By Cordiers Smith and Fae Yamito

Murder at the Diogenes club.

Chapter one.

Part One: Being a reprint from the reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D., late of the Army Medical Department.

"As I look back upon all the cases that I have been fortunate enough of which to partake in with Holmes, few strike me as stranger than the case of the Diogenes club. It began on a foggy November evening when Holmes, Mycroft and I, were sitting in the library of the Diogenes club, it had been a trying week, Holmes had had a difficult case on his hands, one where which I could not accompany him on, which made it all the more frustrating to Holmes.

While we were taking our respite in the quiet confines of the club library, a most incongruous sound reached our ears; the sound itself was a horror to the other members, for on strict policy; no voice was to be raised above a whisper. The cry of terror echoed throughout the halls, Holmes and I immediately jumped up. "My god Holmes!" I cried, "That was the scream of a woman if I've ever heard one." Mycroft rose to his feet. "Let us make haste; I fear that was a scream of murder."

Holmes had already started sprinting down the long marble hallway, Mycroft and I were close at his heals.

At the end of the hallway Holmes made an abrupt left turn and then suddenly stopped, Mycroft and I skidded to a halt where Holmes' paused, I drew my eyes along a well furbished study until the sight which had procured screams came to me eyes.

There sitting in a slated chair at a desk turned sideways sat a youngish man with a bowler hat and short black hair, his eyes were rolled off in the direction of the window and a large butchers knife was protruding from his back, directly in front of Holmes stood a petrified maid, the tray she was carrying clattered to the floor, I rushed forward and grabbed the poor lady by the forearm and gently led her into the hall. By this time the other members of the club had gathered around in a semi-circle.

"Back!" Holmes cried, "I must have space, Mycroft, Watson, if you would."

One of the club members spoke in a barely audible whisper "Perhaps one of us should call for the police?"

Holmes snorted derisively. "You may do as see fit, but pray, wait a few moments before summoning them, I'd like a few minutes to purvey the scene before the regulars are tramping everywhere."

Mycroft and I leaned in for a closer look; Holmes had whipped out his magnifying glass and tape measure and was furiously measuring. "Watson, would you please examine the body, and be ever so careful where you step."

I stepped nimbly over the pool of blood that had gathered at the victim's feet and examined the knife that was piercing his back, the knife had entered directly into the midsection of his back and severed his spine, someone had to have been fairly muscular to attempt that, I leaned forward to further examine him, his neck was broken, probably from the severe seizure induced by the shattering of his spine. On closer inspection I noticed a long bruise mark running about his neck, I placed my fingers upon his neck in an effort to comprehend the brutality of the contusion; a shudder ran through my index finger followed by a slight pulsing beat.

"By Jove Holmes! The man is still alive!"
Holmes sprang to his feet with the agility of a Burmese tiger, he relocated himself to my position, and my cry had caught the interest of the club members still present. "He's fading quickly," replied Holmes, "he'll not live long."

Holmes gently took the man's chin in his hand; he stared deeply into his eyes. "Sir, if you can hear me; blink."

The man closed his eyes, and for a moment I thought he had passed, but then they slowly reopened. "Sir!" Holmes exclaimed, "Who has done this to you?"

The man drew in a long rasping breath; I knew that with his windpipe shattered no air was reaching his lungs.

"Glor...Gloria..." The man wheezed, and his eyes drifted to the far corner of the room.

"He's gone," I piped up.

Holmes nodded and then turned to the crowd. "You may call for the police now; I've examined the crime fully."

Holmes backed away from the scene, Mycroft and I followed him. "Come," he said, "Let us go to the library, the constable will be here shortly, and I'm sure he'll have many a question for us."

I followed Holmes in a daze, I had seen things far worse in the Afghan Campaign, but there was something so primitive and brutally horrifying about this murder.

As we entered the library Mycroft plopped down into a reclining chair, Holmes took a seat on the sofa and I pulled a straight-backed from the nearby table.

"So, what are the facts of the case?" I inquired, "What do we know so far, other than the fact that a woman named Gloria killed the man."

"Tsk, tsk, Watson, I should think better of you than that," replied Holmes, "do you really mean to tell me that a lady drove an eight inch blade through the spine of a young, muscular man? Besides, the only footprints that I found in the room belonged to a man."

I considered Holmes' point for a moment, he was of course right, there was no way a woman, unless of great proportions, could have driven that knife through solid bone, most men couldn't even do that! "But what of the reference to 'Gloria'?"

"Only time will tell Watson, if I were a betting man I should say that the afore mentioned is his sweetheart, or wife. But you know better than that Watson, I do not theorize until I have the facts."

"Did you note the length of the perpetrator's stride?" Mycroft asked calmly.

"I did indeed," replied Holmes, "The prints belonged to a ten inch brown leather loafer,

I measured the length and have come to the conclusion that the villain is approximately five foot eleven and weighs one hundred and seventy pounds; he has brown hair, pale skin and uses woman's makeup to cover an allergic reaction on his left cheek, oh and he limps slightly on his left leg."

"How on earth did you figure that Holmes?" I demanded.

Holmes chuckled. "Elementary Watson, the height and weight are easily determined by the length and impression of his stride, on closer examination with my lens, I found short fibers of dark brown hair as well as flakes of pale skin."

"And the makeup covering the allergic reaction?" I queried.

"Small grains of it were found on the man's bowler I should imagine," stated Mycroft, "Although I was not close enough to discern properly."

"Exactly correct my brother," replied Holmes, "as far as I can tell, the makeup rubbed off as he reached down to wrap his arm around the sitting man's neck, also, mixed in with the makeup I found small flakes of a deep red skin, indicating irritation."

"It's all so marvelous," I exclaimed.

Holmes laughed quietly. "No, merely unusual, but come, if I'm not mistaken that is the voice of the good inspector I hear, who else would violate the sacred rule of this club."

Holmes and I left Mycroft in the lounge; "I'd be no more use to you than one of those policemen," he had said, "plus, I fear that all this activity has worn me down."

But before we could get out of the library we were approached by a sallow eyed plain-clothes inspector with a rat like face.

"Ah Lestrade," sighed Holmes, "I see from the papers that you've finished your murder case."

"Quite, it's a good thing we got the bloke into cuffs, who knows when he would strike again."

Holmes yawned. "Oh indeed, have you inspected the body?"

"First thing I did, the victim is one..." "Ian Hartford," Interrupted Holmes.

Lestrade looked a little flustered. "Ah...yes, that's right, I suppose you saw the calling card in his pocket."

"I did, that is how I formed my conclusion."

"Right...well, do you have any light you could shed on the subject, I'm afraid thus far I'm at a bit of a loss. I have however taken the liberty of making sure all the members of the club remain present, as they are all suspects."

"How very wise of you Inspector," replied Holmes sardonically, "I should have never thought of that myself. By the way, what have you done with the maid that discovered the crime scene?"

"I questioned her and then let her go home."

"And what did you learn?

"She discovered the body while bringing the victim his supper, she was quite upset and immediately gave her resignation to the club owner, I sent her home in a cab."

Holmes rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Did she give you her address?"

Lestrade thought for a moment. "No, is there some reason you wanted it."

Holmes sighed. "Oh my no Lestrade, I merely like to be complete in my work. Come Watson, we must go. Oh inspector, there's no need to examine the corpse for sign of the aggressor, your looking for a man, five foot eleven, one-hundred seventy pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, and a patch of makeup on his left cheek, also, he limps with his left leg."

Holmes stepped past the awestruck inspector and followed Watson out of the elegant club. "Well Watson, shall we share a cab? I have much work to do so I don't suppose I shall be returning to Baker Street."

"By all means Holmes," I replied, "You know how much I enjoy watching you work."

As Holmes and I mounted the steps of the hansom the clock tower struck eleven, we entered the darkened vehicle and dropped ourselves onto the crimson benches.

"So," said I, "What now? What are our leads?"

Holmes sat silently for a moment. The cabman leaned back to the port and hollered out, "Where to gov'ner?"

"Seven Twenty-One North Winchester Street," said Holmes, "And a silver schilling if you make it in half the time."

"Why whatever for?" I demanded.

"Because Watson, we're going to pay a visit to one Mrs. Gloria Colepepper, ladies assistant and unless you'd rather walk halfway across London, then we had better take the cab."