The lady in the garden
“Looks that way. We shall touch nothing until Inspector Hopkins arrives.”
We went back inside and waited for the inspector. It was eight o’clock when the good inspector arrived with a local constable.
“I’m sorry sir, I understand not,” the constable followed Inspector Hopkins heels as he entered the study where Holmes and I were sitting.
“It is nothing personal constable,” Holmes read his questioning remark. “Inspector Hopkins and I are working a case together and this incident holds bearing.”
“And you are?” The bright eyed constable asked.
I stood at once, “this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I am Doctor Watson.”
“Ah yes, there have been stories about you.” The constable answered. “Well, then I guess you won’t be needing me?”
“Quite to the contrary constable; you assisting us will be invaluable.” Holmes smiled. “Follow me.” Holmes led both men to the side of the cottage. With as much light as we could find; the two representatives of the legitimate police force investigated this gruesome sight.
“Looks like suicide to me.” Our constable friend remarked.
Holmes stood on a square box that was no more than two inches from where the body hung. He was at eye level with her. “I agree.”
“If this is suicide Mr. Holmes, then why did you call for me?” Inspector Hopkins asked.
“I am sure you recall referring a man to me because you are not in a position to assist him?” Holmes stared at the inspector.
“Of course sir.”
“This woman, Mrs. Martha Brookstead, according to the local landlord, delivered a package to me that I believe has direct bearing on your missing person.”
“She is what brought you to Sussex Downs?”
“No good inspector, if I may borrow a phrase from you, ‘a feeling did’.” Holmes gave a half smile. “I feel it is important to keep you aware of everything that unfolds in this case; including the self-inflected death of Mrs. Brookstead here. It is a most dark and sinister business.”
“At first light we need to cut the ole girl down.”
“I would agree.”
Inspector Hopkins let the good constable go home. Holmes and I stayed at the cottage. I found a nice little guest room. It was quite pleasant with a warm and inviting atmosphere. I had no trouble falling fast asleep. I woke to find Sherlock Holmes still in the garden. It was obvious even to me that he had spent all night there. He was walking around the circle that was the garden; his chin buried to his breast, arms clasped behind his back, and surely lost somewhere other than the yard. In one corner of the porch lay his perfectly placed shoes and a large pile of spent cigarettes. Wait, barefoot. Holmes was bare foot. “Morning,” I finally summoned the courage to speak.
“Watson,” he broke neither his stride nor his concentration, “this case is going to be the death of me.”
“Nonsense, the Reichenback Falls was unable to take you, neither shall this.”
“Two totally different cases, different threads, and different reasons.” Holmes waved his hand about in the air as to dismiss me.
But I was confused. “Ole man, why are you walking around on this damp earth with bare feet? Heaven! Where are your socks?”
He stopped for a moment, took a deep breath, and produced a pair of black socks from his pockets. He looked down at his feet, wiggling his toes, “it is refreshing.”
Soon the good inspector had returned with two constables. They cut Mrs. Brookstead down and took her to the local morgue. Not before Holmes had taken the paper that was pinned to her chest.
“Where did this unfortunate lady live?” Asked the inspector.
“Ah,” called one of the constables, “she lived behind the inn. Max has a key.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow, “then let us visit Max.” He retrieved his shoes and we were on our way.
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