Author's Note: I originally wrote this for Biology class. Yes, Biology. The assignment was to choose a fictional character from a book who showed a hereditary trait, make some Punnet squares, and then write a short, well-thought-out story about the character that had absolutely nothing to do with genetics or Biology in any way. We had two days to do the entire project. Feel free to look for the major plot flaws that we neglected in my haste.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes.
It was a dull day in August at 221B Baker Street, dull by normal standards, doubly so by ours. Sherlock Holmes sat in the armchair across from me, staring at the ceiling, or perhaps the smoke from his pipe wafting up in the air, which was causing an awful stench. I sat watching him until at last I could stand the horrid smell of that tobacco no longer.
"Holmes, please!" I broke the long silence, "You have never made such a stench with your smoking before!"
"Really Watson?" Holmes raised an eyebrow. He laughed in his unusual silent manner, "I was wondering how long it would take for you to say something. A rather pungent variety of tobacco, is it not?" He put his pipe down on the small table next to him, "Now, Watson, let's go for a walk. Exercise is always good for clearing the mind… and the nose."
As we stepped into the streets of London, we were faced with Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, preparing to ring the bell furiously.
"No need, Lestrade," Holmes smirked, "You can tell me whatever news you have right here."
"Whoever said I reported to you?" Lestrade huffed, "If anything, you should be reporting to me. Here I am, a Scotland Yard inspector and-"
"What's happened, Lestrade?" my friend asked, "You haven't slept in days, judging from the bags under your eyes, you look positively distressed. And you've been doing a lot of typing, perhaps police reports?"
"Typing? Why, yes, I have, but I fail to see how…" Lestrade frowned. His skills of observation and deduction would never rival those that seemed to come naturally to Holmes.
"You have ink on your fingertips, Lestrade," Holmes pointed out, "Now, what is it? Is it about the Robinson kidnapping? I was working on that with Dr. Watson just a few minutes ago."
"What? Kidnapping?" I was slightly taken aback. I shouldn't have been surprised, though. I had been an unwitting assistant to my friend on many occasions. The name Robinson was familiar, however… Suddenly, I remembered reading about it in the newspaper: Miss Mary Robinson, a bright, charming, well-to-do young lady had disappeared without a trace just a month before her wedding.
"Yes Watson," Holmes nodded, "Kidnapping. I'm sure you've read about Miss Robinson at some point. And you're about to identify the criminal." He took a piece of lace out of his coat pocket, "Here, smell this," he handed it to me.
"It smells terribly!" I exclaimed after sniffing it, "Just like that beastly pipe smoke!"
"You heard Dr. Watson," Holmes turned to Lestrade as he took back the lace, "The lace that Miss Robinson was making when she vanished still smells strongly of tobacco. And not simply any tobacco, a particular kind, which happens to be the brand smoked by Miss Robinson's fiancé, Mr. John Allenhart. If I am not mistaken, there is your kidnapper, here is your evidence, motive shall most likely follow soon. Good day, Lestrade."
"Excellent deduction, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade narrowed his beady eyes, "There's just one little problem with it… John Allenhart is dead."
"What?" Holmes asked, unaccustomed to surprise.
"Dead," Lestrade repeated, relishing the moment he had trumped the great Sherlock Holmes, "We found him this morning in his lodgings. Throat slit with one of his own dinner knives. Knife was wiped clean when we found it. No relations, no friends, he seemed to be a very lonely man. One more thing… he couldn't have been the kidnapper. When we found him, he'd been dead for days."
"I see," Holmes nodded, "Perhaps if I had a look around the dead man's lodgings, I could better judge the situation."
"A bit too late for that," Lestrade grimaced, "It's already been cleaned up."
"Scotland Yard never ceases to amaze me," Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically, "Well, I only see one way this case can be solved. Watson, we're off to the Diogenes Club to visit my brother Mycroft."
I have occasionally encountered Mycroft Holmes on my adventures with his younger brother. MycroftHolmes was a portly man who held some small government office and possessed powers of observation and deduction that were superior even to those of his brother, the great detective. Sherlock once remarked that Mycroft could havebeen the greatest detective to have ever lived, if he had possessed enough energy or ambition to prove his own conclusions correct. But Mycroft Holmes much preferred to sit in the Diogenes Club, reading the papers, taking notice of no man.
We took a hansom to Pall Mall. On the way, Holmes appeared to be lost in thought.
"Hello, Brother Mycroft," Sherlock shook hands with his elder sibling.
"Always good to see you, my dear Sherlock," Mycroft returned the greeting, "I presume from the identity of your companion that you're stumped on a case."
"Indeed, Mycroft," Sherlock Holmes nodded, "You have, no doubt, heard of the Robinson kidnapping?"
"I did not expect you to require my assistance on that trivial matter," Mycroft looked surprised, "It seemed perfectly simple from what the papers said."
"The papers failed to report that Mr. John Allenhart, fiancé of Miss Mary Robinson, was found dead this morning, murdered," Sherlock shook his head, "Dead for days. He was my top suspect, but he couldn't have committed the crime. Now there's an unsolved kidnapping and a murder."
"What was the method of the murder?" Mycroft put his fingertips together in that gesture of concentration I had observed in my friend so many times before.
"Slit throat," Sherlock Holmes answered.
"Any clues?" Mycroft Holmes asked.
"Only a piece of lace Miss Robinson was working on that smells strongly of tobacco," Sherlock said.
"I see," Mycroft answered somewhat absent-mindedly, "Yes… I see… It could have been done by a man or a woman, could it not have?"
"The crime does suggest a male culprit," Sherlock considered, "But a woman could have slit the man's throat just as easily."
"I believe Mr. Allenhart would have allowed a woman to get so close to him before a man," Mycroft Holmes remarked dryly.
"Agreed," Sherlock nodded, "But… Could you be suggesting…?"
"That's exactly what I believe," Mycroft nodded, "Simply think about it. Everything falls into place. The dead man, the girl's disappearance, the tobacco-smelling lace."
"It would account for all those things…" Sherlock consented, "She is fascinated with travel, is she not? Thank you for help Mycroft. Watson! We must go! Quickly now! I fear we might be too late to recover Miss Robinson!"
Holmes and I left Mycroft behind for the port of London. We paid the cab driver and Holmes raced furiously toward the docks. He ran to a young, slim, dark-haired woman and grabbed her by the shoulder. I recognized her from the picture in the paper. It was Miss Mary Robinson.
"Now Miss Robinson," Holmes said, "I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I know everything about your fiancé's murder and your little disappearing act. You killed him. You went to his house, forgetting you still had your lace in your back pocket. You lured him close to you and did him in when he least expected it. You cleaned yourself up and ran home. But then you realized you couldn't go home. You would be the first suspect when they discovered the body. So you kidnapped yourself to travel and avoid suspicion. There's just one thing I don't know. Why?"
"You don't understand, Mr. Holmes," a stunned Miss Robinson choked out, "John- Mr. Allenhart- was a terrible man! He was so charming when I first met him, but after the engagement, oh I don't know what happened to him! And I couldn't break the engagement, he wouldn't let me! Please Mr. Holmes, this was the only way I could think of!"
"You'll have to explain yourself to the authorities," Holmes said, "Come along now. You may add this case to your records, Watson. Be sure to credit Brother Mycroft!"