It was early in the morning, and the first rays of light had begun to peek through the misty clouds in the blue sky. The sweet sound of birdsong barely heard over the buzz of voices. It was chilly weather, and despite the sparse clouds in the sky, not to be thought of as good weather. The streets had begun to fill with the loud bustling of merchants off to sell their wares and children out to play. The monotonous clicking of wheels on the worn cobblestone streets just barely heard over the din of conversation and the buzzing of early morning gossipers.

I pull myself out of bed rubbing my stiff neck and cursing at my old age. Every morning it seemed to be there, taunting me, and reminding me yet again that I wasn't young anymore. What I wouldn’t give to relive my younger days, if only for the briefest of moments. Just so I could remember what it was like to not live with constant aching. I chuckled at the thought and made my bed.

A lively chant had begun to sprout from the square outside, growing rapidly like a weed in volume. Already the simple tune had wormed its way into my mind, taking root. I found myself humming along as I hurriedly bustled in the kitchen preparing my breakfast. I poured milk into my bowl and mixed it vigorously with the wheat flour to make the cream of wheat I would eat on the way to my workplace. Briskly, I devoured my breakfast and rushed over to my closet.

Hastily, I threw on my waistcoat and trousers, slipped on my shoes and made my way outside. I took a deep breath of the morning air and set off, weaving around the various people in my path. The heels of my shoes tapped on the street as I crossed the streets. The day was already in full swing and the vibrant, mesmerizing colors and smells overloaded my senses. As I cut through the merchant area, the sounds of people negotiating prices and shouting out their wares filled my ears. 

One conversation in particular caught my ear and I veered off of my path to listen in. A woman and a merchant selling flour were arguing about the price of the goods.

“12 cents I’ve paid you for this flour everyday, and 12 cents is what I’ll pay today!” cried the woman. She was dressed in worn clothing, and the coin purse on her waist was so light and empty that even the thieves would take pity on her. The slight odor emanating from her suggested that she hadn’t bathed in a few days.

“I’m sorry Miss, but times are tough, I have mouths to feed at home. I can’t afford to keep selling at my old prices.” replied the merchant. Now the merchant was dressed from top to bottom in new clothing. Fitted with a crisp suit, an ironed dress shirt and even a felt hat donned on his bald head, one passing by could mistake him for a rich slave owner. 

Taking pity on the woman, I cut into the conversation. 

“By the looks of it, you don’t seem to be in any sort of financial trouble at all sir. If anything, I’d say you were well off, and not needing to raise your prices. I see that suit comes from John’s next street over judging by the backstitch. And I know for a fact, he doesn’t sell anything below 20 dollars. Are you telling me that these bags of flour paid for such grandeur?”

  The merchant sputtered and flushed as he tried to contradict me. I allowed myself a small smile as I patted the merchant on the shoulder. My hand squeezed tightly in warning as I leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“Do sell this fine lady her flour at the regular price won’t you? I can dislocate your shoulder if you wish, I’m sure lugging all this flour like that would be a tad bit harder than usual.” 

The man grit his teeth and sighed, gesturing to the flour he said, “All right woman, you win, 12 cents it’ll be.”

I turned tail and started off again when a finger tapped me on the back. I stopped and turned to see the lady smiling at me. Up close, she was actually very pretty, with straight teeth and plump lips to match her shapely face. 

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“You know James, the other ladies always gossip about how terrible a detective you are, and frankly I did believe them. You don’t exactly have a very good reputation around town with all the odd jobs you take up.”

“I don’t do it for fame ma’am, if there’s a mystery to be solved, whether big or small, I don’t fear to take it. Now I’m terribly sorry, but I really must be off now.” 

I sighed and glanced at my pocketwatch, praying for it not to be too late. The miniature clock read quarter to nine. Quarter to nine!? I was going to be late to my appointment with Mr. Watson! The poor man had come stumbling the day before last rambling about how a thief had broken into his house and stolen his wife’s jewelry. I had, of course, calmed him down with some tea and sent him home, telling him to come back later. And now here I was, the one in distress now, hurriedly making my way to the office.

After quite a run, I arrived at my office, with stitches on my sides. Panting heavily, I leaned on the door and composed myself before walking in. Inside was the same as I had last left it, my simple oak desk directly in front of me accompanied by a leather chair which I had splurged for in hopes of better business. My papers were scattered all over and I sighed in relief as I noticed the chair by the door to be empty. 

A loud crash came from the room beside me and I dashed in and shouted worriedly. The wafting scent of coffee filled my nostrils as I glanced at the floor and saw a slowly growing puddle of liquid. Looking back up I noticed my daughter sprawled in the middle of the mess hastily mopping the floor with a towel. She looked up at me and gave me a smile that warmed me, which only a smile from one you loved could do. 

“Good morning father. Don’t worry about the mess, I can clean it up myself,” she said with that sweet smile on her petite face. As usual, she was here before me, always so diligent and hardworking. Today she was dressed in a long black skirt with a brightly coloured jacket that contemplated her long raven black hair. It was loose and unbraided today, falling to the middle of her back. 

I smiled back and walked out of the room allowing her to clean up in peace. I sat down with an oomph on my chair and pulled it up to the desk. Shifting through the haphazardly placed papers, a headline caught my eye. I picked up the newspaper and read the caption out loud. 

Puzzling case stumps the most brilliant minds, noble’s son is held captive. 

A true mystery indeed has caused even the greatest of detectives to pull at their hair in exasperation. The son of Count Highland, his direct successor has been missing for two days. A letter had been left at the Count’s doorstep after his son's disappearance with a list of clues. The unknown kidnapper has not asked for a ransom of any kind, simply asking for one who is smart enough to solve the hunt. Beneath are the clues left for us, if you have any information of any kind, please send us a letter at our building. 

IWK5E P9-0K

Puzzled, I scratch my head, the clues were so simple and yet so intricate at the same time. There were multitudes of different theories I had already crafted in my mind, but I pushed them aside. The more brilliant detectives could solve this on their own, I had a more pressing case at the moment. Almost as if he had read my mind, Mr. Watson chose that exact time to burst into my office, red faced and wheezing. He collapsed into the chair by the door and pulled a handkerchief out his pocket mopping his brow. 

I hurried over to his side and patted him on the back. His dress shirt was sopping wet with sweat and his breaths were ragged and irregular. After a few minutes he had begun to breathe normally and looked well enough to speak. I brought him over to my chair and plopped him down. He sunk into the worn leather and sighed. With a slightly wheezy voice he said, “Was at home you see? Just the lady and I were enjoying the lovely morning, when the thief came back. Probably left something behind and had to get it back. She tried to fight him off, she did, and then, and then…”

Burying his face in his hands his voice cracked, “And then, the thief killed her, cut her throat right in the next room. I ran over here because it was the first place I could think of. I-I don’t know if he followed me here or not.”

I paced around the room, my mind rattling into gear. This was very interesting indeed, the fact that the thief killed right in front of Mr. Watson and then allowed him to escape was peculiar. Very peculiar indeed… Behind me the door crashed open and a hooded figure stood panting in the doorframe. And suddenly the room was filled with the screaming of Mr. Watson.