A/N-Another one of the cases that Watson mentions briefly in the opening paragraphs of "A Scandal in Bohemia". Dedicated to my sister, and "Aditya", who re- introduced me to a passion of my childhood- the Sherlock Holmes books.

Also a special thanks to my reviewers- KCS, Westron Wynde, and Susicar- for their kind encouragement.

-of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers in Trincomalee-

A Scandal In Bohemia

The Case of the Ivory Comb

Chapter One- Jupiter Changes Its Orbit

The following is an extract from an undelivered letter written to me by the late Sherlock Holmes, seven months after my marriage to Mary Morstan, chronicling the details of the tragedy concerning the Atkinson brothers. Despite my friend's assurances to the contrary, I have found that it is quite a compelling tale in its own right, and so have left his work unchanged. I would like to take this opportunity to thank the kindly members of the public who have sent me their condolences regarding the loss of my friend.

John H. Watson, M.D.

1892

My dear Watson,

It has been more than six months since you deserted me for the pleasures of matrimony, and yet, I find your absence almost impossible to realize. Indeed, even now, when I come across a case, I find myself starting up with a cry of "The game's afoot, Watson!" only to remember that you are, of course, not here.

I must confess that when I met you several years ago, I never dreamed that you would one day fulfil the role of my biographer, much less that I would be compelled to take up the position myself in your absence. As it is, Watson, I find myself privy to yet another of your irksome habits- that of writing narratives of my cases. But pray do not be alarmed, my dear Doctor, for it is not my intention to publish these narratives. I hardly expect that readers accustomed to your florid style of writing would appreciate my own rather bland approach to this task, instructive as it may be. In any case, I have often told you that I prefer to discuss my work with those who take an intelligent interest in it. While you yourself can be said to belong in this category, the same can hardly be said of a large section of the British public. I therefore leave this material in your hands to reproduce as you see fit.

Since your absence, Watson, I have been involved with no less than half a dozen cases, of which two are still awaiting their conclusion in the courts of law, and three I have chronicled elsewhere. It is of the one remaining that I wish to write upon at the moment. It is a singular case, my dear chap, and I have no doubt that you would have thoroughly appreciated its novelty.

It was a fine morning in mid-March. I had just finished my breakfast when the doorbell rang.

"A note for you, sir, from Mr. Mycroft Holmes," Mrs. Hudson said.

"From Brother Mycroft?" I said incredulously.

"Yes, sir. Here it is," and she handed me the note.

I thanked her and tore open the envelope.

The note was scrawled hurriedly on a piece of foolscap, in a hand I could barely recognize as my brother's. It ran thus:

"Sherlock:

Come to the Diogenes club at once. A matter of great importance has presented itself to me, and I am in need of your assistance.

Mycroft."

I sat awhile and pondered over this matter. Mycroft, as I may have mentioned to you, Watson, is a man of routine rather than a man of action. If he was sending me a missive in such a hurried fashion requesting my assistance, I had no doubt whatsoever that it was required.

But what was the "matter of great importance"? I have told you, Watson, that Mycroft worked for the government. It seemed likely, therefore, that this matter concerned the government in some way. What, then, was this peculiar case about?

I was saved from having to make any further deductions, however, for at that very moment, the doorbell rang. I heard the sound of muffled voices downstairs, then footsteps upon the staircase, then, a moment later, the door flew open to reveal none other than Mycroft himself, with a sombre-looking naval officer in tow.

"Well, well!" I exclaimed, laughing, as I rose to receive him. "I believe that the universe is coming to an end! Brother Mycroft, I can honestly say that you are the last person I expected to turn up on my doorstep to-day. Pray come in."

My brother advanced into the sitting-room, looking about him with an air of distaste.

"I wonder how the good doctor managed to put up with you for so long, Sherlock," he said." Your untidiness is as pronounced as ever."

"Why, thank you," I said lightly. "Although to your credit, brother, I see that you have not altered your habit of descending into a respectable gentleman's rooms without even knocking first."

Mycroft snorted. "You are hardly a respectable gentleman, Sherlock,"

"If you say so, Mycroft," I retorted. "But we are, I fear, ignoring our guest. Do sit down, Captain, and pray take no notice of our banter."

The naval officer, who had thus far remained silent, stepped forward. He was a rather stout man of about sixty years of age, not less than six feet in height. He had a certain commanding air about him, as befit any senior officer of high standing. He was dressed in uniform, and a cursory glance at his shoulders revealed the familiar curl that announced his rank.

"Captain White, this is my brother, Sherlock," said Mycroft. "Sherlock, this is Captain White, of the Royal Navy."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes," the officer said, shaking hands warmly. "I have heard of you, sir."

"Another reader of the Strand magazine, no doubt," I laughed.

The captain flushed.

"Your name is known in all of Europe, Mr. Holmes," he said.

"My blushes, Captain!" I said. "But surely you have not come all the way from the tropics in such a hurried fashion to compliment me upon my work."

"You know me, then?"

"No, I assure you I know nothing of you, sir, save that you are recently returned from Ceylon, that you were a boxer in your youth, that you have an unmarried daughter, and that you were very devoted to your wife before her death."

My client looked astounded.

"My good sir, this is shocking."

"Not at all," replied my brother. "Your tanned face, as opposed to the pale colour of your wrists, shows that you have served in the tropics for some time. I myself would have suggested Afghanistan or India, were it not for the fact that a Ceylonese coin hangs from your watch chain."

"But what of my wife, and my daughter?"

"You wear your wedding ring upon the ring finger of your right hand, which shows that you are a widower. You wear no outward signs of mourning, save perhaps a certain sadness about the eyes, so your loss cannot be a recent one. The fact that you still wear your wedding ring in such a fashion, even after the traditional period of mourning, shows that you held your wife in great esteem. Yet your handkerchief is clean, and your collar well-starched. Do you employ a valet, then? Perhaps, but not likely, as you are a Captain, and while you appear to be of reasonable means, you cannot be said to be extraordinarily wealthy. There is obviously a lady in your house. You are yourself somewhat advanced in years, so it cannot be your mother. It must, therefore, be your daughter."

"And the boxing?"

"That is more easily answered, my dear Captain," I said. "Your ears show that peculiar flatness that I have observed only in the boxing man."

The officer looked from me to my brother.

"My word," he chuckled.

"But let us waste no more time in talking of trifles," I said, leaning back in my chair. "Brother Mycroft, I am most curious to know what brought you, of all people, here at this hour, and what the good captain here has to do with the matter."

"A scandal, Sherlock, a scandal of the first order! You have heard, no doubt, of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers in Trincomalee?"

"No, I must confess that I have not."

My brother shook his head in some impatience.

"I had an idea you might have not," he said, presently, "so I took the liberty of bringing this along."

He handed me a newspaper cutting. It was evidently taken from the Times, and could not have been more than two weeks old, judging from the quality of the paper.

"Tragedy in Ceylon," it ran. "Two brothers were found dead in the town of Trincomalee in Ceylon last week. The victims have been identified as Major Robert Atkinson and Mr. Mark Atkinson. Major Robert's body was found on the shore of the Trincomalee beach, while Mr. Mark Atkinson was found in the backyard of a small tavern off the coast. Experts agree that Mr. Atkinson had died within a few hours of his brother's death. However, they are as yet uncertain as to the causes of the two deaths. Both men were young and quite healthy at the time of death. Major Robert's body, despite being found on the shore, showed no signs of drowning whatsoever, and no signs to indicate a struggle, save a couple of bruises on his forearm and neck. Mr. Mark's body, on the other hand, was perfectly unmarked, and it is speculated that he died of some sudden shock, although what could have caused it is a mystery unto itself. "

"Quite singular, indeed," I said, handing back the newspaper cutting to my brother. "But I fail to see a scandal in the matter."

"Well, the fact is that it has been quite two weeks since the tragedy occurred, and yet the authorities have not found a scrap of evidence to shed any light on the matter. They have brought in experts from just about everywhere, but the mystery remains unsolved."

"Do they at least have a theory on what might have happened?"

"Ah, there lies our problem, and the possibility of scandal. Some speculate that it is a random incident, others that there is some political hand in the affair. Most of the theorists are, however, of the opinion that-"

Here my brother broke off, much to my surprise, and cast a dubious look at the captain.

"What is it, Mycroft?"

"I will tell you, sir," cried the Captain, with a sudden passion. "They are saying that my daughter murdered the major and his brother. My poor little Rosie, sir, who wouldn't hurt a fly in her life!"

He buried his head in his hands with the air of a man in utter despair.

Mycroft looked at me rather helplessly. He is something of a recluse, as you may recall, Watson, and although he is not as impassive as I am, he is easily discomfited by such displays of emotion. Perhaps this is one of the reasons that he prefers government service to detective work, where his matchless talents could no doubt be put to good use. In any case, it was up to me to resolve the situation.

"There, my good sir," I said gently, handing a glass of brandy to my visitor. "I understand that you have some great burden on your mind. Pray drink this. You have no doubt a tale of your own to tell, and it is best that you compose yourself first before you attempt to tell it."

The old captain swallowed the brandy in one gulp. Then, after a few mumbled apologies to me and my brother, he began, with an effort, to tell his tale.