The note
Sleep didn’t come easy to me that night. I kept seeing the writing in my head: I am sorry, please forgive me, and Judas. When morning came, I found Holmes’ mood had not improved. We walked together back to Mrs. Brookstead’s house.
“What do you intend to find?” I asked.
To which Holmes did not reply.
“Sleep eluded me last night. I found a Bible in the study and read the story of Judas’ betrayal again. Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss. He signaled to the priests that the person whom he kissed was the person they sought. When Judas realized that he had made a mistake, he tried to give the money back to the priests; however, they refused to accept it. That is when he hung himself.”
Holmes stopped at the front door of the house, “that is indeed helpful Watson. Good job.”
I was very proud of my nights work. Holmes rarely gave complements of the sort. I was happy to receive them when he did.
“Holmes, you had a good night sleep last night; how about a good meal?”
He only grunted.
We started our search for the unknown in the front room. I can only imagine that it was a sitting room at one time. Now only a writing table and one chair were held within its dingy walls. It revealed nothing to the master criminologist. The next room to be searched was the kitchen. Again, a table and one chair. The cupboards were empty save one each a plate, bowl, spoon, fork, knife, pot, pan, and the oddness of a baby spoon used for a toddler. I could only surmise that it was an heirloom. The next room had a single small bed in what must have been the guest room. Then on to the room where there was writing on the walls. There was the chair, still lying overturned in the floor. The bed with its covers turned down exposing the pool of blood in the center, and a night stand. Holmes opened the draw of the stand and retrieved a Bible. He shook it violently and out fell a small blue envelope. He gave it to me.
The note inside read: “Martha, in my house, in the study, on the second self of the first wall of books you will find a plain brown package please deliver it to 221B Baker Street, London to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He is a tall thin man, always expertly dressed; you will know him when you see him. You must not give this package to anyone else. You must deliver it into his hands. Here is some money to cover the cost of your trip. If ever you loved me, do this for me.” I flipped the letter over. “But the letter inside the package lead us to believe that Martha, Mrs. Brookstead”, I corrected my error, “knew what she was delivering.” I questioned.
“Pretty impressive move if you ask me.”
“What would lead you to believe that?” I asked.
“Our Lady thought she could trust Mrs. Brookstead. So she told her a secret or two. And it seems that the friendship lasted for several years without incident. Until young Jack needed more money than she could produce on her own. The life of her son outweighed the life of her friend. What better way to let someone know that they did wrong than to have them deliver the message of their guilt.”
“But what if she knew nothing about who you are?” I remarked. “You are just another person to her, not the famous detective that I know you to be.”
“What was the catalyst that started this?” Holmes wrinkled his brow.
“Will the answer to that not solve the mystery?”
“I fear not.”
We went back to the cottage. Holmes spent the day in the back yard perched on the block. I took a nap for my sleepless night had caught up with me.
In the late afternoon Holmes woke me, “Watson, I starve.”
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