To my sister, who puts up with my obsession and listens to my tales.

The Case of the Closed Compartment

Chapter 1: A New Client

"I had believed the English criminal had lost his ingenuity completely, but it seems, for good or for ill, that I was mistaken," Sherlock Holmes proclaimed gleefully to the room at large.

I looked up from my breakfast and regarded him as he sat in front of an untouched plate with a pipe in one hand and a telegram in the other. "Why do you say that Holmes?"

For answer, he tossed a telegram across the table. It read simply "am in need of consultation, will call at 11 if convenient."

"A case?" I wondered out loud.

"I have great hope, Watson." Holmes smiled, and rose to knock his pipe out into the fire. It had been nearly a week since Holmes' last case, and the inactivity had begun to wear on him. It was refreshing to see him active and excited rather than moping listlessly about our sitting room.

Eleven O'clock saw the approach of a hansom cab to the door of our residence. A lady in a rather worn bonnet and calico dress disembarked and, much to my surprise blew the driver a kiss in lieu of paying her fare. The cab pulled away and presently there was a ring of the bell and the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. I turned to Holmes, who listened to the approach of our visitor from the bow window and commanded, "enter" when the sound of footfalls paused. Mrs. Hudson opened the door shaking her head. I believe it still shook her to be invited to come in before she had knocked, in spite of the nearly three years that my friend and I had now spent at her residence.

"Miss Rachel Matthews to see you, Mr. Holmes."

"Show her in, Mrs. Hudson." Holmes said, turning from the window to stare at the door. Mrs. Hudson ushered in the lady I had observed from the street. Mrs. Hudson shut the door behind her, leaving Miss Matthews standing rather uncertainly just beyond the threshold.

She was not a rich woman, as her shabby bonnet attested, but neither was she poor, for her dress, while faded, was well-made. She had taken some care with her appearance. Her hair was curled nicely around her face, and her bonnet fastened with an attractive and nigh-on perfect bow. I smiled and gestured towards the armchair by the fireplace, but before I could invite her to sit down, she spoke, regarding me with intelligent and startlingly blue eyes.

"You must be Dr. Watson." She said, moving forward to offer me her hand. I took it briefly.

"I am indeed, and this is my friend and colleague, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

She nodded and turned towards him. "Of course, everyone has heard of the esteemed Mr. Sherlock Holmes nowadays. Especially since the details of that horrible murder were printed in the Strand."

"A Study In Scarlet I believe was the fanciful title you gave it, Watson." Holmes stated with a bit of a chiding tone in his voice, and I bristled involuntarily. "Your father was very kind to drive you here." Holmes remarked casually to the lady.

She smiled, "You perhaps saw the kiss I blew him before he drove off?"

Holmes was obviously impressed at her ability to follow his logic, as was I. I must confess I had not connected Holmes' conclusion to the kiss she had given her cab driver, but rather had been as mystified by his deduction as always.

"Indeed I did. The Cab driver was too old to be beau of yours, and you are not married as your left finger attests. Thus, I surmise he must be your father."

Her face changed instantly from laughing to troubled upon Holmes' mention of the word "beau."

"Ah," Holmes said as he moved to take his customary seat in the basket chair, "Am I correct in assuming your problem concerns a beau."

"My fiancée." She corrected, taking a seat in the chair opposite Holmes, while I settled on the edge of the settee. "You see, Mr. Holmes, he has been accused of murder and it seems he will hang for it."