Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder

Title Page

The Scarlet Thread of Murder

By

Luke Benjamen Kuhns

Publisher Information

First edition published in 2015 by

MX Publishing

335 Princess Park Manor

Royal Drive

London, N11 3GX

www.mxpublishing.com

Digital edition converted and distributed by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

© Copyright 2015 Luke Benjamen Kuhns

The right of Luke Benjamen Kuhns to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and not of MX Publishing.

Cover layout and construction by
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Dedication

Dedicated to each and every person who plays the game for the game
's own sake.

The Scarlet Thread of Murder

A Sherlock Holmes, Martin Hewitt, & D.I. Edmund Reid Mystery

Prologue

I don't believe that I, Doctor John H. Watson, shall ever run dry of the fantastic tales in which I accompanied my great friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes. We had a remarkable and long lasting career, which began in the late Victorian era and even to this day, in our elder years, is still ongoing. Sherlock Holmes, who now lives in Sussex, is still as sharp as ever. I often look over our old cases and wonder which of our tales I should disclose next. Some I do not believe will ever be released, unless I myself have passed from this life. However, it was on a summer day in June 1920 that I came upon a series of notes that had not been touched since late 1890.

Sherlock Holmes, you see, was not the only detective in London. There were a great number of others. What made Sherlock Holmes unique was his singular position as a consulting detective. There was another in the profession who went by the name of Martin Hewitt. His adventures were chronicled by a journalist named Brett, and though they were not as popular as those adventures I shared with Holmes, Mr Hewitt was a brilliant detective with a powerful mind. Holmes' client list boasted members of the Yard, his brother, and personages of even higher position, while Hewitt did extremely well amongst the general public, when Holmes was otherwise engaged or unavailable. And while Holmes often scolded the efficiency of Scotland Yard there were some officers who shone bright. One of whom was D.I. Edmund Reid of Whitechapel, one of his most notable tasks being his work on the Ripper Case.

In 1890, these three men found themselves tangled in a web of intrigue. It is important to note that the events that transpire in this narrative are compiled from the notes of myself, the journalist Brett, and D.I. Edmund Reid. They have never shared their stories with the public, but they did share their notes with me, making it my responsibility to disclose the outré events that we endured.

Chapter 1

D.I. Edmund Reid

Disaster in Whitechapel

August 1890

Very few things have so shaken my faculties as the events which began on this late Summer's day. As Detective Inspector of Whitechapel it creates a certain type of immunity. One feels prepared and braced for horrors, both weird and wild. Whilst I sat at my desk at Leman Street buried in piles of paperwork, I found myself suddenly moved by a heart-stopping boom. The windows shook, and I could hear panicked shouts in the street. It did not take long to realise the cause of the incident; it was an explosion in the underground railway. I jolted from my seat and took my hat as I raced outside. I could see a cloud of smoke rising above the buildings. It was coming from the Whitechapel and Mile End station.

Two officers and myself arrived first on the scene. A terrible sight lay before us. More people than I could count had come to watch as smoke poured out of the station entrance. Survivors were stumbling out of the station: men, women, and children coloured grey and black from the heavy smoke were collapsing upon the street. My men immediately began attending to the fallen. I could hear the choking screams of the people still inside unable to find their way out, I covered my mouth with a kerchief and raced inside to help the desperate. The heat within the station was immense, as if walking through a wall of fire. The smoke blocked my vision making it nigh impossible to quickly assist those in need. I stumbled into someone, a woman; I took her by the arm and led her out. She wrapped her arms around me.

“You are safe now,” I informed the woman. Her skin was darkened by the smoke and dirt. Something fell from her person - a silver oval pendent. It opened upon hitting the ground. Inside I noticed a picture of a crown. She took it and clutched it tightly while she coughed.

“Thank you, thank you!” she gasped. I motioned for an officer to take her, and I went back inside. I found the body of a man on the floor, he did not move. I hauled the corpse outside and laid him upon the ground; to my horror, not only had the body been trampled, and bones protruded from his flesh, but his face was severely burned, the skin charred and peeled back. More officers and the fire-brigade arrived as I looked over the charred body. The smoke began to clear as the fire brigade battled what flames were left. In total, it was over four hours before all the bodies were moved and some form of peace restored.

“Detective Inspector,” called Officer Kipling swiftly approaching me. “We need you to come see something.” I followed him down into the wreckage. Looking over the scene it was clear the train had pulled in on time, while passengers were embarking and disembarking the engine had exploded. The two carriages nearest the engine were affected most by the blast, and were now twisted heaps of metal and charred wood. The remaining carriages had been knocked off the tracks, and were black from the fire. Officer Kipling leapt down into the wreckage and I followed. “You see this?” he said, showing me the epicentre of the destruction. “This was no accident. This was a bomb.”

As I looked up and down the line of carriages, the chain reaction of explosions which had followed was utterly devastating. I found myself drifting, thinking about the innocent that were carelessly slain as I gazed upon the destruction.

“Sir... sir?” Kipling's voice called me back.

“Yes, an explosion,” I confirmed. “I can see that.”

“Suppose it was Jewish rebels?” Kipling asked. “They've caused a lot of trouble lately.”

“It could be the Irish, or Scottish, or Welsh!” I snapped. “For all we know it could be the Americans!”

“Americans, sir?” Kipling questioned.

“My point, Officer, is that we know not who it was. Don't assume blame upon anyone until you have all the facts.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Kipling hung his head a moment.

“We need to get this cleaned up... get Mr. White down here first. I want him to take a look before we start removing the scrap,” I ordered,

“Right away, sir.” Kipling darted off out of the abyss.

I continued to look around the dismantled carriages. I observed the bodies that remained. They were horribly charred, unrecognisable. Clothes and flesh ripped open, like a hot knife through butter. A foul stench was trapped in the station, a smell fit only for the seventh circle of hell. The scorched bodies and burning coals stung my sinuses. It would take some time to identify the remains and contact relatives. I thought back on Kipling's remarks: This could be Jews, or even Irish Rebels. Either way, this was no mistake, the explosion had a purpose not yet known. An extremist at the engine, perhaps?

Whitechapel, these street run wild with moral insanity. Here whores are gutted like pigs, men from the highest ranks of society transform into drunkards and rapists as they indulge in opium and give in to their animalistic urges. It feels as if God himself had turned his face away, leaving me, and a band of men, to battle the devils that haunt this modern Sodom and Gomorrah.

Within the hour, Kipling returned. With him was Mr. Vigo White. A man of average height, with fiery red hair and wild sideburns. He walked towards me, I could see his beady blue eyes surveying the wreckage. He wiped his mouth in amazement at the destruction. Lifting a pair of spectacles from the arch of his pointy nose he rested them atop his head pushing his ginger locks back.

“I found him, Mr. Reid,” Kipling called.

“Thank you for coming,” said I, stretching out my hand towards Mr. White. Setting his case upon the ground, he took my hand.

“Of what service may I be?” Mr. White returned as his observations continued. “Looks like quite the mess.”

“Indeed it is. We found traces of an explosive. I want you to have a look at it and see if we can gather any clues from what is left behind; a maker or seller, perhaps.”

“Don't you have other people who could do this?” White asked. He took his spectacles into his hands and rubbed them clean with a cloth. He returned the cloth to his grey tweed jacket with exaggerated care. “I don't even work for the Yard.”

“You don't work for anyone, you're a vagabond,” said I.

“I have my experiments and a more than generous lump sum every six months,” said White with a smirk. He enjoyed his anonymity. He lived in the shadows and we left him to it unless his assistance was needed. For all his bizarre behaviour his skills and scientific knowledge was paramount to me.

“You know our resources are limited. None of my men are as skilled as you,” I paused. “Why do you question my call for aid?”

“No reason, I just like hearing that I'm needed.” White grinned, picking up his case. “Show me where this bomb is - or was.”

Setting his case upon the ground, he opened it up. Inside were various scientific tools, bottles with strange solutions, a small burner, and glass tubes for collecting samples. He descended onto the tracks and waded through the wreckage to examine the origin of the explosion and gingerly collect samples. White knelt by the remains of the explosive and begun to examine. The explosive casing was virtually non-existent. Shrapnel was all that remained. Strange burn marks of various colours of red and orange trailed away from the central blast. I watched White drift into his own world, as happened frequently when he made his examinations. He mumbled, sighed, and chuckled as he took samples and packed them into the tubes.

After a few minutes, White shot up like a bullet, and cried: “Sweet Mother Mary!”

“What?” I asked excitedly. “What is it?”

White turned to look at me, stepped over the wreckage, and climbed back on to the platform. His hands were black, but that did not stop him from rubbing his forehand, leaving residue.

He leaned in close to me and whispered, “I've seen these types of explosive burn marks before.”

“Where from?”

“You're not going to like it,” he warned.

“Tell me, White.”

“I knew a chap once, a Jewish mechanic. He had a design for an explosive that was small in size but with a fierce impact. His work always left these kinds of red and orange burns.”

“Who is this mechanic?”

“Look, Reid, I'm not saying he did this. It is possible that someone stole his plans.”

“The name! Tell me his name.”

White hung his head and ran his blackened hand through his red hair. “The man's name is Abraham Lamech.”

“Lamech, you say? The Jewish anarchist?”

“Say that again?” came an unfamiliar voice. White and I turned to see a man approaching us with a pad and pencil in his hands. He wore a tweed suit in brown and blue checks, an red waistcoat with a gold watch chain, and a brown fedora. “Did you say, Lamech is responsible for this attack?”

“I shan't be saying anything. Who are you?” I demanded.

“He's a piss-taker, Mr. Reid. A scribbling monkey for the papers.”

“Care to comment on this attack, Mr. Reid? You suspect Lamech? Will you be arresting him? What is your evidence?”

“Officer Kipling!” I shouted.

“Will you be taking this to Abberline? Or are you afraid of the Jewish threat?” The reporter carried on asking questions.

“Kipling, get down here at once!” I ordered again.

“You are avoiding the question. Why, Inspector Reid? Are you trying to cover something up?”

I gripped the reporter by the collar and pulled his face close to mine. “Now you listen here. I don't know how you slipped in, but whatever you think you hear or know is all hearsay. I will not have scum like you twisting words and making false reports so that you can sell papers.”

“Still bitter about Ripper getting away, Inspector?” I shoved the reporter back, he nearly fell to the ground. Kipling came towards us.

“Officer, throw this man out of here. And make sure everyone knows his face. I don't want to see him sniffing around here again!”

Chapter 2

Doctor Watson

The Goblin Man

Autumn 1890

It was a bright and sunny autumn day. The windows of 221B were open, which allowed a pleasant breeze to flow through the rooms. The sound of carts and horses' hooves banging on the cobbled road filled the background, along with the occasional loud-spoken man or laughing woman. I found myself gazing out our bay window, watching the business below. Holmes was in a dark mood. The previous week he had concluded work on a high profile case for a well-known foreign dignitary, and the case had seen him rise to new heights within his field. As a result, he was flooded with letters from prospective clients far and wide. However, he took little interest in this sudden flurry of requests for his services. With open letters piled high around his chair, all of them please for help, he sat with his chin resting on his knees.

“Watson!” he called. I turned from the window to see him throw his head back and rest it on the back of the chair. His arms hung over each side like an exhausted child, and a deep sigh left his lungs.

“Find something of interest?” I asked.

“Quite the opposite, I'm afraid.” He sighed again. He leapt from his chair and walked over to the mantle. He rested his long thin arm across it and repeatedly tapped his middle finger upon the wood. “Dull, Watson, just dull. All of these letters.” His head turned back and forth as he looked at the pile. “Ah! Take this one.” He walked back to his chair and picked up a note. It ran this way:

Dear Mr Holmes,

I require your services. My wife has left me and has given no indication as to where she has gone.

Help me find her.

Sincerely, George Peabody Jones.

“Is there nothing of interest in this woman's sudden disappearance?” I asked.

“Women disappear all the time, especially when they have spent time in the company of people like George Peabody Jones.”

“Are you familiar with this man?” I pressed.