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  Index of Stories

  Death of a Salesman

  Elementary

  The Problem at Witney

  Mass Murder

  Copyright 2020 by William Todd

  All rights reserved This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author and publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  First printing, 2020.

  Print and ebook editions available via Kindle Direct Publishing.

  Foreward

  Over the course of our friendship, which has lasted for several decades now, I have been privileged to be involved personally in hundreds of cases my friend Sherlock Holmes has put to successful conclusions. So many that the volumes it would take to put them all into print would be a monumental undertaking that I fear I could never accomplish in the amount of time Providence has dictated I have left in this world. There are more than a few cases that, although they inspire awe with his utter brilliance of deduction, will nonetheless remain only as a memory due to promises kept to the person or government involved which could put peoples’ lives in jeopardy evenyears after the fact.

  Yet, there are also stories which showcase Holmes’s remarkable abilities, perhaps in a simpler form—the charcoal sketches among his Rembrandts. It is these cases that I often look upon most fondly, if only because my mortal mind can more easily understand their simple beauty. As I go through my files on this cold winter’s night, sitting by a roaring fire with some of these stories scattered about me on the floor or in my hand, they bring back a rumination. A memory of the case itself, surely, and the methods used by Holmes to bring it to a conclusion of course, but also—and perhaps more importantly to me—recollections of a more youthful friendship that warm me in these waning days.

  Here are four such cases that are remarkable to me, even now, and I hope my readers enjoy them set forth for the first time. Dr. John Watson

  Death of a Salesman

  I had long planned a holiday to the Cornish coast, but it seemed that either time or circumstance had always prevented it, especially in the warmer months. The late summer had been a warm and dry one and, seeing that I had time on my hands and a willing cover for my practice while away, I endeavoured to finally take that holiday.

  I had long been fascinated by the rugged beauty and steep coastal cliffs of the Penwith Peninsula and had been told at a medical conference by a colleague who’d had the pleasure of staying there of Kerrek House, an ancient and dilapidated manor and adjacent tin mine that had been recently restored and turned into a hotel. Although Kerrek House’s esteemed history was intriguing, it was by no means its only, and I daresay primary, allure. It sat not one-hundred feet from one of the steepest and sheerest cliffs in all of England, Folly’s End. It seemed from that height one could see the entirety of the Great Atlantic.

  I had asked my friend, Sherlock Holmes, if he had sufficient pause in his investigations to accompany me for a few days. He initially balked at the idea of exchanging the invigorating stimuli of London for the idleness of the countryside, for he abhorred mental stagnation. Anticipating his usual detestations, I had also coincided my holiday with a BBKA (British Beekeepers Association) symposium in nearby Newquay. At hearing this, he acquiesced.

  On the day of departure, I presented myself with my luggage while Holmes was sipping tea, reading the BBKA brochure in a chair next to the window that opened onto Baker Street below. He had a boyish excitement in his eyes. He waved the brochure at me, “Hallo, Watson, my good man. Did you know they are going to have some Epeoloides pilosulus on display at the symposium? The rare cuckoo bee from America. I was just going through the mail on the side table and found the pamphlet just in time.”

  “I gave you that brochure two weeks ago,” I remonstrated, “and you are just now getting around to reading it?”

  “He waved off the statement. “Surely, just knowing about the symposium was enough for me, but having Epeoloides pilosulus on hand to examine is the cherry on the cake.”

  “Where are your things?” I asked, having noticed that Holmes had no luggage of his own out.

  Glancing up at the clock on the mantle, Holmes replied, “My dear Watson, we are not leaving for another hour for the station. I have plenty of time to get my things packed. We will only be gone four days. I only require a few things to satisfy my wants. Unlike—” at this, he waved his hand at my three pieces of luggage.

  “Well, I prefer to pack for contingencies. It is a compulsion I learned in Afghanistan and one that has served me well.”

  Holmes sighed, drank the rest of his tea and stood. “As you wish, Watson. I shall prepare as if we were to be stranded cliff-side for months, even though my primary dress will be my beekeeper's outfit.”

  . . . . .

  In an hour and a half, we were on the Great Western Railway, on our way out of Paddington to Newquay, and from there a taxi to Kerrek House.

  Within an hour of departure, it was time for luncheon, so Holmes and I made our way to the dining car for tea and sandwiches. It was a bright and airy car with butter-coloured oak panels and tulip-shaped sconces with mirrored backing placed at intervals to give one the feeling of picnicking in a field of wildflowers. We took a small booth in the middle of the car next to a waist-high railing, arched in the middle, that separated the dining car into equal halves.

  Holmes seemed to be in one of his fasting moods, a habit he espoused to keep his mind sharp; however, I partook of a salmon and cream cheese sandwich with my tea. Holmes seemed content to sip his cup and watch with a studious eye the people around us.

  “The world holds myriad curiosities if one would but observe them, wouldn’t you say, Watson?”

  “I would agree,” I replied, “but I daresay someone like you sees much more than the average person, ergo, you see more curiosities.”

  Still casting his gaze about, he idly waved off my statement. “Do we not all have eyes? The problem is everyone sees, not everyone observes.” With a surreptitious nod of his head, he led me in the direction of a couple a decade our seniors, by the look of them, a few tables down on the opposite side of the aisle. She had a boisterous voice as plump as her cheeks. Her hair was a monsoon of red curls that bounced as she spoke. The gentleman across from her was very animated, as well, when he spoke, whose gesticulations seemed to mimic the woman’s hair. He had thinning brown hair and a wiry mustache. “For example,” he went on, “I can deduce just from observation that the man is a printer, possibly calico by the alizarin dye on his fingers that has not come completely clean. He has a Wirehair Terrier who bid his master goodbye before he left, and he is also hiding the fact that he is married and has been for quite some time and does not wish his companion to know.”

  “And you can tell all this how?” I asked.

  “The terrier is easy. He has several hairs on his trouser leg. The height up from his shoe tells me it is a small dog. The thickness, texture, and color relays to me the breed—it is a Wirehair Terrier. Simple observation. Now, onto the not-so-simple yet equally correct: He does his best to keep his left hand out of view while they talk. See how he keeps it resting on his knee, yet he is quite dynamic with his other hand. He holds his trouser leg to keep from bringing that hand up and into view as he speaks. And can you see the indentation left by the wedding ring?”

  I turned briefly and strained my eyes to look without being too obvious (for the couple was at an odd angle to my seat) and agreed. “Yes, I can see it. Maybe he is a recent widower and has just taken off his wedding ring.”

  Holmes shook his head in disappointment. “Then where is his mourning band? And his actions clearly are not those of widower.
Observe, Watson, don’t just see. His finger is still red from the mighty task of removing it just before he came into the dining car. He did not immediately sit down with the lady but asked if he could join her only after sitting by himself momentarily, then, when seeing she was alone, asked to sit with her for company. This I observed while you were ordering your tea and sandwich. I know he has been married for quite some time for the finger’s girth grew along with his waistline over the years, which is why it was so hard to remove. His wife takes good care of his needs as evidenced by his starched shirt and ample midsection, yet he is no longer satisfied. The eternal and innate disease of impiety has infected this man’s soul, and his wedding vows shall now suffer the consequences. And notice upon whom he has decided shall remedy that illness. She is younger than him but not by much. She is as equally soft and ample around the middle as her suiter. Rather plain, if not a bit homely—”

  “Holmes!”

  “—So, if this gentleman is being flirtatious with a woman of this caliber, then it can be assumed that his wife is of a similar pedigree, possibly a bit less…comely. And she is probably a vociferous talker, as well.”

  “Come, now, Holmes. You are delving into the realm of idle speculation, now. There is no way you can deduce that based on the man’s girth and ring finger.”

  He smiled. “Possibly, Watson, yet Bain’s psychology suggests that after time, one subconsciously gravitates toward the familiar. So even though this man is unsatisfied with his situation, without realizing his actions he is attracted to someone with similar traits as his wife—frowzy, loud—with but one exception: she is not his wife. And this inclination towards the familiar can only take place after quite some time of indoctrination. That and his relative age also lend themselves to my deduction that he has been married for some time. Bain is incorrect in some of his premises, but not this; with this, there can be no doubt.”

  I could only shake my head. “Honestly, Holmes. I don’t know whether to be flabbergasted at your thought process or pity it. Would it not be easier and less taxing to look over at them and think, ‘there is a couple having a nice time together’?”

  “I do not make the truth, Watson, I only observe it. Something of which you should try harder to accomplish. Either I am a terrible teacher, or you are a terrible student, and I daresay the former cannot be so.” He then turned to me with a wry smile. “Quickly, Watson, salvage my abilities of edification—how many tables are in this car? Do not look, keep your gaze on me. No cheating.”

  I put down my sandwich. “Well, let me think.” I closed my eyes as I tried to visualize the dining car’s layout in my mind, counting the tables. “I believe they are set about at regular intervals, keeping the same configuration on both sides, the aisle in the middle. I believe there are…ten tables present and four booths, one on each side of the railing on both sides.”

  “Bravo, Watson!”

  I opened my eyes. “So, I was correct, then?”

  Holmes smiled. “You were not. But you were only off by two. I commend you on the attempt, however. You did what you should have done—pictured it in your mind. No doubt you failed to count the two small tables on either side of the door to the kitchen, each holding large bouquets of roses.”

  I started to object, but Holmes held up a quieting hand. “I said tables, Watson, not just dining tables. Observe, do not just see. Something as simple as counting the tables should have been an almost unconscious act. Ah, but the true test comes with remembering the finer details.”

  “And you did that when we came in, I suppose?”

  “Then and in the interim, of course. To me, it is as natural as breathing.”

  “Then, you won’t mind a little assessment,” said I as I wiped my mouth on my napkin.

  He gave me a look as if daring me to test him. “Are you a betting man, Watson?”

  “Ah, a little wager, then? Alright.” I felt comfortable enough that there had to be something or someone in the coach that had escaped his gaze.

  “The winner buys lunch?”

  Knowing that buying Holmes any meal would cost me next to nothing with his bird-like eating habits I agreed. “Alright, then…” I looked around the coach, looking for a suitable target to test Holmes’s observational skills. Of course, his deductive skills never ceased to amaze me, but recalling details of an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people after only twenty minutes seemed a stretch even for the great detective. The car at the front nearest the kitchen was full of patrons chatting, eating, and drinking, but they were in Holmes’s direct line of sight. I tried to pick the most nondescript person in the coach and someone who, preferably, was at his back.

  “Alright, please describe to me the people sitting at the fifth table on right.”

  Holmes took a deep breath and closed his eyes, momentarily, putting his hands together under his chin introspectively. Then, he opened his eyes, casting his gaze ahead in recollection. “Do you mean the fifth table on the right as we came in or from the other direction? No matter. They both only have one occupant. Nice try at subterfuge, my good fellow. I shall assume you meant the gentleman at the fifth table down from our entrance.”

  I sighed for I already knew I had lost the wager.

  “He is a slight fellow. Young. Sandy hair. A grey sack suit. Side whiskers, but I believe his face is stubbled, so he left his residence this morning without a shave. His otherwise unblemished countenance probably means that he was running late. Given a choice of grooming habits to forsake, he chose shaving. He is single for his wife would not have let him leave unshaven or tardy. I would deduce that he made arrangements for this train at the last minute. He is pretending to read a book, but he is really studying someone else in the car because on more than one occasion I had noticed him look up from his book. His gaze was intent, holding within it malice of some substance, and it was directed towards someone at the opposite end of the car. I would suggest that he is an office worker of some sort. Definitely not manual labor. He is too slightly built, and his hands are too clean.”

  He redirected his gaze upon me, smiling in that manner that does not entirely hide an air of superiority. “Well, Watson, how did I do?”

  Shaking my head, I replied, “Well, I guess I deserved that.” Trying to save even a small amount of dignity, I then added, “But what was he reading?”

  With feigned exasperation, Holmes declared, “Really, Watson!” He summoned over the waiter to reap his reward, I hoped just a cucumber and cream cheese sandwich. “He is reading, Man and His Kingdom. The script is too small to make out the author, however, I am sure you will grant me that one small failure.” To the waiter, he then said, “May I see a menu. I am famished.”

  As we waited on Holmes’ substantial meal, a man approached us from the front of the car. He was a dapper dresser, clean-shaven and wore an impossibly large, if not slightly exaggerated smile. Stopping at our table, he removed his brown trilby, revealing close-cut dark hair. He introduced himself as he removed his hat and clutched it between the fingers of his hands and ran them along its narrow brim, restlessly. “Good afternoon, gentleman. I do hope you forgive the intrusion, but you look like men of distinction. I am Newbury, Collin Newbury. I am an agent of McAllister and Sons Tailors, on my way to Cornwall on business. I couldn’t help but notice, and please forgive my imprudence, that your attire seems a bit…démodé.”

  His was the smooth, quick-paced tenor of a street vendor, with an irritatingly bumptious air, and I was about to voice my displeasure at my attire being insulted and for being pitched to at a meal table, when Holmes shot me a look from the corner of his eye as he held back the tiniest of grins. It was a look that told me he had this well in hand.

  “Please, go on,” said my friend with fabricated interest.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said with a slight bow. “Now, I wear a suit made by McAllister and Sons,”—at this, his ran his fingers along the lapels of the dark-materialed and pin-striped suit—“and you might think this was personal
ly tailored to my exact measurements. But you would be mistaken, my good man. This was bulk manufactured at our modern facility in London. We can now bring well-tailored suits to the masses for a fraction of the cost. If either of you two gentlemen might be interested in trying on one of these fine pieces of attire, I happen to have three more samples of differing sizes of this very suit. Would either of you be interested in updating your wardrobe?” He winked at Holmes. “The ladies will be at your feet. They can’t resist a well-dressed man, especially one with continental fashion.”

  “As much as I appreciate the sentiment,” retorted Holmes, “Ladies are the last thing I want at my feet. As far as the suit is concerned—” at this he quickly felt the man’s lapel “— I can tell by a quick study that it is made from a thinner material, possibly cotton broadcloth, suclat, perhaps. Soft but not the durable wool of my frock coat. Yours is only single-stitched while mine is double-stitched, which means yours will not last as long, which also means that were I to switch out my wardrobe for McAllister and Sons, I would have to spend more money constantly buying new suits to replace the worn ones to have, as you say, ‘ladies at my feet’. And you are wearing fillers under your coat to make it more form-fitting and therefore look more personally tailored. Indeed, if that is what one must do to attract the fairer sex these days, I want no part of it. And all that time and money wasted when I could have just stuck to my démodé attire. Thank you but no.”

  At this, I heard the three young ladies at a table across from us snicker at Holmes’s rebuffs of the man’s sales pitch.

  The man, Mr. Newbury, glanced behind him at the group of women then back at Holmes. “As you wish, sir,” he said, displaying rather an unwounded, almost insouciant countenance. “You cannot blame a man for trying. I bid you good afternoon.”