Sherlock Holmes

by David Marcum

“Why did you kill them?” Mycroft asked.

  “Patrick would not listen to me, and Alice was just stupid. She gathered the flowers for me, you know. Unfortunately for her, Patrick saw her and came here. I had to knock him out. Alice helped me take him to his room and set up the flowers in his quarters. I sent her back to pluck some more, killed Patrick, and then returned to the garden to deal with her.”

  “Why the elaborate ruse with the flowers?”

  “Patrick had been reading that Irish boy’s stories – I quite liked the one with the rose. Besides, I hate your mother’s roses.” She regarded Mycroft curiously. “How did you know?”

  “The floor was too clean,” my brother said. “There were no traces of the murderer, no mess left behind. Your instincts as a housekeeper betrayed you. I knew right away.”

  Mrs. Johnson laughed. “You have no proof.”

  Mycroft smiled. “I do now.”

  “What proof?”

  “You just confessed, did you not?”

  “I have already murdered two people, Master Mycroft. One more would not weigh on my conscience.”

  Mycroft’s smile widened. “My little brother has outsmarted you, Mrs. Johnson. He brought along plenty of witnesses, and I daresay the police are on their way.”

  Burton, Emily, and Smith leapt into action and restrained Mrs. Johnson. I ran to Mycroft.

  “Well done, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, ruffling my hair.

  Becky and Melmoth came up behind me.

  “That was rather reckless of you,” Becky snapped. “You could have been seriously injured!”

  Mycroft shrugged. “This was the only way. We could never have proven her guilt otherwise.” He smiled at me. “I knew Sherlock would figure it out.”

  “And that, my dear Watson, is the first time I was involved in crime-solving,” Holmes concluded. “Although it was actually my brother who solved the crime.”

  I stared at the detective in amazement. “Brilliant!” I exclaimed.

  Holmes flushed and looked out of the train window. “Ah, excellent. We should be arriving in London soon.”

  The Vingt-un Confession

  by Derrick Belanger

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been many days since my last confession, not since I left my sweet lass on the shores of my homeland, so many months ago. No, I’m sorry, Father. I did not mean to wander, but my confession has a story to it. While I have sins to confess, I also have to tell you of divine providence, of an Angel of the Lord appearing to me in the form of a University student, a lad near my own age no less, who helped me to see the light. He’s the reason I’m here today, Father. The sins, the student, and the miracle.

  “I came here from Cork. Was a fisherman, but found my body didn’t much care for the life of a seaman, so I sought my fortune elsewhere and crossed the sea and voyaged to Britain. Started out tilling the fields, working the harvest, but the city has always been in my blood, and so I made my way to London and took work at the docks. A hard worker I was, and I started saving what little money I could scrape together to prepare to send for my wife. That’s when tragedy struck. Three weeks ago, the boys and I were hoisting up a crate, when the rope we were using snapped. The crate came crashing down, killed me mates Peter and Kevin. I was fortunate to escape with my life, but I was still maimed. When I tried to leap out of the way, I wasn’t fast enough, and the weight crushed my leg. Crippled I was from the accident.

  “The doctor was able to patch me up enough and, after a week of bed rest, I was able to move around on the crutch I have under my arm now. But even though I could hobble around, the docks had no work for me. My meagre savings were spent quickly, and I took to begging to keep food in my belly and a roof over my head. Then, as if life could not treat me any worse, I get a letter in the post from my sweet lass. She tells me to come back to Cork, that her uncle has secured me a position in a tannery, and that we can be together and start a family.

  “You can imagination, Father, how my joy at this news quickly turned to melancholia. For how could I, a beggar with barely enough money to keep my belly from growling, find my way back to dear old Ireland?

  “Father, I confess, that I started gambling. There was a spot not far from where I stayed, a back alley where dice were rolled and cards were played. I started letting my belly grumble more and more to save what meagre earnings I could and then join in whatever game was being played in the alley. I never lasted more than a few rolls of the dice or hands of poker. I know it was wrong of me, Father, and I paid a price for my actions. I was becoming more and more destitute, and even started to go a day or two without eating. I wondered if I would die a wretch out on the streets, penniless and forgotten.

  “Which brings me to the events of today. I was on my usual corner with my cup in hand. It was a slow morning, barely had tuppence, when this young lad comes up to me. Now most of the people, even those that put a little something in my cup, they don’t ever look at me. Fact is that when they do, they lift their nose in the air, like they just came across a foul rotting pile of trash. It’s not that they hate me – they just don’t like acknowledging what I represent, for they know a slip-up like what done me in could make them suffer the same fate.

  “But here’s this lad. Different sort of lad, too. Dressed nice, frock coat and a tied red cravat you see the gentlemen wearing nowadays. He was thin, maybe six feet tall with dark hair, and he had quite a beak of a nose. But what really caught me about the man were his eyes. They were the color of silver, like shiny coins they were, and unlike everyone else who walked by, he looked directly at me, almost like he was looking through me with his piercing gaze, as if his eyes were microscopes that the doctors use, and I was one of his specimens.

  “The lad stood over me and rubbed his chin with his forefinger, as if he was making up his mind on a matter. Then he says to me, ‘You are different.’

  “‘Don’t know what you mean sir. I’m just a beggar and,’ I shook my cup before him, ‘I’d appreciate anything you could spare. I haven’t had any food today.’

  “‘No,’ the lad said sternly, and I lowered my cup and my thoughts soured. Wasn’t sure what he meant ‘no’ about, and his statement put me ill at ease. I was afraid he was going to cause trouble with me, and I was so weak that I wasn’t sure I could do anything to defend myself.

  “‘No,’ he repeated. ‘You are not an ordinary beggar, not at all. I’ve seen you the last three days, and you have a much different history than the other beggars I’ve seen.’

  “‘I swear that I don’t know what you mean, sir. I’m just trying to survive.’

  “‘No,’ The lad stated as fact. “You are not just trying to survive. You have a story behind you. When I first noticed you, I could see that your injury put you in your current situation. You were a sailor for a time, but the life did not agree with you, so you became a laborer. That occupation did not suit you, so you became a dock worker until your accident forced you to beg on the streets. You are new to the work, which is what made me pay more attention to you. You are not good at this, not good at all.’

  “Course, Father, I was taken aback by all the lad said, like he had been following me around for years. ‘How?’ I stammered, my eyes all wide and my lips a quivering for fear this lad was the Devil himself come to take my soul away. ‘Are you a spirit?’ I finally asked him.

  “The lad had a long bout of laughter, but it was the strangest thing, Father. You’d think the boy would have let out some booming guffaws, but his laughter, which did bring tears to his eyes, was completely silent. No sound escaped his lips, and I started to believe I was in the presence of something otherworldly.

  “‘I have not had a good laugh like that in many days,’ he said, still tittering on occasion. ‘I can assure you that my body is made up of flesh and blood, same as yours, sir. Let me explain what I know. First, your tattered sleeve revealed a tattoo of a whale on your arm, a common enough design for fishermen. It appears to be your sole tattoo, and it
is one in a not prominent position, which alludes to your uncertainty of adopting the life of a sailor. The fact that you have but one tattoo leads me to conclude that you gave up that life shortly after starting it. Beneath your collar I have noticed deep bruises from leather straps that laborers use to pull tilling devices and haul hay. The marks are faded, which again leads me to conclude that this was not your most recent line of work. Your hands still have some noticeable rope burns which could possibly come from farming; However, with your injured leg, I doubt you would have traveled to London from the fields with your injury. So, what did you do for work to get your more recent callouses and burns? With your experience as a fisherman, it is easy to assume that you were a dock worker. It combines both your knowledge of ships with your strength as a laborer. Unfortunately, you were injured. I’d note that – from the way the foot has been flattened – a rather heavy crate fell on your leg, crushing it, and that is what made you end up on the streets.’

  “Father, I must admit that hearing the lad speak so plainly about my situation and how he was able to piece it together – Well, I chuckled, so impressed was I with the boy and how he was very good at noticing things. I told him he should join a carnival as a ‘Mr. Memory’.

  “The lad smiled and said his father wouldn’t approve of such a career. I asked him if he was a college lad.

  “‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘I will be starting University at the end of summer.’

  “I thought our conversation would be coming to an end, and so I asked the lad his name.

  “‘Sherlock Holmes,’ he responded.

  “‘Well, Mr. Holmes, I wish you the best of luck on your endeavours. But before you go, I do have one other question for you.

  “‘Go on.’

  “‘Why did you say that I was not very good at begging?’

  “‘Because it is the truth,’ he said. Then he explained. ‘I have been wandering the streets of London for many days now, as I have been preparing for my education. I have seen multiple beggars in my day-to-day journeys. I have seen the same beggars, but they never stay in one spot. They always shift locations at peak traffic times to gain the most money from the people around them. Some even disguise themselves as they wander so that a person may give them money twice in one day. It is wise on their part, as they do not make enough money to change their lot in life, but they can survive.

  “‘But then there is you, sir, a beggar who stays in the same spot every day, not moving much, not trying to improve his trade. No, you have a goal in mind, but begging is not your solution. However, I should point out that in your state, whatever your plan is, it is not working. You shall die on the streets without changing your course of action.’

  “I was stricken by his words Father, for this lad, who was blessed with amazing powers of observation, knew my fate. Of that I was certain. He did not need the power of foresight to see what was going to become of me, and I hung my head in shame.

  “‘Do not look so forlorn,’ the lad said to me. I lifted up my eyes to see the boy grinning and holding a sovereign between his fingers. ‘Now, I have taken up much of your time, and I wish to compensate you for it.’

  “‘Oh, bless you, sir,’ I bawled. ‘Bless you, bless you! You truly are a gift from the Gods!’

  “‘Perhaps I am,’ he admitted. ‘But perhaps you are a gift for me as well. I have ascertained some of your background, and I know of your predicament. However, I still have a gap in my knowledge of you, sir. I do not know what preoccupies you and prevents you from attempting to earn a living at begging. Please tell me that which I do not know.’

  “And so I did, right there on the street, I told young Sherlock Holmes all about my troubles. I told him about my wife in Ireland, my offer to work at a tannery, and I confessed to my squandering of my money on gambling.

  “As I told my story, his eyes glazed over, not like he was bored mind you. More like he was there but not there. Much like those monks you sometimes see with their legs crossed like a pretzel. When I finished, the young man nodded his head a few times.

  “‘You are in luck,’ he finally says to me. ‘I do not have an engagement ‘til early this afternoon. That gives me quite some time to solve your problem. I shall return within the hour.’ And before I could say anything, Mr. Holmes quickened away. I didn’t know what to make of the queer fellow and wondered if he truly would return, or if he would forget about me as rapidly as he had arrived into my life. I tried not to think much on his final words to me that he would solve my problem, for a lad like that one seemed the type to find an interest in another topic as soon as he turned a corner. Besides, I thought to myself, if he didn’t return, I was still a sovereign richer.

  “But true to his word, my newfound friend returned carrying a small bundle of clothing under his left arm, a large slice of bread in his right hand, and beaming a wide grin from ear to ear. ‘Ah, I hastened to join you, my friend,’ said Mr. Holmes to me, handing me both the clothing and the bread. ‘Now, eat this bread and put these clothes on. Do not tarry. We have much to do in a limited time.’

  “So hungry was I, Father, that I believe I ate the bread in three large bites. Then I picked up the shirt and pants.

  “‘These clothes are for me,’ I asked, holding up the garments.

  “‘That is what I said,’ Holmes quipped. He held a bowler in his hands, which seemed to also intended as part of my new attire.

  “Now, Father, odd as this might sound, me being a beggar and all, I found myself not wanting to accept the man’s charity. He had already given me a sovereign, and these clothes clearly cost far more than that. I said as much to Holmes and he snapped at me. ‘Do not accept this as charity. You will soon be able to pay me back for my offering. Now, go down that alley, change your clothes, and come out post-haste!’

  “I did what he asked and came out feeling much better. Though still grubby, I no longer looked the role of a beggar by any means. Holmes then popped the bowler on my head. ‘Now, let me see,’ Holmes said aloud while inspecting me. ‘Yes, this will do nicely. Come now! We have just a few blocks to travel, but at your hobbled pace, it will take some time.’

  “‘Where are we off to?’ I asked, nervous about leaving my corner.

  “‘Why, to Emerson’s Alley.’

  “Emerson’s Alley is the gambling spot where I lost most of my money. We play openly in an alley – which as you know ain’t legal and all that – but Emerson paid off the police so that they turned a blind eye to his racket.

  “Holmes told me, ‘They are currently playing dice, but I asked Emerson and his dealer if we could play a few games of Vingt-un if I brought along my partner. I had made certain to lose a few games of Commerce, then threw away even more money on poor rolls of the dice. Don’t look stricken, sir. I had to do it to get him to agree to the game. Vingt-un has more risk to the dealer because he is taking on multiple opponents at the same time. It is much easier for the House to bust. Emerson only agreed to the game when he saw my money flowing into his coffers. Don’t worry, everything’s going according to my plan, and at our current pace, we should arrive in plenty of time for this escapade of mine to work.’

  “‘Do you know how Vingt-un works, Father? No, I didn’t think so. It is a newer game and there’s a few versions of it making the rounds. It is a game of cards where the dealer deals everyone two cards, including himself. The dealer always holds his cards in hand while the players receive their cards laid down – at least in this version they do. The first card is dealt face-up and the second card is face-down. The goal of the game is to get your cards to add up to twenty-one without going over. If you go over, then you bust and lose the game. Whoever has the highest hand without going over twenty-one wins. The number cards are worth their face value – the royal cards are worth ten points, and the Ace is worth eleven. You can ask for additional cards if you have a low hand, but you run the risk of busting by going over twenty-one. That make sense, Father? Good. I know this is long, but I won’t take much
more of your time.

  “So we arrived, Father, and me and Holmes got ourselves dealt into the Vingt-un game. There were two others with us, playing against the dealer. We lost the first two games, and I wondered if Holmes had thought himself capable of more than the rules of the game allowed. After all, he was wonderful at observing things, but cards are a different story, especially when the dealer gets to keep his cards hidden until the end of each hand. Then, I won the next game, and Holmes won the following. We started winning more and more, but then we’d lose a few hands as well. Holmes would signal to me when he wanted me to ask for another card, and I followed his lead, even when I knew I would go bust. Holmes never spoke a word to me, just occasionally looked at his watch and said he had to make certain not to miss his afternoon appointment.

  “We played like this for a while, when suddenly, Holmes completely changed his strategy. He started putting in bigger wagers and then he’d win. Holmes won five hands in a row, and amassed a small fortune. Emerson and the dealer looked testy. The other players quit, and Holmes offered to continue with just the two of us as players. We played two more hands and lost, but our bets were small. Holmes then said he had an appointment to get to, and thanked the dealer for the rousing games.

  “Holmes helped me to my feet, and Emerson started coughing. I wondered if he became ill from seeing his daily take dwindled, but when I had my crutch under my arm, I turned around with Holmes, and we saw our exit blocked by three ruffians.

  “I may not be the smartest man on the planet, Father. I certainly don’t have the brains of Sherlock Holmes, but I could tell Emerson’s coughing was just a way to call his dogs.

  “‘What’s all this then?’ I growled at the burly men before me. They stood arms crossed in front of their chests making a human wall before us.

  “‘We don’t tolerate cheats in here, you dirty cripple,’ the man in the center said with a sneer.

  “‘I assure you, sir,” said Holmes, “that we did not break any rules in playing our game. Indeed, we lost almost as much as we won. Now, if you will excuse me and my partner, I do have a luncheon – ‘