Sherlock Holmes in "A Grave Injustice"

[Trollheart]

A Grave Injustice
A Sherlock Holmes Mystery
(With apologies to Sir Arthur)

Editor's note: in accordance with the last will and testament of Dr. John Watson, this story has been withheld from publication until a more tolerant climate prevailed in England. The revelations within the text, although names have been changed to protect careers and reputations, were deemed too serious and threatening to be allowed into print in Dr. Watson's time. It was also considered by Dr. Watson to be prudent that the remarks made by the late Sherlock Holmes himself towards the conclusion of the case be kept from the public, lest they adversely affected his career and standing in the community. It was the doctor's wish and instruction that only when the details would no longer be in danger of harming any reputations, careers or lives of anyone connected with the narrative should the publisher, to whom this was entrusted, allow it to be seen by the public.

With the agreement and permission of his estate, and the aid of his great-grandson, the eminent heart surgeon Dr. Charles Watson, in checking the text to ensure nothing compromising remained, especially with reference to his great-grandfather and his most eminent friend, as well as of course Her Majesty's Government, we are advised that the time has come to tell this most fantastical, but entirely true tale.

We therefore present to you, very slightly edited as above, but otherwise entirely as it was written on October 31 1899, the most singular case ever undertaken by Sherlock Holmes, and the last written by Dr. John Watson, both of 221B Baker Street.


Chapter I: A Ghostly Message

"Spooks and spirits!"

Holmes threw the paper down in a fit of disgust, casting it away from him. It crumpled to the floor, almost falling into the fire before he snatched it up impatiently. I looked up from my book, my eyebrows raised.

"My dear Holmes!" I ejaculated. "Whatever is the matter?"

He fixed me with a steely eye, as if he held me responsible for all the charlatans and frauds in London, if not the world. His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"Fools!" he snapped. "What utter nonsense they print these days! Why, Watson? I ask you, why is it that our esteemed newspaper editors find not enough interest and intrigue on the London streets that they need resort to such, such... aaaahh!" He hit the paper with the backs of his fingers, as if it offended him.

"Come now, Holmes," I remonstrated with him, leaning back and relighting my pipe, which had gone out. "Surely it can't be as bad as all that?"

For answer, he sprang out of his chair and all but shoved the newspaper at me, the headline glaring at me. It was so close I had to refocus my eyes to make sense of it.

ANOTHER SIGHTING OF WEST END PHANTOM!

I read the article, shaking my head. I felt I had to agree with my friend. When there were so many other important news stories to be told, why did our national press insist on titillating its readers with such nonsense?

"A couple out for dinner at a fashionable restaurant (it ran) – the name of which we withhold at the request of the establishment – called the manager to complain of the cold. As we are currently suffering through one of London's worst heatwaves, the manager (who has also requested anonymity) attended the couple, thinking perhaps the woman suffered from a thinness of the blood, or some such disorder which would make her feel the cold more than other people. He was quite astonished to find that, as soon as he neared their table he, too, felt cold. "Icy cold", the unnamed official described the chill. He had, he noted in his statement, been in his youth to the Arctic, and declared that what he felt was at least that cold, if not more so. The woman's teeth were chattering and, to prove this was not some strange sort of illusion being shared by all three, the wine in their glasses had frozen solid, and the man's spectacles were covered with a thin layer of what could only have been frost.

The couple noted the presence of a man seated at a nearby table, and the manager approached him to ask if he, too, felt the unseasonable chill, but swears that as he turned the man vanished into thin air. The woman screamed, the man leaped up – all three had seen the disappearance – but just then the temperature returned to normal and the wine thawed. The police were called, but were unable to locate the man.

Our readers will recall, of course, the two previous sightings of what has now been dubbed "The West End Phantom", when a woman on her way home found to her horror that a man had apparently materialised in her carriage. She screamed, and the cab came to an abrupt halt. But when the driver looked in, she was alone. Neither of the doors, she swears, opened, yet the man was gone, as quickly and mysteriously as he had appeared. There had already been one sighting of a man who was seen loitering near the court house, but a constable investigating swears the man dissolved into air before his very eyes.

One can but wonder where this fantastic spirit will choose to manifest itself next, and what its purpose may be in doing so, if it has any."


"What absolute twaddle!" I growled. "When there was yet another flower girl fished out of the Thames only two nights ago, the seventh in a month. I say, Holmes," I looked up at him. "Why not look into that? The police seem to have no leads."

Holmes gave me a half-bored, half-sneering look as he took back the newspaper.
"I go, as you know, Watson, where I am invited. These drownings have been recorded as either accidents or suicides. It is a sad fact, my friend, that  the great mother river gathers more poor unfortunate souls to her cold bosom in a week than either you or I could guess, and the public at large does not care. What are these poor girls but an unwanted burden on society? In the words of our greatest writer, the official attitude of Scotland Yard seems to be that they are decreasing the surplus population."


I was somewhat aghast, though it was not hard to believe. The death of a few flower sellers, some of the lowest of the low, the least fortunate of the millions who make up this great city of ours, was hardly a pressing matter for the police. Especially if it seemed there was no crime involved.
"But so many in so short a time, Holmes!"

He frowned. "It is entirely possible, Watson – possible, I say to you, mind, not probable – that there is a killer behind all these untimely deaths, someone who is stalking our flower girls, and we should care. We simply cannot afford to. I cannot go expending my energy trying to track down a murderer who might not even exist. Besides, there is the Liebert case, which occupies all my time."


He was right, though I feared that this time even my good friend, who had solved so many crimes and freed more innocents than any other man in London, or likely in England, had this time too steep a hill to climb. Mrs. Liebert had already been arrested, tried, found guilty, and sentenced for the murder of her husband. She currently languished in prison, awaiting her date with the gallows. Both Holmes and I, indeed, it seemed, most of London society, and probably most of the country had raised more than an eyebrow at the unexpected sentence of death, but then, the man who had sat the bench was well known for his severe treatment of criminals, regardless of their sex or status.

Of course, the evidence was damning, and the lady's guilt proven. But Holmes as usual saw more to it, and also as  usual kept his cards very close to his chest. He had his own ideas about the current state of our judicial system.


"What incredible bad luck that she should have drawn Lord Bailey as the trial judge," he moaned. "Especially as he was not even supposed to be there. If only Sir Robert McGinley had not succumbed to food poisoning the day before the trial, leading to Lord Bailey's  hurried replacement of him. What other man would have pronounced sentence of death on a woman?"

I nodded in sympathy.

"Not for nothing is he known as the Black Judge," I noted. "Sixty-three cases tried in the last two years, all but three of them ending in a verdict of hanging."

Holmes growled. "And not all of them capital crimes. Do you know, Watson, he even sentenced a boy of twelve to be hanged for petty theft of a few miserable shillings?"

"The law," I sighed, "is on his side though."

Holmes' face was black as a thundercloud.

"I have, as you know, Watson, the greatest respect for the law," he said, lighting his pipe and shaking his head. "But this idea of men who are so far past working age that they should be in a bathchair watching the sunset ,rather than trying to deciper the case of another unfortunate who happens to fall to their tender mercies, is something that has long been at the root, I believe, of many a wrong verdict, miscarriage of justice, and, sad to say, innocent man hanged." He looked up sharply. "The whole system of justice needs a complete overhaul, but with the stranglehold the aristrocracy and nobility has on appointments, this seems to me something which will not happen in my lifetime, nor in yours."

I arched an eyebrow. I had never taken my friend to be a revolutionary or an activist, though I could not fault his reasoning. Too many old men who should have retired ten years ago were still practicing on the bench, many often having to be nudged awake during a case. It really was a shocking state of affairs, but had been the norm for so long now that I feared Holmes was right when he prophesied gloomily that it would take longer to change than either of us had time on this earth.

I picked up a paper, this one The Times, and gasped aloud.

"Well, Holmes, it seems the Black Judge has passed his last sentence, and surely now stands before a higher court, to be judged himself!"

"What?" Holmes' head snapped up, like a cobra detecting its prey.

"It's all here." I tapped the newspaper and read the article to him.

"It is this newspaper's sad duty (read the article) to record the passing of one of England's finest judges. Lord Bailey, known for having the longest serving record on the bench, was killed early yesterday evening when he stumbled out into the road and was knocked down by an omnibus.  All four passengers maintained that His Lordship had a terrible expression on his face, a look of pure terror, and ran into the street without once looking, as if he were being pursued by something which terrified him.

Father James Dwyer, the curate of St. Margaret's, was travelling as a passenger on the omnibus, and attended the stricken judge. Seeing no hope of recovery, Father Dwyer took the man's last Confession and administered the Last Rites. By the time a policeman brought a doctor to the scene, His Lordship had sadly passed on to his reward.

The body was removed to the city morgue until it can be claimed by His Lordship's relatives. We are sure our readers join with us in offering our heartfelt condolences to His Lordship's family. England shall not see his like again. Further, we add our voices to the desperate need for regulations governing the speed of these death-traps which menace our roads every day."

"England shall not see his like!" Holmes' voice was dripping with sarcasm, and I had to agree. "Let us fervently hope not! That man should have been put out to pasture years ago. How many innocents have suffered under his cruel justice, Watson, I wonder? How many men gone to the rope when a prison sentence would have sufficed?"

Holmes sighed, took the paper and reseated himself.

"Perhaps," he suggested as he puffed at his pipe thoughtfully, "there is justice in this world after all." His eyes narrowed. "I do find myself wondering though what would make a man of such sedentary habits as Lord Bailey run screaming out into the road?" He was scanning the rest of the newspapers, checking accounts. "No pursuer was found, though I suppose it is possible such a person, having seen the result of his pursuit, whether it be his design or no, could have left the scene unnoticed in the dark and the confusion."

I felt ashamed of making light of the situation, but both Holmes and I had good reason to  feel little sympathy for the death of the man who had so callously condemned our client to death.

"Maybe it was the West End Phantom after him," I joked. Holmes gave me a stony stare, the kind of look nobody cares to get from England's most accomplished – and indeed, to my knowledge, only – consulting detective.

"As I believe I made clear by my somewhat inappropriate and uncharacteristic outburst, Watson, I place no stock in the supernatural, as you well know. Most people were prepared to believe the creature known as the Hound of the Baskervilles had come straight from Hell, but I knew better. The case in Cornwall, too, the one you so flamboyantly named "The Case of the Devil's Foot": the vicar was convinced that Satan himself was walking abroad in his parish, yet I proved, with your help, that there was no superhuman agency involved. No, Watson, the world has mystery enough, evil enough in men without our blaming our woes upon spirits."

"So what do you think happened, then?"

He sighed. "It is elementary, my dear Watson. Lord Bailey has long been known as a habitual drunkard, and I have heard rumours of other vices, worse again. He is – or was – a bully, an inveterate liar and a coward, and I say so in the full understanding that I am disparaging not only the dead, but a member of the nobility. As to the former, I await his vengeance from beyond the grave."

Holmes sat back, puffing at his pipe, as if waiting. The large smoke rings spiralled up to the ceiling, there was the trundle of wheels down below in the street, but no ghoul appeared from out of thin air to strike my friend down. He snorted.

"It seems," he remarked sarcastically, "that the spirit world is a little lacking in its avengers. So. As to the other, well, I very much doubt I shall be the only one listing the late Lord Bailey's vices. He was not a well-liked man, and had few friends. It's quite clear to me, Watson, that the Black Judge got drunk, ran out into the street in some sort of drunken – or one might conjecture, opium-induced – fit, and met his end though no fault but his own." He clamped his teeth around the stem of his pipe. "There will of course be much public mourning at His Lordship's passing, but not too much in the way of private regret, I would think."

For a few more minutes silence reigned, as we both read our papers, then I ejaculated "By Jove! I earnestly hope for his sake that circus fellow had the thing licenced!"

Holmes looked up, somewhat distracted. "I beg your pardon?"

I indicated my paper, and he came over to look.

I showed him the short article on the second page, just below one which bemoaned the strike by chimney sweeps having moved into its tenth week. The article was headed
"Monkey Attacks Man at Circus'.

"Parents and children throughout the West End of London were disappointed (the article ran) to learn that the Fennington Circus, which had been due to play four more performances before moving on, as circuses invariably do, has closed its doors early. The owners, Mr. Charles Fennington and Mr. Stephen Nilsson, blame the cancellation of performances on the sudden and unexplained behaviour of their animals. Two nights ago, the animal attendant, a Mr. Eversden, woke to a great commotion. Dressing quickly, and worried that local roughs or even young urchins were teasing the animals, as he says has happened in other towns, Eversden went outside to see the lions, the tigers and even the trained monkeys acting in a most disturbed and agitated manner, growling and shrieking and – in the case of the monkeys – dancing up and down in their cages, as if something were causing them consternation.

Searching the area, Eversden descried no intruders, and did what he could to calm the animals. They however would not calm, and so he had to call the keepers who helped him sedate the beasts.

The next morning there were further, and more violent disturbances when one of the monkeys, who was at the time in a show with a troupe of acrobats, leapt on one of the men and began clawing his face most viciously. It took two men to pull the creature off the acrobat, whose name was given as Emile Deschamps, and who now has some rather ugly scars as a memento of his ordeal. The offending animal was destroyed, and it has been decided that with Deschamps unable to perform, and none of the other acrobats willing to allow the monkeys into their act, the circus will depart these shores earlier than was originally intended. The circus is regarded as one of the finest in the world, having only recently completed a two-year tour of North America."


"Trained animals going wild, people seeing apparitions that vanish, a judge running into the street screaming like a woman!" Holmes returned to his seat, his brow clouded."I swear to you, Watson!" His face was drawn and tight, but exhibiting a certain redness I had seldom seen in my friend, as his patience seemed on the verge of snapping. "It seems all of London has lost its mind! Why can't – halloa! What is that commotion outside?"

Jumping to his feet, Holmes walked to the window and stared out. Instantly he was again the man of action I knew so well, and which suited him so well.

"Hurry, Watson! To the door!" he cried. "A woman has fainted on our very doorstep! Bring your kit!"

[Trollheart]

Banging downstairs, we gave Mrs. Hudson quite the fright, but this was no time for finesse. Holmes opened the door carefully, as it appeared the lady had fallen against it, and opening it too suddenly or roughly might have hurt her. Like someone gathering up a fallen bird, Holmes exibited that gentleness which was for him so rare, but which he was capable of displaying, and carried the woman into the parlour. She began to make faint moaning sounds, to our immense relief, and as Mrs. Hudson, who had fled into the kitchen at sight of Holmes' unconscious burden, returned with some brandy and water, colour began to return to her cheeks and her eyes flickered open.

"Wh- where am I?"

She looked around, and it seemed to me that for a moment, naked terror was in those hazel eyes. She scanned the corners of the room, as if looking for something, something I got the distinct impression she feared to see. Once assured by her eyes that she was free of whatever had been troubling her, she sighed and seemed to relax a little.

"You are in Baker Street, madam," Holmes told her kindly, gently. "This is my associate, Dr. Watson, who will, with your permission, conduct a quick examination to ensure you are not hurt."

Her eyes flew open, and recognition sparked in them.

"Dr. Watson! Then you must surely be Mr. Sherlock Holmes!"

"At your service, madam." Holmes bowed stiffly. She reached out and grasped his hand.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" she gasped, as he, uncomfortable as he was with human contact, drew back involuntarily. "Do forgive my forwardness, but I now recall: it is you to whom I was bound when I had my faint." She frowned. "Do you know what happened? Did you see it?"

"See?" Holmes seemed a little lost, a position almost alien to my friend. "I am afraid I was not a witness to your fall, madam -"

"Mrs Fraser," the lady introduced herself. Holmes bowed again, as did I.

"Mrs Fraser," he repeated the name. "I merely heard a noise in the street, looked out the window and noticed you had fallen. I did not, I am sorry to say, see how it occurred, or why."

Mrs Fraser was by now able to sit up a little straighter, and I had finished my very cursory examination.

"You seem perfectly fine to me, Mrs Fraser," said I. "Can you tell us what caused you to swoon in the street?"

She seemed hesitant.

"You will think me foolish indeed, sirs, but I swear that what I tell you is the truth."

"Go on," said Holmes gently. "We will make no rash judgement upon your sanity, I do assure you."

"Well, as I am not familiar with your address, Mr. Holmes, I walked around a little before I could find the street. I was looking for a policeman to assist me when I saw a man whom I thought I recognised, though his face seemed in shadow. This in itself I found odd, as it is, as you can see, a bright sunny day outside, and the sun is in the centre of the sky at this moment, throwing the shadows the other way, away from your door. Yet there he stood, shrouded in darkness, his head down, walking along the street. He stopped then at a door, leaning against it, and I approached him, to ask directions, when – and you must believe me, Mr. Holmes – he simply vanished before my eyes!"

Holmes' eyebrows raised and he rolled his eyes but said nothing.

"I now realise," went on our visitor, "that the door he had been leaning against was your own, and so I had found my destination. However at the shock of his disappearance I fainted, and remember no more until you revived me just now."

Holmes folded his arms, a determined look on his face.

"So," he sighed. "You are yet another victim of the West End Phantom?" He turned a terrible gaze upon her, the kind of look I have seen strong criminals quail and crack under. "What is the meaning of this, madam?" he demanded harshly of her. "Does someone play a trick on me? Are you part of a conspiracy to drive me mad?"

"My dear Holmes!" I remonstrated with him, placing myself between him and Mrs. Fraser, to shield her from his wrath. "Such behaviour is most unbecoming of you!"

For the barest instant, a look the likes of which I have seldom seen crossed my friend's face, and I actually thought he was going to strike the lady. Then his expression changed, the tension went out of him and he relaxed, like a spring uncoiling.

"Forgive my brusque manner, madam," he said, somewhat stiffly I thought. "But the newspapers have been full of so-called reports of this spirit, and it is an affront to my logical thinking that such things should be given credence. I am weary of reading about these sightings, and to think one such had been brought to my door..."

He stopped, bowed, shrugged.

"I do not know what it was I saw, Mr. Holmes," the shaken woman averred. "Perhaps it was a ghost, perhaps it was my own imagination, or the fact that I have not slept properly these last six nights, but I swear to you on all that is good, on the grave of my departed husband, that I saw what I saw. I have no explanation for it, but I believe it must be connected to the reason I came to see you."

Holmes appeared to have control of himself now. Never had I seen him so enraged. Well, perhaps once or twice. The affair of the "Five Orange Pips", when he had sent a man unknowingly off to his death. The anger that had caused him to snatch up his whip and drive "Hosmer Angel" out of Baker Street. And of course, the time on the moors, when we had come across what we believed to be the body of Sir Henry Baskerville. Clearly, these sightings of the West End Phantom were affecting him more than he would care to admit.

"You shall tell us all about it, madam," he promised, " but I fancy you would be happier to discuss the details in a more, ah, private setting, am I correct? Do you think you might manage the stairs? I know I am always more comfortable hearing the particulars of any case when in my own apartments, and it will undoubtedly be more conducive to our conversation."

Mrs. Fraser nodded, and I thought I detected what looked like gratitude in her eyes.
"I believe I could make it upstairs indeed, Mr. Holmes," said she, smiling at Mrs. Hudson, who still looked a little prickly. "Thank you indeed for your kindness, Mrs. Hudson. I am indebted to you."

---

"I wonder that a lady of your obvious standing does not come to see me in a carriage." Holmes remarked when we had repaired to our rooms and Mrs. Fraser was settled in one of the chairs, the colour returning to her face. I took my chair and he as usual sat in his armchair, tapping out the remains of his last pipe. "Though perhaps the sudden decline in your fortunes explains this. Nevertheless, it is a long way to come, all the way from Sheffield."

Mrs Fraser's eyes widened, but I knew Holmes well enough by now to be able to follow his deductions. Nevertheless, I knew the faint amusement it gave him to display what some people had called magic powers, until he explained and then they tended to either laugh or nod, as it all seemed so simple.

"Your boots and your cloak, to say nothing of your hat, are of the finest quality," Holmes observed. "However, if I may be so bold, they have not been, ah, updated, in some time. I detect signs of mending, and I do believe that is a small patch there near your shoulder. You have come from Sheffield, as is clearly evidenced by the return ticket you hold in your glove, and as we heard no sound of carriage, and as, indeed, had you arrived in one and fainted it would be a hard-hearted driver indeed who would not help you, or at the very least ring our bell for assistance, as I am somewhat well known in these parts, I therefore  conjecture that you walked from the train station – nay, nay! I am in error. Of course you did not walk. The scuffing on your boots, so clean and well kept otherwise, and that very tiny tear in the hem of your dress denotes the standard hazard of travelling on one of those blessed omnibuses."

Mrs Fraser nodded each time Holmes made his deductions.

"You are correct in every detail, Mr. Holmes," she said, admiringly. "I feel that I have chosen wisely in coming to you."

Something in our visitor's manner, the way she visibly seemed to flinch when Holmes struck a match to light his pipe, stayed his hand.

"You are averse to tobacco?" The question was said almost with a touch of irritation.

"You are of course master in your own home, sir," said she, "but I would just point out that I suffer from asthma, and so even the smell of tobacco..." She trailed off, somewhat embarrassed to be asking such a boon.

Holmes shook the match out, put the briar pipe to one side, laying it on the table. There was just the barest flash of annoyance in his eyes, but it did not show in his voice.

"Then for the sake of your health I will of course forego my smoke." I was impressed; I knew the pipe was to him as invaluable and indispensable an aid to his thought processes as a notebook is to a police constable, and that he was willing to accede to her unspoken request showed what a man he truly was.

"Now, if you please, Madam: your story, from the beginning, and pray leave nothing out, no matter how small or insignificant it may appear to you. It has been my experience that those things which I like to refer to as trifles often turn out to have the deepest importance, though they may seem frivolous at first."

I noticed that the lady had removed her gloves as Holmes had spoken, and now she toyed with them nervously in her lap. In a halting voice – whether this was from her recent faint, or was her normal way of speaking I could not guess – she began.

"First of all, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I should say that my name will of course mean nothing to you, but should I mention another name you will understand perhaps why I have come seeking your help. That name, gentlemen, is Francesca Liebert."

Holmes sat up straigher, his keen eyes alight with interest, the muscles along his arms tautening in a way I had often marked. He was intrigued. As, indeed, I must confess, was I.
"Indeed!" He made a motion with his hand, which I knew was a habitual thing he did, expecting the pipe to be there, then with a sort of irritated wave at himself dismissed the gesture, settling for stroking his chin instead. "You are related, I presume?"

"I am her sister. You will of course be very aware of Francesca's predicament, gentlemen. At this very moment she languishes in Pentonville Prison, sentenced to hang for the murder of her husband."

Holmes nodded. "A most unfortunate and troubling case," he murmured. "I was quite taken by some aspects of it. Your sister, sadly," he looked sharply at Mrs. Fraser, his eyes hard, "refused my offer of assistance at the time, quite rudely turning me away. And as for the police, well!" He shook his head, looked over at me. "I am sorry to say that once Scotland Yard has its man – or, of course, in this case, its woman – they tend to become blind to anything which might damage their case, and so I am certain some very important aspects of the murder were overlooked in the rush to judgement."

Mrs. Fraser coloured, her cheeks heating up at the rebuke Holmes afforded her, though directed not at her personally. "I am afraid Fanny has not changed her mind on the matter, Mr. Holmes," she confirmed, "which is why I have come to ask for your help. I know you are likely ill-disposed to assist us now, when we have been so ungrateful to you after you offered your help, but I cannot but help think that my sister had a reason for not wanting you involved."

Holmes' eyes were suddenly bright.

"Yes, yes!" He nodded, leaning forward. "I got the distinct impression she was trying to drive me off, lest I discover something she would rather remained hidden. Knowing my, ah, reputation for being able to see what others cannot – including very much our gallant guardians of the law – she feared I might unearth some secret? Something which might perhaps throw an entirely different light on the matter?"

"Mr. Holmes." The lady's face had gone ashen again, and I hastened to move to the dresser, pouring her out a small sherry. She took it gratefully, sipped from the glass with dainty lips. "I am not a rich woman. I never was, but in the past few months much of my savings, including, I am somewhat ashamed to say, the legacy left me by my late husband, has gone on Fanny's defence. Yet I fear that even the barrister whom I secured at great cost knew full well the case was futile, knowledge that did not prevent him from taking his fee."

There was a hardness in the woman's tone, and I understood perfectly. Our own great writer of the age, Mr. Dickens, had underlined the rapaciousness and greed of those who made a living in the legal profession by bamboozling clients with extra charge after extra charge, papers for this, papers for that, appeals that went nowhere, costs and fees, until their client was both physically and financially exhausted. Another symptom of the general malaise afflicting the corpulent, complacent body of our legal system.

"Quite so." Sherlock Holmes looked longingly over at his pipe, but mindful of the lady's breathing difficulties, restrained himself. "I have heard our English lawyers described as little more than pirates with a licence, and I must admit it is a description I can heartily concur with. So, if I am to understand then, Mrs. Fraser, you spent all, or most of your money on a lawyer, but to no avail?"

"Well." Mrs. Fraser looked down, as if ashamed. "As you of course know, the verdict was a guilty one, and to not only my shock but, I believe, that of most right-thinking people, she was sentenced to hang. The date is set for three days from now."

Here, to our intense embarrassment and my own private dismay and sympathy, Mrs. Fraser broke down and wept into her hands. I was mildly surprised to see, as I moved to comfort her, my friend rise from his chair, go down on one knee and take her two hands in his as gently as a lepidopterist cradling a rare specimen of butterfly. Sometimes, the harsh coldness of Holmes' manner shocked me, even now, when I knew him so well, but this was not one of those times. Tilting the lady's chin up he looked into her eyes, which were shining with tears.

"Fear not, madam," said he quietly. "If justice has not been done, I am the man to see that the balance is restored. Just gather yourself a moment, and when you are ready, pray continue with your account. And be in no doubt that you are among friends here; we will do all we can to help you and to prove your sister's innocence, if innocent she be."

Wiping her eyes, Mrs. Fraser looked at Holmes.

"I imagine, Mr. Holmes, you are familiar with the details of the case, as you were involved in it until my sister asked you to refrain from investigating further."

Holmes snorted. I could see his ego had been slightly bruised, and this was not something he suffered lightly. In the main, Holmes did not differentiate between men and women: a slight from one was exactly the same as a slight from the other, and unwelcome from any quarter.

"Hardly asked, madam. She all but had me banished from the police station. Most impolite."

He sat back, made the gesture again which would have involved holding the stem of his pipe, had that article been in its usual place, protruding from his lips.

"I can only offer my apologies," said Mrs. Fraser, looking ashamed, "and assure you that Fanny had, I am sure, good reason to be as, ah, forceful as she was with you. Whatever she is hiding – and I do assure you, I have no knowledge as to what it might be – she seems willing to give her life for it."

Holmes snorted again.

"That, my dear Mrs. Fraser," he told her with asperity, "has been evident from the first time I met your sister."

"Oh?" Our client seemed a little taken aback. I thought I saw some flicker of hope kindle in her tired eyes.

"Yes, it was evident from, well, many factors," Holmes nodded, "but mostly from the rather cold way she met the news of her husband's death. Not a tear, madam, did I see, fall from her eyes, nor the sign of any. This," he leaned back, steepling his fingers and looking up at the ceiling, "I am afraid to say, played its part in allowing Inspector Lestrade to come to an opinion regarding the killer. Not," he added archly, "that the good inspector had any doubt, I am quite sure, of her guilt, he not having the mental faculties and the power for observation with which I am, thankfully, blessed."

Mrs. Fraser started in her seat.

"Then you believe Fanny to be innocent?"

"There is not the slightest doubt of it," Holmes told her, as if he discussed the most obvious thing, against which he would hear no argument. "I had my suspicions before you entered our home, but as I was not required on the case I could not make those known to Lestrade. It is not," he transferred his gaze from a contemplation of our ceiling to Mrs. Fraser's face, in which now hope was lighted, like a candle behind a heavy curtain, "for me to interfere with the official police for my own ends."

[Trollheart]

Mrs. Fraser nodded, understanding.

"As I told you, sir, my fortune is not what it was. Yet of course I do not expect you to work for free, and so..." She reached into her bag, her brow creased. Holmes reached forward, staying her hand.

"As you probably know by my reputation," he told her without the slightest hint of pride or arrogance, "I interest myself in cases which seem insoluble, or have a very singular aspect. I could not involve myself officially, as I had not been invited to, but in my own small way I have been turning the facts over in my mind and it seems to me there is far, far more to this case than meets the eye."

Again his hand strayed towards his pipe, as if it had a mind of its own; again he restrained it with a gesture of annoyance.

"Should you decide to engage me to look into the case," he told her, looking into her eyes searchingly, "you are of course free to defray any small expenses I may incur in its investigation. However I would be churlish indeed were I to insist you pay for my services, when our legal system has already robbed you of almost all you have. No, my dear lady, I have no wish to be paid. If you know of me, you will also know that the pure prospect of an interesting investigation, to say nothing of the opportunity to save a lady's life and prevent a terrible miscarriage of justice is reward enough. We are at your service, my friend and I. You have but to command us."

Holmes' eyes were shining with that light I had seen so many times before, when he was about to set out on a fresh investigation, that look of keen interest and – yes, almost eagerness – that he got when, as he once put it, the game was afoot.

"I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson!"

The lady was virtually overtaken with gratitude. Holmes waved her thanks away.
"I do not say," he warned her, "that it is possible to save your sister, for in order to do so I must not only prove her innocence, but also present the police with the real culprit. But we shall endeavour to do our very best towards achieving that end."

He rose to his full height, stretching his legs by the unlit fire and leaning his long arms on the mantel. "Now, I shall relate what I know of the case, adding my own observations – which have not been shared with Scotland Yard, I should stress, as I like to keep my theories until they are ready to be revealed as full and unchallengeable – and you shall correct me on any detail I may have got wrong, or any point I may omit."

Again, I could see Holmes really felt the loss of his pipe, and to be honest I could have done with one too, but the lady's health was at stake, and as she was now also our client, it would have been rude and indeed reckless of either of us to light up. Holmes leaned back and closed his eyes, again pressing the points of his fingers against each other.

"It was early on Sunday morning last, the 17th, that the maid rose and went to the sitting room to open the windows, this rather uncomfortable heatwave we have been suffering through making the rooms stuffy and close by midday, She testified that, to her surprise, the door was locked, and voices could be heard from within, raised as if in anger or at least animated discussion. This maid, one with the – ah! - amusing name of Chambers – knocked on the door, finding it hard to believe anyone could be up and about at this time – I believe this all occured around six o'clock in the morning? Her knocks went unanswered, as the people in the room continued to shout. As she turned from the door to fetch one of the footmen and confer with him as to what should be done, she heard a terrible scream, and the sound of something heavy falling to the ground."

Mrs. Fraser nodded. "You are right in every detail,  Mr. Holmes, but for one: Chambers deposed that she tried the door at quarter to seven, having been slightly late in rising, troubled as she had been by a headache."

Holmes smiled tightly. "Ah, so. Yes. Well, you will appreciate that when I am taken off a case" - here he shot our client another annoyed look - "I tend not to keep all the details fresh in my mind. I have many calls upon my time, and cannot spare room in my brain for unnecessary encumberances. As you say then, a quarter to seven. Thompson, the footman gave evidence that when he arrived at the door all was quiet, and he admitted entertaining the thought that Chambers had been allowing herself to run off on a flight of fancy. However when he tried the door he did indeed find it to be locked, a strange occurrence. He then reported to the butler, one Carter, who, armed with a set of keys, tried to open the door but found that something prevented him."

"The key was still in the door on the other side." I had not spoken since we had settled Mrs. Fraser in our apartment, and my mouth felt dry as I added my small contribution to the discourse.

"Precisely!" Holmes pointed at me, his eyes like those of a hawk seeking its prey. "Which tells us that whoever had locked it had done so from inside. One of the people heard arguing, without a doubt."

I leaned forward a little, frowning. "Did Chambers say how many people she heard arguing?"

"Excellent question, Watson!" grinned Holmes. "And one which, I am afraid to say, our good friend Lestrade did not ask, taking as his answer to the unspoken query the evidence presented to his eyes, and not that which might have suggested itself to his brain, had he considered a while longer and more deeply."

Mrs. Fraser shook her head. "It was assumed to be two," she said, a little confused. "There were only two people in the room when entry was effected."

Holmes held up his finger in the air, as if presenting it as an exhibit of evidence at court.
"Yes," he smiled tightly. "When entry was effected. But what about before? Could there not have been a third person present?"

The confusion grew on our client's face. "Why do you ask this, Mr. Holmes? The police did not."

"Precisely. And that is where they may very well have made their first, and in your sister's case, fatal mistake. I will now describe for you the scene of the crime, as it was when I was called in. The lady, your sister, lay on the armchair, fainted of course, a bloody knife in her right hand. The body of her husband was on the ground, covered in blood. The key to the room, having been forced out of the keyhole from without, had fallen to the floor; I believe Carter trod on it when he entered. A thick smell of smoke pervaded the air, necesitiating the opening of the window, which both Chambers and the butler attested had to be forced open, as Mrs. Libert had had decorators in who had painted, among other things, the window sills, making it all but impossible to open them without breaking the layer of fresh paint coating them."

Holmes stroked his chin in thought. "That particular window, Chambers deposed, had been very stiff and tended to stick, moving only grudgingly, ensuring the room was rarely aired enough. Chambers noted in court that she could not move it herself, and usually had to call one of the men to open it. Even with Carter's greatest efforts, the window could still only be moved about two or three inches, certainly not wide enough to allow anyone to slip through it." He nodded, as if mentally ticking an item off a list. "The fire, I note, was not lit, nor would one expect it to be, taking into account our current weather. It would be a cold-blooded person indeed who would need warming at a fire in this heatwave."

"You found this odd, Mr. Holmes?" It was either a query or a challenge. I thought perhaps Mrs. Fraser was endeavouring to see if my friend's reputation was well earned. He smiled graciously at her, as if seeing a kindred spirit of sorts.

"Did you?"

"I did."

"And why, pray?"

He watched her like the master watches the promising pupil. I doubted our visitor had any aspirations in the detective line, but Holmes seemed to see a mind sharp as his own in some respects.

"Because Peter did not smoke," said the lady. Holmes nodded.

"You are quite certain of this?"

"Oh, quite. You see, Fanny suffers from the same affliction I have from birth struggled with. So did our poor departed mama. A family trait, I believe."

"You both have asthma?"

"Indeed."

"I see."

I, too, was beginning to see. What man of any conscience would smoke when it might damage his wife's heath?

"I do not say," went on Mrs. Fraser carefully, "that he still loved her."

"Yes." Holmes nodded. "I gathered as much from my interview with her at the police station. But I also gather divorce was not in the air?"

Mrs. Fraser shook her head vehemently. "Oh no. Peter had far too much to lose, socially and even financially, by inviting such scandal. No, they kept up appearances to the outside world, and it was only the close family circle who knew that there was nothing but cold, shared self-interest between them."

"She no more wanted a divorce than he."

"It would have been the ruin of her, Mr. Holmes, and then there would be the shame and expense of a battle for custody of their son."

"Harold, I believe."

"Yes. He is a good boy, devoted both to his father and his mother; only nine years old, and currently at boarding school. To have to ask the child to choose..."

"Quite so. And so the parents kept up the pretence, but there was no love there."

"None at all. Oh, I don't mean they hated each other, Mr. Holmes. Far from that. But any love there had been had long turned to ice."

Holmes shook his head. "None of which," he observed, "helps your sister, giving as it does a motive for her to murder her husband."

"One the police pounced upon," sighed the lady.

"Yes." Holmes commisserated with her. "I am afraid that the adage 'if it seems too good to be true is usually is' has little sway in the ranks of the police department, about as much as deduction and logical reasoning. As I have already noted, the guardians of the law sadly take things often at face value, particularly if it secures them a conviction." He tutted. "If only they would take the time to look that little bit further..."

Mrs. Fraser looked at him, her eyes shining now.

"So you have your suspicions, Mr. Holmes?"

 "My good friend here, Doctor Watson, could no doubt regale you with accounts of cases believed hopeless, in which men were to hang, in which my doubts were instrumental in being overturned. I do not admit defeat easily, my dear Mrs. Fraser, and I certainly have in no way, to use an old metaphor from my boxing days, thrown in the towel yet. There are many singular features of this case which interest me and give me hope that we may yet prove that your sister is no killer. But if I recall your words earlier," he steepled his fingers and looked at her over their tops, in that manner which always reminded me rather disturbingly of the entomologist studying the insect, "you intimated that you had come here with some information I must hear?"

She nodded, and I noticed a shiver run through her body, despite the warming sherry she had partaken of, and the previous brandy and water which had revived her after her swoon. Her eyes, too, which had begun to clear and sparkle, clouded over and again acquired that strange, frightened, haunted look I had marked upon her first being admitted to our rooms.

"Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, but you are of course correct. I came to you because I had to."

"You had to?"

"I was... well, this is hard to explain, sir. I suppose you could say I was sent, guided even."

Holmes groaned. "I do so earnestly hope, madam," he warned her, "that we are not returning to the issue of this – this phantom you believe you saw vanish outside my door?"

"Well, yes and no."

"Really, madam!" Holmes' ire was up now, his temper exhausted, and he snapped at her in the same way a policeman might a troublesome interviewee. His eyes were hard as flint, and there was a flush creeping up his pale cheeks, a sure indicator that here was a man not to be trifled with. Mrs. Fraser seemed confused. No, not confused, I thought, studying her as my friend had trained me to. Embarrassed?

"You will think me quite mad," she whispered. A slight tone of accusation, bitterness tinged her voice. "I have no doubt you already hold that opinion of me, Mr. Holmes."

"It is not," he told her sharply, "for me to make that determination, madam, for I am not qualified to make such a diagnosis, though my friend Dr. Watson may have other ideas. I will confess I have rather had my fill of ghosts, spirits and phantoms this morning. However, we will reserve judgement on supernatural matters for the moment. Pray continue."

"It was like this, Mr. Holmes." Her voice had dropped to a whisper. "I was in bed, hardly sleeping. I have not managed to sleep much, with all that has been weighing on my mind, what with poor Fanny due to be..." She stopped again. Holmes waited for her to proceed. "Well, I woke – that is, I came out of the light doze I had managed to drift into, and what do you think I saw standing before me in the darkness?"

"I cannot imagine," drawled Holmes, looking over at me with a look that said he feared he very much could imagine.

"Now, before you go thinking I am prone to fancy, Mr. Holmes," said Mrs. Fraser, with a touch of pride in her voice, "you should know that all of my acquaintances and family know me to be a most practical woman, someone who is not easily given to imagination or hysteria. There is no history of madness in our family, and while I am of course under a great deal of strain, I can promise and swear to the Lord Almighty that what I saw was real."

"Do go on." Holmes was idly looking down at his fingernails now. It seemed he was rapidly losing interest in our visitor.

"There was a figure standing over the bed. It gave me such a fright, I pulled the covers right up to my chin, shivering in fear. In that moment, it vanished, right in front of me."

Holmes sighed, made to get up. "Madam, I will do all I can to clear your sister of this heinous crime, but I really must protest at these... these ghost stories! Now if you would please excuse me, my time is very valuable."

She did not rise.

"But I have not yet told you what was left behind, Mr. Holmes." She visibly shivered as she said it. Holmes was reaching for his pipe, standing at the mantelpiece, his back turned to her.

She looked over at me.

"His name," she said.

"Whose name?" I asked, as my friend seemed to have dissociated himself from the conversation.

"His," she pointed at his back. "Sherlock Holmes."