A/N: Right. Yes. Wild camping by a cliff side is highly likely illegal. And I wrote about it. That would be because this is a story, not a travel guide. No holiday recommendations are being made. Same as when the stories include murders. Not recommending anyone emulate those either. Thanks. -csf


3.

'I didn't archive the conversation with the old man and the dog,' I protest to John's insistence that I should be able to remember what we talked about. 'It's not a case, it's not important!'

John looks at me funny.

'So you can't remember what you two talked about at all?'

I just shrug. Not important.

He drove the van to the town's patchwork of narrow streets and quickly we decided it would be best to park it and just walk about. This proved a good idea when John decided it was imperative to meander through the bustling little town's market.

Usually I don't like to explore places like this. Too many people, too many deductions, never enough pickpocketers to satisfy me. But being with John is easy company as he keeps up the banter, takes up unexplained interest in gaudy crafts from the stalls and carries within him that wholesomeness of the seaside cliff with a whiff of adventure to boot.

'Not another used books stall, John!'

'But it's for a charity!' he protests, as I pull him away. 'Sherlock, wait.'

It's not the content, but the tone of voice, that speaks volumes to me. I stop at once, knowing that voice, knowing something is up, even if John never says so.

'What did you find?'

'An old book.'

You don't say so? I bite my tongue; a less than loquacious John is a shift to his baseline. The book he holds in his hands is over a hundred anf fifty years old. In fact, I'd avoid holding it for prolonged periods of time. If I'm not wrong – and I'm hardly ever wrong – that green cover is dyed with high levels of Paris Green, aka arsenic.

'John, you may want to wash your hands—'

'Because of the arsenic, I know,' he states calmly; he's a doctor after all. 'From 1864, it seems.'

'And why is it important?'

He keeps browsing the pages, scanning the content with an ability perfected in medical school. Hence why John is brilliant at those wordsearches books.

Annoyed by his silence, I grab the book off his hands by force. He doesn't even put up a fight. I just hold it high up, higher than he can reach, and his face turns contemptuous and pouty in an adorable manner. It doesn't last long, as his eyes widen innocently, I follow his gaze, and we are then both staring at a yellowed piece of letter paper, sticking out from the back.

'That's a fiver, mate,' the shopkeeper interrupts.

Quickly, so not to have to hand back or pay extra for the yellowed letter tucked within, I pay for the old book. Just to make John happy, of course. And clearly not because the yellowed letter seems to reveal a bit of a child's metaphorical treasure map at the back. Only it's traced very carefully and not in a children's handwriting at all...

'By the way, where did these books come from? How do I know they aren't stolen goods?'

He shrugs, as if the notion of selling stolen goods was not contentious to him.

'That one, mister, came from the old pub and inn by the old square. I paid fair and square for the lot. Felt sorry for the old owner, I did. Place is about to shut, not enough custom. And they make good grub there too, not like these franchise pubs nowadays.'

'Any other old books in the lot here?' I ask, uninterested in the economic downturn.

'Nah, mate, sold them all already to a guy who works in antiques in town.'

John places a hand over my forearm, a sharp warning to back down. I ignore him.

'He didn't have this one?'

'Nah, said something about the colour. Guess he only wanted the newer ones. Why you so interested anyway?'

John sensed this man's changing mood, and I pushed it too far, so I evade a real answer: 'I like old books, and John here is boring, I think I'll go through more than one book before the weekend getaway is done.'

He sniggers, John shoots me metaphorical daggers with his eyes, and I turn to leave, happily carrying my poisonous book with me.

.

The Black Cat is an old English pub and inn that retains some charms which modern pub iterations can't quite get right. Mismatched carpets, heavy curtains, scarred wooden tables, brass ornaments and a big variety of dusty glassware on display, no short of twelve beer and cider pumps. It's dated and tired, like older pubs usually are. The corner telly is on, droning some cricket in the background, and I tactically force John to seat with his back towards it, lest he stops paying attention to me.

As John orders at the counter, I spread sea rolled bits of glass, porcelain and ironmongery over the table top. My scavenge hunt this morning was fruitful.

John returns gingerly, not without a curious look at the objects I quickly collect back into my pocket.

'It's a cypher,' he points out the obvious, as soon as I flatten the old letter over the greasy table, replacing the old bits of sea debris with the proper mystery.

'Yes, a cypher, we've established that already,' I retort, absent-mindedly.

One to four, four in three,

at eleven comes to ye

'What does it mean?' he whispers. I repress a stubborn smile, seeing his engagement, his innocent wonder and childlike happiness. John needs mysteries and adventure as much as I do. I just made my professional career out of my need, while he kept searching in all the wrong places. Being a doctor he seeks the diagnosis as I seek the solution to the case, the one explanation that fits. As a soldier he thrived on the danger, the thrill, and where he tried to finish wars I catch criminals. John has sublimated his needs in societally accepted ways; I built my own path instead. And here we are, two very different people who are really not dissimilar at heart.

John whispers, as if enchanted by the words in faded black ink, oblivious to my analysis of him, of us; '"Comes to you"; a threat, a promise, a resolution?'

I flatten the envelope, where I find little answers. The address is the pub's own, not even the street name has changed. The letter is addressed to Mr Oxferd, likely an alias, going by the misspelling of Oxford as "Oxferd". There is no lack of clues; much in the contrary, there are too many. Numerous hands have tainted this envelope, the paper is crude, low quality for the time, but sturdy. A coal stain on the back. A stamp – 4 penny Queen Victoria, dull vermillion, cancelled. Letter delivered, read. Why keep it, if the secret within was acted upon? Sentiment? Or an unfinished quest?

'One to four is three to go. Four in three implies fractions or decimals, unless we think of it as adding four where there is already three, that's seven. Three and seven is ten, not eleven. Doesn't seem to be about maths.'

John sits back, patiently. Waiting for my moment of glory. He's forgetting my brain is faulty. It glitches now.

I shrug, feeling defeated, and refusing to further explore my failings.

He softly pushes the envelope my way again. Not giving up on me.

'Why keep the envelope, Sherlock, if the message was the key?'

Interesting point. I take up the proffered envelope and study it.

One to four. The stamp. A 4p stamp. Four in three. Four messages where one would read three. At eleven comes to ye. Eleven? Nice number. Lots of meanings. Eleventh hour. Elevenses prayers. Prime number. More than ten, less than twelve. Bastardised into roman numerals – two. Factor in the timeline and this is brilliant!

'Queen Victoria II's first opening of Parliament after her husband's death. The 10th February 1866. Ten and two... It really was a missed opportunity for another attack on her life. Eleven was a clever way of disguising the target: Queen Victoria II. And what comes to us all? Death. Who was the real Edward Oxford? A pot-washing teenager who tried to shoot Queen Victoria as she strolled through Hyde Park in her open carriage in 1840. He was trialled, declared insane and locked up in Bethlem Royal Hospital. His surname on this letter isn't an attempt to find him, it's code for his infamous act that others would try to follow, seeking the same fame and glory. Oxford's would be the first of altogether seven attempts of assassination on Queen Victoria. John, this letter is a call to arms for rebellion and an attack on the monarch's life. It would fail, as we know, Victoria lived much longer. What is really interesting is that this attempt on her life was hidden away from public scrutiny.'

I look at John. He is completely mesmerised by this case. 'Then how can we prove it took place?'

I dry swallow. 'That I'm not making this up? That I still can be the detective you knew me to be?'

His face falls. 'I didn't say that.' Even his ears are turning red now. I know a truth when I see it.

'Mycroft will know, he secretly admires Victoria, and even keeps some of her memorabilia. Do we break our digital detox and call him?' I ask, fishing my phone from my pocket.

'No.' He stops me, his hand over mine and the phone. 'I trust you. It's good enough for me, for now at least. We can ask Mycroft on Monday morning. Meanwhile, I believe in you.'

'Your faith is unsupported.'

He shrugs. 'Maybe I just really like killer books, ever thought of that?'

.

John insists I have a full meal at the pub. There are no real cases on, and none for the foreseeable future so I agree. That seems to cheer him up.

The pub owner makes some inane chirpy chat with John, quickly confirming the bright green cover book came from the inn's attic during renovations, where it was found next to a pair of pistols, now on display behind the till. He couldn't tell if the pistols had ever been used, but now he is captivated by John's storytelling ways, and he hands one to John, who expertly disassembles it and I quickly handle it to determine it has indeed been used – several oxidised striations inside the barrel. But no proven link can be found to Queen Victoria, which makes this most unsatisfactory.

The pub owner takes the letter from us nonetheless, insisting he will frame it and tell of the regicide conspiracy to all his patrons from now on. That should boost up business a bit. What is an old pub without a ghost, a myth, a claim?

As for the arsenic laden book, I'm keeping it for research purposes. John wouldn't have us losing it.

.

TBC