PSALMS OF SHERLOCK

Prelude Many are they who say of me, “There is no help for him in God.” Selah Psalm 3:2 Chapter One Sherlock Holmes white-knuckled the rim of the claw-foot tub as he stared at the familiar face just below the water’s surface. Her lifelike eyes gave him but brief hope. Plunging his hands into the frigid water, he lifted the body out and held it close for one moment, willing it to live. He shivered as the certainty of her death washed over him and then placed it gently on the bathmat. Too late for CPR. He could do nothing now but contaminate the crime scene. Sherlock stood dripping in the doorway and pulled his mobile phone from an inside pocket. Even the lining of his suit jacket was damp. Brushing water beads from the small screen, he texted the one person he could trust. That done, he stalked to the bed to retrieve what he needed. When he drew back the silken duvet, her lavender fragrance enfolded him. Her choice of scent reflected her era and charm but had always seemed too simple for such a complicated woman. On the surface, there seemed no logical reason for her death. She’d never hurt anyone in her life. Not even him, after all the years he’d deceived her. Sherlock glared at the ne’er-do-well’s photograph displayed in a silver frame on her nightstand. If he’d had some part in her death--the detective choked back bile. He ripped the duvet from the bed and strode back to her, anxious to complete his task while they were still alone. The comforter trailed behind him, blotting his wet footprints. When he stood above her once more, he hesitated, fingering the satin tag sewn into the duvet’s expensive binding as a small child might. Only the best for her. He shook his head to clear away distracting sentiment, then took a deep breath and yanked the duvet through the doorframe. An ivory linen card dropped from its folds and lay at his feet. He knelt and pocketed the note, taking not another moment from his mission. Drawing the covering over her body, he ensured she would be spared this final disgrace. He sat back on his heels and stared at her face, trying to understand what had happened. Now slack with death, her intriguing animation had departed. The person he’d known so well was gone, and only her shell was left behind. The world would be a poorer place, indeed, without her presence. “Sherlock?” Doctor John Watson arrived, huffing at the top of the stairs and halted halfway through the bedroom. “I got your text. You okay?” Startled from his private reverie, Sherlock stood and faced his friend. “She’s gone.” Trembling, he steadied himself on the doorframe while puddles formed at his feet. The doctor knelt and laid his fingers on her carotid artery. “She’s been gone…” Sherlock’s words caught in his throat. “For quite some time.” John drew the cover over her face, then moved to put his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Sherlock recoiled and pushed past John. “I’ll not be comforted like a child.” He stumbled to the small armchair beside her bed and collapsed. Covering his face with his hand, he took a deep shuddering breath. No matter that his soaked clothing would ruin the delicate damask upholstery. Her precious things meant little now. “Does she keep any brandy in the house?” came John’s voice from a few feet away. Sherlock sat up and focused his mind, this was no time for self-indulgence. He needed data and had precious little time to inspect the crime scene before he was interrupted. “Scotland Yard will make a mess of things as usual. Call Lestrade, he’s the best of a dull lot.” “Will do. Then I’ll go check on that brandy.” John left him. Sherlock surveyed the dishevelled room. A mound of jewellery littered the Chinese lacquered writing desk, usually a tidy and contemplative place. After her bath that evening, she would have smoothed on her mysterious lotions from one of the desk’s many drawers. Then she would have sat there for hours writing her stories by hand before she turned in. Her favourite Mont Blanc pen lay there, a mere trifling amidst the other glittering treasures, but something was missing. He skimmed his fingertips over the place where she’d kept her perfume bottle. That and her garnet necklace and earrings were not to be found. “Peculiar choices, but still, possibly a robbery,” Sherlock muttered and seated himself at the dressing table. What else had been taken? Mycroft would have a list; he always took care of her insurance matters. Oh bother, someone had to inform his brother. Sherlock glanced up as John returned. He could do it. Friends were meant to relieve you of unpleasant tasks at a time like this, weren’t they? “Find anything?” John set a small glass on the dressing table. “Not much.” Using his handkerchief to open the large centre drawer, Sherlock continued his examination. He eyed the amber liquid in the glass. John’s search for brandy had been a lost cause. She’d never indulged in anything stronger than sherry and only on auspicious occasions. Today could not hope to be that. The doorbell chimed, and John did an about-face. “Lestrade was close by.” Sherlock looked up. “Listen, ring Mycroft, will you?” John came to a dead halt in the doorway and turned around. “You want me to tell him?” “Obviously, don’t tell him what’s happened.” Sherlock heaved a sigh. “Be creative. I just can’t deal with his righteous indignation.” “Right. I’m on it.” John headed toward the stairs again. When Lestrade reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock led him to the scene of the crime and intoned, “Cynthia Lynn Holmes. Sixty-two. Author, brilliant mind. Travelled extensively. Divorced, living alone.” “Holmes?” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Mother.” Lestrade shook his head. “My condolences.”