The inn keeper

“It’s about time you had something to eat.”

We went to the inn. Whatever the meal was that the innkeeper tried to get Holmes to eat on our first visit, he brought both of us this dish.

“Sit with us Max,” Holmes invited.

“How can I help you sirs?”

“On our first day here, you remarked about me living up to my reputation. How do you know me?” Holmes removed the cover from his dish but ate nothing. He moved it around on his plate with a fork.

“Embarrassed really to say Mr. Holmes. But I guess when you look at it there is nothing to be embarrassed about since The Lady helped me and many others in this community with our problem. I received not much of an education. My family was very poor, my uncle left me this inn and it was all I could do to keep it running. My wife has more of an education than I so all the book work was her doing. The Lady taught me, Mrs. Brookstead, the blacksmith, and Mrs. Dover how to read. I could read simple words but nothing elaborate. We learned our words sir from your stories Dr. Watson.”

“Who cooked this delicious meal?” I asked.

“Again sirs, I did simple things. She was fond of saying, ‘if you can read, you can cook.’ So I took the words she taught me and began to try new things; as did my wife. Things took shape from there. I cooked this meal from words she had written on a piece of paper.”

“What about Mrs. Brookstead?” Holmes asked finally.

“She started us out with your stories but over time she let us choose our own stories. Mrs. Brookstead chose the Bible. She could read better than me from the start. Though she admitted, understanding the wording of the Bible was beyond her.”

“Thus comes into play the story of Judas,” I added.

“Have there been any strangers in town?” Holmes asked still stirring his food. Finally, the lady I assumed was Max’s wife brought Holmes a new dish. From this he did take a few mouthfuls.

“Two that I am aware of; one stayed here. The other was just passing through, or so that is what he said.” Holmes looked up from his plate. “The gentleman that stayed here, it was three weeks back or so. Dark man not a black man just dark; never met anyone like him before. His words were forced and his tone thick. I wager he was a foreigner. The other fellow, I speak not with but come of think of it Mrs. Brookstead did.”

“The Lady, your teacher,” I asked. “Did you ever get to know her name?”

“No sir, care not to know.”

“Thank you landlord; you have been too kind.” Holmes nodded.

“One more thing; when you gentleman get ready to leave just bring the key back to me. I will take good care of her things.”

Holmes nodded.

A constable ran into the inn. “Mr. Holmes, come quickly.” We followed the young man to the police station. Inside we found Inspector Hopkins and the police surgeon with pale faces and weak stomachs.

“Sorry to alarm you Mr. Holmes,” said the good inspector. “You had to see this before you leave.” The corpse of Mrs. Brookstead lay on a slab in the middle of the room. The police surgeon pulled back the sheet exposing us to a horrid sight. Every inch of her body that could be covered with dress was written the two phrases from the bedroom wall; Please forgive me and I am sorry. “I am fairly sure it is her own hand.”

Holmes grunted. I believe this meant he agreed with the inspector. At this moment I was sorry that I consumed food earlier.

On our way back to the charming little cottage neither of us spoke a word. Later that evening I found Holmes sitting on the bluff overlooking the channel. “Watson, what if I am wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“Let us deduce for a moment that Mrs. Brookstead betrayed no secret. That this, is the reason for her immense guilt. Max told us that The Lady used your narratives of our adventures to teach them how to read. They were full aware by what means I earn a living. I believe she was unaware of the full gravity of the situation until she delivered the package to Bakers Street to discover that I was a real person.”

“By knocking on the door, it would fortify that knowledge.” I added.

“It was not until Mrs. Hudson called my name that she realized whom I was, panicked and ran away.”

“Poor woman,” I sighed.

“If we add Max’s comment into the equation that two strangers visited town. One a dark person and the second speaking to Mrs. Brookstead, her interaction with the stranger could have been innocent on her part but damaging all the same.”

“So you suspect that in answering a few simple questions out of ignorance, she set the dog upon the right trail?”

“Yes.”

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.”