Sussex Downs

“To-marrow Watson, if you are inclined, I wish you to accompany me.”

“Of course,” I smiled. “Where are we traveling?”

“Where ever a train may take us.” Holmes sat in his arm chair lighting his pipe. He never said another word the rest of the day.

The next morning before dawn, we traveled from London Bridge Station to Sussex Downs. The little inn we found in Eastbourne was a cheery one. The landlord took our mid-day meal orders. Holmes in typical fashion rejected food. I however was starving. I did not have to wait long. The landlord, a smart looking fellow with a flowing white apron around his waist, brought lunch for two. Holmes waved it away.

“I will tell you sir that a greater person than you has instructed me if we should ever meet; I am too feed you, even if I have to cram it down your throat with my bare hands.”

It struck me as odd but only for a moment that this fellow should know us. But after all, I have been chronicling Holmes’ adventures for a while now. I took a moment to take stock of his hands; they were of great enormity.  

Holmes eyes twinkled with a mischievous spark. “Indeed,” he lifted the lid on the dish in front of him. He turned ghostly pale. I had never seen a dish fixed like this one. I could ascertain not even what it was. Holmes slammed the lid down recovering the food. Several patrons turned to stare at us.    

“Looks like we are going to have to do this the hard way,” the landlord sat down at the table with us. “Sir,” Holmes was staring at his covered dish, “seems to me that you have poor eating habits. And my Lady knowing this, thought it would be a good idea for you to live a decade longer.”

Holmes sat quietly. I never knew what was going on in that great brain of his. “Seems to me that you have been well schooled,” he finally spoke. Holmes’ voice was flat, lifeless. No inflection what so ever resonated from him.

“By the best sir,” our landlord said with great confidence. “Sir; I pray that your powers in which I have read about are as great as they claim to be; because you must find her. She has been gone far too long. I fear that something bad has happened to her.”

Holmes movements were as someone who was heavy with drink. “Her?”

“She has been gone for a little over a month. Now, another lady in the village is missing, as I count it a fortnight. Things are getting too thick ‘round here if you ask me.” He thought for a moment. “She has a little cottage down the way; I’m to take you there?”

Holmes glanced at me. “We would be delighted.” I answered.

The landlord spoke to a lady that I presumed was his wife then we proceeded to follow him toward the edge of the village. It was a good three quarters an hour walk. At the end of a little lane was a cozy little villa. Flowers of ever shape and size were growing along the walk and around the cottage. To my surprise this was the back of the villa, the front I was to learn commanded a great view of the Channel.

“I have been making sure the lawn is taken care of in her absents. It is the least I can do.” He had a key and let us in the door.

We entered a hall way which led to a door directly on the other side of the cottage. First we went to our left, the door was open and it led into a study. Two of the walls were lined with books. There were two arm chairs, a small end table in the room accompanied by three lamps and perhaps the classyist fireplace I had ever beheld. Holmes never said a word. As I looked around the study, I found several pieces of literature written by him: his pamphlet on finger marks; his monograph on ciphers. And there were all the stories I had written about my remarkable friend. “Holmes this is remarkable, this person was following your career.” He flew from the room. I thought I would keep wondering through the house. It seemed almost too personal to be in the room where I found myself. I opened a mirror that was protruding from the wall. Behind it I found a letter address to me. It read as follows: ‘My dear Watson, I hoped that you would find yourself in this room. What better place for a doctor than the room where a lady keeps all of her home remedies? I have read all of your narratives about Sherlock and I pray doctor that you will take care of him. There are dark days ahead for both of us. Especially for him. Though my life is in danger, his task is harder still. He must rediscover his heart. I admit that I am the monster that turned a human heart to stone; the slayer of female compassion. That does make me a monster does it not? Watson, I know there is so much he has failed to tell you. I know him. He needs you now more than ever. From your narratives, I can tell you love him as good as any friend can. Please guard him safely.’

I wondered to the front of the house; this note weighing heavily on my mind and in my pocket. The main room fully encompassed the length of the house with large windows facing the channel. There was a piano in the left corner of the room; a small writing desk was by one of the windows. Holmes sat down at it. I walked over to the piano, on it was a piece of sheet music. To my surprise and amazement it was written by Holmes. “Holmes,” I said in astonishment, “I know not that you wrote a piece of music.”

At that moment, a scream broke the silence. The scream came from the landlord. What greeted us was a sorry sight. A woman was hanging from the swing in the garden at the side of the house. “Holmes,” I said in shock, “this is the very woman that visited us in London.” Pinned to her chest was a piece of paper that read Judas written in red. “Judas?” I asked.

The landlord spoke, “Judas betrayed Jesus for 30 pieces of silver in the Bible. This lady is Martha Brookstead. She and The Lady were friends. Good friends I thought.”

“Landlord,” Holmes spoke. “Will you be so kind as to go get a constable and send a telegram for me?”

“Of course.”

Holmes jotted down his telegram and the landlord left.

“What do you make of it Watson?” He asked when the landlord had left.

“Suicide?”