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Sherlock Holmes in a Flash: New Short Holmes Stories; Copyright © 2010 Abbott ePublishing. All rights reserved. Edited by Stephen Abbott.
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Introduction
Seemingly no other character in modern literature has the power, and staying power, as does Sherlock Holmes.
His first appearance in the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was in 1887, and he went on to write four novels and 56 short stories featuring Holmes, the London detective who used his keen powers of deduction to solve crimes that befuddled the police.
The character lived on past his creator, however, and was found on the silver screen as early as 1916, in the William Gillette film “Sherlock Holmes,” which was based on his own turn-of-the-century play. In fact, Holmes has been the world’s most portrayed character - with over 75 actors portraying him in over 210 films, the latest being the Guy Ritchie film Sherlock Holmes, starring Robert Downey, Jr. as Holmes and Jude Law as his faithful sidekick and companion Dr. Watson.
This current Abbott ePublishing collection of 13 new, short, “Flash Fiction” stories is a tribute to Holmes and his creator. They are all 1,100 words in length, or less - often much less. You will quickly see that, with skill, this is all that is necessary for a talented writer to tell a smashingly good Sherlock Holmes tale.
Some of these stories are told in the style and tenor of the original Doyle tales. Others diverge, sometimes shockingly, into new territory - adventures we hope you will find eminently entertaining.
This collection also contains an Arthur Conan Doyle Flash Fiction story (although he would likely not have called it that) which is but 503 words in length.
“How Watson Learned the Trick” is a Sherlock Holmes parody written Doyle in 1922. It concerns Dr. Watson attempting to demonstrate to Holmes how he has learned the latter's "superficial trick" of logical deduction by giving a summary of Holmes' current state of mind and plans for the day ahead, only for Holmes to then reveal that every single one of Watson's deductions is incorrect.
Contents
The Case of the Stalking Man by Stephen Abbott (1,000 words)
Cliff-Side Musing by Alice Wright (999 words)
Adventure of the Feline Assistant by George Polley (727 words)
The Neverbody Business By George Polley (691 words)
Sherlock Holmes and the Holiday in Brighton by George Polley (1,088 words)
How Watson Learned the Trick by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1923) (503 words)
Body
of Evidence by George Polley (752 words)
Thoughts in the Night by Amy Craddock (879 words)
The Case of the De-Bugged Man by Stephen Abbott (1,000 words)
The
Sinister Monk by George Polley (940 words)
The Lad By Alice Wright (963 words)
The Man With a Knife, or, MacTavish Saves A Neighbour
By George Polley (654 words)
Sherlock Holmes and the Blue Clasp by George Polley (731 words)
Aftermath
By Merrily E. Taylor (993 words)
The
Case of the Stalking Man
By Stephen
Abbott
Manchester, New Hampshire
The clock on Sherlock Holmes’ mantle chimed out the hour.
“Eleven O’Clock, Watson,” said Holmes. “We are about to have a visitor.”
“How do you know this, Holmes,” said I.
“Because, dear Watson, the carriage has just now come to a full stop at the front door, it is a distinctive sound indeed. And this, of course,” his hand sprang upwards, with a paper clenched between his long fingers.
I took it from him. It read:
“Mr. Holmes, I must speak with you about a matter of utmost urgency. I fear that I am being followed by a dangerous man, and that is the least of my troubles. I will be in your vicinity around 11:00 to-morrow morning and I hope you can see me at that time.”
“A woman’s hand, no doubt, Holmes, as well as the writing. But what does it mean?”
“Yes. The name on the envelope is Lucy Stewart and I suspect that is Mrs. Hudson directing her up the stairs just now,” said Holmes.
Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door and escorted the young lady inside. She was a fair-haired maiden, not more than 30, dressed modestly and with hands that clearly saw daily work. But her face had a radiant quality that shone through her crestfallen expression.
She expressed amazement when Holmes immediately deduced her hometown from the mud on her boots, and her profession - a maid - from the shape of her fingernails.
“Please, Miss Stewart and tell us your tale.”
“I am to inherit a great sum from my late uncle, Harold Eastwick, more than I have ever earned, but I am suddenly being followed by a man with rough appearance and unknown intentions. I see him daily on my errands for my master, and he is there when I put out the lamp at night, for I have seen his shadow in the street.”
“Could this man be on your employer’s payroll, ensuring that your work is performed adequately?”
“No, Mr. Holmes, I’m sure of it. My master lives alone and has trusted me well these many years, because he says so often. I have never given him cause to have me followed. And while he has means, he has not the means to hire men to watch his maid.”
Holmes looked perplexed, and he rose from his chair, pacing around the room. “And this man, describe him for me.”
“He stands about your friend’s height, heavyset, with a thick, dark beard and moustache, wearing dark glasses and carrying a cane. He has worn the same brown suit each time I have seen him,” she said.
“A
very astute observation,” said Holmes, spinning around to face her.
“Watson,” he said, gesturing for me to come to him, his face
still fixed upon Miss Stewart.
“Yes, Holmes?”
Holmes whispered to me, “I want you peer out the window and tell me what you see.”
I did so and was amazed at what I saw. It was the very man Miss Stewart had just described, standing across the street! He pacing back and forth, occasionally looking towards the door of 221 Baker Street that Miss Stewart had recently entered.
“My word, Holmes, what does it mean?”
“I mean to find out. MISS STEWART,” he bellowed. “If you will excuse me, I have a quick errand, if you will remain here.”
And before she could protest, Holmes dashed out the door and down the stairs like a young schoolboy.
I comforted Miss Stewart, who was confused by Holmes’ rapid departure, and then moved towards the window.
There, I saw Holmes walk straight across the street and confront the man, who was at first taken aback by his directness, but then his head lowered in submission and he followed Holmes back across the street and into his home.
As the man entered with Holmes, Miss Stewart let out a gasp of instant recognition, and I took her shoulders in case she fainted.
“From your reaction, this is the man who has been following you?” She nodded, her jaw agape and her face white with shock. “Very well, please be seated, all of you, and we shall get to the bottom of his escapade soon enough.”
“First, sir, would you be so kind as to remove that RIDICULOUS disguise,” continued Holmes.
The man complied, removing his hat, a false beard, false moustache and his dark glasses. It was only then that Miss Stewart rose to her feet.
“UNCLE!” she shrieked. “But… you are dead.”
“No, child. I’m not dead,” said Eastwick. “But I may as well be.”
He then unloaded his entire tale, which concluded:
“I was fired from my investment firm because I was about to be accused of stealing, but as I said, I did not, even though I am destitute. My only crime was taking your late mother’s inheritance from the general fund. I faked my death, and fled.”
He
took a package from his pocket and handed it to Miss Stewart.
“She
wanted you to have it.”
Holmes sat pensively this entire time, absorbing the tale with his fingers pressed together as if in prayer, his eyes closed, with only an occasional raised eyebrow to indicate that he remained awake.
“Well,” he began, “This is clearly a matter for the police, and not for me. That you have come clean is good for you, but the police may have more to say on the matter.”
Mrs.
Hudson knocked rapidly and burst into the room. “Mr. Holmes,
Inspector Lesstrade, and his colleagues.”
In
stepped Lestrade, hat in hand, followed closely by two policemen.
“I
took the liberty of asking Mrs. Hudson to call on the inspector,”
said Holmes. “Lestrade, my note filled you in as to the minor
details of this case, but this man has a tale to tell about his
former employment.”
Lestrade and the police left with Eastwick, and after thanking Holmes and myself, Miss Stewart left as well.
“These cases are so many, and so predictable,” said Holmes.
Cliff-Side Musing
By Alice Wright
Torrance, CA
The cliff edge below his booted toes crumbled slight and Sherlock Holmes wondered how he would go on from here. His retirement, some eleven years before, had offered a variety of new experiences. Learning the apiary's art and studying his bees had offered amusement for a time. He'd even derived pleasure from the minor attention his handbook on bee culture had garnered. In the beginning of his retirement he had found he enjoyed the solitary act of writing and had made some small headway in compiling his magnum opus on detection, but these distractions had paled over time.
The previous two years, punctuated by danger, disguise and deception, had been bliss with their intense mental stimulation and the reward of success. He even flattered himself that the episode might merit an entire chapter in his book. But now the case was over, and Holmes found he was unable to find satisfaction in passively slipping back into the seclusion of rural life.
Holmes shifted his weight a fraction and more of the cliff-side fell away, causing him to compensate by distributing approximately 1.25 lbs more weight onto his heels. This portion of the Sussex coastline was infamous for the number of suicides who had sought their final solution from its heights. Just seven more degrees forward and a force even he could not escape, would exert its supremacy and dash him upon the wave-washed shale below -- and there would be an end to it.
He was cognizant of the fact something more than gravity was pulling at him…it was the dumps, once again exerting its pull, taking hold after the Van Bork case. The six months that had passed since the capture of a master spy and his cohorts had seen his country charge headlong into a war that raged just beyond the horizon. Men were dying over there, and Sherlock Holmes had done all he could do, all he would be allowed to do -- according to Mycroft -- to keep his beloved country safe. The military were in charge now, and after a perfunctory nod to his efforts on behalf of the Crown, followed by an overly condescending acknowledgement of his considerable sacrifice of time, Holmes had been sent back to his Sussex cottage to sit idly by while war was declared.
Trying to shake the mood, Holmes turned his gaze up the coastline with its snowy white caulk cliffs, rocky beaches, and changeable surf. It was a vista he had always found soothing, but not today. The twentieth century was leaving him behind; he had no place in it. Why stay then? Just a minute change in his weight distribution and... Fighting the urge Holmes recalled a decision on another cliff and how that cavalier act had brought sorrow to the few who'd cared. No, that would not do, not today at any rate. Watson, his solid, stolid friend who, after so many years of neglect, had come without hesitation when called to assist, was due on the 1:52 train; only the second visit Holmes had permitted his old friend. It would be cruel beyond words to have Watson discover that Holmes had succumbed to an unfortunate accident on the very day he was arriving for a long visit. It would also deprive Watson of Mrs. Hudson's revivifying tea, Holmes mused, cruel indeed. The thought caused a wisp of a smile to pass over his lips. Some might wonder which should bother Watson the most -- the loss of a good meal or the death, again, of his friend?
Holmes did not have to ponder this question; he knew the answer all too well. Hadn't he crouched in the shadows on another cliff-side and silently...selfishly...watched while Watson wept over the letter left for him? Watson had deciphered the signs of his friend's struggle and pronounced him lost, thus fuelling that genuine display of regard. He couldn't subject Watson to that sorrow again. No, this cliff was not the answer. Nor was the needle, which had become his habitually refuge of late. Holmes decided to use this time with Watson as the distraction he needed to regain control over his actions. He would eat the meals Mrs. Hudson cooked, sit before the fire and smoke and drink with his old comrade-in-arms in the convivial manner they had once enjoyed. Yes, a few days diversion might break the cycle and set him back on the path away from this cliff.
Now, if only one of his neighbours would conveniently succumb to a bizarre death while Watson was visiting, that would send Holmes and Watson once again in the fray. They were both older, but their hearts and minds were still willing and sharp. Yes, that would be just the thing to stir the blood, challenge the intellect, and lift the spirit. One could but hope.
Stepping back from the cliff's edge, Holmes turned toward the rolling grasslands dotted by clusters of sheep. A brisk walk and he would be in his bottom garden. His bees were indolent now, remaining deep within their hives to escape the crisp air, but he would check on them all the same. He had a duty to them, a duty he had neglected while in the grip of ennui. The weather would soon be too bitter and wet for long walks, and before him would be confinement, and a parade of time to be filled until spring. Until then he must persist in finding ways to remain diverted, in control, and when the weather was again fine, he would return to this selfsame cliff to admire the view, all thoughts of extinction banished from his mind. At least until such time as he had no other solution, and, he reminded himself, he no longer had a dear friend who would be devastated by a precipitous action, or unfortunate accident.
Friendship had its burdens and Sherlock Holmes swore to himself that this time he was going to carry his fair share of the load.
Adventure of the Feline Assistant
By George Polley
Sapporo, Japan
“Holmes? Is that you?”
“Shhhh” the figure replied in a nearly inaudible whisper.
Dr. Watson looked about in the half light. The street was empty except for himself, Sherlock Holmes, and a large orange-and-white cat with a round face, huge orange eyes and ears that folded forward, giving it an owlish appearance. The cat sat in the entryway of an apothecary shop across the way, staring across the street at a doorway four or five doors down.
“What are you doing?” Dr. Watson repeated, whispering in Holmes' ear.
“Watching.” Holmes hissed.
“That cat?”
Holmes nodded his head.
“Why, for heaven's sake?”
“Because,” Holmes replied with some exasperation, “he is watching a door. When it opens, he will get up and stretch.”
Dr. Watson looked at his friend and raised an eyebrow. What on earth could that mean? They waited. The cat didn't move a muscle or blink. The street lamps, never very bright, kept the street in darkness except for circles of light beneath each lamp post. Nothing moved for what seemed like half an hour. Then the cat got up, stretched, and yawned. A moment later, when two figures stepped out of the doorway, the cat meowed.
“It's them,” whispered Holmes. “Sir John Neverbody and Priscilla McDill.”
The couple and turned down the street, striding rapidly away from where Holmes and Dr. Watson stood in the doorway of a tobacconist's shop. Motioning to Watson, Holmes stepped out of the doorway after them, followed by Dr. Watson and the cat. Three blocks later, Sir John and Priscilla McDill stopped under a street lamp. Sir John consulted his pocket watch. Holmes and Watson stepped into a doorway.
“Almost time,” Sir John said to his companion. “He should be here at any moment.”
“Mmmm,” his companion replied. “I see we've picked up some company, Sir John. It's that cat.
He's sitting halfway down the block, washing his face.”
“Probably a stray,” Sir John replied, giving the cat a cursory glance.
“He looks a “bit well-fed for a stray, don't you think?”
Her companion shrugged and consulted his watch again. “Just about... ah! Here he comes.”
“Romanian Ambassador” Holmes whispered as a carriage appeared and stopped. The door opened and a gaunt gray-haired, mustachioed face appeared. “As I thought. Good! Glad you're here, Watson, as you can confirm the description of that man.”
“What could Sir John want with the Romanian Ambassador?” Dr. Watson whispered.
“Secrets,” Sherlock Holmes replied. “I've been following the two of them for weeks. This is the first time I've seen them actually meet with Ambassador Tanasescu. As you know, my good Watson, Sir John has some very close connections in the Gladstone government. The Romanians are after our military secrets. Sir John Neverbody is their link.”
“Sir John?” Dr. Watson in a shocked tone of voice. “What on earth would turn Sir John Neverbody to spying?”
“Money, my dear Watson, money. For his lady. Notice the envelope he gave Ambassador Tanasescu. Look,” he said, pointing; “the Ambassador just gave an envelope to him.”
“I see,” replied Dr. Watson in a perplexed tone of voice, shaking his head.
Bowing to the figure in the carriage, Sir John Neverbody slipped the envelope into an inside pocket of his overcoat, doffed his hat and said something to the Romanian, who closed the carriage door. As the carriage pulled away, the couple watched as it disappeared in a rumble of horse's hooves and steel wheel rims on cobblestones. Then, arms around each other, they turned and disappeared.
Dr. Watson looked at his friend. “Who is Priscilla McDill?”
“Sir John's lover,” Holmes replied with a cynical smirk. “She enjoys being kept in regal style, like one of Louis XIV's courtesans. The Romanian's money helps.” The great detective bent down and scratched the cat's ears. “Sad, isn't it my dear Watson, how the mighty are brought down by lust and greed, neither of which appeal to me.” He turned his attention to the cat. “Thank you, MacTavish. Once again you have provided excellent service.”
“My dear Holmes,” said Dr. Watson; “when did you begin using a cat as an assistant?”
“Quite recently, Watson,” replied the great detective. “He is reliable and he never errs.”
“A cat?” Dr. Watson raised an eyebrow. One just never knew what his brilliant but eccentric friend would come up with...but a cat? That was quite odd.
The Neverbody Business
By George Polley
Sapporo, Japan
The Neverbody business took a good deal longer to finish than anyone anticipated when it began, due to the involvement of so many people and organizations in Sir John's circle. The McDill woman, as it turned out, was a bit player in what became an international scandal involving the Ambassadors of Bulgaria, the Austria-Hungarian Empire and Albania as well as the Romanians. The news had barely broken before Priscilla McDill left Sir John to face his trials by himself, and absconded for America with Ambassador Tanasescu in tow. It was a good six months before things died down to the point where Mr. Holmes was able to disentangle himself and move on to other things.
“It shows you, Watson, just what greed does to a man. That and lust for a woman's attention.” Sherlock Holmes sat back in his chair and sucked on his calabash, which he had just filled with Peter Stockebye's Optimum Pipe Tobacco. Releasing a cloud of aromatic smoke into the air, he sank back in his chair and continued his thought. “Greed blinds, Watson as surely as losing one's physical sight. It blinds one to the consequences of one's acts. Gain power, influence and prestige, you attract those who use you for their gain. Caught in the glitter of attention, you become a tool of men like Tanasescu and his fellows, and the plaything of women like Priscilla McDill. I can only imagine what she'll put poor Anton Tanasescu through.” He laughed out loud. “It serves him right.”
“And Sir John?”
Holmes shrugged. “He'll spend a few months in gaol, then retire to a country estate to nurse his wounds and go over what is left of his accounts. His life in respectable company, I'm afraid, is finished. And so am I with him.” He picked a flyer up from his side table and waved it at me. “I'm off for holiday by the sea, Watson! Brighton! Care to join me?”
“I would love to,” I replied; “but I am so busy just now that I cannot.” He left the next morning, and didn't return for a month. But that is another story.
Holmes' involvement with the Neverbody business began several months before Sir John's and Priscilla McDill's arrest the night Holmes, MacTavish and I followed them to their meeting with Ambassador Tanasescu. It began one evening whilst Holmes and I were discussing recent cases over a glass of sherry. He had just lit his favorite burl pipe when a knock was heard at the door.
“Whoever could that be at this hour?” I wondered, raising an eyebrow. “You're not expecting...?”
“No,” he replied in an annoyed tone of voice; “Nor is a visitor welcome. It has been a rather trying week.”
When the knocking was repeated, I put my glass down and went and answered it. It was Chief Inspector Lestrade.
“Ah,” he said, smiling; “Good to catch you both in. Mr. Holmes, I have something I would like you to do, something that will take the utmost discretion from you both.”
Holmes nodded toward a vacant chair, emitted a cloud of tobacco smoke, and waited.
“It's this,” Chief Inspector Lestrade said, clearing his throat. “We have just stumbled across a situation that could have some serious international repercussions if it is allowed to progress.”
“Why doesn't the police handle it, then?” queried Holmes. “Why come to me?”
“Because you can move about under cover, Mr. Holmes, whereas the police, well ...”
“Be too easily identified,” continued Holmes with a smile and another cloud of tobacco smoke. Details please, Chief Inspector?”
That is when we learned of the skulduggery involving Sir John Neverbody, the infamous Priscilla McDill, the Romanian Ambassador and others from the Balkans interested in what the Gladstone government is up to. Poor Holmes put in a heavy few months discovering all the links between Sir John, Ambassador Tanasescu, Miss McDill and other nefarious persons and setting the trap that was tripped the night when Ambassador Tanasescu gave Sir John an envelope filled with marked bills, and he and his paramour were arrested.
Poor Holmes needs a good rest. I hope he gets it.
Sherlock Holmes and the Holiday in Brighton
By George Polley
Sapporo, Japan
Following the conclusion of the Neverbody business, Holmes left for a holiday in Brighton, taking an early afternoon train from Victoria Station. Instead of taking his usual lodgings in an out-of-the-way cottage, he booked rooms at The Grand because he wanted, he said, to be able to stroll along the sea and enjoy the sun.
“With all those crowds? How will you avoid being recognized?” I ought to have known better.
“Disguise, Watson, disguise! No one will recognize me.”
And they didn't. The problem was that he recognized Nigel Makepeace, a notorious ne'er-do-well, ladies man and thief. Holmes had settled himself in his rooms when he stepped into the lift to go out for a stroll along the sea, and there the scapegrace was, a charming middle-aged woman hanging on his arm. Holmes was so livid he nearly gave himself away.
“It was Lady Smythe-Dickens,” he said to me, “recently widowed and left a wealthy woman, and there that unspeakable wretch was, already panning for her gold!” Holmes glared out the window. “As they went into the salon she was laughing at his seductive repartee. The man is an utter dunce, but he does have a way about him.”
“True,” I said; “How were you able to resolve the situation?”
At this, Holmes gave a great, barking laugh. “In the end it resolved itself, Watson. Lady Smythe-Dickens was stringing him along. In the end, she led him straight into the waiting arms of Inspector Stanley Mowll, you remember him, Watson. You should have seen the look on Nigel Makepeace's face. It was priceless! Mowll saw me standing nearby and invited me over. As it turns out, 'Lady Smythe-Dickens' is a female investigator in Inspector Mowll's employ. The hotel's concierge saw Makepeace lurking about and alerted him. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“So you were able to have your holiday after all, then.”
“No,” Holmes replied, “because Mowll had an unresolved situation he wanted me to look at, and that took a good deal longer.” He signed and gave me a rueful smile. “It makes me wonder what retirement is going to be. With my reputation in detection, trouble does seem to find me.”
“That it does, Holmes,” I agreed. “So there was more than the Makepeace miscreant.”
“Yes. Mowll had quite a situation on his hands.” He picked up his favorite meerschaum and filled it with some tobacco he had purchased at a favorite Brighton tobacconist's. “It involved a wealthy Japanese silk merchant and some local businessmen.”
“I thought the Japanese did their business in London,” I broke in; “What was this fellow doing in Brighton?”
Holmes blew a cloud of aromatic smoke into the room. “Two of them had met the Japanese at a reception in London, and convinced him to go with them the next morning to Brighton, where they assured him that they and their fellows would place a very lucrative order with him.” He glanced up at me. “The Japanese businessman, whose name is Hiroyuki Mizuno, had never been in England before, so he asked his reception hosts about the Brighton men before making a decision to accompany them or not. Receiving a sterling report on them, he left with them the next morning. And promptly disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Disappeared,” Holmes repeated, nodding. “In Brighton. A Japanese sticks out like a sore thumb. Registers at my hotel, goes to his room, and isn't seen again.”
“What about his hosts?”
“They're the ones reported it to the police. They went up to get him, found the room open, looked in, and he wasn't there. His bags were there, one of them open on the bed, his shaving gear was laid out on the desk, but no Mizuno-san. Vanished!”
“And...”
“That's when Mowll found me, glaring at that Makepeace fellow.”
“And...”
“That's when my holiday ended and my work began.”
“Did you find the Japanese fellow?”
Holmes nodded. “We did, though it took quite a bit of doing. It seems that he was followed off the lift by an acquaintance of one of the Brighton businessmen who accompanied him from London. This man, whose name is Basil James Hyatt, owns a silk import business. Hearing from his acquaintance that Mizuno-san would be arriving in Brighton that morning, he was waiting in the hotel lobby, seated near the lifts.”
“Was the friend aware of it?” I asked.
“Apparently. What he was unaware of was the man's dishonesty. Hyatt followed Mizuno to his room, waited a moment, then knocked.”
“And then?”
“Why then,” Holmes replied with a grin, “he produced a gun, introduced himself, and led Mr. Mizuno away. Not to be seen or heard from until late in the afternoon of the day Inspector Mowll engaged my services.”
“And how did that happen? Reconnecting with Mr. Mizuno, I mean.”
“I went to Hyatt's office, introduced myself as Alastair MacNair, and said I was interested in buying quality Asian silk for my London shop. Mister Hyatt said that he had just that morning arranged for a large shipment of fine Japanese silk. 'I have samples available that I can show you, Mr. MacNair', he brought the samples out, and I began going through them.”
“I'm assuming, Holmes, that Inspector Mowll was nearby?”
“Indeed, he was; standing inside a shop across the street. Since I happened to be facing the street whilst looking at the samples, I looked up, nodded, and said that I wished to buy whatever he could get for me, which delighted him. Before he had his order book out, Mowll and three of his men were in the door and had him under arrest. Mizuno-san was tied up in the back.”
“What about Hyatt's business acquaintance? Did he know...”
“Not a thing. He was as shocked as anyone, and deeply apologetic to poor Mizuno-san. In the end, everything worked out well for what Mizuno-san came to Brighton for, as the business group bought everything he could supply. And Basil James Hyatt sits in gaol awaiting trial.”
“What about your holiday, Holmes?”
“The next two days went by without incident except for one small matter. As I was checking out, I noticed an old 'friend' lurking circulating amongst the hotel guests. You recall Reginald Peterken?”
“The pickpocket?”
“The
very same. I excused myself to the clerk, walked across the lobby,
accosted him, and handed him to the hotel's manager. Reggie's pockets
were full of wallets and cash. All-in-all, Watson, I'd say I had a
fine holiday in Brighton.” He threw back his head and laughed.
How Watson Learned the Trick
By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1923)
Watson had been watching his companion intently ever since he had sat down to the breakfast table. Holmes happened to look up and catch his eye.
"Well, Watson, what are you thinking about?" he asked.
"About you."
"Me?"
"Yes, Holmes. I was thinking how superficial are these tricks of yours, and how wonderful it is that the public should continue to show interest in them."
"I quite agree," said Holmes. "In fact, I have a recollection that I have myself made a similar remark."
"Your methods," said Watson severely, "are really easily acquired."
"No doubt," Holmes answered with a smile. "Perhaps you will yourself give an example of this method of reasoning."
"With pleasure," said Watson. "I am able to say that you were greatly preoccupied when you got up this morning."
"Excellent!" said Holmes. "How could you possibly know that?"
"Because you are usually a very tidy man and yet you have forgotten to shave."
"Dear me! How very clever!" said Holmes. "I had no idea, Watson, that you were so apt a pupil. Has your eagle eye detected anything more?"
"Yes, Holmes. You have a client named Barlow, and you have not been successful with his case."
"Dear me, how could you know that?"
"I saw the name outside his envelope. When you opened it you gave a groan and thrust it into your pocket with a frown on your face."
"Admirable! You are indeed observant. Any other points?"
"I fear, Holmes, that you have taken to financial speculation."
"How could you tell that, Watson?"
"You opened the paper, turned to the financial page, and gave a loud exclamation of interest."
"Well, that is very clever of you, Watson. Any more?"
"Yes, Holmes, you have put on your black coat, instead of your dressing gown, which proves that your are expecting some important visitor at once."
"Anything more?"
"I have no doubt that I could find other points, Holmes, but I only give you these few, in order to show you that there are other people in the world who can be as clever as you."
"And some not so clever," said Holmes. "I admit that they are few, but I am afraid, my dear Watson, that I must count you among them."
"What do you mean, Holmes?"
"Well, my dear fellow, I fear your deductions have not been so happy as I should have wished."
"You mean that I was mistaken."
"Just a little that way, I fear. Let us take the points in their order: I did not shave because I have sent my razor to be sharpened. I put on my coat because I have, worse luck, an early meeting with my dentist. His name is Barlow, and the letter was to confirm the appointment. The cricket page is beside the financial one, and I turned to it to find if Surrey was holding its own against Kent. But go on, Watson, go on! It 's a very superficial trick, and no doubt you will soon acquire it."
Body of Evidence
By George Polley
Sapporo, Japan
We were walking back from my consulting rooms one night, late, when I noticed what looked like the toe of a woman’s shoe protruding from a nearby doorway. “Is that a woman’s shoe – there, three doors down – just barely protruding?”
“Yes,” said Holmes, “a woman’s shoe, and we’d best look into it. That serial killer’s been active again, though not near here as yet.” He stepped quickly forward and I followed.
There, crumpled in the corner of the doorway, was a young woman, apparently sleeping. I squatted down and felt for a pulse, but found nothing. The poor girl was quite dead. As we learned later, she was a seamstress named Celia Brunetti, a recent immigrant from Florence, Italy, who lived with a local family about three blocks over. We found no marks or stab wounds on her, and no signs that she had been poisoned.
“We must look further,” Holmes said, unbuttoning the three top buttons of her bodice. “If this is that serial killer’s work, then we’ll find a tiny incision, covered with a small flesh-colored bandage, in which the tiniest of surgical instruments has been inserted into the heart, stopping it.” He looked at me with a grim smile. “This killer is a very tidy person. This kind of wound assures that bleeding will occur internally. As I thought!” he said, finding the bandage with only the faintest trace of blood soaking through. “It’s our killer. Watson, run to my rooms and ring Inspector Lestrade. He’s the lead investigator on this man’s crimes, so he’s likely to still be in his office.”