Holmes sat in his chair, staring with blank, gray eyes into the fireplace. His tall, wiry frame was motionless, as he thought with a rapid fire what the answer could possibly be. The case had been on his mind for a day now, which was a considerable amount of time, considering how long it usually took him. What was the missing piece? His body was drained of all motion as he attempted to still his rapidly flowing thoughts. What was it...?
"I say, Holmes," said Watson, bustling into the room and sitting his weight down on one of the chairs. "You've been sitting there all day! Come on down and smell the fresh air. It's beautiful outside..."
Holmes sat up, his eyes immediately awake and alert. "Smell? Did you say smell? Aha, you've done it again, Watson! How stupid I was to ignore that!"
With a sudden energy and vigor, he paced over to the side table, where he quickly scribbled down something almost illegible. "Give this to the urchin waiting in the hall, will you, Watson?" He asked airily. "Oh, and a large brandy would also be in order."
Watson hurriedly gave the note to the page, and strode back into the room, to find Holmes laughing hysterically on the couch.
"Good God, man, what is it?" Demanded the doctor, rushing over. "You're not ill?"
"Only my logic, it appears. That was a wire to Lestrade. He'll find the necessary details to lead to the arrest of one Mr. Campbell."
"No!" Gasped Watson. "Was it really he?"
"Yes, it appears so. He couldn't have smelled the smoke that led to his wife's death from the parlor. They had made it airtight; soundproof, to ensure that his musical frenzies would not disturb the rest of the household. He lied about his whereabouts, the scoundrel, and set the fire himself. Therefore, he was not too late to save his wife, but too late to save his own hide from the law!"
"Brilliant!" Congratulated Watson. "Absolutely brilliant!"
Holmes rested down on the couch, weary from his mental exhaustion.
"Thank you, my dear Watson. And you yourself had quite a strong hand in it, yourself? After all, you were the one who suggested it in the first place!"
"I did?" said a flustered Watson.
"Of course! Now, do be a gentlemen and pass me that brandy flask and my violin, please?"
Watson obliged, and in a frenzy of passion, Holmes took to his instrument in a beautiful, minor improvisation. Watson listened peacefully, and picked up the paper.
"Well, well, this is most unfortunate," he said languidly. "This young woman's father was murdered while working at the docks. Really, at such a young age to lose her only remaining parent."
Holmes paused on one trilling note. "What? Who is it?"
"Young Elizabeth Nobleton," continued Watson, disinterested. "I wonder what the outcome was for the latest boxing match."
"Nobleton, Nobleton, Nobleton," murmured Holmes. "Would you kindly pass me over my encyclopedia?"
Watson obliged, and Holmes thumbed over to the "N" section. "Ah, here it is.
"Nobleton, Henry. Born in England, raised in America. Was presumed to be dead on the passage back, but showed up ten years later. A rich oil baron, he is a widower currently living in Westchester, with his young daughter, Elizabeth."
Holmes took out a quill and silently scratched out certain sections. He wrote in the margin, "Presumed dead."
Watson looked over. "Presumed dead?"
"He disappeared for ten years, who's to say he wouldn't do it again?"
Watson chuckled. "Well, I would hate to leave behind such a lovely daughter," he said wryly, passing the paper over to his cohort.
"Watson, you can't believe that a simple girl could have power over a man, do you? In fact, I believe..." He trailed off as he looked at her picture.
"Believe what?" Inquired Watson politely.
Holmes was looking at the picture the way a scientist would examine his findings. Right on the front cover was the girl's portrait. She had long, smooth hair that appeared to be blonde (it was in black and white), with small, pouty lips and barely visible eyebrows. But what was most astounding were the haunting, dark eyes that stared out from the picture, ones that held immeasurable sadness. She held herself proud and tall, but seemed to be under a huge burden.
"Holmes? Holmes!"
"Hmm? What?" He said, waking himself up. He shook himself, and returned to the present. "Yes, that will be Lestrade coming up now."
"How did you know?" Asked Watson, dumbfounded.
"Behind you, Watson, there is a metal tray that appears to be for decoration, but I've positioned it to look directly out the window. As well, Lestrade has that kah-thump, kah-thump pattern whenever he descends out humble staircase."
Soon enough, there was a knock on the door, and Lestrade, red faced and panting, sat down in a chair.
"Bad business, Holmes, bad business," he moaned. "The oil baron dies without a will, and others are claiming his fortune. And the young lady...Elizabeth! That's her name; she's in a state of shock. We're going to need some of your skill on this one."
Holmes was already moving, with the energy he gained when he was presented with an interesting case. "I'm on my way, Lestrade. By the way, was it Campbell?"
Lestrade chuckled and shook his head. "Confessed everything. How did you know?"
Holmes' smile was wry. "It was just a matter of getting on the right scent. Are you ready Watson?"
And soon, they were out the door.
"I say, Holmes," said Watson, bustling into the room and sitting his weight down on one of the chairs. "You've been sitting there all day! Come on down and smell the fresh air. It's beautiful outside..."
Holmes sat up, his eyes immediately awake and alert. "Smell? Did you say smell? Aha, you've done it again, Watson! How stupid I was to ignore that!"
With a sudden energy and vigor, he paced over to the side table, where he quickly scribbled down something almost illegible. "Give this to the urchin waiting in the hall, will you, Watson?" He asked airily. "Oh, and a large brandy would also be in order."
Watson hurriedly gave the note to the page, and strode back into the room, to find Holmes laughing hysterically on the couch.
"Good God, man, what is it?" Demanded the doctor, rushing over. "You're not ill?"
"Only my logic, it appears. That was a wire to Lestrade. He'll find the necessary details to lead to the arrest of one Mr. Campbell."
"No!" Gasped Watson. "Was it really he?"
"Yes, it appears so. He couldn't have smelled the smoke that led to his wife's death from the parlor. They had made it airtight; soundproof, to ensure that his musical frenzies would not disturb the rest of the household. He lied about his whereabouts, the scoundrel, and set the fire himself. Therefore, he was not too late to save his wife, but too late to save his own hide from the law!"
"Brilliant!" Congratulated Watson. "Absolutely brilliant!"
Holmes rested down on the couch, weary from his mental exhaustion.
"Thank you, my dear Watson. And you yourself had quite a strong hand in it, yourself? After all, you were the one who suggested it in the first place!"
"I did?" said a flustered Watson.
"Of course! Now, do be a gentlemen and pass me that brandy flask and my violin, please?"
Watson obliged, and in a frenzy of passion, Holmes took to his instrument in a beautiful, minor improvisation. Watson listened peacefully, and picked up the paper.
"Well, well, this is most unfortunate," he said languidly. "This young woman's father was murdered while working at the docks. Really, at such a young age to lose her only remaining parent."
Holmes paused on one trilling note. "What? Who is it?"
"Young Elizabeth Nobleton," continued Watson, disinterested. "I wonder what the outcome was for the latest boxing match."
"Nobleton, Nobleton, Nobleton," murmured Holmes. "Would you kindly pass me over my encyclopedia?"
Watson obliged, and Holmes thumbed over to the "N" section. "Ah, here it is.
"Nobleton, Henry. Born in England, raised in America. Was presumed to be dead on the passage back, but showed up ten years later. A rich oil baron, he is a widower currently living in Westchester, with his young daughter, Elizabeth."
Holmes took out a quill and silently scratched out certain sections. He wrote in the margin, "Presumed dead."
Watson looked over. "Presumed dead?"
"He disappeared for ten years, who's to say he wouldn't do it again?"
Watson chuckled. "Well, I would hate to leave behind such a lovely daughter," he said wryly, passing the paper over to his cohort.
"Watson, you can't believe that a simple girl could have power over a man, do you? In fact, I believe..." He trailed off as he looked at her picture.
"Believe what?" Inquired Watson politely.
Holmes was looking at the picture the way a scientist would examine his findings. Right on the front cover was the girl's portrait. She had long, smooth hair that appeared to be blonde (it was in black and white), with small, pouty lips and barely visible eyebrows. But what was most astounding were the haunting, dark eyes that stared out from the picture, ones that held immeasurable sadness. She held herself proud and tall, but seemed to be under a huge burden.
"Holmes? Holmes!"
"Hmm? What?" He said, waking himself up. He shook himself, and returned to the present. "Yes, that will be Lestrade coming up now."
"How did you know?" Asked Watson, dumbfounded.
"Behind you, Watson, there is a metal tray that appears to be for decoration, but I've positioned it to look directly out the window. As well, Lestrade has that kah-thump, kah-thump pattern whenever he descends out humble staircase."
Soon enough, there was a knock on the door, and Lestrade, red faced and panting, sat down in a chair.
"Bad business, Holmes, bad business," he moaned. "The oil baron dies without a will, and others are claiming his fortune. And the young lady...Elizabeth! That's her name; she's in a state of shock. We're going to need some of your skill on this one."
Holmes was already moving, with the energy he gained when he was presented with an interesting case. "I'm on my way, Lestrade. By the way, was it Campbell?"
Lestrade chuckled and shook his head. "Confessed everything. How did you know?"
Holmes' smile was wry. "It was just a matter of getting on the right scent. Are you ready Watson?"
And soon, they were out the door.