Sherlock Holmes

by David Marcum

  Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. “I see. When did you write this story?”

  “Five days ago.”

  “Were you inspired by the tragic affair of Mr. Fitzgerald and Lady Rebecca?”

  Melmoth gaped at Mycroft. “How did you know?” he asked in a small voice.

  “Black-haired witch! Becky? She would never!” I exclaimed, recalling the housekeeper’s words.

  Mycroft favoured me with an approving smile. Becky – Lady Rebecca – was the stepdaughter of my mother’s best friend, Lady Elspeth, and she was a few years older than Mycroft. She visited us quite often. Mr. Fitzgerald and Becky had been friends ever since I could remember, and just recently, I had heard my mother say that Becky was engaged to be married to a viscount. We adored Becky – she was the older sister we never had – and she treated Mycroft and me better than her own half-siblings, for she claimed that her ladylike stepsisters bored her to tears.

  “Sherlock is quite right,” my brother told Melmoth. “Lady Rebecca would not hurt a fly.”

  “She is getting married for money!” Melmoth protested. “Mr. Fitzgerald was heart-broken. I saw him. He said he could not bear to live if she left him!”

  “Could he have killed himself?” I asked Mycroft rather doubtfully. I recalled the horrible scene and attempted to see Mr. Fitzgerald’s wounds, but came up with nothing. Mycroft’s arm tightened around my shoulders as I shivered.

  “No,” Mycroft said firmly.

  We were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. Burton, the butler, stepped in apologetically at Mycroft’s response.

  “I am sorry to intrude, Master Mycroft,” he began. “Lady Rebecca . . . .”

  Becky burst into the room, her long hair dishevelled and her green eyes wild – her appearance not unlike her given moniker. Her cheeks were tear-stained and her dress was torn in several places. Her bare hands and feet were covered with scratches and dirt. She threw herself at us.

  “Mycroft! Sherlock! Tell me it is not true! Where is Patrick? Where is he? I must see him!”

  Mycroft and I leapt out of the bed to assist her. I took her hand and he put an arm around her shoulders, leading her to the only chair in my room. Becky wept hysterically, clutching at both of us.

  “The first-aid kit, please, Burton,” Mycroft commanded. “Could you also call for Emily?” Emily was one of our maids.

  I disentangled my arm from Becky’s hands. “You climbed out of your window,” I noted.

  Becky nodded tearfully. “My stepmother locked me in.”

  Mycroft’s face was thunderous. “You may stay with us as long as you wish,” he promised. “I will take care of it.”

  She nodded absently. “Is it true what they say? Is he really dead? Did Patrick kill himself over me?” she whispered.

  “He did not kill himself. He was murdered,” I told her.

  Becky gave a little cry of horror and fainted. Mycroft regarded me reproachfully.

  “Who would want to murder Mr. Fitzgerald?” Melmoth asked quietly.

  “That is exactly what we need to find out,” Mycroft replied.

  Burton reappeared with Emily. They carried Becky away to settle her in one of the guest bedrooms. Emily had been a nurse earlier, so she could treat Becky as well.

  “Is her fiancé a jealous person?” Melmoth asked.

  I shrugged, for I had never met the man. Mycroft rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “I do not think so, but one never knows with affairs of the heart,” he said finally. “He does seem to care for Lady Rebecca.”

  “Why do you address her differently?” Melmoth asked curiously. “Sherlock calls her Becky, but you call her Lady Rebecca.”

  Mycroft puffed up. “I am nearly an adult. Sherlock is still a child.” He glanced at the clock. “It is well past bedtime for both of you. Good night, Melmoth, Sherlock.” He crossed his arms and waited until I climbed back into bed.

  “Call for me if you need anything,” Mycroft said softly, putting out the light. He closed the door behind him.

  Melmoth and I fell into an exhausted sleep almost immediately. It was at the crack of dawn that I was awakened by a terrified scream. Melmoth was in the throes of a nightmare. I shook him awake.

  “It is all right,” I told him. “It was just a nightmare.”

  He nodded tearfully.

  “Should I get Mycroft?” I asked.

  He shook his head and grabbed my hand, clearly afraid of being alone. I wondered if it would be wise to take him to Mycroft’s room. As if summoned by my thoughts, Mycroft threw open the door and rushed in.

  “What happened, Sherlock?” he asked, breathing heavily. He must have run all the way from his room. “I heard a scream. Are you two all right?”

  “Melmoth had a nightmare,” I told him. It was unsurprising, really. Melmoth was a sensitive child, after all, and it had been a traumatic day.

  Mycroft’s shoulders sagged in relief. He poured a glass of water from the nightstand and passed it to my younger friend.

  “Will you be able to go back to sleep?” my brother asked softly. “It is still quite early.”

  Both of us shook our heads.

  Mycroft smiled wryly. “I shall fetch us some milk and biscuits, then.”

  “May we accompany you?” Melmoth whispered.

  “Certainly,” Mycroft replied. “Put on your dressing gowns and follow me.”

  We found Becky sitting listlessly in the kitchen. I noticed that her hands and feet were neatly bandaged. She did not even look up when we entered. It was only when Mycroft pressed a cup of warm milk into her hands that she seemed to register our presence.

  “You will find the person who murdered my Patrick, will you not, Mycroft? Promise me that you will,” she pleaded.

  “The police are investigating,” Mycroft said evasively.

  “The police are idiots,” she hissed angrily. “They think he killed himself. I heard from Burton. You and Sherlock have more brains in your little finger than the entire police force of this county.”

  We stared at her.

  “Promise me, Mycroft, Sherlock – if you ever thought of me as your sister, promise me that you will bring my Patrick’s murderer to justice,” she begged, her eyes filled with tears.

  Mycroft and I exchanged a glance.

  “We promise,” we intoned.

  Becky smiled, regaining some of her spirit. “Thank you,” she said gratefully. “Now I can be at peace.”

  “No!” Melmoth shouted. “You cannot!”

  Becky looked at him, a strange smile on her lovely face. “What a perspicacious child,” she murmured.

  “He is right,” Mycroft said sternly. “Our promise will be void if you are dead.”

  Tears poured down Becky’s cheeks. “Have mercy on a heart-broken woman, Mycroft. You will understand when you have grown up and been in love.”

  I finally understood. “Help us investigate, Becky,” I said, taking her hand. Her hands were cold as ice. “Please.”

  She sighed, defeated. “Very well, then. What do you wish to know?”

  “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to kill Mr. Fitzgerald?” I asked.

  Becky shook her head.

  “What about your fiancé?” Melmoth asked bluntly.

  Becky looked surprised. “Richard? He does not care. He has a mistress, and he told me I could have Patrick as a lover. As long as we were discreet, there would be no problem.” She hung her head in shame. “I know it was not fair to Patrick, but I was so selfish . . . . I did not want to let him go, but he did not wish to continue an affair with a married woman.”

  “It is amusing that the lower classes expect fidelity in marriage,” Melmoth muttered.

  Becky stared at him. “You are too young to say something like that,” she said. “Where did you hear it?”

  Melmoth shrugged.

  “Marriage should be based on fidelity and respect,” Mycroft said quietly. “If you are unable to remain true to your spouse, it is better not to ma
rry at all.”

  Becky sighed. “A few months ago, I would have agreed with you, Mycroft. To be honest, I would rather be Patrick’s widow than Richard’s wife, but my stepmother . . . .” She stared into the distance, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “Do you know of anyone who bears a grudge against Mr. Fitzgerald?” I asked quickly, attempting to curb a fresh round of weeping.

  She blinked. “Other than my stepmother? No, not really. Patrick was fairly well-liked, was he not?”

  “Could you think of someone who would wish to harm you?” Mycroft asked softly.

  “One? I can think of several,” Becky said bitterly. “You have met every member of my family, Mycroft. Do you imagine there is a single person who does not detest me?”

  Mycroft sighed.

  Awkward silence fell. I was not entirely aware of Becky’s family relations, but even I knew that they were not exactly fond of her. Her father was her sole supporter, and he was often absent or unwell.

  “It has to be someone with unfettered access to our gardens,” I said finally. “Those were Mother’s prized roses, Mycroft. Even I am not allowed to touch them.”

  My brother rewarded me with a proud smile. “Very good, Sherlock. However, the gates to Mother’s private gardens were broken open last night – quite brutally, I am afraid.”

  “So, it could be anyone at all?” Melmoth asked.

  Mycroft shook his head. “We have plenty of white roses in the area. The murderer targeted Mother’s special roses – that would imply a certain degree of familiarity.”

  “Is it possible that Mr. Fitzgerald was not the intended target, but Mother’s roses?” I asked Mycroft. “I heard Mother say that they were valuable . . . and it would take a considerable amount of time and effort to pluck so many.”

  Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed. The roses were snipped expertly with a pair of gardening scissors. Gathering a hundred-and-eight of those, and laying them out so precisely would take at least a few hours.”

  Becky looked aghast. “Someone killed Patrick over flowers?”

  “It is possible,” Mycroft said gently. “Mother did say she was going to display her new roses at the next flower show of the Royal Horticultural Society. There was also some talk of planting her roses in the new garden at South Kensington, if I am not mistaken.”

  “If someone was trying to steal the roses, Mr. Fitzgerald would have seen them from his room,” I observed.

  “Maybe he tried to stop the thief, and the thief killed him. Then the thief found my notebook in Mr. Fitzpatrick’s room, saw the story about roses, and decided to act it out?” Melmoth suggested.

  “Why would anyone do that?” I asked. “If the purpose was to destroy the roses, they would not have bothered to clip them precisely and gather them. They could have set fire to the rose bushes, and if Mr. Fitzgerald caught them, they could have simply killed him and run away. Why the elaborate ruse? It had to be someone with a different motive.”

  “Let us not venture into conjectures, gentlemen,” Mycroft admonished softly. “While both of you have set forth valid points, we should await further facts before we leap to conclusions.”

  Melmoth and I nodded sagely. Becky, however, regarded Mycroft with horror, her comely features twisted in anguish.

  “It cannot be true,” she cried. “It cannot!”

  Much to Mycroft’s consternation, she flung herself at him and sobbed hysterically on his shoulder. He patted her awkwardly.

  The housekeeper chose that moment to enter the kitchen.

  “Get away from Master Mycroft, you witch!” she shouted. “Is it not enough that you got poor Patrick killed?”

  Becky let go of my brother and slumped to the floor.

  “That is enough, Mrs. Johnson,” Mycroft retorted sharply. He knelt next to Becky and helped her to a chair.

  Mrs. Johnson gaped at them. “But Master Mycroft . . . .”

  Mycroft held up a hand to silence her. “Lady Rebecca is our guest, and is to be accorded every courtesy as such,” he ordered.

  Mrs. Johnson was clearly displeased, but she did not argue. She busied herself with preparations for breakfast.

  Becky had regained her composure by then.

  “Mycroft,” she said quietly. “Tell me exactly what you saw when you found Patrick.”

  “It was Sherlock who found him, actually,” Mycroft replied. “However, given his reaction, I do not think he would have been able to observe everything clearly.”

  Becky turned to me.

  I fidgeted. Mycroft was right. I had not noticed much. I closed my eyes, recalled the scene in my mind and narrated what I could see.

  The door had been open, but the windows had been shut. I could smell blood, even out in the corridor. I had not entered the room, but from the doorway, I could see him on the hardwood floor, away from the carpet, lying on a bed of roses – six across and eighteen down. Mycroft was right, there were a hundred-and-eight roses. His face was pale and colourless, his eyes closed, and his arms folded across his chest. He was dressed in bloodstained clothes . . . Oh, that was his best suit! Strange, why would he be in his best suit in the middle of the night? Had he gone out? There was mud on his shoes – I knew that mud, it was from Mother’s private garden, with a peculiar colour from the special manure she used for her prize roses. That meant he had been to the garden . . . but why?

  “I focused on the suit. There were thorns and leaves caught in the fabric. There were scratches on his hands, too, as if he had been working bare-handed amongst the rose bushes. There was a lot of blood all over him, but I could see no gashes or blades that would justify it. Where did the blood come from? The roses closest to the body were covered entirely in crimson blood, but the ones farthest from him only had bloodstains on the petals that touched the floor. So, the flowers had been laid out on the floor earlier, where he had bled. There was a pool of blood on the floor, but where did it come from? Where did the blood on his suit come from? Where were his injuries? How was he killed? Where did the killer come from? Why was he away from the carpet? Why were there no bloodied footprints?

  A gentle hand on my shoulder brought me out of my thoughts. Had I said everything out loud? I realised I was trembling. Mycroft pulled me into an embrace.

  “Enough, Sherlock,” he commanded, his voice gentle yet firm. “You did well. Very well. Let go now.”

  I opened my eyes. Becky had dissolved in a fresh outburst of tears, and Melmoth was sobbing by her side. Mycroft himself was rather pale.

  I clung to my brother, reassured by his presence. “I do not know how he was killed,” I told him – rather tearfully, much to my embarrassment.

  Mycroft patted my hair, his eyes shining with pride. “You did very well, little brother,” he whispered in my ear. “I am very proud of you.”

  “Mycroft,” Becky called, her face tear-stained, but her eyes determined. “If Sherlock saw that much, I know you must have seen more, and I am positive you know what happened. Tell me.”

  Mycroft shook his head. “It is mere conjecture.”

  “Are you not putting your brother and his friend in danger by protecting the killer?” she accused. “Who do you think the murderer will target next? Is Sherlock not the primary witness?”

  My brother did not reply, but I knew he carried Father’s revolver in his pocket.

  “At least tell me what else you saw,” Becky begged.

  “Only slightly more than Sherlock.”

  “Please.”

  “The floor was very clean,” Mycroft said.

  “For heaven’s sake, Mycroft!” Becky screamed. “How was Patrick killed?”

  Mycroft sighed. “I may be wrong, but I believe he was stabbed from behind.”

  “Was a knife found in the room?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Becky opened her mouth to ask another question, but Mrs. Johnson’s arrival stopped her. The housekeeper glared at her as she lay the tea-tray on the table.

  “Has Miss Benne
t been found yet?” Mycroft asked her.

  Mrs. Johnson blinked. “Alice? I am afraid not, Master Mycroft. Poor girl must be heartbroken . . . she adored Patrick so.”

  “We must find her,” Mycroft declared. “I am heading to Mother’s private garden. Mrs. Johnson, would you please request Burton and Smith to meet me there at the earliest? Sherlock, fetch my swordstick and request Emily to send word to the constabulary. Melmoth, look after Lady Rebecca.”

  Mrs. Johnson frowned. “Master Mycroft, perhaps you ought to wait here while I fetch Burton and Smith. I will arrange for word to be sent to the nice inspector as well. Your swordstick should be with Burton. He did say last evening that he would be polishing it.”

  Mycroft shook his head. “I would like to take a look at the garden immediately.” He levelled her with a commanding gaze. “If you would be so kind.”

  Mrs. Johnson swallowed. “Yes, Master Mycroft.”

  “Stay here, Sherlock, and take care of things,” Mycroft told me. Then he turned around and left. Mrs. Johnson followed him out.

  “What’s wrong?” Melmoth asked me. “You are frowning.”

  “Mrs. Johnson went the wrong way,” I replied. I suddenly understood what my brother had meant. I grabbed Melmoth’s shoulders. “Melmoth, Becky – Mycroft is in danger! Get Burton and get the police!”

  I rushed out, grabbing one of Father’s walking sticks on my way.

  I found Mrs. Johnson and Mycroft glaring at each other in Mother’s garden. There was a fresh pile of soil near the destroyed rose bushes.

  “This must be where you buried her,” Mycroft said quietly.

  Mrs. Johnson laughed. “Silly child. You are far too clever for your own good. You shall join her shortly.”

  She advanced menacingly towards him, brandishing a large knife.