Fifty Shades of Sherlock Holmes

Table of Contents

The Case of the Defiled Countess

Unmasking the Raven

The Case of the Defiled Countess

The sky was dark
over all of London and the gusts of wind so intense they rattled the shutters of
our windows.
 
"Watson, do see if you
can attend to that vexing draft?"
 
Holmes pulled his heavy afghan blanket closer to his chest and stoked
the fire whilst I walked around the room surveying the windows to see which had
not been properly closed.
 

A slight ripple
in the drapes of the window overlooking Baker Street drew my attention, and as
I moved in to reposition it, I saw a carriage was pulling up to our front
door.
 
"Holmes?
 
I believe we may have company," I
said.
 

"At this
hour?" Holmes said.
 
He drew a
pocket watch from his robe and frowned at the time.
 
"I suppose you should go down and see
what our visitor requires before Mrs. Hudson is awakened.
 
We'll hear no end of her complaints if she
is."
 

I took up a
lantern as I headed down the staircase and had not yet reached the bottom when
the caller slammed the heavy knocker on our door louder than cannonfire.
 
I winced as Mrs. Hudson charged toward her
door shouting, "What kind of ruffian calls on someone in the middle of the
night?" through the walls.

She threw her
door open and I smiled sheepishly.
 
"Good
evening, Mrs. Hudson.
 
I apologize for
the noise.
 
I was trying to get the door
open before you were disturbed."

Mrs. Hudson was
still tying her robe around her waist as she looked up at me, not bothering to
cover up the plunging neckline that revealed her heaving bosom.
 
A handsome woman not yet in her sixtieth
year, her hair was dark and grey as it hanged loose about her shoulders.
 
It was the first time I hadn't seen it pinned
up in a tight bun.
 
"I suppose this
is normal for the likes of you and Mr. Holmes," she sniffed.
 
"But I run a respectable home and must
demand the same from anyone who stays here."

I caught myself
lingering over her surprisingly ample cleavage and snapped myself out of it in
time to say, "Of course, Mrs. Hudson.
 
That is to be expected.
 
I will
see that it does not happen again."

"See that it
does not, or I shall be forced to raise your rent."

Once her door was
shut, I bounded down the rest of the stairs, terrified our new guest would bang
the knocker again.
 
The rain was coming
down hard enough that I could hear it spattering against the cobblestones on
the walk outside.
 
I opened the door only
to rear back at the sight of a darkly dressed apparition.
 

The figure did
not wait for me to offer an invitation.
 
I was able to make out a woman's hat and black laced veil dangling from
the brim, covering most of our visitor's face, but even in the dim glow of the
gaslight, I could make out her shining green eyes.
 
Her perfectly formed lips and narrow chin
peeked out from beneath the veil, but the rest of her was all buttons and
topcoats.
 
"Shut the door behind me,
quickly, I beg you," she hissed.
 

Before I could comply,
she grabbed the door from my hands and closed it herself.
 
"Is someone chasing you?" I said.

"No.
 
Are you the detective?"

"He is
upstairs.
 
But first may I say it is
highly unusual for us to receive visitors so late and we prefer you make an
appointment
at a respectable hour.
"
 
I raised my voice loud enough for Mrs. Hudson
to hear the last part.
 
I looked at the
woman with a sideways grin and mouthed
I
apologize
, then waved for her to follow me upstairs.

I rapped on the
door to 221-B and said, "Holmes, we have company."

"I deduced
that from the knocking on our door, dear fellow."
 
Holmes stood to his feet and extended his
hand to the woman, "Good evening, Countess Barrymore.
 
How might I be of service?"

She gasped and
pressed her hand over veiled mouth, "However did you…who told you?
 
I demand an explanation!"

Holmes smiled
gently and said, "No one, I quite assure you.
 
And your confidence shall be kept regardless
of the circumstances."

He moved his hand
for her to be seated but she did not move.
 
"First, tell me how you knew it was me."

Holmes rolled his
eyes slightly.
 
He'd grown so accustomed
to this little charade of people being mystified by his parlor trick-like feats
of deduction that it was no longer fun to astound them.
 
"Very well," he sighed.
 
"Your carriage is personally owned, for
it does not bear any of the markings of the local companies that service this
area.
 
Obviously, someone of your station
would have her own.
 
From your
conversation downstairs with Watson, I detected an ever-so-slight hint of a French
accent in your speech, no doubt from your formative years spent in Paris while
your father served as the Ambassador."

"How do you
know that?"

"I keep biographical
files on all of the Royals, as well as notable government officials,
performers, and authors.
 
One never knows
when they will be of service."

"I
see," she said.
 
"Pray
continue."

"Your height
and weight are consistent with the information I have collected thus far, and
finally, despite your best efforts, I can clearly make out the beauty mark
above your left upper lip which is said to be the single-most imitated physical
feature among the upper-class.
 
It seems
that what nature has bestowed on you, your peers would seek to emulate through
cosmetics."

"Most
impressive, Mr. Holmes.
 
I see that the
information I received about you was well-deserved."
 

Holmes nodded and
said, "So, now that we've wasted enough time establishing the obvious,
allow me to return to my initial inquiry.
 
How may I be of service?"
 

She opened her
mouth to speak and Holmes' hand suddenly shot up, "Wait.
 
Before you begin.
 
Yes, we understand discretion is of the
utmost importance.
 
Your attempts to
reinforce that by offering us extra money or jewels to keep your
confidentiality are unnecessary.
 
Yes,
Watson is required to be present, even as you reveal whatever awful thing has
transpired that brought you here, regardless of how embarrassing it may
be."
 

"I suppose
you hear things like this from people like me quite a bit," she said.

"That
depends, Countess.
 
I have not heard
anything from you yet.
 
For all I know
you are about to tell me something far beyond the pale of my entire career thus
far."

"I assure
you that you have never heard anything quite like this, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes smiled
politely, if skeptically, and said, "Then please start at the beginning,
and I must insist you do not leave out any details."

"Some are
quite sordid, Mr. Holmes."

"It is not
possible to embarrass either Watson or myself, Countess.
 
Whatever you leave out may hold the very key
to our solving the case, so I must ask you to be as specific as possible."

"Very
well," she said, with a sideways glance as if to take my measure.
 
I looked down to spare her the humiliation of
knowing I was looking at her.
 
She took a
deep breath and told us a tale of hedonistic intrigue that I shall not soon
forget.
 

~***~

On the Friday before last, I received a package
at our city home.
 
Our estate is far out
in the countryside, and lately it has seemed unbearably empty to me to stay
there.
 
Two weeks ago I packed a few
things and we left without telling a single soul.

I was sitting in my bedroom, reading, when a
man knocked at my door.
 

"Madame, some rich bloke asked me to
deliver this to you," he said.
 
"Paid me thruppence to hand it off to the pretty blonde lady who
liffs here."
 

 
I looked
past him, but saw no one else.
 
He
claimed his only instruction had been to deliver it to my front door and leave
immediately.
 
With that, he tipped his
hat to me and walked into the night.
 
 

Attached to the package was a letter written
in ornate script, an invitation to a "private gathering" on the
following evening.
 
It promised an
"unforgettable evening of mystery and delight."
 

A carriage would be positioned outside of my
front door at precisely nine o'clock the next evening, and all I need do is
enter it to be taken to the gathering's secret location.
 
The last line of the letter read: Be sure to
wear everything you find within this box.
  

I undid the package's bindings and stared in
wonder at the contents inside.
 
The
first, a long black gown with elegant stones sewn into the neckline.
 
The fabric felt luxurious on my hands as I
removed it to inspect it.
 
Someone had
even gotten the size correct, as it appeared the perfect length and width for
my figure.
  

Even more mysterious, beneath the gown was a
black mask made of the same fabric and a small golden pendent of a raven.
 

Now, I realize how foolish this must
sound.
 
Anyone wishing ill upon me could
simply have whisked me away in the night, but I admit, I was intrigued by the
mysteriousness of it all.
 
I tend to live
such a boring life at the estate that the promise of this new adventure
thrilled me incalculably.
 
  

My husband, as you have already deduced, is
the Count of Corvus.
 
Perhaps you are
aware also that he has been travelling to the Orient this past year.
 
What you cannot know, what no one knows, is
that I have not received any letters from him as of six months ago.
 
For all I know, his ship has crashed off the
coast of Beijing, or he has run off with one of the native girls and does not
intend to ever return to Britain.
 

On the night in question, I paced around my
house, unable to decide whether or not to go.
 
Even as I bathed and prepared myself, I was still not yet convinced that
when the carriage arrived, I would get into it.
 
I slid the dress over my bare skin and it felt simply amazing to
wear.
 
There were ruffled bindings over
the shoulders, leaving my arms and upper chest exposed.
 
The wide skirt was light enough that it
bounced when I walked.
 

I fixed the golden raven to my upper left
shoulder strap so that its beak turned up toward me.
 
It had two small, finely-cut rubies for
eyes.
 
 

At nine o'clock, hooves clicked in the
distance, coming closer.
 
Soon I could
hear the carriage's wheels turning along the paved stones of our road.
 
When I opened the front door to peer outside
and saw the wagon, with its darkly dressed driver and two enormous horses, I quickly
fixed the mask around my face and ran into the street.
 
 

Oh, that I had resisted.
 

The carriage driver did not even look at me,
let alone speak.
 
Before I was even
through the rear door, he snapped the reins we took off.
 
There were three others seated in the
carriage on the seat opposite mine, all of them masked, the same as I.