Baker Street Irregulars

by Michael A. Ventrella

  Sherlock sputtered in utter disbelief. “That’s—that’s—illegal!”

  “I know,” Watson said casually.

  The boy’s hands flew to his head. “It is utterly inadmissible as evidence! Why would you even do that? You’ve never been disciplined for any kind of improper behavior in your entire career.”

  Watson shrugged. “Everyone bends the rules here and there. Sometimes I’ll find something illegally, just for my own knowledge. I can’t use it as evidence, but it leads me to something that can. Something I wouldn’t have found otherwise. I would never do anything I could be caught doing. I guess that’s where we differ.”

  Sherlock’s eyes darted frantically around. “Well, well, all right, I use a little something to boost my natural intellect, all right? So sue me.”

  “I’ll be arresting you, not suing you.”

  “But you don’t have any admissible proof.”

  “You thought you would impress me with your brilliance. But nothing impresses me.”

  “Just because I’m using, it doesn’t make me the killer. I came here to help you, Detective!”

  “We have you on camera.”

  “That is entirely impossible! There is no way you have footage of that, unless you doctored it!”

  Watson nodded. “I’ll admit…you were pretty clever about it. But one of the techs got you off the reflection of a mirror in a window of all things. It’s amazing what they can do these days with a camera.”

  Sherlock held up his hands while staring at the ground. “Look, look, I was investigating the graffiti on my own, alright? I was questioning the local population.”

  Watson cocked his head. “I assume Drebber was your dealer. Did you owe him money?”

  “What? I—no!”

  “Tell me, who was ‘the killer’ going to turn out to be? Someone you had a grudge with, or just some poor, unfortunate soul?”

  Sherlock spoke to the heavens. “This is ridiculous. Let no good deed go unpunished, Detective?”

  “I’ll admit, the hacked bots were a dead end. But something told me if I just gave you enough rope you would find a way to hang yourself with it.”

  Sherlock flung out his arms to his sides. “And this was your brilliant plan? To lure me alone into an isolated location?”

  Watson held up his sidearm a little higher. “Don’t worry, I’m a quick shot.”

  Sherlock’s anger exploded outward. “Are you kidding? I’ve been taking essees all day! I’m goddamn invincible!”

  “I’m sure you’re incredibly fast and strong on all those drugs. You could easily overpower me, like you did to Drebber. Hell, you’d probably even be able to snatch the gun right out of my hand. Too bad you’re in a clunky police issue suit right now.”

  Sherlock roared and leapt for him—only to smash into his own faceplate and cause his stiff suit to drift slightly forward.

  Watson didn’t react. “That’s the nice thing about police suits. We can remotely freeze the joints for prisoners.”

  Sherlock snarled and cursed. His suit wobbled slightly, and he started drifting awkwardly around the cabin.

  “I guess this makes you part of that lucky minority, then?” Watson asked, unworried.

  “This was the perfect crime.” Sherlock’s spittle flew onto his faceplate. “I had every angle covered!”

  “No plan survives contact with the enemy. Human behavior can’t be so easily predicted. Too bad my poker face had you fooled.”

  The boy snarled. “There’s no way you caught me on tape doing anything.”

  Watson made a show of remembering something. “Oh, I didn’t. I lied about that.”

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “We didn’t see you on any footage. I just assumed.”

  “That’s entrapment!”

  “You confessed to premeditated murder and illegal drug use, then attempted to assault a police officer. Oops. Guess you need to watch your temper. I’m told the drugs will do that. I figured if I annoyed you and pushed you long enough, you would slip. I tend to have that effect on people.”

  Sherlock glared at his adversary. “Brilliant deduction, Watson.”

  Sin Eater and the Adventure of Ginger Mary

  BY

  Gordon Linzner

  Salali perched on an oak stump in the shade outside Shannon Cavish’s cabin. Only her bare feet were exposed to the late June sun. Like many Cherokee in the Appalachians, she and her husband Dagatoga had been accepted by the town of Wattles; they blended in easily, adopting most of the newcomers’ ways. The territory had made more than a few adjustments in the half-decade since West Virginia broke from its mother state amidst that dreadful war.

  She saw the hermit’s approach long before she heard it. Had she closed her eyes, she might have been completely unaware of the other’s proximity until she felt her friend’s breath on her ear. Even her husband, master tracker that he once was, could not have moved more silently.

  Gaunt but muscular, close to six feet tall, wearing leather breeches, a cotton frock shirt, and a leather belt pouch, Cavish had been hunting small game. A throwing stick was tucked into the belt—more accurate, her friend insisted, than the average rifle. Less disruptive, and just as deadly. A fresh rabbit carcass dangled from the belt.

  Cavish could, with a little effort, put on a friendly demeanor, but more often was terse, particularly in the face of bad news.

  “Who has died, Salali?”

  “That’s hardly fair, Shannon. I’ve called on you many a time without the town needing a Sin Eater’s services.”

  Cavish shrugged an apology. “True. You’re the closest thing to a friend I have.”

  “Closest?”

  “My only friend. Nonetheless, when you just want to chat, or wish me to cheer you with a tune on my fiddle, you don’t have that slouch to your shoulders. The hesitancy in your voice always means you are about to ask my other persona to perform a duty. Today the event appears doubly tragic; a hanging, self-inflicted. Old man Mullen? That would be his style, though not his temperament. But no. I see by your expression it was worse than that.”

  “How did you guess? Though I should be used to your insight by now.”

  “Hardly a guess. As I approached, your eyes took in the fresh game dangling from my belt, and you winced. Not a usual reaction from someone who has often hunted with her husband. A suicide would be doubly sinful…” Cavish stopped. “My God. It was a child.”

  Salali nodded. “Mary MacDonald.”

  “Ginger Mary? But she’s barely fifteen years old!”

  “She was found mid-morning, hanging from an oak tree on a ridge half a mile south of the MacDonald homestead. She’d apparently slipped out the night before.”

  “You were part of the search party that found her; hence your greater than usual distress.”

  “I was. She’d been somewhat moody of late, but no one thought…”

  “Shayla and Desmond must be devastated. Bad enough losing her baby to cholera last year…” Cavish stood silent a moment, then looked to the smokehouse. “I must gut my catch, change from these hunting clothes, gather my cloak and ritual kit. What time is the memorial?”

  “Sunset. They don’t want to drag it out longer than necessary.”

  “Understood. Be assured, the Sin Eater will be there.”

  Only Salali and Dagatoga knew the identity of the Sin Eater, whose mystical abilities seemed to include knowing whenever there was need. It helped that, as the town’s main shopkeepers, the pair were privy to all of Wattles’s news and gossip. If anyone else suspected a more mundane explanation for the Sin Eater’s uncanny timing, they did not question it. No one wished to know more about that human repository of mortal sin than necessary.

  Cavish hesitated. “Wait. That new circuit preacher, Brother Jason, isn’t he due back in town around now? His first sermon, when he replaced Father Clemens at the beginning of May, had more than a few harsh words about non-preachers usurping the role of clergy in absolution.”
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  “You were at that meeting? I don’t remember seeing you.”

  “I stood in the back, by the trees. If I don’t want to be seen…”

  “…you won’t be. I know. No worries. Brother Jason was in town yesterday, and performed a quick prayer service, but left before dawn, overdue for something in Kenzie: a wedding, or a baptism, or something. I wasn’t paying attention, as we were organizing the search for Mary.”

  “No blame there. Good to hear. The family will not need that extra drama. Ginger Mary!” Cavish sighed. “This is difficult to process. That child loved life.”

  “She was one of the few townsfolk to get more than a grunt out of you, as well.”

  Cavish offered a wry smile. “Though we rarely spoke, we shared a love of and curiosity about nature, Salali. She took such joy in the very sight of a red fox, or opossum, or deer. I half-believe she regarded me as another harmless woodland creature.”

  “You never fail to astound with your detailed knowledge of the townspeople, considering how little interaction you have with them.”

  “I may be a hermit, and a pariah, but I have eyes and ears, and my curiosity…”

  “…keeps your mind active. So you’ve said, often. It is no less amazing.” Salali rose to begin the half hour walk back to her store. “I’ll see you at the MacDonald home this evening.”

  “No. You will see what everyone else sees: the Sin Eater.”

  Salali inclined her head. “I stand corrected.”

  • • •

  As the sun began a slow descent on one of the longest days of the year, a dark figure moved towards the MacDonald homestead with a deliberate, halting gait. The purposeful pace was partly to throw off the more observant townsfolk, but mostly to avoid tripping on the heavy wool cloak, which dragged along the ground, raising small clouds of dust; the spring had been a dry one. A black scarf concealed most of the face beneath the cloak’s hood.

  The tradition of a designated lowly person absorbing the sins of the dead so that the latter might proceed to the afterlife as pure as when he or she entered this world had been brought to their new country by Welsh and Scottish immigrants. Although a case could be made for Jesus taking on the sins of others as the prototype, the custom was still considered heathen. Yet, if it brought comfort to the families of the deceased, did no harm, and allowed an extra measure of interaction with the hermit’s neighbors while providing the emotional distance Cavish required for mental and physical survival, why not?

  Mary’s corpse lay in an open wooden coffin on a makeshift bier. The early summer evening was warm, and as the girl had loved the woods near her home, the family decided to hold the ritual outside. Besides, few wished a Sin Eater to enter their homes if it could be avoided.

  Salali was the first of the townsfolk to notice the Sin Eater’s approach. She usually was. She did not acknowledge its nearing presence, not even with cursory eye contact. She guessed her friend was sweltering under the heavy cloth, but that was part of the mystique.

  Head bowed—none had ever seen the pariah’s face, nor cared to—the Sin Eater approached the corpse, scuttling like a crab. All was in place: a loaf of fresh bread rested on Mary’s chest, along with a skin of bitter ale and a handful of coins—the Sin Eater’s payment. Traditionally, attendees turned away to allow a measure of privacy to the deceased—and avoid seeing the disturbing rite. This evening was no different.

  The Sin Eater began the ritual in the usual fashion, muttering phrases of condolence in a high-pitched voice, so softly even the nearest townsfolk could catch but a word or two.

  To Salali, it seemed to be taking longer, the Sin Eater’s cadence slower, more deliberate, with perhaps a few extra phrases. Did the circumstances of Mary’s death merit more attention?

  Since it was not unknown for some attendees, usually younger children, to sneak a quick peek, the shopkeeper discretely turned her head.

  The Sin Eater had already pocketed the coins. One long-fingered hand rested at the high collar of Mary’s dress; the other pressed against the dead woman’s right hand. As Salali watched, the Sin Eater’s hand moved down to brush against the bare foot.

  Such examination was not part of the ritual as Salali understood it, or as it had been previously performed. She turned away again. There must be a good reason. The Sin Eater would not otherwise do anything this out of the ordinary, would not risk garnering undue attention.

  The introductory phase ended. Bread was noisily consumed, the skin of ale drained. Then: “I give easement now to thee…and for thy earthly sins, dear child, I pawn my own soul.”

  After which words the Sin Eater normally made a quiet exit, and the funeral proceeded.

  Not this time.

  The cloaked figure remained by the bier and, raising an arm, announced, “These sins do not taste right.”

  There was a collective gasp.

  “What mean you?” demanded Shayla MacDonald. “Have we done something wrong? Have you?”

  The Sin Eater waved a negative. “All is as it should be with the rite. But, as I well know, the grievous sin of suicide should taste far more bitter. This child did not take her own life.”

  More gasps and muttering.

  “You are saying she was murdered?” asked Shayla’s husband, Desmond.

  A brief nod. “Moreover, I sense a second, unblemished soul here.”

  “She was…with child?” whispered Shayla.

  “I can only tell you what I sensed. It is for others to determine the truth.”

  “How dare you, sir!” boomed a voice from the back of the crowd. “Exploiting this family’s grief! Are you fishing for more coin? Or greedy for further attention?”

  Hiram Jones, unofficial head of Wattles’s town council, stepped up to address the speaker.

  “Lower your voice, Dermott. This is a solemn occasion.”

  “I’ll not be silent! Remember the words of Brother Jason, last month? This creature is filled with the unredeemed sins of our dead.” A handful of other attendees began to mutter in agreement. “Show your face, and repeat your accusations, if you dare!”

  Salali tensed, prepared to defend her friend, though her connection with the pariah would surely risk her own status, and that of her husband, within Wattles.

  “Enough!” shouted Shayla MacDonald, breaking free of her husband’s comforting arms. “I know not if the Sin Eater speaks truth, or even knows the difference between truth and fiction, but I say: if there is but the slightest chance some fiend has slain my daughter, and sullied her reputation—if there is any way to be certain she did not take her own life—I must know.”

  Jones nodded. “We can ask Dr. Fletcher in Carsonville to examine the body; he is best qualified. It means delaying the burial until tomorrow. Are you sure about this, Shayla?”

  “It is my deepest wish,” Mrs. MacDonald replied.

  “It’s still disrespectful,” Dermott mumbled.

  “I’ll ride out tonight,” Desmond volunteered. “I stand with my wife on this.”

  “No, Desmond,” Jones countered. “You must stay with Shayla. I’ll make the arrangements.” He turned back to the Sin Eater, looking for further clarification.

  The cloaked figure had already vanished into the encroaching night.

  • • •

  “If the noose had not been cut and disposed of,” Cavish said, clambering up the trunk of the tree from which Mary’s body had been cut down less than twenty-four hours earlier, “I wouldn’t have to do this. The knot alone could have told me if she’d tied it herself, or someone else had, just as the marks on her neck clearly showed that she’d been strangled before hanging, and the slight swelling of her hands and feet indicated early stages of pregnancy.”

  “That last is surely a guess,” said Salali. The branch extended partially over a steep ridge. She watched her agile friend with mild concern.

  “Not quite. You’ll see.”

  “You don’t fool me, Shannon. You’d be doing this anyway. You’re always ta
king that extra step.”

  A sharp laugh. “True.”

  “You were missed last night, you know.”

  “Eh?”

  “Shannon Cavish was missed. After all, you did have some rapport with the girl.”

  “Ah, well. The townsfolk know how we recluses are with crowds.”

  “They do. I told them you were there in spirit.”

  “That’s one way to put it.” Then: “Ha! As I thought. This branch is abraded in the wrong direction. It was pulled upward.” Cavish swung down to hang like an opossum from the branch, then dropped the eight feet to the ground, landing a few yards from Salali. “Therefore, the rope was used to raise a heavy weight after it was in place…”

  “…whereas, if Mary had truly committed suicide, the rope would have already been looped around the branch, and pulled downward,” Salali finished.

  Cavish nodded approval. “Our time together has not been wasted.”

  “Your mentoring and my husband being an expert tracker, before his eyes went bad.”

  “I appreciate all your skills. How is Dagatoga, by the way? Please convey my apologies for dragging you away from the store. I could have found this spot myself, but not as quickly. Having an eyewitness is invaluable.”

  Before Salali could reply, Cavish dropped prone to the ground, face down, and ran long fingers along the crusted soil. “Now, this is interesting! The indentation is so slight, because of our dry spell, I almost missed it.”

  “What have you found?”

  “How was Mary’s body conveyed to her family’s home?”

  “By wagon, of course.”

  “Not from this point. The hill is steep, the ravine on the other side sheer, the trees and brambles too close together to allow something that wide.”

  “Naturally not. Some of the men carried her down to the wagon.”

  “Exactly! You could manage getting a horse up that narrow path, past those brambles, but why would you? The only way down is by the same path. Look closer. Tell me what you see.”

  Salali squatted beside her friend. She, too, almost missed it.