John Hector McFarlane

Holmes was in the habit of not telling me all of the details that were rolling around in his brain. However, at the end of a case he would always ask me about points that I could not conceive or perceived incorrectly. This I think was so that he would have all of the facts. Though; throughout our friendship, his powers of observation where incorrectly challenged. I tell you this point before I continue not only to refresh your memory but to enlighten you that this case was different. There were times he did encourage my independent, if not less intelligent, thoughts.

I was sitting on the couch reading the Daily Telegraph when Holmes handed over my shoulder the three envelopes from the little cottage.

“Read over them dear Watson, what are your thoughts?”

The first letter that I opened just happened to be the marriage contract. “I must say old man; this hurts my head to read.” I laid that page on the couch next to me. “This is terrible.”

“Hmm,” Holmes grunted as he sat in his armchair. “Good. Next.”

The next letter I opened was the second oldest. It was a copy of a will belonging to that of a Mr. James “Jim” Parker. “This one is a little easier to read.”

“Indeed.”

The third letter, the newest one was a will as well. “Holmes,” I shrieked. “This names you as heir to a house in Sussex Downs.”

Holmes was staring at the floor, “yes it does. That charming little cottage that we visited.”

“I must ask who is Araminta Elizabeth Parker?”

Holmes got up out of the chair and went to the fireplace to retrieve a pipe. He rolled it round on his lips but never lit it.

“The little captivating girl and seductive woman from the portraits,” he spoke as he turned his back toward me.

My heart leapt to my throat. “Holmes,” I cried.

“Do you remember reading in the journal, the drawing about the day ‘we first met’?”

“Yes, of course.”

“That sketch you studied as we left, hanging in the front room.”

“The same.”

Holmes was silent.

A knock at the door interrupted our conversation. Holmes opened the door for a young man that I immediately recognized. I rose from the couch as Holmes reintroduced us.

“Watson, I am sure you remember the young Mr. John Hector McFarlane?”

“Of course I do. Please come in and have a seat.”

As the young Mr. McFarlane sat down, there was another knock at the door. Our next visitor was Inspector Hopkins. As we introduced the men to each other; Inspector Hopkins said, “I was surprised to hear from you so soon Mr. Holmes.”

“As I have stated before Inspector, I think it wise to keep you comprised of all that transpires. Before Watson and I left Sussex Downs we made one final search of the house, which produced three letters.” Holmes handed the Inspector a folder. “Inside you will find copies of these letters for your file. I have asked Young McFarlane here to join us to explain the two oldest letters.”

Mr. McFarlane cleared his throat. “We shall start with the oldest letter, dated 31st, August, eighteen-seventy five. This is a marriage contract between Mr. James “Jim” Parker and Mr. Merryweather, first name not given. As to where; Mr. Parker’s daughter is to marry Mr. Merryweather’s son within a month of the signature date of the document. According to the document, Mr. Parker owns a timber mill in America and several pieces of property here in England; all his assets will be given to his daughter upon the event of his death, a one Miss Araminta Elizabeth Parker. Mr. Merryweather is a bank director and has amassed a considerable sum that will go to his only son, a one Mr. Cooper P. Merryweather upon the event of his death. If for any reason the union should end in divorce, neither party will gain what the other had to offer upon entering the contract except in the event of death.” Young Mr. McFarlane sat up straighter on the couch. “Gentlemen, this was written by Justice Burkenstock. He is by far one of the most brilliant justice’s England has ever produced. And he is still practicing. I think only the grip of death will remove his desire to practice his art. This document alone is worth a goodly sum.

We all just stared at each other waiting for someone else to speak first. Except for Holmes, who sat cross-legged, eyes closed in his chair.

The Snake and The Rabbit

Picture this

We sat there a long time listening to the waves pound at the rocks below. Finally I could bare the strain no longer. I gave the letter I had found in the house to Holmes.

After a moment, he gave it back to me. Said not a word but got up returning to the house.

As I shut the door behind me, he called my name. I found him in the master bedroom. He drew my attention to a painting over the fireplace. It was breath taking. There stood a lady with bright red hair flowing past her shoulders in gentle waves. Her eyes were the colour of an impending storm. Everything about her was alive, alert, and breeding mischief. It was quiet an amazing portrait. After what seemed like hours of studying the painting, Holmes turned to me, “the Lady we seek.”

“Holmes,” I gasped. “She’s breath taking.”

“You are much better in this arena than I.” He brushed past me out of the room.

The next morning Holmes told me, “Watson, since this will be our last night here, we need to search everything.”

“It would be helpful to know what we are looking for.”

“Indeed.” Holmes walked into the kitchen. He was frequently disconnected and indifferent; however, something about this case was causing him to be more morose than ever. Was this indeed the woman he used to love? I was sure it was; however, in this case the last thing I wanted to draw was false conclusions.

I decided to go to the charming little room where I had been sleeping. I had been so exhausted from the trials of the past couple days that I had not yet to stopped to look around; which, was unlike me. The room itself was small but comfortable. The bed was in the center of the room. It was most unusual. Though, it was easy to tell that it was made of wood; though a craftsman such as this would be hard press to come by. The detail work was incredible. On each side of the bed was a night stand. On the night stands were lamps. At the foot of the bed was a fireplace. Above the fireplace were portraits, one of a little girl and one of a little boy. I was captivated by the one of the little girl. Her eyes were alive and alert. Though she could have been no more than a child of five, there were years of knowledge behind her smile. Her red hair flowed down her shoulders like a waterfall of fire. It looked as if it would be hot to the touch. The little boy was solemn and somewhat distracted in his appearance. It was obvious to me that they were painted in the same room but not the same place in the room. For some reason, the little boy looked vaguely familiar to me. It was something in his eyes. Then I became full aware that this little girl was the same girl in the master bedroom, only older.

The more I studied the portrait of the little girl, the more something about it struck me as odd. It looked different somehow from the little boy. Though they were the same in shape, frame, and size, she was different. “Holmes,” I called, “if you are not engaged, I would like your opinion on something.”

Holmes appeared at the door. I noticed the bed was the first thing that drew his attention.

“Handmade?” I questioned.

“Surely the bed was not why you called for me?” Holmes was dry in his question.

“No, indeed. These portraits are troubling. There is something singular about the girl.”    

Holmes studied them for a long moment. As he studied them, I looked them over some more. Then it hit me, I knew why the little boy looked familiar to me, he was standing beside me. “Holmes!” I cried.

“The girl has been moved.” He took the portrait down from its hanging place. And I was unable perhaps unwilling to draw this attention to the little boys portrait again.

Upon closer inspection, there was no name of the artist on the front. However on the back was written, E’mile Jean Horace Vernet, 1860, for my darling Lizzie. Holmes pointed out that the bottom of the matting has been taken loose from the frame. Upon doing so, he found three envelopes: two considerably older than the third.

On last walk through the house, found me in the large front room. Over the impressive fire place there was a drawing in a most handsome frame. Four children were playing by a stream. One child was running toward the group. He seemed older than the others. One little boy was chasing a little girl and the other small boy was laying on his back laughing. It filled me with a sense of playfulness.

“The bliss of youth.”

Holmes was standing behind me. I jumped for I had not heard him enter the room. “Holmes, you devil.”

“My apologies, dear Watson. I meant not to startle you.”

On the train ride back to Bakers Street, Holmes was, I could only deduce, lost in thought. “Holmes?” I asked. I received no response. “I think the little girl and the grown woman in the paintings is The Lady we are trying to find. Lizzie. She was a most captivating child and a most seductive woman. I wonder who the boy was; a brother perhaps?”

Holmes only scoffed at my remarks. Could he be aware that I thought the little boy was he?

The Snake and The Rabbit