Okay, so this is another of my old stories - I wrote this when I was 15 (in 2007) for my father, as he was reading all the Holmes short stories at the time. This was an attempt at pastiche, but I've since learned there's a certain formula to Holmes stories (and I also probably made Holmes dumber than he'd really be, but remember, this all came out of the brain of a 15-year-old ;D). Anyway, I'd really appreciate some constructive critique on how I could make this more Holmesian, thanks! And enjoy it in its current state!
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Shattered Image
Part 1
On the frigid November days of London, when the wind and rain whipped down the alleys and a pale sunlight shone through the windows of our apartments, it was the habit of my friend and companion, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, to take a large pot of coffee, his violin, and his latest puzzling problem, and shut himself into his bedroom. At first I took no objection to this activity; I thought I could go in and observe his habits, or help him with his case any time at which I pleased, but after repeatedly stepping in and being coldly turned out, I soon realised that I was not really welcome under these circumstances, and that I must find some way to amuse myself. It was not too difficult at first – due to his eccentric studies, my companion had a massive library and I employed myself by reading all the volumes that were new to me. After finishing this practice, I moved on to inspecting the local newspapers, which though dull at least contained the latest medical discoveries. But soon even the papers began to disappear into Holmes's quarters, where he would study the unsolved crime cases then sort them in his files, and I found myself rambling about the apartment, rather piqued and desperately seeking something to do.
It was on one of these same days that I was stretched on the settee in a state of complete ennui, struggling with the decision to take a nap or to find something to eat, when I heard an anxious tap at the door. I must admit, ashamed as I am, that I was very thrilled – visitors were quite scarce at this time of year – and after hastily checking my appearance in the glass I practically threw open the door.
It was a young lady who stood on the step, fretfully scrutinizing a scrap of paper in her hand, which on my further inspection I observed to be our address. She started when she saw me. "Is this the home of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" she inquired.
"Yes, certainly, do come in," I said eagerly, carefully ushering her through the hall and up the short flight of stairs to our sitting room. She settled herself on a chair by the fireplace, and when I finally returned to a state of dignified normalcy, I realised just how worried she really looked. Often our lady clients would come in sobbing or at least wringing their hands, many with hair prematurely shot with gray, or a thick black veil covering their face; they would appear in a most extreme state of agitation and practically beg "the good Mr. Holmes" to help them. This girl, however, looked quite composed, dressed in a simple daysuit and kid gloves, but her face was very pale, and her eyes conveyed a strong sense of uneasiness, which is never happy to see on a young lady.
"Is Mr. Holmes in at the moment?" she asked presently after I had stood dumbly for a few minutes.
"Oh, yes," I started quickly. The notes of a violin flowed down the stairs. "Do you hear that music? That is him playing. He is most cunning at the violin," I rambled.
"Is that so?" The girl somehow looked relieved. "I wouldn't think of a detective having musical talent, but it is rather comforting; my father, a professor, used to play the viola. In fact that is how I got my name: Viola Burgess."
"Well Miss Burgess," I said kindly, "I will make sure Mr. Holmes comes down right this instant, and we will see if your problem can be cleared up."
As I climbed the stairs I felt rather apprehensive. One of Holmes' dry looks is not at all comfortable. But upon the landing I noticed his door was cracked, and a thick cloud of tobacco smoke was slowly drifting into the hallway. I rapped at the door anyway.
"Come in, Doctor," I heard through the dense smoke and the violin. Sherlock Holmes turned as I entered the room. "Now then, old fellow, are you really all that frightened of me?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"It is all very obvious. You climb the stairs slowly, then halt at the door, as if hesitant. Then you knock. Does it not seem strange?"
"I was not sure I was wanted," I said stiffly.
"Ha! You are certainly strange. I have a question, old fellow, and I think you are just the one to help me solve it." Coughing, I found my way to Holmes who, pipe in mouth, was standing by the fire straining at his instrument.
"I never will understand why you insist upon such thick smoke when you study," I choked. But he never took any heed whenever I voiced my opinion on that matter.
"Watson," he said, removing the pipe at my arrival, "have you ever read Plato's "Oration on Fear" from The Gorgias?"
"Yes, it was required at university," I answered briefly, anxious to get my friend downstairs.
"Well in it, Socrates mentioned moral evil as being the only real evil, and that poverty, sickness, death, etc., which are inflicted upon us by man, should not be feared. But I ask you Watson, is that truly possible? If it is I should love to know how it is accomplished, because I feel that if only we were able to master those emotions our society would be most highly improved. I assume you know something of the matter." He looked at me expectantly with his keen gray eyes, stroking his violin.
"Perhaps I can discuss it sometime in the future, but there is a young lady downstairs who seeks help with some crime."
"Oh, yes. The young lady at the street corner."
"What?"
Holmes adjusted his violin and explained, "I observed, while looking out of our window, a young lady on the corner of the street. She is apparently new to these parts, or at least has never been on Baker Street, and at first she imagined she was lost."
"How could you tell?"
"She kept referring to a newspaper clipping she held in her hand, which I assume is our address, and peering up at the house numbers. She was afraid she would miss our house."
"Did you notice anything else?"
"Yes," he said, lowering his voice, "she was rather…underprivileged. You can always tell by the clothes. Probably an artist as well, as the colours she puts together, though complimentary, are not the fashionable match, and her skirt is draped in the same loose manner as the ladies from Winchester Park. I also determined that she is, like myself, a late riser."
"And how do you figure that?"
"Why, by the unkempt appearance of her clothes and hair. You can tell she is not absentminded – she has both gloves, her hat is straight, and she has not forgotten her umbrella – but she still looks a bit disheveled, as I look when you wake me up at any time before eight."
"At any rate," I said, a bit muddled, "she looks to be awfully concerned. Perhaps you ought to come downstairs now?"
Holmes laid down his violin with a hugely disparaging look. "If this is another case in which an emerald ring is stolen from a girl's dressing table, and the young lady thinks her sister has stolen it to give to her lover, who is "probably" on the run in Asia, but really the child has misplaced it in her sewing box, then you can please to send her away." He replaced the pipe and put the instrument to his chin.
"Oh no," I said hurriedly, blushing at the week-old case of trivia to which he was referring.
"Not to say it was your fault, my dear Watson," Holmes reassured me with the same seemingly uninterested face he usually wore. "But it is always good to take note of a client's facial expression. It is generally not an urgent event if the young lady does not seem too upset. Or if she is smiling." Holmes, eyes sparking mischievously, placed an unnecessary amount of emphasis on that last word, making my face burn.
"Miss Burgess seems quite upset. Upon my word, Holmes, I think this case will most likely interest you."
"If not, Watson, I shall hold you entirely responsible," he said carelessly. "Hold my coat for me, will you? I might smell like so much tobacco but I can at least appear presentable to my clients."
Holmes tripped down the stairs ahead of me, absently buttoning his jacket. As I have mentioned before, my friend had the amazing ability to detach himself from whatever he had been working on previously, so I am sure Plato and Socrates were completely forgotten by the time he seated himself in the chair opposite Miss Burgess'.
"My dear lady," said my friend without delay, "my name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my assistant and confidante Dr. John Watson and he, as well as I, will hold your case in deepest seriousness and regard."
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Miss Burgess said, reassured.
"Now then, what pressing case brings you from Bristol to my front step?" Holmes asked; if it were a gentleman instead of a lady, he would have lit his pipe at this point. Meanwhile, Miss Burgess looked a bit taken aback.
"You can tell I am from Bristol?"
"Most certainly," Holmes nodded.
"I have been living in London for two years now," Miss Burgess said reflectively. "I thought my accent was almost gone."
"Almost gone to others, possibly, but not to the trained ear. Your accent on certain syllables is very unique, set apart from London pronunciation by a Welsh influence, as Bristol is, as you well know, near Wales. I feel sure that if you were to say "Shibboleth" you would say it quite differently than myself."
"I probably would," Miss Burgess laughed nervously.
"I am sorry to interrupt, do continue."
"Yes. I must begin in Bristol, where I come from, as you noted. Two years ago, when I was but eighteen, my family and I, being of an artistic turn, determined that I must go to London, where I would have a greater chance of proving myself as a – "
"Sculptor," Holmes finished.
"Now how did you know that?" I stifled a laugh at Miss Burgess' clear astonishment.
"It is so simple, especially since you already confirmed my conjecture that you are indeed an artist, that it is almost cheating. You see, I have been observing your hands ever since you removed your gloves. There is no great distinguishing mark on either the third or fourth finger on your right or left hand. If you were a painter, you would have a bump from holding the paintbrush; the same would be caused from charcoal drawing. And you are obviously not a poker sketcher, as even the most experienced of their class still have burns from time to time, and I see none on your hands. The marks of a sculptor, however, are quite clear, as your nails are cut short. Unless I am very much mistaken, short nails are not "the style", but they would be necessity for one who works with clay, so as not to gouge nailmarks in the piece."
"Thank heaven, I am now certain I have come to the right man! You are completely correct!" she pronounced.
"Was there ever any doubt?" I asked. Holmes ignored my praise, as usual, and nodded for her to continue.
"As I said before," she went on, "no one can be discovered in a fishing town, to be sure. A residence in London was my greatest chance to become recognised as an artist. My father has a professor friend who lives not far from here, but being a young girl of only eighteen, we did not think it safe enough for me to live alone in a strange city, especially in my profession, because you know what some artists can be. Of course a twosome is always stronger than one, and I soon persuaded my cousin, Miss Margaret Ainsley, into sharing the rent of a small London apartment.
"We two could not have been happier, living quite easily together, but we have always been close as sisters. She too is an artist; she paints the most beautiful oil landscapes. With our small income – I also sculpt heads for porcelain dolls – and an allowance from our families, we got on quite well for these past two years.
"Recently, we heard of an art exhibition that seemed perfectly suited to us, and we were completely qualified to enter. Being part of a ring of artists, you always catch wind of these sort of things, but this event seemed even more important than usual. I was working on a clay bust, and my cousin was working on her best painting yet. She deemed it her masterpiece, and was quite eager to submit it to the art exhibition. We both suspected art dealers would be there and…well, an artist always wants to be discovered.
"At the beginning of last week, I left Margaret alone in the apartment to visit my family in Bristol. My father had just got news he was to receive an award for teaching; and I was already a bit homesick, eager to relate the good news, seek advice concerning my sculptures, and visit with my country friends. Three days ago, on Friday, I caught the next train back to London. Before going home, I went shopping at my favourite store, which is near the train station. Around three o' clock I returned to the apartment. I knocked and then let myself in, because nobody came to the door and I assumed Margaret must be out. Imagine my surprise then, Mr. Holmes, when I opened the door, struggling among all my parcels and luggage, to find my dear cousin sobbing in her chair by the fire!"
Holmes looked bored, and I was embarrassed by his seeming callousness. "If it is not too difficult," he remarked, "do continue."
"Certainly. I ran to her immediately and hugged her, begging her to tell me what was wrong, but she was quite hysterical, and I ended up shaking her all over. Still she was not responsive. Then I became frightened, and wondered if someone was in the house, so I rushed to the bedrooms, but after a thorough search, no one was to be seen anywhere. I was much distressed and very confused, when finally I came to the kitchen to get some water for my cousin. It was there I found the source of her grief.
"In the kitchen there is a table where we cut our vegetables, being too poor to have a maid. It was on this table that I saw at first one of our knives and then – " Miss Burgess swallowed, "I saw, removed from its storage box, my cousin's lovely painting, her masterpiece, the one she was going to enter in the art exhibition, slashed to pieces. Jagged holes were cut through the canvas to the wooden backboard, which was also smashed; the beautiful outdoor scene was marred as if by some wild animal. The knife that caused the damage was directly to the right of the image, and I did not touch it, because I knew my fingerprints could incriminate me. Mr. Holmes," she pleaded, "a true artist toils long and hard over their work; they take their bright colours and soft clay as seriously as you treat your fingerprints and clues. By the time an artist is finished with a piece, they have become a part of it. To an artist it is truly devastating to see their work destroyed at the hands of others. It is unthinkable for an artist to do it herself. That is why I am immensely concerned with my cousin. You must find the reason she would do such a thing, otherwise I shall surely fret myself to death."
Holmes pressed his fingertips together. If you didn't know him as well as I did, you might almost think he was bored with the conversation. But he was obviously deep in thought. "Miss Burgess, where is your cousin now? Certainly you did not leave her alone?"
"No! Never. Margaret is, in fact, in hospital. I didn't know what to do for her; she never answered me, never explained herself. I simply couldn't help her. She appears to me, in a way, insane, but they tell me she will soon recover. She'll be there for a few weeks yet. Mr. Lawrence, my father's friend, is staying with her as we speak."
I was glad to know our young clients had such a faithful chaperon on their side. Miss Burgess obviously held him in veneration; in the meantime I was assured they would be safe in our absence, and also in the free-thinking artistic circles.
"And you say you were at your home in Bristol?" Holmes continued. "Do you have proof – ticket stubs, receipts?"
"Please, Mr. Holmes, don't accuse me," she mourned.
"I am not accusing you, I merely need to know the facts, and remember, anyone who knew Miss Ainsley is immediately incriminated."
"Well you can ask my mother and father about going to Bristol and I have a receipt from the hatter's. I think I disposed of my ticket."
"Now then," Holmes said, moving rapidly and systematically through the points, "you say you did not touch the knife? I will only find your cousin's prints, am I correct?"
"I think so."
Holmes stared into the fire for a moment, sealing the facts in his indomitable mind, and presently announced, "Then I believe this afternoon will be an opportune time to examine the premises. May I have the address?"
"Of course – I live in the room to the right, on the second floor in the brick apartment at 345 Winchester Park, not too far from here. I'm sure you are familiar with the area?"
"Yes, my dear Watson used to work in the doctor's office down the street. We shall plan a rendezvous, so to speak, at three o'clock," Holmes informed her. "I assume you have no further engagements; I should hate to be an intrusion?"
"An intrusion? Nonsense!" Miss Burgess seemed indignant. "The sooner we solve the mystery, the sooner I can rest entirely satisfied. Oh, Mr. Holmes, you were just the man I was looking for!"
"Thank you," Holmes said modestly. "You have been very helpful yourself. Three o'clock at Winchester Park? I am sure your problem will be solved before the day is out!"
Miss Viola Burgess' mood seemed to be at least a little lightened by the conversation; she expressed a weak, yet contented smile as she gathered her gloves and umbrella and took leave.
"Poor thing," I said, addressing Holmes as I closed the door behind her. "What would cause her cousin to so violently tear up a painting, do you think?"
"Now Watson, this really is foolishness," my friend informed me as he lit his pipe. "You know as well as I that there's really not enough information to go by yet. The single, most dangerous thing in the business of crime-solving is to form a hypothesis without sufficient data. Imagine if you, as a doctor, were to diagnose an illness without having heard all the symptoms. Invariably, the wrong prognosis would be administered and things would go wrong from the start."
"I hadn't thought of it that way," I said musingly.
"I didn't think you had," he agreed. "I'm sure you will think it one of these days. But I do know, thanks to my various readings of psychology, that the time right before a great event is the most trying on the mind. Perhaps Miss Ainsley suddenly "realised" her painting was poor or some such nonsense and could not "tolerate" it any longer, venting her frustration on the piece. Then again, in such murky crimes as these secret motives or third parties are often revealed, which makes the chase so much more interesting. At any rate, we shan't remain in the dark long, dear fellow. Three o'clock is fast approaching."