"I live with my stepfather, who is the sole survivor of one of the oldest families in the U.K., the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on, as you figured out, the western border of Surrey.
The family used to be on of the richest in the country. Their estates spread far and wide. But, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson, you know how people are. Extravagance, poor planning, gambling... there's only a few acres left with an old house we can barely afford.
When my stepfather was a young man, decided to do something about the declining family wealth. He received a medical degree and went abroad to practice. And he was quite successful, until, in a rage brought about by a robbery, he almost beat a man to death. He was sentenced to prison for a while and came back here, disappointed and irritable.
While abroad, Dr. Roylott met and eventually married my mother, the widow of Major-General Stoner. Me and my twin sister, Julia, were two at the time.
Our mother was, to put it simply, loaded. She gained a plump sum every year, which, in her old-fashioned notion, she bequeathed entirely to her new husband." At this point of the story, Helen was becoming somewhat bitter and morose, sneering her last statement. Even John could deduce her "subtle" animosity towards her stepfather.
With a softening of her expression and sad tremble in her voice, Helen continued, "My mother died shortly after our return." She paused. Sherlock made no change in expression while John poured her another cup of tea, which she took gratefully.
"Thank you. Anyway, my stepfather gave up on his practice and simply moved us to the house at Stoke Moran. We had enough money and life seemed like it would be fine.
But my stepfather's temper grew worse. He began to avoid going out, and if he did, well, it usually ended in a brawl or a scandal." Helen's eyes widened, but she stared at nothing, haunted by her memories.
"He's scary when he flies into a temper. He's so strong, so uncontrollable; it's like he's a gorilla gone mad." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at this, but said nothing. John wondered how a petite girl like her could have lasted so long.
"Hell," she gave an uneasy, empty chuckle, "he threw the mechanic into a nearby river last week. I had to bribe him to keep quiet." John looked startled and Sherlock appeared, at least to John, to struggle with his facade.
"He keeps strange friends, my stepfather. He lets all the gypsies camp out on the property and walks around with them. He also has strange pets that he lets wander around, which terrifies everyone. He currently has a baboon and a cheetah." Sherlock glanced over at John and wondered if it was possible for eyes to pop out of the human head. He'd have to simulate an experiment later.
"Since people were terrified of the estate, so any sort of help was out of the question. My sister and I knew we couldn't just up and leave our stepfather, and it's not like we had any real-life experience, so we stayed and cared for the estate ourselves. Until Julia died two years ago." Sherlock subtly rubbed his hands in anticipation of the case. John, being John and somewhat flustered, refilled Miss Stoner's teacup, which she sipped at delicately before continuing.
"She was engaged to a half-pay major of marines, whom she met at a Christmas party. Our stepfather appeared to have no objections. Two weeks before the wedding, however, she lay dying in my arms." Sherlock leaned back into his chair.
"Please," he mumbled, eyes closed in concentration, "be as precise as possible when recounting what happened."
With a nod the consulting detective couldn't see, Helen told of the chilling night. "We all lived in a single wing of the old house. The bedrooms are on the ground floor, all opening out into the same corridor. There's no connection between them. The windows open out to the lawn.
Our stepfather went to bed early that night, blaming some long walk he apparently took earlier. We know he didn't sleep right away though, since my sister could smell the smoke of his cigars. So she left her room and came into mine, excited about her wedding.
When she left, around eleven, she asked if I whistled in my sleep. Confused, I simply replied that I didn't. She appeared anxious, so I queried as to why she asked. Apparently, a sort of whistling had been disturbing her sleep the last couple of nights. I comforted her by telling her it was simply one of the gypsies passing by her window. She agreed and gave a smile, though still a bit anxious. I soon heard her lock her door." Sherlock opened his eyes slightly, wondering.
"Oh, we usually locked our doors, due to the cheetah and baboon. Anyway, her anxiety was apparently infectious, because I couldn't seem to fall asleep either. And the weather wasn't helping, with the rain pouring and the wind howling. Then, as if straight from a horror film, a blood-curdling scream filled the air.
When I ran to go check on Julia, I finally heard the damn whistling she was talking about, low and foreboding. There was also a loud, clanging, metallic sound. Julia's door was unlocked and swung open to reveal her, swaying and clawing at the air. I threw my arms around her to try to steady her, but instead she fell, bringing us both down.
I thought she had fainted, but she soon screamed out, 'Oh, my god! Helen! It was the bandana! The spotted bandana!' She desperately tried to tell me more and pointed at our stepfather's room until a round of spasms overtook her.
Knowing my stepfather had been a doctor and thinking Julia was pointing towards his room for me to go get him, I rushed to him. He appeared to do everything he could, but not knowing what was wrong, nothing could be done. Julia died." John went to pour the poor woman some more tea, but found that her cup would be overflowing if he did so. Sherlock opened his eyes slightly again.
"Are you sure about the whistle? And the clanging noise? Was your sister dressed?" he rattled off.
"It was a stormy night, so I cannot fully commit to saying I heard those noises. And my sister was only dressed in her nightgown, holding the charred stump of a match. The storm had knocked out the electricity, as I figured out when I tried to flip on the lights."
"Okay, she lit a match to see what had alarmed her. What did the coroner say about her death?"
"There was no obvious cause of death. She had been locked securely in her room; there was no access through her door, the windows, or the chimney. The walls were completely sound and the flooring thoroughly examined. She was alone. And there were no signs of violence. Tests for poison were inconclusive."
Sherlock prodded her on, "You look like you have a different theory."
With hesitation, Helen said, "I think she simply died of pure fright. What frightened her though, is a mystery." John could see that Sherlock instantly ignored that theory, not even giving his usual quirk of an eyebrow. He didn't completely disregard it however, as he didn't sneer or try to say anything of the like.
"Hm. Were there any gypsies on the estate at that time?"
"Yes."
"And what about her last words? The 'spotted bandana'?"
"Maybe it was delirium. Or a reference to a band of people, like the gypsies, who often wore speckled bands."
"Mm. Continue," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand that John just wanted to smack.
"I've recently become engaged and we're to be married in May. But two days ago, I was moved to Julia's old room due to some construction in the wing. And last night, thinking about my poor sister, I heard it. It was as clear as could be. The low whistling that my sister heard before her untimely death.
I quickly turned on the lights, but nothing was there. I couldn't go back to sleep, so I simply got dressed and waited for the appropriate time to come here." If John wasn't so sympathetic towards the woman, if John was, say, perhaps Sherlock, he would have thought, Appropriate? Who on earth thinks that quarter past seven on a Saturday is appropriate? But John was John and simply made sure her teacup was full.
Eyes still closed, Sherlock asked, "Is that it?"
Confused, Helen replied, "Yes."
"Then, what of this?" Sherlock, quick as a snake, grabbed her arm and pulled up her sleeve. Five little livid spots, five fingerprints, were printed on her pale arm. John felt a burning anger surge through him.
Helen flushed. "My stepfather's a hard man. But he's all I got," she said before wiggling her arm out of Sherlock's grasp and pulling her sleeve back down.
After a small pause, Sherlock asked, "Could we come over? Inspect the place? Without your stepfather knowing?"
With a smile, Helen said, "You're in luck Mr. Holmes. He's to be out on business all day today. And no one's on the estate anyway, so you should be left alone to do your work."
"Good. We'll be there in the early afternoon; I have a few things to do first."
"And I have a few errands to run. I'll see you later, Mr. Holmes." Helen Stoner got up and grabbed her purse. She nodded to John. "Mr. Watson."
As soon as she left, 221B Baker Street was in a flurry of motion and energy. Sherlock Holmes had a case.