Sherlock Holmes: Tales From the Stranger's Room

By David Ruffle

A diverse collection of works from various writers, many of whom are unpublished until now. There are laughs, tears and numerous flights of fancy. In short; quirky and fun. Pull up a chair to the fireside in the comfort of the Stranger's Room and be transported to the world of Holmes and Watson. All author royalties accruing from sales of this book will be donated to 'The Beacon Society'

• Language: English
• Publisher: MX Publishing
• Release date: Dec 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781780921389

Book preview

2012

Nightmares

Emalee Andrulewicz

Mycroft jerked awake as he heard sobbing in the room next to his; the nursery, where his five year old brother slept. Mycroft closed his eyes, half- hoping his brother would go back to sleep, but the memory of how horrible his own nightmares had been, coupled with another cry, this one louder than its predecessors, shattered his hopes. With a barely susceptible sigh, Mycroft heaved himself out of bed, grabbed his dressing gown and went next door to his brother. He opened the door to the nursery and stood in the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Once they had, Mycroft proceeded to pick his way around parts that belonged to random items that Sherlock had pulled apart to investigate how they worked. He reached Sherlock’s bed, without tripping over anything, as the little boy whimpered again.

Mycroft touched Sherlock’s shoulder and whispered, Sherlock.

The boy stirred, but didn’t awaken. Mycroft said his name again and gave his shoulder a little shake.

Sherlock shot upright, his mouth open to scream, but Mycroft quickly planted his hand over Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock, Mycroft hissed.

The five year old blinked his terror filled eyes and turned his head to look at his brother, Mycroft?

Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed, Yes.

The boy visibly relaxed and Mycroft put an arm around the child’s shoulders. They were silent for a few minutes, until Mycroft asked, What was your dream about?

Sherlock shifted and by the moonlight streaming through the window Mycroft saw him point at a vague, shapeless shadow. That was after me.

Mycroft stood and touched the shadow. A coat? He glanced sceptically at his brother. He knew that Sherlock knew that this was a coat. Something else had scared him. Mycroft sat next to his brother again and said quietly, You knew that was a coat. What was your dream really about?

There was a flash of uncertainty in Sherlock’s grey eyes and Mycroft knew. Sherlock had been terrified by all the overwhelming data he sees and collates on a daily basis. The child doesn’t understand and does not know how to control this constant influx of information. As the child sleeps, his brain pieces the information together, subconsciously, everything he had seen during the course of that day. His brain was giving him a mental, visual report.

Mycroft hugged his brother closer to himself. He knew what Sherlock was going through. He had been here himself, but unlike Sherlock, Mycroft didn’t truly have anybody to teach him, show him how to turn this constant vision of images and sounds that melted into each other as if they were one, off.

It’s alright, Sherlock. I’ll help you understand. You are smart enough for your age. The bad dreams will go away, Mycroft whispered.

Sherlock shifted so that he could return his brother’s hug. The little boy soon found himself falling asleep. He didn’t fight it, not this time, because he knew his big brother will protect him and watch out for him as he slept.

***

The year 1891

Sherlock, I wish you would reconsider!

Mycroft, you know as well as I, that if I don’t leave for the Continent, you will never again get the chance to capture Moriarty.

Mycroft sighed as he watched his brother pace up and down his living room. He did know that. He, also, was afraid the price for Moriarty captured or dead will be too high a price. The only price his brain could think of was his own brother’s death.

Sherlock paused in his pacing and looked at Mycroft. He guessed what his brother was thinking about. Mycroft, I am not planning to die, but here are all my legal papers... just in case, He said slowly, gesturing to a nearby table that had a bundle of papers tied together with a black string. Sherlock had broken eye contact when he spoke of his probable death. Mycroft, I will write to you if I survive. If I don’t, Watson will tell you, Sherlock continued quietly. He felt something stinging his eyes and quickly turned his back to Mycroft, whose own eyes were also shining suspiciously.

Dr. Watson doesn’t know, does he? Mycroft asked, his voice slightly thicker than usual.

Sherlock rapidly blinked his eyes dry and said, No, he doesn’t know anything, yet. He faced Mycroft again.

Mycroft shoved himself out of his armchair and hugged Sherlock. Be careful, Sherlock. Don’t let this fiend get the better of you. Remember what I have taught you.

Sherlock returned the hug, slightly awkwardly. I will, he promised.

Mycroft pulled away and said, I shall be watching your back from here.

Sherlock smiled and rested his hand on his brother’s shoulder. He knew this as well.

Mycroft had been there for Sherlock when he needed him most. He felt a great deal safer with Mycroft behind him, whatever the outcome of this final problem.

The Mayfair Murder

Elisabeth Moore

As I read through my notes pertaining to the cases of my singular friend, Sherlock Holmes, I occasionally find one of such peculiarity that it seems almost criminal in itself not to share it with the public. Such was the case of the Mayfair Murder. Although it took place some years ago, I can recall it with perfect clarity.

It was on an unseasonably warm March day that Inspector Lestrade burst into our Baker Street rooms. Holmes, utterly focused on whatever vital experiment he was performing, merely waved an impatient hand towards a chair and otherwise ignored the interruption. I offered the man a sympathetic grimace as he subsided into the chair. He and his fellow Scotland Yarders had learnt to tolerate my friend’s brusque manner in return for the invaluable insight that Holmes could bring to a case.

However, five minutes had scarcely elapsed before Lestrade exclaimed, Mr. Holmes, I’m aware that you’re an extremely busy man, but would it be too much to trouble you with a matter of life and death?

With a sigh, Holmes tenderly set down the beaker he was holding.

Not at all, Inspector, he said courteously. It really is a trifling matter, simply a case of confirming my theory. Ah! He glanced at the beaker. As I suspected! If you’ll just permit me to make a note of the results?

He scribbled briefly on a piece of paper already covered with numerous other jottings before turning and fixing the Inspector with that piercing gaze that was already so familiar. Now, Inspector, how may I assist you in the case of poor Simon West?

That Holmes had once again made the correct deduction was obvious from Lestrade’s obvious expression of mingled exasperation and admiration. He seemed determined to retain some dignity, however, and kept resolutely silent.

All right, Holmes, I said, laying aside my book. How did you know?

Simplicity itself, my dear Watson, he replied. I waited patiently for him to elaborate. Observe the grains of sand that still adhere to the good Inspector’s shoes. An unusual colour, wouldn’t you say? I know for a fact that only one building firm in London uses sand of that particular hue. I also happen to know that this firm is at present working in the Mayfair district. From my perusal of this morning’s papers I can tell you that a young man by the name of Simon West has been found in a Mayfair house, stabbed through the heart. It is not really so extraordinary to assume that the two are connected.

By the time he had finished, both Lestrade and I were chuckling at the ease with which he managed to confound us. Then the police officer seemed to recall the urgency of his mission

You are quite right, Mr. Holmes. Briefly, the facts are these: at around six o’clock last night, a Mrs. Jamieson discovered the body of a young man in full evening dress, stabbed through the heart and lying stretched out in the best bedroom of No. 11, Finisterre Street. He had been dead at least eight hours, according to our doctor. As far as we can ascertain, there is not a trace of a clue to his killer, nor anything to hint at what he might have been doing in the house at that time.

And very naturally you have come to see what light I may shed on the case. Holmes reached out a hand for his pipe. While he lit it, he continued, But tell me, who is Mrs. Jamieson? How came she to make this grotesque discovery?

A local lady who ‘does’ for the owners of the house – the Penridge family, by the way – while they are abroad.

Penridge, Penridge, said Holmes musingly. I don’t seem to recollect the name.

There is no reason why you should, returned Lestrade. By all accounts they’re a perfectly respectable lot. There’s Mr. and Mrs. Penridge, he a Government man and she a Society beauty, and their daughter Catherine, all currently holidaying in Paris. There’s also a son but he’s serving abroad at present. We wired his commanding officer and that’s all as it should be.

Excellent, Holmes replied with a distracted air. I could see him turning the problem over in his mind. Suddenly, he appeared to come to a decision. Come, Watson, he called as he rose from his chair. To Finisterre Street!

Following his directions had already become something of a habit, but even had it not I should still have been intrigued by this dark business. Pausing only to snatch up my hat, Lestrade and I pursued Holmes’s angular figure down the steps. I do not know exactly what I expected to find at No. 11; possibly something out of a penny dreadful complete with blood running from under the door. In the event, it proved to be an elegant townhouse, painted white and with such an innocent appearance as to deceive the viewer entirely. Holmes immediately bounded from our cab and, with his usual meticulous care, began to examine the path. It was easy to see from his expression that the paving stones had yielded little though, and soon he turned his attentions to the house itself. With cautious, precise steps, he made his way to the sole ground floor window. After regarding it intently for some minutes, he beckoned to Lestrade. Is there another window on the ground floor? he asked.

Well, yes, said the Inspector, doubtfully. There’s a little walled courtyard round the back of the house. But the windows there only look in on the scullery. They’re far too small for a man to climb through.

Very well, but nevertheless I should like to examine them; it never does to neglect a possible line of enquiry.

On reaching the back courtyard however, we saw that Lestrade was perfectly correct. There were but two windows, each of maybe six by ten inches, and set so high in the wall that it was surely impossible for even a monkey to have gained entry by them. Holmes looked them over, but shook his head in dissatisfaction and turned away after only a short time.

In which case, said he, I would be grateful if you would take me to Mrs. Jamieson. She is still on the premises, is she not?

Oh yes, said Lestrade. I believe one of our officers is with her in the kitchen. This way.

Wait a moment, rapped out Holmes, seizing Lestrade’s sleeve. The door. I daresay it will do little good now half the population of London has let themselves in through it, but I should still like to have a look. So saying, he drew out his magnifying lens and scrutinised the wood. With a sharp cry of excitement, he plucked at something caught on a screw. Look here, Inspector, Watson.

Obediently we stared at the fibre he held in his hand. It appeared to be a scrap of some black material.

No doubt I am being very foolish, but I simply can’t see the significance of it, I remarked.

Surely you see? If the house has truly been left abandoned this past month, there would be no need for anyone to touch the handle.

But it could be a friend calling on the Penridges who didn’t know they were abroad, I pointed out.

Or Mrs. Jamieson, added Lestrade.

Possibly, admitted Holmes, but if it’s all the same to you, I would prefer to hang on to it. And since you mention Mrs. Jamieson, pray lead me to that excellent lady.

As Lestrade had predicted, we found her in the kitchen, clasping a cup of tea under the sympathetic eye of a constable.

Mrs. Jamieson, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, said Lestrade. He has been kind enough to offer some assistance with a few points in this case.

Afternoon, sirs, murmured Mrs. Jamieson in a rather subdued voice.

I would say that this was not her natural tone; her flamboyant dress suggested a somewhat brasher character. I also noted that she was not wearing a single black article. I glanced at Holmes to see if he too had observed this, but could tell nothing from his face.

I understand that you discovered the body, he began. Would you please tell us in your own words how that came about?

The lady drew in a deep breath and launched into her tale.

Well, I come in every Thursday to keep an eye on the place, as you might say, and keep it all looking presentable for when the family gets back. Usually about four-ish, but I was delayed up at old Mr. Porter’s, round the corner from here. Coming in though, I thought to meself, ‘Something’s up here.’ I’m sure I couldn’t tell you why I thought that, but anyway, I thought I’d better have a look around, make sure everything was right. I thought they might be after the silver. Mr. Penridge has some very nice pieces. I’ve often told him he should stick ‘em in the safe when he goes away, but he doesn’t listen to me. Anyway, I’d gone round all the downstairs rooms and everything looked as it should, so off I went upstairs. Gave me the fright of my life it did when I opened the door to Mr. Penridge’s room. There he was, and he looked as though he might be resting almost, except there was this ‘orrible red stain on his chest. None on the floors mind you. Just on him and on the bed. Oh, I can still see it now! She gave a hitching sob and fell silent.

I’m sure it must have been a terrible shock for you, Mrs. Jamieson, I said, as kindly as I could.

Oh yes, quite terrible indeed, said Holmes hastily. But tell me, when you first entered the house was the door locked?

She looked up at him, an expression of dawning comprehension on her face. No, Mr. Holmes, she whispered. No, it wasn’t. And I remember wondering whether I’d get the blame for leaving it unlocked if thieves had made off with anything.

Do you think you had left it unlocked? he asked.

N-no, she said hesitantly. I mean, I can’t remember locking it, but I’m sure I did.

Please think very carefully, said Holmes in his most serious voice. If you locked it then we must assume that whoever brought poor Mr. West here was in possession of a key. There were none of the scrapes one associates with a lock pick on the keyhole. If you did not lock it then any person in London could have had access. Of course, I may find other clues to direct me to the murderer, but some way of narrowing things down would be welcome.

A frown crinkled the good lady’s brow. I think… she began slowly. I think… I’m almost certain I did lock it.

Excellent! exclaimed Lestrade eagerly. With a smile, Holmes held up his hand to silence him as Mrs. Jamieson continued.

Yes, I feel quite sure now. I remember the last time I came, I dropped the key at least twice before I managed to get it in the lock. My hands were cold, she said apologetically.

Ah! Perhaps you had left your black gloves at home?

Black gloves? Oh bless you, no. I’ve got a nice red pair that my son gave me Christmas before last. I don’t like black. Nasty, gloomy colour if you ask me. She shivered and her eyes widened as she took in my friend’s sombre ensemble. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, she added hurriedly. Good, practical colour… She tailed off.

Holmes favoured her with one of his rare smiles that come and go as suddenly as the sun bursting from behind a cloud. Thank you very much, Mrs. Jamieson. I have no doubt that your evidence will prove invaluable. If you wish, you may return home now. That is unless – Inspector?

Oh of course, Mrs. Jamieson. If you could just give your address to Constable Parker here before you leave.

Parker gallantly offered the lady his arm as he led her towards the door. Holmes watched them go with a curious expression.

There goes a very strange woman, Watson. Did you notice that she does not wear a wedding ring, although she calls herself, Mrs.’? No doubt there is some perfectly innocent explanation, though I rather fancy she has hidden depths."

Lestrade cleared his throat. Speaking of which, would you like to see the room where the body was found now?

Holmes and I followed his lead until we reached the hallway. There, Holmes laid a hand on his shoulder and indicated that he would like to go ahead. He pointed to a small stain, just above the skirting board.

Blood, he said shortly. And more just here. I should say the man did not meet his end in the bedroom but rather dragged there afterwards. Let us go and take a look at the cadaver.

The body was not such a horrific sight as one might have believed. As Mrs. Jamieson had said, he did indeed look as though he was resting. His eyes were closed and his hands folded neatly across his breast. The only thing to mar this picture of peaceful repose was the blood-soaked bed linen that surrounded him. As a medical man, I felt perfectly justified in stepping forward to examine the cadaver. I concurred with the police surgeon’s estimate that the man had been dead since the previous morning. I then fell to looking at the wound itself. It is by no means as easy to stab someone through the heart as people think. For a start, the general public believes the heart to be much further to the left than it is in reality. Then there is also the small matter of the ribcage to negotiate. Practically speaking, it is usually far more effective to cut the throat. Whoever Simon West’s murderer was, they were possessed of unnerving accuracy.

A straight edged blade, maybe an inch in width, murmured Holmes. Quite long, I think. There’s no sign that it was rammed in up to the hilt.

If you’re finished here, Mr. Holmes, I think it would be as well to get poor Mr. West to a mortuary as soon as possible. It is after all a warm day.

Out of interest, Inspector, how do you know his name is Simon West? I asked.

He still has a tailor’s bill in one of his pockets and his cigarette case was engraved. Now let me think, what did it say? Oh yes: To Simon, as true as any compass point. From your ever loving Cat.

Cat? Holmes exclaimed sharply. That is a shortening of Catherine, is it not?

Oh there’s no mystery about that. I personally sent a telegram to the Penridges enquiring on that very point. It appears he and Miss Penridge were engaged to be married and the case was a gift from her.

How very thorough of you, Lestrade. I think that I have seen all I need to here. If you don’t mind, I should like to return to Baker Street to think it over.

Lestrade agreed that nothing more could be done here and summoned two of his constables to remove the body. Holmes and I returned in silence to Baker Street.

Once comfortably ensconced in his armchair, Holmes withdrew into one of his deep introspections. Knowing better than to interrupt one of these moods, I picked up a copy of The Times and attempted to interest myself in the deeds of humanity. When I reached a column-inch to the effect that the Mayfair murderer was still unknown, I realised I would be unable to concentrate until the case was solved. Accordingly, I cast my mind back over the day’s events. I am ashamed to say that I could make neither head nor tail of them though, and the pleasant warmth of the day soon sent me into a doze, where masked assassins cavorted before my eyes and cats prowled amidst the shadows. I was jerked abruptly out of my reverie by the arrival of Lestrade. His thin face was flushed with excitement and in his hand he clutched a triumphant piece of paper.

See here, Mr. Holmes! A letter, signed Catherine Penridge, he exclaimed, thrusting it