A Study in Victory Red

by Allison Osborne

  A Study in Victory Red

  The First Holmes & Co. Mystery

  Allison Osborne

  Copyright © 2020 Allison Osborne

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Holmes & Co. Stories

  Collection One:

  A Study in Victory Red

  Coming Soon:

  The Circle Code Conundrum

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  About The Author

  One’s ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpret Nature.

  -Sherlock Holmes, A Study in Scarlet

  Prologue

  July, 1944. London, England.

  Irene Holmes hunched on the lab stool, eye level with the long middle counter, observing the row of blood droplets sitting on the glass slides. Each one darkened at a different speed, coagulating, clotting. She scribbled notes on a piece of paper she'd found on the professor's desk.

  The lab was sweltering, but if she made too much commotion or bother, the university would refuse her entry next time she needed to work, so she braved the heat and continued with the task at hand.

  "Irene, you're not even listening."

  She straightened and looked at Uncle John, perched on a stool on the other side of the counter. His forehead beaded with sweat, collecting in the heavy worry lines. His hair, completely white and thinning, lay flat on his head. Though thinner from the rationing, he was still the strong, solid man that filled her childhood memories.

  She'd hoped that if she made it perfectly clear to Uncle John that she was working, he'd head back to Baker Street for tea and a visit with Miss Hudson, but no such luck.

  "I am listening, Uncle," she said. "I just don't know what you want me to do."

  He scowled, silver moustache twitching. "You are as frustrating as your father. Come home, to the farm, where the bombs can't reach you. It's not safe here."

  She studied her blood drops again. "The war is almost over."

  "How do you know that?" he asked.

  "Because." She scribbled another note. "How long could it possibly go on for?"

  "A long time." He rapped the counter with his knuckles, attempting to summon her attention again. "It's not good for you to live in that big house alone."

  "I have Miss Hudson," she said, tucking her dark hair behind her ear. "Besides, I might move out. Eddy's sister needs a flatmate."

  "Then you'll never be looked after," he said.

  She sat straight again and looked at Uncle John, determined to get him either back to Baker Street, or all the way home, so she could finish this experiment. "I'm almost thirty years old, Uncle John. I can take care of myself."

  "Most people your age are married by now," he said, but there was no heart behind his words, probably because he knew an argument was on the way.

  "Most people are fools," Irene said, her speech prepared. "Marriage doesn't interest me. What goes on in my mind-"

  "No more," Uncle John huffed, the familiar patronizing tone asserting itself. "You and your father will be the death of me, I swear. Irene, listen to me. You are skin and bones. Your hair, which for some reason you chopped off at your shoulders, is limp with mal-nourishment. I know you love London, but to choose to come back in the middle of a war..."

  "Perhaps it's better here," she snapped, accidentally opening the door for a conversation she didn't want to have.

  "Better?" He thudded his cane on the floor. "Walking through a war zone and living on your own is better than the farm out in the country? Do tell me how living day to day in a city under constant attack is better than a lovely home out in-"

  "Because it is." She smacked the counter in sheer frustration. Her perfect blood slides scattered, a few falling to the floor. "Here, I don't wake up every day wondering if my own father is going to recognize me."

  Uncle John closed his eyes for a brief second. Irene grabbed a pin, ready to prick her finger again to collect more blood. A painful lump lodged in her throat, like a ball of glass.

  "He has some clear days," Uncle John said, voice wavering slightly. "I am researching and trying different formulations to help improve his mind."

  "Until you repair his mind," she said, the lump causing her voice to crack. "I'm taking my chances with the bombs. I'd rather remember my father as the world's greatest detective than as a man who doesn't even know where he is, or who we are."

  "Irene..."

  She shook her head. If she spoke any more about her father, she wouldn't make it through this experiment.

  "I have work to do, Uncle John," she said, pricking her finger again, dropping fresh blood onto new slides. "Eddy is still short on Detective Inspectors, and he's got me on this puzzling case. I'll see you back at Baker Street."

  Uncle John stared at her for a few seconds, a frown on his face.

  "Your staring is causing me to lose focus." She knew her words were harsh, but the tears threatened to fall, and this damn lump in her throat wouldn't go away. "I will see you at Baker Street."

  "You promise?" Uncle John stood, leaning on his cane. "You won't get distracted?"

  "No, Uncle John."

  "Maybe when the war is finally over," he said, shuffling toward the door. "I'll bring your father back to Baker Street. That may help with his mind."

  Irene clenched her jaw so hard her teeth hurt. A tear betrayed her and rolled down her cheek, falling on a blood drop.

  As the door clicked shut behind her uncle, she flung the slide across the room, and it shattered against the wall.

  As she purposefully wiped away the wet streak on her face, the siren sounded.

  The hollow whine echoed through the street and into the window.

  With only seconds to get to safety, Irene blinked through her tears to clear her vision.

  The siren wailed, whirring its haunting sound through the building. Panic struck her, like a knife to the chest.

  Uncle John.

  She needed to get to him, help him take shelter.

  Scrambling off the stool, she stepped on a microscope slide. Her foot slid out from under her and she crashed to the ground.

  The siren started its second song, and behind the wail, the low growl of the buzz bomb.

  The guttural spasm grew louder with each second, and Irene sprinted down the long aisle toward the door.

  Panic squeezed her stomach, stealing the air from her lungs. The crude engine of the bomb overpowered the siren as it flew closer.

  Hand on the door, she froze, staring at the ceiling, willing the sound to pass over her.

  Keep flying.

  Keep flying.

  The roar, like an old lorry struggling up a hill, coughed and spluttered above her.

  Then, silence.

  Horrible, gut-wrenching silence.

  She flung the door open and ran into the hall. Uncle John shuffled as quickly as he could toward her, but he'd made it to the stairs and was still a few classrooms away.

  "Get b
ack in there!" he called to her.

  She shook her head and started toward him.

  "Not without-"

  The blast knocked her back into the classroom.

  Her head bounced off the counter as she collapsed to the floor. Bricks, wood, and plaster rained down on her as she curled in the rubble. Her ears rang, and warm, sticky blood coated her hair. Her shirt, ripped and hanging from her shoulder, matched the shredded hem of her pants.

  She could see the city through a hole in the building, right where Uncle John had shuffled down the hall. She tried to stay conscious, dragging herself through the wreckage, blinking through blurry vision.

  Uncle John...

  Must find him...

  She made it only a few feet before darkness overtook her, and she blacked out.

  Chapter I

  A Lovely Monday Morning

  June, 1946. London.

  Tuesday.

  Irene forgot the importance of remembering that today was Tuesday, but the day stuck in her head as she walked down the street. Maybe something extraordinary would happen today.

  The sun shone bright and warm this early morning, and she'd promised herself to leave the flat at least once per day unless the weather was horribly unforgiving.

  She strolled down the final street of her journey, through a quiet, well-established neighbourhood and spotted a police car parked at the side of the road. She hurried her pace. Police cars weren't in nice neighbourhoods like this too often.

  She made it to the target house, eyes widening in delight as she took in the scene.

  A Ford Anglia, driven from the road and through the garden, stuck halfway into the front of a three-story house, brick crumbling around the vehicle, denting the metal.

  A constable wandered around the garden, waiting for a detective inspector to arrive.

  Could be a simple car crash, but if the constable was wandering alone, with no driver or suspect, then there must be more to the story.

  Irene couldn't resist this mini-mystery. She tugged her hat down and made sure her hair was secured, the curls losing their shape in the early morning sun and blowing in her face. She pulled off her lovely walking gloves and swapped them for the pair of working gloves she kept in her pocket. Thin material, allowing her to feel the textures on her fingertips while keeping contamination to a minimum.

  She marched into the garden, hunched over, picking out clues in the grass. The driver's door sat ajar, and as she approached the car, Irene easily found the footprints of the driver in the soft grass.

  One, then another. Small feet, a woman's size 4. Stumbling away from the car.

  Irene peeked inside the car and saw used tissues, an expensive lipstick tube, and a pair of gloves from Southcombe's. She looked closer at the white silk and pearl buttons. A rather lovely pair of gloves.

  "Oi, lady!"

  She ignored the constable's voice and followed the footprints around the car and to the side of the house.

  "Lady." The constable huffed, hurrying toward her. Irene hurried too, but the constable grabbed her arm and tugged her back to the front of the house. She wrenched out of his grasp and whirled to face him.

  "I need to get around the building," she said.

  "This is a crime scene." He grabbed her arm again, walking her toward the garden gate. She eyed him, searching for some weakness she could exploit. He'd eaten a lot of pepper with his breakfast, going by the smell of his breath and the black flecks in his teeth, and had two large dogs at home, judging by the fur on his trousers.

  Nothing she could use.

  Time to dance.

  She pirouetted away from him, then twisted again, avoiding his outstretched hand as he grabbed for her. She sprinted to the side of the house, trousers easing her run. Following the footprints, she rounded the corner and stopped. Crouching, she spotted the footprints in the garden bed. She stepped into the dirt, shoes at either side, preserving the prints, and she looked through the window, into the house.

  The front of the car collided through the house and sat in the living room, tipping the couch, and tilting the side table. She pieced the picture together, figuring out how the car-

  "Irene Holmes, where are you?"

  She stepped out of the garden bed as Detective Inspector Eddy Lestrade marched around the corner of the house.

  Before he could say anything, she smiled at him.

  "Detective Inspector," she said. "How is my oldest and dearest friend on this lovely Tuesday?"

  His narrow cheeks were pink, angry words on the tip of his tongue. "It's Monday, and I am a little peeved."

  "Oh, darn," she hissed. "I could've sworn it was Tuesday-"

  "Irene," Eddy said. "You ran from that constable."

  "I did," she said, looking Eddy over. Pressed suit, new shoes, a little too much hair oil. Going for a promotion? Speaking with the boss?

  "I've told you," he sighed, rubbing his long fingers over his pointed face. "You're more than welcome to assist, but you must wait for me to get to the scene. Most of these men are new to the job. They don't know who you are. Namely, because you rarely took credit for any of the cases that you solved during the war."

  "I am regretting that choice," she said. "But, right now-"

  "Right now," Eddy gently took her arm. "You shall go about your business and leave me to this case."

  "As you wish," she lamented, walking with him to the front of the house. Eddy was only five years older than her, but his worrying had aged him, and even though she rarely felt guilt, she couldn't ignore the fact that the wrinkles on the bridge of his nose and his forehead were directly her fault.

  "I still do not get the respect I deserve," Eddy said, releasing her arm. "I must keep up appearances, make a name for myself."

  "Your name is Lestrade," she said. "Your grandfather was famous, and your father is in charge of everyone in blue. Your name's already made."

  "Yours could be too," he said, then stopped her before she protested. "And I don't mean by solving my cases. You're an excellent PI, Irene. Exact a higher fee for your work. Get someone to write about your cases and put them in a book. Say what you want about your father-"

  "Say nothing about my father," she snapped, the ball in her stomach reserved for such name mentioning moments cracked open, spilling hot lava into her stomach.

  Eddy raised his hands in surrender. "Sorry."

  They'd reached the front of the garden, and the constable kept his distance, puttering around the car, casting curious glares at her.

  Irene shot a glare back, then turned to Eddy.

  "I used to solve murders," she said. "As well as robberies and other high profile crimes. Then the boys returned from war, and now I'm asked to find peoples' lost pets. The odd interesting case comes through my door, but if I get asked to locate another cat, I shall go to war myself."

  Eddy dug his notepad from his pocket. "I'll find you more interesting cases, in the meantime-"

  "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

  The male voice squeaked from behind Irene, and she turned. A tall, lanky man took measure of the destroyed house. He clutched a satchel of groceries with long fingers, the paper crinkling as he squeezed tighter, the loaf of bread sticking out the top sagging in half. His rolled-up sleeves exposed tough, scarred forearms and his auburn hair was shaggy and windswept. An expression of disbelief fell over his thin lips, as his jaw hung open, his bright blue eyes staring at the crime scene.

  Irene shifted her shoulders to study him more, but Eddy stepped in her way.

  "May I ask who you are, sir?" He readied his notepad.

  The man nodded but couldn't take his eyes off the house.

  "Joe," he stammered. "I live here, in the top flat. This was the third place I rented in the past two months..."

  "Sounds like you've got a string of bad luck." Eddy scribbled Joe's information in his notepad.

  "My neighbour's cat was in there," Joe said. "He never stayed put at the best of times."

  That was
Irene's cue to leave. She wouldn't be roped into another missing cat case, as much as this man intrigued her. The bags under his eyes suggested lack of sleep and aged him, but his youthful skin soaked up the sun, forcing Irene to guess his age at no older than thirty-five. His clothes were pressed, but mismatched. A waistcoat over a shirt-

  "What does the cat look like?" Eddy asked.

  Irene really needed to leave. Eddy was setting her up to find the neighbour's pet, and she was in no mood for a cat hunt today.

  "I must go," she said to Eddy. "The husband in the bottom flat was having an affair. The car belongs to his mistress, and she crashed into the house, hoping to kill him. Go to Southcombe's, the glove store, ask who bought a size five, silk glove with pearl buttons recently, and you'll have your suspect."

  She continued on her walk, but snuck one last glance at Joe, noting his unpolished shoes and his trousers, which had been taken down to make them longer.

  Eddy called after her, asking her more questions about the case, but she ignored them. As she walked away, she felt Joe's eyes on her, so she turned and looked back. The top of the bread loaf finally sagged in half and fell to the pavement.

  A smile tugged at Irene's lips as she faced forward and continued her walk.

  On this lovely Tuesday.

  Which was actually Monday.

  Chapter II

  A Flatmate at Arthur's Inn

  Joe sat at the cafe window, watching the painter add a second coat of green paint to the bookstore across the road. Not three hours prior, he'd become homeless. Finding a new place to live should've been his top priority, but he'd promised his friend Michael that they would meet and catch up. Joe's nerves got the better of him, and he couldn't bring himself to cancel the plans with Michael, homeless or not.

  So, Joe sat in a small cafe, opposite his former assistant, Michael chatting away about his adventures since arriving in London.