The Bloodstones

[Steven Hunley]

The Bloodstones
by
Steven Hunley

I was interviewing Holmes for the Times Sunday supplement. As he was getting ready to tell me a story, another story, almost out of nowhere, appeared right before my eyes. He was busy pulling some black shag from his Persian slipper. My eyes were scanning the room and came upon a small curio in the cabinet under the picture of General Gordon of Khartoum.

“What’s that?” I asked. They proved to be the best two words of my life.

“A heart-shaped bloodstone,” he said, without looking up. “One of a pair.”

It looked perfect, like a hand-carved mineral Valentine.

“Where’s the other?”

“Destroyed, by accident if I’m not mistaken, and I rarely am."

He lit his Meerschaum, I’d given him a Meerschaum for his birthday, and sat down in the chair next to the window, after removing the wax dummy of himself. He opened the window and looked out.

“There’s no need to worry. This is no night for sharp-shooters or crack shots,” he cautioned, “Just look at it.”

It was as wet if not wetter than it had been for the last three days. And this was only October. The sun had gone down and it was late. Street lamps reflected irregular beams of light on the cobblestones. Rain made everything sparkle. The black rain-slicked carriages, dark leather harnesses on the backs of the horses, even the men’s silk top hats glittered as they were leaving the theatres.

“I first saw the stone when Watson showed it to me. Damn Watson anyway, having been in the Afghan Wars he’s much more knowledgeable about the East than I am. I don’t care if people think he’s a bumbler. He’s not. Being a bumbler is just his strategy for dealing with fools.”

“The rags that masquerade in London as newspapers portray him as a side-kick.”

“I agree, and they couldn’t be more wrong. Did you know that it happened, the stone happened, on All Hallows Eve? And the weather was just like this.”

I sat down and grabbed my pencil and notebook. Holmes went on.

“Watson fairly ran through the door that night and his umbrella was dripping all over the carpet. I could hear it making a mess.”

“Get a purchase on yourself Watson, and place it in the elephant’s foot.”

“Do you know what this is, Holmes?”

I was distracted, playing my violin at the time, and didn’t even look up. You know how it is with old friends.

“No Watson, what is it?”

“It’s a clue. That’s what it is, old boy, a clue.”

I put down my fiddle immediately and turned. My God, if the man’s eyes weren’t sparkling.

“A clue to what?”

“A clue to a mystery of course. And perhaps a disappearance.”

Naturally I was intrigued. I put out my palm and he handed it over. It was small, about the size of your thumb. It was a stone, heart-shaped, or I should say, valentine-shaped. Green with red irregular spots, a bloodstone. This stone had been held in someone’s hand and polished over and over. Not with jeweler’s rouge mind you. I examined it under my glass. There were no scratches.

“Inspector Lestrade told me to ask you to have a look at it.”

I gave Lestrade’s name a look of distain. This wouldn’t be the first time Scotland Yard had bungled things.

“This isn’t a clue. It’s only a piece of a clue! It’s environment that counts. Where was it found?”

“On a stone railway bridge at Maidenhead. Next to that was a Webley with one shot fired. The neighbors reported the noise at 2:00 AM.”

“So what’s this got to do with a disappearance? “

“Captain Burrows-Smythe of my old regiment has gone missing. And that was his service revolver. The stone is from Afghanistan. It was one of a pair.”

“How do you know that?”

“They’re always sold in pairs, didn’t you know? Always sold in pairs.”

It didn’t make much sense. A man loses a Webley and a stone heart and the same time in the same place. Highly unlikely. Not much to go on. Few deductions to be made. But when you’ve eliminated the impossible, only the possible remains. The next day Lestrade had news for us and sent a note.

Watson was reading the paper about some young woman in Kensington who was run over. Had no business in the street at that hour. I believe she was in her nightgown. He was thinking of taking the case himself. People never credit the poor man’s abilities. He’s more than just my biographer.

“Here’s your answer about the disappearance old fellow, it’s a note from Lestrade. Scotland Yard has just fished his body from the Thames. One shot in the head.”

Watson was shocked. He looked absolutely unbuttoned.

“Can’t imagine him being a coward and taking that way out. Man was a professional soldier and all that. You should have seen him on the Frontier. Or how we fought shoulder-to-shoulder through the Khyber Pass. That’s where I picked up that Jesail bullet. He won the Indian order of Merit in the process. He was a brave man, be assured of that.”

“London is a big city Watson, and has its own stresses. One shouldn’t discount them. Pray tell me more about him.”

“He was handsome, and had a way with women. It was his manner and the way he moved, with a certain degree of insolence. He was tall and regular-featured. He could talk for hours on any subject. There was an odd side to him though, now that I think of it. He was dabbling in the black arts, and would take his off duty days and wander the native bazars and curio shops. And I believe, from what I know of him, he was a bit of a rake. We bivouacked together on and off for nearly two years.”

Just then there was a knock on the door and grey-haired Mrs. Hudson appeared with the mail.

“Here’s a letter for you Dr. Watson,”

He opened it up. As he read the lines I read his expression. He was astonished, and perplexed, and then so dumb-founded he had to sit down.

“This is the most curious letter I’ve ever read. I can hardly believe that it’s true!

He dropped it right on the floor.

“Have a glass of sherry old man; it will help steady your nerves. Do you mind?”

“No, not at all. Have at it.”

It was addressed to Watson and read as follows:

“Dear John,

You will find this an almost unbelievable tale. It started one day when I was with you at Kandahar. You may not believe what I’m about to tell you, but when they find my body, you’ll have your proof. A terrible thing has happened. I’m responsible for a girl’s death. It was brought about due to my greed and lust. I’m as good as a common murderer.

I was in the native bazar, looking for something unusual. At an antique shop, through a dusty window pane, I noticed the glitter of sunlight on a pair of stones. They sat near the window in a green velvet box. I could see from the outside they weren’t worth too much, they were matched, but they were bloodstones, a semi-precious stone at that. I fancied they make a pair of cufflinks. I could have them mounted cheaply and went in to inquire.

The shop smelled of sandalwood incense. The bell attached to the door rang as soon as I entered. Then a little brown man appeared wearing wire-rimmed glasses. His face was as wrinkled as an old crocodile but his smile was a sweet as Patchouli. Odd fellow, that’s what I thought.

“How much for the stones?” I inquired.

“Three hundred rupees,” he answered.

“Oh, I say, they’re not diamonds you know! They’re only semi-precious stones.”

He was ready to make a fool of me, but I know my stones. He looked me up and down.

“They’re bloodstones Sahib, and this particular pair is worth more than any two diamonds of similar weight” he cackled, “Why, they’re a bargain at three hundred rupees!”

I was getting upset. The man didn’t know who he was dealing with. I’d show the old fool how to bargain!

“So what makes them so special?”

“I’ll tell you but you must keep it a secret. Oh, they are precious, have no fear about that!”

He examined me again.

“You’re a handsome gentleman,” he looked at the gold on my epaulettes, “Captain. I suspect you are a ladies’ man.”

He started walking around me. Sizing me up. It was unnerving I tell you, unnerving.

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me, you impudent fellow!”

“Now don’t have a fit! Steady. Don’t you want to know about the magic?”

“Magic?”

“The magic in the stones. The power they hold is worth a fortune to a man like you.”

At that he closed the door, put a sign in the window and made fast the lock.

“Now, Sahib, if you don't mind," he said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get down to business.”

***

to be continued...

[Hawkman]

Hi Steven. Great start which sucks the reader in. I only have two criticisms, which are more like observations really. When Holmes starts reading the letter, it reads like a letter, but after the third paragraph you start writing a flashback scene. This is an interesting development but it feels positively cinematic. If you were writing a script I'd expect to see the words:

DISOLVE TO - 2: INT. MYSTERIOUS JEWELLER'S SHOP, AFGHANISTAN - DAY

The point I'm making is that it ceases to read like a letter. I'm not sure whether this is a bad thing or not. However, Would the deceased soldier have given such detail and written his tale like an epsisode from a novel? Surely he'd have been much more circumspect and merely outlined a precis of the incident. It might have been better to employ a slightly different device in introducing this scene. If Watson had been present when the stones were bought then a brief allusion to it in the letter would have enabled Watson to describe the event in all its detail.

There is another problem here though. This is a story about Holmes and Watson so it really needs to be a detective story. What actually is the mystery? we start off with a missing man, but he's found dead so we can't assume that the search for him is the subject of the story. The girl may or may not be dead. The soldier thinks she is, but all we know is that she's been knocked over. Again, there is little mystery here. Either she is or she isn't, which wouldn't take much detective work to find out. Is the letter from the dead soldier just going to tell us why he shot himself? Again, little detecting for the slueths. I really enjoy your writing but at this stage I'm a bit dubious about the plot with this one.

Just a thought. Best, Hawk.

PS, One last thing. Watson would never have considered suicide a cowardly act. Within the social more's of the time it would have been considered, "Doing the decent thing" for an honerable chap, who, beleiving he had transgressed beyond the pale, to spare his reputation and family name by blowing his brains out.

[MANICHAEAN]

Witty & incisive Steve.

Good 19th Century London background, although I would have thrown in a "pea-souper" myself, but then it was October!

What's a Scotland Yard detective doing with a French name? Norman lineage perhaps?

Don't forget in later episodes to include a "bounder" or a "cad" and please no explicit scenes of a sensual nature. English gentlemen did not go in for such antics and anyway, it would have frightened the horses.

Best regards
M.

[breathtest]

Steve I love the way you write. I will put in a more in depth comment when I have the time. this piece deserves it

[blank|verse]

This is a very enjoyable re-imagining (or whatever you want to call it) Steven! Can't go wrong with a bit of Sherlock Holmes. The best bits, of course, are the period details and the frightfully English expressions, which I imagine were as much fun to write as they are to read.

Watson was shocked. He looked absolutely unbuttoned.
The narrative within the narrative, and the inclusion of the letter – providing another layer of narrative – is nicely structured. (Although I agree with what Hawk said about how the letter suddenly changes; his other points are also worth listening to, I think.)

In terms of the language and prose, I would remove this line:

It was a blood-stone, shaped like a human heart, or like a Valentine, to be exact.
and let Holmes reveal its identity to the narrator and reader – that's what Holmes does after all! And you might consider tightening the dialogue, make it more clipped by removing the grammatical word 'It's':

“A heart-shaped bloodstone,” he said, without looking up. “One of a pair.”

“Where’s the other?”

“Destroyed. By accident if I’m not mistaken.”
And I thought having Holmes not look up is more characteristic – he knows everything without having to check! There are other moments when Holmes expresses a lack of knowledge or opinions which didn't quite ring true – Holmes deals in the facts!

A couple of things about this next paragraph. Firstly, I would question its position in the narrative as Holmes has just started speaking. Holmes is in charge of things, even – subtextually – in charge of the narrative. I don't think he should be interrupted because it undermines his authority. When Holmes speaks, others listen - including the narrator, and you as the writer!

Secondly, I thought the prose a bit over-done. There are too many adjectives pre-modifying the nouns which makes it slow to read; and look how many successive sentences start with the definite article ('the'):

It was as wet if not wetter than it had been for the last three days. And this was only October. The sun had gone down and it was late. The street lamps reflected irregular beams of light on the cobblestones. The rain made everything sparkle. The black rain-slicked carriages, the dark leather harnesses on the backs of the horses, even the men’s silk top hats were sparkling as they were leaving the theatres.
I presume the point is that everything is 'sparkling' like the bloodstone (and I notice the word crops up again later to describe Watson's eyes) which is a nice touch, using a word from the same lexical field, but a bit heavy-handed. (The mention of the 'theatres' is good as well, as it also carries connotations of glitz and glamour.) But try and be more economical, perhaps like this:

It was a late October evening. The rain had fallen heavily again tonight and the cobblestones sparkled under the street lamps. A horse and carriage clattered past as people were leaving the theatres.
But overall, it's a fine effort, Sir, and jolly good fun.

[Steven Hunley]

He placed one of the stones in my hand.

“Examine it closely, Sahib. Memorize every shape and drop of blood on it. Take your time.”

I looked at one side and then at the other, and memorized each and every spot of blood and its’ shape. At the curves where it met like a woman’s breasts, and at the point on the bottom.

“Now look at this one.”

I did, but it looked exactly the same. I thought he’d switched them, using some sort of sleight of hand, and handed me back the same one.

“It’s the same one again. I can tell. There’s no difference at all.”

“Indeed, there is no difference! Yet, it is the twin. They’re exactly the same and cut from the same larger stone. They share a certain something and more.”

I was getting impatient. I wanted the stones and I’d had enough of this little Wog and his damned tomfoolery and told him so.

“Tomfoolery is it? We’ll just see! Stand over there behind the counter where I can’t see you and you can’t see me.”

“Anything to get this over,” I said, and went behind the counter.

“Now what?”

“Put it on your palm and keep your hand opened flat.”

I did, and as it sat there, I noticed a warm breeze. I could feel it on my palm. I looked for an open window, because I thought he’d the shop locked the shop up tight. And even more distressing was the fact I thought I smelled curry powder, as if someone was cooking.

“I say, you’ve left a window open here somewhere and your neighbors must be cooking.”

He laughed and then positively cackled, “So that’s what you think is it? Step out and see.”

What happened next was hard to explain. He was blowing on his palm, on the twin stone, and when he stopped my perception of curry-filled breezes ceased at once. It was if someone had closed the window.

“Now watch this,” he said next, “close your hand over it and button your eyes as well.”

I followed his instructions to the letter. I noticed the stone getting warm and then warmer and warmer. When I opened my eyes he was rubbing its twin on a rough piece of sack-cloth. It was warm, so mine was warm too!

“You believe in your famous telegraphic apparatus, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“These stones have telepathic powers. They convey energy, both physical and mental.”

“What do you mean by mental?”

“I mean, if you were to give one, to a lover for instance, whatever image you wanted to convey would be seen and felt by her when you concentrated. Any emotion. Any feeling you desire. Like your telegraph, but better! No matter the distance. And it doesn’t charge by the word!”

“Why, that’s extraordinary!”

It set my mind reeling. The possibilities seemed endless. The things I would be able to do! I must admit, when it came to the ladies I was a brute. I peered back at him and he had a look on his face. Smug, that’s what it was. He knew he had made me. He’d taken my measure the moment I stepped in his shop. The man was a tailor of men.

“You’ll have your three hundred rupees by tomorrow,” I barked, and walked out the door straight to my bank.

All that night I couldn’t sleep, you can well imagine. I had to have the stones and would have paid any price to get them. Three hundred seemed a bargain, the old fakir was right.

Just then Watson stopped reading. He loosened his collar and said,

“My mouth is getting dry, could we ask Mrs. Hudson for tea?”

“Why not? We’ll take a break from this and do some deductions.”

He called down for tea. Just then Watson announced,

“You know Holmes, when I think back, I’ve seen this before. It was one of a pair in a green velvet box on his dresser! One disappeared, and the other, for some reason, he’d started to carry around with him.”

“Like a charm or a rabbit’s paw for good luck perhaps?”

“Perhaps, but if it were that, I think he would have had taken it with him on patrol, or during an engagement. The times I remember him opening the box was when he was leaving for a weekend or night off duty. He’d get dressed, splash on some cologne and then take the remaining stone out of the box and place it in his pocket. If it was for luck, then why not for battle?”

“It may be, Watson, that it was for a battle of a different sort. And another thing that’s most peculiar. This letter reads more like a narrative than a death-note. Did the man have literary aspirations that you know of?”

“Quite so, old man! He started off writing dispatches in the Army when General Roberts marched on Kandahar and always kept a journal. Later, when he returned, he wrote a column for a daily newspaper.”

Mrs. Hudson arrived with the tea and complained,

“Why you two gentlemen would want to drink tea so late in the day is beyond me! Don’t you know it will keep you up?”

“Tut tut, Mrs. Hudson,” said Holmes, “that’s exactly what we want it to do.”

“Well, I never!”

“Of course you haven’t, Mrs. Hudson, of course you haven’t,” replied Holmes, and gently ushered the old woman out.

“Now do continue.”

Watson cleared his throat and read on.

to be continued...

[DocHeart]

(Oh goodie, the second part is up!)

I think the friends who have already commented have already said it all -- accomplished (as always) and absolutely a gas to read. I found the whole thing quite playful, actually, as if you are really enjoying writing it. And you would. I mean, it's Holmes. :)

Many thanks for all your contributions.

DH

[Steven Hunley]

Once I got my hands on the stones, you can imagine how I felt. Like a boy on Christmas with a bright shiny wind-up train and ready to play, that was me. But where would I try it out? We were on the frontier. White women were not common. Most were engaged or married to other officers. But there was one, a girl that worked at the East India company bank. I’d asked her out numerous times before. To company picnics, strolls in the park, that sort of thing. She was an ice queen, and always refused. Here was an opportunity to test it. To turn a woman so unwilling around would be proof of the stone’s power.
I took one to a jeweler and had a silver clasp made so it could be fastened to clothing like a broach. Then I went to the bank and said like an innocent babe,

“Here, this is for you. I know you think I’m a bounder. I’m sure I’ve bothered you quite enough. But you’re a lovely woman and I’m about to be discharged back to England, so it wouldn’t hurt if you took it. Accept it as an apology. There’s no interest to accrue, if you get my meaning. My dearest grandmother gave it to me.”

She was a lovely woman. That part of it was true. Even with her spectacles on and her hair in a bun you can see she was pretty. Even with her collar up so high it nearly touched her ears it was readily apparent. Her eyes were soft and doe-like, as was her manner.
“Why thank you,” she answered, turning it over in her hands. “I’ll wear it tomorrow when I go to church. I have a green dress with a red bow it will match. I did think you were a bit of a bounder, but now I see that you’re not.”

That was it. I’d planted the seed.

Sunday I went to the park. It wasn’t a proper English park but it would do. I sat on the commons and waited until about eleven o’clock. Then I took the stone from my pocket and began thinking. That hair, those eyes, what was under that collar. I’ve always like women’s necks you see, especially at the back where their hair curls when it’s up. I concentrated on the path to the park and then the park itself. How cool it was in the shade of the trees and the man selling flavored ices near the benches.
I was concentrating for almost an hour and grew impatient.

“Bloody Wog!” I thought. “I should go right now and get my money back. The whole thing was some kind of a hoax!”
Just then she appeared. She saw me at once and came over.

“Fancy meeting you here,” she cooed. “I was just thinking of you!”

“Really now, I was doing the same thing!”

“Yes, it was so hot when we got out of Sunday service. I remembered the shade here and the trees,” she laughed, “And the man over there selling ices. Why are you here? It is lovely. Do you come here often?"

“I’m trying to brighten myself up,” I answered, “I just found out my grandmother is in ill health.”

“Oh really, how awful!”

“I’ll be going home to attend her soon. I’m her only grandson.”

It was so sad, and I said it so sincere-like that she had to react with those soft brown doe eyes. She looked down and noticed the heart on her dress.

“Then here, give this to her with my blessing. She’ll want to know you still have it, that it’s precious to you.”
She undid the clasp and placed it in my hand.

“I think it’s best this way,” she said softly.

“I agree. It’s the right thing to do. Old Gran has always valued it highly. Want an ice?”

I helped her up and we went to get flavored ices. She never let go of my hand the rest of the afternoon. And she was correct, that soft little bank clerk, the stone was precious to me. It was growing precious and more precious by the day.
Two weeks later I was discharged and took a steamer home. The trip back took…

Here Watson stopped.

“Don’t stop now Watson, carry on!” I cried.

“I can’t, it’s the end!”

“What, he stopped writing?”

“No, the paper, it’s ripped!”

“Then look in the envelope man and find the rest.”

***

Watson re-examined the envelope and found more paper, but it wasn’t the end of the letter, it was a note from the Royal Mail. It read,

“Dear customer,

We are sorry for the inconvenience, but due to an error your letter has been damaged. We were testing out a new-fangled mail sorting machine and it got clogged with correspondences. Your letter was torn in half, I’m afraid. It will take us a day to unassemble the machine and retrieve your letter. You’re not alone however. We calculate that one hundred and two letters are in the same condition including fifty invitations to the Queen Mother’s Royal Ball. Your letter is good company. We sincerely regret the delay.

So very sorry,

Postmaster General, Henry Cecil Raikes

“Let me examine that, Watson,” I barked.

“Look here,” he said. “The post mark is from Kensington, yet the body was found near the railway bridge at Maidenhead. And the bottom of the envelope had been resealed.”

“Probably happened when the machine went wrong, Holmes.”

“Yes, Watson, I’m sure of it. Machines do certain work badly; they’ll be the death of us yet. Leave it to the Royal Mail to deliver your correspondences in pieces.”

I stepped over to the door and took my deerstalker hat off the peg and grabbed my coat.

“Watson, we can’t sit around waiting. I’ll catch the express to Maidenhead and investigate. You go to Kensington for your case. We’ll meet tomorrow and see what our work turns up.”

“Detecting is not all accomplished from one’s study,” agreed Watson, putting on his coat.

“Yes, Watson, that’s correct. The game is afoot!”

After we left, the only sounds left in the study were the clinking of porcelain tea cups as Mrs. Hudson cleaned up the mess, the mantel clock ticking, and the quick sounds of horses hoofs clattering on the cobblestones as two Hansom cabs pulled away in opposite directions.

to be continued...

[Steven Hunley]

By the next evening we had much to discuss, and pouring tea again, as she usually did, Mrs. Hudson remarked,

“Now gentlemen, don’t you agree, this is a more proper time for your tea?”

“You’re correct as usual, Mrs. Hudson,” chorused the two of us like two errant schoolboys.

“Well Watson,” I continued “It was a suicide, of that I have no doubt. He sat on the bridge railing before he fired the shot. There was a thread from his trousers caught on one of rough stones, and Lastrade showed me his service revolver. On the trigger guard was a small piece of the same stone as well. The revolver wasn’t placed there, it was dropped.”

“The only way a soldier takes that way out, is if he’s done something dishonorable,” replied Watson, pouring cream in his cup.
“That’s exactly what he referred to in the letter. It must have prayed on his mind. The murder of an innocent girl. If true, it deserves more investigation. What about your case in Kensington Watson?”

“The young woman was hit by a milk wagon at four in the morning. I saw the body in the morgue. Mangled, horribly mangled. She was wearing a black Japanese silk dressing gown, a Kimono, and under that a white cotton nightgown. The milk man couldn’t have possibly seen her at that hour. He was the only witness, and he’s been exonerated, naturally”.

“But was she a rich girl or a poor girl or what, and what did her jewelry look like, and her shoes? And who’s been by to claim the body? I would think by now, she would have been identified.”

“Her shoes and jewelry were put aside and locked up. No one has identified her yet. As I said, she was horribly mangled. But her face wasn’t touched, and can I tell you one thing for certain Holmes, the young woman was beautiful.”
“Yes?”
“It wasn’t like looking at a death-mask at all. It was like seeing a bust of a Greek goddess at the Louvre. She had marvelous features cut in perfect proportions. Like a singular delicate porcelain figurine with no match.”

I sipped my tea and began to pace back and forth.

“Jewelry is an indicator of taste, position and style, Watson. Go back and see what you can about her things, perhaps I’ll go with you and we’ll take a look together tomorrow It’s best in these cases to strike while the iron is still hot. The trail to her identification may have already grown cold. But I’ll say one thing old man; a poor woman doesn’t wear a silk kimono, and has no business in Kensington, especially at that hour.”

“I agree, and I would appreciate any help you can give me.”

“Think nothing of it old fellow, that’s what consulting detectives are for.”

“Hello, what’s this?”

The doctor was adding sugar to his tea when he noticed a corner of an envelope sticking out from under the tea tray. It was his letter! It was in a new envelope and addressed with a typewriter. It contained another note of apology, and the rest of his letter.

“Well, what’s keeping you?” I cried. “Read on!”

He did, although it was a chore. Many parts were glued together and some were missing entirely.

The steamer home took it’s time. I had no ship-board romances, as most of the voyage I was sea-sick. I’m no good at sea. That’s probably why I joined the army.

London was packed with more white people than I’d seen in years. There were plenty of opportunities to use the stone, but then again, there weren’t. Women, loose women, could be enjoyed for a mere pittance. So enjoy them I did, and found much of my entertainment in the West End, and I not referring to theatres. Drinking, gambling and women. That’s how it was, at least up until I met the most incredible girl. It was a charity ball, and many of my fellow officers were going and suggested I go. Comrades in arms, and all that. I was hesitant at first, but I was swept away by the obligations I’d given, and a man’s only as good as his word.
Besides, I’d always looked good in uniform. It still fit like a glove. It was one of those fund raisers where women of station would dance with a man for a donation. I’d always aspired to marry an upper-crust woman, but the places I frequented I never ran into any, you can understand that.

That night things changed.

The ball room at the Savoy in Westminster was lit with new electric lights and filled with soldiers and sailors. The dancers moved as a body and swung past me in circles as the band played, at one with the hypnotic music. There were dozens of ladies in expensive ball gowns, wearing ropes of lustrous pearls and white gloves, everyone with her hair up, each more alluring than the last. The officers in their red uniforms wore glittering gold braid on their shoulders. Enchanting, that’s the impression it gave me.

I don’t know why but I felt out of place.

Just then a magnificent creature appeared. Fair, but with dark hair, ringed with luxuriant curls. It fell in black cascades over her pale shoulders. She was the sole woman with her hair down. Her cheeks blushed like a budding pink rose, and her lips were coral.
When the music stopped I struck like a viper. I outranked the subaltern that was her partner.

“I’m next on your card,” I said. He gave me a look and noticed my rank, and retreated in good order.

“Which one are you?”

I glanced at her card. There were quite a few names, so I did what I do best, I improvised, and picked one at random.
“Right there,” I said. “Reginald Frobisher, that’s me, at your service.”

I bowed. The band started again. Taking her gloved hand in mine, I placed my other hand around her waist, and before she could say more, we were off.

She danced marvelously. Not too close, not too far. She was light as a proverbial feather. Her green eyes reflected the sparkle of the chandeliers like a hundred glittering stars. We danced faster and faster and she laughed an incomparable laugh. I’ve seen nothing like her before or since. A wild extravagant creature. When they stopped playing we danced out through the tall French doors that led to the veranda. Then we gazed at the moon like two lovers and talked the rest of the night away. I realized that although I was supposed to have a dance card, I didn’t. I hadn’t bothered to pick mine up, and didn’t know her name, and for all I know, she wasn’t even on it. I fumbled in my pocket saying,

“I believe I’ve lost my card! And I don’t really know your name.”

“It’s Val****** Carn*****.”

“I can’t read it Holmes, her name is all a jumble!”

“Let me see, Watson. Yes, it’s been re-glued here and they’ve smeared the ink. The fools! They have no idea what they’re doing! Keep reading though, we may be able to find out who she is from what’s left.”

“All right old man, I’ll continue.”

And he did.

“Mine’s…” I stumbled. “It’s…”

“Reginald Frobisher, isn’t it Captain?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

The music stopped and the ball was over. Time flew by like a comet. The hours had been nothing. She started to leave, but when she hesitated, I took the opportunity to ask,

“Will I see you again?”

“I’m going the Tate Gallery this weekend on Sunday at three, try there.”

I was pleased no end, like a kid watching fireworks explode. Right before she crossed through the French windows she turned one last time and informed me,

“By the by, Captain, Reginald Frobisher was the man you took me away from. Next time guess farther down on the card!”

I was stunned. She was a remarkable woman indeed and just ravishing.

I couldn’t wait to get at her.

[Steven Hunley]

We met at the Tate on Sunday as planned. I’ll never forget that afternoon. When I saw her she was sitting on a bench, looking at Turner’s painting of Parliament lost in the fog. I admit I was dazed at her radiance, and lost myself in the beauteous fog that was her. We held hands and looked at the Constable’s next. The entire afternoon was sort of a dream.

The next weekend was the British Museum and tea. We had several more meetings after that, until her mother put a halt to it. It seems her mother got wind of my reputation. Rake and a cad is what she called me. I would soil the family name is what she said. Her father was out of touch with the family, and spent his days in the library reading books on Egyptology. He could care less. Her mother was the problem.

By then she’d been wearing the stone for weeks.

“My mother told me to give back the stone.”

“Really, is that true?”

“But I won’t. I refuse. I’ll hide it instead. I’ll take it off my dress and wear it on my nightgown right next to my heart.”

That’s another thing I liked about her, she was strong-willed.

“I’ll be visiting my maiden aunt in town soon. I’ll not be locked up in a castle. Perhaps we can meet clandestinely.”

“Of course we can, Darling. We’ll meet on the sly.”

I took note of this last line about the castle. My eyes narrowed and I exclaimed,

“So she lives in a castle does she? Not many do. That narrows the field, Watson.”

“Perhaps it was just her girlish imagination, old man.”

I put my fingers together and considered
.
“Perhaps, but read on.”

One night I’d had enough of waiting. I’d been drinking heavily at the club. The alcohol was fueling my desperate lust. I thought of nothing but her. Her figure, her hair and her eyes in consort, had cast a wicked spell on me. I felt I must have her, and it had to be that very night. I went home and got the stone out of the box. Then I fluffed every pillow in the house. I made up the bed with my finest Egyptian cotton sheets. I lit incense and candles and opened the window. It was late but I didn’t care a whit. Her reputation meant nothing to me in the state I was in. I planned to deflower her right on the spot, and deal with the stained sheets tomorrow. Everything was I, I, and more I.

Then I rubbed, caressed, and fondled that wonderful heart-shaped stone, singing,

“Rub a dub dub. Rub a dub dub.”

This was going to be a night of supreme passions unleashed, and no nursery rhyme, I assure you.

“Rub a dub dub.”

Then all Hell broke loose with a vengeance. Within moments my dream was shattered right before my eyes. The image of what happened haunts me like a specter. I take full responsibility for what occurred and have decided to make amends by doing the honorable thing. It’s the only path left.

Your fellow soldier,

Captain Henry Burrows Smythe

“Well, that’s that,” I said, and handed Watson his coat. “We’re off.”

“Where to?” he asked like a scout without his compass.

“I, to the mortician’s and you to the scene of the accident. I want you to look for possible witnesses. This case of mine is definitely closed. Now it’s time for me to help you work on yours old fellow, remember?”

In an hour I was at the mortician’s. He was a tall fellow and wore wire-rimmed glasses on an irregular face as best he could by bending the frames. A white blood-stained coat completed his look and pinned to that was a bright brass badge with his name.

“Dr. Goodblood, I presume?”

“You presume correctly, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he answered, “I’ve seen your engraving in the papers!”

“Very well, then you’ll show me the effects of the Jane Doe that died in the accident in Kensington. By the way, where’s the body?”

“Oh that, Sir, is already secured in a pauper’s grave in Whitechapel. We couldn’t ‘ave it stinking up the place, now could we?”

He shuffled off and opened a box near the window.

“But as for ‘er stuff,” he continued. “‘ere it is.”

What a bloody mess it was. There lay in the cardboard box a cotton nightgown once white. On the neck was an embroidered label that read “Oriental goods Limited, Bond Street” stitched in silk thread. Under that was a tiny pair of Persian slippers, eggshell colored, and under that a black silk kimono with dragons and poppies making symmetrical patterns. I noted the label on the slippers. Only one gold ring was found on her finger. The kimono, now stiff with clotted blood, defied detection, and was unlabeled. I was turning to leave when Dr. Goodblood laughed and said,

“I don’t suppose they’ll ever find out who she was,” as if it were chanting a fact he chanted a thousand times.

A beam of light, having escaped the blinds, reflected off his shiny brass name badge and directed itself to the kimono like a spotlight, which had previously been hidden in shadow.

I turned back again to give one more look.

“Hello, what’s this?”

I took out my glass.

There, under the folds of the garment, was an unexplained glitter. It looked like a metallic or mineral substance of some sort, made up of microscopic red and green flakes. Under those was a sliver setting mashed flat with a pin. I took a paper from my pocket and folded it into a packet, scooped the powder in, then ran out of the door, as if I was on fire.

“How rude these consulting detectives can be,” said Dr. Goodblood behind me, scratching his head, “Not even a thank you or a fare-thee-well!”

Later that afternoon we two met again at Baker Street and had tea.

Watson looked puzzled and I, for a change, had a satisfied look on my face. After the first cup I asked,

“Well Watson, tell me what you’ve found.”

“It’s the most curious thing yet Holmes, I sure of it.”

“Go on.”

“I couldn’t find any witnesses. But when I was ready to leave a man was putting a sign in the window just overlooking the scene. It announced that the flat was to let. I considered that the former tenants might be possible witnesses and went to inquire.

“That’s just it,” he answered straight out. “My tenant has disappeared.”

I thought I was done for. The last possible witness had taken off.

“Oh, I suppose they couldn’t pay the rent, was that it?”

“By George no, sir, not him. He was well off. An officer just decommissioned. He had plenty of money.”

I had my connections with the army and decided perhaps I could look up his new residence so I asked his name.

“Captain Henry Burrows Smythe,” he said, “Here’s his card.”

‘Holmes, you could have knocked me down with a feather!”

“It makes so much sense! Now all the pieces are in place.”

“What do you mean, “The pieces are in place?”

“Just so. Have another cup, old friend, and allow me to tie the pieces together while we eat a piece of Mrs. Hudson’s marvelous cake. You’ll see our two cases are one.”

Watson could hardly believe it. And when I look back on it, neither could I.

“I traced the shoes to their maker, and going on my description and reputation, they gave a woman’s address. It was a present for her daughter, not for herself. But the address was distinctive. It was Highclere Castle in Berkshire. Lord Carnarvon. The woman was Almina Victoria Maria Alexandra Wombwell Carnarvon, his wife, and the slippers were for their daughter,Valentine Carnarvon.

“The V and C!”

“Yes.”

“Astounding.”

“There’s more facts even more astounding, old man. I noticed a mineral substance on the black silk kimono. It was smashed bloodstone in a flattened silver setting, crushed by the wheels of the milk wagon.”

“But what was she doing in that part of town at that hour?”

“Simplicity itself, Watson. She was visiting her maiden aunt who lived only two blocks away. Here’s what I deduced happened. Your captain took a flat in the city. He was an admitted rake and wanted the stone to work its power on her. The other was still in her possession. When she awoke early in the morning just before dawn it was close to her heart, pinned near her breast on the black silk kimono which she used as a dressing gown. He was just two blocks away working the magic. As he rubbed it and stroked it, the fire in her veins began coursing through her body as relentlessly as the passion he had in store for her. Its force was undeniable. She put on her slippers and ran out the door.”

At this point Watson stopped stirring his tea. He was focused immediately on the scene.

“Although there was a full moon that night, the clouds were ominous and black. The moon, as bright as it was, failed to penetrate their deadly shadows. She saw his study alight through the open window, and dashed across the street. She wouldn’t have been seen by the milk wagon, and it was too late to stop its crushing wheels. He must have heard her scream from the window and looked out.

By the time he ran down the stairs she was dead, a victim of his ardent desires. He wrote the note to you, posted it in the mail on his way to his home where he kept his revolver. Then he walked to the bridge and took the only acceptable way out.”

Watson’s spoon dropped. He sat back.

“I don’t believe in black magic, Holmes.”

“Neither do I, Watson, as a rule. Yet I believe that’s how it happened. When you’ve eliminated the impossible, only the possible remains.”

“It’s incredible.”

“Let it be a lesson to us both, old man. Great power in the hands of the wrong man is often abused, with catastrophic results.”

Watson had given up on his tea, and the cup was cold as he stared vacantly at the bust of the bard sitting on the bookcase. It was so much larger than life. Then he muttered,

“And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

I replied solemnly, “Hamlet, Act one, scene five.”

With that he ended his story. I stopped writing and put my pencil back in my pocket.

I knew out of respect to his Lord and Ladyship the Times would never print it.

And they never did.

[desertratsrule]

I'm liking it so far see if you can hook me in more...

[desertratsrule]

I'm liking the beginning of this story...

[desertratsrule]

I'm liking the beginning of this story...

When you’ve eliminated the impossible, only the possible remains
.
.
.thank you for a delightful story