Do you know Jack?

Max grabbed him by the shoulders, “Jack did you do this? Is this some kind of sick joke?”

Holmes focused our attentions back to the task at hand. He tore back the covers from the bed. In the middle was a spot of blood.

“I think you will find when you examine the body, there will be a wound on the left elbow.” Holmes turned to our young visitor. “And who might you be?”

“I’d ask you the same bloody question?” He struggled against the innkeeper.

“I am Sherlock Holmes; this is my friend and colleague Doctor Watson. I believe you know the innkeeper and this is Inspector Hopkins of Scotland Yard.”

“I be Jack Brookstead.”

“I am very sorry to have to inform you of this, in this situation Mr. Brookstead; however, your mother has committed suicide.” Holmes reported dryly. “I have lots of questions to ask you Mr. Brookstead. You can answer them here, or I can encourage Inspector Hopkins to give you a more suitable venue in which to talk.”  

Max released his captive but placed himself in the doorway preventing any sudden escape. Jack looked wild eyed back and forth between the three of us.

“What be your questions?”

There was a chair beside the bed. Holmes moved it over for Jack to sit in. He sat down with curious caution.

“Jack?” Holmes questioned with the tone of his voice. “Your mother apparently hung herself. Why do you think she would have done that?”

“Sure I know not.” Jack turned his nose to the ceiling.

“We can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way. I had much rather do it the easy way.” Holmes walked over to the window with this hands clasped behind his back. Jack said not a word. “It is apparent that your mother hung herself in the backyard of a neighbor’s house. Adhered to her chest was a note written in red.” Holmes took the piece of paper from his pocket and held it up to the wall. “As you can see Jack, they were written by the same person. Judas, Jack, why is Judas important? The phrases in this room are pleading. She is begging someone to forgive her of something. What did she do Jack? What was so unforgivable? Who did she betray? What has happened to the person that she betrayed? Why did she feel compelled to betray in the first place? What are you hiding Jack?” With each question Holmes asked his voice became more elevated. Which was not his style at all. With the last word Jack, he hissed it out. “Would you like for me to read you the story of Judas, Jack? The night stand will no doubt produce a copy of the Bible.”

The House

As it turned out, Luther Maxwell was the name of the innkeeper. But everyone just called him Max. From what we could gather, The Lady first started calling him Max and it stuck to him. Max had not done anything to keep up the appearance of Mrs. Brookstead’s house. Indeed, the grass was up to our knees as we walked along the broken path to the house.

“I must enquire,” Holmes turned at the door toward our guide, “why have you not taken as good of care with this home as you did the other?”

“Mrs. Brookstead has a son, able bodied, criminal but able bodied none the less. Why can he not look after things? The Lady, to my knowledge has no one.”

Holmes grunted slightly.

Upon opening the door, a foul odor came to our noses. The inspector held a handkerchief to his nose, Holmes his glove covered hand. Our bright eyed constable friend from last night, threw up in the bushes beside the porch.

“What is that smell?” The innkeeper gagged.

“Death,” came Holmes’ very calm reply.

The house had almost no furniture at all. The sitting room had a desk and a chair. The kitchen had a table and a chair. A small bed room had a single bed. There were no pictures on the walls. No books anywhere to be found. The last door Holmes opened was as grotesque a thing as I had ever wished to see. We found the source of the foul odor. From floor to ceiling, the walls were covered with two phrases. In many places they were overlapping each other: one was, please forgive me and the other was I am sorry. Over and over at least a hundred times each of the phrases appeared.

“A woman’s hand writing,” Holmes pointed out.

“A woman lived here,” the innkeeper reminded us.

“Even so,” Holmes remarked as he busied himself studying the writing.

“Do I even suggest that this was written in blood?” Inspector Hopkins reminded me sharply that he was in the room.

“It is,” Holmes answered, “blood from the same person.”

“But how?” I asked. “There is no blood on the floor. How could someone do all this without spilling a drop on the floor?”

“Because, each drop was precious. Each drop has a purpose.” Holmes took out his glass to look more closely at this horror. Inspector Hopkins was busy writing notes. Our investigation was interrupted by a cry.

Behind us, we found a man, in his thirties, screaming wildly at the sight before him.