AUTHOR: © 2003 *Mists of Time*
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are the created property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All inventive characters as mentioned are the property of this author. Any original characters resembling persons existing or deceased is purely coincidental.
SUMMARY: The famous detective of all time, Sherlock Holmes, must travel with his faithful companion, Dr. Watson, to the sleepy village of Northbourne to investigate the mysterious spirit of a young woman haunting the hillside cliffs, who had died a year earlier, a death believed by some to have been murder.
RATING: PG-13



THE SPIRIT OF THE MISTS
Chapter One:
A Letter to Holmes


The letter arrived in an ivory, artless, post-marked envelope with a small stamp of Her Royal Highness Queen Victoria placed firmly in the upper right-hand corner. The writing was bold, and rather rough, written in a hurried hand, as if the author had been stressed to mail the letter as soon as time allowed. The envelope was addressed to Mr. Sherlock Homes, 221B Baker Street, London, England.

But it was the return address that caught my attention. It was from a Jacob Barclay, who judging from the address given on the envelope, resided in Northbourne, Dover. I had never heard Holmes speak of any Jacob Barclay from Northbourne, Dover, nor did my memory store any such name. I was curious about this postage, but I was quickly revived from my daydreaming by the mailman, who had only moments earlier, handed me the letter to deliver to Holmes.

"Will you, Sir?" the mailman, who incidently happened to be called Bill. He raised his thin eyebrows at me and gave me a look of curiosity. I blushed ever so slightly at my absentmindedness, and asked him to repeat his question.

"Will you deliver the letter to Mr. Holmes?" he asked again with considerable patience.

"Why of course, good Sir," I nodded quickly. "He will have the letter safe and sound in his hands before the day is out.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson, Sir." Bill tipped his cap at me, and continued down the path to the next house to deliver more mail. I was immediately set to administer the dispatch to Holmes and started up the pathway to the house, where my wife, Mary, was standing by the doorway.

"Anything from my cousin Amelia from Sussex?" she inquired, leaning casually against the doorframe. "I am expecting a long-awaited letter from her. It should have been here by now."

"Nothing for us, Dear," I replied, still eyeing the letter in my hand. "But a document of sorts has arrived for Holmes."

"For Mr. Holmes?" Mary parroted. "Here?" she raised an eyebrow and gave me an inquiring look, one of those kinds that always made me feel uneasy, as if her piecing indigo eyes could read the depth and essence of my very soul. A look, all too well, each man recognized as administered by his wife when she is angry, curious, or was rightfully sure of herself and the fact that her husband was momentarily making a fool of himself.

"I am just as surprised as you are. I have little knowledge as to why Holmes would request an unopened mail, plainly addressed to him, to be forwarded here. But that is what the mailman said Holmes had requested at the post office."

"But you have some knowledge as to why, I'm sure," Mary pressed on with a slight smile. "It must be of great importance, if he dare not open it at his residence."

"Or perhaps it is a message that puts anybody in current possession of it in great danger," I amiably tried to jest. It was the wrong thing to say, for poor Mary turned a pale colour that resembled the envelope.

For a moment, we stared at the envelope in my hand. Then we exchanged an uneasy glance with each other. Then, for some reason, which psychology could explain, we turned our attention back to the envelope.

"I was only joking," I added quickly with a weak laugh.

"Oh, I realize that," she nodded.

Now regarding the letter with a feeling that it could explode into pieces and blow Mary, the entire surrounding neighbourhood including myself into pieces, I carefully stepped past my wife and into the house, where I steered into my private office and tucked the letter away beneath a pile of documents of little importance in my desk drawer. For good measure, I locked the bureau with its key and slipped it into the pocket of my breast suit.

Breathing a sigh of relief that the dispatch was safe for the present moment, I settled into the living room, where Mary presented me moments later with the morning paper.

"Are you not going to visit Mr. Holmes with the letter?" she questioned curiously.

"I believe I shall allow Holmes to beat me to it for once," I replied with a hint of satisfaction in my voice. "He knows I have his letter, and he will come for it." My "so there!" moment of triumph was met with a shrug by my wife and a quick peck on the cheek. She disappeared out of the room via the doorway. And I snuggled into my favourite chair and opened the paper to the first page.

*~*~*~*~*


The next time I saw my wife, she found me pacing the living room floor and wearing a trail into the flower-print carpet.

"What is the matter?" Mary asked, wringing her hands nervously when she saw me in my agitated state.

"It is Holmes!" I cried out, almost in astonishment. "It has been four hours, and he still has not shown up at the door. "Something must be dreadfully wrong." I stared at Mary, and she in turn, stared woefully at her freshly worn carpet rug.

"Perhaps he has important matters that must be taken care of first," Mary replied carefully. She gently took my hand and led me back to my chair. I sat down with a heavy thud and stared gloomily at the wallpaper opposite, where a portrait of Mary's Aunt Augusta hung crookedly from the wall. "That is probably why he passed the letter onto your safekeeping," my wife added sensibly.

"What if he is hurt?" I demanded to Aunt Augusta. "Or in some great danger? Maybe sending the letter over to me was a clue of some sort that he needed my help. Perhaps it was a subtle plea for help that I was to go over to his residence and help him in his dire time of need."

Aunt Augusta's brusque face was enough to make me jump out of my chair and rush towards the hallway. I gathered my hat and was struggling to get into my coat when Mary appeared from the living room.

"I am going to rescue Holmes," I said, as if it was the most standard practice in the world. "You stay by the phone in case Holmes should phone, or I should phone, or the police should phone for any reason. Do not tell anybody where I have gone under any circumstances; I might not be back until well after dark." I continued my battle with my coat, as I tried to force my right arm into the covering. "Oh," I stopped struggling, and turned to Mary, who wore a look of amusement upon her serene face. "Do get rid of that dreadful portrait of your Aunt Augusta as soon as possible; her face is enough to sour milk." Mary's own face suddenly turned dark enough to sour milk as well.

Just at that moment, the doorbell rang with a clear peal, startling us both. I jumped a good three feet into the air; with my heart continuing to beat miles per minute, I threw open the door to find the regaled face of Sherlock Holmes staring back at me.

"I gather you have received a letter for me from me, Watson?" Holmes asked, all business, no time for pleasant formalities.

Mary crossed her arms and pursed her lips; I could almost see the hair at the back of her neck bristling. "What do you mean Aunt Augusta has a face that could sour milk?" she demanded.

"L-letter?" I stammered to Holmes.

"Aunt Augusta?" Holmes inquired.

"John!" Mary demanded, now putting her hands on her hips.

"I think we should all go inside," I suggested, ushering Holmes inside the house. My heart still beating furiously from all the excitement, I glanced suspiciously outside at the afternoon activity, which consisted of two women taking a luxurious stroll down the street. I closed the door, locking it for good measure, and leaned against the door, staring at Holmes and my wife.

"I assume that you are in no danger?" I demanded.

"The only danger, Watson, that I perceive, is right here in your very house," Holmes countered dryly, eyeing Mary, who still looked non too pleased at the events that had unfolded. "Now, surely you must know why I am here?"

"The letter!" Mary and I both acknowledged in unison. Holmes glanced from my wife and then to me before raising an eyebrow.

"I am sure you are curious as to why I forwarded a letter, unopened, to your address. This will all be cleared up in a moment's time. But now Watson, to your study!" Holmes declared with a passion.

"My study?" I gasped a little.

"Why, isn't that where you have secured my letter?"

"Now how did you deduct that conclusion?" I demanded, acknowledging his correct assertion.

"Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary," Sherlock Holmes smiled mysteriously. He removed his cap and overcoat to my wife, who hung them carefully upon the hallway rack. "The outline of a key is visible in your breast pocket. The key, I can only assume to be to your bureau in your study, for it has a distinct shape to its handle, a triangle instead of the usual circular loop as most keys have to them. This triangular shape corresponds with its company's logo, the operation, incidentally, being in the business of manufacturing and selling furniture, practically bureaus and all that sorts. I can only conclude that you have hidden the letter safely in your desk, and a most wise idea that was, Watson, for the letter does hold important information, indeed. I am pleased that I made the right decision to forward the letter to you; I know I can trust you with the secrets of this universe as they are offered to me." Holmes took a moment to pause and catch his breath, while I took a moment to bask in the glow of praise offered to me by my esteemed colleague, for Holmes rarely passed down compliments, and when he did, one could be sure he meant them whole-heartedly.

"Now, let us go to your study, Watson, to read the letter, for I am curious as to its contents just as much as you are, although perhaps I have a better inking of what they hold than you might." Holmes started down the hallway to my study. Mary turned to me and wrinkled her nose, a sign of admiration on her part.

"Amazing," she commented to me. "How does he do it, Watson?"

I stared after the figure of Holmes which promptly took a right turn and went into the study. I turned to my wife. "Why, it is all elementary, my dearest Mary," I smiled. "And that is what makes Holmes the biggest mystery of all."