The Failures of Sherlock Holmes

By Annette Siketa

In order to rescue a kidnapped boy, Holmes is compelled to jump into a river.  Afterwards, pneumonia sets in, and as his health declines, he reveals cases whereby he has solved the crime but failed to bring the perpetrator to justice, including a second encounter with 'THE' woman.  As usual, the faithful Watson records every word.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Annette Siketa
• Release date: Feb 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393103882

Annette Siketa

For those of you who have not yet made my acquaintance, my name is Annette Siketa, and I am totally blind. Were you aware that most blind and visually impaired people are extraordinarily perceptive? To sighted people, this ability must seem like ESP, and I suppose to a certain extent, it is. (I'm referring to the literal meaning of Extra Sensory Perception, not the spooky interpretation.) To compensate for the lack of vision, the brain and the other four senses become sharper, so that we can discern a smell or the identity of an object. I promise you there's no trickery involved. It's simply a matter of adapting the body to ‘think’ in another way.Being blind is no barrier to creativity. Like most things in this world, life is what you make of it, and after losing my sight due to an eye operation that went terribly wrong, I became a writer, and have now produced a wide variety of books and short stories, primarily of the ghost/supernatural/things that go bump in the night genre.So, how does a blind person write a book? On the practical side, I use a text-to-speech program called ‘Jaws’, which enables me to use and navigate around a computer, including the Internet, with considerable ease. Information on Jaws can be found at www.freedomscientific.comOn the creative side...well, that’s a little more difficult to explain. Try this experiment. Put on your favourite movie and watch it blindfolded. As you already ‘know’ the movie – who does what where & when etc, your mind compensates for the lack of visualisation by filling in the ‘blanks’. Now try it with something you’ve never seen before, even the six o'clock news. Not so easy to fill in the blanks now is it?By this point you’re probably going bonkers with frustration – hee hee, welcome to my world! Do not remove the blindfold. Instead, allow your imagination to compensate for the lack of visualization, and this will give you an idea of how I create my stories. Oh, if only Steven Spielberg could read my mind.

Book preview

Prologue.

Aman in a brown coat moved out of the shadows.  I’ve done my job, Mr ‘Olmes, he said in a low, gruff voice.  You just make sure my name ain’t mentioned.

Holmes slipped some coins into the man’s hand.  I will, my friend, and thank you.

As the man disappeared into the night, Holmes grabbed my arm and dragged me to the nearby alley.  I'm going round the back to see what's going on, he whispered.  Wait here and keep your hand on your revolver.  With luck, we will soon put an end to this gang and its evil mistress.

He was referring to a woman known as ‘Black Molly’, who two days earlier, had masterminded the kidnapping of a ten-year-old son of a manufacturing tycoon.  The ransom note had included a macabre trophy, namely, the little finger from a child’s right hand.

But this is where Molly made a mistake.  Several months earlier, the boy had cut the corresponding finger very badly between the first and second knuckle, leaving a distinctive scar.  There was no scar on the dismembered finger.  Moreover, Holmes had used the discrepancy to trace the gang to its hideout, though I cannot even begin to guess how he did it.

She might not be in the house, said I.

Oh, she’ll be there alright, replied he confidently.  Unless I am very much mistaken, she’s waiting for news of the boy.  And keep an eye out for Inspector Griffin.  Tell him not to act until he either sees me, or hears the sound of gunshots.

Holmes disappeared down the alley, and shortly thereafter, a cab stopped and a man jumped out.  He tossed a coin to the driver and dashed into the house, where his appearance was greeted with overtones of excitement.  I heard the noise perfectly clearly, for in his haste to enter the house, the man had not closed the front door properly.

The garden, like the house itself, was badly neglected.  An overgrown hydrangea bush stood near a window.  I took advantage of the ‘natural’ coverage to peer through the moth-eaten curtains. 

Three men were in the room.  The air was thick with tobacco smoke, and sprawled on a couch against a wall, a glass of gin at her elbow, lay the figure of Black Molly. 

Well? she asked of the newcomer. 

He wouldn’t stop snivelling so I gave him a back-hander to shut him up.  Chirpy Charlie’s got him tied up in the old Stevenson mill.  Pity that copper showed up during the snatch.  If he hadn’t interfered, he wouldn’t have been run down.

My heart bleats for ‘im, said Molly sarcastically.  Was he badly hurt?

The man grinned maliciously.  Let’s put it this way, I doubt he’ll ever walk the beat again.

And neither will you, said a familiar voice.  Holmes had entered the room, revolver in hand. 

Well, Mr Sherlock Holmes, said Molly, rising from the couch.  How very nice of you to join us.  Pity it will be your last outing, and so saying, she produced a small pistol from the folds of her skirt.

Holmes fired, not at Molly, but at an oil lamp on the table.  The glass shattered and sent flames in every direction, igniting the decrepit curtains and threadbare carpet. 

Kill him!  Kill him! shrieked Molly, but it seems that for once her gang were impervious to her orders.  No matter the species, self-preservation will always dominate.

I decamped from my hiding-place not a moment too soon, for as I darted across the garden to safety, the window which I had been peering through, blew out with the force of a small bomb. 

Flames leapt up the front of the house, engulfing the structure in seconds.  By the unwelcome light, I saw Holmes run through the still open doorway, black smoke billowing over his head.  He was swiftly followed by the gang, who ran straight into the waiting arms of Inspector Griffin and his men. 

Pandemonium reigned for several minutes.  Not surprisingly, the noise and the shouting had attracted a crowd, and those who did not join in the attempts to quell the flames, were more a hindrance than a help.

Where’s Molly? demanded Holmes, his eyes pouring forth smoke-filled tears. 

But, I thought you had her!

No.  I couldn’t reach her because of the flames.  I assumed she came out behind me.

A quick check of the prisoners revealed that she was not amongst them.  She must have slipped out the back way, said he.

Damn it, Holmes, cried the Inspector angrily, I thought we finally had her!

Holmes produced a handkerchief and wiped his eyes.  All is not lost, my friend, for I’m fairly sure I know where she’s gone.  But, I cannot waste time on explanations.  If you would give me one of your vehicles and two of your men, we will set off immediately.

It is strange how in moments of stress or trial, the most commonplace thoughts will intrude themselves into the mind, thereby separating it from the immediate event.  Thus, as we sped past Italian restaurants, French bakeries, and German delicatessens, the enticing smells reminded me that I had not eaten since luncheon.

But it seems food was the last thing on my friend’s mind.  Holmes gave instructions to the accompanying police officers and then lapsed into silence, his brow creased in a troubled frown.  I should mention that we were in one of the new box-like carriages used for transporting prisoners, whereby the only method of communication with the driver was through a small barred window.

Ten minutes later, Holmes stood up and tapped on the bars.  Slow the horses to walking pace and take the next turning on the left, he ordered.  Do you know the old Stevenson mill?

Oh, yes, sir.  I used to swim in the river there when I was a nipper.  The last time I saw the old place, it was practically falling down.  I tell you, Mr Holmes, it’s a death trap.  Like that old house we just left, it would be best if the mill went up in flames.

Perhaps so, but not tonight.  Pull up about two-hundred yards away but keep close to the trees.  It would not do to announce our arrival.

The driver followed the instructions to the letter.  I had no idea of our location, but climbing out of the van, I perceived a waterway shining in the moonlight.  Directly ahead was a forlorn looking mill, whilst to the right of the huge wheel, weeping willows stretched out from the bank, their slender branches trailing in the water.

A tall, moss-covered wall set with an archway, formed the entrance to the mill.  Holmes touched my sleeve and whispered, You could yell here until your throat split and nobody would hear you.  We must proceed with extreme caution, but no sooner had we moved towards the wall when two figures – a woman and a boy, suddenly appeared in the archway. 

How clever of you to find me so quickly, said Molly.  One arm was clamped around the boy’s neck, whilst the other was holding a revolver to his head.

You give me too much credit, replied Holmes, not moving an inch.  You and your bungling gang left so many clues that even a blind man could have followed them.

Had she not shrieked with laughter, she might have heard the sound of a snapping twig behind us.  I desperately hoped the two constables had sense enough not to reveal themselves, at least not yet.

Bungling? she repeated mockingly.  On the contrary, Mr Holmes, it is you who have bungled, for you have walked right into my trap.  Now, I think it is time we parted company forever, and so saying, she pointed the gun directly at Holmes.

No! cried a man, but it was not Holmes.  Like a sinister shadow, Chirpy Charlie had emerged from behind the wall.  This has gone too far, Molly.  I won’t be a party to murder, especially Sherlock Holmes. 

He made a lurch for the gun, but whether he was trying to save himself or Holmes was unclear.  In either event, with an almost casual flick of her wrist, Molly took aim and fired.

Coward! she shrieked, as Charlie fell to the ground, the left side of his skull now missing.

This was too much for the boy, who screamed and began squirming like an eel.  It was also too much for the constables, who no doubt prompted by duty, ran towards the archway.  Holmes also made to step forward, but another shot stopped all three men in their tracks.

Another move and the boy gets it! and gripping the now terrified lad even tighter, Molly walked backwards towards the river.  Seconds later, there was a tremendous splash and both disappeared from view. 

I could only presume she intended to drag the boy to the opposite bank, but as Holmes tore off his coat and dived in after them, there came a succession of cries for help.  Molly and the boy were bobbing like corks mid-stream, and it could not have been plainer that something was wrong.

The mud! shouted the driver of the van.  There’s a strong undercurrent and they’ve disturbed the mud.  It’s sucking them down.

Is there a rope in the van? asked I, urgently.

No- just handcuffs.

Then give me your coats.  I’ll tie one sleeve to another and make a sort of rope.

By now, Holmes had reached the struggling swimmers, but Molly would not relinquish her hold on the boy.  Indeed, she threw her other arm round Holmes’s neck and seemed determined they should all drown together.

Then, as I was adding my own coat to the makeshift rope, I heard the sound of a speeding carriage, and not knowing whether it was friend or foe, I trusted its interception to the constables.

I ran to the nearest willow, and tying the last sleeve round the trunk, threw the bundle towards the trio.  The coats floated on the surface for a moment and then sank out of sight.  Never had I felt such utter despair.  Three people were drowning before my eyes and there was nothing I could do!

And then came a frantic cry of, Pull, Watson!  For God’s sake, pull with all your strength.

I was suddenly surrounded by men, one of whom I recognised as Inspector Griffin.  Cautiously, lest one of the sleeves should become undone, we pulled Holmes and the boy to safety.  Molly however, got what she deserved.  Later, when her body was recovered from the river, her hideous, bloated face was a reflection of the vile woman she had been.

Holmes, his wet, white face gleaming wax-like in the moonlight, lay panting on the ground.  I do believe, my dear Watson, that I owe you my life.  May I extend the debt by asking if you have any medicinal brandy to hand?  And then he emitted the foolish, happy laugh of someone too overcome to speak, little realising that his life had never been in more danger.

The Swedish Furrier.

It has always been my opinion that complete rest and peace of mind are essential adjuncts to curing illnesses.  Even with the advances in medical science, a patient cannot be treated effectively if they are in a constant state of agitation.  Such was the case when, the day after he rescued the boy from the river, Holmes showed the first symptoms of a heavy cold. 

He had also sustained several cuts and facial scratches, the latter courtesy of Molly’s flailing hands.  I was not overly concerned about the cold, but the open wounds being flushed with germ-ridden water was another matter.  Infection was a real possibility, and I determined to keep a professional eye upon him.

I had just handed him a glass containing a tonic when he said, There is no such thing as a mystery in connection with a crime.

Oh? said I, urging him to drink.  He was quite pale and fidgeting with a piece of string.

The solution is always a matter of logic and deduction. 

I doubt the police would agree with that statement.  In the last six months alone, there have been at least five crimes that have totally baffled them. 

My dear fellow, you misunderstand me.  I would never venture to suggest that the police are incompetent.  I merely remark that there is no mystery when clear, deductive reasoning is applied to a situation.  Do you recall the Kershaw-Olsen murder case?

This incident had emerged several months earlier, and after the trial, it had been studied and theorised from every angle, with the newspapers suggesting, arguing, or hinting at a possible solution. 

Yes, said I, and it’s a real puzzler.

"Is it?  Let us examine the facts.  Mrs Kershaw, whom I later adjudged to having seen better days, reported the disappearance of her husband, William, to Scotland Yard.  She was accompanied by a family friend, Karl Muller, and between them, they told such an extraordinary story that the police were immediately interested. 

"According to the couple, two days earlier, Muller had called on Mr Kershaw at his lodgings in Fitzroy Square, ostensively to collect a small debt.  The time was about three o'clock in the afternoon.  Upon entering the sitting room, Muller found Kershaw pacing the room in a great state of excitement.  However, the usual chirpy Mrs Kershaw  was very quiet and almost on the point of tears. 

"Muller stated the purpose of his visit, but Kershaw, instead of repaying the debt, made a remarkable statement, to wit, that if he had another loan, it would be the means by which he could secure a fortune. 

Naturally, Muller was curious, but Kershaw was very reluctant to go into details.  Eventually, Muller persuaded Kershaw to reveal part of the secret, and it was connected to an old murder.

Ah, said I, a vague memory stirring in my mind, I seem to remember something about an old, unsolved murder.

"Correct.  Some fifteen years earlier, Kershaw, who was then twenty-four years of age and a medical student at a London hospital, shared a flat with a Mr Barker and a Mr Huxton.  One evening, Huxton returned home from the races with his pockets literally bulging.  Clearly it had been a profitable day.  The following morning he was found murdered in his bed. 

"Kershaw was able to conclusively prove that he had been on duty at the hospital all night.  Barker however, promptly absconded and nobody saw or heard from him for many years. 

But, as it transpired, Kershaw was the exception.  Barker had fled to Sweden, changed his name to Olsen, and began trading in furs.

I opened my mouth to interrupt but Holmes held up a hand.  "You were about to ask how Kershaw knew of Olsen’s whereabouts and career.  The answer is simple.  According to Kershaw, Olsen had written to him four times over the years, and whilst the first two letters were no longer in existence, Kershaw recounted their substance to his wife and Muller. 

"In the first letter, dated some five years earlier, Barker stated that he was living in poverty in France.  Kershaw, who was then in good circumstances, sent him a £10 note to help him out. 

"The second letter, written some six or seven years later, demonstrated a reversal of fortune, in that Olsen nee Barker was now very prosperous. 

"Kershaw, whose own business was flagging, wrote to his old friend explaining his dire circumstances.  Olsen, no doubt remembering the time when Kershaw had helped him out, sent him £50.  But if the fur trader thought it was the end of the matter, he was gravely mistaken. 

Over the next two or three years, Kershaw made more demands for money, presumably on the grounds that he had proof that the former Mr Barker had murdered Mr Huxton.  Watson, would you go to the bookcase and fetch me the blue folio marked ‘K’.  I believe I still have the newspaper transcripts of two letters written by Olsen produced at the trial.

I did as asked.  Holmes quickly scanned the pages and then said, "The first letter is dated the 2nd of January and runs, ’I have already helped you as much as you deserve.  However, not wishing to alienate you further, I am willing to consider one more demand.  I have recently sold the greater part of my business to a Russian merchant, and once the transaction is completed, he will depart for an extended tour of Europe in his yacht, ‘Natasha’.  He has invited me to accompany him as far as England.  As you might imagine, I am very desirous of seeing my country again after such a long absence.  I don't know the exact itinerary, but I will write to you again to make arrangements to meet in London. 

The letter finishes with an ominous warning.  ‘If we cannot reach an amicable agreement, then all communication between us will cease.  Make no mistake, my friend, I will not submit to further blackmail.

If you ask me, said I, Olsen was acting very foolishly.  I can understand his homesickness, but why not settle in another country?  Why return to England when he was in danger of being arrested?

Well done! exclaimed Holmes.  "You have hit the most important point on the head.  Let us see if your power of deduction is as sharp in regards to the second letter.  It is postmarked Southampton, and was the only letter still in its original envelope. 

"There are a few banal remarks and then Olsen states, ‘The ‘Natasha’ will dock at Tilbury next Tuesday, the 10th, whence I will catch the first available train to London.  Meet me in the waiting room at Victoria Station in the afternoon.  Unfortunately, I cannot be more specific as to the time as I do not have a railway guide to hand. 

‘I have changed much in appearance since the last time you saw me, so I will wear a heavy coat and Astrakhan hat in order that you will recognise me.  Yours etc’.  Now, Watson, what do you make of it?

Seems perfectly straightforward to me.

And yet it caused Mrs Kershaw considerable anxiety.  I remind you that she was on the verge of tears when Muller arrived to collect the debt.  It is not difficult to guess her thoughts.  If Olsen had already committed one murder, then he was quite capable of committing a second to get rid of the man who posed a threat.  In addition, she had just discovered that her husband was a blackmailer.

The poor woman must have been beside herself with worry.

Was she?  Or was there another reason behind her anxiety?  But, let us continue with the scene in the house.  Muller, perhaps blinded by the prospect of instant wealth to pay any attention to Mrs Kershaw, made a second loan.  Kershaw left the house, saying that he was going to a barber to smarten himself up.  He was never seen alive again.

II.

Though I