Ghost in Time: A Crime over a Hundred Years Old Resurfaces Along with an Explosive Discovery...

By Sue Gilbert

While on a vacation in England, Caitlin O’Connor finds an antique journal. Soon after she returns to the States, she adapts the journal’s handwritten notes into a movie script and submits it to Piermont Studios. The studio gives the work a green light and she is hired and now pursues her dream as a screenwriter. Piermont decides to cover the movie studio and hires an investigator to trace the journal’s history. After a shocking turn of events, the journal is revealed to be over a hundred years old, and it is believed that it was indeed written by none other than the fictionalized detective Sherlock Holmes’s friend and assistant, Dr. John Watson.

The enigmatic Arthur Kensington is the movie’s new producer. Kensington believes the yellow-tinged leather book is a link to a hidden past that reveals a century old crime. Tony Langdon is the Piermont security detective in charge of investigating the journal’s origin. Although, at first a skeptic, he becomes absorbed with his own analysis and his need to know the truth.

After the movie wraps, the actors, crew, and other involved individuals begin to believe in Caitlin’s mysterious journal. As truths are unveiled, it seems the so called fictional Watson, and the mysterious tale is genuine and tied to a dangerous and cryptic cover up in the distant past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Oct 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665710510

Sue Gilbert

Sue Gilbert enjoys a good mystery- most especially the Sherlock Holmes series. She is also an avid Christmas movie watcher and adores cats. Most recently, photographs from some of her travels were on display in a NYC exhibit. This is her first novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

C aitlin O’ Connor shivered in the cool March air. Today was her last day in London, so she decided to spend her leisure time souvenir hunting in the stores nearest the Excelsior hotel. The ominously low clouds were saturated gray and the intense moisture, that increased the threat of rain, clung to her rosy cheeks. Although, she wished she had one more day of her heritage vacation, gifted to her by her grandmother, she was elated about her departure for Los Angeles tomorrow. Caitlin walked quietly along the street and stared at the quaint buildings that emphasized the history of the renowned city.

She was content to search for a special decoration that reminded her of her Irish-English heritage.

Finally, she found a store of interest to her. Yesterday’s Home Antiques.

Caitlin walked into the antique shop, which was adjacent to the famous Baker Street, and gazed at the aged items that adorned the shelves and tables. The interior decorator knew she would find something here and she combed the store as she dreamed about a century past.

Caitlin greeted a woman who worked quietly behind the counter, and then continued to browse. She spied the quaint blue plaid throw that reflected the color of a California indigo night sky, and the copper tea pot. That was the effect she wanted!

She fell in love with both, and they were in mint condition. The throw had been strewn intentionally over a Victorian chair. Caitlin grabbed it and decided to purchase it along with the tea kettle. They would be a delight when she returned home to the states.

She reminisced about the tea pot, and a good brew of Twinning’s English Tea which she had bought among her earlier purchases. Content that both pieces of décor would add some spice to her modest apartment, she quietly scanned for other antiques that she could fit into her suitcase which was already packed and ready for her long ride home. She certainly had time. In a few hours it would be dinner then tonight, she would probably watch some English television and attempt a good night’s sleep.

In the corner, Caitlin found a shoe box filled with some aged- tinted goods. She delighted by rummaging through it. There were some old photos, postcards, and an envelope with an open seal. There was also a black bound journal. It seemed to be a journal. It was that leather book that intrigued her most of all. It was in descent condition, including the binding, and its white pages were crisp yellow around the edges. The book also had an unusual antique scent.

Caitlin had a fascination for creative writing, and so it sparked her curiosity as she browsed through the items. The photos were especially unusual, and for some reason she clung favorably to what she had discovered all wide eyed and fascinated.

That box of miscellaneous stuff is being tossed out. The saleswoman sidled over to her. The journal is fascinating. It is handwritten. she marveled at her expression.

Caitlin casually smiled. As she opened the journal, she saw there were handwritten scripted entries, yet legible and by the looks of it, written in old fashioned ink. It was interesting enough and she was conflicted as to whether she should ask if she could purchase the journal. The material was intensely written from page one. She read a few lines then flipped a couple of pages. At first, she was not certain what she had read but then it dawned.

Discreetly, she closed the book. Her nerves tingled. It had to be an antique collectible. She loved a good mystery and this, even if it were an exemplary fake, was undeniable hours of fun. Her chin trembled. She was across the street from that very building, in fact.

Then the clock on the mantle caught her attention.

That clock came in that box. If it is worth ten Euros- we can wrap it tight as a small parcel. It would get by airport security. Probably fit snug in your bag. the woman commented icily. She anxiously pursued her sale and Caitlin did not mind. A collector in the area donated it. The clock apparently hasn’t worked in years! she explained.

Curious and more curious, the items had a mysterious aura. Caitlin grew distraught. She wanted to read further into the black bound book. Maybe it was her Nancy Drew instinct and therefore, she accepted the package deal. I can’t pass on a good read- she smiled. Caitlin took out her American Express card then reflected an impassive expression. At the very least the clock would prove to be one lovely piece of decor.

The clock was wood crafted and petite. There was scalloped edging around the rectangular base and a velour draw for storage. That must be where they stored the key to the clock, she thought. That must be why it does not work. It needs to be wound with a key! Now, she wanted the clock. The journal fascinated her, and the parcel would be small enough to carry home to the states. She could not wait to scour through the journal pages! Why not! And both were hers to own!

It’s lovely. Such rich details. she trailed off. Ten euros it is then. Caitlin agreed.

And ten for the throw and kettle. I will cut you a deal as you Americans say. How do you like our country so far? the woman queried. She swiped the Am Ex and Caitlin inhaled as the Hermes image flew through the credit card reader.

I love it. Can you recommend an interesting tour? Caitlin asked with a timid voice. She had too much leisure time to herself today.

"Do you like mysteries? The Sherlock Holmes tour leaves very soon and is around the corner. Includes a museum tour and lunch as well. The woman stared at her devoid of expression. She grabbed the clock off the mantle, and a shopping bag from the back room. The clock is small so we will wrap it in the quilt. The kettle is tiny so the bag should be light enough to carry."

She watched the woman pack the goods then thought about that leather- bound journal. Grandmother would concur it was the perfect souvenir. "So, I am across the street from Baker Street, aren’t I?" Caitlin remarked after she paid for her purchases.

Yes.

"I love Nancy Drew mysteries. In honest, it sounds fun. Why not? What time does it leave?"

Twenty minutes. But do hurry. she advised.

Caitlin raced from out of the store and baily overheard another store customer comment to a second store salesperson about some murder four blocks away. Sherlock Holmes would have more luck solving it.

The tour was the last venture in England, and it was worth it.

She packed her souvenirs snugly in a carryall bag, and discreetly carried the bag on the tour bus, as did several other tourists, then sat through an absorbing lecture. She took a tour of the museum and the museum shop. She also ate an early brunch with weary travelers, such as herself, and their knowledgeable guide. In fact, Caitlin was so enthralled with the topic that she snatched up any paraphilia that came her way and, of course, a book about Holmes. She tried not to think about the bundled journal packed in the bag.

Caitlin was in the mood for a mystery.

The literary lecture captivated her and so she could not help but to wonder about the journal. It was an unusual piece of fiction. Although curious, Caitlin decided she would read it either on the plane, or when seated on her house sofa once she returned home. In the meantime, she planned to hear a few more Sherlockian stories before her undesirable long ride home.

She was exhausted but stayed for a small lecture and film session until five pm, after everyone received a warm invite from the curator named Tom.

I hope you enjoyed your last-minute tour. he asked.

Very. Caitlin shook her head. I’m glad I made it. The tour was fascinating. she responded. She told him about her old Nancy Drew books then he asked her about her interest in Doyle.

I like a good mystery and Holmes was the tour de force last minute choice.

Tom laughed. I like your choice of words. Grab as much material as you want, and we have a forum- if you wish to join. We publish online and, through the mail and every year or so have a gathering.

I would love that. Caitlin answered. She almost hated to leave. She had made friends with a woman from Chicago who was an Agatha Christie diehard. Coincidentally, she labeled herself, a Nancy Drew fanatic. I leave Friday and don’t want to leave. she had told Caitlin. Caitlin wished she had more time as well. She could not extend her stay. After all, it was her grandmother who made it possible for her to make it across the Atlantic!

Ashley and she exchanged addresses and, afterwards, they consumed a nice dinner along with a few others from the group.

Ashley told her she was a mystery buff from way back. Her husband, Rick, was in Chicago, but she was with her mom who now sat in the corner. The woman she pointed to chatted with several other tour members and had an iridescent grin on her face.

Weary from the day’s events, Caitlin returned to the Excelsior around seven-thirty.

The tour had been beyond her expectations and was well worth her time. She was happy with her decision to spend her day riding around on a bus. It did not dismay her that she was at the end of an eventful trip. After all, it was a gift. How often could she afford to travel to London again?

She had returned to the hotel, exhausted. Before she lay in bed, she stared out the window at London. She could imagine the land over a hundred years ago. Now, the city sparkled in the moonlight as deep night settled over the land. She settled herself under the crisp bed covers.

Caitlin closed her eyes. The room was silent, and the essence of the day swept her up with a sense of exultation.

That night she drifted into a deep, restful sleep.

CHAPTER TWO

I t was early morning. Caitlin showered and combed her short blond hair then judged herself almost critically in the mirror. She grimaced at her pretty image. There were no circles under her eyes. She would probably sleep on the plane, yet she also dreaded the travel time. She would fly from London to New York and from New York to Los Angeles in a matter of approximately twelve hours. Fatigued, her green eyes closed for a moment as she somberly remembered to recharge her apple phone.

Suddenly, she was downcast about her predetermined early departure. She would have loved a few more days but needed to return to the States. She had a job and responsibilities, after all, and most of all missed California.

Downstairs, she made sure she ate a humble breakfast in the dining area then, almost in a haunted state, combed the hotel boutique, then bookstore that was located around the corner.

Seriously, Caitlin was not in England for a shopping spree, but after yesterday she was encouraged to grab a few last- minute tokens of interest: novelizations about Sherlock Holmes.

"Do you have any Sherlock Holmes novels?" Caitlin demurely asked. Obviously, in England, she might find a few rare collectibles while in Sherlockian territory. She had fallen into a deep slumber last night, but on this very morning of her departure, she awakened to find herself genuinely intrigued by Conan Doyle’s literary works. She was glad she had found the tour, or rather the tour had found her.

The cashier was stout, and her English accent was thick.

It is the luck of the Irish. she mulled her words. The store had new and old novels. The woman brought her to the section, and suggested she buy the more easily acquired ones when she returned home. Caitlin bought two of interest. An antique book and, a new one entitled The Fictitious Sherlock Holmes. The configurations of her luggage would allow at least two more items.

The cashier stared at the titles. So, you like mysteries?

Yes. I do.

This antique book is sort of ripped out of today’s headlines. the woman commented. She nudged her chin in the direction of the news stand for some reason.

Caitlin noted the news headlines. The papers were perched on a newspaper side stand.

Kiernan Murder has Police Baffled. A woman had been strangled to death. The mystery was that the doors to her home had been locked. Somehow, the thief had gained entrance to the house, but they were not certain what valuables had been taken. She read the first paragraph quickly: Nancy Kiernan lived in a posh London district. Her husband, Peter, and she were separated three years ago. He was known for his overseas trade business ties and now lives in the states. He remarried and was unavailable for comment. This past weekend Nancy Kiernan was found strangled to death in her house. There was no apparent reason according to the police. The house was turned upside down, but nothing seemed to be missing. The detective in charge…

She did not have time to read the rest of the article. She was pressed for time.

Caitlin knew she had to race back to the hotel room and there she would square away her belongings- she needed to make that flight! After hotel check out, she called for a taxi to the airport.

She stared out the window as she sat in the back seat of the cab. Somewhat obsessed, she studied the buildings. The sound of a plane engine turned her vision skyward, and she watched as the plane flew overhead and drew her attention to the modern high rise with the letters ABK Enterprises.

England was a thriving metropolis of modern-day life, but the splendor of its Victorian past was apparent because of the timeless buildings. She missed it already.

Her departure would be from Heathrow and its maze of halls and corridors.

When she arrived at the airport, she made sure she grabbed all her luggage from the trunk and an attendant pointed her to the departure zone then she sat in the designated waiting area and took out her phone as it rang. It was her grandmother. Her trim figure leaned forward to peer at the updated time arrival and departure sign.

Grandma. she warmed up to the familiar voice.

Caitlin. Did you like your trip? Caitlin listened intently as Patricia O’Connor spoke.

Yes, Grandma and it was quite fascinating. she was ecstatic. Thank you. Thank you so much-

Any tours? her voice was crisp. Now, Caitlin felt homesick.

I toured London. Scotland and oh, I loved the castle tours. Caitlin chatted excited. And I took the Sherlock Holmes tour yesterday.

You actually managed to fit one more tour in? the older woman gasped incredulous.

Yes. Caitlin smiled somewhat whimsical. The crowd of travelers ignored the young woman. It was magical. Almost like stepping back in time. Oh- and I bought a few small items for the new apartment.

"Is Paul picking you up at LAX?"

She had wanted to take the Santa Monica shuttle to get her closer to home, but the time element made it easier to have Paul pick her up at Los Angeles Airport. Paul was her steady and she was hopeful he would be more than that in her life.

He should be. It was not such a mystery, though. Caitlin surmised her thoughts were very transparent.

Give your Grandad and me a call if not. Love you.

Love you, Gram. Caitlin stared down at the headlines of a paper that was on the empty seat beside her. Suddenly, a good-looking businessman scooped up the paper and the briefcase set on the ground next to the chair.

It was then Caitlin decided to duck into the souvenir shop to grab some mints and keep herself busy for the next half an hour. She paid for the candy and a magnet for her apartment refrigerator, and now anxiously waited to board. Thank God the clock was wood and not a heavy piece thus the reason it passed inspection. Security had looked, questioned her and she explained it was a keepsake clock. And she passed the security gate into the waiting room.

She grew impatient, but she did not have to wait long.

The British Airways flight was called as she paced slowly towards the ramp way. Caitlin wheeled her suitcase and proceeded with content to the ramp. The flight attendant studied her ticket and passport and smiled as Caitlin streamed aboard with other passengers into the interior of the 767. She placed her carry on in the overhead compartment and placed her second carry on, a matching oversized handbag, by her feet as she took her seat.

Caitlin now grabbed her laptop and tried to make herself comfortable. Finally, the plane engines hummed to life and the plane taxied to the runway. The airport sights whizzed by as she settled herself in the comfort of the chair and waited for the green light to use her computer.

Ladies and Gentlemen… the captains voiced lolled overhead.

The plane engines revved, and the plane vibrated. She arched her back and stared out the window. Suddenly, the 767 lurched forwards. Within fleeting seconds, the runway streaked by, and the expansive city sparkled below the airplane wing. The buildings, old and new high rises quietly passed by, and the land of old fabled England vanished below.

For the first hour of the flight, Caitlin relaxed then drifted into a listless sleep. Later, she slipped on headphones so she could listen to music as the flight attendant served snacks. She managed to scan an article about restoration in suburban London and finally was satisfied with an onboard movie.

Caitlin considered her once writing aspirations and thought about the journal.

Paul told her if you have a dream- be unwavering about your goals. She had always wanted to write So, what if she did write a script, perhaps, and used this mysterious journal as the storyline. Excited, she came up with several mental notes. She had breezed through the first few pages and conjured up several ideas that she could iron out later.

Caitlin was surprised the in-flight movie had abruptly ended and now, dinner was served (whatever meal she considered it since she was flying back six hours in time and would turn back the clock another three in Los Angeles.)

A massive white cloud swept past the wing of the plane. Caitlin decided she would write about the Victorian era and Sherlock Holmes. Now, she anticipated the minute she opened journal.

Caitlin half listened to a conversation between two passengers about the Kiernan murder last Thursday in London. The detective investigating said it was the intent to locate any witnesses that may know anything. Just then the pilot’s voice came over the intercom.

Ladies and Gentlemen, we are starting our descent into New York. Caitlin put her chair into an upright position. The city of New York graced the land below. The Bronx Zoo, the Empire State and Chrysler building, Central Park and the George Washington Bridge, the Air Tram…

For hours, it had been water and ocean.

Finally, the 767 landed in New York so the plane may refuel, and the captain announced there would be an hour layover. Caitlin stretched her legs and heeded the captain’s warning not to leave the terminal. Instinctively, she was drawn to a variety paper in the stationery by the gate and, after the departure boarding call, clambered onboard the plane and returned to her seat with the paper. She was weary.

Six more hours and they would land in Los Angeles.

As they took off, she spied the twinkling lights of New York City below.

It was a warm night when the plane landed at LAX.

They swooped in over the ocean regardless of the pre-curfew time and Caitlin spied the Hollywood sign in the hills below and on the ground ahead, the airport metallic dome like structure. The plane would touch down on runway 7L. The variety paper had kept her busy much of the time and she was thrilled to have caught an entire article coincidentally on a Broadway play entitled Sherlock Holmes and the mystery of Baker Street.

Caitlin had scrolled Broadway information and used the internet on her tablet to buy a pair of tickets. She smiled inwardly as a myriad of dimmed lights came into view beneath the wing of the plane. They were landing and she was thrilled to be home.

Caitlin’s legs were cramped, and her body ached from being seated so long. Twelve hours flying time had left her severely stiff, exhausted and hungry. Once she left the gate area and the waiting room section, she proceeded somewhat dazed towards the long winding corridors leading to the outside terminal. An ingenious smile seized her as the warm Californian sunset greeted her through the huge porous windows.

Paul North stood there by the doors scanning the overhead screens. Figures, she thought, he had the most impeccable timing. She raced forward to give him a warm embrace and baily held onto her packages. She kissed his cheek. After their short reunion, they retrieved her luggage from baggage claim. Her suitcase was one of the first to arrive off the carousel then they ambled towards the exit.

Did you find those last- minute heritage souvenirs on your trip to jolly old England? he gestured towards the bag now held in his hand. She gave an effervescent laugh.

It was breathtaking, Oh, and Ireland. I loved Scotland and England. London- she gushed as she recalled the exorbitant sights. Grandma was right. The castle was gorgeous and that ride to the top of the city in the eye. The sights from inside the booth are exquisite. You could see for miles! her voice echoed with excitement.

He peered into the open carry on tote and saw a nice sized telephone booth replica inside her bag. A police booth? he cajoled. People passed by ambivalent of their conversation. Caitlin awed.

It’s an English telephone decorative piece for my mantle. And so is the clock. she added.

You bought a clock? he quizzed. She would tell him later about her mini shopping spree and Sherlockian adventure. For now, she simply smiled. Outside the tranquil southern California air relaxed her. The palms swayed in an exotic breeze as the sky turned a velvet blackish blue. How she had missed California!

I’ll treat you to dinner at the farmer’s market. My car is parked in the garage. he wheeled her suitcase behind him. Your grandma called. So- it rained on your last day of the vacation.

More like cloudy and gray skies. Caitlin emphasized the word gray.

And yet- you managed to squeeze in another tour?

Yes she was thoughtful. It sounded familiar. They carefully crossed the walk between the terminal and the parking lot, weary of cars and buses. Paul. If the bookstore is still open, I need to grab two or three books while we are at the market. There is a bookstore on the grounds. She did not dare tell him about the small flock of books she acquired while in London and now had packed away in her suitcase. She wanted to browse a few more written works and felt drawn to her Nancy Drew like mystery.

She wondered who the author was in genuine. She shook her head.

Sure. Paul was curious but shrugged. It was apparent he was tempted to pursue the reason. His mind was elsewhere, though, she could tell by the palatable expression. He knew she had an interest in a literary career, but now, she did not want him to know how interested.

They neared his Acura, and he placed her suitcase inside the trunk, then they got into the automobile. Paul maneuvered the car into the pullout lane leading out of the airport. He had dark curls that blew softly in the breeze which streamed through the slightly ajar window, an angular jaw and deep blue eyes. Paul was of European descent and looked like a swash- buckler out of an old movie. Her swashbuckler was a real estate agent.

How is work? she quizzed.

We have a new client. An actor is looking for a small place in the Hollywood Hills.

She sighed. She was curious. Clooney. Jackman, Aniston…

Oh. She almost wanted to ask who and when Paul muttered the name, she winced.

He gave her a quick look and drove onto Interstate I-405 towards Culver.

Maybe getting a brick oven pizza will do the trick? We’ll grab a pie and some cold drinks. Traffic over the weekend was not bad so they would make their destination early enough. He drove north for a while then onto 101 and exited Laurel Canyon Road.

It sounds good. She was determined to race into the Barnes and Noble and hastily grab some of the Holmes novelizations. She also could not wait to read the material she had brought home.

They drove silently. The Hollywood sign was bright, and people milled around the Chinese Theater and Madame Tussauds. Paul drove closer to the pier, ten minutes away from where she resided. The huge CBS building was in the backdrop as they pulled into the Farmers Market parking lot.

Caitlin had grabbed four Sherlock Holmes novels from off the shelf. Some fan written and one by Conan Doyle himself. Paul gave her money to help with her expenses but chatted on the phone outside as she paid. He studied the contented expression and the bag in her hands as she rejoined him outdoors.

What is with the books? he said solemnly.

Reading. Research. she pursed her lips. They strolled near the lighted fountain and the parked trolley which readily transported people around the shopping center and proceeded down the path then turned right back towards the main parking lot and adjacent restaurants.

Research? he asked.

She simply told him she would explain over dinner.

They would eat quietly in a corner table of the pizzeria as a glowing fire pit outside the building warmed the restaurant interior and its customers. A cluster of trees, that lined the quadrant, partially camouflaged the CBS studio next door. Evidently, they were probably filming tonight. She thought she saw a limo pull out as they entered the pizza restaurant.

I don’t have to work tomorrow. We can go to the boardwalk or drive along the Pacific Coast. he suggested. It would be Saturday, but it was apparent she was still adjusting another time zone.

Paul, an avid skier, worked for Venice Beach Real Estate and she was a home decorator. She and her boss Erin had home for a viewing - a two story that was nestled in Griffith Park which he and his company had needed to upsell. Paul and she had dated ever since that climatic Monday one year ago.

I’d enjoy that. she cupped her chin with her hand. Her mind raced. She wanted to read the journal that she had tucked away in her suitcase. She thought about her couch and an hour of solace. She had moved into a beach apartment in Santa Monica only a short while ago and could not wait to unpack the souvenirs!

"You’re doing research?" he asked.

She gave him a determined look. She had taken a job as an interior decorator because it was a hobby and a paycheck, but she felt an undeniable passion to commit to this task she had in mind.

I found this story in that antique shop- I mentioned it in my text.

Yesterday’s Home Antiques. he raised a brow.

Yes. Anyway, I contemplated this idea on the plane. I might use it as a basis for a screenplay and submit it to the studios. She took another bite of pizza then slowly explained her tentative plans and told him about the journal.

Why would anyone get rid of a journal they wrote? even Paul was enlightened by the mysterious book. She hastily explained she had brushed through the first few pages only and could not wait to read the hand- written story.

I figured I would use his name in the script, of course- as the author. I would revise the work, though. Caitlin hesitated as she told him the name of the writer.

Seriously. There was an intense silence.

Yes. It was evident he did not believe her.

Probably fan fiction. If you do write this script, you had better cover yourself, Caitlin. Subtly, revise the story and submit a cover letter. she nodded with some trepidation. He used a more serious tone. "If the story reads different. It will come across as your own voice. Use his name and allow him the credit- utilize it so you have the advantage to protect yourself- if you know what I mean. he did not finish the sentence. He gave her a worried look. You can’t be accused of anything if it reads completely different and his name appears." There was silence again, and it was intense.

She nodded somberly. That made sense. I searched through various in print stories on the subject while the plane flew over the ocean. Nothing came up-

Leave it to the professionals- Paul suggested. Let them decide. You could change the names and plot somewhat-

She had much to consider. The story intrigued her so!

When she arrived at the three-story sandstone, she climbed the flight of steps with her carry- on and stared out at the baily discernible view of the blue ocean. She could hear the rush of waves clatter ashore. It was then Paul brought the other suitcase up and kissed her goodnight. He made sure she was safe inside before he departed. She decided to place her suitcase in the corner of the bedroom. She would unpack in the morning.

Wilshire Drive had been laden with traffic and so she was home later than expected. It was no wonder Paul decided not to stay.

Caitlin adored Paul. He was fun, genuine, diligent. Something was missing, though.

She turned on the lights and looked around the quiet of her apartment. It was decorated for the most part with contemporary furnishings, but light décor. She had decided the antique touches here and there would warm it up. She unpacked the antiques and books then placed them in their proper places: in the kitchen, on shelves and she deliberately saved the quilt for the couch.

The kettle, that had been cleaned, now boiled with fresh water. Caitlin curled up on the couch with the journal and a cup of tea. She opened the black leather-bound book to the first page.

CHAPTER THREE

The Journal of Doctor John Watson

M y house needed many repairs because of the recent heavy rains. It rained and rained profusely until heavy floods flowed over the lower lands and froze into a thin sheet of ice that blazed over the embankment. Mary, my wife, and I stayed, as guest thanks to a gracious invite, at the home of friend and colleague Sherlock Holmes.

It was early November, and the wood was stoked, and a warm fire was ablaze as he sat in his usual place in his favorite cushioned chair by the fireplace. He smoked a pipe, which I as usual, admonished him in all severity. After all, I was his physician. Holmes was a vigorous individual, but his health was not to be overlooked. He had high sugar levels that seemed to be under control, but this was a rare condition that yet was under much scrutiny. Research was in a primal stage, and I read the updated journals when they were issued by the medical world at every opportunity.

Tonight, he read his book quietly, and was lost in his own world. I had finished the evening newspaper when my Mary and Mrs. Hudson came into the foyer carrying trays of tea, and freshly baked goods. Sherlock perked up and stared at the chocolate scones.

Your sugar level is not exactly low. I reminded him.

None the less old chap. he placed the book on the side table. He changed the topic. We had a guest tonight. One Gerald Rodgers. He has made inquiry of my services needed in colonies. he explained.

You’re going to the colonies? Mrs. Hudson raised her brow as she poured tea. Sir, you have the tea and with no sugar. she told Holmes sternly. He reflected a weathered look. I did not need to remind him. I was assured Mrs. Hudson would remind him about his diet.

Yes he took a puff from his pipe and pondered to himself wearily. He and his grandfather own a bank and exchanges in New York. They were robbed four weeks ago, and the thief absconded with nearly seventy- five thousand in stocks, bonds and notes. he explained.

I leaned forward rather intrigued.

They had security? I took cup and drank some of the warm liquid to sooth my senses. It was blustery out tonight. I leaned forward and placed