Sherlock's Home

by Steve Emecz

  “I genuinely do not understand why this happened. Why exactly the house was demolished. It’s a mystery I cannot solve. This simply happened, and I can’t determine why.”

  A sympathetic shrug was the only gesture I had to offer him. Every now and then this would still happen. Even after all those years of being a detective, the great Sherlock Holmes could occasionally be puzzled and remain in the dark when it concerned these slightly more complicated matters.

  “I mean… didn’t people care? Didn’t anyone care?”

  I looked back and tried to imagine what this house might have looked like once, a long time ago. The safe refuge it might have offered to its residents, the pleasant tales and memories that were now as lost as the house they had been born and lived in.

  “I’m certain that some people did,” I pondered, “but sometimes caring simply isn’t enough. Without a sufficient amount of support you can’t possibly achieve the things you want.”

  We sat in silence for a while, as he seemed to think that over. Then the words started to flow, with only a small hesitation after that first questioning phrase. “Does a residence lose its meaning, its importance, once its last inhabitants have passed away?”

  I could only sit and listen as my friend slowly sunk into one of his more philosophical moods.

  “I mean, didn’t anyone consider the possibilities of this property? So many wondrous events could have taken place here. This estate could have been a place where time stood still, keeping the original design intact as an homage to the very first owners. A private home, serving as a peaceful escape to those who longed for it. Or it could have been a museum or a study centre, providing public access. It could have even been a hotel, or made into separate properties, anything. But now there is just… nothing. No one even cares. No developers’ plans, no architectural enthusiasts or adventure-seekers to protect this house from demolition, no one at all. Only a thick layer of dust and silence remains.”

  His conclusion was nothing but a murmured whisper, barely audible and possibly not even meant for my ears. The words were most likely an accidental escape from his lips, but I caught them nonetheless.

  “This house is now as dead as its owner.”

  I could only nod in agreement, as I couldn’t think of anything to add to that. The brilliant mind next to me kept going in silence, providing itself with the rest of an undoubtedly most interesting discourse. I gave Holmes a few minutes before standing up with a loud sigh.

  “We should head back,” I announced. He looked up at me, now shaken from his thoughts and no longer locked away inside his own mind. I could see how a slow smile started to spread.

  “Yes… yes, right you are. I believe we should.”

  And without looking back, we walked the fields until we both disappeared underneath the cover of the trees, vanishing silently like two ghosts. It was as if no one had been there at all.

  The Adventure Of The Family Heirloom

  By Jo Lee

  Leeds, UK

  I have recorded many stories about the adventures of my close friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am sure you will all remember the terrible tale of how my friend met his end at the great Reichenbach Falls. It was three years after these events that I was finally reunited with him, and in that time I learned much, which I owe to the man, I then thought dead.

  I have never before penned any stories of my own life in this time, due partly to the concern of my wife, that such activity would bring back unpleasant memories for me, and in some way increase my grief, and partly, I believe due to a sudden feeling of self-consciousness whenever I attempted to write them down. They do, after all, show myself to be rather cleverer than I ever realised before, and I often feared this might come across as pompous, or pig-headed when expressed on paper. Regardless of this however, I believe that in order for records of my time with Mr. Holmes to be as complete as possible, this story must be told.

  It did not occur to me, in the first few months after that adventure I entitled ‘The Final Problem’, that regardless of the disappearance of my good friend the consulting detective, and with him having taken with him the consulting criminal, Mr. James Moriarty, that there would still be a call for Sherlock’s services in his absence. It was mid-morning in late July when an elderly gentleman came to my practise, not as a patient, he said, but as a client. He was a tall, balding man, with a grey beard, grey suit, and large, thick lensed spectacles. He introduced himself as Mr. Herbert Morrissey. He said he had a case, which he required solving, and in the absence of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, wondered if I might be willing to help him. I only one further appointment that day, which was not difficult to postpone until the next, so I agreed I would hear his story, and attend the scene of the ‘crime’, but I was very careful to warn him that I expected I would be of little use.

  The man was a bookbinder by trade. He lived alone, but was visited regularly by his niece, of whom he was very fond. She had been searching among the piles of books around his house for a particular Austen volume, and had stumbled across 5s 2d in small coins arranged neatly in a square, and sandwiched between Charles Dickens’ ‘A Christmas Carol’ and Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula’.

  She enquired of her uncle as to why the money was kept in such a peculiar hiding hole, and he soon realised that in their place should have been a large volume of ‘The Complete Works of Shakespeare’ worth roughly 5s 2d. The book was of a highly rare edition, but in terrible condition. The front cover hung from the spine by exactly fourteen strands of 3 different materials, the book having been repeatedly re-bound and repaired. There was the small ring of a teacup stain on page 312, and pages 394 through to 427 were held together by an unidentifiable black substance, which had a tendency to stain the fingers of whoever tried to prise the pages apart.

  Mr. Morrissey, realising the triviality of his upset, as the book had been paid for after a fashion, and was really worth very little, compared to pearls of jewels, decided not to bother the police with his difficulty, and, remembering reading my accounts of Holmes’ adventures and tragic end, wondered if perhaps I could help him.

  I pondered what my response should be for a long time, during which Mr. Morrissey patiently waited for my verdict, sipping his tea politely. I began to wonder what Holmes would think of my actions if I were to turn a man down. It slowly occurred to me that he would most certainly be disappointed in me, “Have you learned nothing of my methods?!” he would ask exasperatedly. That is why I agreed to accompany my new client to his home in the East End of London.

  As we made our way along the winding streets of London, and our taxi wobbled and clanked, I did my best to recall as much as I could of what Holmes had taught me in our time together. The first thing he taught me at our very first crime scene (which I documented under the title ‘A Study in Scarlet’) was to be watchful for footprints or other ground mark as one came near to the area. With this in mind, I called to the driver to stop at the end of Mr. Morrissey’s road, and we approached the dwelling place on foot. The street was paved, as was the path to Mr. Morrissey’s front door, and there had been no rain recently, however I did notice a rather forlorn looking group of pansies under the ground floor window to the right hand side. The rest of the garden was spotless. The damaged flowers were a considerable distance from the path, so far that I conjectured that no man or animal would have been able to jump such a distance without causing damage at another point in the bed before the path. I did wonder for a short time if perhaps the mark were just there by some coincidence, and irrelevant to the case entirely, but the pristine state of the rest of the garden belied that surmise, and I was reminded of Holmes’ words upon how rarely it would be beneficial to a case to put the greatest clue in one’s arsenal down to coincidence.

  “Oh!” exclaimed my client, as I enquired about the nature of the damaged flowers, “I have not noticed that before, and poor Miss Jackson (my niece) is
usually so careful with the garden. The peculiarity of this business is surely affecting her more than she will show.”

  Leaving me to ponder his comments, he dashed inside, calling for his niece to come and greet me. I followed, perhaps a little more soberly than my flustered client.

  Miss Jackson Mortimer was the second child of Mr. Morrissey’s late elder sister, Irene. She was short, and of moderate build, with long blonde hair which reached almost to her waist when plaited. Her face gave an impression of pleasantry and kindness, but as we entered the room, I having caught up with the ageing bookbinder, she was leaning over a large photo album, and her face was contorted peculiarly in a mixture of grief, anger, and pain. She was clearly very absorbed in the object of her upset, for she did not notice our entering the room until my companion greeted her.

  The girl looked startled, and jumped high out of her seat. She was quick however in rearranging her face, and a quick glance at her uncle told me that he had either failed to notice her previous expression, or was choosing to ignore it.

  Miss Jackson had apparently been wondering if some time spent studying the family albums might distract her from the disturbance of the queer recent events. I decided not to query the matter at that time.

  Mr. Morrissey showed me the room from which the book had vanished, and I asked for fifteen minutes of time spent there alone. He complied willingly, and I lost no time in leaning out of the window as far as I might, to closer examine the damage to the flowerbed underneath. It did not take me long to confirm my suspicion, the missing book was partially buried beneath a section of long grass cultivated, quite possibly especially for that purpose. Else it was an excellent chance for the thief that such a growth existed exactly where it was most convenient for them. I was quick to rule this out. Any ordinary thief would not have deposited the book in such a place so trustingly. Mr. Morrissey had mentioned before that Miss Jackson would usually be the one to tend to the garden, so it was logical to assume that she would have been able to set everything up which was necessary to complete her ‘crime’. The main problem was that she was lacking in motive. I was not left to ponder this for long, as I heard the door open softly, and stood up to find Miss Jackson, staring in trepidation at the volume between my now sticky thumbs.

  “I get the impression you have something to tell me?” I try to keep my voice calm, remembering the cool tones of my tutor in such business.

  “Give me the book, and twenty four hours” she said, “I promise you will be understanding of my predicament, I have done no wrong… I only wish the keep the peace.” A shine of gold about the young woman’s neck caught my eye.

  “Stand still, for a moment, if you will.” I ask, trying to appear indifferent. Miss Jackson nodded silently, and I approached her, wearily. I replaced the book in the reeds first however, unsure where else would be suitable, as I was unsure of my next course of action.

  As I replaced my sticky black handkerchief in my pocket, I used my left hand to lift the gold chain just visible around the young lady’s neck, under the collar, and reveal a small, round locket.

  Upon its opening, the golden shape revealed the pictures of two women. One, the elder, was on her own in a tall chair and holding a much newer version of the volume currently lying in the long grass below the window. In the picture it was in far better condition, with just a hint of yellow around the pages, and a few creases in its spine. The younger woman on the opposite side was accompanied by a tall young man at her shoulder, and a bundle of cloth, presumably a babe, clutched protectively against her chest.

  “This is you?” I asked gently, pointing to the bundle on the left image. Miss Jackson nodded, mute from the tension.

  The woman was presumably her mother, I could see the resemblance, and the man was her… brother perhaps? It was too young to be Mr Morrissey, by the time Miss Jackson was born, he would have been at least twenty, probably slightly more. It was difficult to judge, but further enquiry showed the elderly lady with the book to be Miss Jackson’s grandmother, on her mother’s side.

  The value of the book was therefore explained, and as a family heirloom, I was satisfied that no further damage would be done to Mr. Morrissey or any other of his precious books within the day. I returned to the window, collected the book from the flowerbed, again, and placed it in Miss Jackson’s tentative hands. Having informed Mr. Morrissey I would return the next evening with any further news, I retired to my home, and did my best to dwell no more on the matter. I did not want to come to any further assumptions, based entirely on judgement and conjecture. I was confident that tomorrow would bring before me all the relevant evidence.

  I was right. At two pm the following day, Miss Jackson called. She was nervous, but healthy, she had clearly not slept as well as usual. I hoped she had not suffered too much anxiety by my movements.

  I was of course, careful to have my revolver prepared in case of any trouble –my time spent with Sherlock Holmes had shown me how deceptive appearances can be- but I was careful not to make known that fact, not wishing to alarm my guest, who was clearly already on edge. Without any attempt at introduction, my guest began her story.

  “My father was in the navy, he died about three months before I was born. Before that, he and my uncle had been good friends, really good friends. “More like brothers than in laws” grandma used to say. Anyway, when dad died, he left everything to my mother; Uncle M didn’t get a single set of cufflinks. He didn’t resent it, not at first.

  “When I was in my teens, his money began to run out. His bookbinding business was failing, and he was forced to move house… He was too proud to ask for money, but he often dropped hints that he would accept a loan if it was offered him.

  “Mum was never much good at subtlety, ‘say what you mean and mean what you say’… it summed her up pretty well. I don’t think she ever noticed Uncle M’s hints. He thought she was ignoring him. He stopped visiting as much, and the family drifted apart.

  “Shakespeare was Grandma’s favourite author. I never understood why, like Uncle M, but Mum, and Tom both shares Grandma’s passion. Tom’s my brother. When Grandma died, she had written no will, everything automatically passed to Uncle M. Mother begged to keep the book, her only memento. Uncle refused; after all, she had never given him anything.

  “For five years, mother forbade us to mention him, or his unkindness, and she died still missing her precious works. Uncle came to the funeral, and I spoke to him. He’d forgotten about the book, and was upset mother had not maintained contact with him. It was his way not to intrude or pester; he had assumed there was a good reason for it, and that she would explain when it was all over.

  “I told him about the book. He got rather angry about it, said it was all very silly, and stormed out. I left it a week, and then went to visit him at home. Once I’d earned his trust, Tom said I should try and get the book back. The old man had forgotten it again, or appeared to.

  “The thing is… when you spend so much time with someone, you get rather attached to them, and I knew he didn’t forget about the book, not really. He missed mum far too much. I decided I’d take it, but I’d pay for it, buy it off him. I had it all planned: the hiding place in the garden, the money, I was just trying to keep the pile steady when he came in. I quickly made up a story about looking for an Austen, and finding the coins. I knew he wouldn’t forget the book. He knew it was missing immediately. You have no idea how quickly he left the house. He came back a few hours later with you.”

  I sat back in my chair, unsure how to deal with the difficulty presented.

  “OH! Please don’t tell uncle M it was me who took it, it would so upset him! I would not want to lose his trust.”

  Suddenly the woman opposite me was in floods of tears and I had no understanding of what to do about it. I considered telling the old man his book was lost for good, and presenting it to Miss Jackson as the sort of rightful owner
, but that seemed wrong somehow.

  “I don’t see that I have any choice” I did my best to be gentle, “where does your brother live?”

  I left Miss Jackson with Mrs Hudson on my way to visit her brother. He was a tall man, young, but balding. I told him the whole tale, and asked if he would be willing to go without the book, for the sake of his sister’s peace of mind. The boy refused, he had paid for a book that was already rightfully his, he claimed, and he was not going to give it up to his horrid uncle without a fight. I did my best to chastise him, but he would not stand down, and I was forced to take the whole news back to my client. I was saved such a difficult task however, as his niece had already explained everything to him. He was not upset, as Miss Jackson had feared, in fact, he was outraged. Not at her however, but at the brother. Once Mr. Morrissey had been calmed down, I retrieved the book from its place in the flowerbeds, it was now wet from rain in the night, and the pages stuck together.

  One look at the volume’s sorry state had Miss Jackson once again in tears. Mr. Morrissey’s expert eye declared the book beyond repair, and with a short glance for confirmation at him, I took the book into another room, and left it on a table there, with a mind to return later to get rid of it.

  There was no need however. Mr. Morrissey thanked me, and showed me out before I had chance, with the promise that he had plans for the heavy volume. I received a wonderful letter from them both a few weeks later, explaining that they had sent the original book by post to Mr. Jackson and purchased a new, readable copy of it for themselves. Mr. Morrissey promised me free service if I was ever in need of his literary help, and he became a close friend of mine, and his niece.