A Study in Scarlet

As a reader and a writer of detective stories I have always been influenced by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s masterful detective Sherlock Holmes. This influence led me to write The Canadian Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (Battered Silicon Dispatch Box, 2004).
In September BBC Books is reissuing A Study in Scarlet, with an introduction by Steven Moffat, co-creator of the Sherlock television show.
A Study in Scarlet was the first Sherlock Holmes story, written in 1886 by a 27 year-old Conan Doyle. The story was published in Beeton’s Christmas Annual in 1887.
Though Conan Doyle would go on to write 56 short stories of Holmes, A Study in Scarlet was the first of only four full-length novels the author would write.
Though not perhaps the most popular Sherlock Holmes story, A Study in Scarlet was the first and so deserves considerable consideration.
The story is divided into two parts. The first part introduce the reader to Holmes and Watson and a couple of murders. The second part tells the tale of what led to the murders.

After The Canadian Adventures of Sherlock Holmes was published, as a writer I felt all Holmesed-out. I had come up with ten mysteries for Holmes and Watson as they sailed to Canada and then proceeded to cross the country. I did not think I could ever come up with another Holmes adventure. I do not know how Conan Doyle had written so many.
After some time had passed I did get the itch to write another Holmes adventure, only this time I would write it a full-length novel, not unlike A Study in Scarlet. I even borrowed Conan Doyle’s introduction to the second part of his first Holmes story in which he wrote: In the central portion of the great North American Continent there lies an arid and repulsive desert....
My Holmes story is entitled Cold Hearted Murder, and since the second part of my story takes place in the Yukon Territory I started with: In the northwest corner of the great North American Continent is a land much like the one God gave to Cain. It is a land as inhospitable as one is likely to find on this earth....

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Cold Hearted Murder

Part II

THE YUKON

12. The Sourdoughs
In the northwest corner of the great North American continent is a land much like the one God gave to Cain. It is a land as inhospitable as one is likely to find on this earth, and for many years was shunned by most human beings. It is an unforgiving land... bleak, isolated and unavailing. In the summer months veritable hordes of mosquitoes infest the bogs and swamps, while in the winter ice and snow cover the mountains and valleys, and the cold creeps in like a thing alive to prey upon the weak, and chill the bones of the warmest-blooded creature. It is a remote wilderness not fit for civilized men in their right mind, and to reach it from the outside world is not an easy task even for the toughest and resolute of men. Yet, strangely enough in the latter half of the nineteenth century men and women and even children swarmed there in droves, though many of them lived to regret it.
In this great wilderness is a mighty river, stretching some two thousand miles across the rugged landscape. It is fed by a myriad of unnamed streams and creeks. These creeks and streams feed other tributaries that proceed into the mighty river as it winds its way flowing forever westward, where it invariably empties into the Bearing Sea. The river flows– as it has always flowed– bringing the meltwaters of the mountains to the sea to fulfill its destiny, and as the river flows it carries along sand and gravel and other minerals, one heavier than the others, and deposits it in various spots along its course. This soft, yellow mineral is different from the rest and has been deemed precious by men who have sought it for thousands of years. For some men, there has always been an attraction to it. The metal possesses an alluring quality that tugs at the minds of men to the point of obsession, and some men, once afflicted with the fever it generates, are apt to spend their entire lives in pursuit of it. The good Lord must have a sense of humour indeed to have put so much of it in this awful and unforgiving land.
By 1867, the year Russia sold Alaska to the Americans, and the year of Confederation in Canada, men were already drawn to the north country prowling the rivers and creeks in search of this precious metal. For the most part these men were restless souls whose dreams were filled with memories of the strike in California of `49, the silver mines of Colorado, and the Caribou trail of `62. These men were more or less misfits of society, men who shunned cities and towns and farms, and developed their own code of ethics and conduct. They were driven men with singleness of purpose, and who desired no other life than prospecting. They lived for one thing, and in the summer of 1896 they received what they had always waited for– the cry of GOLD!!
It was a word that spread like wildfire through the hills. A gold-strike of such unheard-of quality that it conjured up fantastic dreams in some, disbelief in others. And where was this strike located? Who was it that discovered it? The strike was made in the most unlikely of places by the most unlikely of men. The gold was found on a small nondescript creek whose valley was deemed too wide by experts to contain any gold, and found by a man named George Carmack, who was not all that interested in finding gold. He and his two native companions were directed to Rabbit Creek by a seasoned prospector, Robert Henderson, who stated the area looked promising. Because of its high yield, Rabbit Creek would later be renamed Bonanza, but other strikes would later be made in the Klondike that would prove to be even larger than that one.
Along the creeks came a pair of men who could not have been much different from one another, but it was their differences that made them good partners. Russian Mike was a mountain of a man standing just over six and a half feet tall, with a dark bushy beard and a barrel chest. He was born Mikolav Riskin a descendant of an Alaskan Russian of noble ancestry who married an Indian woman. Mike had rejected his Indian heritage, and so grew up doing what other whitemen did in Alaska, and so at a young age he decided to learn all he could from other prospectors who searched for the elusive metal. Russian Mike, in his thick gum boots and frayed mackinaw, had roamed the banks of the Yukon River from St. Michael to Forty Mile and beyond, but had yet to find any gold. At the time of the gold strike on Rabbit Creek, Russian Mike was working a worthless claim near Forty Mile, a small mining town in the Yukon Territory of Canada. Hearing of the strike on Rabbit Creek, Russian Mike packed all his belongings– which amounted to a rucksack, a gold-pan, a short-stemmed shovel, and a tin of sourdough starter– and left his claim and headed for the Klondike River. On the way he crossed paths with a man named Joseph Payne, or Injun Joe, as he was known in the north.
Though he could not claim to have any native blood in his veins, Joseph Payne believed he should have been born an Indian. He could hunt, and trap anything on four legs. He was not too tall, and he dressed like any whiteman in the bush would– thick woollen pants and shirt, heavy durable boots that went half way up his calf, big brim slouch hat, and heavy coat. The only native garb he kept on his person was the small leather medicine bag that hung about his neck by a leather cord. In the small pouch he kept small mementos from meaningful times of his life. He preferred living in the bush and his origins were a mystery and the cause of much speculation around Forty Mile. His place of birth was not even known to himself. Joseph Payne’s earliest memories were of living in Western Canada where he leaned to ride a horse, hunt buffalo on the plains, and trap and trade with the natives who welcomed him into their camps and regarded him as an honest man. He was there when the red-coated North West Mounted Police arrived in the west in 1874, and he remained with them on the plains for a short time lending his services as a scout and interpreter to the natives. With the approach of civilization he ventured into the north country, past Edmonton, heading further and further into the wilderness, until he reached the Yukon Territory. There in the rugged wilds, Payne lived alongside the natives, who recognized and appreciated his abilities, and sometimes he would wander away by himself living off the earth where most men would have perished.
By chance he made the acquaintance of Russian Mike and the two became fast friends. When their paths crossed in the summer of `96 and Russian Mike proposed the two of them throw in together, and Joseph Payne immediately accepted. They were an amazing pair; the large verbose Russian and the smaller Canadian who was frugal with his words, and would not waste one when a gesture would suffice. And whereas Mike was ready with a broad smile or a hearty laugh, the Canadian was ever practical and solemn. Some say Injun Joe first learned to pan gold in the Caribou, while others say that Russian Mike taught him everything he knew about gold. It mattered little though, since most everything Joe Payne attempted he performed well with a meticulousness to detail that bespoke of pride in one’s work.
In the summer of 1896 Russian Mike was thirty-three years old, while Injun Joe was forty-nine. Despite his age Joe could outwork almost any man, even the big Russian. Payne was considered a tough old man for he looked older than he was. The lifestyle that bred incredible strength and endurance also showed in his face that was brown and leathery from constant exposure to the extreme elements. If left to his own Joe would have preferred to live off the land as he had always done, but he stayed with the large prospector because he liked the man and felt a sense of loyalty to him, and would stay with Mike until he gave Joe cause to leave.
They walked along the great river until they came to a juncture of two rivers, the Yukon River and a smaller one the local natives called Thron-diuck or Thunder River. The white men called it Klondike.
Coming to another juncture where the river met a creek, Russian Mike paused and sniffed the air. Injun Joe watched the man for some moments. Finally Russian Mike proclaimed: “This way!” They continued walking along the creek, stopping occasionally to scoop up a pan from the banks. Towards evening the Russian half-breed stooped over and panned again. Standing up he examined the yield. He turned to his new partner and said: “We will camp here.”
Their claim was on a tiny stream called Muskrat Creek, and both men were entitled to fifty feet along the banks of the stream. The partners lived in a tent set upon a height of ground by the creek hemmed in by might pine trees. It was a humble dwelling but both were simple men who needed little. They had panned the area and found it promising. For the remainder of the year the two men worked their claim.
During the long winter months the two men huddled inside the small cabin they built to replace their tent, and it was here that Russian Mike imbued Injun Joe with the code of the prospectors. Once a man struck gold, it was his duty to inform others of the strike, Mike told Joe. If a man was hungry, he was fed, if he needed lodgings he was given a place to sleep. So removed from any type of law and order the old-time miners developed their own sense of justice in the way of miner’s meetings where grievances were heard and decided upon, and judgement was dispensed swiftly and with impunity. This was the kind of justice Joseph Payne was used to and could appreciate. He felt it right that men should decide their own affairs. Though he did respect the red-coated mounted policemen, Payne did not necessarily believe they were needed here in the Yukon.
During the winter months, when the snow and ice covered everything, the two men were not deterred from working their claim. Shafts had to be dug down through the permafrost to the bedrock. This was done by burning wood on the ground to thaw it. Once it was thawed, the dirt could be scraped off and piled onto a dump, and the process was repeated. In the spring the dirt on the dump was shovelled onto a dumpbox where bars on the grizzly kept out the bigger chunks of gravel. The smaller pieces fell through to the sluice where water from the creek helped carry the dirt down the sluicebox over riffles that caught the heavier pieces of gold.
During the long winter months their lives were not idle. Whenever the beans and bacon ran out Injun Joe hunted and trapped in the woods for their food. Russian Mike could cook whatever Joe brought to the cabin and thus the men shared a well-balanced relationship. When it came to eating, Joe preferred pemmican, an ancient Indian food that was simply pounded meat mixed with bone marrow. The mixture was stored in an animal skin that could last for a year. Joe was also fond of bannock bread which he cooked on a stick over the fire. As fond as he was of bannock, Joe Payne preferred his partner’s sourdough bread.
From Alaska, Russian Mike had brought, along with some other miner essentials, a small crock container holding one of his most precious possessions, sourdough starter. It had been given to him by an old-timer who had gotten his from another miner in Alaska, which could trace back its origins to California. This fermented starter was used in the north country in place of yeast to make bread rise. Miners such as Russian Mike would carry the sourdough starter from one claim to another and these old-time prospectors came to be known as ‘Sourdoughs’. Mike was very particular about his sourdough starter. It had a special spot above the cabin’s stove, and on very cold nights Mike was known to take the sourdough crock to bed with him to keep it warm.
In the spring of 1897 the partners were working the dump, shovelling the dirt into the dumpbox and down the sluice, when they were approached by three strangers. They were an unsavoury-looking trio, and despite what Russian Mike had said about welcoming strangers, he was uneasy at their approach. With a keen insight and perception Injun Joe picked up on this immediately and kept a tight hold on the shovel he was using. The strangers tried to appear friendly enough, but their manner betrayed them. The leader, a dark-haired, dark-eyed man casually mentioned that he and his companions had staked out this claim over a year ago and it belonged to them. Russian Mike, in his brusque way, told them that there were no markers when he and Injun Joe had come here, and he had no intention of giving up or sharing this claim with the newcomers. The scene turned ugly and threats were bandied about. Injun Joe said nothing during this exchange, even when the leader of the newcomers pulled a knife threateningly. Joe picked up a stone and with a keen eye and a strong arm he threw it at the knife wielder. The stone struck the man violently in the head staggering him and causing him to drop the knife. His two companions went to his aid, while Russian Mike and Injun Joe advanced on the claim jumpers with their shovels held high. Seeing the pair was not about to back down, the trio beat a hasty retreat.
Incidents such as this, though rare in the Klondike, were indicative of the harsh land and the harsh men who were drawn there. This incident only proved to strengthen the bond between the two prospectors and each knew he could depend upon the other and could trust the other with his life. It was a hard, lonely existence, and the two had only each other, but the hard work and comradery created the type of close friendship that was very rare in the world but all too necessary in this wilderness country.
In early summer, when the ice on Muskrat Creek thawed, the two miners began to shovel the dirt from the dump that had built up over the winter. They shovelled it into the sluice box where water from the creek was diverted into it so to wash the contents down the riffles of the box. A matting was laid in the bottom of the box and periodically it would be taken out and its contents put in the gold-pan and mixed with more water. One day Injun Joe swirled the contents of his pan in a circular fashion. As dirt and gravel were carefully and slowly washed out of the pan, Payne’s eyes caught sight of a chunk of yellow rock that was too heavy to wash out. With suppressed excitement he walked over to where his partner was hunkered down by the creek with his own pan. Joe Payne squatted down next to Mike and showed him the contents of his pan.
Wordlessly the two men stood up. Carefully Russian Mike reached into Joe’s pan and gingerly removed a gold nugget about the size of the tip of a man’s finger. Mike closely examined the nugget holding it before his eyes, then bit into it. The large man turned to his partner and threw his huge arms around him. A booming laugh escaped the man’s lips as he lifted Joe Payne into the air as easily as he would a child. With Joe in his arms Russian Mike danced around as he continued to laugh heartily.
“We struck it rich, partner!” the big man chanted over and over. “What do you think of that?!”
Though the older man did not join in the laughter, he did smile to see his partner so happy.
The two panned and panned all that day but failed to find any more gold that closely resembled the nugget found previously. What they did find was gold dust and flakes that they carefully put into small sacks that they would weigh and divide up later. That night Joe asked Mike if he might have the large nugget he found so he might put in into the medicine bag he wore around his neck.
The Russian half-breed agreed, since he sincerely believed they would find much more, but he said he wished to know from Payne the significance of the bag. Injun Joe was at first reluctant to talk about it, as if not entirely certain how to explain it. Finally he said, “There have been important things that have happened in my life. Whenever that has happened there has always been something... some object that was tied to the event, and I put the object in my medicin bab. This bag contains several items from my life. Now it will also hold this piece of gold, for I believe it has some importance that I may not know at this time, but will become clear later.”
The Russian accepted this explanation, and the two men never spoke about it again.
In May of 1897 Injun Joe left Russian Mike to work and protect the claim while he went into the hills to hunt and trap for food as their provisions were getting low. He was gone for several days before he returned to the claim pulling a travois laden with fresh meat that would last them through most of the summer. As he approached the cabin something strange caught his attention and he observed the scene from behind a tree. From where he stood, he could see three men working the claim, but none of them was Russian Mike. On closer observation he recognized the same three men that they had run off some months earlier, but never was there a sign of his partner. All that day Joseph Payne stayed away from the cabin and only approached it later that night under the cover of darkness. Noiselessly he listened by the door as the three claim jumpers spoke inside. It was in this way that he learned these men had stole upon the cabin one night and seeing that Russian Mike was alone, they killed him to take over the claim. They did not seem to know whatever became of Mike’s rock wielding partner, but they were glad he was gone and assessing him to be a restless wanderer, were certain he had enough of mining and ventured back to life in the bush.
On hearing this, Joseph Payne’s blood raced and his heart hammered in his breast. He controlled the impulse to burst into the cabin and kill all three, for he knew a better way. He did not consider fetching the Mounted Policeman who was in charge of upholding law and order in the area. Payne chose to exact the punishment himself in his own way, and he would start this very evening.
He waited until one of the men left the cabin to relieve himself. The man did not venture far and as the man was occupied, Injun Joe snuck up behind him with a knife and cut his throat.
It was not long before the remaining two, concerned as to their companion’s whereabouts, stepped out of the cabin and called out to him. Payne observed them from far off. He had cached the dead body where the two men would not find it in the dark. Finally, after a while, the two gave up on their friend and decided to search for him at first daylight.
When day broke they did not have to look far, for outside the door of the cabin, hanging upside down from a tree was their dead partner, fresh blood covering his face and clothes. Grabbing their rifles they scoured the area looking for the person who had done this. Though they searched and searched no sign could be found. Out of fear the two claim jumpers did not leave their cabin for days. When they finally found the courage to do so they went armed with rifles and never went off alone.
Days passed, then a week. With no recurrence of hostilities the two men grew braver and could sometimes be found alone. One day one of the men left the other to prepare dinner in the cabin. An hour later when the other came to the cabin hungry from a hard day’s work he was horrified by what he saw. His partner had been murdered and left fixed upright on the cabin wall with a pickaxe through the chest.
Instantly the man fled the cabin in fear that the murderer might be hiding there waiting for him. The man fled into the bush and had run quite far before he stopped to realize that in his flight he had not taken a weapon nor any food to sustain him. As evening drew nigh and darkness came over all, the woods seemed to hold unseen and unknowable terrors. The man’s thoughts turned to finding one of those Canadian policeman and confessing to the murder of the Russian miner, as long as he was given protection from the mad killer who was undoubtedly pursuing him now. The man was gripped by an unshakable fear that he had never experienced in his entire life. Cold sweat broke out over his body, while his breath came in laboured gasps and his heart beat against the walls of his chest. He did not remember hearing a sound before he was hit upon the head.
When he awoke the man found himself tied hand and foot, and gagged. His clothes had been stripped off him, and he was aware of another’s presence.
Not far from him a man, stripped to the waist, and with his back to him was bending over a small fire. This man rose and turned toward the other. Injun Joe, though not Indian at all, resembled a North American native, his skin browned by the sun, his face streaked with colour derived from berries. The terrified claim jumper, who attempted to cringe back from horror, soon found himself subjected to an ordeal of torture not known to most men. With his knife Injun Joe made numerous cuts on the man’s body, and burned his extremities with a hot poker. By the time Joe killed the man, he was a quivering mass of bloody flesh. In this way Injun Joe dolled out his own brand of vengeance that sprang from the wilderness justice by which he lived.
In his own singular way Joe Payne disposed of the bodies of the claim jumpers, and left no trace that they had ever been there. Payne did report the disappearance of Russian Mike and when Inspector Charles Constantine arrived at the Muskrat Creek claim to investigate, he could find no trace of the body. There was some speculation as to what may have happened to Russian Mike. Some say Injun Joe killed his partner to get the entire claim for himself, but those who knew the relationship between the two men, and this included Inspector Constantine, understood that Joe could never hurt Mike.
Before he departed Constantine asked Joe if he had seen three miners that seemed to be missing. They were an unsavoury lot and not to be trusted, the Inspector related to Payne. Joe told the Inspector that he and Mike had run across three men in the spring, but Joe had not seen the three men since. He thanked the Inspector and said he would surely be wary if those men were to show up again.


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Cold Hearted Murder

“How do you define the word ‘grotesque’?”
— The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge

9. Another Strange Murder
The next morning I rose late and was discouraged to find Sherlock Holmes was still in his bed. I had retired late the evening before. Not wishing to leave Holmes alone I stayed up with him as he sat by the open window staring out into the darkness. I read by the light of the lamp until at last my eyes grew so heavy I was forced to retire to my room. I suggested to Sherlock Holmes that he too should try to get a good night’s sleep, but his response was a low groan, and I left him in the sitting room. At what hour Holmes had retired I could not say, but I was certain that it was quite late.
Not desiring to wait until my friend awoke, I rang the bell and gave an intimation that I was ready for my breakfast. It was soon brought up by our housekeeper, along with the morning paper. As I ate my ham and eggs, I glanced over the newspaper and an article on the front page immediately took my attention. The rather gruesome heading was ‘Macabre Murder At Butcher Shop.’ The story that followed filled me with a horror even more than the heading.
The second strange murder in almost as many days has occurred late last night in the most peculiar of all places, a butcher shop on Endell Street. Mr. Johann Diekle, owner and proprietor of Diekle’s Fine Meats, was shocked and amazed to discover a body in his butcher shop freezer early this morning when he opened his shop at six o’clock. Mister Diekle reported to police that all was right as it should be in his establishment when he closed his shop at nine P.M. the night before.
What makes this murder even more horrendous was the mutilated condition in which the body was found. A number of appendages had been severed from the body, including fingers and toes. A ritualistic symbol had also been cut into the victims skin.
Readers will remember the recent horrible murder discovered at a London icehouse, where a similar crime was committed.
Though Scotland Yard would not confirm it, it is the opinion of some that these are a series of murders that were committed by a dangerous satanic cult. We of London can only hope that this is the last of the tragedies and we may sleep peacefully in our beds.
Inspector Peter Huggins . . .
My reading was interrupted by knock on the door. I was surprised that there would be a caller so early in the morning. Putting down the paper I rose and walked to the door. Opening it, I was somewhat astounded to see the very man whose name I had just read, Inspector Peter Huggins. He stood in the door with a totally despondent, and abashed look upon his face. He removed his hat and spoke lowly and with great respect.
“Good morning, Doctor Watson,” he said. “Might I have a word with Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
“Mr. Holmes is not yet risen,” I said, ushering him inside the room. “Won’t you come in and have a cup of coffee while I rouse him?”
“But will he see me?”
“I am sure he will,” I uttered lending the man whatever hope I could.
I gave the door to Holmes’s room a knock then walked in. He was still asleep, so I gave him a shake and said: “Rouse yourself, Holmes. There is someone here to see you.” Walking to the window, I raised the blind which allowed the bright morning sun to spill into the room.
With a moan and a groan Holmes rolled over and covered his head.
“Come along, Holmes, the game is afoot.”
“What is it?” he finally asked.
“Huggins is here to see you. I believe it is urgent.”
“Why?”
“There has been another murder.”
Holmes was up and dressed in two minutes. He entered the sitting room in his mouse-coloured dressing gown and approached Huggins and I who were drinking our coffee.
Huggins quickly rose as Holmes entered the room and stood uneasily as my friend sat in his chair while motioning the C.I.D. man to sit opposite. I stood close by, my elbow resting on the mantle, holding the morning newspaper.
“I understand there is some urgency in which you wish to see me, Inspector,” Holmes spoke.
Huggins nodded and retained a submissive manner. “Yes, Mr. Holmes. Please allow me to apologize for the unprofessional, and ungracious manner in which I treated you previously. I would not blame you one bit if you refused to talk with me.”
“Tut, tut,” said Holmes with a wave of his hand. “All that is past us now. Personally I work best if I conduct myself sine ira et studio. We will start afresh. So, off you go at scratch and tell me all about it.”
“Well, sir, as you know I believed the mendicant, Mately, had murdered Mr. Westerbrook, but you most likely know that sometime late last night there has been a similar murder.”
I reached over and handed Holmes the newspaper indicating the article of the latest tragedy. Holmes glanced over it as Huggins continued.
“Since the murder occurred with Mately in custody, it exonerates the man and I plan on releasing him today, but I wished to speak with you first before I did so.”
“You believe Mately may still be linked with Mr. Charles Westerbrook’s murder, and now may be linked with the death of the American, Patrick Flynn?” Holmes asked.
“How do you know the name of the murdered man?” Huggins asked with some urgency. “I did not release the identity to the press. How could you possibly know about Flynn and that he was an American?”
“Let us stick to one question at a time, shall we?” Holmes spoke. “You still have reservations regarding Mately.”
“Well, to be honest, Mr. Holmes, I am not totally convinced of Mately’s innocence despite this recent murder. He may have an accomplice. This latest murder may have been committed for the express purpose of trying to give Mately the impression of being guiltless.”
“No, no. That simply will not do, Inspector,” Holmes uttered. “Let me assure you, it is completely safe to release Mately. I trust you are preserving the crime scene until I view it personally.”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. The butcher, Diekle is not happy about being kept out of his freezer, so if we might go there now?”
“Quite right, Inspector Huggins. Let us go, and view this cold killing.”
Inspector Huggins had a cab waiting and the three of us climbed inside and off we went.
Huggins fidgeted inside the cab, as if desperate to question Holmes, but seemed reluctant to do so. It had taken considerable humility from the younger man to come to Holmes and ask for help, especially after the way he had rebuffed my friend’s council. Huggins was now treading lightly, well aware that he was fortunate that Holmes was even in the cab. Finally Huggins skewed up the courage to questioned Holmes as delicately as possible.
“I would appreciate it, Mr. Holmes, if you could tell me how you knew the murder victim was Patrick Flynn? We of the C.I.D. knew his name from the papers we found on the body, but as I said, I though it best not to release his name to the press.”
Holmes repressed a grin. “It is one of my little pleasures to be able to surprise people, and I do believe I have done so.”
“Yes, sir, you have,” Huggins said.
“Doctor Watson and I spoke with Mr. Patrick Flynn just the other day.”
“How is that possible?” Huggins asked incredulously.
“I was able to track Flynn down from a description I received from the hotel clerk at the Langham.”
“Amazing,” Huggins uttered.
“Elementary,” said Holmes.
“No,” Huggins said. “I meant it was amazing I did not follow up as you did. I abhor sloppy police work, especially when it is my own.”
“Then docket the instance and learn from it,” said Holmes. “As for Flynn, he and Westerbrook were business partners in North America. He claimed to know nothing pertaining to the details of Westerbrook’s murder. I did not believe him. Like Westerbrook, I believed Flynn was not being totally forthcoming. I was not overly surprised to learn that Flynn suffered the same fate as Westerbrook.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me, Mr. Holmes, that may help in this case?” Huggins asked.
“Yes there is,” replied Holmes, “but seeing that we have reached our destination, perhaps we can discuss it at a later date.”
We exited the cab and stood in front of a respectable looking establishment. Over the door hung a large sign that read ‘Diekle’s Fine Meats’. Huggins opened the door and ushered us in. My nostrils were immediately assaulted by pungent aroma of dead animal flesh. Behind the counter stood a rather large middle-age man who was dressed in a stained white apron, and was obviously the proprietor.
The butcher regarded Huggins with disdain and spoke with a strong German accent tinged with anger.
“When do you finish with my freezer? I must go in and get my meat.”
“Soon, Mr. Diekle,” Huggins said in a placating tone. “After these gentlemen view the scene you may have your freezer back.”
We walked past by the counter and Holmes paused briefly to look down at the butcher’s feet. Huggins led us back into the large walk-in freezer where a constable stood guard, presumably to keep anyone out until we arrived. Holmes bade us stop and wait while he walked to the rear of the freezer. Even from my position I could see the body of Patrick Flynn dressed in the same suit of clothes as when he sat in our sitting room. Carefully Holmes walked to the body examining the floor which was covered in sawdust. He brought out his tape measure, and measured off several areas on the floor. He then gathered up some grey dust from the floor and placed it into a small envelope he took from his pocket. Behind some boxes Holmes found a piece of cloth. He examined it closely even to the point of smelling it, then put the cloth in his pocket. Finally, he approached the body again and leaned in close and examined the corpse intently. He looked beneath Flynn’s coat and ran his fingers over the dead man’s scalp.
After several moments Holmes called to us and said: “You may both come in now.”
Huggins and I approached the body and I was instantly reminded of the pictures of the Westerbrook murder scene. They were practically identical. The killer, or killers had cut off the exact number of toes and fingers as he had from the previous victim. There, of course, was the slit across Flynn’s eyes, and there too was the triangle cut into the man’s left cheek. Covering the entire body was a grey frost that made the already horrid scene even more frightful.
“There was no weapon found at the scene or on the victim’s person?” Holmes asked the C.I.D. man.
“No, Mr. Holmes. No weapon was found.”
“Undoubtedly you found a gold sovereign in the victim’s mouth,” Holmes said to the Inspector.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, but as before we refrained from telling that fact to the newspapers.”
“I presume there is a bullet wound in his stomach?” I asked.
“That is my presumption, Dr. Watson. I did not wish to examine the body too closely until Mr. Holmes viewed it, but I will wager there is a bullet wound on Flynn the same as Westerbrook.”
“There are two bullet wounds on the body,” Holmes stated casually. “One in the belly, and one in the chest. You can tell from the blood stains beneath his coat.”
“What is that odour?” I said.
“Whiskey,” Holmes said simply.
I leaned in closer to the body and realized Holmes was correct. The smell of whiskey mixed with the animal flesh made a very distinct odour.
“How was entry gained?” Holmes asked Huggins.
“The rear door to the butcher shop was forced, Mr. Holmes. It opens up into an alleyway.”
“There seems little else to be seen here,” Holmes stated. “You may have the body removed now, Huggins. Let us go look at the point of entry.”
We walked to the rear of the shop and found the door which did indeed open onto an alleyway. The passage was long and wide with many doors and windows opening onto it. We allowed Sherlock Holmes to enter the alley first so he might examine it in his singular way. Even from where I stood, traces of blood could be seen upon the ground.
“Halloa!” exclaimed Holmes. “What’s this?” He bent down and picked up a small, worn leather pouch trailing two long leather strings with frayed ends. Holmes held it high for us to see, and for some unknown reason he suspended it for a long period of time and kept it exposed for the entire time we remained in the alley.
“What is it?” I asked.
Sherlock Holmes opened the pouch and poured out the strange contents into the palm of his gloved hand. Huggins and I gathered around to view such a bizarre collection as one was able to imagine, for there before us were two smooth, dark pebbles, a small feather, a dried and bleached bone belonging to a small animal, no doubt, what I took to be a canine’s tooth, and finally what appeared to be a rather large gold nugget about the size of the tip of a man’s thumb.
“I say, Holmes, what is all that?” I asked intrigued.
He did not answer, but continued to hold the contents in his outstretched hand for a few moments, then almost dramatically he replaced them one by one in the leather pouch. His behaviours were not unlike a magician’s flamboyant actions when performing a trick. We remained in the alley for a while longer as Holmes continued to probe around a bit more, all the while holding onto the leather pouch.
“It is clearly evident that entrance to the shop was through here,” Holmes began as he examined the door and latch. “The lock was manipulated probably with the aid of a knife. Flynn was carried in here by his killer.”
“How do you know that?” Huggins asked.
“Flynn’s footprints cannot be plainly found anywhere; not here nor in the freezer. There are traces that a man’s feet were partially dragged into the freezer, which leads me to suspect Flynn was partially unconscious when brought here. There were only two sets of full footprints near the body, that of the butcher, and those of the killer. The good Doctor very likely saw me pause to examine the butcher’s shoes before we entered the freezer. He has rather large feet, and it is quite easy to differentiate his large shoes from the small boots our killer wears, which also means he is not a tall man. He drags his feet in a most peculiar manner which leads me to suspect he is crippled in some way.”
“Please, Mr. Holmes, not that theory again. I cannot believe a cripple did this,” Huggins said in a way as not to offend Holmes’s deduction.
“Believe it or not, Inspector,” Holmes uttered. “I did not say the man was weak. As a matter of fact, our man is very strong, and not only in physical strength but of will. He is meticulous in his methods. Though he is strong, he was barely a match for the young and powerful Patrick Flynn who, as I stated previously wounded his assailant. Both Flynn and Westerbrook had sustained a blow to the head. A cursory examination of Flynn’s skull revealed a sizable lump. I believe the killer knocked them insensible and carried them to the locations where the bodies were found.”
“Carried them from where?” Huggins asked. “He carried them and was not seen by anyone? I find that very difficult to believe.”
“I did not wish to infer he carried his victims a great distance. The killer most likely lured them close to the locations where they were found. Westerbrook had a note delivered to him the evening he met his death. The two locations were scouted out with care. The killer carried Flynn down the alley, set the body there while he opened the door. He carried Flynn into the shop, placed him in the freezer and began his grizzly work.”
“If this man is so meticulous in his work, why the second gunshot in Flynn?” Huggins asked.
“As I stated earlier, Flynn has two gunshot wounds. The killer most likely wounded Flynn before they entered the alley. Presumably there was a confrontation elsewhere, and both men sustained wounds. I believe Flynn’s chest wound occurred before he was brought here.”
“How do you know that?” I asked Sherlock Holmes.
“The stomach wound, also found in the first victim, is as symbolic as the other wounds, hence the chest wound was not done in the freezer, but in a prior struggle between the two men.”
“Surely if the stomach wound was delivered in the freezer, the butcher would have heard the shot,” Huggins proposed.
Holmes shook his head and removed a piece of cloth from his pocket. “The gunshot to Flynn’s stomach was muffled with the aid of this rag I found in the freezer. On examining it, I both smelled and witnessed gunpowder residue and holes that the bullet made in the material. On closer examination of Flynn’s stomach wound, we will very likely find fragments of the rag around the bullet hole, but very little powder since that was absorbed by the rag.
“This was done, of course, so not to rouse the butcher who was asleep just upstairs. The killer had much work ahead of him, and he did not wish to be disturbed or interrupted. He tied and gagged his victim and proceeded to mutilate Flynn with a very sharp knife. The killer was not content to simply kill his victims but wished them to suffer in a most singular manner, and the killer wished to witness it. He smoked a pipe while he watched. I found a burnt match and pipe tobacco that I could not identify. I am, as you may be aware, well acquainted with one hundred and forty different cigarette, pipe, and cigar ash, but this one was very different. I believe the tobacco is foreign– most likely some strange Canadian blend.
“Sometime before they arrived, Flynn and his killer struggled, and I believe Flynn wounded his man, yet despite this, the killer still managed to subdue Flynn and get him here, all which leads me to conclude the man possesses not only great physical strength but also the most resolute of wills.”
“But how do you know the killer was wounded?” Huggins asked.
“I happened to observe a small trace of blood in the freezer several paces from the body where I believe the killer sat and smoked a pipe. Only after Flynn was dead did the killer leave the butcher shop the same manner he exited. He paused here for a moment, which is indicated by several drops of his own blood. It was here he dropped this.” Here Holmes held up the leather pouch again.
“But what is it?” Huggins asked.
“I am not certain,” said Holmes. “But I suspect it came loose earlier, perhaps during a struggle with Flynn, and finally dropped off the killer’s person here in the alley. Since there is nothing more to be learned here, Inspector, I would suggest you return with us to Baker Street where we can discuss this case in the comfort of our rooms.”
Huggins went to decline the offer but Holmes was persistent.
“Inspector, I believe it would be in your best interest if you come with us. There is something I have yet to tell you about this case that may assist you.”



If you have been enjoying Cold Hearted Murder
you will love The Canadian Adventures of
Sherlock Holmes!

To order an autographed copy of
The Canadian Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

please send check or money order:
$20.oo (Can.) plus $3.50 S&H if ordering in Canada
$ 20.00 (US) plus $7.50 S&H if ordering in the US
to:
Stephen Gaspar
9805 Holly Crescent
Windsor, ON
Canada N8R1Y6

Feel free to contact me at:
stephengaspar@hotmail.com

A BREAK IN THE STORY!

DUE TO UNFORESEEN CIRCUMSTANCES (I BROKE MY ARM) COLD HEARTED MURDER WILL BE DELAYED FOR AN INDEFINITE PERIOD OF TIME. IT'S HARD TO TYPE WITH ONE HAND.

Sherlock Holmes YouTube

Many thanks to Greg Maxwell who helped me put together my YouTube promo video for The Canadian Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. In fact, Greg has worked on all three of my YouTube videos and he has done a great job!

The video is to help showcase The Canadian Adventures of Sherlock Holmes that is now for sale through my blog and website.

To view my videos:
http://www.youtube.com/user/stephengaspar58

or my blog:
http://stephengaspar.blogspot.com/2011/04/canadian-adventures-of-sherlock-holmes.html

or my website:
http://stephengaspar.webstarts.com/sherlock_holmes.html

The Canadian Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

If you have been enjoying Cold Hearted Murder, now you can order a signed copy of The Canadian Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

The Canadian Adventures of Sherlock Holmes is based on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's legendary detective Sherlock Holmes and his trusted colleague Dr. John Watson as they travel across late 19th century Canada. In their epic journey they encounter incredible characters and memorable mysteries.

From the death-by-canon murder at Halifax's Citadel to the eerie case of the McCormick Fortune in Montreal to the strange case of the Overlander in Victoria, Holmes and Watson must use all their skill and abilities to solve a series of bizarre cases.





"It is the best ‘‘Holmes in Canada’’ book that I’’ve ever read, easily eclipsing Ronald C. Weyman’’s books. Well worth a look for the Sherlockian pastiche reader who enjoys stories featuring Holmes outside his ususal environs." –– Charles Prepolec The Singular Society of the Baker Street Dozen







"This new set of Holmes and Watson adventures is guaranteed to intrigue and thrill mystery lovers, Holmes fans, and Canadian history buffs alike as the reader is treated to a fascinating glimpse into the world of Victorian Canada of 1897. Gaspar captures the true essence of the Sherlock Holmes oeuvre, and adds a tantalizing insight into the relationship between the erratic Baker Street sleuth and his friend and chronicler, Dr. John H. Watson." –– Blackfriars Publications







To order an autographed copy of
The Canadian Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

please send check or money order:
$20.oo (Can.) plus $3.50 S&H if ordering in Canada
$ 20.00 (US) plus $7.50 S&H if ordering in the US
to:
Stephen Gaspar
9805 Holly Crescent
Windsor, ON
Canada N8R1Y6

Books, Videos and More

I hope everyone is enjoying reading Cold Hearted Murder as much as I enjoyed writing it. Chapter 6 should be posted next week where we will meet another mysterious character in this drama.

If you have not viewed the YouTube promo for Cold Hearted Murder, go to:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydPhI44KGlI

While you're looking at that video, go ahead and view the YouTube video for my medieval mystery, To Know Evil.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mh1N_IQ2EII

Also, have a look at my website:
http://stephengaspar.webstarts.com/index.html

You can also find me on facebook.

I hope to hear from some of you soon.

You can email me at:
stephengaspar.hotmail.com