Darkness clung to the early Baker Street morning as Dr Watson opened the front door. The night watchman held out a small slither of paper. Written faintly upon this were just two short words: "Help me."
Sherlock Holmes must use all of his remarkable powers of deduction to identify the author of this desperate plea. His investigations lead him and his companion into a murky conspiracy - a sinister secret society plotting a fiendish scheme that could destroy the British economy and bring down the government.
From a thunderous carriage chase through the streets of London to a deadly shootout on a remote island off the North-East coast of England, can Holmes and Watson uncover the dark secret that lies within the sinister 'Ex Tenebris' club?
Darkness clung to the early Baker Street morning as Dr Watson opened the front door. The night watchman held out a small slither of paper. Written faintly upon this were just two short words: "Help me."
Sherlock Holmes must use all of his remarkable powers of deduction to identify the author of this desperate plea. His investigations lead him and his companion into a murky conspiracy - a sinister secret society plotting a fiendish scheme that could destroy the British economy and bring down the government.
From a thunderous carriage chase through the streets of London to a deadly shootout on a remote island off the North-East coast of England, can Holmes and Watson uncover the dark secret that lies within the sinister 'Ex Tenebris' club?
The rapping on the front door woke me with a start. I stumbled out of bed and quickly lit a candle. I flicked open my hunter to see that it was a little after six. Outside, all remained stygian darkness. The knocking continued as I pulled on a dressing gown and headed towards the living room. Mercifully, it appeared that Mrs. Hudson had not been woken; the cold weather had not been good for my wounds and what little sleep I had managed, recently, had been light and troubled. I passed through the salon, manoeuvring carefully in the darkness, descended the stairs then paused abruptly, upon reaching the front door. Suddenly, I felt wary. Who could possibly be calling at such an hour? However, after a few moments of uncertainty, reason and sanity prevailed. If it truly were an agent of evil, hell-bent upon doing us mischief, why on earth would it announce its arrival beforehand? I shook my head to chase away any lingering remains of the dark night and opened the door.
Standing before me was a short man, darkly dressed in a baggy cap and ill-fitting suit. He had small eager eyes, hair that sprang randomly from beneath his hat, a huge nose and a wide expressive mouth. He rubbed his hands together in automatic supplication. This was plainly a working man, unaccustomed to addressing those of any class other than his own. He also appeared to be waiting for me to instigate the conversation.
“Hello, how can I help you?” I asked, as openly and amicably as I could muster, given the circumstances.
“I am most terrible’ sorry to bother you at such an hour, but I have something that I simply must share with you, Mr. Holmes.” He spoke so fast that he almost spat out the words.
“I am sorry, sir, but I am not Sherlock Holmes,” I began. However, noticing how far and swiftly his face fell upon hearing this news, I quickly added, “But he does reside here, and I am sure that he will be happy to hear your story, in due course.”
I had no idea why, but I felt a sympathy for this unusual character and a suspicion that his tale might just be worth hearing.
“Please, come inside.” I gestured him into the hallway, where he removed his hat, before obediently following me back up the stairs and into the apartment.
“You may have to wait a little while before Mr. Holmes is ready to see you,” I sighed, as I opened the door to the living room.
To my complete surprise, the salon was no longer shrouded in darkness as I had left it. A roaring fire now blazed in the fireplace and the room was bathed in warm candlelight. Holmes stood before us, dressed in his mouse-coloured dressing gown, bright and alert, a whiff of smoke curling from the pipe in his hand.
“Welcome to Baker Street,” he announced. “Here you are safe and free to share anything and everything. All that you say will be held in the strictest confidence; we judge nobody. There is but one rule. You must always tell the truth.”
“Please, sit down,” he asked, gently. “Watson, a brandy for our guest, for he has endured a long, arduous, night of work.”
“Why, thank you very much. But how did you know that I had just finished my shift?”
“The time of day, the darkness beneath your eyes, your crumpled suit,” I answered quickly, with a smile. “Please don’t be alarmed, it is simply a form of logical deduction. Even I can apply it on a basic level.”
“Oh, I see. I apologise for my appearance.” The diminutive man appeared mortified; I now felt both embarrassed and guilty.
Holmes’ sharp and precise voice cut through the awkward silence to come to my rescue.
“Your appearance, perfectly acceptable though it is, I assure you, has no relevance, I believe, to your story. Please ignore my colleague’s amateurish, but well-intentioned, attempts at deduction and tell us what has compelled you to visit us at this early hour.”
Our guest relaxed, noticeably, took a sip of warming brandy and began his story.
“My name is Mavis. Jonah Mavis. I work in the City as a night watchman. I look after the offices of four small firms, in two adjoining buildings. I spend half an hour in each, before moving on to another. I am careful not to fall into a routine,” he emphasised with obvious pride, as his little chest momentarily puffed out, “so as not to fall foul of any observers who might use such information to plot against us.”
“Very wise indeed,” Holmes commented, with a raised eyebrow and the slightest hint of a smile. “And how do you avoid such repetition creeping in, may I ask?”
Our guest smiled. “I have a trick I learned when serving in India. It is awful simple but works a right treat. I flips a coin, you see? I make a note of how many times I have visited each premises that night and choose the two I have visited the least up to that point. Then the coin chooses the next. By the end of my shift, I have spent pretty much the same time in each and the order cannot be predicted in any way.”
Holmes was visibly impressed. “Why, Mr. Mavis, you have come up with a solution to this problem of yours that is worthy of the great mathematicians.” He rose, went to a drawer and returned with a small wooden box.
“Cigar?” offered Holmes. “They may only be Sumatran, but certainly the pick of the island.”
Mavis eagerly accepted a dark, tapering, cheroot and I offered him a light from a spill that I pulled from the fireplace.
“However, we digress, Mr. Mavis. Now that we are all comfortable, please share with us the reason for your visit this morning,” said Holmes, leaning forwards, his dingy clay pipe hanging precariously from his loosely clenched teeth.
“Well, it’s like this, gentlemen. I was walking home, looking forward to my dinner and a good sleep, when I noticed that something had attached itself to the bottom of my boot. It was a piece of paper, nothing unusual in that, of course. I stopped and leaned down to remove it. I peeled it off and was about to sling it away when I noticed the writing. It were only two words, but they fair put the wind up me.”
“Whatever were these words that shocked you so and led you to seek us out?” I asked, fascinated.
“‘Help me,’” replied Mavis, his piggy eyes now wide open.
Holmes straightened instantly and his entire demeanour changed. He leaned forward and stared seriously at our guest.
“You have this note?” he asked.
Mavis nodded. He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a small piece of paper, about four inches by three. He carefully handed this to Holmes.
“I haven’t folded or marked it in any way,” he stated.
“Before I examine this evidence, please tell me exactly where and how you found it. Every detail, leave nothing out.”
“As I told you, I was walking home. I live just off Stoney Street in Southwark. The walk to Cannon Street is not quite a mile, straight over London Bridge. It takes less than half an hour, even in the worst of weathers. I left the offices at the end of my shift this morning and headed towards the river. It was just before I turned right onto the bridge itself that I saw the paper stuck to my boot.”
“How long could it have been there?” inquired Holmes. “When did you last see your boot free of encumbrance?”
“Oh, just a few seconds before. I had half-noticed the paper tumbling slowly in the breeze before me. It was pure happenstance that it fell under my footstep and there stuck itself well enough to require removal.”
“So, it could have blown in from anywhere,” I sighed.
“Please ignore my pessimistic colleague and tell me everything that you remember. Was the note wet, damp or completely dry? Why did it affix itself to your boot? Were your soles wet or had they any substance upon them that might adhere to the note?” Holmes was now in full flow, his eyes bright and focused.
“Well,” our guest paused to compose himself. “Let me think. The note was indeed slightly damp, not wet, but perhaps enough to cause it to take to my boot.” Here he again puffed out his chest. “My boots are always spotless; I could show you them now if you like.” He began to reach down and was almost at his laces before Holmes ordered him to cease.
“Sir, I believe you completely, no need for any undress,” he stated. “You say the note was blowing in the wind, did you see from where it had come? Was it travelling towards you?”
“It came right at me. It blew around fair enough but yes it came from straight ahead, I’m sure.”
“Well thank you, Mr Mavis, your testimony has been most valuable,” Holmes announced, suddenly. He rose swiftly and held out an arm, gesturing that it was time for our visitor to leave.
“Oh, I see. Well, thank you for taking a look,” said our guest, with a visible sense of disappointment. He moved towards the door but turned back just before he reached the threshold.
“Do you think you will be able to help this poor soul?” he asked with sad eyes and a fallen face.
“Mr. Mavis, you must not concern yourself. You have played your part in this affair admirably. There is, after all, only a minute chance that this note is a genuine appeal for help. Even if we did believe it to be authentic, the chances of us ever being able to grant this person opitulation are infinitesimal.”
“He means helping them,” I added, smiling and shaking my head at my friend’s archaic tone. “Leave your details with me and if we discover anything, I will be sure to let you know.”
Our guest nodded, scribbled down his address on my ever-present notebook, replaced his hat and departed.
“Well, I suppose that’s very much that,” I declared as I returned to my armchair to refill my briar.
“Whatever are you talking about, Watson? We have work to do,” Holmes said with vigour.
“You mean to investigate this matter?” I asked, my mouth open in astonishment. “We have absolutely nothing to work from, just a note which could have come from anywhere at any time. Surely even you cannot divine an answer from what we have here?”
“And what exactly do we have here, Doctor?” Holmes passed me the note and I looked upon it for the first time.
“Very well,” I sighed. “Let’s see what we have. It is a torn scrap from a larger piece, slightly yellow in colour. It is of good quality, heavier than the average writing paper. Tuppence a page I shouldn’t wonder. The writing is well-educated; the curves and loops seem to indicate a female scribe, right-handed. The lines themselves are rather unsteady, this might well have been written under some considerable stress.” I looked upwards, hoping for approval.
“Very good, old chap, you have done at least as well as I could have expected from any Scotland Yard detective,” replied Holmes.
“I take it that is not exactly a compliment,” I replied, through slightly gritted teeth.
“Oh, do not be precious, Doctor, you have done well. All that you say is correct, except that I feel that there is something more to this material. It does not feel quite like writing paper. The surface is rather smooth, see how the ink has spread away from the initial strokes.”
I looked closely and saw the tiny veins of ink forking out from the main branches of the intended stroke, just as Holmes had stated. I turned the paper over and examined the reverse.
“It seems to be slightly coarser on the back. I agree, this is not writing paper. Wait a moment, this side seems to still be slightly damp, while the front is dry. No, not damp, it seems to be slightly viscous.” I raised the note to my nose. “Can I smell gum?” I speculated.
“Oh, Watson, you have once again shown me to be the fool!” declared Holmes. He slapped either side of his face with his hands, to dramatically show that he was waking up to a revelation.
“Well, thank you, Holmes,” I replied, “But be a good chap and share this discovery with me.”
“It is paper, Watson, but not writing paper. This is a piece of wallpaper,” Holmes revealed, waving his pipe with a flourish.
“Wallpaper, of course. Smooth on one side, coarse and sticky on the reverse. It is almost childishly obvious now. It also explains why it stuck so stubbornly to Mavis’s boot.”
My elation was swiftly and suddenly ended by a simple realisation. “But how does this help us, Holmes?” I asked, dejectedly.
“It moves us a step further forward. It may not seem significant now, however, it might just be the first step on the road to solving this mystery.”
“Do you really believe that there is a case here? Is somebody, somewhere, genuinely begging for help?”
Holmes took a long draw on his pipe before exhaling a cloud of blue-grey smoke. He nodded, slowly. “Yes, someone is in dire trouble, the only question that remains is, can we do anything to help the person or are we already too late?”
“Well, where do we start?” It seemed the most obvious question.
“Once you have had some breakfast, I suggest that you visit the Meteorological Office and obtain as accurate a weather report as you can for the past five days. I doubt they open before eight, so you have ample time.”
“Very well,” I agreed. “But what will you be doing?”
“I shall examine the location where the note was found. It will be getting light by the time I arrive. I know that the wind usually blows from downstream at this time of year, so I can make some preliminary calculations. Only once you have provided me with accurate data can we begin to speculate whence this missive might have originated.”
Holmes still held the sad note in his hand. His steel-grey eyes looked hard upon it.
“One more thing, Watson. This is rather poor-quality paper for a wall covering. Although heavy for notepaper, it is perhaps the thinnest, plainest, wallpaper I have examined. Bear this in mind when we are searching for its origin. I suggest we meet at Fangio’s on the Strand for a late lunch at, say, two?”
"Welcome to Baker Street... we judge nobody." So states Sherlock Holmes one early morning in the autumn of 1884. His invitation has been extended to a stranger who has shown up at 221 B Baker Street well a little after six a.m. of a night still swarthed in 'stygian darkness.' It seems that in the early morning before the sun is even awake, a man that can only be described as short, with hair that springs randomly from his hat, and dressed in an ill-fitting suit, unceremoniously arrives on the doorstep of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. From his very wide and expressive mouth emerges a tale so confusing as to baffle the mind.
Mr. Jonah Mavis, a night watchman by trade, found a piece of paper on the bottom of his shoe. There are only two words written in a feminine script: HELP ME. A message short but not by any means sweet. Who would have thought that a torn scrap of paper, slightly yellow in color, could lead to murder most fowl; suspicious shootings; secret societies; and betrayal? All this is the result of a person or persons with only one objective. The acquisition of wealth through whatever means necessary. Only one man can solve such a baffling case. A man of so many parts and contradictions as infinite as the very mysteries he sets out to unravel. None other than Sherlock Holmes in Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Found Note by MX Publishing.
I find Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Found Note, more than anything else, intriguing. How can Holmes possibly discover the writer of a note stuck to the bottom of someone's shoe? When the owner of said shoe isn't exactly sure from where the note even orginated. But as readers of Sherlock Holmes tales know everything to the master is simply logical deductive reasoning or better put, "Elementary my dear Watson."
This story is so full of colorful descriptions it's a pure pleasure to read. I have no trouble visualizing Holmes standing in his mouse colored robe, listening to this illustrious tale, while a roaring fire blazes in rooms currently bathed in candlelight. I can just catch a faint whiff of his dingy clay pipe as it hangs loosely from his lips. And even though it's very early in the morning Holmes listens with rapt attention. We all can catch a glimpse of the gleam in his eyes so bright and so focused. I can also see quite clearly the small piece of paper. No more than four inches by three. It's not even complete, but rather torn and slightly yellow in color. The troublesome little bitty scrap of nothing that miraculously came tumbling on the breeze and wound up in the capable hands of Sherlock Holmes.
If still waters run deep, than beware because "These are deep and dark waters indeed." Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Found Note by MX Publishing.