She ran up the wooden staircase, her hand brushing along the ornate handrail, her long skirt sweeping against the red-carpet flooring
She ran up the wooden staircase, her hand brushing along the ornate handrail, her long skirt sweeping against the red-carpet flooring. She came to the white door, the mahogany handle shining as she reached out and grasped it. She pulled it open in a sudden movement. The lady was sitting, seemingly asleep, in the cushioned chair by the blazing fire. The girl walked over to her. Then she realised the fact that would change her life. Lady Victoria Peterson was dead. She was dead, and it was all her fault. WATSON’S NARRATIVEA young man opened the door to us. I saw his hands were pale and shaking, shadows under his eyes as though he had been deprived of many hours sleep and a fearful look on his face as though he was scared of Sherlock Holmes in his deerstalker hat and the characteristic pipe poking out of his pocket. “Mr Holmes,” he greeted us, “and Dr Watson, I presume? Very good to meet you, very honoured indeed. I’ve heard so many great tales about you. But my, how inconsiderate of me! Please, do come in and sit by the fire. The maid will be along shortly with the tea.”We were led along to a room of medium size on the ground floor of the house. It was furnished exquisitely, yet simply. The large, slightly torn armchair that sat in the corner seemed out of place somehow with the rest of the room, the neat, smaller armchairs and the mahogany table that stood in the middle of the room. “Sit down, please sit down,” the man told us. I sat in one of the smaller armchairs, while Holmes went to sit in the largest one, the one that seemed out of place, which was much the same impression I had of Holmes. Neatly dressed in his sharp suit yet somewhat a little too eccentric for this room, he would have stood out in any place, not only because of his fame as an over-competent detective. The young man sat opposite him, the blazing fire to his left. “My name,” he said, “is Edward Peterson. I have called you here to investigate a murder. At least, I believe it to be murder. Rose says that I’m crazy, that it must be natural causes, or suicide perhaps, but Mother was only in her fifties, and why would she want to commit suicide? Oh, Rose is probably right, I’m being over-anxious, like always, but I do want you to investigate the case. You are, after all, the best, and I always find the police so, so,” here he paused, as though searching for the right word, “so bumbling!” he finished with a satisfied glance at Holmes. “Perhaps you would care to explain exactly what you propose we are to investigate?” Holmes asked in a superior tone. “Of course, of course!” Mr Peterson nodded his head. “My mother was found dead in the early hours of yesterday evening. Her body has been taken away for a post-mortem, of which we should hear the results soon. The family doctor has suggested flu, but there were no symptoms! How can there be no symptoms!” “It does sound unlikely,” I agreed. Being a doctor myself, I feel myself to be somewhat of an expert on these matters. “Who was in the house on the day of her death?” Holmes asked in a suddenly businesslike manner. “Well,” Mr Peterson pondered. “There was myself, Mother, the servants, that is, the maids, the cook, and the gardener and his boy, but those last two have no call to be entering the house at all. Oh, and Rose was there in the afternoon.” “Who is Rose,” I asked, a little
bemused. “I am Rose,” came a voice from the doorway. There stood a young girl of about twenty years; with long brown hair that fell loose down her back She was wearing a very pretty blouse, the top two buttons carelessly left undone. She was certainly good-looking, although in a very modern way I don’t much care for. By the look on his face, Mr Peterson very much did.“Hasn’t Eddie told you about me?” she smiled.“Err, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, this is Rose Smith. She and I are hoping to get married soon. Of course, Mother’s death throws a whole ...
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bemused. “I am Rose,” came a voice from the doorway. There stood a young girl of about twenty years; with long brown hair that fell loose down her back She was wearing a very pretty blouse, the top two buttons carelessly left undone. She was certainly good-looking, although in a very modern way I don’t much care for. By the look on his face, Mr Peterson very much did.“Hasn’t Eddie told you about me?” she smiled.“Err, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, this is Rose Smith. She and I are hoping to get married soon. Of course, Mother’s death throws a whole new light on the matter.”I looked at Holmes. He was listening intently, watching the two young lovers as they smiled at each other. I wish I could have told what he was thinking, but if I could, then it would be I, Dr John Watson, who was the famous detective and not him. As it is, I shall have to settle for the role of friend and trusted helper.We were just shaking hands with Miss Smith when a young girl appeared in the doorway. She was about 15 years of age or so she looked. She had a serious air about her, with dark locks scraped back into a neat, careful, demure bun and an apron tied around her thin waist. “Excuse me, but I have you r teas here,” she announced quietly, staring at Miss Smith as though she were alien. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise there were so many guests, I have only brought three cups. Shall I go - “?“Oh, don’t Ellie. I won’t have any. I’m not that fond of tea really,” Miss Smith smiled kindly. “Dr Watson, allow me to pour you some.”Edward Peterson began to tell the story as the maid left.“Well, there isn’t much to tell really. On the day, well, Rose arrived in the afternoon as I’ve said. Mother had invited her, which to me seemed rather strange, as she objected to her rather strongly. Thought that the son of Victoria and William Peterson shouldn’t marry a common girl like her.” “All this upper-class snobbery is awful really,” Miss Smith laughed. “Why, to think I can’t marry Ed because my father is a blacksmith – or was at any rate. He died of typhoid last year.”“How awful,” I reached over to pat the poor girl’s arm.“Well, we had some tea, that afternoon, then Mother retired to her room as she was in the habit of doing between 3 and 6. She had seemed tired, so when she didn’t arrive back down at her usual time of 6, I was unsurprised, but by seven, she still had not emerged. I went up to see how she was, and was horrified to see her body,” Mr Peterson was just holding back the tears as he related the turn of events to us. Could this, I wondered, all is an act? Surely the main beneficiary, if not the sole, would be Edward Peterson? I was jerked out of my thoughts by a knock on the door. The young servant girl who had brought us our tea had arrived, a small letter in her grubby hand. “It’s for Miss Rose, sir,” she whispered as she handed it over and fled the room like a frightened mouse. Miss Smith took the letter, ripped it open and cast her blue eyes down at it. Moments later, she was on her feet, pointing at Mr Peterson with a look of intense disgust on her china-doll face.“How could you? You know I would never harm her – you said you loved me!” she screamed, “and I loved you, how can you write such lies!” The young girl ran out of the room, tears streaming down her cheeks. Holmes reached out and picked up the letter. “Ah, I see,” he muttered gravely. He passed the letter to me, and I took it, nervously unsure about the morals of reading other’s private correspondence. I managed to shake away my initial scruples, and cast my eyes over the slim, spidery writing. Rose Smith,How could you? You have killed her in cold blood after stealing what she holds most dear. How can you live with yourself, murderer! You deserve to be hung by your scrawny neck and killed like you killed her, EPYet again, I glanced at my friend, trying to see any trace of his thought pattern on his face. He was deeply engaged in thought, staring at a spot on the carpet with a look of intense concentration on his face.“Tell me, Mr Peterson,” he asked strangely, “are your servants thorough?”“Why, what on earth do you mean,” the young man asked, bemused, which I must admit was how I was feeling in response to this odd question. “Would they normally miss, for example, a stain, when cleaning the carpet?” “Why, no, I believe not. They are well paid, my mother was a generous employer, and they repaid her well in work,” Mr Peterson explained. Holmes did not answer. He simply stared at the carpet in front of him. “May Watson and I pay a visit to your mother’s room?” he asked politely. After receiving a reply in the affirmative, we headed up the stairs to the quarters of Lady Victoria Peterson. As we walked, Holmes suddenly burst into talking. “Tell me, Watson. Did you see a stain on the floor near where I sat?” “Why no!” I exclaimed. “So that is the reason for all those absurd questions?” “Not absurd, my dear friend. Answer me this. In a house where the servants are notorious for the prompt and effective cleaning, why is it that a stain is left for over 24 hours?”“There was a murder, Holmes! Of course, routine rather goes out the window in a case like this. You cannot expect the house to be perfectly clean,” I responded cleverly, satisfied I had found the explanation, only to be met with a deprecating snort from Holmes. “Ah, but that stain, judging by its colour and smell, was spilt twenty four hours ago – before the murder had been discovered, twenty hours ago! This gives four hours for the stain to be cleared, does it not?”I had to, reluctantly, agree, until a sudden brainwave hit me. “Unless the body was actually discovered earlier than the time given by Mr Peterson!” I exclaimed. “He, of course, is our man. It all fits. That awful letter throws suspicion onto the girl, while he did the crime and wrote the letter to discredit her!” Holmes simply laughed. “It is possible, but I do not think it is so. See, Watson here we have another clue. ”It is possible, my dear Watson, but I do not think it is so,” Holmes said thoughtfully. “See, Watson, there is another clue. Cast your eyes to that flower on the floor. Now tell me, what type of flower is it?” Holmes asked, although it was clear he knew the answer. “Well, I don’t see the relevance of it,” I replied rather too hastily. I looked down at the flower that lay on the cream carpet, and the realisation suddenly hit me. “Why, it’s a rose!”It was shortly after that we had to leave for our quarters in London again, but not before Holmes had discovered a shattered glass on the floor, the water that had been in it spilt all over the carpet, and a simple photo frame, in which was a picture of a young man.“So, who do you think did it?” I asked eagerly as we left the large house. “It is an odd case this. Peterson had a motive – I understand his mother was rich, perhaps he wanted his inheritance quickly so he could marry the girl as is good and proper. The girl has a motive – Lady Peterson had a rather low opinion of her. I am rather inclined to think of Miss Smith – she had opportunity, and motive. Is it a pure coincidence she came down on the same day as the lady was discovered dead? I somehow think not.”“It must be her – that letter proves it!” “That is an odd occurrence. Of course, there is the possibility she forged it herself to gain sympathy, but I somehow I think not,” he paused. I saw the familiar pipe slip out from underneath his cloak and into his mouth. “However, supposing she did the deed, and the purpose was to marry Edward Peterson, staging a quarrel with said man seems rather pointless.”It was two mornings later when I received an early morning phone call from Holmes that brought me out of my slumber. “Hello?” I said tentatively. “Watson, we are going to visit Miss Smith,” my friend said matter-of-factly, without introducing himself or apologising for waking me up what must have been five am, if not earlier. So it was that I found myself on the train to visit the woman I suspected of murder. I was sitting by the window, doing the crossword in ‘The Times’, all the while aware of Holmes watching me as a child watches the ants that scurry across the garden path. “Tell me, Watson, what would you say if I told you who the murderer was, right here, right now?” he asked, an amused expression on his face. “You know?” I cried. “Then why are we visiting the young lady at this hour?” “No no, my dear Watson, I was merely speculating,” Holmes finished, and neither of us said a word until the train reached the station that was to be our destination. “Come Watson,” my friend said in his usual brisk manner. “We will get a horse and carriage from here to the lady’s house. She is staying with a friend or so she says in her letter.””A letter?” I cried incredulously. “She sent you a letter!” Why hadn’t he mentioned this before?“The girl believes her life is in danger. She is frightened, understandably so. It is my job to help her,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Yes but-” I stopped. The horse and carriage had arrived, and I followed Holmes clambering in to it. “Of course, she may be mistaken,” he continued, “but it may prove a valuable clue.” Rose Smith was staying in a small house with her friend, who was introduced to us as Helena. It was a pretty, country cottage, not the sort I would expect Miss Smith to be staying in. ”I’m going for a walk,” Helena announced shortly, as she picked up a raincoat and closed the door behind her. “Good luck Rosie!””So, Miss Smith,” Holmes said, “You wrote to me because you believe your life to be in danger. Why?” ”Gosh, you do get to the point quickly, don’t you?” Miss Smith laughed nervously. “I’ll start from the beginning. I met Ed – Mr Peterson, that is – at a dance. He was there with a friend who happened to be a friend of a friend of a cousin of mine. So we were both at this party, and I must admit, it wasn’t what lady Victoria would approve of. She’s dreadfully serious, you know! Very traditional. Oh she’s a dear, but so interfering. Ed and I got talking and well, we fell in love. His mother threatened to disinherit him if we kept seeing each other, but then, quite out of the blue, she gives us another chance, and invites me to stay for a little while. He came to collect me from the station, and on the way back to the house, he proposed to me! Oh I was so happy, it was a dream comes true. But now it look like there won’t be a wedding after all,” she said, as she broke down in tears. I noticed on her forearm lay a large purple bruise as I reached my hand out to comfort her. “What’s that?” I asked suddenly. “Oh nothing,” she muttered. “Let me tell you what happened when you received the letter from Edward - ” Holmes began.“So it was from him,” she cried. “Even as I wrote to you I hoped it was someone else. There are many names beginning with E – Egbert, Emily, Ellie. Why him?”I saw a sudden look come into Holmes eyes – he knew whom the murderer was. I could tell by the excited glint the dark black pupils had taken on. “One more thing, Miss Smith,” Holmes said as he showed her the picture we had seen in the lady’s room. “It’s Ed!” she cried. ”Excellent!” he said, as he left the room. “Excellent. NOT FROM WATSON’S NARRATIVE“Tell me, Mr Peterson, did your mother spill her tea the day she died?” Holmes asked.“Why, yes, yes she did. And Rose gave her hers, I think. She doesn’t like tea anyway.”AFTERWARDS – BY WATSON“So how did you find out?” I asked. “I must admit, it had me fooled. I’d never have guessed.”“Well, it was quite simple really Watson. The entire crime rotated around the stain. That one spill held the key to the entire murder. Once I knew who had spilt the cup, the whole mystery came together like a well-knitted scarf. “But how? I know I must be terribly ignorant not to see, but how?””You see, I know that Lady Peterson spilt the tea. Miss Smith then gave the Lady her mug, which she drank. Lady Peterson later died, and I think I can safely assume it was that mug that was poisoned. We therefore have two options. Either Miss Smith poisoned the tea or the tea was already poisoned when Miss Smith took it!” “You mean, Miss Smith was the intended victim!”“I do indeed,” Holmes smiled. “You see, one of the housemaids had entertained a liking for Edward Peterson for many years. She steals photos of him; she spends extra time tidying his quarters, and she is in fact, quite infatuated. So when Miss Smith appears, our admirer is jealous. Later, she hears her love proposing to this girl, and decides something must be done before her love marries this stranger. In the tea, she slips a strychnine tablet into one of the mugs. But then her plan fails. Instead of her hated rival taking the tea, her employer, the kindly woman who has the power to stop this marriage, dies.”I sat in stunned silence for a few seconds, unable to speak. “But why then, the flower, the letter?” I asked. “Our murderer has a somewhat romantic mind – jealous women often do. She thinks miss smith is the perfect suspect. Miss smith, who happens to be named Rose. Hence the flower. A silly, girlish touch really. The clue does not point to Rose, but to someone who would be willing to spring the crime on her.”“Of course!” I exclaimed. “And the letter?””Well that was simple, although I must admit I was nearly fooled. Who was the maid girl who served us our tea, Watson?” “Why, err, of course – Ellie, I believe!”“Ellie Pierce, in fact!” the genius pointed out. “Our mystery ‘EP’!”“Brilliant, I really don’t know how you do it, Holmes. Brilliant!” “Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary!”