The formation of the ominous clouds outside the office window turned my
attention from the notes I had been working on from the day before. The mysterious dim
grey of the sky was unsettling upon my nerves; prior the hour, there was a clear
indication of the summer’s sun, and I grasped the abrupt transformation from light to
dark very disturbing. I squinted at the scene unfolding before me through the glass
frame,as though trying to decipher the meaning of it, but found no clarity.
I turned my gaze away from the window at the sound of rustling papers in the
direction of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who lazily lounged in an armchair before the fireplace;
his long lean legs stretched before him upon the hearth-rug. In his hands he held the
Sunday morning news, in which he had indulged himself in for the past quarter hour.
To me, he sat with his angular face in profile; the dark frown upon his brows attracted
my attention, but I dare not disturb him.
From all the years that I’ve been working with the man, if I were asked to recite
the one most bothersome quality of his, it would be his secrecy. A trait that is needed
in a detective, of course, however, he rarely took the time to inform me of the many
things that happened all around me; only when necessary would he bother to do the
chore of informing his secretary and friend his plans. Therefore I decided to return to
my notes; I would simply ask to see the morning papers when he was through.
“What a pity,” Holmes drawled out; his tone held no great remorse.
I paused in my writing, with my pen poised just above the parchment,
listening, waiting, and watching to see if he would collaborate more upon what it was
that he found such a “pity”.
“What is it, Watson?” I heard him say.
I sat up rigid upon my seat from my position with head and torso leaned over
upon my work. “What do you mean, my good man?”
Holmes let out an amused chuckle; he folded the papers he held in his hands
and set them aside, “The scratching of your pen upon the paper ceased twice in less
than two minutes; you neither spoke nor moved from your position, and so I assume
there must be something upon your mind.”
I smiled at his deduction, and nodded, “Right, you are; right you are,” I
praised him lightly, “I was merely wondering what it was that you found such a pity.”
My friend nodded, “The newspaper has reported death, Watson.”
“Death?” I queried with alarm, “By what means, and to whom?”
Holmes shook his head grudgingly, “The man was shot and found dead in
the park early yesterday morning.”
“And his name?” I questioned.
“No one knows,” he replied simply.
I too see why he had frowned before, for that was exactly what I was doing.
“And he was shot by whom?”
“His name, I cannot give you either, Watson. This is a mysterious matter,”
Holmes said.
“That is quite a peculiar incident, but surely you, Holmes, have an idea of
what occurred that—“
A sharp knock at the door interrupted my last words, as I jerked my gaze
towards the door in alarm. Holmes shot from his chair and made it to the door
before I could even stand upon my feet. Slowly his hands closed around the door
knob as he slid the lock off of the door.
Part Two