Watson looked puzzled.

He always looked puzzled. It was, in fact, that same chronic befuddlement that made Watson the perfect companion on cases like these. His visible confusion pushed Sherlock to connect the pieces, gather the clues and solve these things faster than he ever had alone. And, he had to admit, Watson had the occasional insight of a man his age with experience in the war in Afghanistan and as a doctor. A stopped clock had the same frequency of insight, but the clock itself, broken or otherwise, could still be useful.

The rocking of the carriage jostled Sherlock’s idle reverie.

“What troubles you, my dear Watson?”

“It’s the size.” His friend scratched his chin. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know. Such a big man strangled implies a bigger man than he.”

“I’ve been wracking my brain.” Watson tapped his head. “For some way. Some mechanism. A garrotte. Rope. A lever.” He threw his hands into the air. “But I have nothing.”

Sherlock smiled. “Well, when the time comes, we can ask our killer himself.” He looked out the window. “We are here.”

“Where is here, Sherlock?” Watson’s look of typical confusion had returned in force. “Where are we?”

Sherlock reached out and gripped the chair as the carriage stopped suddenly. “We are at Carols and Jacobs, a local money lender north of Hyde Park.”

“And why are we here?” Watson’s questions were always so predictable. And Watson must know that he would answer them all in due time.

“I happened to see Mr. Saville’s calendar for the last few weeks. He had three places he went to repeatedly. One of those places was here. Not surprising considering the man was nearly bankrupt. A bank would not give someone like him money without collateral. But a money lender might. And with higher interest.”

Sherlock stepped out of the carriage and into the afternoon sun. Sherlock and Watson pushed through the crowded street and sidewalks before opening the door of Carols and Jacobs. A bell rang out, and a man behind a desk looked up. He was bald on top with hair around his crown in a ring, giving him a friar Tuck-like appearance. He had glasses perched far down his nose which meant he looked up slightly as they walked in.

“If it isn’t the infamous Sherlock Holmes,” the man called out as the pair approached the desk. “Fallen on hard times? Need a bit of …” he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, “to get by until that next big case arrives?”

Sherlock glanced at Watson, who was trying quite hard to look interested. The man was concerned so much about money. He was not. Money was so dull. Everyone was always talking about it. And it was the motive in so many cases it bored Sherlock nearly out of his mind. People killed for money more than they ever killed for some more esoteric reason. Love came next in the hierarchy of murderous intent, followed quite closely by politics.

He waved his hand as if to clear the air of a particularly pungent cigar or the unwanted passing of gas.

“I’m here on a case, actually. Gregory Saville?”

“No, my name’s Randolph Jacobs.” The man guffawed as Sherlock looked at him impassively. “Nah, nah, I take your meaning. But I can’t talk about clients.”

Watson coughed. “He’s not a client. He’s dead.”

“Well bugger.” The man looked back at Sherlock. “I guess he ain’t no client anymore? I’ll have to try and take his loans out of his estate.” The man brightened. “Maybe that won’t be too difficult, eh?”

“How so?” Sherlock ran his finger along the countertop. “You had loaned him a significant amount, haven’t you?”

The man nodded. “A princely sum, to be sure, over several loans. Against my better judgment but he had always paid in the past. This time though, I wasn’t so sure.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Watson had his notepad out again and was scribbling something inside. “Mr. Saville, I mean?”

“Just yesterday morning, in fact. He wanted to talk about the loan.”

Sherlock smiled. “And how he could suddenly pay it back?”

Jacobs stared wide-eyed at Sherlock. “How could you know that?”

“Just a deduction,” Sherlock waved his hand as if waving for a carriage to pass on by. “What did the man say?”

“Saville said he was about to have a big transaction. A sale.” Jacobs cleared his throat. “Practically begged me to extend his first payment. He seemed so sure of it. Showed me a bunch of letters he had gotten. Promises of purchase, and so on and so forth,” The man’s eyes went to the door as the bell rang out again. This time, a slim man in his early 20s stepped through the doorway. “I uh …” Jacobs looked at Sherlock and then back at the man. He licked his lips. “He gave them to me as a sort of collateral …” His voice trailed off. His eyes were fixed on the young man. He had taken off his coat and hat and hung them on the hanger near the door. His hair was slicked back as the style was these days. HIs walking stick was inlaid with silver and gold. There was a small diamond in the tip. A gentleman of means. Arrogant by practice.

“I would like to see the letters,” Sherlock said to the distracted proprietor.

“Uh, no. Those are private.” Jacobs looked at the man then back at Sherlock. “I have to take this.” He walked over to the far end of the counter and bowed in a welcome.

“Good sir, good day to you Master Williams. Are you here to repay your loan? It is due today as you are clearly aware, as you wouldn’t be here otherwise.” Jacobs chuckled as if he had made the funniest quip at the party. He tugged at his collar and swallowed softly.

The man tapped his finger on the desk.

“I’m quite sorry about this but I’m going to need an extension. My father has not been as generous as he normally has been, and several of my business ventures have fallen through… that won’t be a problem, will it? We don’t really want to involve my father in any of this I am sure. ”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Jacob’s jaw clenched. But his smile remained fixed. He glanced at Sherlock and Watson and his eyes lit up. He held up a finger.

“One moment Master. I just need to finish with these other clients.” He nodded to Sherlock and Watson.

“Don’t take long,” Williams sniffed. “I plan on spending the evening at the club on Pemberton, and I’d rather not be late.”

Jacobs nodded again and slid back over to Sherlock and beckoned with a finger. Sherlock and Watson leaned in and the man whispered through his fake smile.

“His father is an important man that I dare not cross. Get him to make a payment to me today and I will hand over to you everything Mr. Saville gave me to keep as assurance of his repayment.” He licked his lips. “I have bills to pay of my own to pay, you know.”

Sherlock regarded the man.

“You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

The man scoffed. “I am not.” But there had been a moment of hesitation. Just one moment.

Sherlock smiled. And nodded. Jacobs visibly relaxed. A bead of sweat had formed on his brow and he wiped it away with the back of his hand and then dried it on his shirt. Sherlock turned to the young man.

“Williams, is it? Could you please just pay Mr. Jacobs what you owe?” Sherlock nodded his head back to the proprietor. “He’s quite anxious that you not shirk on your financial obligation.”

The man blinked. Then he laughed. “You talk to me as if I should know you, sir. But I don’t. And I don’t have the money. My father has yet to give me access to my inheritance. As I said to Mr. Jacobs here.”

Sherlock looked him up and down.

“You might not know me but I know you, Mr. Williams.”

“Oh, is that so?” He stepped forward, his chest just inches from Sherlock’s own. “And what do you think you know?”

Sherlock pointed down to the man’s feet. “Your boots are high quality, made for those in the police force, yet they aren’t dirty. You take carriages everywhere. So you have family that are in the police, just not you. The way you hold yourself and treat others, I suspect your father is what, an inspector? Also, you are here because you took out a loan without his knowledge, so I suspect you have a vice. What is it? Paying for relations? Gambling?” The man winced, and Sherlock smiled. “It really doesn’t matter though, all that matters is that your father wouldn’t approve. So you were right. No need to involve him, correct?”

William’s face turned red. His breathing was shallow.

“Just who do you think you are?”

“I’m a detective. Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock extended his hand as if in greeting. “And I think you are telling the truth about your father not giving you your inheritance.”

The man seemed to deflate.

“Well, yes, of course I am telling the truth.”

“But you are lying about not having the money.” Sherlock didn’t seem to notice the man’s change in demeanor. “Please pay Mr. Jacobs what you owe so we can get on with our day.”

Williams’ huffed. “How dare you speak to me like that.”

“Speak like what?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Like some common criminal.”

“I’m sorry, and here I thought you were?” Sherlock looked pensive for a moment. “Not paying what you owe, of course. That seemed like a good fit.”

“You will regret those words, Mr. Holmes.” The man’s hands clenched into fists.

“Why?” Sherlock mused. “Because your dad is a police officer? And yet you won’t tell him any of this, because he doesn’t know, does he? The loans? The new money you have somehow procured?”

“Don’t you dare.” The look of rage was plain in his eyes.

“It’s all the truth, isn’t it?” Sherlock’s mouth twitched in amusement.

“Say another word. I dare you.”

Sherlock looked the man in the eye, then leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Another word.”

The man shouted in incoherent rage and lifted his walking stick into the air. Another motion and the man brought it down toward Sherlock with such force that it could crack bone and knock an offending detective straight into oblivion.

A hand caught the stick. Watson’s hand, to be precise.

His friend had stepped forward with unanticipated speed, putting himself between Sherlock and Williams. His gloved hand caught the stick as if thrown by a child. Watson looked at the stick, as if measuring it, then at Williams.

“Tisk. Tisk. Wouldn’t want to hurt someone, now would we?” Watson used his other hand to lift the edge of his sport coat, revealing the older model army-issued pistol tucked into his belt. “And I think you’ve brought a walking stick to a gunfight.”

The man’s eyes widened, and he swallowed.

Watson smiled too. But there was no emotion in his eyes. “As a doctor, I want to be clear that it would be best to leave, for your own health.”

Watson was always a bit blunt when it came to matters of Sherlock’s safety. And that was a big reason he was a good friend to bring along.

Watson, with one forceful jerk, ripped the staff from Williams’ hands. He scrambled back, his eyes still on the gun. He knocked against the coat rack, and it wobbled precariously. He left his coat where it was and fled out the door, the bell ringing behind him.

The shop was silent.

Watson turned and handed the walking stick to Jacobs. “This ought to fetch a few hundred pounds, " I would say. Enough for at least a few payments?”

The man held the stick gingerly. Then he looked at Sherlock. “You sure he won’t say anything to his father? That’s why I couldn’t get him to pay in the first place. Once I found out, I couldn’t risk it.”

Sherlock nodded. “Whatever he did to get that money.” He nodded toward the walking stick. “And buy that. He did not want his father to know.”

Jacobs nodded, slowly at first. Then his face split into a grin. He started to laugh, slapping his knee and guffawing from behind the counter. He eventually stopped and wiped a tear from his eye. Then he reached under the deck and pulled out a sheaf of envelopes. He put them on the table and slid them over.

“A deals a deal eh?”

Watson took them in hand and started flipping through them. Sherlock watched patiently. Sometimes it was better to let Watson get the first look at something. He had earned it, after all. But his friend and partner quickly handed them over to Sherlock. His normally stoic friend looked shaken.

“What is it, my friend?” Sherlock took the envelopes and began looking through them himself. He slowed down as he saw each sender in turn. Washington, D.C. Versailles. Berlin. Moscow. Each one with a diplomatic seal. Each one from a respective government or embassy. Each one, an agreement.

Sherlock read each one in turn.

“We are pleased to have a chance to bid on such a singular piece of science.”

“Remarkable if true, we shall bid if it is indeed authentic.”

“Be assured we will be there to bid on this momentous artifact.”

Watson watched Sherlock read the letters. They both looked at each other.

“Sherlock?” Watson began.

“Yes, my good Watson?”

“What piece of paper would be so valuable that a man would be strangled over it? And would have every major government in the world interested in procuring it for themselves?”

“Is it sex?”

Both men turned to Jacobs, who had, apparently, been listening intently.

He must have seen the looks on their faces, because he shrank back.

“Sex or weapons.” He mumbled. “Could be a weapon. Could be.”

“He’s got a point.” Watson nodded to Sherlock. “Shall we go?”

Sherlock walked toward the door and opened it, the bell ringing. “Fine. I’ll take sex.”

Watson grinned.

“Weapons for me it is.”