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.”

The Snake and The Rabbit

Run! Jack run.

Again there was silence from Jack.

“If you keep silent,” said the innkeeper, “I will talk. These fine gentlemen would like the real story, not my version.”

“All right,” Jack whimpered. “See, trouble I have for a long time. Mum was good bout gettin’ me out. Last time, I needed money or they’s gonna kill me. I not know where it came but mum gave me what I needed.”

“How much was that?” Inspector Hopkins asked.

“Nigh on L3,000.”

“That is a lot of money.”

“Have we been chasing the dragon?” I asked.

Jack rolled his eyes.

“That explains why the furniture is lacking in this house. She sold it all to support your habit.” I scolded.  

Holmes turned and looked at Jack. I had never seen his eyes so full of hatred and loathing. “Run,” he hissed.

Jack left the room in such a hurry that he knocked the chair over on his way out.

Holmes and I went back to the little cottage. I felt as if I should never get that smell out of my nose. Holmes was mournfully quiet. I knew he was in deep thought so I did not trouble him with all the questions rolling around in my brain. After several hours, I found Holmes sitting on the same block that Mrs. Brookstead has used to stand on to hang herself.

“Holmes, are you alright?”

There was a long pause from my friend. “I shall never be alright again.” He drew a deep breath. “This case Watson; this case. It grows darker instead of clearer.”

“Would you allow me to give you a sleeping draft? You need rest.”

“How can I sleep?” He put his face in his hand.

“What good will you be if you do not?”

Inspector Hopkins came in so we withdrew to the study; it took some time for the draft to work. In the meantime, we toyed with those questions he had asked Jack Brookstead.

“Why did Mrs. Brookstead hang herself here?” Asked Inspector Hopkins.

“This is the home of the person she had wronged.” Holmes answered then took a long draw from his pipe.

“But why not hang herself in that mess she left in her on home?”

“Penance,” I offered. “Perhaps she felt that her house would be searched first with her son being a criminal and all.

“Who is The Lady that lives here?”

Holmes offer no answer.

“The landlord refers to her as The Lady. Nothing more.” I spoke.

“Son Jack gets into trouble,” Holmes spoke through a cloud of smoke. “Mother, Mrs. Brookstead sells her secret knowledge of The Lady to someone for at least L3,000 to get Jack out of trouble. Mother realizes she has done The Lady a horrible injustice; one that might cost her her life. Something must have been delivered to Mrs. Brookstead to confirm her suspicions.”

“Or to push her over the edge of guilt,” I offered.

“Mr. Holmes, what did Mrs. Brookstead deliver to you?” Inspector Hopkins asked.

I looked at Holmes. It seemed to me that the sleeping draft was starting to take effect. The pipe slid out of his hand, his head fell forward, and finally his body slouched over in the chair. I rushed to his side and with the aid of the good inspector, we put him to bed.

The Snake and The Rabbit