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 Two:
Confessions of a Constable


I found Holmes waiting patiently in my study, observing my desk, which was covered with a scatter of documents, with an enthralled expression upon his face. I felt slightly flustered by my unkempt bureau, but then I remembered the state of Holmes' apartment. A few misplaced papers was nothing compared to what poor, Mrs. Hudson, his landlady had to go through on a daily basis!

"Really, Watson," he exclaimed, as I came forward and produced the key from within my front pocket. "I know you are quite the busy man from the looks of it, but I would advise you to at least separate your patients' accounts with your grocery lists." He picked up a random paper and began to read, "Have Mrs. Caisson take two teaspoons of syrup of Ipecac every five hours, not exceeding a dosage of fifteen grams per day. Tell Mrs. Caisson to buy one litre of milk and two dozen eggs-"

"I shall be taking that," I replied promptly, snatching the note from his clasp. I stuffed the paper into the pocket of my jacket and proceeded to the back of my desk, where I opened the drawer and fumbled around for the letter. I produced it in a moment's time and tried to hand it to Holmes. He refused the letter.

"I already know as to the contents of the letter," Holmes replied, glancing at me. A troubled expression crossed his face as he continued to stare. I began to feel rather warm and the room itself seemed to be small and stuffy. Then I noticed he was staring at the curtained window behind me.

"Watson, old chap, I simply must insist that you open those curtains. If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is the waste of a perfectly good afternoon of sunshine."

I merely shrugged, accustomed to Holmes' frequent peculiar demands, and proceeded over to the window, drawing back the curtains. Sunshine flooded into the room and I recoiled at the bright light. Dust flew about and I withdrew from the window. Holmes had taken the liberty of making himself at home by settling down in a chair. I took a seat behind my desk, the question of the letter, which was lying upon my bureau, still fresh in my mind.

"What do you think the letter contains?" Holmes threw the question at me with a casual inquiry, perhaps not really expecting an answer.

"I suppose some secretive, if not important information," I quickly replied. Holmes had impressively threw the solution of the letter's whereabouts to me, and now I wished to impress him with my knowledge of what the document would contain.

"How did you come about to that conclusion?" Holmes asked with a small smile.

"The letter is postmarked from Northbourne, Dover, that much I know. The address is written in a hurried, messy hand that implies the writer wanted the letter to reach your hands as soon as possible. You specifically requested the post office to send the letter to my residence without ever opening, nor seeing the texts with your own eyes. And yet you are aware of what this dispatch is about. That is how I conclude the letter is of some worth and importance to you, and perhaps even of some value to myself."

"Bravo, Watson," Holmes applauded my deductive skills. "You are correct about this letter's prominence, except for the penmanship. He always writes in that slipshod manner."

"Oh," I replied insipidly. Then I added, "If you know what the letter says, then what should I do with it?"

"You may read it," came the reply.

I was privately insulted, regarding other person's mail as sacred. To read one's letter would be to infringe upon the privacy of another.

The look of consternation must have shown upon my face, because Holmes smiled and added, "This will concern you, too, so the affair of this note holds as much significance to you as it does to me."

I was not sure how a letter addressed to Holmes would be of any distinction to me, but I had learned over the years not to question such misgivings. I took a letter opener and carefully slit the envelope, taking extra care not to create any unnecessary tears. I unfolded the letter, which consisted of one long page, and began to read aloud:

To My Esteemed and Dear Friend Sherlock Holmes:

It has been a long time since we have had time to sit down
and discuss pleasant civilities. Well, there is no time for that
now. I am in dire need of your assistance, for in all my years
of working as a man of the Law, I have never come across the
apprehension that is staring me down today. To put it in a
explicit and forward manner, I have reason to believe that the
community of Northbourne is haunted by a lamenting phantasm.


Pausing from the letter, I glanced at Holmes to see his reaction, expecting a sardonic comment or a musing of skepticism. I received neither. Instead, he produced a pipe from inside his jacket pocket, and waved a hand, a signal for me to continue my reading.

I understand that affiliations with the metaphysical interest
you at present. I implore you to travel to Northbourne and stay
a few days at the expense and lodgings provided by my wife
and myself. The dilemma at hand has gotten out of constraint
and has threatened the sanctuary and well being of the municipal
at present. I request that you speak to no one about this plight;
I do not wish to let hearsay distort the truth and make the existing
incident appear unwholesome then it truthfully is. My trust is fully
in your expertises and abilities to help unravel the pieces of this enigma.

Your Friend,
Jacob Barclay

P.S. Please feel welcomed to bring along your accepted colleague,
Dr. John H. Watson, of whom I have heard cordial appraisals.

P.P.S. Elsie gives you her love and blessings.

"Astounding," I commented, putting down the letter. Holmes was correct, the contents of the letter did apply to me, even if I was simply stationed to a P.S. at the end of the message. "Written under a deal of stress on the part of Mr. Barclay," I observed. "It sounds genuine enough."

"Oh, it is," Holmes reassured me. "Elsie Barclay sent a telegram explaining that there was a 'menacing apparition' strutting down the countryside and sending the local townsfolk into a panic. That is how I knew about the letter and its subject matter," Holmes added with a quick wink.

A laugh escaped my lips; Holmes never ceased to keep me in suspense until he revealed his secrets, which did not seem so difficult to accomplish once known.

A hint of colour caught my eye from inside the envelope. Turning it over, I let the fragile, pressed flower gently float into the palm of my waiting hand. It was of a pale lavender hue, but the species I could not readily identify.

"It is a Digitalis Purpurea, or Foxglove, a member of the Scrophulariaceae family," Holmes categorized as he examined the flower. He puffed contentedly on his pipe. "They grow wild upon the moors."

"A clue of some sort, from our friend," I speculated. "But first things first: who is Jacob Barclay?" I implored, wanting to know the facts.

"Jacob Barclay is the Constable of Northbourne, and a friend of Inspector Lestrade," replied the detective.

"Is that how you met? Through Lestrade?"

"On the contrary, Watson. I introduced Barclay to Lestrade. The former I was acquainted with through my brother, Mycroft, many years before I even met you."

"And how would you describe this Jacob Barclay?" I pressed further. "Would you define him as a man that tended to side with hysteria and the masses?"

"No, I would define him as a man with a good head on his shoulder, not particularly sharp, a little slow on the banters, but he has his wits about him. Does not drink, gamble, nor ingest any illegal substances to my knowledge. His wife Elsie, is much like her husband- kind-hearted and a scrumptious cook. In other words," Holmes lazily crossed his legs, "he is not a man to easily surrender to the stipulations and tantrums of the people, whom are trying to begin a demented 'ghost-hunt'."

"This throws that theory out the window," I shrugged, a little disappointed. "But surely Jacob Barclay does not believe that a ghost is haunting his village," I suggested with a chuckle.

"Why not?" Holmes regarded me evenly, without a hint of expression on his face.

My smile was immediately wiped off my face. "Do you mean to tell me, Holmes, that you believe this ghost is... is real?" I compelled.

"I did not tell you anything. I will not conclude what is and is not real until I have had the opportunity to examine the evidence."

"I believe that you are hinting subtly that you believe Jacob Barclay," I said suspiciously. Holmes merely smiled in reply. "What do you propose we do about this restless spectre?" I implored. "From the tone of the letter, it appears as if the people will revolt at any instance." I had an image of angry townsfolk with pitchforks and burning torches trying to ram down Jacob Barclay's door with a vast tree log.

"I propose we head to Northbourne first thing in the morning," Holmes exclaimed, jumping out of his chair.

"I was afraid you were going to suggest that," I sighed. "Let us hope that this 'menacing apparition' sticks to haunting the church graveyard," I added gloomily.

Holmes merely laughed in response, and left the study. I followed him out- to see him to the door and inform Mary of my plans to head to Northbourne.




March Hare- Thank you for pointing out that error. I changed it to something else, although FF.net is being rather slow to reflect these changes. :P I might be more modern in my writing than I should be, so be on the lookout for any other mistakes that do not belong. :)

Brink- I've read a one of your fictions and will be sure to read more! I enjoyed them very much, particularly "The Case of the Mad Slasher." Please update soon!

Nooka- Thank you for your review! The contents of the letter itself will be explained soon. But even if you like my story, write one of your own! I would love to read it.

Frankie- I'm glad you enjoyed the first chapter. I will try to update as often as possible. :)

Es- Watson and Mary were probably very happy together, but then someone like me comes along and look what happens. :D I can't believe I have never heard of 'The Hound of the Baskervilles According to Spike Milligan'! I've read Conan-Doyle's version of 'Hounds' twice, and I would love to read a non-canon parody of it, PG-17 and all. I'll be sure to check it out.