Disclaimer: None of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's characters belong to me.
Note: The murder occurs in what seems to be a modern American and 1800s mix, so bear with me.
Chapter 2
(from the files of Dr. Watson)
It was a cold miserable day out. Nothing much to do but sit inside and watch Holmes inject himself full of drugs, which I greatly despise. "He'll kill himself one day." I would say to myself.
A sudden knock came at the door.
Holmes, groggy from his last injection waved at the door as if it would magically open.
"Do come in." I said finally, after some of Holmes's infernal waving had annoyed me.
The fellow was shy and anxious. He was young, somewhere in his twenties I would guess. His coat was torn a bit, as if it had gotten caught in the carriage door, and his hair was full of cowlicks. "I a-am h-h-here for a… Mr. Sh-sherlock Holmes." He said after some awkward silence.
Despite his cocaine, Holmes eyes moved over the young man making his usual observations. "That is I."
"Y-yes well… I come from."
"Somewhere in the country I expect. You have a train station nearby, and your grandfather was a world-renowned traveler. You have a maid who almost always misplaces your hat, forcing you to go out in the rain, where water runs into your eyes, and you are accustom to slamming your coat sleeve in the carriage door. Let me say that you are left-handed."
The young man stood there, his mouth agape. I chuckled to myself, though I myself was impressed with Holmes's deductions.
"Y-yes." The man said. "I'm here to ask Mr. Holmes's help on the murder case of Ms. Hallie Kensington."
"The engineer's daughter?" Holmes inquired.
"The same. By the way, how did you know…"
"From the red slips of paper in your front coat pocket, I would say you already have train tickets for myself and Dr. Watson." Holmes interrupted.
"And myself." The man said with a nod. "For tomorrow morning at 8 o'clock sharp."
"We shall be there by fifteen till the hour. This should be a most interesting case. Good day, sir."
Of course, the man could say nothing else so politely left.
"Holmes," said I "I would like to know how you made those deductions."
"Elementary. He lives in the country both by the make of his shoes and the hay that is stuck in his sock. There was some loose bits of coal from a train on his color and smudges on his hands, therefore a train station."
"Yes but the maid…"
"Did you not see his many cowlicks? That comes from a hat, Watson. It shows he fancies wearing one, and the fact that he doesn't have one is an oddity for him. Strained eyes show that he has been out in the rain a bit too much without a hat."
"And his left hand?"
"When you push open the door to a carriage, you use your right hand, so the sleeve that would get caught would be your left. But this fellow's right sleeve was torn, suggesting his left-handedness, and judging by his expression, I was correct."
We left the next morning and learned that the fellow's name was Henry Kelp.
Note: The murder occurs in what seems to be a modern American and 1800s mix, so bear with me.
Chapter 2
(from the files of Dr. Watson)
It was a cold miserable day out. Nothing much to do but sit inside and watch Holmes inject himself full of drugs, which I greatly despise. "He'll kill himself one day." I would say to myself.
A sudden knock came at the door.
Holmes, groggy from his last injection waved at the door as if it would magically open.
"Do come in." I said finally, after some of Holmes's infernal waving had annoyed me.
The fellow was shy and anxious. He was young, somewhere in his twenties I would guess. His coat was torn a bit, as if it had gotten caught in the carriage door, and his hair was full of cowlicks. "I a-am h-h-here for a… Mr. Sh-sherlock Holmes." He said after some awkward silence.
Despite his cocaine, Holmes eyes moved over the young man making his usual observations. "That is I."
"Y-yes well… I come from."
"Somewhere in the country I expect. You have a train station nearby, and your grandfather was a world-renowned traveler. You have a maid who almost always misplaces your hat, forcing you to go out in the rain, where water runs into your eyes, and you are accustom to slamming your coat sleeve in the carriage door. Let me say that you are left-handed."
The young man stood there, his mouth agape. I chuckled to myself, though I myself was impressed with Holmes's deductions.
"Y-yes." The man said. "I'm here to ask Mr. Holmes's help on the murder case of Ms. Hallie Kensington."
"The engineer's daughter?" Holmes inquired.
"The same. By the way, how did you know…"
"From the red slips of paper in your front coat pocket, I would say you already have train tickets for myself and Dr. Watson." Holmes interrupted.
"And myself." The man said with a nod. "For tomorrow morning at 8 o'clock sharp."
"We shall be there by fifteen till the hour. This should be a most interesting case. Good day, sir."
Of course, the man could say nothing else so politely left.
"Holmes," said I "I would like to know how you made those deductions."
"Elementary. He lives in the country both by the make of his shoes and the hay that is stuck in his sock. There was some loose bits of coal from a train on his color and smudges on his hands, therefore a train station."
"Yes but the maid…"
"Did you not see his many cowlicks? That comes from a hat, Watson. It shows he fancies wearing one, and the fact that he doesn't have one is an oddity for him. Strained eyes show that he has been out in the rain a bit too much without a hat."
"And his left hand?"
"When you push open the door to a carriage, you use your right hand, so the sleeve that would get caught would be your left. But this fellow's right sleeve was torn, suggesting his left-handedness, and judging by his expression, I was correct."
We left the next morning and learned that the fellow's name was Henry Kelp.