THE COLDENHALL LEGACY

Disclaimer: It's been a little while since I did a decent length story, so here is one which has been in my mind for a little while. Hope you like it. The Holmes brothers and Watson are creations of Conan Doyle, other characters are mine.

Chapter 1 – Report of a Tragedy

There are many words and phrases that can be used to describe my good friend Sherlock Holmes. Of the positive, my mind immediately thinks of 'brilliant', 'incisive', 'insightful'. However there is a darker side of his character as well; 'impatient', 'tactless' and 'frustrating' are equally at home in any consideration of his daily life and routine.

By the spring of 1896 I had suffered these extremes of his character for some years. At first I had been upset by them, and had taken them personally; but as the time passed and I grew to understand his manners I was able to formulate my own responses, by which I intended to lift him out of the dark moods and to encourage continuation of the good.

My plans never worked of course.

But I was ever willing to continue my attempts to instill in him some form of civilisation whereby his fellow men would be able, perhaps, to feel less challenged in their dealings with him, less threatened and more willing to unburden themselves so that the full extent of their need was able to be quickly assessed. Reading the works of the new natural philosophers I was convinced that in this way the cases which my friend took upon himself would be more rapidly solved.

Or so I thought.

What I never allowed for, of course, was the fact that Holmes did not want to change. His modus operandi was indeed to be, and to remain, stand-offish, remote, removed from the trifling details which allowed him to cut to the core of the issues that were presented to him.

But today, 29th February, I had a new trick up my sleeve. When I first met him, I had been amazed that some aspects of his knowledge were encyclopaedic, whereas he was apparently willingly ignorant of some basic facts in other areas of science. On this day, with him sitting in a window chair watching absent mindedly at Baker Street's hustle and bustle, with no cases to hand, I had my opportunity.

"Holmes?"

Wearily he turned to me through the haze of smoke that surrounded the chair, and stopped toying with the emerald tiepin he wore as he gazed into space. "Yes, Watson?"

"Do you know what today is?"

"Of course. I have read the morning papers. They are all dated. If this is to be the standard of conversation, it is going to be a long day. Even longer than necessary. I cannot stand the waiting and the boredom."

"Why waiting?" I asked, before recalling the packet he had sent off the previous month. "Ah, yes, your latest book."

"They said they would publish it post haste. And yet On the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus remains unread by the wider world. Such beauty to the ears, layer on layer of voice, and now expounded for the first time."

I was not going to be distracted and dragged the conversation back on course. "Do you recall one of our first conversations – about how you were not interested in whether the earth moved around the sun, or vice versa.?"

Holmes shifted in his seat, as if uneasy. "Of course. It is an accurate assessment of the relative importance of the facts and how they impact upon my work."

"And yet today would not exist without those facts of astronomy which you otherwise ignore."

"Please do not be so tiresome. Where is this leading?"

"Today is Leap Year's Day."

"And?"

"The earth does not take merely 365 days to travel around the sun, Holmes. It takes a quarter extra day. And so every four years an extra day is added to the Calendar." I was getting quite into my stride. "And so, despite your statement that the sun, moon and stars have no importance to you, in reality today only exists because of that astronomic fact."

Holmes smiled indulgently. "I stand corrected, Watson," he said. "Never again will I make such brash statements. Although of course you are somewhat incorrect in your details. The earth does not take an extra quarter day per year, there is an excess over that of some nine minutes; hence on three of each four century days there is no Leap Year Day added since otherwise the calendar would get ahead of itself ..."

"Oh! Very well!" I exclaimed, half indignantly and half amused, for the tone of his voice was clear, and I fully understood his insistence from our first meeting that it made little impact to a lump of soil or a specimen of blood whether the moon even existed.

"Yet still the day draws out before us, Watson," continued Holmes. "It has now been ninety-two days since an interesting case presented itself to me – and even that was the simple recovery of some government plans. And still they do not tell me the publication date of the book. I cannot go on like this – I can feel my mind festering. Surely there must be someone, somewhere, in need of my help."

"Holmes, you spent three years dead," I responded. "Maybe word has not got out yet. Or maybe the criminal world has decided, with your return, to behave itself." I spoke lightly, but I knew what a torment these quiet periods were to him. Then, as if in a flash, an idea came to me. "Why do you not volunteer yourself for work?"

The look of incredulity on Holmes' face was a sight to behold. I carried on quickly. "If cases will not come to you, then choose one from the paper and engage yourself upon it without invitation. It pains me to see you in such a state of boredom. You have done it before on occasion. I know what the work means to you." With that, I threw the paper at him with an extravagant gesture. "Go to it, Holmes."

He looked at me with surprise, and then smiled. "Once again Watson, you read me well. That is in fact precisely what I have been planning to do but have dared not mention it to you for fear you would think me in some degree desperate."

"Not me, Holmes – I would never think that way." I paused. "From your demeanour I guess you already have identified a case, then?"

"Well done again, Watson!" exclaimed Holmes, apparently rejuvenated and inspired. He tossed the same paper back to me. "Page three, top left column. Read it aloud."

I located the passage. "Tragedy at Coldenhall. Sounds dramatic."

"So it is. Read on."

"News of a most upsetting nature has reached us of a tragedy in the quiet village of Coldenhall in Hampshire. The body of a young man, Thomas Williams, has been found in the cellar of the village public house. Williams, late of the 4th Fusiliers, had but lately returned to his home village from South Africa where he saw service; but recently it was reported that he had been diagnosed with a wasting disease and was not expected long to live. Initially it was believed that he had fallen down the stairs of the cellar and broken his neck during a fit or faint induced by the disease, but recently however the manner of the finding of his body seems to indicate that the death was not so natural as first considered.

"This is the second death in this quiet, otherwise idyllic village, which boasts a population of merely three hundred souls. Last month local farmer Michael Kennedy was found trampled to death in the top field on his farm, with the recent inquest determining that the animals had been disturbed by some unknown influence which led to the stampede. At the inquest Sir George Coldenhall JP, Master of Colden Hall which overlooks the village and to which the village is tithed, stated that Kennedy's loss would be felt in al aspects of village life such was his contribution to the good works carried out among the poor of the parish.

"Now it seems Sir George's magisterial skills will be required again, but this time in a much darker environment – one of possible murder. It is understood that the local constabulary are at a loss as to motive, yet even the details of why they would consider the death suspicious are being withheld at present."

I finished reading the brief account and whistled. "They suspect murder? But who is this Williams fellow, and why should this make the national daily"

"Colonel Williams, to give him his full title, has seen active service in a number of theatres, Watson," replied Holmes, "and this business in South Africa has been, as is reported, his latest posting. I have already been in contact with Mycroft -"

"You have been busy, Holmes, for someone who cries boredom."

"The world must go on," he replied with a quick smile. "Mycroft is of the opinion that someone or something happened there which has made him ... unpopular in certain circles."

"Unpopular?"

"He evidently had a reputation. He was always somewhat hot headed, but once he was diagnosed with his disease it seems he made it his mission to clear his conscience of all manner of activities he had been engaged in. Mycroft was somewhat surprised that an old boy of Eton could have sunk so low in some of his behaviour."

"Eton? What's such a person doing in a little village like Coldenhall?"

"You read the account. He was born there. Although he has not spent much of his life there, he returned after his discharge." Holmes was silent for a moment. "I wonder if we would be welcomed if we just turned up without excuse?"

"I see no reason why the local constabulary would not be glad of some assistance – particularly if they are, as reported, at such a loss as to motive. That's a good excuse – they can't ask for any better assistance."

"It may not be murder of course."

"In which case you will undoubtedly find out the facts and set their minds at rest. And make Sir George's work easier."

Holmes smiled. "I can always rely on you to be up for it, Watson. Very well, we'll need two tickets – first class mind you – I think the nearest station is Micheldever, and then – we shall see what we shall see."