Sherlock Holmes was pretty sure this had to be some kind of record. 

He knelt down and studied the body of the late resident closely. Cheeks still flushed and a body stiff with rigor mortis. But even with his back against the wall and his legs sticking straight out at an angle, it was clear the man had a good 20 centimeters and three stone on him. 

“Strangulation, Watson?” It was a question to which they both already knew the answer. But it helped him to say these things out loud.

His friend and roommate cleared his throat. “Bruising around the neck, eyes bloodshot. I would say so, Sherlock.” Watson paused. “I admit I have never seen such a large man strangled.

“I figured not.” Sherlock took in every detail of the man as he spoke. “That worries me.”

“Worried, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade leaned in and laughed. His wiry frame and angular face made him look a lot like a scarecrow. “I thought nothing worried the best detective in all the world, eh? The pinnacle of crime-solving living right here in our fair London? And he’s worried?

Lestrade had once again called on Sherlock for his help but at the same time didn’t seem to want it. He never did. But public pressure was on him to help stem a recent wave of hysteria over crimes large and small that had seemed to overtake the newspapers.

It must have been a mandate from the bosses that seemed to fill London’s bureaucracy as of late. Lestrade follows orders. That’s what he does. Sherlock’s inclination had been to decline Lestrade’s half-hearted offer. But Sherlock had come at Watson’s urging, with a steady tailwind of capitalism. The money would certainly help allay Mrs. Hudson’s worries and provide a cushion in case the winter season brought with it a downturn in cases, as it often did. And this was the only crime that warranted his attention, a murder, as opposed to a warehouse fire yesterday or the continued tabloid speculation of a gorilla escaping from the zoo and running loose in the sewers. Those sorts of fantastical rumors were beneath a man of his capability. So here he was, in an estate north of Hyde Park, wondering how anyone could have strangled a man so large without the help of another, or at least a garrotte and a pulley of some kind. Perhaps a small team of horses. Or maybe several gears that were—.

Sherlock shook his head and stepped back. He held out one hand toward the wall, his fingers arched. He tried to imagine it. It was easy enough to ignore Lestrade. Sherlock took back the thought about the scarecrow. Lestrade’s tall hat, currently the fashion, and large bushy beard gave him the appearance of a chimney that had not yet been swept. He smiled. Yes, that fits much better.

 He paced the room, noting every detail. He filed every single book on the man’s shelf away in his memory, everything from Dante’s Inferno, a rather worn copy of Grey's Anatomy, the works of Charles Darwin and nearly all of Charles Dickens collected works. There were a dozen copies of National Geographic Magazine having to do with biology and anatomy as well as Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein in two separate editions. He noted the furniture, the door, and even the ceiling. 

He couldn’t help himself. In his daily life he was distracted, messy, rude, he knew that.

But here? In this place? He was solving a case. And there was no greater satisfaction than putting all the little pieces together. The focus helped give him clarity. And yes, stopped Watson’s complaining about the money. Stopped Mrs. Hudson’s constant nattering. Bought him some time to do the things he wanted to do. Not just the things he was good at.

“Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.”

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. “What?”

“I’ve been trying to get your attention, Detective Holmes. Bloody lot of good that did me.” He jabbed a finger at the door. “I’ve got people who need to dispose of this massive body and you’re just daydreaming.”

Sherlock held up one finger. “Not daydreaming. Working.”

Watson smirked. He already had a notepad out and had been taking notes of his own. Always so diligent. 

“Oh yeah?” Lestrade smirked. “Then what’s all this about, eh? Paint me a picture Mr. Artist man. Who killed our gentle giant over there?”

Sherlock pointed at the large, strangled man. “This is Gregory Saville. The heir and last remaining member of a once wealthy family.” He swept his hand around the room. “He was well read, especially in the sciences, curious about human biology — and also desperate for money.”

“Doesn’t look desperate to me.” Lestrade huffed. “It’s a pretty nice place.”

“There are items missing, judging by the gaps in the dust and how it’s arranged. Vases, time pieces. The man is not wearing any jewelry or watches of his own. I suspect he has sold them. There is fraying on the curtains, and the plaster is cracked in places.” He pointed up at the ceiling. “It’s even caved in up there, something that most normal people wouldn’t bother with, but a man of means? It would be almost criminal.”

“Speculation.” Lestrade snorted the word as if it were a pejorative and not part of his job. “Where’s your proof?”

“It’s all around us,” Sherlock walked toward the writing desk in the far corner. “The man has been corresponding with local auction houses, as you can tell from some of the crumpled drafts of letters he’s tossed into the bin.” He bent over and picked up a single hair, white and glistening. “He’s had several visitors over the last few days. Including someone wearing a fur coat, possibly white ermine. But also, at least one other. There is a scuff mark on the floor from a hard-heeled men’s shoe that is not his own. He was busy trying to sell off his belongings. I would guess the man was deeply in debt and beginning to get desperate.” Sherlock glanced at the man again. “Or excited.”

“Excited?” Watson asked the question knowing how Sherlock would answer. Sherlock had to admit it, Watson knew how to keep him going. They made a good team. Plus the pistol Watson carried at all times gave them a surety of security that Holmes wouldn’t be able to muster on his own.

“That’s a nice little story you’re telling me Holmes,” Lestrade sniffed. “But that’s all it is. A good story.”

Sherlock approached the man one more time. “Truth is often stranger than fiction, Lestrade.” He bent down again and glanced at Watson. “Time of death?”

“Hard to tell.” Watson coughed. “Rigor mortis typically sets in about two hours after death. Then lasts for about 12 hours until the stiffness wears off and the body once again loosens. So at most, 14 hours ago?”

Sherlock nodded. 

“So our friend had an evening or late-night visitor? Decided to strangle him? For what? Date gone wrong? Moment of passion” Lestrade grinned. “Maybe he was into a bit of the old choke choke, am I right?” He mimicked strangling himself, complete with gurgling noises.

“Enough,” Watson waved his hand as if fanning the air to get rid of a foul smell. “No one needs to hear that.” 

Lestrade’s impatience was beginning to wear thin on Sherlock.

“I think we will find out in just a few seconds, Lestrade, if you care to wait that long.” Holmes watched the strangled man’s face and hands intently. They were clenched into fists, but as Holmes watched, he saw one finger loosen ever so slightly. Then another. Then another.

“Rigor mortis wearing off at …” Watson looked at his watch. “1:08 in the afternoon.”

“Which puts our time of death around nine last night.” Holmes glanced at Lestrade. Then he reached out and touched the man’s right hand.

“Hey, don’t touch that.” Lestrade reached out as if to stop him, but fell short. “That’s evidence.”

“That’s not evidence.” Holmes looked at Lestrade, then pried open the fist. There was a small shred of paper there. He plucked it quickly before Lestrade could swoop in.

“C. R. W.”

“That’s it?” Watson seemed almost disappointed.

“That’s it.” Holmes confirmed.

“That’s bloody it isn’t it?” Lestrade guffawed again. “Thought you had blown the case wide open?”

The clues were starting to pile up. They just didn’t add up.

“I think we’re done here, Watson.” Holmes dusted off his coat and handed the paper to Lestrade, who took it pinched between his thumb and forefinger as if it carried disease or a curse. “Come on now.”

Watson nodded, put away his notebook and followed.

“Where are you going now, Sherlock?” Lestrade called after him.

“To find out why a piece of paper was so important,” Holmes called out as he pushed open the door to the bustle of midday track, “That a man would die for it.”