Disclaimer - I don't own Sherlock Holmes.

This is just the first short story of a new line of short stories concerning Sherlock Holmes working as a police inspector rather than a private consulting detective, during the Second World War. I was inspired by the episodes of Foyle's War and of the old Basil Rathbone movies, which similarly showed a Holmes working and living with Watson during the mid 20th century.

Sherlock at War: Murder in the Blitz.

It was ironic, really; the air-raids provided DCI Sherlock Holmes with the time and the means to find more work for himself.

The loud wailing of the air-raid sirens blazed through the air as the people rushed towards the nearest London Underground stations to shelter from the bombs; in the distance, if you could listen carefully you could hear the approach of the Luftwaffe aircraft, which only furthered the desperation to get down into the shelters. Many people would still be trapped above ground during the bombing because they had either relied on their own homemade shelters to protect them and a German bomber had gotten lucky and levelled it, or they had simply suffered from a terrible bad of misfortune, and after the last few months, it had become expected for many people to endure the loss of their homes to the bombings.

DCI Sherlock Holmes was seething at the military's inability to keep the Germans away from the great city of London, as he went down the escalator of Baker St station with his Detective Sergeant Jack Lestrade, and a crowd of PCs and other CID officers from the station, although some of them would go to other stations if they were in other parts of the area, like in Edgware Road, Paddington, or St. John's Wood. But at the moment he only hoped the military did far more damage to the Germans than what the Germans would be doing to the city above ground. He couldn't fault them for sending bombers to level parts of London in daylight; with how it was pure, blind pot luck they managed to score a direct hit in the night when they had the advantage of not being seen in the darkness of night, it was a logical decision for them to conduct the bombings at night. But he was annoyed with the military. Surely they had worked out by now to have machine-gun emplacements scattered around the city, cannons or something like that? If they did already they were clearly not very good at their jobs, were they?

But the real inconvenience came from the military's inability to adapt quickly.

As they reached the already crowded platforms of the Bakerloo line - Holmes had no idea on which branch the station he was currently on served, nor did he care if the trains headed for Stanmore or towards Watford Junction, so long as it served its purposes - Holmes and Lestrade were faced with the annoying task of finding a place to sit down, and wait out the bombs. Unfortunately, they couldn't find one, but the presence of the police served the public well; there was a growing trend among the criminal fraternity to 'buy' seats off people sheltering down here in the Underground, usually with force, but with the presence of the police down here, run by the no-nonsense Detective Chief Inspector Sherlock Holmes, those actions were stopped.

Finding a bare patch of wall, Holmes pointed towards it and walked with Lestrade to it. The two detectives leaned against the wall, listening to the dull thuds as the German bombs exploded above ground.

"How long do you believe the bombing will last this time, sir?" Lestrade asked.

Holmes did not know. "Hours, minutes, it depends on how many bombs they have. In the meantime we still need to think about the Armstrong case; hopefully, the bombing won't destroy any evidence."

The Armstrong case involved the death of a conscientious objector, Evan Armstrong who had been speaking out against the war for the last few months and had bravely taken to the streets with a board reading messages of making peace with Hitler or finding a different solution rather than a full-scale war where millions would be killed. Months ago, before the war was formally declared, Armstrong might have been taken seriously and some of his ideals sympathised. But his timing was now long since off, and most conscientious objectors had taken to speaking in private audiences since they knew public speaking of any kind would result in grievous assaults on their persons. Unfortunately, Armstrong had not understood the dangers, and so he had carried on.

Armstrong had been speaking publicly in Hyde Park three days before when he was suddenly attacked by a mob who screamed obscenities at him; Holmes could understand their views, their grievances if he looked at it from an emotional perspective. Many of them had lost friends and family to the recent bombings, and so listening to a man who was essentially dismissing their losses would anger them profoundly. But in the confusion, one of the mob killed him. Police arriving on the scene had arrested them all. Holmes, who preferred to be given more complex cases, had found there was more to the murder than met the eye, but he was a long way from truly understanding it all. It seemed Mr Evan Armstrong had a more complex affair than Holmes had first suspected.

Lestrade grimaced. He was going to be joining up any day now, truly believing in the cause against the Nazis. He had no time for conscientious objectors, but he had to admit even he who had originally been of the opinion the murder of Armstrong was a waste of time although he knew from long experience never to voice such an opinion to Holmes, who would just ignore him and carry on without giving a damn about his opinions anyway, discovered there was far more to the case than met the eye…

But that was not the reason for his grimacing. It had become clear the man had been close in some manner of speaking to Oswald Mosley and had connections to several other extreme fascist groups, but from what they had determined, the man was not a hardcore Nazi. He had seemed more of the type of man who would stay hidden in the shadows, as if he believed in their values and ideals, but was not as extreme as others were.

"His cover as a conscientious objector makes some sense in some ways, but wouldn't it have been better for him to speak privately, like the other fascist organisations in Britain who are waiting for the Nazis to invade?" Lestrade asked.

"Or perhaps he had a different plan in mind, one we haven't yet determined," Holmes had already asked this very question within his mind, and he had come up with a number of possibilities.

Scenario one; Armstrong had decided the other fascist organisations were not capable of fulfilling his aims, and he had decided the only way to go about his agenda was to speak publicly against the war. But Holmes was unsure about that idea. If Armstrong really believed that, surely he would have founded a new organisation? They sprouted like poisonous toadstools in the festering climate.

Scenario two; Armstrong had different ideals to the average Nazi or fascist in Britain, and he believed the only way of spreading his ideology was through public speech while objecting to the war, risking death or assault. Holmes was almost sure about that one, but there was still so much they needed to learn about why he was murdered.

Scenario three; the murderer of Armstrong knew precisely who and what he was, and they were not aligned with any fascist organisation. Holmes preferred that idea, but again he was uncertain of the truth.

Lestrade frowned and was about to open his mouth to reply before a commotion caught the two police officer's attention. "What was that?"

Holmes, meanwhile, frowned, holding his hand up for silence before he slowly walked through the crowd, pushing people aside as he and Lestrade followed, but the crowd held them back. Some of the policemen nearby, seeing the Detective Chief Inspector and his Detective Sergeant, doubled their efforts to keep the crowd at bay, but Holmes, seeing ahead, didn't go through gently. It took Lestrade a moment to see what his DCI had seen, and another moment to hear what Holmes was likely hearing.

"….erton, you bastard." Lestrade frowned, wishing there wasn't such a large crowd in the way, then he could finally see what was going on.

"N-No, Lawrence; please!"

"You're begging me? You drove my wife to an early grave; do you have any idea why I did what I did before you interfered, making demands?!" The man - Lawrence - shouted, his voice rising in hysteria. The sound alone was enough to make both Holmes and Lestrade quicken their paces. They suddenly found the two men at the end of the platform, surrounded by a gaggle of onlookers who were backed away in fear when they saw the knife being clutched in the hands of one of the men. The man holding the knife was tall, lean, and dark with a neatly trimmed beard while the other man was shorter, sleekly stout which spoke of a man accustomed to fine living. His clothes, a smart suit underneath an expensive-looking overcoat spoke of how wealthy he was.

But right now his plump features were contorted with panic as he tried to avoid the taller man.

"N-now come on, Lawrence, surely there is a way we can talk about this?" He squeaked.

Lawrence sneered. "Why would I listen to you and your lies? Every single time you spoke, all you did was threaten me and my operation. When you did that, the stress got too much to bear for my wife. She was a nervous wreck already, afraid we were going to be nicked at a moment's notice, but then you came along, and then you pushed and pushed and pushed until it all became too much for her to bear. You're so shameless it's pathetic!"

With a growl, Lawrence plunged the knife into the shorter man's chest, making him wail like mad. He had been getting closer to the shorter man the entire time before he leapt towards him with the growl that ended the shorter man's life.

"AFTER HIM, LESTRADE!" Holmes yelled as he finally pushed through the crowd, the murderer breaking into a run as soon as he realised there were police very close. Holmes let his men go on ahead while he continued to push his way past the crowd, after the murderer while he was completely nonchalant about injuring any of the bystanders, and he dove down to the rails and tried to escape. But Lestrade and the other constables were already after him. Holmes examined the man, seeing that the knife had done its work too well. He had been stabbed in the stomach, but somehow he was holding onto his life while he bled out, gasping like a fish out of water before he gave one last exhale, and then he died.

Holmes sighed and examined the body, and he suddenly realised in the light the man was Charles Augustus Milverton, a well-known blackmailer, and a man whom Holmes himself had privately been after for a very long time. He was unlike most blackmailers, given how he frequently made use of agents who had gained the confidence of others in order to get them to talk, and he paid them richly while making sure they understood he could break them more easily than they could break him.

These agents were maids, milkmen, bartenders, pub and landowners, even rivals of various people. Milverton was unique in how he had even offered up his services up for the highest bidder; he had promised various rich people, lords, ladies, even military men, that he could get rid of their rivals or ruin the lives of those who had crossed them. And he managed it. But they have sometimes fooled themselves, depending on the situation. Holmes had heard several rumours about Milverton over the years, and he knew that as a result of their poor choice in trusted allies, several people had lost their own fortunes as Milverton found something that he felt he could use to bleed them dry.

Holmes had longed to see the man incarcerated in prison, although he had known it might not have been possible. Milverton had been a blackmailer for a long time, and he had been wrongly blessed with an impressive intellect that had only been fuelled by an excellent education that had allowed Milverton to see much further ahead than most. He had excelled in art and literature, coming up with creative stories and masterpieces in order to determine the outcomes of his plans. With that kind of mindset, Milverton had made it almost impossible for anyone to catch him. It didn't help that he was somehow able to find out who was going to be running the trials, and he was quick to find something on them to get him released. He was even able to do this with the jury, and more than once he had walked because of this tactic. Even Holmes, who could see solutions to seemingly impossible conundrums, was unable to work out how he was able to do it. There were several possibilities, but he had never found anything that proved them. And it had also made it incredibly hard for anyone to pin something on him that would not prevent incarceration, but it had always failed. Milverton had always walked because he had the right connections coupled with the threat if they tried anything, he would leak what he knew.

When Holmes had become a Detective Constable, he had known a Superintendent who had wanted nothing more than to get Milverton off the streets for good. DSI Dylan had been very good, very thorough, and unlike many other detectives he was incredibly attentive to his work; he had never seen the need to fake evidence and plant it on suspects. No, he had preferred investigating the crimes while he maintained an open mind, which was a far cry from the manner in which so many other detectives believed their work should go. But while he had been excellent and he had seen a kindred spirit within the young DC Sherlock Holmes, he had not been good enough to go up against Milverton. But he had tried for years to bring Milverton to justice and to make him pay the price for everything he had done.

In the end, Milverton had become tired of what the Detective Superintendent was doing, and he found something on the policeman which left him vulnerable, and he had resigned in disgrace. Holmes had not heard from the man since, but Dylan had left a letter urging him to find a way of bringing Milverton to justice. Holmes had known it would not be easy. Milverton was not the kind of man who would just leave evidence lying around, and so Holmes was left to watch over the man and see if he could catch him out. The detective had come close a few times over the years, but he hadn't made any kind of headway. While he would have preferred to see Milverton standing in the dock, awaiting a lengthy imprisonment, Holmes believed this was a fitting punishment for the blackmailer; Milverton was bound to have created a number of enemies who would have wanted to do just this, and it was only a matter of time.

But how?

What had this Lawrence been doing that was so big Milverton would blackmail him? Milverton preferred going for rich people, wealthy bankers, military men, people with something to hide. He would never go for someone like this Lawrence individual, who looked middle class, judging from what he had seen of the other man. Whatever it was, Milverton had gone in and he had planned to squeeze the life out of the man and his wife had died. Holmes could very well understand that grievance, but he wanted to know what Lawrence had been doing in the first place. Very carefully, Holmes carefully went through Milverton's pockets, and he came out with a set of house keys, a leather-covered notebook and an expensive-looking fountain pen.

Holmes had already begun reading through the book, discovering it was Milverton's notes on people whom he was blackmailing, and there were names of contacts, dates when Lestrade came back with the murderer. As he was flanked by two constables and Lestrade, the murderer clearly recognised he could not escape although his expression showed his frustration that he hadn't managed to flee through the tunnels.

Lestrade was looking at the body. "He's dead, then."

"Very," Holmes looked down at the body unsympathetically, already preparing his preliminary reports and for taking the notes back to the office so he could learn more about some of Milverton's operations. "However I won't miss him."

"Sir?" Lestrade was puzzled by the blunt statement. The Detective Sergeant was one of a number of officers who had worked for and with Holmes over the years, and yet he still did not completely understand the other man. Sherlock Holmes was well known for being blunt, demanding and nonchalant about emotions, but Lestrade had never experienced something like this.

"He's a master blackmailer. His name is Charles Augustus Milverton. I've known about him for some time, but I've never had the evidence needed to prove what he is to others," Holmes explained grimly. "Some on the force have wanted him out of business for a very long time, but he has walked each time; sometimes because he has had something on the investigating and arresting officers, or-," he looked expectedly towards Lestrade like a schoolteacher expecting an answer from a child.

Lestrade did not need to really think through the answer. Holmes had just given it to him. "He has something on the magistrates and judges," he finished.

"And the juries. His reach goes out a long way. He has dozens of enemies, so why is it you are the only one to get this close?" Holmes looked expectantly towards the man who'd murdered someone nobody in their right mind would ever miss.

The murderer glowered back at him, but Holmes saw he was angrier he'd been caught rather than anything else. "I've been watching him for some time; I knew I couldn't do anything else, so I had to resort to these means."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. This was proving more interesting than anything else he had been doing now for more than a month, and while the Armstrong affair was still fascinating and he would like to finish with it quickly, Holmes was more interested in this current business. Charles Augustus Milverton had always been of interest to him, but as he had claimed, he had never been able to get close to the man without him putting the right types of pressure on others so he would back off.

"You would have preferred a plan which was less crude?"

It was not the Detective Chief Inspector's intention to be insulting, but he had no other way of asking the question except in a blunt manner. In any case, it worked; the murderer's face darkened visibly even in the dim light of the crowded station.

"Of course I bloody would, but how would I have done that? Milverton would have blackmailed anybody to save his own neck, and he had. I couldn't call the police and tell them what had happened, otherwise, he would have released what he knew, and he would have had the contacts to keep out of it all."

X

As they returned above ground after the All Clear, Holmes led the way back to the police station; he made his way to the nearest telephone and he sent a message, telling his superiors of what had happened in the Underground, and to summon a crew to take the body away from the platform. Now, three hours later, Holmes was grimly sifting through Milverton's notebook.

The detective was incredibly thankful the blackmailer had written down his activities in notebooks, and he had already made a mental note and one on his desk to remind himself to head out to Milverton's home and look through the blackmailer's records to see the whole scope of what he had been doing for so long.

But he was unsurprised by the notebook, in fact, he was grateful and he was also wishing for an opportunity such as this ever since he had first heard of the blackmailer who had caused many people a lot of grief and pain over the years while he had gotten away with it while many people had needed to suffer through terrible scandals whenever they had refused to pay up; Milverton was well educated enough to realise he would need some kind of structure, and there was nothing more practical than a notebook. It would be easy to maintain and he could carry it with him wherever he went.

When he had first heard about Charles Augustus Milverton and had discovered how the blackmailer was meticulous with his operations without exactly stepping out into the open where he would be vulnerable although many of his fellow blackmailers knew better than to reveal themselves, Holmes had realised the man likely had a whole collection of notebooks such as this.

Milverton had been keeping quiet lately - there were entries from 1936 written in red ink in immaculate shorthand detailing the exact amounts of money Milverton had extorted over that period - but ever since the war had begun, Milverton had not bothered to really extort people of anything, but he was still gathering many new potential sources of income if the number of entries per week was anything to go by.

It was logical to assume Milverton had decided this was not the time for him to carry out his operations, and it would likely be a risk given how the country was now on a war footing, but the actual reason would likely be lost to time. Holmes could make assumptions for why Milverton was not really blackmailing people, except for the murderer and his wife until now, of course, but he could not deny the facts.

Ever since the war had begun in earnest, Charles Augustus Milverton had been collecting names and recording their activities, but there was little to no doubt in Holmes' mind the blackmailer had planned on resuming his activities as soon as the war was over, regardless of the outcome. Milverton probably hadn't cared one little bit about who won the war, so long as he could continue his way of life. But that had not stopped him from openly blackmailing several new victims, just to see him through. The murderer and his wife were one set of ten unfortunate individuals who were currently victims of Charles Augustus Milverton.

He had certainly been busy. With most of his resources and his time spent collecting new names, new reasons to blackmail, Milverton had virtually filled the pages of the notebook with names and reasons to blackmail them; many of them were incredibly serious, and it was likely they would be arrested for a lot of them. Some of the entries were underlined with the same red ink the blackmailer with the added note reading to begin immediately, and once he had seen the entries, he could see why.

Holmes lifted his head and looked around his office. Lestrade was not in the office, he was likely supervising the prisoner. They had just gotten his name, Harry Bergman. No record. No reason for the police to garner any interest in him.

Standing up, Holmes went to the door and he summoned a passing constable who was too stupid to be outside his office. "Bring DS Lestrade here, now. Tell him we are going to visit Mr Bergman's house right away."

"Yes, sir."

Holmes was putting on his long coat by the time Lestrade returned. "We're heading to the Bergman's house, sir?"

"That's right. Is he talking?"

"No," Lestrade shook his head in frustration, walking over to get his own coat. "I don't understand him. There were dozens of witnesses - who've all been questioned, by the way - who saw him kill Milverton, and we have his murder weapon. We saw him plunge the knife in the first place. Why isn't he talking?"

"It doesn't matter, since I've already gotten the search warrant to search his house."

Lestrade looked at him strangely. "Do you know why Milverton was blackmailing him, sir?"

"Yes, but I need to check for certain. Tell me, was Bergman married?"

Surprised by the unexpected question, Lestrade needed a moment to recover himself, but he quickly recovered himself to reply to Holmes' question. "Yes, he was sir. Why?"

"How did she die?"

"She hanged herself."

"When did this happen? Do we know where she is?"

"It happened three days ago, and her body has been interned in Westminster hospital. But why?"

"I will explain later. In the meantime, we shall head for the Bergman's home."

The two policemen left the station, and they headed for Bergman's house. The Bergman's lived in Notting Hill Gate in a townhouse. As they travelled to the property, Holmes didn't say a word to Lestrade. The Detective Sergeant was more than familiar with how frustrating his Detective Chief Inspector could be when it came to hoarding information, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it; sooner or later, all would be revealed, either when he figured everything out for himself - which was annoying, but Holmes used it as a valuable tool for educating sergeants like himself - or Holmes would reveal it all.

When they finally arrived at the street where the Bergman's house was, Holmes got out of the car and headed for a different address.

"Sir, the Bergman's live there," Lestrade jabbed a hand in a different direction for emphasis.

"I am aware of that fact, Jack," Holmes spoke without once turning his back. "I just need to speak to a few of the neighbours to see if they noticed anything about the Bergmans."

"Why, what did they do?" Lestrade hurried after the tall figure of his inspector.

"All would be revealed soon," Holmes replied with his typical manner.

Unfortunately, it soon became more than clear to both detectives there was no neighbours on the street. Most of the residents were either at work, or they had simply moved away because of the bombing, afraid to come home to a shell of a house or because they were terrified they would lose their lives. The Bergmans were not one of them, and it merely confirmed in Holmes' mind there was a vital reason why they had made that decision to remain.

Holmes found the back alley which led to the back of the house. The brick wall was high, but with a little effort and help from his Detective Sergeant, Holmes was able to get over the walls, and the moment he was over and he had jumped down into the garden itself he saw the Bergmans had tried to be as self-sufficient as they could. They had converted a large chunk of their garden into a vegetable patch for raising carrots, and a host of other vegetables while leaving more than enough room for their flowerbeds. In a corner, shrouded by a large apple tree, stood the shed-like form of a bomb shelter reinforced by bricks and corrugated metal.

"Sir, are you alright?" Lestrade's voice distracted Holmes and he remembered the Detective Sergeant was still locked outside the garden and stopped him from taking a look inside the shelter itself.

"Yes, Lestrade, I'm fine," Holmes walked over to the gate and he unlocked it to let Lestrade inside. The Detective Sergeant walked into the garden cautiously before Holmes pointed at the shelter. Still cautious for the moment, Lestrade quickly got himself back together, and he walked in and he closed the gate and he and his Inspector went into the shelter. It was pretty basic. The shelter had four walls and there were two sofas inside with an electric light and a small table loaded with books with a clock nearby. Holmes picked up a couple to look briefly at their titles, noting King Lear, Robinson Crusoe, Mr Midshipman Hornblower, The Complete Works of Shakespeare, and he sneered at an Agatha Christie novel before he put it down and he and Lestrade searched the shelter for anything incriminating, but there was nothing.

"There's nothing in here, Lestrade. We should take a look inside the house," Holmes announced.

Getting inside the Bergman's home was easy. Holmes simply kicked the door in and he walked inside, opening doors as he walked through the ground floor of the house. Lestrade watched him curiously before he lost his patience. "Sir, if you'd just tell me what it is you're looking for..."

"Milverton was blackmailing the Bergmans for a reason," Holmes explained while he opened a small cupboard door and shook his head in frustration when he saw it was empty aside from a few boxes of matches. "One of his contacts told him the Bergmans' were part of the black market trade, gathering food and fuels and selling them off for a profit."

Lestrade suddenly understood. "So that's why Bergman went for Milverton, and in such a public way…but why would he do that, especially when his operation would be uncovered?"

"I can only speculate Bergman hadn't realised Milverton carries his notebook everywhere he goes, or he did not have any time to take the logical precaution and take it away from the blackmailer when-aha!" Holmes cried triumphantly when he walked into the living room and he found a trap door leading downwards. Holmes exchanged a look with Lestrade, and he led the Detective Sergeant down below into the cellar.

The cellar was full of tins of food on neatly packed shelves while in other corners were boxes of matches, barrels and bottles of alcohol. On one half of the room was a small office desk with a rickety old wooden chair with a map of the United Kingdom and pins showcasing the sites around the country where the organisation the Bergmans' had been a part of had their warehouses or places like this where they stored their stock in full view of the authorities without the police even knowing about it.

Holmes walked over to the desk and he found a list of contacts in an address book, and he nodded with a grunt. "Bergman was not only part of this organisation, he led it with his wife."

"And then Milverton discovered it and then blackmailed them for a share of the profits. When his wife died, Bergman didn't have time to do anything here, didn't have time to clean the place out, and he went after Milverton because he knew we would find out about her death," Lestrade deduced.

"How did she die again?"

"She hanged herself."

"I believe the stress got too much for her," Holmes considered the matter thoughtfully, turning what he and Lestrade thought they knew of the case in his mind. "Yes…. Both Mr and Mrs Bergman were running a blackmail ring in the country, and one of their contacts told Milverton about what was happening. Milverton began to blackmail them so he would be trusted to keep quiet about what was going on, and he became greedy enough to demand more. She killed herself, and Mr Bergman went after Milverton knowing we would soon be in pursuit, but some things are still not clear…"

"Yes… such as like why Bergman even took such a step in the first place when it could mean the exposure of his business," Lestrade said.

"We'll soon find out," Holmes flashed the Detective Sergeant a brief philosophical smile. It faded a moment later. "Contact the station. Tell them to send a team here of uniformed constables and plainclothes here. I want to secure this place and get these papers and addresses checked."

"Right sir."

X

"…. when we found the cellar, I already knew what we would find. After all, Charles Augustus Milverton had already seen it, and he documented it in his notebook," Holmes was saying as he and Lestrade sat opposite Bergman in the interview room. "Now, we know you were running the black market ring in your cellar and you were storing some of it, which is risky in itself, but what happened? Why did you kill Milverton in such a way, and then risk the exposure of your organisation?"

Bergman had been listening silently as he studied the crime scene photographs showing the map on the wall of the basement and the collection of addresses in the books, and the collection of tinned foods and fuels and barrels of alcohol. He sagged realising the whole thing was blown, but then….

"You don't understand, Mr Holmes… my wife's death…it made me see that my business was the root cause of her death. It's funny, really," Bergman chuckled, although the look on his face made it clear he was trying not to break down sobbing his life had been shattered into little pieces, "when we first began the ring, my wife was delighted we were making a bigger living."

"At the expense of others who are currently going through rationing?" Lestrade interrupted harshly.

Bergman ignored the sergeant's anger - he was likely so unfazed by it all by what had happened, the anger and judgement from others no longer bothered him - and he went on, "We had never been rich, Mr Holmes," Bergman said, looking directly into Holmes' eyes. "When the war drew nearer, I realised there was a way of getting through it. And, as I saw it, we were giving food to the masses. Did it honestly matter whether it was legally sourced or not?"

Holmes out a warning hand on Lestrade's shoulder to silence him from answering that question. "What happened with Milverton?"

Bergman sighed, his expression becoming haunted. "We had been running the ring for a few years. To be frank, I started it 'cause my father told me stories of the last war, told me how the Germans starved this country with their U-Boats and I wanted to make some extra cash on the side. I had my father's old contacts, so setting up the black market business was far from difficult. But Milverton….," he sighed again and he rubbed his eyes, "Milverton suddenly visited the house while I was out, and he terrified Violet with his demands for money. When I got back, Violet told me of the encounter and how he'd terrified her. He came back a few hours later, with a pair of men who were clearly there as muscle. I didn't know their names and I didn't give a damn either way; he only brought them to threaten us and made it clear to me and my wife we would pay him whatever he wanted us to pay him in order to keep his mouth shut.

"At first we cooperated, but he began demanding much more than we could provide. He was putting more and more pressure on us, and he began sending us threats. Violet became a nervous wreck, especially since he began sending us cutouts from the newspapers of traitors who were caught out, or black-marketers who were caught…. After that, she took her own life, just as we began finalising plans."

"What do you mean?" Holmes leaned forward curiously.

"I was planning on burning down the house and taking Violet down to the coast. We'd find honest work and keep our heads down, but while Violet was reassured, and she even became happy again, something changed all that…," Bergman looked down briefly and Holmes sighed.

"Another visit from Milverton?"

Bergman's head lifted, his eyes glinting furiously. "How did you guess?"

"I never guess, Mr Bergman. Pray continue."

"Milverton met her in the streets when she was shopping. He loudly asked her if she really needed that food she was buying, knowing full-well she needed to keep up appearances and he threatened her if she did not make a massive payment, one which would bankrupt us. That was the last straw for Violet," Bergman choked, slapping a hand to his mouth as he began to cry, "She hanged herself. By the time I got home, I found her corpse. I began stalking Milverton, deciding I didn't care what happened to me anymore, not now my wife is gone. The rest you know. I don't regret what I did to Milverton. And no, I don't regret my business. But, I have two requests, please; the first, I want to collect my album of the good times I spent with Violet, and the second…I want to attend her funeral."