A Study in Victory Red

By Allison Osborne

June 1946. London, England. A murdered man. A mysterious woman. A note in another language. Irene Holmes, daughter of the long-retired Sherlock Holmes, used her unique talents of deduction and observation to assist her childhood friend Detective Eddy Lestrade with his cases during the war. With the war over, Eddy keeps her on as a consultant, finding her essential to solving crimes. During one of these cases, Irene meets Joe, a man who finds her instantly intriguing and has enough opinions of his own to keep up with her challenging personality. When Eddy requests her help on a perplexing murder case, Irene drags Joe along as her assistant. Using many of her father's lessons, they traverse post-war London, determined to find the killer before he strikes again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MX Publishing
• Release date: Jun 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781787059627

Book preview

A Study in Victory Red

Holmes & Co. Mysteries. Collection One: The Introduction of Holmes & Co

Prologue

July, 1944. London, England.

Irene Holmes hunched on the lab stool, eye level with the long middle counter, observing the row of blood droplets sitting on the glass slides. Each one darkened at a different speed, coagulating and clotting. She scribbled notes on a piece of paper that she’d found on the professor’s desk earlier that morning.

The lab was sweltering, but if she made too much commotion, the university would refuse her entry next time. So, she braved the heat and continued with the task at hand.

Irene, you’re not even listening.

She straightened and looked at Uncle John who was perched on a stool at the other side of the counter. His forehead was beaded with sweat, collecting in the heavy worry lines on his face. His hair, completely white and thinning, lay flat on his head. Though slimmer from the rationing, her uncle was still the strong, solid man that filled her childhood memories.

Irene hoped that if she made it perfectly clear she was working, he’d head back to Baker Street for tea and a visit with Miss Hudson instead, but she had no such luck.

"I am listening, Uncle. I just don’t know what you want me to do."

He scowled, silver moustache twitching. "You are as frustrating as your father. Come home, to the farm, where the bombs can’t reach you. It’s not safe here."

She studied her blood drops again. The war is almost over.

How do you know that? he asked.

Because, she scribbled another note, how long could it possibly go on for?

A long time. Uncle John rapped the counter with his knuckles, attempting to summon her attention again. It’s not good for you to live in that big house alone.

I have Miss Hudson, she said, tucking her dark hair back. Besides, I might move out. Eddy’s sister needs a flatmate.

Then you’ll never be looked after.

Irene sat straight again and looked at her uncle, determined to get him either back to Baker Street, or all the way home, so that she could finish this experiment. I’m almost thirty years old, Uncle John. I can take care of myself.

Most people your age are married by now, he said, but there was no heart behind his words – most likely because he knew an argument was on the way.

Most people are fools, Irene said, her speech prepared. Marriage doesn’t interest me. What goes on in my mind–

No more, Uncle John huffed, the familiar patronizing tone asserting itself. You and your father will be the death of me, I swear. Irene, listen to me. You are skin and bones. Your hair – that you, for whatever reason, chopped off at your shoulders – is limp with mal-nourishment. I know you love London, but to choose to come back in the middle of a war...

Perhaps it’s better here, she snapped, accidentally opening the door for an unwanted conversation.

Better? He thudded his cane on the floor. Walking through a war zone, living on your own is better than the countryside? Do tell me how living day to day, under constant attack, is better than a lovely home in–

Because it is. Irene smacked the counter in sheer frustration. Her perfect blood slides scattered, a few falling to the floor, shattering on the tile. When I am here, I don’t wake up every day wondering if my own father is going to recognize me.

Uncle John closed his eyes for a brief second.

Irene grabbed a pin, ready to prick her finger again to collect more blood. A painful lump lodged in her throat, like a ball of glass, but she pushed it aside in a futile attempt to concentrate.

He has some clear days, Uncle John said, voice wavering. I am researching, trying different formulations to help improve his mind.

"Until you repair his mind, she said, voice breaking. I’m taking my chances with the bombs. I’d rather remember my father as the world’s greatest detective than as a man who doesn’t even know where he is or who we are."

Irene–

She shook her head. If they spoke any more about her father, she wouldn’t make it through this experiment.

I have work to do, Uncle John, she said, pricking her finger again, dropping fresh blood onto new slides. Eddy is still short on detective inspectors, and he’s got me on this puzzling case.

Uncle John stared at her for a few seconds, frowning.

Your staring is causing me to lose focus. She knew her words were harsh, but the tears threatened to fall, and this damn lump in her throat wouldn’t go away. I will see you at Baker Street.

You promise? Uncle John stood, leaning on his cane. You won’t get distracted?

No, Uncle John.

Maybe when the war is finally over, he said, shuffling toward the door, I’ll bring your father back to Baker Street. That may help his mind.

Irene clenched her jaw so hard, her teeth hurt. A tear betrayed her, falling on a blood drop.

As the door clicked shut, she flung the slide across the room, shattering it against the wall.

Just then, the siren sounded.

The hollow whine echoed through the street and through the windows.

With only seconds to get to safety, Irene blinked through her tears, feeling the panic strike her like a knife to the chest.

Uncle John.

She needed to get to him, help him take shelter.

As she scrambled off the stool, Irene stepped on a microscope slide. Her foot slid out from under her and her entire body crashed to the ground just as the siren started its second song. Behind the wailing, the buzz bomb growled.

The guttural spasm grew louder with each second as Irene sprinted down the long aisle toward the door.

Panic squeezed her stomach, stole the air from her lungs. The crude engine of the bomb overpowered the siren as it flew closer.

Hand on the door, she froze, staring at the ceiling, willing the sound to pass over her.

Keep flying.

The roar, like an old lorry struggling up a hill, coughed and spluttered above her.

Then horrible, gut-wrenching silence.

She flung the door open and ran into the hall. Uncle John had shuffled as quickly as he could toward her, but was still a few classrooms away. He frantically waved at her. Get back in there!

Irene shook her head and started toward him. Not without–

The blast knocked her back into the classroom.

Her head bounced off the counter as she collapsed to the floor. Bricks, wood, and plaster rained down as she curled in the rubble. Her ears rang and warm, sticky blood coated her hair. Her shirt, ripped and hanging from her shoulder, matched the shredded hem of her pants.

Irene could see the city through a hole in the building, right where Uncle John had shuffled down the hall. She tried to stay conscious, dragging herself through the wreckage, blinking through blurry vision.

Must find Uncle John...

She made it only a few feet before darkness overtook her, and she blacked out.

Chapter I

A Fortunate Meeting on a Lovely Tuesday Morning

June, 1946. London.

The sun shone bright and warm this early morning as Irene strolled down the pavement of a rather busy street. She’d promised herself to leave the flat at least once per day – unless the weather was horribly unforgiving. From somewhere in the tree above her, a bird chirped its shrill song, singing merrily as Irene passed.

Nothing of note had occurred in the past few weeks and she was on the verge of seeking out some adventure. Perhaps the intersection up-ahead would provide her with one.

Instead of turning right, back to her flat, Irene pivoted left and headed down a new street into a quiet, well-established neighbourhood.

She’d made it half-way down the block when she spotted a police car parked at the side of the road. She hurried her pace. Police cars weren’t in nice neighbourhoods like this too often.

She made it to the scene, eyes widening in delight as she gazed upon the incident.

A Ford Anglia was stuck halfway into the front of a three-story house, brick crumbling around the vehicle, denting the metal.

A constable wandered around the garden in wait for a detective inspector to arrive.

It could be a simple car crash, but if there was no driver or suspect, then surely there must be more.

Irene couldn’t resist this mini-mystery. She tugged her hat down and made sure her hair was secured, the curls losing their shape in the early morning sun. She pulled off her lovely walking gloves and swapped them for the pair of working ones she kept in her pocket, the thin material allowing her to feel the textures on her fingertips while keeping contamination to a minimum.

Marching into the garden, hunched over, she picked out clues in the grass. The driver’s door of the Anglia sat ajar, with footprints easily found in the soft grass.

Small feet – a woman’s size 4 – stumbling away from the scene.

Irene peeked inside the car and gleaned used tissues, an expensive lipstick tube, and gloves from Southcombe’s – a rather costly pair, judging by the white silk and pearl buttons.

Oi, lady!

She ignored the constable’s