The Wonderland Mystery

by John Pirillo

  “Really?” Watson asked. “I never knew that.”

  “Just one of the many things I have studied whilst you were sleeping, Watson.”

  Holmes pointed to the nicks on the two chairs directly in front of where Myron had fallen.

  “These two nicks are fresh. Splinters still jut out from where the axe head struck both sides as it hit first this one, and then bounced to strike the other.”

  Holmes walked several paces to the right. “From the intensity of the strike I believe the axe should have fallen right about…”

  He stopped and stooped forward. “Watson, a light!”

  Watson took out a box of matches from his ever present black bag and handed them over. Holmes opened the box and struck one. He lowered the match.

  Inspector Bloodstone and Harry both bent over to look more closely at what was revealed.

  “See here,” Holmes pointed out. “The floor has lost about a quarter inch of fabric where the axe head struck.”

  He stood up.

  He eyed the Inspector. “No, it did not vanish. Someone has taken it.”

  The Inspector groaned. “Why does crime have to be so complicated?”

  “Not crime, Inspector,” Holmes reminded him, “But the minds of men who are weak of purpose and moral character.”

  Lewis interrupted, “But Morris had very strong moral values and character.”

  “Yes,” Holmes agreed, turning to face Lewis, “But he lacked the more important ingredient.”

  “Which was?” Lewis demanded.

  “To not take something that was not his.”

  Holmes walked off.

  Watson followed him.

  Lewis eyed the spot where the axe had fallen, and then he looked to the Inspector. “How long until that foul thing strikes again?”

  The Inspector gave Lewis a squeamish look. “If I were you, I’d take your friend…”

  He looked over at the Door Mouse, who had his costume head off and was looking ill. “I’d take him away from London, from England on a long, long journey.”

  Lewis nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. Too much bad publicity has ruined the prospects of our show ever regaining its popularity.”

  As he began walking away, he brightened with a smile. “Harry!’

  Harry, who had been considering everything that Holmes had revealed, and what he would do now that his own show had been ruined, eyed Lewis sternly. “Whatever it is, I want no part of it.”

  “No, you’ll like my idea.”

  Harry bit his tongue, holding back his words and waited.

  “What if we did a magical show and called it Harry in Wonderland?”

  Harry turned on his heels with a snort and walked away.

  Lewis turned to the Inspector. “Maybe leaving the country isn’t such a bad idea after all.”

  The Inspector nodded.

  His son, Constable Evans, had to turn around to hide the smile on his face and to clap a hand over his mouth to stop from laughing.

  Chapter Eleven: A Clue Too Late

  Inspector Bloodstone and Constable Evans stood at the wharf where the ships sailed from the Thames to the English Channel against the brisk autumn winds. They both wore scarves and heavy overcoats.

  In the distance a merchant ship was cutting out into the Channel for its crossing.

  They had hoped to catch it before it left, but it was too late. They had no hard evidence, but they wanted to make sure anyway, but Lewis Carroll and his troupe of actors had already sailed away.

  The only way to stop them now would be to send a warship after them and that would take an act of the Queen, which was not likely to happen with such circumstantial evidence as they had.

  “Do you think the man was on that ship?”

  Constable Evans shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it, father.”

  The Inspector turned on him. “And why not?”

  “Because the killer is not human and doesn’t think like a human at all.”

  “How do you know this, son?”

  “It’s simple as Holmes would say.”

  “How so?”

  “An axe cuts two ways.”

  “And?”

  “So does evil. Whatever the true intent of that blade is, sooner or later it will become known and when it is good men somewhere, perhaps Paris, perhaps somewhere else…they will step in and fight it.”

  “But the axe is not sentient; it doesn’t strike without human hands wielding it.”

  “Exactly and since we have no conclusive evidence as to who took the axe, there is nothing we can do.”

  Constable Evans put an arm about his father’s shoulders. “There’s a lovely pub just about ten minutes walk from here and they serve a mutton stew to die for.”

  The Inspector grinned. “And right about now I feel like dying; I haven’t eaten for days.”

  Constable Evans smiled as he and his father left the docks and headed for the pub.

  Chapter Twelve: The Wonderland Mystery

  William Shakespeare fretted nervously as his people put up the main tent for the new show he had brought to Paris. It had been widely advertised and his friend P.T. Barnum had assured him that the Parisians would go wild over the idea, so he had assented to the Barnum’s request to tour it with him, starting with Paris.

  He turned to eye the huge banner being streamed across the top of the tent: SEE THE FABULOUS NEW PLAY, THE WONDERLAND!

  He grunted, then scratched at his beard and walked to help the men throw up a box office to accept ticket money.

  He didn’t notice Lewis Carroll as he stepped from a coach, shrugged his brightly colored jacket close about his shoulders, and then began walking towards the main tent.

  He also didn’t notice the new man that had been hired, who was quite burly and carried himself with a kind of awkward gait that mimicked that of an ape. The man smiled in a way that if anyone could have seen his face at that moment, they would have sworn that the devil was in his smile. What also was strange was the odd shape that seemed to bulge outwards from the heavy overcoat he wore.

  He was watching when Lewis greeted the Door Mouse actor at the entrance to the main tent, gave him a hug, and then entered with him.

  “Will!” A woman called to Shakespeare and he turned his attention once more to the box office being constructed.

  The burly man waited several seconds and then walked into the tent, reaching inside his coat as he did so.

  Before he did entirely, his face lit up, his eyes began to shine and then he vanished from view.

  Chapter Thirteen: 221B Baker Street

  Holmes lit his pipe, took several long draws from the stem, and blew out wispy gray curls of smoke that drifted slowly away towards the open window.

  Harry and Watson sat at the table sipping tea and chatting quietly.

  Holmes drifted off a bit. He was thinking about his meeting with Destiny in several hours. He hadn’t been able to see her once since this murderous axe incident had occurred.

  He wondered how she would take to the idea of an axe with a mind of its own. And then he smiled. Perfectly. She knew magic could be unpredictable and what could be more unpredictable than a magical axe with murderous intent.

  And then he froze as his thoughts coalesced into a direction his mind had been working towards for some time.

  He jumped up.

  “Harry, Watson!”

  They both looked to him.

  “How soon can you two be packed?”

  Watson gave Holmes a look of utter dismay. “But I was planning on spending the weekend with Mrs. Hudson.”

  Harry nodded. “And I with Mina.”

  Holmes smiled. “Bring them both.”

  Watson and Harry both rose.

  “Where are we going?” Watson demanded, still not sure about leaving London.

  “There are a great many people in danger of losing their heads,” Holmes explained.

  They gave him a startled look.

  Harry caught it firs
t though about where Holmes was heading with his thoughts. “You know the killer’s pattern!”

  Holmes smiled. “I have always known it, but never gave it any serious thought since it was so outlandish.”

  Watson stepped closer, frowning. “What?”

  “The axe is not just magical; and it is not cursed.”

  “But it has such a strong malignant force to it,” Harry blurted out, his face confused.

  “But there’s more,” Holmes pointed out. “I think I know why the axe has a mission.”

  “A mission of what?” Watson asked, truly puzzled about where this was all heading.

  Holmes looked out the window again. “You both remember that woman from some year’s back who took the lives of her parents and about a dozen others?”

  “Lizzie Borden,” Watson remembered. “Why?”

  “I knew that axe looked familiar because I had seen it in the London Museum.”

  Harry groaned.

  Watson looked at him. “What?”

  “The public was never given the full truth about her,” Harry explained.

  “What full truth?” Watson insisted.

  “That she wasn’t executed as everyone thought.”

  Holmes nodded as he turned around to look at a stricken Watson. “She wasn’t executed because she vanished. Utterly.”

  “But how? She was just a woman…she…”

  Watson’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. “My God! The axe!”

  “Yes, the axe, Watson. The same axe that the Royal Executioner requested to use and took from the museum with Her Majesty’s permission.”

  Harry’s face paled. “The same man who also died during his last execution. His axe was never found.”

  “Precisely. And now we can safely assume that Myron Forbes was the reason for that.”

  Watson had to sit back down. The axe wasn’t just cursed. It wasn’t just magical. It was the soul of a killer caught in a piece of deadly wood and metal…forever.

  “But why is she so intent on killing all those people?” Watson squeaked, his voice trembling with stress.

  Holmes looked away. “I’m not sure exactly, but I think if we were to look at the lineage of the people involved…”

  Watson got it. “She’s killing all the people that caused her to be caught!”

  “Exactly!” Holmes replied.

  Harry started to exit and Watson to go to his room, when Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs with a huge stack of fresh scones, a pot of coffee and sandwiches.

  “No one’s going anywhere before they eat,” she insisted.

  Everyone went to the table to sit and passed out the plates, silverware, napkins and cups then served themselves.

  Watson sat next to Mrs. Hudson, who leaned into him. “I hear Paris is quite lovely this time of year.”

  Watson looked over at Holmes.

  Holmes smiled. They might not catch up with Lizzy Borden, but one thing was certain; they would be able to spend quality time with the women they loved.

  Holmes dug into his food, savoring its texture and taste as his friends also ate and then broke into pleasant conversation.

  There might be death looming across the sea, but one thing was certain for now, he was with the friends he loved. And those without such friends were more cursed than even Lizzie Borden, who never allowed herself to feel true love in her life because of all her pent up anger and hatred.

  Holmes got up and brought the chess board and pieces to the table. “I think a few games of chess should be a nice way to cap off this evening.”

  “But I thought you were in a rush to capture that monster,” Watson said between bites of a scone.

  Holmes smiled. “One’s life is filled with so many ifs and buts and uncertainties, it behooves us to take advantage of what little time we have to appreciate that which God has given us…each other.

  Watson and Harry raised their cups in a toast. “To friends!”

  Mrs. Hudson raised hers as well and smiled. “And to those we love with all our heart.”

  Watson looked into her eyes and smiled. “Here, here,” he said gladly raising his cup again in toast.

  Then he glanced at Holmes and asked again. “I thought we were in a rush to get to Paris?”

  Holmes just smiled and moved his chess piece.

  “Your turn, Watson.”

  Chapter Fourteen: The End of a Curse

  The Door Mouse actor tightened the costume head on his shoulders and headed for the stage. He was alone. Everyone else was on stage in position for the curtain to open. He had been delayed because the latch on his head had to be tightened.

  Finished, he hurried to get on stage so the play could start.

  He didn’t notice the burly man hidden between two stacks of barrels. As he passed the burly man stepped out with an axe. He raised it to swing.

  Several gunshots rang out!

  The Door Mouse froze in his tracks a moment and then turned.

  The burly man stood frozen mid-swing, the axe fallen at his feet. He was trembling violently. “Dear God! Dear God!” he kept repeating over and over and then he fled the area.

  Holmes and Watson, both with drawn weapons, stepped into view from the side and stooped over the fallen axe.

  Harry Houdini came next and stooped over the blade. He raised his right hand over it and the blade began to tremble as if in abject terror.

  Harry glanced at Holmes, who nodded.

  Harry muttered in Latin, “Finis!”

  The axe turned a bright blue as blue flames leaped from Harry’s right palm and engulfed it. The red glow of the axe vanished and then the blue flames vanished.

  Harry waited a moment and then kicked the axe across the floor. It twirled about its axis several times and then scudded to a stop at the feet of Lewis Carroll as he entered the backstage area to find out what had happened to the Door Mouse.

  “Oh dear God!” He uttered when he the blade struck his shoes.

  Chapter Fifteen: Abroad in Paris

  The sun was high overhead. Only a few clouds in the skies. Small children ran in circles about their parents, dogs leaped and barked at each other, Gendarmes walked past with twirling sticks, hawkers sold apples, oranges, pears and souvenirs.

  It was a beautiful day.

  “Peace at last,” Watson sighed, his head in the lap of Mrs. Hudson, who was knitting while he lay there.

  She smiled.

  Destiny sat next to Holmes, both of them watching birds landing in one of the trees next to them.

  “I wish I could fly like that,” Destiny sighed.

  Holmes smiled. “I do every night.”

  She gave him a surprised look.

  “In my dreams,” he explained.

  She nudged him with her shoulder and laughed.

  Harry came running up, holding Mina Harker’s right hand. They were both breathless from the sprint. Harry held up a miniature Eiffel Tower. “Look what I bought!”

  Mina shoved him lightly as he gave everyone a proud look. “You’re such a child sometimes.”

  He gave her a peck on the cheek. “And you love every moment of it.”

  Mrs. Hudson gave Mina a look of commiseration a moment and then looked back to her knitting.

  Destiny cleared her throat to hide her laughter.

  Holmes smiled.

  Watson chuckled.

  Harry and Mina sat next to their friends.

  “Let’s do something exciting,” Harry said.

  Watson sighed. “Let’s not.”

  Everyone broke into laughter.

  A flight of birds leaped from the nearby tree and soared into the skies, flying higher and higher and higher.

  But even as they did so, Holmes mind was elsewhere, remembering poor Myron Forbes, who had died because of another person’s hatred. Had they killed an innocent man?

  Now, he would never know. And yet again, he had to live with a dead man’s soul weighing on his spirit.

  Destiny touched his cheek and nudged hi
m to look at her. “Stop it!”

  She knew exactly what he was going through.

  So he did.

  For a time.

  Request for Review

  If you found some pleasure in reading my work, please take the time to leave a review for it. Authors can thrive or die for the lack of reviews.

  Thanking you in advance for your kindness.

  John

  Author's Note

  I first read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's wonderful spread of detective stories when I was still a child. I didn't own books, so I read them at the public library, or at my school library. There was no Internet of Things, no Internet at all at the time. I was very into books as a child, always a loner of sorts. Even though I loved people, I was somehow always more in love with books. Call me bookworm then. Now bookworm writer. Maybe.

  I went through the entire adult library in my hometown as a child, reading everything from fiction to non-fiction, science fiction to fantasy, and classic literature to modern. It didn't matter. It was words on paper. I loved the smell of books. Still do, even though I cater to electronic books at this time.

  This is all a back-story of sorts to give you an idea of why my Sherlock Holmes while based somewhat on the canon of Doyle, are nevertheless much more than that. What would be the point of repeating what's already been done?

  No, rather I saw this writing experience as an opportunity to allow my imagination to romp in his playground, but take elements from other famous authors and stories I've loved over the years.

  Obviously, there are copyright issues when it comes to living authors, so even though I'd love to play in their yards too, that is forbidden territory. So I have contented myself to take my love of classic literature...Doyle, Verne, Wells, Dumas, Shakespeare and pour them into a mutual melting pot. Kind of a United States of Literature, so to speak.

  Whereas the Sherlock Holmes of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle functions out of London, England in the Victorian period; mine exists in a parallel world where all the authors who have ever lived and all their characters are alive at the same time.