Sherlock Holmes And The Paradise Horror

by GWBear

In 1920, Dr. John Watson breaks his long silence on the darkest, most difficult case - actually a series of related cases which Holmes pursued for many months - that Sherlock Holmes ever worked on. Holmes believes it's his greatest failure, but Watson thinks very differently. He believes the cases showed Holmes at his very best.

4. Chapter 3: A Woman Of Worth

Chapter 3: "A Woman of Worth"

Tuesday, 19th. February 1895.

Tuesday the 19th of February began with miserable weather. It had snowed overnight with just enough snow to make the ground slippery, before the snow changed to a cold, raw drizzle carried on a most unpleasant northerly breeze. Holmes and I were eating kippers, eggs, toast, and coffee, both taking our time, and both thankful that neither of us had pressing appointments to send us out in such miserable circumstances. Usually, on such days, breakfast was more leisurely, with the papers suddenly much more absorbing. We often started by splitting the papers: Holmes usually started on the Times while I worked my way through The Gazette. Thus, we were proceeding that day when I read a small article on page 4 which sent a small shiver of foreboding down my spine.

"Holmes, there's been another young woman found dead on the tracks."

Home stopped reading and looked up sharply from the Times. "What do you have Watson?"

"A Miss Clara Higby, age 23, was found dead on the tracks one half mile South of Paddington station early late last evening. She was a shop girl at that brand new candy shop, Bonds of London. It is unknown if she was murdered, jumped, fell, or otherwise. There were no witnesses. Scotland Yard is investigating."

Holmes gave me a sour look. "This won't do, Watson, simply will not do! That makes eight young women in just over three or three and a half months. Even the most credulous fool has got to at least consider that something is amiss. I don't know how, but in some way, there has got to be a link in at least some of these deaths. This is not a coincidence. It simply cannot be."

He paused a moment and leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed, and a slight frown on his face. After about thirty seconds, he opened his eyes and said, "Watson, I am going to go see Lestrade and Sergeant Thomas about this. I am assuming the poor woman's body is in the morgue at Scotland Yard. I am going immediately after breakfast. Let me see what can be learned. If only it hadn't rained this morning! What damnable luck! But there is no help for it now. I am assuming you are at Barts later this morning?"

"Yes, I have late morning rounds, then consultations throughout the afternoon and early evening. Do you need me at the Yard?"

"As always, your health and insight would be invaluable. If you were free, I would like to have your input at the postmortem. I suspect it will be Doctor Morton doing the procedure, so at least we can be assured he will be thorough."

"Indeed. Morton is top notch. If he does anything extra, ask him to test for every possible poison and drug he knows. He may want to pull some extra blood for later analysis, in case he or you can think of anything else in the days ahead."

"Good advice my friend. I will also have him be extra diligent for needle and puncture marks, or signs of assault. I will examine her as well."

"I know you are exacting beyond anything almost anyone else would do but remember she's likely to be badly broken and crushed. You well know that it's not going to be pretty, or for the squeamish, even for the well hardened. Take care, Holmes."

"Your care is appreciated as always. I will send a telegram if something unexpected emerges."

Without any further delay, Holmes gulped the last of his coffee, put on his heaviest coat and hat, and went downstairs to call a taxi. It wasn't long before I followed him out the door. After receiving news like that, it seemed decisive action, any action, was preferable. As the day progressed, I could not help but wonder what Dr. Morton and Holmes were able to discover.

To my surprise, I did get a notification from Holmes around 6:00 PM. It was a couriered message directly from Scotland yard, delivered by a very young constable who insisted he needed to deliver the note to me directly it read:

'Watson, if possible, please be back at Baker Street by 8:00 PM. We have a meeting with a new client. Sergeant Thomas will also be there. Your participation will be most appreciated. Holmes.'

It was not too difficult to get off a little early, as I had started my shift earlier than scheduled. It was ten minutes to the hour when I eventually climbed the seventeen steps to our sitting room. I was surprised to see Holmes and Sergeant Thomas already present and tucking into a hot savory lamb stew and cold roast beef sandwiches, kindly provided by Mrs. Hudson. Holmes greeted me warmly, "Welcome Watson. So good of you to get here on time. Please help yourself to some food. Our client will be arriving shortly."

I gave a hearty handshake to Sergeant Maxwell Thomas. He was a tall, broad shouldered, athletic looking man with light sandy hair, bright blue eyes, and an alert gaze that clearly missed little. He also had a warm engaging smile. "Welcome Sergeant. We meet again. It's been a few weeks at least."

"A little over a month, Dr. Watson, and please just call me Max. All my friends do."

"Just John please, Max. I take it our client tonight is related to the tragic circumstances of Miss Higby. A relative of hers perhaps?"

"Yes and no, Watson," said Holmes. "Our guest is Mr. William Sullivan, the former fiancée of the late Miss Miranda Wright. Thomas and I were already wondering if there is a connection between the death of Miss. Wright and the unfortunate Miss Higby." However, our client is here independently because of the poor unfortunate Miss Higby.

I started in surprise. "How unexpected! How did this come about?"

"It is a bit of a story, and it is mostly Sergeant Thomas's doing. It has been a long and eventful day. I would fill you in, but perhaps it's best if we wait for Mr. Sullivan. I believe I hear a cab pulling up outside. That should be him. If you would take notes as usual Watson?"

I went to my desk and pulled out my well-worn notebook, and the drafting pencil I had recently taken to using for case notes. Below we could hear Mrs. Hudson greeting our client and her usual cordial ministrations to all late-night visitors on such a cold night. Two pairs of feet were heard on the steps, followed by her knock on the door, and her introduction of 'Mr. William Sullivan.' With a quick glance at the room, and the state of the supper she had provided, she announced that she would be back up shortly with more sandwiches, a large pot of tea and some apple tarts. She turned and left the four of us to settle ourselves in, as she knew well that Holmes and I were well used to taking things in hand.

William Sullivan was a young, thin, conservatively dressed, nervous man, no older than his mid-twenties. He wore wire rimmed glasses on his angular yet handsome face. His wavy brown hair was already starting to get thin on top. He looked every inch the up-and-coming clerk in a mid-sized firm. However, his business-like appearance was marred by the haunted, care worn look on his face, which spoke of intense grief and sleeplessness. His moderately priced suit clearly had once fit him well, but now hung on him loosely, showing indications that his recent grief and insomnia was accompanied by weight loss. He bore all the signs of a man struggling to stay afloat in a life that had suddenly turned dark and stormy. I had nowhere near Holmes' powers of observation and deduction, but my trained medical eye immediately picked up on numerous signs of stress, exhaustion, and encroaching illness, due to self-neglect. Mr. Sullivan stood looking at the three of us, clearly uncertain as to how to begin. Sergeant Thomas quickly took control, even before Holmes or I could step in, as he had already met Mr. Sullivan several times, and had established a sympathetic relationship with him. He stepped forward, warmly greeting him, shook his hand, and then turned to make introductions.

"Mr. Sullivan, may I present Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the world-famous consulting detective, right hand to the inspectors of Scotland Yard, and responsible for a moderate number of the singular successes the yard is credited with. He is a constant source of support, and a presence to us all. He has also recently become my instructor and mentor in his methods. I assure you the stories you have heard about him are not exaggerations or fabrications. He's everything you have heard of him."

"Please Sergeant," interrupted Holmes, obviously uncomfortable with such fulsome praise. "I just use well considered observations and deductions, backed with science, logic, and years of experience. What I do is well within the capacity of other men, if only they learn to observe, deduce, and methodically test all conclusions with an objective, rational mind. I'm afraid that much of what you have heard is likely from the stories written by my friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson. I take objection to some of his storytelling, but not to his trusted help, discretion, and advice. You can trust him as much as any man in England."

My momentary annoyance at Holmes' disparaging remarks regarding my writing were mollified by the obvious sincerity and warmth of his tone and introduction. I shook Mr. Sullivan's hand, and then offered him what I believed to be a much-needed brandy. "It is a cold night. You clearly have need of some restoration and some nourishment. Please sit and recover yourself before we get started. I perceive you need to take a while to recover yourself and your strength. I hear Mrs. Hudson our wonderful landlady on the stairs. She makes a fine hearty sandwich, and a strong pot of tea."

Our client initially demurred, but I pressed a thick beef sandwich with mustard and a cup of tea on him. Ordinarily Holmes would bridle at such social niceties, especially when he was eager to hear a client's story. However, several exchanged glances between us, and even with the Sergeant, showed we could all see the reduced state of Mr. Sullivan's physical and mental readiness for the interview ahead. Immediate fortification was needed if we were going to make any significant progress. The three of us took sandwiches and tea - even Holmes, who had already had both the stew and a sandwich before I arrived. We ate and drank while Sergeant Thomas briefly regaled our client with a few stories about the earliest cases Holmes had helped him with - some of which were new to me. At last, the food was done and each of us sat with a glass of brandy. Mr. Sullivan did not look any less tired, but at least he had lost some of his sickly pallor and looked a little stronger.

"To save a bit of time, I will start by explaining how and why Mr. Sullivan came to be here tonight," said Thomas. "As you both know, Mr. Sullivan and I have spoken numerous times in the past regarding the tragic death of his fiancée, Miranda Wright, in early December. He has always believed that there was something far beyond the official findings of the coroner's investigation. While the trial verdict of the panel was 'misadventure' - or more accurately 'accidental fall for reasons unknown,' he remains entirely unconvinced, certain that there must be another cause however obscure. Miss Wright was a happy, optimistic woman, with a bright future and much to live for. Even though some witnesses spoke of changes in her demeanor in the days immediately before her death, nothing was happening in her life to precipitate suicidal, reckless, or careless action."

"As you all know, I have been investigating multiple similar deaths of other young women, deaths involving accidents on the rails in the Greater London area, in recent months. All these deaths share certain features of interest with the tragic circumstances of Miss Wright. When Mr. Sullivan read of the death of Miss Higby last evening, so similar to the previous deaths, he immediately contacted me at the Yard and requested a renewed focus on Miss Wright's death, and all the other deaths as well, even though there is little to officially pursue regarding any of the previous incidents - and little enough to indicate foul play in the death of Miss Higby. I see no way forward except through any help and insight you can provide, Mr. Holmes. Therefore, I proposed that Mr. Sullivan meet with you directly, and he immediately agreed."

Sergeant Thomas paused, took a sip of his brandy, and leaned back, clearly finished with his explanation. Throughout the sergeant's narrative, Holmes sat up straight leaning slightly forward. Only I knew him well enough to understand that every sense and mental faculty was on highest alert. His eyes never left Mr. Sullivan. I could tell that he was already making countless observations - likely seeing far more than Thomas, or me. For a moment there was silence, then Holmes spoke in a way that for him was gentle, calming, even paternal.

"Mr. Sullivan, first let me offer you my deepest and most heartfelt condolences on your tragic loss, and the trials you have been undergoing. Grief, uncertainty, and the sense that you can and must do more if you only knew what to do, are terrible. While we are only meeting for the first time today, I assure you, your circumstances are of the highest interest to me. I have already been working on these cases for some days - yours and all the others. I cannot guarantee different answers, or any degree of certainty, but you should know I have already determined that all of this, these cases merit further investigation."

"For me to proceed further, I need to know everything you can tell me about Miss Wright's life before her death, especially her last few days. Please be clear, calm, and concise. Omit nothing, no matter how trivial or inconsequential it may seem to you. Even your oddest conjectures - I want them all. Let me worry about sorting out the critical from the irrelevant and the trivial. We are starting almost two and a half months after the events of December. It is a deficit to be approaching already obscure events so many weeks after they occurred, but we are where we are. Please proceed at your own pace and in your own way."

Mr. Sullivan sat up straight and visibly steeled himself for a long recital. "Before beginning, Mr. Holmes, do you see any similarities in the deaths of the other poor women, or Miss Higby, relating to Miranda's death?"

Holmes raised his hand briefly to stop Mr. Sullivan from asking additional questions. "I would prefer to leave Miss Higby, and all the others entirely out of the present discussion for now. Concentrate only on your own story, and your own understanding of events. This meeting is for you and Miss Wright alone."

Our client paused and took a large fortifying gulp of his brandy finishing the glass. He sighed and sat up straighter, continuing to pull himself together for an uncomfortable but necessary ordeal. I quietly reached for the decanter, and poured a generous measure into his glass, as I was certain he was going to need it.

"I grew up in Telford, a town south of Manchester, and to the northwest of Birmingham. My father was a Presbyterian minister and had hopes that I too would eventually feel a calling to ministry, but it just never happened. I was a good, even somewhat exceptional student, but found myself drawn more to economics, business, accounting, and far more worldly concerns than my father. We did not have much money, but he was able to send me to a good school and some additional business and accounting training thereafter. I began my career as a bank clerk at Manchester & Salford in Manchester. After two years at the bank, I hired on as a clerk and general assistant at Roscoe's Wool, a firm engaged in buying wool from farms across the Midlands and creating heavy weather fabric for both domestic and international export. They sold wool in over ten foreign markets. I enjoyed the work, and found I had a head for the details and bureaucratic maneuverings which were required to excel in foreign trading and exporting. I have a gift for foreign languages: My French, German, Italian, and Dutch are quite good, which made me an attractive asset. I met Robert Blandings, my current boss, who was a partner at Portland and Blandings Exports, at a hotel while in London on business. He was impressed by my knowledge of the practical elements of exporting, as well as my language skills. He offered me a role as a senior shipping clerk at his firm, with considerably higher salary and prospects for quick advancement, so I accepted. I soon found myself just another one of many new transplants to our great metropolis. I consider myself to be ambitious and something of a go getter, so a move to London, and a chance to work in the heart of where so much happens, was irresistible. It's been a little over two years, and it has been every bit the opportunity I hoped it would be. Unfortunately, moving to London did come with the disadvantage of being a new unfamiliar face in the crowd. I left most of my friends and family behind in the Midlands and have had to start all over again. I get along well with my colleagues at the firm, and through them I began to expand my circle of acquaintances. I joined a reading circle, an informal group of lads who play rugby, and a small musical choral group where I play the violin. Even though I am far more worldly than my father, I still have a strong religious affinity, so I attend services at a local Presbyterian Church. It was there at a social event that I met Miranda. She was six years younger than me and came from a poor working family. She didn't have nearly as much education, but I was struck by her intelligence, her optimism, her creativity, artistic flair, and her driving need to make something special of her life. I guess one ambitious up-and-comer recognizes another. It didn't hurt that I found her to be one of the prettiest, charming, and most winning girls I ever met. To make a long story short, she captured my heart and soul."

He paused for a moment somewhat overcome. He then took a breath and collected himself. "I have a picture of her; I brought it with me." He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a notebook sized leather case. He opened it up revealing two pictures side by side. One was a studio portrait of a delightful looking young woman, with bright eyes, long light curling hair, and a beautiful smile. The other photograph was of the two of them sitting closely together holding hands on a sofa, looking every bit the loving, joyful couple. Mr. Sullivan silently passed the case to Sergeant Thomas who looked at it thoughtfully before passing it to Holmes. Holmes gazed at it intensely for some moments, then passed it to me. My heart sank at the appearance of both photographs. Miss Miranda Wright had truly been a lovely woman. It was ghastly to consider her life had been so suddenly and violently cut short, leaving grief and misery behind.

"I asked my Miranda to marry me on the second of September, last year, and was over the moon when she accepted my proposal. My Miri was always a saver and planner. She had scrimped for so long, with a goal of ultimately opening her own shop, or buying into an existing shop. She could have done it too, as she had the skills and the creativity by then. We talked about it so often, all our plans. Whatever business or accounting skills she lacked we knew I could make up."

He paused, his face etched with loss and pain. "So many plans. So much optimism. Family plans, future plans, all our business plans... So full of love, warmth, and life." He leaned forward, his voice shaking with emotion. "And now she's gone, gone without anyone to notice or care, as if she was nothing. Without even her reputation. A lunatic, and a deranged suicide! She had her whole life to live for. She had hope and love. I loved her so much she wasn't a nothing. She was a woman of worth!" He stopped, overcome with a paroxysm of grief.

"What can you tell us about her last few days?" Holmes asked gently.

Mr. Sullivan then gave a huff of exasperation and shook his head. "I really can't tell you much of anything. I had not seen her for a few days, as I was working very long hours getting files and paperwork ready for two new client accounts in Germany. This work was on top of our regular business. The firm grew like a weed last year, it's growing still. We have new accounts and opportunities coming in from all over, especially Germany and Italy. The two partners have always run a tight ship. They aren't miserly by any means. They pay well, treat us well, and stay on top of everything. It's just that growth has recently outpaced staffing, so any shortfalls or losses of staff, are always keenly felt. One of our best, Robert Kelly, was injured in a hansom accident in the East End last November. It laid him up for almost five weeks, so we were short. Everyone chips in; everyone helps. The team is like that, and we're glad to do it. Unfortunately, only I really was up to speed on his accounts as well as my own. It was all hands-on deck back then. Miranda also had a lot of extra work at the shop. With the holiday season approaching, the period from October onwards is always an extremely busy time. It's holiday wear, and Christmas present time, so you can imagine the activity. Miri was very busy because the shop was very busy. As the most senior assistant in the shop, second only to Mrs. Gerland herself, Miri had the most responsibility, both in the design and creation of new hats, but also in day-to-day shop management activities, and occasionally supervision of the more junior members of the staff. In the fall of 1893, Mrs. Gerland promoted Miri to a more senior role, one that gave her some commissions on sales, completed designs, and executions. As I said Miri was ambitious and hoped to have a shop of her own or a share in a partnership. She took advantage of every opportunity to earn that commissions money - a pressure she felt more keenly now that she was engaged, and we were making plans to build a life together."

"In the two months before her death, Miri was so happy, but I also know she was working harder than she had ever before - and she was a hard worker. Yes, she was feeling some strain, some pressure, and I believe she was having a bit of trouble sleeping. Was she sad or in despair Mr. Holmes? No, but she was feeling the strain. However, it was nothing she couldn't handle. Just remember, she alone put this extra work upon herself. She was not being pressured by Mrs. Gerland in any way. Their relationship was always warm and respectful, even affectionate. Mrs. Gerland adored Miri and considered her the best assistant she ever had. Miri, in turn, looked up to her boss, and saw her almost as a second mother. That's another reason why I know Miri did not kill herself. She had far too much respect for Mrs. Gerland, too much investment in the reputation of the shop, and far too much invested in our relationship to ever do something so drastic and damaging to those she cared about."

"So, what happened on the day she died?" Asked Holmes." Please give as much detail as you can."

Mr. Sullivan leaned forward again and looked at Holmes intensely. "I do not know much in detail. I don't think anyone does. She was found at 7:15 AM on Tuesday, December 4th, outside on the cobblestones at a warehouse, near Oakland Court, which stores furniture, and household goods. The warehouse is owned by Mr. Daniel Wendel. The building is unusual as it is taller than other warehouses and firms nearby, and it features stairs on the outside of the building, with separate access areas to each of the five floors from the outside. I suppose it makes loading and access to any one area of the building quite easy. There are also four hoists on the roof to help lift and lower heavy loads. It was clear that Miri had fallen off the highest balcony, as her reticule was found on the balcony above, next to the spot from where she fell."

He swallowed hard and looked down at his shoes. Then with his hands tightly grasped knuckles white, he continued. "I know you will ask, but I have no idea what she was doing there. She didn't live nearby, had no friends or acquaintances that I know of in the area, and the warehouse was almost four miles as the crow flies from Rosalynn Gerland's shop. The only other unusual feature of the area is that there was a railway siding running right by the warehouse with a larger concentration of trucks just beyond, running parallel. The siding is used for deliveries to the side of the warehouse, and two other large concentrations of warehouses on the east, on each side with Wendel's warehouse in the middle."

Holmes spoke up. "Tell me Sir, are the surrounding warehouses similar in style and function to Mr. Wendel's establishment?"

"No Mr. Holmes. Those warehouses are far more traditional structures - two floors all of them, although quite spread out. They are all surrounded by gates and are not readily accessible. Oddly enough there is no fence or gate surrounding Wendel's building but there are a pair of night guards."

"Ah, that is possibly of importance," said Holmes. "Do the night guards patrol the outside of the building?"

"I investigated this myself," said Thomas. "The constable who was called to the scene also asked this question. Apparently, outside patrols are not normally done, especially so soon before the warehouse opens for daily business, which is usually half seven in the morning. It was the assistant supervisor who found her, as he arrived for his morning shift."

"Miri was scheduled to work that morning, promptly at 8:00 AM," said Sullivan. "Mrs. Gerland had no idea what happened. She only found out the reason for Miri's absence late that afternoon, just after 4:00 PM, when constable Jarvis from the Yard came by the shop asking questions. I was told just before noon..." Here, his voice trails off and he stared at the floor, trying to contain his emotions.

"What was found on Miss Wright's person, and in her reticule?" asked Holmes, "Anything noteworthy?"

Sergeant Thomas answered, after pulling out a leather notebook from his jacket pocket. "An inventory of her possessions turned up five shillings and six, a comb, small mirror, the key to her boarding house, two keys for the shop - a front door key and one for the back storage room, a small notebook with a pencil, a small silver pocket watch, two letters from Mr. Sullivan, and a pocket Bradshaw's of the London railway. In her reticule there was also a small pharmacy envelope containing three pills, round medium sized and off white in color. They were an odd color almost leaning to a very light blue. The only thing on the envelope was, '2xdEs.'"

"Ah," said Holmes, "Some real information at last! Did you have the pills analyzed identified or traced?"

"The senior Scotland Yard chemist analyzed the pills and could not determine what they were. They tested as a pharmaceutical binder, glucose, glycerin and a rather odd assortment of organic compounds, but no poisons. The chemist determined they possibly were some kind of health pill. It was Andrew Mercer who tested them."

"Mercer is a good man. First rate," said Holmes.

"Indeed, he is, Holmes," said the Sargeant. "He's probably the best the Yard has got. If he had any doubts at the time, he probably would have called you."

"Most unusual," said Holmes. "Did a search in Miri's rooms turn up anything?"

"Both Lestrade and I searched her rooms, Mr. Holmes," said the Sergeant. "We found nothing odd or out of the ordinary. Certainly, no suicide note. We later asked Mr. Sullivan to check her rooms and possessions in case there was something we missed. He found nothing and nothing new and nothing missing from her rooms or noticeably stolen. I believe no letters or additional communications arrived for you in the following days, correct, Mr. Sullivan?"

"Yes, that is correct," Sullivan said. By now his voice was cracking under the strain of telling his story and recounting details. I wasn't sure more brandy would help, but he had certainly earned it. I poured him another generous measure, after receiving an approving glance from my friend.

"Did any investigation or questioning turn up the name of a doctor, physician, of any kind, or perhaps the dispensing chemist?" I asked.

"Indeed Watson," said Holmes, "That's a major gap in this narrative."

"I tried finding out," said Sullivan. The coroner's investigator did as well. Francis Mitchell was the coroner, and he led the investigation."

"Make note of that Watson," said Holmes. "Perhaps we can get a copy of that report? Mitchell is not a medial genius, but he's not a fool either."

It was becoming clear to all of us that Mr. Sullivan was spent, and he could not offer much more. We got the address of Miss Wright's boarding house, the address of the railway, the millenary shop, and Mrs. Gerland. We also received the names of all the shop assistants, addresses for the Wright family, and the names of several other friends and acquaintances of the deceased victim.

"I thank you for your time and effort tonight, Mr. Sullivan," said Holmes. "I can't promise results or even any additional clarity, Sir, but I can tell you that you have friends here - three of them. If there are answers to this mystery, I assure you we will do our best to find them. You are not alone, Sir, in your time of trial. Like you, I believe, Miss Wright was indeed a 'woman of worth.' I will do what I can. We all will."

Both Sergeant Thomas and I warmly echoed Holmes' support and commitment to Mr. Sullivan. He smiled weakly, stood and shook each of us by the hand. "Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, you have both been so very kind. I can't thank you enough for your care and concern. You too, Sergeant. You have done more than anyone else at Scotland Yard for me. Mr. Holmes, Doctor, I would be extremely rude if I did not ask about your fees. I have money, Sir, sadly the money I was saving for a life with Miranda. I can pay."

Holmes shook his head. "It is not the time to talk of such things, Mr. Sullivan. I do not even know yet if I can provide much value. Certainly, my investigations in the last week or so regarding Miss Wright's death and the other deaths have yielded little. Let me investigate further first; we can discuss fees another time.

I echoed Holmes' sentiment but then thought of a question Holmes had not asked. "Sir, if I may ask, you mentioned that your Miranda was a saver and that she was diligently setting money aside. Do you know how much money she had, if she had any valuables, and if she had a will?"

Holmes nodded his approval. "Good questions, Doctor."

Our client also nodded and said, "I apologize I probably should have mentioned it earlier. Miranda had saved £303.8 shillings, which she held at City Bank. Mrs. Gerland does her banking there and she helped Mary open an account there several years ago. She even gave her £2.00 to start her account off right. She is a good woman is Rosalynn Gerland and was more than fine to Miranda. Mrs. Gerland took Miri's death hard, very hard. She had to scramble to find extra hands capable of the work since the season was moving fast. She really doesn't know what to think, and truthfully hasn't had the time to consider much - or even grieve - for Miri. Miri was a woman Mrs. Gerland had come to see as her own. As for a will, Miri had one, very simple. It left all her property and goods - such as they were - to me. She had filed it only five weeks before her death. I tell you Doctor, I don't want her money! I want her. I want us back as we used to be before all of this!" He was overcome for a moment. We all stood silently, even Holmes, while Mr. Sullivan recovered himself.

"Well gentlemen, it's gotten late, and I know each of you has already had a long day. Sergeant, you had best be getting along home," stated Holmes.

"I had best be going," said Mr. Sullivan. "Thank you. Thank you all for everything." He shook Holmes' and Thomas' hands again and turned to leave. I escorted him down the stairs, helped him with his coat, shook his hand, and watched as he stepped outside to hail a cab. When I came back upstairs, Holmes had set aside the brandy glasses, and the remains of the supper dishes, and beginning to light his oldest Church Warden.

"Sergeant, we still have a lot to discuss. Watson still knows nothing about Miss Higby. I would like to send you home for now. Tomorrow is likely to be another long day. I will come by the yard early tomorrow to talk strategy; perhaps no later than 9:00 AM. Watson, I know you have regular rounds at Barts but if there is anyway the good Sergeant and I can impose on your time tomorrow instead, your insight and advice will be most welcome."

"I will send a wire off to Dr. Wimberley, the department supervisor, first thing in the morning, Holmes. I am happy to be of service anyway I can."

"Thank you, Doctor, I think I think we will need all eyes on this for a bit," said Thomas. "In fact, I am sure I can have inspector Lestrade send a message around to Barts tomorrow, letting them know your services are needed in an investigation of some importance, if that will help."

"It does help, Sergeant," I said. "My services, both rounds and consultation, at Bart's pays the bills but it also makes me more accountable for my time than I used to be when I had a private practice of my own."

"Gentlemen I think we have a starting point for tomorrow," Holmes observed. "Sergeant as you make your way home to your bed, I will give Watson the particulars of today's events and what we have so far regarding Miss Higby."

With that clarified the sergeant bid us a good night and left. Holmes went to the sideboard and poured us both a Scotch. "Light a last pipe with me, Watson, and I shall endeavor to give you a concise synopsis of my day's activities, before you retire." We pulled ourselves up to the fire while Holmes got himself comfortable in his old mouse colored dressing gown. "It's an ugly, sad business, Watson," said Holmes, stretching his legs out close to the fire. "I was not being modest when I told our beleaguered client that I might not be able to help him. Indeed, there are few clues regarding the death of Miss Higby, and nothing to appropriately tie her to Miss Wright, or any of the other unfortunate railway victims. You know well that I do not believe in coincidences, but I also don't believe in creating facts or links to support beliefs and theories. Any investigation must follow the data. Even any evolving theories must fit the facts rather than assumptions and beliefs. We have little, Doctor, only the basic facts, and the sketchiest of suppositions to go on."

"Overall, while I have had other cases in the last ten days, I have not been idle on behalf of the good sergeant. Regarding the past deaths, I have dug up all the reports, interviewed all the constables and inspectors, and questioned numerous railway officials, administrators, engineers, brakemen, and conductors. Succinctly, I have made myself a somewhat unwelcome sight in certain rail offices, freight yards, and switching depots. Railway administrators are a pompous officious lot, who don't think much of anyone not affiliated with railway work. They don't have time for even the seniors of Scotland Yard, let alone a private consulting detective. Lestrade, Gregson, and Thomas, all helped secure me access to many who otherwise would have been less than accommodating. I confess that your stories about my cases helped me on more than one occasion, as apparently The Strand is popular in the railway set, as are your stories in particular. You know how I loathe the fame seekers and the shiny-eyed, but I have signed more private copies of The Strand in the last week than I have in years."

"But I digress. It is enough for you to know I have not been idle. Unfortunately, I have not been successful. If I had made progress of any sort, I would have told you, or at least let you know I was not entirely drilling dry wells. My powers of water divination have been lacking - but I also must consider that my wells are dry because there is no water to be found. Miss Higby is no different from the rest, but at least I am starting from the beginning on a recent death, which is more than can be said for any of the other seven cases we know of. You know, Watson, it is even possible there are other linked cases involved here. We don't know when this all started after all, not really, or if any of the other many lives suddenly ended in this metropolis are related. There are other railway deaths and other suicides by other means. Not all are women, and not all are young. There's so much left unknown, without even the slightest clue. The more I consider this, the deeper the waters get."

I interrupted, "If anyone can find the impossible needle in a field of haystacks, it's you, Holmes!"

"Good old Watson! What would I do without the stalwart belief of my faithful Boswell? I'm afraid there's no glory or brilliant deductions to write about here. I doubt miss Higby is going to be any different. She is in fact like the other victims we know. Higby was young, 23 years old, single, poor, a girl from a family with a history of service and shop work. Her mother is a cook for a tea and coffee merchant. Her father is a clerk for Caswell's, a fruit wholesaler. Miss Higby got her shop assistant position through her mother's employer. She got her current position at Bonds by impressing a frequent visitor at the tea shop. Bonds is a new establishment, just opened, but is already a bit of a sensation. You would think that the last thing London needs is another shop selling sweets, humbugs, toffees, and chocolates but you would be wrong. Their business is growing quickly, and prospects are good. Miss Clara Higby had indeed found herself an enviable, popular place to work. By all accounts, so far, she was doing well, and nobody wished her ill. There's more to investigate there, but that's the lay of the land so far."

Holmes continued, "It's noteworthy that the area she was found in, south of Paddington, is near where the other deaths and known suicides have occurred. The tracks have a unique feature of being both remote and yet easily accessible by an adventurous pedestrian. She was found just after 9:10 PM by an engineer heading towards Paddington on the right side of the incoming track. She got off work at 8:00 PM so clearly something significant happened to get her across the city, on to the line, and struck by the train. It's already certain that a train strike was the cause of death. She was left more than simply struck, poor girl. The damage was extensive. So far, the most the management and her fellow employees could tell is that she was bright, engaging, good with the customers - exceedingly so - and that she was especially talented at 'selling up.' That is, persuading customers to buy somewhat more than they had originally intended. Regarding the day of her death, all anyone can tell us is that she seemed a bit rushed and distracted towards the end of the day, as if she had somewhere important to be. There was speculation among the other employees that Clara Higby had herself a new beau, but nobody knew for certain, and she had not confided in anyone. She was a peculiar mix of outgoing, friendly, and engaging, yet still very private. When pushed, nobody could tell the constables, inspectors, or me much of anything precise about her. A gossip, or teller of secrets, she most certainly was not."

"Where did she live, Holmes? Did a search of her residence yield any information? How were they able to identify her so quickly and determine she was a Bonds employee?"

"Good questions, all, Watson. She had a company card in her coat pocket. Inspector Radisson was able to track down the assistant manager who came down to the morgue at the Yard to make an identification. The man went into fits when he saw her. Radisson tried to prepare the man for an unpleasant sight, but still it was too much. The man fainted dead away on the spot and had to be carried out and revived. In fairness, she's a ghastly sight even for the hardened and experienced men on the force. You will see yourself tomorrow if you would be so kind as to provide your professional opinion. I want to know if your trained eyes can find any signs of previous foul play, including puncture marks, or any other odd signs indicating poisons, or any other interference."

"Afterwards, I would like to go back to where she was found. The ground in the immediate area near the tracks has, as usual, been churned up by the wild buffalo that make up the London Constabulary, but perhaps additional information can be unearthed by looking further afield. Fortunately, it has not rained, and the track is remote enough that foot traffic or any access should be rare enough. You know my methods my friend. There is a lot of ground to cover, and I will need your sharp eyes!"

"I am only too happy to help anyway I can, Holmes."

"You always help, my friend, even if I fail to show proper appreciation." said Holmes. "Well, we have a long day tomorrow and I would like to get an early start before the weather turns foul. I have a bit of thinking to do, so I believe I will smoke another pipe while you get some much-needed sleep. Until tomorrow morning, Watson."

I bid Holmes good night and went up to my room for some sleep knowing the coming morning would be only the start of a very challenging day.

Author's Note: "Bonds of London" is an actual confectionary. They are one of the largest candy makers in the UK. They really did open in 1895, so that part is historically accurate. I was unable to find the day of the year they first opened, so I took a few liberties with dates.