Sherlock's Home

by Steve Emecz

  Upon reflection, I do not consider Holmes would have taken on this case, declaring it ‘boring’ and ‘obvious’. For me however, it was one of my favourites.

  The Owner Of The Green Leather Gloves

  By Michelle Erkers

  Mora, Sweden

  It was nearly ten o’clock in the morning when Holmes and I arrived back in London from our visit to Dulwich. The weather was superb for a morning in April, and I found my friend sitting with a satisfied smile on his curved lips. Despite the night’s work all weariness left me as I caught some of his happiness. “No doubt you have seen something I have missed,” I remarked as the train rolled into the station. We collected our belongings and stepped off the train into the sunshine sparkling with the London dust.

  “Now now, Watson, I have seen nothing you haven’t. However, I look upon things with a different mindset than you do. The gloves, Watson!” he smiled as he drew out the two gloves in fine green leather from his coat pocket. He turned them inside out, and waved the intricately sewn initials R. M before my eyes.

  “The victim’s name was Gregory Barnes. There is no R. M. in his name. The owner of these is a fellow with these initials. He must have left them in Barnes’ sitting room. Well-off, judging by the fine leather, and the perfect handiwork, and I doubt they are a gift.”

  “Well done, yes, I do believe you’re quite right. They are not a gift. R.M. bought them himself less than a year ago, and values them highly. He has no children, but is without doubt pursuing a lady; the glove has the scent of a lady’s perfume. Look, there are long coarse brown hairs stuck in the buttons, he must own a dog. Watson, I must ask of you a favour. It is of the utmost importance.”

  Holmes turned and stepped in front of me, blocking my way. The look in his eyes was intense. I immediately knew he was very keen to follow this lead as soon as possible. Without hesitation I asked what it was he required me to do.

  “I need you to follow a man for me, while I work elsewhere. He ought to be here somewhere. He has a blue riding jacket, looks quite shabby, his long hair is streaked by grey, and he walks briskly for a man of his age. I saw him several times in Dulwich. It could take some time, perhaps all day. Are you willing to do that?” Holmes asked, clutching the bag in his hands quite fervently.

  With no desire to decline, as I had little else to do, I accepted the task. Holmes nodded, and told me he would be away for quite some time. Without a word of good-bye he strode off in the opposite direction, heading back to the railway station.

  Keeping the description fresh in mind I sat down on a bench and let my eyes wander over the faces of the people passing me. It wasn’t long before I finally spotted a shabby man in a blue riding jacket heading my way. He fit the description to the letter. I did my best to look inconspicuous as I watched him take a seat on a bench quite far from me.

  After watching him read the newspaper for some time, I found myself relaxing in the warm sunshine. My mind began to wander back to the room in which poor Detective Constable Barnes had been poisoned the day before. His rooms had been searched, but since the mess was minimal the perpetrator must have found what he was looking for quickly.

  The old man stood unexpectedly and my eyes followed him as he dashed across the busy street and into the telegram office. I pursued, keeping my distance, yet fearful that I could lose him. To my relief he showed no sign that he had noticed me, and was blissfully unaware of my intentions.

  As I slipped into the telegram office behind him, I heard a few snippets of conversation between the man and the clerk. “Thank you again for your assistance, and I need this to be sent to him immediately. Thank you,” the man said in a loud burly voice.

  He waited impatiently as the clerk sent the telegram, paid, and then left with me at his heels. I watched him turn down a side street then I halted at the corner for a while to give him some distance.

  This particular man was not very easy to tail. He made plenty of twists and turns on his way throughout the City, Westminster, and into Camden, and I had the feeling he thought he was being followed. Precisely as Holmes had described he had a brisk pace for an old man. At a corner of Acacia Road he walked into an employment office. I felt it best not to seem too keen to follow closely at his heels into the second shop he passed, and decided to wait outside. Tied to a lamppost outside was a large brown dog. It sniffed friendly at my legs, and I stroked it between its ears. I noticed it had a fancy green collar, and stooped to take a closer look. My hand stilled as I saw the familiar initials. R. M. Understanding dawned on me. The man I was tailing must be R. M., owner of the green gloves found at the scene of the murder in Dulwich. The scene of the seemingly motiveless poisoning, of a Detective Constable of the Yard. I finally understood the urgency of my job. The bells chimed noon and not long after a young man walked out of the office. He untied the dog and walked away down the street. I felt slightly disappointed that my theory had proved itself to be faulty. A few seconds later the old man came back out from the office, stretched his back like a cat waking from a nap in the sunshine, and walked off briskly in the same direction as the previous fellow. The third place he entered was a pleasant Italian restaurant near the south corner of Primrose Hill. Once again the dog stood outside waiting for its master. By now I was feeling hungry and decided to have a bite while I observed him. An hour passed, and another. Suddenly the old man waved his hand at a fellow sitting alone at a table next to him. I recognised him as the owner of the dog outside. The other man joined him, and they conversed quietly for a while like strangers until they seemed to relax into each other’s company. By now I had finished my meal, and felt I had to order a pint to make my stalking less obvious. I started feeling that there was something here I did not fully understand. Perhaps the dog did indeed belong to the old man, and the young man was simply out walking it. But why would they have sat apart while eating? Before I had emptied my drink the two men stood up and left together arm in arm. My curiosity peaked. This case was turning out more intriguing that I had at first anticipated. The men walked at a leisurely pace through Regent’s Park, talking closely. I started to feel silly, and my distance to them grew, as I feared discovery amid the open landscape. Most of the day had now passed, it was nearing four o’clock in the afternoon and I had not yet received any important information that could distinguish this R.M. as a criminal. We stopped at a gentleman’s club some distance east of Regent’s Park. I was running short on cash and only just afforded admission. I found the two men sitting quite close to the ornate stage, on which a group of striking young women were dancing ferociously, their vividly coloured dresses flowing graciously around them as they danced to the frankly abhorrent violinist. I watched the dog owner clutching his walking stick tightly. The old man was grinning as he leaned over and whispered something in the young man’s ear. The remark made them both chortle. By now I found myself wondering what Holmes was doing, and what exactly it was he wanted me to find out by trailing around London after this old man. I had noticed no criminal behaviour; in fact, he seemed like a perfectly ordinary gentleman. Inching closer I managed to catch snippets of their conversation but neither said anything peculiar. The old man made the occasional dry comment about the loveliness of the dancers, but he lacked feeling and seemed distant, while the other sounded very excited. This was not unusual in itself and did not attract my interest for more than a moment. The time was nearing six when we finally left. I was starting to feel weary. Lack of sleep and the rather vigorous walk was tormenting my leg, and my thoughts wandered to the comfort of our sitting room in Baker Street. How lovely it would be to have a glass of brandy and a nap. I hauled my bag off the floor and turned to follow the men out, but as I looked around they were nowhere to be seen. Hurrying outside I looked everywhere for any sign of them. The dog owner was walking down the deserted street, but I had lost my target. Oh, Holmes would never forgive my carelessness! Just as I was starting to head back to Baker Street I
caught a glimpse of a blue riding jacket. I sprang into the darkness behind a pile of crates just in time to avoid being spotted by the old man passing mere feet away from me. The man hurried along down the road and I followed closely behind. I knew he had discovered me but I was intent on not losing him again. The vibrant riding jacket was a stark contrast to the murky brown and grey of the city and I found it easy to spot in the dusk. To my great disappointment however the man was very nimble and agile, and led me down many a deserted alleyway until I no longer knew where I was. I followed him over a high fence with great difficulty. On the ground a small distance from where I had landed I found a small piece of paper. Picking it up, I scanned the alley, but the old man had vanished. ‘Well done, Watson. You will be rewarded when you return to our rooms. S’ the note read, in Sherlock Holmes’ familiar handwriting. Glad for the hunt to be over I picked up my bag and retreated down another alley. Subsequently I found my way back to familiar territory. Before long I unlocked the black door to 221b Baker Street and walked up the stairs into our rooms. Holmes was not there yet; he must still be chasing the man. My leg was aching and I stretched myself out on the sofa, not bothering to remove my dusty coat. I removed my hat and ran my fingers through my grimy hair, as I pondered what had become of the old man whose identity I was no longer sure to be R. M. Just as I had poured myself a small glass of brandy the door flew open and the ragged man in the blue jacket stumbled across the threshold. “You!” I yelled as I scrambled for my pistol. The man froze and started to chuckle. I stared as he removed his hat, then his hair and beard… “Holmes! Was it really you?” I said, so astonished I fell down on the sofa. “I spent all day chasing you? Why?” Holmes hastily took off his disguise, and I was pleased to see the man I knew beneath the appearance of a strange old man. “I will explain, I just need to wash my face first.” I helped Holmes rinse the dirt and glue off his face revealing his weary self. We had just sat down on the sofa, each holding a glass of brandy, when Holmes started narrating his incredible story. “Believe me, I did not do it out of spite, I merely felt you needed some exercise in following people. Your skills have grown somewhat crude lately. While you have been following an old man, the same old man has been following R. M. His name is Richard Moss, an accountant with a villa in Camden Town, a dog you befriended, and a lady who does not return his affections, no matter how hard he tries to buy her heart with trinkets and splendour.” He took a pause in which he gulped down half his brandy and I stared at him in amazement. “Mr. Moss is the man we’re looking for. Lestrade is across town on a fool’s errand; he seemed to think the letter from Ms. Dawson was something to go on. Mr. Moss has murdered three people over the course of two years. In the telegram office I asked them about him, and apparently two years ago he was destitute. Apparently he had, and still has, a proclivity for the drink, and pricey companions.” Holmes proceeded to recount how Mr. Moss had talked the poor Detective Constable Barnes into changing his will. The poor soul had no idea his will left all his worldly possessions to his accountant, Mr. Moss. “He has done this twice already before Barnes? That’s horrible. How did you know?” I gasped. “Remember that poor old woman in Hampstead who was poisoned nine months ago? She had recently changed her will, but it was nowhere to be found. Same thing with that retired navy captain nearly eighteen months ago. That is how he has earned his living and his villa in Camden. I told Mr. Moss to come here tonight for his gloves. He will indeed…” A single ring on the doorbell almost made me jump. “Fetch the handcuffs, quickly! Here he comes!” Holmes strode over to the window and peered out. I hurried into Holmes’ bedroom and fetched the handcuffs. Upon my return to the living room I found Holmes sitting on the sofa and our guest lying prostrate and unconscious on the floor. Our guest was unmistakably the owner of the large brown dog. Richard Moss, the accountant. “Wait here while I call on Lestrade. He would put up a terrible fight so you must restrain him,” Holmes said as he drew on his coat and left.

  The Adventure Of The Broken Book

  By Pamela R. Bodziock

  Monroeville, PA, USA

  I have never known my friend Sherlock Holmes to hold a grudge, nor to bear any ill will towards those who may have wronged him. Given his position as the foremost consulting detective of the age – a position which, by its very nature, resulted in an ever-increasing number of enemies and rivals swearing revenge of the blackest sort – it would be unsurprising, and perhaps understandable, if even a mind as coldly logical as his would, on occasion, turn to thoughts of resentment for any of his myriad foes. And yet, in my long years of association with him, nothing seemed to be further from the case.

  Therefore, my surprise was considerable that May morning when I accompanied Holmes to a small village in Surrey to meet with our newest client. It was somewhat unusual for us to be seeing a client outside of London without ever having first received them at our Baker Street rooms for a consultation – but such was the nature of Holmes’s quietly black demeanor during our journey that I knew this to be an unusual case in many respects.

  Our destination was Undershaw, a private residence that proved to be of stunning and unique design. We awaited our host in a sumptuous entry hall, some two stories tall with a grand fireplace. “Holmes,” said I at last, ignoring the dark look my friend had been stricken with since we’d set out from London, and was now turning in my direction. “Who is it that we –”

  But before I could finish the question, our client had entered the room. There was a moment of silence, and I watched with some surprise as a flicker of quick-changing emotions passed over my friend’s face – recognition, hesitation, something akin to uncertainty – before his features settled into an expression of oddly cold anger.

  “Good day to you, Mr. Holmes,” the gentleman said, casting a nod in my direction. “It has been a long time, has it not?”

  “Eight years,” said Holmes, as I raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Or three, depending on one’s reckoning.”

  “Indeed,” the other answered, with a curious note of sadness in his voice. Our client was a great giant of a man, his height rivaling that of Holmes himself, with a thickness of limb and body that far exceeded that of my friend. He was finely dressed in carefully tailored attire – though his most notable feature was that of a great walrus mustache, which was neatly groomed and hung across his face like a banner of honor. Or at least, it would have been such if the man’s face had not been set in such an expression of utter disconsolation.

  “I must confess, receiving your summons surprised me considerably – a feat which you, of all people, should appreciate the difficulty of,” said Holmes.

  “And I must confess myself still somewhat surprised at having asked you here,” said the gentleman quietly.

  “Holmes, you know this man?” I asked, glancing between the two of them with some small confusion.

  “’Knew’ might be the operative word, my dear Watson,” returned Holmes. His eyes remained fixed on our client, and there was a chilling fury quite unlike anything I’d ever seen on my friend’s face. “Our acquaintance with one another has lessened considerably in recent years.”

  “Perhaps I should introduce myself,” the gentleman said to me, coming towards us with hand extended. “My name is –”

  “Please, allow us to skip such pleasantries,” said Holmes coldly. “Tell us why we’ve come.”

  Our host hesitated but a moment. “Very well, sir. I have requested your presence here because I ... need your help.”

  A long silence greeted his words. “Surely you are not serious,” said Holmes at last.

  “Would I ask you here, after all these years, only to make a jest such as this?” the other returned. “It’s no joke, I assure you.”

  “Then I regret to inform you that my associate and I are taking on no new clients at this time.” Holmes was already making for the door. “It was a pleasure to see your lovely home –”

 
“My dear Holmes.” Our host clasped his hand upon Holmes’s arm, and though my friend’s expression did not waver, I who knew him so well could see the flicker of emotion buried deeply in his eyes. “Perhaps I’ve no right to come to you asking for help, but I simply do not know where else to turn”

  “And I tell you I cannot help you!” Holmes cried, with a passion that would have surprised me had I not been measuring the growing fury in his eyes. “The bond between us has been severed by your own hand, doctor, and no amount of speeches will repair that damage.”

  “Holmes, who is this man?” I said, unable to bear my friend’s anger without understanding its cause. “How come the two of you to know each other?”

  “How I know him, and who he was to me at one time, is of no consequence,” said Holmes, shaking off the other’s grasp upon him. “Know him now as who he has become to me – the man who contrived with Professor James Moriarty to fling me into the depths of the Reichenbach Falls!”

  I gaped at my friend’s declaration. “This man was in league with Moriarty?”

  “It was he who set Moriarty in the center of his criminal web, who gave him the tools and resources he needed to control his empire – and who led Moriarty on the path to find me. The man you see before you, Watson, is, if truth be told, the mastermind behind the mastermind. I would not be guilty of exaggeration if I were to proclaim him the creator of a madman!”

  The reason for Holmes’s unaccountably dark mood had become clear. There had been some deeper relationship, that of acquaintance or colleague or even, perhaps, friend. Our newest client was not merely a criminal, but a traitor. “And now you, sir, an associate of my friend’s greatest enemy, come to Mr. Sherlock Holmes asking for help?” I demanded.