The Case of the Blue Ice, A Sherlock Holmes Story

By Cheryl Lee

There is a case of a failed suicide. This is brought to Sherlock Holmes' attention the next morning by a concerned granddaughter. The man was once a client of Holmes' years eariler in which the theft of a faboulous blue diamond was never solved. Many suspects are tossed before the sleuth- the haugty butler, mysterious gardener, two cloaked shadows following the detectives, the hot-headed grandson, or someone else lurking in the background? Soon, more bodies are found and all have connections to the family and a mysterious 'thief', known as 'Thames Weasel'. Will Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson be in time to prevent another attempt, will Lestrade and his usual bumbling ways cloud the outcome?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cheryl Lee
• Release date: Jan 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310924668

Cheryl Lee

A retired educator now living in the Pacific Northwest.Traveled through and visited forty-eight of the fifty United States, summered in Mexico, Canada, Great Britain-England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland, visited western France, written plays for elementary, middle, and high school, taught classical fencing, volunteer reading, teaching puppetry, international artist with work displayed in greater London, Scotland, Wales, mid-west and western states.I will also go by my late husband's title name, Cheryl Lee DeLighton, to honour my late husband, C.N. Lee DeLighton and the stories he dictated to me. See zazzle.com/CherylLeeDesigns or contact:[e-mail]

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The Case of the Blue Ice

A Sherlock Holmes Story

Cheryl Lee

Copyright 2013 by Cheryl Lee

Picture cover: Photobucket

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The Case of the Blue Ice

Forward

The light from the dying embers of the fireplace coupled with the moonlit glow streaming through the stain glass window gave off an eerie luminescence to the large bedroom. The shadows played tricks with the eyes as the older man moved to wake himself in his green leather short wingback chair in which he had fallen asleep in hours earlier. He thought that he heard a strange noise which brought him to open his sleeping eyes. A book had long since fallen to the imported woven carpeted floor covering, in which the chair was positioned in front of the previously crackling blaze. Along side of the chair was a diminutive blackened with antiquity, round oak table still holding a small cut-crystal glass of whiskey, whose remnants of a stiff drink, it had been drunk nearly to its end. A darkly clothed figure slipped up behind the half-conscious man and held him tightly about his neck, with his dark green, silk paisley scarf wrapped loosely at the opening of his smocked Viridis-coloured jacket made the grip slip and twist with the effort. The gentleman's smoking jacket was hanging loosely around his aged form and the sash was undone at the waist.

The gentleman was average in stature, nearly thirteen stone, and eight inches shy of two meters. The hair had gone completely white and still thick despite his age, albeit the lines around his dark gray eyes told the truth. He had little muscular strength left at this advanced age to wrestle with the agile assailant, however, be it male or female for that matter. A hoarse whisper came from the attacker, thus doing so it appeared to come from neither a man nor a woman, nevertheless it could pass for either as the older man struggled with the intruder as he tried to ascertain the origins. Silhouettes in the little light made a grotesque dance of life and death. On the table sat a scrawled note on back of a sheet of paper, which had been printed on one side. A mechanical pencil fell off of the surface and rolled under the wingback with the efforts of the struggle.

Where is it? was the sentence barely heard as the attacked man closed his eyes, gurgling instead of answering this query.

Chapter One

A New Old Case

The lights were on in the upstairs apartment of London's free-lance detective Sherlock Holmes and his occasional roommate Dr. John Watson, in 221b Baker Street. The lamplighter was just turning off the flame in the corner lamppost at that very moment. The sounds of the early morning traffic moved through the dispersing fog as it was slowly lifting. A horse-drawn milk wagon ambled deliberately as its driver carried the daily allotment of milk and dairy goods to the routes' customers. On the side of the white painted carriage was the name of the local supplier in faded red paint, 'Westminster Dairy', the date of establishment was listed there as well: 1880.

Another street vendor, in several layers of muted and faded coloured sweaters and well-worn jacket and trues, his socks were drooped down. One had fallen completely onto the tops of his dusty, brown, laced to the top boots, as he pushed his ancient oak cartload of colourful, freshly wrapped flowers towards the corner of the park. His ruddy skin pigmentation almost matched his flaming red curly head of hair that nearly covered his dark brown eyes, his fingers poked through the black knitted pair of gloves over years of use and the large hands grasped the smooth handles as he shoved his entire fourteen stone body weight against it. His slight voice could be barely heard crying out his wares and the Scottish accent was thick and melodious to hear.

Agh, loverly fresh buds for sale, for yer bonnie lass.

This was Regents Park to be exact and the sounds of the animals waking up and roaring for their morning meals from inside of their metal cages of the Regent Park Zoo. Which sat sprawled at an angle across the street met and had competed with the trill of the seller. Cries of the many exotic birds squawking loudly and growls of upset cats made the blood run cold just hearing their sound emanate out of the mist. The howls of the many simians were similar to children fighting or laughing. The braying of the donkeys and zebras echoed and mixed with the other four-footed animals' cries.

A lone policeman twirled his nightstick as he walked his beat; his was the area that circumvented around the ten blocks from the park and encompassing it. He had tugged at his dark heavy wool cape to cover over his chilly feelings which this morning's air had brought with it. He peered at the fog with his gray tired eyes as he looked out just under his tall black hat that had the strap resting on his chin. The mutton-chop auburn whiskers almost hid the leather strip from view. His free hand was tucked inside the flap of his outer cover. Nodding towards the lamplighter as he strolled passed the busy, lanky dark green uniformed man performing his duties as he carried his thin ladder and metal torch.

The scarf about this worker was wound about his neck many times and the colours were of the gentleman's favorite football team, Manchester United. This combination of colours brought with it the reminiscence of a winter holiday. The barely visible blue eyes flashed recognition towards the constable and then returned to his duties. The worn leather gloves had the tips of the fingers missing as not to catch ablaze as he went through his rounds, either setting the lamps alight or dousing them. His thinning black, oily hair was peeking out from under his leather short-billed cap and the long unruly ends touched his scarf. The sparse chin hairs and sideburns filled the face.

A shining black lacquered, handsome cab with its sole passenger clopped its way across the moist cobblestones of the street. The driver was garbed in red and black livery as was the deep chestnut coloured horse leading it with it's heavy woolen blanket lain on to the keep the chill from the steed. The quick motion of the horse as it paced forwards brought a rise of steam emitting from the animal's mouth. Inside the lone rider was clutching at his Inverness trying to keep warm. The Tam with its matching Hunter plaid material was sitting askew on his aging head and covered the graying bearded gentleman.

A dog barked in the unknown distance, because the fog had clouded the exact route of its source of origin. The noise bounced off of the low hanging mist shrouding the true directions from which it had emitted. But, by the deepness of the tone, the baying was of that belonging to a mastiff or similarly bred massive breed.

On the park side walkway a trio of school boys rushed off to their classes, chided each other as they raced, not to be tardy again this morning.

Hurry Michael, the Head will surely tan our hides if we are late today! the smallest of the trio shouted to the other two, especially at the chubbier lad who puffed as he attempted to move as quickly as the others had. The school uniforms were the grey and green plaid belonging to the school's Head Master's clan who had founded the establishment. The grey knee socks were starting to slip as well. The tiny caps placed on their well groomed heads were also of that same hue, despite the fact that one had been hurriedly placed on the head and it sat cocked to one side. They were in the First Form and very close to arriving late.

A lone vendor of fresh vegetables slowly wound her way along the avenue shouting her wares' qualities and vitality. Morning picked fruit, plums, and apples. Delicious carrots and new potatoes get them 'ere, only a ha'penny each!

The soprano voice of the fifteen year old cried out towards the apartment side of the park, hawking her goods. A shawl of dull red covered her long wool dress of black; shoes well-worn peaked out from under the threadbare hem of her skirting. The young face was unblemished, yet an aged appearance crept in near her eyes. These dark brown eyes peered from the uneven bangs of her blonde hair whose wisps hung down past her black straw hat that sat upon her hastily piled hairdo. The