Psalms of Sherlock: A Sherlock Holmes Novel

By Gail Ann Swales

Many are they who say of me, "There is no help for him in God." Selah. ""Psalm 3:2 Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, has no clue of the rich symphony God has planned for his life. When murder strikes too close, the music of Sherlock's life turns dark and melancholic, and he vows to find the destiny of a person's essence after death. Professor Moriarty, a maestro of the criminal world, complicates Sherlock's investigation with blackmail. The professor's associate, Irene Adler, presents quite another distraction. Sherlock enlists the aid of his good friend, Dr. John Watson, but receives more help than expected. John's wife, Mary, is a woman of God and seeks to guide Sherlock's search with her prayers. A case at St. Michael's Mount proves nearly fatal, but provides Sherlock with an interlude to immerse himself in his music. When he is lent a del Gesu violin (meaning "of Jesus"), he gathers data from biblical scholars and receives insight from another realm. As an atheist and a gifted intellectual, Sherlock prides himself on his powers of observation and deductive reasoning. Will he finally be able to accept the Truth when his deductions defy science, logic, and his strict policy of self-reliance? The Game is on!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644169636

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Psalms of Sherlock

A Sherlock Holmes Novel

Gail Ann Swales

ISBN 978-1-64416-962-9 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64416-963-6 (digital)

Copyright © 2019 by Gail Ann Swales

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Prelude

Prelude

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

First Movement

John’s Song

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Second Movement

Sherlock’s Return

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

The Wedding March

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Nocturne A Time of Darkness

The Honeymoon’s Over

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Search

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Discovery

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Interlude

A New Life

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

St. Michael’s Interlude

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Concerto

Maestro

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Christmas Concerto

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Finale

The Last Song

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Psalms for the Stories

Prelude

Prelude

First Movement

John’s Song

Second Movement

Sherlock’s Return

The Wedding March

Nocturne A Time of Darkness

The Honeymoon’s Over

The Search

The Discovery

Interlude

A New Life

St. Michael’s Interlude

Concerto

Maestro

Christmas Concerto

Finale

The Last Song

Contact Data

About the Author

For my grandchildren:

Anna Marie,

Who loved my stories first,

And

Paul Allen,

An unexpected blessing

Later in my life

I pray the Lord blesses them and

That they may set their hope in God,

And not forget the works of God,

But keep His commandments

Psalm 78:7

Acknowledgments

Thank you, LORD—First, last and always, for the inspiration and perseverance to see this mission through and for bringing so many opportunities and helpful people into my life.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle—for creating the original characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson and to all the writers and actors who have continued his legacy.

Cover Artwork – Violin by Vlad Gerasimov at Vladstudios

The Case for Christ, A Journalist’s Personal Investigation of the Evidence for Jesus by Lee Strobel

Editing and Writing Coach—Pauline Fay Lamb

Beta readers and listeners—Thank you to family and friends who have believed in my great adventure and encouraged me to see it through:

Karen Ball, Jeannette Delaney, Ruth Carmichael Ellinger, Doreen and Michael Freid, Julie and Daniel Hamilton, Cheryl Johnston, Sandra Lewis, Jennifer Ann Lowder, Becky Sue Morris, Linda Oberg, Sandy Lynn Reeder, Anna Marie Rodriguez, Amy Snider, and Daniel Trosper.

Prelude

An action or event acting as an introduction

to something more important.

—Oxford English Dictionary

Prelude

Many are they who say of me,

There is no help for him in God. Selah.

—Psalm 3:2

Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes white-knuckled the rim of the claw-foot tub as he stared at the familiar face just below the water’s surface. Her lifelike eyes gave him but brief hope. Plunging his hands into the frigid water, he lifted the body out and held her closely for one moment, willing her to live. He shivered as the certainty of her death washed over him and then placed her gently on the bathmat.

Too late for CPR.

He could do nothing now but contaminate the crime scene.

Sherlock stood dripping in the doorway and pulled his mobile phone from an inside pocket. Even the lining of his suit jacket was damp. Brushing water beads from the small screen, he texted the one person he could trust.

That done, he stalked to the bed to retrieve what he needed. When he drew back the silken duvet, her lavender fragrance enfolded him. Her choice of scent reflected her era and charm but had always seemed too simple for such a complicated woman.

On the surface, there seemed no logical reason for her death. She’d never hurt anyone in her life. Not even him, after all the years he’d deceived her. Sherlock glared at the ne’er-do-well’s photograph displayed in a silver frame on her nightstand. If he’d had some part in her death … The detective choked back bile.

He ripped the duvet from the bed and strode back to her, anxious to complete his task while they were still alone. The comforter trailed behind him, blotting his wet footprints.

When he stood above her once more, he hesitated, fingering the satin tag sewn into the duvet’s expensive binding.

Only the best for her.

He shook his head to clear away distracting sentiment, then took a deep breath and yanked the duvet through the doorframe. An ivory linen card dropped from its folds and lay at his feet. He knelt and pocketed the note, taking not another moment from his mission. Drawing the covering over her body, he ensured she would be spared this final disgrace.

He sat back on his heels and stared at her face, trying to understand what had happened. Now slack with death, her intriguing animation had departed. The person he’d known so well was gone, and only her shell was left behind. The world would be a poorer place, indeed, without her presence.

Sherlock? Dr. John Watson arrived, huffing at the top of the stairs and halted halfway through the bedroom. I got your text. You okay?

Startled from his private reverie, Sherlock stood and faced his friend. She’s gone. Trembling, he steadied himself on the doorframe while puddles formed at his feet.

The doctor knelt and laid his fingers on her carotid artery.

She’s been gone … Sherlock’s words caught in his throat.

For quite some time. John drew the cover over her face, then moved to put his arm around his friend’s shoulders. I’m so sorry for your loss.

Sherlock recoiled and pushed past John.

I’ll not be comforted like a small child. He stumbled to the gilt chair beside her bed and collapsed. Covering his face with his hands, he took a deep shuddering breath. No matter that his soaked clothing would ruin the delicate damask upholstery. Her precious things meant little now.

Does she keep any brandy in the house? came John’s voice from a few feet away.

Sherlock sat up and focused his mind, this was no time for self-indulgence. He needed data and had precious little time to inspect the crime scene before he was interrupted. Scotland Yard will make a mess of things as usual. Call Lestrade, he’s the best of a dull lot.

Will do. Then I’ll go check on that brandy. John left him.

Sherlock surveyed the disheveled room. A mound of jewelry littered the Chinese lacquered writing desk, usually a tidy and contemplative place.

This was where she had prepared for her last day with a bit of powder and a dab of perfume at her wrists and throat. After her bath that evening, she would have smoothed on her mysterious lotions from one of the desk’s many drawers. Then she would have sat there for hours writing her stories by hand before she turned in.

Her favorite Mont Blanc pen lay there, a mere a trifling amidst the other glittering treasures, but something was missing.

He skimmed his fingertips over the place where she’d kept her perfume bottle. That and her garnet necklace and earrings were not to be found. Peculiar choices, but still, possibly a robbery, Sherlock muttered and seated himself at the dressing table. What else had been taken?

Mycroft would have a list; he always took care of her insurance matters.

Oh bother, someone had to inform his brother.

Sherlock glanced up as John returned.

He could do it. Friends were meant to relieve you of unpleasant tasks at a time like this, weren’t they?

Find anything? John set a small glass on the dressing table.

Not much. Using his handkerchief to open the large center drawer, Sherlock continued his examination. He eyed the amber liquid in the glass. John’s search for brandy had been a lost cause. She’d never indulged in anything stronger than sherry and only on auspicious occasions.

Today could not hope to be that.

The doorbell chimed, and John did an about-face. Lestrade was close by.

Sherlock looked up. Listen, ring Mycroft, will you?

John came to a dead halt in the doorway and turned around. "You want me to tell him?"

Obviously, don’t tell him what’s happened. Sherlock heaved a sigh. Be creative. I just can’t deal with his righteous indignation.

Right. I’m on it. John headed toward the stairs again.

Cynthia Lynn Holmes. Sixty-two. Author, brilliant mind. Travelled extensively. Divorced, living alone. Sherlock led Lestrade to the scene of the crime.

Holmes?

Mother. Sherlock cleared his throat.

Lestrade shook his head. My condolences.

I’d just stopped by to retrieve a first edition from my old room. If I hadn’t, one could only guess how long it might have been before someone discovered her.

The inspector peered down at the covered body lying in a small pool of water. This how you found her? He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and stepped into the bathroom.

I removed her from the bath to attempt resuscitation but was too late. Sherlock remained near the door. He need not treat Lestrade to evidence of his sentimentality by venturing closer. Better just stick to the facts. She’s covered with the duvet I took from her bed.

Her nightclothes and robe are laid on the chair. Maybe a burglar surprised her in the bath and did her in. Lestrade squatted beside the body and drew back the covering. No signs of bruising on her neck or shoulders.

Sherlock winced and averted his eyes. Every vivid detail stood out in his memory. The floor was dry before I intervened. She would have thrashed about if someone had attacked her in the bath.

True. Lestrade covered the body and stood. He drew another pair of gloves from his pocket and held them out.

The front door crashed open. Sherlock?

Up here, Mycroft, John called from the top of the stairs.

Footsteps charged up the staircase.

It seems my brother has arrived. Sherlock turned away from what lay on the floor and tugged on the gloves. Whatever John had said to Mycroft over the phone had produced an appropriate sense of urgency and a bit of fear. Sherlock pursed his lips.

Satisfying.

Mycroft Holmes hesitated in the doorway, red-faced and panting.

Panting was not his style.

Very satisfying, indeed.

Nevertheless, impeccably dressed in suit and tie with umbrella in hand, his brother looked the perfect British gentleman as he pulled a monogramed handkerchief from his breast pocket and patted his forehead.

Mycroft stared past them to the covered figure on the bathroom floor. It can’t be true. He paled and fell into the gilt chair beside the bed.

John handed him the sherry that Sherlock had ignored.

Draining the contents of the glass in one gulp, Mycroft suddenly leapt to his feet. Why on earth is this chair wet? He scowled at the offensive seat, then at his brother. Sherlock, seriously!

Sherlock gave a bitter laugh. As if a little dampness mattered at this point.

Sherlock, have you seen this? John stared into the nightstand drawer, which stood ajar.

He moved to John’s side and pulled the drawer open.

What is it? Mycroft brushed off the back of his trousers and peered over John’s shoulder.

Looks like your mother was taking prescription drugs. John frowned and tilted his head. A lot of them.

Hello, what’s this? Sherlock pointed to a tiny smear of blood on the corner of the nightstand. Then reaching between the nightstand and the bed, he retrieved a plastic zip bag of gelatin capsules filled with a white powder and handed it to the detective inspector.

Suicide? Lestrade pulled an evidence bag from his pocket and dropped the packet in.

Mother would never commit suicide. Mycroft folded his arms across his chest. It’s just not done.

Because suicide is so inconvenient for those left behind. John rolled his eyes and looked to Sherlock. Could be an accidental overdose.

Have the lab analyze the capsules and see if any have been substituted for her prescription meds, Sherlock directed Lestrade, then walked around the bed to the other nightstand and yanked the drawer open.

Her diary’s missing. She always kept it here, so she could write when she awoke in the night. Sherlock looked away, his voice dropping because one did not speak of such intimacies aloud. She read me stories from it when I was a child.

Lestrade eyed Sherlock before he announced, Murder, robbery, suicide, accidental overdose: we’ve got the whole gamut here.

You can call the coroner and have your team in now. Sherlock pulled his gloves off and shoved them into a pocket, avoiding Lestrade’s scrutiny. For your report, a garnet necklace, earrings, and vintage cut glass perfume bottle are also missing from her dressing table. Mycroft can fill you in on her other valuables.

Mycroft leant close to Lestrade and tapped him on the chest. This is a private matter. See that none of your men speak to the press.

Lestrade took in a sharp breath and lurched back on his heels.

Sherlock turned and strode from the room without a backward glance. This place held no more answers for him.

Chapter Two

At his flat on Baker Street, Sherlock dropped his wet things into the tub and finished buttoning his dry shirt. Mother, murdered? More shocking to face than his own mortality. His mouth set in a hard line, and his breathing quickened. What kind of heartless monster would leave her like that?

He required a distraction before rejoining John and Mycroft in the sitting room. Stopping at the kitchen table, he slid a petri dish with a particularly ugly specimen under the lens of his microscope and bent to peer through the eyepieces. A slight adjustment of the knobs and the details swam into focus. Hmm. Interesting. If only he could get past the distortion of sentiment as easily in this case.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, allowing his breath to escape slowly before he straightened up. Better now, he was ready to face the others. A slight smile crossed his face. Of course, he could do this—he was Sherlock Holmes.

John held up a glass. Mycroft, you want a brandy?

Mycroft gave a curt nod before he examined the seat of his chair. Then he settled in and propped his umbrella against the side table. Accepting the drink, his mouth curved into a smile as he swirled the chestnut-coloured liquid in the glass.

Sherlock scowled. His brother looked entirely too comfortable for his taste. Heard anything from Father recently?

Mycroft choked on his first swallow. Nothing. Do you think he might somehow be involved?

I wouldn’t dismiss it, given his past performances. Sherlock dropped the crumpled ivory linen card in Mycroft’s lap. This fell from the duvet.

Mycroft smoothed it out. A bit damp, but Mother’s monogram is distinct. He opened the card and scanned its contents. Yes, I recognize her hand from the letters I received while away at school.

‘Professor,’ he read aloud, ‘I am most distressed by your recent demands. I beg you to desist, or I shall ask Sherlock to take this matter up with you. CLH.’

Mycroft looked up from his reading. Blackmail?

Possibly. Sherlock turned his back to them and stood before the fire.

Who’s the professor?

Mother used to tease Father by calling him Professor, Mycroft replied.

"The title is somewhat correct. He is a professor emeritus. Sherlock turned to face them, his jaw tightened. Father has always had a wandering eye, and his position at university provided an endless parade of opportunity."

You think your father’s responsible for this?

He could be quite Bohemian when it suited his purposes. Mycroft sniffed and set his empty glass on the small table next to his chair.

She was always blind to his dalliances. Did you see his photo on her nightstand? Sherlock collapsed into his chair. I need more data.

I’ll have my people get me an update on Father’s whereabouts. Mycroft picked up his umbrella and stood.

John grinned. Perks of MI6?

Precisely. Good night, Sherlock. I’ll be at my club if you need me.

Sherlock leant back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

Want that drink now?

I think not, but silence would be good. Steepling his fingers on his lips, he closed his eyes and dismissed John’s presence from his mind. He was less successful with the errant thoughts that continued to intrude.

Where was she now?

Obviously, her body was in the morgue, but what had happened to her being? Her essence? Was she just gone?

He’d always believed that death was nothing. Forever and ever.

Was life for naught?

What, in truth, was anyone’s purpose in living?

Sherlock toyed with the breakfast Mrs. Hudson had brought him. She’d clearly outdone herself in cooking up all these condolences.

John would enjoy them.

If he ever woke up.

Sherlock dropped his fork onto the plate and turned his attention to the morning news. At least Mycroft had kept word of Mother’s death from the papers. When the buzzer interrupted his reading, he stood and peered down at the door through the flat’s front window.

Ah. More good news, no doubt. He pressed the door release button and, wrapping his blue dressing gown about himself, settled back at the table.

Footsteps lingered on each of the stairs leading to his flat until at last Detective Inspector Lestrade entered the room.

Sherlock picked up his paper again. What did the autopsy show?

I just got the toxicology screen, and your mother had taken a combination of things. Lestrade pulled a folded report from his jacket pocket and held it out.

There were no illicit drugs in her system, were there? Sherlock looked up.

Not exactly. The detective inspector stood, still holding the report.

Just her prescription sedatives and a paralytic, yes?

Right. Testing detected a high concentration of ketamine in her heart muscle. He shook the report.

I thought as much. And the injection site?

Lestrade’s hand holding the report fell to his side. Her neck, of all places.

One seldom chooses the neck to self-administer a drug, and at any rate, she wouldn’t have given herself a paralytic. With that to top off what she’d previously taken, she would have lost consciousness, slid down into the tub, and drowned straight away.

So it’s murder then.

Obviously. I never, for one moment, believed she committed suicide.

How could you deduce that?

I’ve known the woman my entire life. She met her difficulties head-on. Not like other people I could name. Sherlock threw his paper on the floor and paced the room. Time of death?

Coroner judges sometime between eight and midnight.

And?

No sign of forced entry, so she opened the door, or the killer had a key.

Fingerprints?

We found John’s and Mycroft’s prints on the glass. Lestrade cleared his throat. Mycroft provided your father’s fingerprints and DNA on the off chance …

Sherlock stopped and stared at Lestrade.

The inspector nodded grimly. Confirmed on the bag of capsules and nightstand drawers. The blood was his too.

You analyzed her prescription meds?

The meds were fine.

And the substance in the capsules?

Confectioners’ sugar.

Curious. Why go to the bother of producing sugar pills and then inject her with a lethal substance?

Lestrade shrugged.

Anything else?

What do you mean?

Any further clues, a suspect? Anything you can add personally to what I already know? Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. This was so tedious.

Well, not at this time.

You have not disappointed me. He faked a smile.

Lestrade brightened. Really?

"No, you have quite lived down to my expectations. I told Jawn that Scotland Yard was a dull lot, but I put you at the top of the heap."

Thanks. The inspector’s shoulders slumped.

Sherlock pulled the ivory linen card from the pocket of his robe. What do you make of this?

Where’d it come from?

I found it at the scene but, in the heat of the moment, neglected to bring it to your attention.

Lestrade took the card and opened it. Professor?

That may or may not be Father. Mycroft is investigating other possibilities.

Lestrade handed the card back. Well, if Mycroft is already investigating it—

Sherlock thrust it at the inspector. Just take it through forensics and see if you get any other fingerprints on it other than Mycroft’s and ours.

Lestrade gave a half-smile as he took custody of this much-abused piece of evidence. In the heat of the moment?

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardened. I was somewhat distracted by Mother lying dead a few feet away.

Lestrade flinched as though slapped.

Sherlock turned away and went to the window. He threw the sheer curtain aside and, standing close to the glass, thrust his hands into the pockets of his robe. The veil billowed away, then fell back around his body like a shroud.

A great darkness lay within him. An emptiness.

Was there no hope after death?

In the window’s reflection, Lestrade shifted his weight and muttered, Sorry. Dropping the toxicology report on the table, he departed.

John wandered in a moment later, yawning. How’s Lestrade?

Insipid, insensitive, and insufferable. Sherlock emerged from the curtain and slumped into his chair.

"That’s a lot of Is, isn’t it?

I’m allowed.

You’re wallowing. John sat in his chair and propped his chin on his hand. The game is on. What are you going to do about it?

Sherlock’s mobile buzzed, and he snatched it up from the side table. The caller’s number was blocked.

PITY ABOUT YOUR MOTHER. MY CONDOLENCES.

Sherlock’s head pounded, and his grip tightened on his mobile as he stared at the photo on the small screen and whispered, I’m going to kill the person who sent me this.

Chapter Three

Sherlock turned to John at the entrance to the Diogenes Club. Do not speak until we enter Mycroft’s chamber. The tradition of silence in the main salon is strictly enforced.

John lifted an eyebrow. Seriously?

Sherlock laid a finger on his lips, and they entered an establishment which exuded refinement and British tradition. They passed solitary gentlemen in the salon—smoking cigars, having a brandy, or reading the news. Each was ensconced in a leather wingback chair seemingly oblivious to the other individuals likewise cocooned around them.

Sherlock led the way down a long hall lined on one side with floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with leather bound classics. Not a speck of dust lingered on the shelves.

The opposite wall displayed a rogue’s gallery. Some of the more prominent Diogenes members throughout history, Sherlock said as he sauntered down the row. However, the portraits only date back to the early 1700s as the original Diogenes was destroyed in the great fire of 1666.

Sherlock stopped and tapped his finger on the frame of his brother’s portrait. Hmmm, alarmingly lifelike, he whispered, leaning in closer. Mycroft pays dearly for his sacred milieu. As the first-born, he can well afford to do whatever he wishes. Sherlock turned to John. "But he, no doubt, writes off his private room as a business expense. Far less