I

“Oh, come now, how may whisky bottles are there?” I asked in exasperation.
“Only the ones you see,” said he.
“Truthfully,” I pressed.
“Why do you ask?” came the reply.
I sighed. In all the years I had known Sherlock Holmes, I rarely came as close as I was now to hitting him.
Of course, he was a great man; I would never deny that, but sometimes it seemed I was the only one who saw the opposing side of him- The strong willed, addicted, cynical man he was. Particularly strong willed, in his present state.
“I speak as your doctor, and as your friend,” I replied, “And I beseech you; how many bottles are there?!”
Holmes sighed, and lifted the hem of his filthy dressing gown to reveal several more (empty) whisky bottles beneath the sofa.
“Such an amount would surely kill a man!” I exclaimed. “No wonder you are in the foulest of moods.”
Proving a point, Holmes grunted at me in reply. I thought it best to distract him.
“How about the paper?” I asked, picking it up from the untouched breakfast tray Mrs Hudson had left. I handed it to him, but Holmes-quite literally- growled at me.
“Are the letters swarming before your eyes?” I said in the most patronising tone I could manage. “Then I shall read it.” With an excessive clear of my throat I held the paper up to my face.
“This may interest you, Holmes,” said I, scanning the cover. The headline is, “Daughter of Duke missing, Detectives baffled.” Let’s see... The daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk has been missing since...”
I glanced up from the paper to find Sherlock Holmes had fallen asleep, and was snoring on the divan. Groaning, I tossed aside the paper, strode over to the sofa, and firmly shook Holmes’ arm.
“Honestly, Holmes, what is your problem?!” I cried. Holmes, suddenly wide awake again, fixed me with a look of such annoyance I had to turn away. I walked to the bay window, and stared out at the people, making their way about their business in their ordinary routines. For a moment I tried to deduce something, anything I could, about their lives. It wasn’t often the thought sprang to mind, but I was so envious of my friend’s ability. Suddenly the sight of a man making his way to our door roused me from my thoughts.
“Aha, Holmes, it seems we have a client!” I called, triumphant.
Turning to Holmes, I sighed. He was slumped on the sofa, still wearing his clothes from the previous day under his filthy dressing gown, his dark hair matted, and a worrying number of bottles clustered about his feet. He was in no fit state to receive a visitor.
“Go and change,” I said, as if to a five year old. “He’ll be here any moment.”
Holmes made no effort to move. I seized his arm, pulled him off the sofa, and gently pushed him in the direction of the stairs. Holmes groaned, but eventually gave in, and ascended.
He could not have left sooner, because at that moment came a knock at the door. I opened it, and there stood Mrs Hudson.
“If you please, Doctor,” said she, “There is a man here to see Mr Holmes.”
“Of course, show him in,” I replied. Mrs Hudson nodded, and leaned in closer.
“Please ask Mr Holmes to be... gentle with him. He’s in a bit of a state,” she whispered so our visitor downstairs could not hear.
I gave her assurance, and she left. I had barely crossed the room before Mrs Hudson returned, with a young man in tow.
“Mr Richard Helmsley,” she announced. I thanked her, and Mrs Hudson, after looking around in confusion as to the whereabouts of Holmes, returned to her apartment. I turned to the visitor.
“Are... Are you Sherlock Holmes?” he asked uncertainly. His voice had a slight London twinge, but I estimated he no longer lived in the South. He was a short man, with an unruly mop of brown curls, and huge, dark eyes that stared up at me beneath. By the lines on his face he must have been about the age of two-and-thirty, but there was something about Richard Helmsley which made him seem so much younger. Moving closer, I noticed recent tear tracks glisten on his cheeks.
“No, no,” I said, grasping his hand and smiling warmly. Ruefully he smiled back.
“I am Doctor Watson.” I explained gently. “My friend will be with you shortly.” I gestured to a chair. Richard Helmsley moved across the room towards it as I discreetly kicked the whisky bottles under the sofa.
Rather awkwardly, I sat in the chair opposite our visitor. He seemed anxious, his eyes constantly flitting around the room. His fingers rested on his knee, and he tapped them absentmindedly, as if fingering the keys of some grand piano.
Thankfully, I did not have to sit in the midst of this awkward silence any longer, for at that moment Sherlock Holmes emerged. He swayed unsteadily before regaining his balance. Fortunately, Richard seemed too preoccupied in his own thoughts to notice.
When he noticed that the famous detective had materialized, Richard stood, and offered Holmes his hand. Holmes gingerly stepped over to him, but declined the handshake.
“Richard Helmsley,” he visitor offered. Holmes nodded curtly.
“Pray, would you explain your predicament?” he said slowly, taking the seat I had just vacated. Richard sat also.
“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” said he. “I hail from Yorkshire, and it has been a long journey, so I hope you’ll excuse my lack of concentration. Anyway, I must confess, I am a musician by trade, and do not have that much money spare...”
“We’ll discuss payment, later,” interrupted Holmes.
“Thank you. As I was saying, Mr Holmes, I am here... about my wife. You see, she’s dead.” Richard hung his head.
“I see. How did she die?”
Richard shook his head, and covered his face with his hands, unable to go on.
“Mr Helmsley, How did she die?” Holmes pressed with more force.
“Holmes!” I hissed. This man had been through enough. Richard finally managed to compose himself.
“She... She was run over by horses,” he choked out.
Holmes sighed in exasperation.
“Well, thank you for your short narrative, Mr Helmsley, but there’s really nothing I can do. Good day.”
“No, no!” cried Richard. “That’s not all!”
“Well, out with it, man, we haven’t got all day!” Holmes barked obnoxiously.
“I’ve seen her! On the moor at home!” Richard cried. “I’ve seen her! But how can that possibly be?!”
Holmes narrowed his eyes.
“If you’ll excuse me, Mr Helmsley, but I need to speak with my colleague for a moment. In private,” he added.
I followed Holmes into the hallway.
“What say you, Watson?” asked Holmes quietly. “Is the fool delusional, or does he speak the truth?”
I thought for a moment.
“Using my professional judgement, I would say that the man traumatised- that, at least, is obvious- but not to the point of hallucination. Indeed, I believe that whatever Richard has seen is temporal.”
Holmes sighed.
“Please Holmes,” I pleaded, “Treat him gently. He’s heartbroken.”
We were silent for a few moments. Holmes then gestured, and we moved back into the sitting room.
“Now then,” Holmes said briskly, sitting again, “tell me everything.”
Richard took a deep breath. “My wife Marie and I live- Lived, I mean to say- near a small town in Yorkshire. Two weeks ago, I participated in an orchestral concert in Derby, but when I returned home I was told that Marie... That Marie had been run down by a carriage.” Richard paused, regained the very ability to speak, and continued, “I saw the body. She was taken to the mortuary at Leeds.” He hung his head. “I could scarcely believe it. I have neglected to tell you sooner, but Marie was pregnant. Around seven months, in fact. I’ve lost both my wife and child.
“Five days later, I was clearing my head by walking along Ilkley Moor, when in the distance; I saw a figure in white. I moved closer, and, as difficult as it may be to believe, I saw her. Marie. I called her name, and moved closer, but she just gasped, and ran into the woods. I tried to follow her but I lost her trail. I haven’t seen her since.” Fresh tears clouded Richard’s eyes.
“Thank you, Richard,” I soothed. “Would you mind if we ask you any questions?”
“Be my guest.”
“Thank you,” chimed in Holmes. “Who told you of the untimely death of your wife?”
“Marie’s brother,” Richard replied. “He lives in the neighbouring town, and was one of the first to hear of the, the... the Accident.”
“Did your wife have any enemies?” pressed Holmes.
“No, none at all!” Richard exclaimed. “Marie was a wonderful woman who was loved by all.”
“No enemies that you know of,” muttered Holmes, unfortunately just loudly enough for Richard to hear. “And, was Marie due to... inherit anything? From her family, perhaps?”
“As a matter of fact, so she was,” mused Richard. “There is a tradition, I believe, in Marie’s family involving a certain sum of money, collected by the parents, which is passed to their children in the event of their successor’s birth.” He wiped his eyes.
“And there is only one sum of money from the parents, no matter how many siblings?” enquired Holmes.
“Indeed so,” Richard nodded. “The tradition operates on a first-come-first-served basis, if you will. The money goes to the first sibling who has a child.”
“Indeed. And did Marie have any other siblings?” Holmes continued.
“Yes, a sister. But she has had seven miscarriages, and is unlikely to ever bear a child.” Richard’s eyes suddenly widened. “Hang on!” he cried, springing to his feet. “Fortunes? Enemies? Are you implying that Marie’s death was deliberate?! That she was murdered?!”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I interrupted. I laid a hand on Richard’s arm, and once again he sat.
“Do you have a picture of your wife?” Holmes asked suddenly. In reply, Richard reached into his inside pocket, and pulled out a small photograph. Holmes and I glanced upon it.
She was a fair lady, with pale hair and light eyes. Even in the colourless print of the photograph could we see her heart-shaped face was dotted with freckles. Marie Helmsley was lovely.
Holmes returned the picture, and Richard replaced it in his jacket pocket.
“If you don’t mind me asking, who was riding in the carriage that killed Marie?” Holmes evidently was not done in questioning the poor man.
“Some Duke and his wife,” Richard answered. “But they were surely from another part of the country; they would have noting to do with this!”
“I am not suggesting anything,” Holmes murmured.
Richard sighed. “Marie crossed the road in a precarious place. The horses careered around the bend, and by the time she had seen the carriage, it was too late. Marie was right in its path.”
By this time, I could see there was another question that Holmes desperately wished to know. It was a question that I knew Richard, in his current state, would find very hard to answer.
“Richard, we know how difficult this is for you, and we very much appreciate the facility with which you have answered these questions. However-”
“There is still one more question I need to ask,” interrupted Holmes. “The body of your wife, when you saw it...”
“What I think Holmes is trying to say, Richard,” I said smoothly, is-”
“How badly was the body damaged?” Holmes finished. Richard looked as if he would rather have been run down by a carriage himself. I glared at Holmes.
Richard looked down toward the floor, unable to meet my gaze. “Her body... To anyone but her closest friends, it was completely unrecognisable. Her face...” We had reached the point when Richard could take no more. Tears streamed down his face, and his entire body trembled. I called for Mrs Hudson, and together we led him out of the room and down to her apartment, where I was certain my dear landlady would be able to calm him.
Returning upstairs, I closed the door behind me, and stormed over to my friend.
“Holmes!” I cried. “That was completely uncalled for! You know what a state the poor man is in!”
Holmes gazed at the wall nonchalantly.
“Really,” I continued, “Jut because you drank too much whisky the night before does not entitle you to abuse the disposition of this poor man. He’s just lost his wife, for God’s sake!”
Holmes did not reply for a good few moments. “So, are you involving yourself with this case, Watson, or no?” he finally managed by way of a reply.
“Well, I’m going to have to!” I replied, amazed at just how selfish he could be. “Who knows how the poor man will fare if I leave you to your own devices! Really, Holmes, you have surpassed yourself this time.”
Holmes sprang from his chair.
“Well, in that case, Watson,” said he, “I say we find our young friend, and head for Paddington. Trains to the North are few and far between at this time of year, so I suggest we leave as soon as is possible.” He clapped his hands together, and sighed. “At last, a case!” Holmes positively danced towards the door.”
“What exactly do you intend to do in Yorkshire?” I asked, bewildered. Holmes turned.
“My dear Watson,” he replied, his eyes shining with excitement,” I intend to go ghost hunting.”

II

“What use is there for your violin in the Yorkshire countryside?” I asked, amazed. Holmes said nothing, but hoisted the case further onto his back. Richard and I exchanged a look of consternation, but followed Holmes up the hill. It had taken us the entire day to reach Ilkley, and now we did not have long to look for Marie before the sun set. I had no idea what Holmes expected to find.
Finally we reached the summit.
“This is it,” announced Richard eventually. “This is where I saw her.”
I glanced around, half expecting a woman to dance through the trees towards us. Not surprisingly, nothing stirred.
“Holmes, what say you?” I asked, to fill the silence. There came no reply. I turned, and realized that my friend had disappeared. I shrugged at Richard, and we stood in an awkward silence, gazing at the town below. I shivered. The temperature was beginning to drop, and at this time of the year it seemed probable that we would freeze once the sun set. I wrapped my ulster more tightly around my body.
“I’m... so sorry about your wife,” I ventured.
“Thank you,” replied Richard awkwardly. “Yes, I... I miss her.”
Neither of us spoke. The wind whistled through the trees, and that, combined with recent events, began to make me feel slightly uneasy. Not that I was one to believe in matters of the supernatural, but nonetheless, there were better places that I would rather be.
“Watson! Helmsley!” Holmes cried suddenly, clapping us both on the backs. Both Richard and I jumped simultaneously.
“Holmes, where have you been?!” I asked, still startled.
“Oh, you know,” he replied, waving a hand vaguely, “Searching.” He leaned forward. “I say, this place is rather spooky, eh?”
Only too late did I realize this was a mission to mock Richard. “Oh, not particularly, Holmes,” I countered coolly. “But if you feel that way, so be it.”
“On the contrary,” returned Holmes, refusing to be outdone, “It is not my fear that I am concerned about.” He subtly turned in the direction of Richard, who seemed to be enjoying this experience even less than his previous inquisition. “Indeed,” Holmes continued mercilessly, “I am very much at ease with the paranormal. So much so,” he asserted, whilst pulling his violin out of his case, “I suggest we try to lure the ghost.”
At once, he pressed his fiddle beneath his chin, put bow to string, and began to play a haunting melody that I will never forget. It seemed to chill my very bones. All of a sudden I just wanted to be back home, away from this time wasting expedition. And, preferably, away from Holmes, his foul moods and his cruel jests.
“Stop, please, stop!” cried Richard, knocking the bow from Holmes’s hand. It fell to the ground. Richard picked it up, loosened it, and returned it to its case.
“Why must you mock me?” Richard pleaded at Holmes, who frowned back at him.
“I do not,” my companion replied haughtily, fastening the violin case once again to his back.
“If I may, Holmes, it is plainly obvious that you are!” I cannot believe you would go so far solely to mock one of your clients!”
Richard looked away, seemingly out of both embarrassment and despair. Holmes coughed abruptly, and walked over to Richard, who gradually brought himself to meet the detective’s gaze. Reaching into his pocket, Holmes pulled out a small white square, which he handed to Richard. Richard held it in his hand, silent for a moment, and then gasped.
“I found it over there,” Holmes explained to Richard, gesturing towards the trees.
“What is it?” I asked in puzzlement, walking over to Richard. He handed me the cloth. It was a handkerchief, embroidered in red along the out side with the initials of “M.H.” in the corner. The initials of Marie Helmsley.
“So she really was here...” sighed Richard, his face angled towards the sky. He shut his eyes, and for the first time Holmes and I saw a true, heartfelt smile descend onto his face. It was enough to make anybody want to help him, to solve this case, to find his wife.
Holmes interrupted the peaceful silence. “Your wife left her handkerchief on a moor. You said when you saw her she was in a shift, a nightdress, with no means of properly carrying a handkerchief, unless she was purposely trying to carry it with her. Therefore, I believe your wife left her handkerchief there-”
“On purpose,” Richard finished. “Yes, so do I. Marie’s clever. That is just the thing she would do. But I still don’t understand why she ran away from me.”
“All in good time,” replied Holmes. “I would wager that if your wife is capable enough of leaving one clue, a message for us to find, then surely she will have left more.”
“I’m sure she has,” agreed Richard. “We just need to find them.”
Glancing around, I noticed the sun was setting. We didn’t have a lot of time. Suddenly, something, gleaming in the semi-darkness, caught my eye. I walked towards it. Moving closer, I realized it was a ribbon, caught in the branch of a small tree.
“Richard?” I called, “Your wife...”
“Yes?” he replied, hurrying over.
“Did- Does she wear hair ribbons?”
“Yes, yes she does!” he cried. “Let me see that!”
Willingly I passed it to him. Carefully, Richard untangled a few strands of hair from the gleaming white fabric, and held it up to the dying light. I glowed gold.
“So it’s her hair,” announced Holmes, joining us under the tree. “But obviously, she’s not here any more. I say we head for the nearest inn before darkness falls.”
Reluctantly, we left Ilkley Moor.


We arrived at The Cow and Calf, and were met by a very welcoming landlady named Mrs Sorsby, who showed us to our rooms. After unpacking our meagre baggage, we headed downstairs to eat our meal.
Holmes and I secured a table, but Richard stayed to talk to the landlady. Glancing across to the bar, Richard seemed to be in very deep conversation with her.
“I had no idea Richard knew the landlady,” I speculated aloud.
“Nor I,” replied Holmes, which surprised me. For a moment we drank our ale in silence.
“Holmes,” I ventured, cupping the tankard in my hands, “Why did you play your violin?”
Holmes set down his ale, and gazed at me, an incredulous look on his face.
“Was it not obvious?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, irritated, “It was not.”
Holmes sighed. “Do you remember, on the journey, when Richard was babbling onto you about his wife? About the instruments she played and where she was from?”
“But how would you know that? You were asleep...” I began, it suddenly dawning on me. “Oh, but I thought you were trying to sleep off the whisky-”
“No,” replied Holmes, “I knew that Richard was not going to talk to me now unless he had to, so pretending I slept meant that he could speak more freely to you. Useful technique, Watson. Anyway, he told you that they were both musicians, yes?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “That they both play the violin.”
“Very good Watson, your memory really is improving,” Holmes replied, slightly sardonically. I glared at him.
“And Richard also mentioned that his wife was partly Irish, and proud of it,” Holmes continued, ignoring my gaze. I nodded.
“The tune I played was an Irish air. If his wife had been there, the chances were she would have heard the violin, and playing it herself, she would have been drawn to it. The fact the tune was Irish meant that she perhaps would have took it as a signal from Richard, as it was likely he knew the tune and could play it on the violin. The whole thing was just a method of checking if she was there,” explained Holmes.
I thought for a minute. “But, Holmes,” said I, “You didn’t know all this about Marie until you were on the train, by which time you had already brought the violin. So what was the real reason for bringing it? Just to mock Richard?”
Holmes did not answer. I sighed, stood, and walked to the counter so as to fill my tankard again. I joined Richard and the landlady.
“But when tha walked through t’door, oh!” Mrs Sorsby gushed. “I just knew you were related! I don’t doubt that you live in t’area, but I’ve never seen you here before! But you and Christopher... You look so much alike! Come to think of it, I saw him quite recently, actually. He’s earning a fair bit of money from that Duke driving his coaches, isn’t he?”
Richard nodded. “Listen, um, Helen, if you don’t mind, I really am rather tired now, so I hope you won’t mind if I go to bed-?”
“Of course not!” cried Mrs Sorsby, clapping Richard on the back. It was strenuous effort for him to stay on his feet. “I’ll see tha t’morrow!”
I followed Richard, not wishing to be captured by the landlady and engage in an endless conversation.
The Cow and Calf wad a popular boarding house, and practically bursting when we arrived, so the only room free had to be shared between us. The small bedroom contained three narrow beds, with one wardrobe between the three. I sighed, and sat down on one of the beds.
“Who were you talking about?” I asked Richard.
“My brother,” he replied, running a hand through his hair. “He comes here quite a lot.”
At that moment the door swung open, and banged against the wall. Holmes stood in the doorway, swaying unsteadily. When he saw the look of horror on my face he laughed.
“Ah, Watson,” he slurred, “The ale here... Really is fantastic. Almost as good as the Baker Street whisky.” He stepped forward, but his feet gave way beneath him, and he collapsed onto the middle bed.
“You’re drunk!” I exclaimed. “Holmes, again?! Really?”
Richard stared in horror at the Great Detective, reduced to a dribbling drunkard.
“No, no I’m not,” Holmes began to say, before rolling onto his side and falling asleep. Horrified at his behaviour, I climbed under the covers of my own bed, and tried to block out all embarrassment my fried had just caused me.

I awoke to the sound of an anxious voice calling me.
“Doctor, Doctor Watson!” Richard cried. I opened my eyes drowsily.
“What is it?” I mumbled incoherently.
“It’s Mr Holmes,” Richard replied, panicked. “He’s gone!”
“What?!” I sprang from my bed, and looked to my left. Holmes’ bed was empty, the covers thrown back.
“I awoken suddenly, and saw he was gone!” Richard explained.
“Perhaps he has gone downstairs to the lavatory,” I decided. “He was drunk.”
“I checked,” replied Richard, “And he’s nowhere to be found!”

III

The next morning, Richard and I sat downstairs at the table, sick with worry. Mrs Sorsby had laid out two gigantic Yorkshire breakfasts on the table, but neither of us had any appetite.
Holmes was still missing. We had no idea at all where he was. Every time the door of the Inn opened we jumped, hoping and praying it was him. But every time in walked a businessman, an old woman, a young mother, a fruit seller. Anxiety was an understatement.
The old woman, however, who had just entered the tavern, advanced towards us.
“Excuse me, sirs,” said she, in a croaking, aged voice, “would you mind if I sit here? This inn is so crowded.”
“By my guest,” I replied, gesturing to an empty seat. She obliged and sat.
“Why the long faces?” she asked, curious.
I was about to warn Richard not to give away too much information, just in case any unwelcome ear around heard, but he spoke anyway. “A... friend of ours drank too much last night,” said he, “and he disappeared whilst we were asleep. We haven’t seen him since.”
“Dearie me, that is a pity,” the old woman rambled. “Your friend... Did he, by any chance, go by the name of Sherlock Holmes?”
Both me and Richard stared at her in astonishment.
“Why, have you seen him?!” I cried.
“No, not as such, but... I do know where he is,” whispered the woman.
“Where?!” Richard practically shouted.
The woman leaned in towards him, so Richard and I moved closer.
“Haven’t you realized yet?” the woman said, her voice an octave lower than before. Richard gasped in shock, and Holmes smiled back at us beneath the wrinkled skin.
“Holmes, what is this, some kind of sick joke?!” I cried loudly.
“No, no,” he answered, “Just a disguise. And quite a successful one, judging by your reaction. You had no idea it was me?”
“None at all,” Richard exclaimed.
“But Holmes,” I said, “You were drunk! How is it that you have appeared the next morning quite cheerful, and dressed as a woman?!”
Holmes sighed. “I never was drunk!” he replied, irritated.
“Then why did you act so?” Richard asked, confused.
“Because you would never expect me of leaving if I was!” cried Holmes. “I needed to do complete some investigations elsewhere before I made any assumptions, but I knew that if we all went it would slow us down. Pretending to be drunk meant you would never expect me to leave.”
“But why the costume?”
Holmes smiled. “People never expect old women to be investigating crimes. It’s just a distinct advantage.” With that he held up his arm, and wiped his face with the sleeve of his rather dated dress. The make-up came away, to reveal the face of my friend amongst a wig of greying ringlets. It really was most uncanny.
“Where did you find the theatrical make-up?” Richard asked, puzzled.
“I brought it with me,” Holmes replied. “In my violin case.” That did explain a lot.
“Please, go and change into something more respectable!” I pleaded. Holmes sighed, and stood from the table, receiving many confused looks from the other inn-goers. He waved at them all nonchalantly.
“Mr Holmes, where are we going today then, if you’ve conducted other investigations?” Richard enquired.
“Oh, I have plenty more to investigate yet,” replied Holmes, amused.
“So where are we going?” I pressed.
“If we may,” Holmes announced politely, “Leeds mortuary.”


I knew Richard was not happy with this visit, and in the cab on the journey there, I begged Richard not to accompany us.
“Please, Richard,” said I, “You’ve already seen everything there, why put yourself through the pain twice?”
“I promised myself I would do everything I could to help solve what’s happened to my wife,” Richard insisted, “So therefore wherever you and Mr Holmes go, I shall follow.”
I was concerned, for Richard’s sake.
Upon our arrival at the mortuary, I gave one last attempt at persuading Richard to stay outside. The man had been so much more strong willed than I first thought, and refused to give in.
“I’m coming,” he said grimly.
We were shown into a small, dinghy room with a table in the centre. Slowly, we advanced towards it. Slowly, carefully, Holmes drew back he sheet that covered the body. Richard stood, wincing, preparing himself for the sight that lay beneath.
It took all the will power I could master not to gasp at the sight that lay before my eyes. There was the corpse of Marie Helmsley, but, just as Richard had said, her face was utterly unrecognisable as anything human. The flesh was torn and mangled, it was not hard to imagine the hooves of the horses, the sickening sound of the contact... I could not suppress a shudder. I turned to Richard, who had his nails dug tightly into his wrists, trying his hardest not to show any emotion.
Holmes, however, did not seem to be affected at the sight that met him. He circled the body, scanning over for any abnormalities, for anything that he could deduce from it. Suddenly, he stopped, and lifted the pale, perfect hand of the corpse.
“Richard, did your wife wear a ring?” Holmes asked.
“Yes,” said Richard slowly, his head in his hands. “I was sent the jewellery she wore back after she was examined. Why?”
“No reason,” Holmes answered. He carried on his investigation.
Once I managed to recover from the shock of seeing corpse in such an appalling state, I began to make some observations. The body, although I could not seethe face, appeared to be young, not yet twenty-five. It was, in a word, heartbreaking, to see what had been a beautiful young woman, laid out, her face torn to pieces, on a mortuary slab.
Another thought suddenly came to me, but I pushed it from my mind. That would make this case even more disturbing than it already was.
“Right, I’ve seen all that I need to see,” announced Holmes. Richard breathed a deep sigh of relief, and walked as quickly out the room as he possibly could. I did not blame him. The corpse was that of his wife.
As I turned to exit, Holmes caught my arm. I leaned in closer.
“How could Richard possibly have been so stupid?!” he whispered.
I turned in horror. “Holmes, you can’t say that!”
“I just did,” said Holmes petulantly. “Besides, isn’t it obvious?”
“Is what obvious?”
Holmes groaned. “The fact that her ring finger has no tan line, that there are no calluses on her fingers from playing the violin, that any facial skin exposed has no freckles, and that woman was certainly not pregnant!”
Being a doctor, I had also noticed that the corpse, in life, had definitely not been with child. Now that I had faced up to that doubt, I knew what my friend was trying to say.
“Holmes,” I breathed, “Surely you can’t mean...”
“Yes,” he answered. “That body is not Richard’s wife.”

IV

When we joined Richard outside the mortuary, he was bent double, his hands on his knees, and his face pale. It was obvious he had been retching. When he noticed the two of us he straightened his back, and the colour rushed back to his cheeks with embarrassment.
“Richard, would it be possible to visit your house?” Holmes asked. I was pleased to catch a slight hint of sympathy in his voice.
“Yes, of course,” Richard replied, wiping his face with his jacket sleeve.
“And am I right in thinking that you have not been home since the death of your wife?” Holmes asked.
“Indeed. I... couldn’t face the thought of returning home without her,” Richard began. “I’ve been staying with Marie’s brother, Michael, in Otley.”
“I see,” replied Holmes. “Let us hail a cab then. We have no time to waste.”
We did so, and were soon journeying towards Richard’s cottage. He had told us he lived in a small cottage near to Ilkley, and after what had seemed an incredibly long dreadful journey across uneven Yorkshire roads we arrived at the charmingly named Hermit’s Retreat.
We opened the gate, and advanced up the path. As Richard approached the door, and drew his key, Holmes stepped in front of him to stop him, and knelt down towards the lock.
“Scratches around the keyhole,” he announced, turning to Richard. “Do you drink?”
“Not excessively,” Richard blushed. “Why?”
“Because scratches around the keyhole can mean that if the house owner came home drunk, they would have trouble unlocking the door. Did Marie drink?”
“No, not at all!” replied Richard, irritated.
“Well then, we can safely assume that the locks were picked,” concluded Holmes. He pushed the door, and it opened, unlocked. Richard gasped.
We entered into a well-lit hallway. Holmes paced the room, looking for anything that could help to make the situation clearer. Richard moved in through another door through which I assumed was the living room or the kitchen. Hearing a sudden gasp coming from that direction, Holmes and I followed.
In the middle of the living room floor was a smashed violin. Richard knelt down before it, and brushed away the shards. The carpet was stained scarlet with blood. Richard’s shoulders slumped, and he hid his face form view.
Holmes walked over, and knelt beside him. He placed a hand on his shoulder. “Richard,” he said, surprisingly gently, “Do not lose hope.”
“But I... I don’t understand!” Richard cried. “Was she hurt before she was ran over?! Or was she murdered?! None of it makes any sense!”
“I think you’re blinded by grief,” Holmes replied quietly. “Richard, your wife was not run over by a carriage.”
Richard looked Holmes in the eye, fresh tears on his cheeks. “But, her body is in the mortuary-”
“No, it’s not. That corpse is not your wife,” I explained, joining the two.
“But, you mean, Marie was murdered instead?” Richard asked, still confused.
“No, I believe she has been kidnapped,” replied Holmes. “She was taken away from here.”
Richard clasped his hands together as if offering a prayer of thanks.
“You... You don’t think they hurt her, do you?” he asked fearfully.
“No, no,” replied Holmes. “I think that the blood is more likely from her foot. It appears that she was playing her violin when her attackers came up behind her. She struggled, dropped the instrument, and in her attempt to escape cut her feet on the shards. There’s not enough blood for it to be anything other than her foot. They would have drugged her, probably with-”
“Chloroform,” I interrupted.
“Thank you, Watson,” Holmes replied.
I walked over to the armchair, where I had spotted something. By one of the chair legs was a small scrap of fabric, no larger than two inches square. The fibres around the edge were arranged in such a fashion that the cloth had obviously been ripped apart with some force. I held the scrap to my face, and the faintest hint of something medicinal lingered there. Holmes walked over, and took it from my hand. He held it to his nose.
“Laudanum,” he announced, before examining the fabric. “The fabric is old,” Holmes continued, “and could be ripped easily. These were either some rather unscrupulous kidnappers, or a clever initiative on your wife’s part.”
“You mean Marie tore off the cloth for us to find?” Richard questioned.
“Exactly,” replied Holmes. “Your wife really is wonderfully intelligent, Richard. She tore at that rag even as she succumbed to the drug. The kidnappers would hardly have noticed her drop it. I am very much impressed. Now, I don’t know about you, but I suggest we follow their trail as soon as we can.”
“But how can we?” exclaimed Richard, “There’s not trail to follow!”
Holmes turned to him, his eyes shining. “Ah, but there is a trail,” he replied mystically. “I know where Marie is.”


Once more, the three of us needed to travel onwards. Once more, the three of us needed transport. As fast as we could, we found the nearest inn.
“I say, Richard. Can you ride?” asked Holmes.
“Why?” he replied warily.
“Because we will arrive at our destination faster if we travel by horseback,” Holmes sighed. "Now, can, you ride?”
Richard sighed. “I suppose I can if I try,” he said ruefully. “It’s one of those days.”
It was not long before each of us was seated on our own horse, kindly lent to us by the innkeeper, ready to set off on what seemed the most intrepid of investigations.
“Which way do we head?” I cried.
“North-West,” Holmes answered. “I fear they’re holding her in a remote corner of the countryside.”
“How would you know this?” Richard asked.
Holmes returned a grim look. “What did you think I was doing when I was investigating last night?” he asked. I had a good idea of where she is, but visiting your house confirmed it.”
“So then where is she?” I asked. “I assume it’s somewhere remote that not a lot of people would visit at this time of year.”
Holmes nodded. “Thanks to a good deal of witnesses and some inferred deduction,” he replied, “It is by belief that they are holding her at Malham Cove.”
As we travelled further towards the Dales, I became more and more concerned that the sun would set before we arrived to find Marie. Turning to Holmes, I knew he was also concerned with this issue. He rode fast, with his eyes fixed ahead at the track, his face grim.
Finally, we approached the village of Malham, but instead of entering, Holmes insisted we ride around.
“As soon as we enter through that path, we will be easily spotted from the top,” he explained. “Doing so would be suicide.”
Leaving the horses tied to a gate by the track we were to follow, Holmes handed Richard a revolver.
“Am I going to need to use this?” Richard asked, anxious.
“I... I don’t know,” replied Holmes. Richard nodded, morose. Taking a deep breath, we advanced up the hill.
Gradually, the incline flattened, until we were walking along a straight path of field. In the distance, the grey rock of Malham’s limestone pavement appeared before our eyes.
“Look, I see someone!” exclaimed Richard. He was correct. In the distance we could see a figure, dressed in dark clothes, guarding the perimeter of the cove. As carefully as we could, we moved towards him.
Next to me, Richard tensed. I knew what he wanted to do. Gently, in laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Richard,” I whispered, “I know how hard it must be not to go after that man, but it is essential that we keep ourselves hidden. We have the element of sunrise on our side.”
Richard nodded slowly. Holmes turned to the two of us.
“Right, here’s what we will do,” he whispered, “Slowly, Watson, you will go behind that man, and pull him down behind those rocks. Make sure you do this without anyone else noticing...”
Holmes stopped as he noticed the figure of Richard running toward the man. We jumped to our feet and ran after him, but by the time Richard was behind the man it was too late.
With surprising ease, Richard held his gun to the man’s neck. We were just close enough to hear what he was saying.
“Slowly walk backwards towards those rocks,” he whispered calmly. “Any attempts to move and I will pull the trigger.”
The man did as Richard told, and moved slowly, calmly, towards the rock. Once he was behind it, Richard promptly punched his face. The man looked up dazed, before Richard hit him again.
“You,” he growled, grabbing him by the collar, “Who are you? Who do you work for?”
Holmes and I took Richard’s shoulders, and pulled him away from the guard. Richard let out a cry of protest.
“No, don’t let him go! He took my wife!”
Suddenly, I spotted something in the distance, in front of the rock.
“Richard,” I said, “We don’t have time!”
“But-” Richard started to say-
“No!” cried Holmes, “Look!”
Richard turned, and looked over the rocks. He gasped.
It was Marie. Walking across the pavement, with a bemused look on her face, she truly was there. She wore the same, thin shift that Richard had described to us before, and her arms were wrapped around her cold, frail body. Judging by the paleness of her face she had been held here a while.
“Richard,” Holmes said, “Do not go to her. You very nearly gave away our position before, do not do it again.” He turned to me. “We will need to secure the perimeter before we can rescue Marie. You,” Holmes barked towards the guard, lying on the ground with his nose broken, “How many men are guarding her?”
“You had better tell us the truth,” I added, pointing my pistol at him, “Because if we find out you’re lying...”
The man nodded, and incomprehensively opened and shut his mouth. I leaned closer.
“Three,” he whispered in my ear. Peering into the distance, I could just about make out three figures pacing the ground.
“Right then,” Holmes finally said, “Richard, you wait here. I will walk around until I reach the three men, and take them down. Only then will the two of you advance towards Marie. Understand?”
Richard nodded.
“Holmes, why shouldn’t I join you?” I asked, concerned for my friend’s safety.
“You need to help Richard and his wife, Watson,” Holmes explained, “And the man in charge of this operation may be close by. I am not willing to take the risk of our plan backfiring on Richard. “Besides,” he added, “I can manage those men easily.”
I nodded, and Holmes set off. Richard and I knelt in the grass.
It was a nervous wait. Finally we saw the unmistakeable figure of Sherlock Holmes move behind one of the men. He hit him over the head with the butt of his revolver. The man fell, and all chaos seemed to break loose. The two other men ran towards Holmes, who, seemingly by sheer dumb luck, managed to fend off both of them, by kicking one with the steel toes of his boots, and the other by pulling him towards the ground by his hair. Once they were both down, Holmes trained his weapons on both of them, before knocking them unconscious. Richard breathed a sigh.
“I had no idea he could do that,” he whispered in awe.
I had no reply. “Come on,” I said, “We need to go to your wife.”
Richard, with a cry of joy, ran over to the pavement, and called his wife’s name. I followed suit.
“Marie!” he cried. “Marie! Are you hurt?!”
The woman turned. Seeing her husband stand there she let out a cry of shock.
“Richard?!” she called, her voice hoarse with shock. “But... How are you here?! You drowned in the reservoir!”
“What do you mean?!” he called, running towards her. Richard wrapped his arms around her. “I have been nowhere near water!”
“But he told me... He told me...” Marie stammered, nearly in tears. She screamed, and pointed towards the edge of the pavement. A figure had appeared. Slowly, Richard let go of Marie, a look of absolute disgust on his face.
“You,” he snarled. For a moment, no one moved. The man standing before us I had never seen in my life before, but I knew at once who he was. In the past few days, I had heard of him, and now I could see the resemblance. The same deep, soulful eyes, the same curl of the hair... Richard’s brother.
With a blood curdling cry, Richard, ran towards his sibling, and shook him viciously by his shoulders.
“Christopher, why?! Why would you do this?!” he shrieked. By way of reply, his brother hit him square in he jaw. Dazed, Richard stepped back for a moment, and wiped his jaw, before running towards him faster than I had ever seen a man run.
“Richard, no!” screamed Marie. It was too late. Richard, in his blind fury, had not estimated his distance from the ledge, and knocked headlong into his brother, sending them both toppling over the cliff, to fall a drop of over two hundred foot.
With a cry, Marie buried her face in her hands. Afraid she would collapse, I put my arms around her for support.
“Richard!” she choked out through her tears. “Richard!” She buried her face into my overcoat.
I heard a cry from the edge. Turning, I realized it to be Holmes. I ran towards him, pulling Marie with me.
We reached the edge, and to my amazement, there was Richard, lying, dazed, on a smaller ledge below the cliff edge, next to his brother. He looked up, shocked for a moment, before remembering what had happened. He turned to his brother, and grabbed hold of his collar.
“How could you?!” he cried, slamming his brother’s head against the rock. Christopher moaned.
“Richard, stop!” I called. “He will receive his punishment in due time.”
Amazingly, the grief-stricken man relented. He moved back, wiped his blood stained hands on his trousers, and stood up, gazing down at his brother with a look of revulsion on his face. With an unexpected cry, his brother leapt from the ground, and tightly clasped his hands around Richard’s neck. Richard managed to secure a grip of his brother’s arm, and, with great effort, his face turning violet all the while, bent back his brother’s wrist. Caught by surprise, Christopher relented his grip, and, seizing the moment, Richard pushed him away. Christopher stumbled backwards, losing his balance as he reached the edge. With a cry, he tripped and just managed to secure handhold on the edge of the rock.
“Richard, please! Help me!” he cried, clinging on tightly to the ledge. But he was losing his grip.
Richard moved forward, until he was standing directly above his brother. Then, with an abhorrent look on his face, he answered him,
“Never.”
Slowly, Richard turned his back as Christopher lost his grip, and, with a cry I will never forget, fell to his death below.
Holmes and I leaned forward, and pulled Richard back up to the top of the pavement. Breathing a word of thanks to us, he ran to his wife, and wrapped his arms around her. She sighed with heartfelt relief, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Richard,” she breathed, fixing her arms around his neck, “You’re safe.” She touched his cheek affectionately. “They told me you were dead.”
“They told me the same,” he replied, holding her shoulders. “My God Marie, I nearly lost you.” Richard removed his Ulster, and wrapped it around Marie. “You’re freezing.”
She shook her head. “Do not worry about me.”
“But, you are not hurt? And the baby is fine?” Richard pressed, fixing his hands on her bloated stomach.
“I am fine, and so is the child,” she replied. “Richard, you saved me.” Marie turned to me and Holmes.
“Thank you,” she breathed softly. Holmes nodded by way of reply, and I smiled. Not caring who saw, the couple stood, atop Malham Cove, each one just so glad the other was alive. Marie threaded her hands through Richard’s curls, as if to check he really was there. At that moment, the heavens opened, and the rain began to fall.
Although it was cold, I was glad of the wet. After the exhausting couple of days we had been through, it felt so refreshing. Turning to my side, I was surprised to see a look of apparent gladness, or perhaps even longing, on Holmes’ face. He turned to face me, and one thing shocked me more than anything else I had seen in the last few days- Sherlock Holmes was crying. At least, that was how it appeared. In the rain, it was rather difficult to tell.
A sudden gasp from Marie distracted me from my thoughts. Marie brought her hands down from Richard’s hair, and stared with horror at the scarlet staining them. She looked up at Richard, aghast.
“Richard...” she murmured, shocked, finally realizing. He had hit his head falling to the ledge.
Richard clasped her hands together. “I’ve only lost a little blood,” he said, or at least tried to say, because at that moment, he fell into the arms of his wife, succumbing to unconsciousness.

Epilogue

I opened the hall door, and moved into the living room, seating myself opposite Holmes. He sat slumped in his armchair, a rectangular piece of card in his hands. He did not acknowledge my presence.
I sighed, and picked up the paper off the coffee table, flicking through the pages of headlines. I saw an advert in one corner, and I smiled.
“Look here, Holmes,” said I, breaking the silence, “it is yet another advert for the Helmsleys. They really are going up in the world.”
After the birth of their daughter Meriel, Marie and Richard Helmsley had inherited enough money from Marie’s fortune to not only care for their child, but to tour as musicians. Their bohemian careers really had spiralled so high that they were now playing at the Royal Albert Hall. I really did admire their courage.
From Holmes, however, I had received no such reply. He still sat, silent, fingering the paper between his hands.
“I never fully understood Richard’s case,” I continued. “You haven’t spoken of it for months, Holmes.”
Holmes sat up in his chair, and clasped his hands together. “I thought it was rather elementary,” he replied, a touch of arrogance in is voice.
“Well, not all of us think in the same terms as you,” I replied bitterly.
Holmes at up, and looked me in the eye. “Richard’s brother didn’t want Marie’s money. After all, he was high up in favour with the duke he was working for, as we heard from Mrs Sorsby. I believe he even had his own land on their estate. Therefore, we can only assume that he was in love with her. Christopher wished to take Marie abroad, and marry her in secret there. Of course, Marie had no say in the matter. He planned to hold Marie in the Dales until he could secure a safe passage away from England. Christopher was right in thinking that no one would come to Malham in such terrible February weather. Unfortunately, it’s harder than he imagined smuggling a beautiful young woman into the Dales. People were bound to notice.”
“But what of the body in the mortuary? What that just sheer coincidence?” I pressed.
“Of course not. Christopher Helmsley, much as I hate to admit it, was a genius. He timed it all perfectly. Kidnapped a second girl who looked similar, assisted by his henchmen, the same ones we conquered at Malham, he made her cross the road at that certain time, before he ran her over in his carriage.
“His carriage? What do you mean? He worked for a Duke-” I began.
“Yes, as a coachman,” Holmes replied, irritated. “It would be easy for him to arrange.” He flipped the paper between his hands.
“What is that paper for?” I asked. “Let me see.”
Before he could stop me, I snatched the paper of him. Holmes glared at me, but I ignored him. Turning the paper over, I gasped. It was a cheque for one thousand pounds.
“Good God Holmes, who is this from?” I asked, astounded. Holmes sighed.
“The Duke and Duchess of Norfolk,” he replied.
“But whatever for?!” I exclaimed.
“I found their missing daughter,” Holmes answered slowly. “Unfortunately, she was no longer alive.”
Finally, I understood. “Holmes,” I gasped, “You don’t mean...”
“Yes. The body in the mortuary was the missing Duke’s daughter in the paper five months ago, the day Richard visited us. And you thought I was paying no attention!”
Suddenly, another thought came to me. “Holmes,” said I, “The Duke that Christopher worked for...”
“...Was the Father of the missing girl,” Holmes finished. “Yes. Christopher Helmsley took the daughter of his employer, and ran her over in her own carriage. That really is depravity.” He stared into the fire, the flames reflecting back into his eyes.
“And so they repaid you handsomely,” I concluded, “For finding the body of their daughter.”
“And for finding her murderer,” Holmes added. “It was lucky for Helmsley that he was already dead, or else he would undoubtedly hang.” His voice was touched with malice as he spoke.
“Holmes, what is wrong with you at the moment?” I pleaded, wishing he would say. “You haven’t been yourself for what seems like months.” I knew he would be drinking again, if I had not hidden the alcohol as well as his hypodermic syringe. Being a Doctor, I knew what those dangerous vices could do to a man. “Please, say.”
Without a word, Holmes turned towards his desk. Looking across, I noticed the picture of Irene Adler, sitting pride of place on the table. I wondered if I now understood.
“So Holmes,” said I, changing the subject, “What will you spend your money on?”
Holmes stood from his chair, taking his coat from the rail. I only just caught the answer before he closed the door behind him:
“More whisky.”

The End

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Texte: Marion Smith
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 22.04.2012

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To My Inspiring Mother. I'm done with the laptop now.