He was always flattered when someone noticed his genius, no matter how often it happened. “I first realised that it would have been impossible for Worcester to steal the Stradivarius himself. Firstly, he did not have a key, and secondly, why wait until now to steal it? I have often said that once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. The only option left open to me was that the violin had been planted on him. It must have been someone with a key, and the only two in existence were in the possession of Tsaikov and the housekeeper, who had no motive. It must have been him, then. But how to kill him? The method was obvious, and yet there was no murder weapon. I brought my own violin along simply to see how it compared to a Stradivarius, but when I held the two bows two each other I saw that they were not only unalike in craftsmanship and the engravings which made it recognisable to its owner, but due to weight, mass and the sounds it made I foresaw there was a slender piece of steel inside the wooden stem that would match up perfectly to the cut in the butler’s neck. The only person who could have added this in was the man who created the distinctive engravings upon it, and so I caught Bolkov in my net as well. I have no doubt that Tsaikov would have liked to have got rid of this weapon, but it would have been no use swapping it with another, as the marks upon the first would be too distinctive to miss. Oh, and my suspicions about the butler throwing the acid were confirmed when I noticed an acid burn on his right cheek, by the ear.” “But he could have got that by cleaning with the stuff,” Lestrade pointed out, although he was evidently impressed. “No, no; the splash pattern on the burn could only have been sustained by it being thrown and a tiny amount, as it always does, flying in the wrong direction.”