“All right there, Dr. Watson?”

 

I lifted my head from where it had been resting on my writing desk. Mr. Irving, my editor, had shaken me awake sometime around nine in the morning. I could not recall dozing off, but I must have fallen asleep quite late. I yawned and checked my watch to confirm the time.

 

“Dear me,” I said.

 

“Care for a cuppa before you’re off, doctor?”

 

“Ah, no, I really should be getting home.” Already I was up from the desk to reach for my coat.

 

“S’pose I don’t blame you,” said Mr. Irving. “Had a bit of a week, haven’t you, sir?”

 

“I have.” I offered Mr. Irving a smile of thanks. My week began last Wednesday, when I was called upon for numerous medical appointments. Fortunately, the fever cases I addressed were mild, and allowed me to make my date with Mr. Irving in his print shop. 

 

Mr. Walton Irving had been the sole editor for my publications with Holmes, all the way back to A Study in Scarlet. He was a warm sort of fellow; the kind who would never oppose a conversation late into the night. He and I were of the same age and stature, though his mustache was far grander and more bristly than my own. Further, he was a fine editor. Normally, the late stages of my stories would not require my presence, but recently, the whole catalog had been acquired by the Daily Telegraph. Mr. Irving had been so excited about reaching a wider audience that he tragically committed to a deadline for reformatting and polishing every single entry up until that point, which was nigh impossible for one man to accomplish. And so I had agreed to not only help with the finer details of the project, but to add the last finishing touches on my most recent adventure with Holmes.

 

“Shall I call you a cab, sir?” Mr. Irving offered.

 

“Oh no, I should like to walk. It’s a gorgeous morning.” A fact I could tell from nothing but a quick glance at the window.

 

“Very good then, Dr. Watson. Thank you again for your tireless work.”

 

“Of course, Mr. Irving.” I took my hat from its hook. “Now I believe I am due for a fine bit of rest.” Mr. Irving laughed in agreement, and I stepped out into the sunshine. 

Walking out into the late spring air was a gift in London. Already the trees were blooming with vivid white magnolias. Young ladies enjoyed their stroll under the strict watch of their mothers, while children played ball in the street. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the pull of a tugboat horn, and the clatter of horse drawn carriages. I don’t know if I could ever truly tire of the sights and sounds of the city. Though as lovely as it all was, the moment I laid my eyes on Baker Street, I felt ready to bid it all adieu for the time being. For what bright and sunny morning could compare to the man I knew waited for me behind the door of 221B?

Relieved to cross the threshold, I stored my coat and hat and made my way up the steps.

 

“Holmes? I’m back!” My call was met with silence, and when I opened the door to our apartment, I swiftly understood why.

 

Firstly, the shades were drawn tightly, so that the whole of the parlor was in near total darkness. My eyes struggled to adjust as I swatted the air to find a wall. “Holmes?” I repeated. I could see a faint lump on the sofa, and as I shuffled my way to the windows, I felt my feet trip constantly over unidentified clutter. Finally, I managed to reach the curtains and pulled. A blinding white light splashed over our parlor, and indeed, across the pale visage of my friend and lover, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

 

Holmes was splayed along the cushions, his arm raised to his eyes to block out the sun. His dressing gown was open and sloppy, implying that he hadn’t taken it off in days. All around him were all manner of unshelved books, scientific equipment, loose leaf papers, turned over inkwells, and numerous other odds and ends. The hearth was cold, and an empty decanter lay sideways at the foot of the sofa.

 

“Holmes…” My voice bled with worry as I knelt beside the man. I felt his forehead. He had no fever, though the bags beneath his eyes were enough to disturb me. “Are you awake?”

 

“Mn.” A grunt was all that answered me.

 

I sighed and stood, observing the mess of our living room. “Has this been your entire weekend?” Rather than responding, Holmes turned to face the back of the sofa, his long legs bent awkwardly over the headrest. He looked like an octopus, drudged up from the ocean to wither under a lamp. I clicked my tongue and again addressed the mess. “Have you even allowed Mrs. Hudson to come up and clean?”

 

“Gone.”

 

“What was that?”

 

“Gone. Left for her sister’s.”

 

“When?”

 

Holmes lifted his shaggy head. “What is the day?”

 

“Monday.”

 

“Monday.” Holmes slumped back into his pillow. I could barely hear the response that followed: “Friday.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson has been gone since Friday? Goodness me, no wonder our home is such a wreck.”

 

“Mm.”

 

A troubling thought came to mind. “Holmes?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“When was the last time you ate?” This time, the man didn’t even bother to grunt, and instead shifted his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. I rolled up my sleeves. “Right. Up you get.” Holmes looked over his shoulder. “This is your doctor speaking. Sit up.”

 

“I’d rather not.”

 

“Are you arguing with a medical professional?”

 

“Is that what you are?”

 

I swatted at Sherlock’s long, bare leg. “Move, now.” As Holmes managed to pull himself to sit, I went to the window and opened it. It took only a second for me to spot the urchin boy for whom I was searching. “Young Master Wiggins!” From the street, two eyes peered up to meet mine. I took out the small purse from my pocket, counted out a few shillings, and dropped the whole thing onto the sidewalk. “Mr. Holmes and I are in need of some breakfast. Fetch us something, will you?”

 

“Sir!” With a hop, Holmes’ young accomplice scurried away with my money. I could of course trust him not to pinch it. Wiggins, and the rest of Holmes’ army of misfit boys, were indeed quite reliable. The “Baker Street Irregulars,” he called them.

 

“Now then.” I picked up a few more delicate instruments and set them on Holmes’ work table. After which, I knelt before the man and took his pulse. I counted his heartbeat on my pocket watch. “Slow, but not deadly. Your energy is low.”

 

“A brilliant deduction, doctor,” Holmes grumbled.

 

“Well, no dying man has the energy to be cheeky, at least.” I held up my finger. “How many do you see?”

 

“Oh, must we do this, Watson?”

​

“Indeed we must. How many?”

 

“Just the one.”

 

“Very good.” I stood and picked up a few loose newspapers. “After you eat, I want you bathed and dressed. You are in need of a bit of fresh air.”

 

Holmes groaned, and stared at the ceiling. “Dying sounds so much easier,” he lamented.

 

“Yes, yes, you’re very distraught.”

 

That, at the very least, coaxed a bit of a smile from my friend, as his dark eyes remained hazy. I took a few moments to rehouse the books, declutter the floor, and sweep up a bit of broken china. By the time Wiggins returned with our food, the room was at least serviceable. Dear Mrs. Hudson would no doubt still give us a stern talking to when she saw the remaining state of things.

I thanked Wiggins at the door, and paid him in a half crown. With our privacy returned, I procured a tray and sat Holmes down to a plate of hot sausages, fruit preserves and scones. “There we are. Looks good, doesn’t it?” Holmes sneered at the food and dramatically rolled his head to one side.

 

“I’m not hungry,” he said.

 

“You must eat something.”

 

“Must I?”

​

I sat beside him. Rather than indulge my frustrations, I turned instead to my care for the man, and took his hand in mine. Holmes looked to me with eyes that had since lost their luster. I had become accustomed to Holmes’ bouts of depression, but never once did his somber stare not affect me.

 

“Please,” I said. “You must eat.”

 

“Why?”

 

“This may come as some shock to you, Holmes, but it is one of the things we humans do to survive.” I pushed away a lock of knotted hair from his face, and rested the flat of my palm against his sallow cheek. “If you cannot eat for yourself, perhaps you might eat for me?” Holmes closed his eyes. Those long lashes tickled my skin, and he turned his head so that he might better be held. I needed no further instruction. Removing my shoes, I curled close to my beloved and embraced him. I could feel his muscles begin to relax as he laid his head upon my breast.

 

“No cases for a month,” he said.

 

“I know.”

 

“Nothing to do but sit and… stare.”

 

I petted his head affectionately. “We’ll get something again soon.” Holmes laid a weary hand upon my lap, and I held it to my lips. The kiss of affection helped to melt my companion’s apathy. When he spoke again, he did so in barely a whisper.

 

“I feel useless.”

 

“Do you?”

 

“Yes. Like I am wasting time. Like I am empty.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Am I a fool, doctor? Am I so ineffectual that I cannot function without a purpose? How is it that so many men can go about their days with no direction, no goal in mind, and be perfectly happy?” While most might hear such a question and take it as an insult, I knew that Holmes did not mean it with any malice. His inquiry was genuine. Sherlock Holmes was not built like a normal man. Had he been, I doubt that I would have ever fallen in love with him.

 

“A mystery we may never solve,” I told him.

 

He moaned. “I must look so terrible.”

 

“Hardly.”

 

“Do not lie to me, Watson. I’m a fright.”

 

“Very well then, Holmes. You are a fright.”

 

Holmes lifted his head, and in a blink, I could see the smallest hint of life return to that handsome face. “Are you not supposed to disagree with me?”

 

“Am I?”

 

“What if I were your wife? How terrible would that sound if you should agree that I look awful?”

 

“So which is it then? Do you want me to agree with you or disagree with you?”

 

Holmes faltered, and he dropped his head into my lap with a trill through his lips. “I miss the days when I was the only one allowed to be clever.” I laughed. In response, I felt Holmes tighten his hand upon my knee. For a while we sat, until I reminded him that our meal was going cold. Eventually, he sat up to eat, and we spoke casually. With every passing minute, I could see the color return to my friend’s cheeks. By the time we had finished, he was nearly his old self again. Nearly. 

 

It was an effort to get Holmes dressed and washed. He took more time than necessary with a complaint on his lips at every turn. Yet I could sense no true irritation in his protest, and indeed, once or twice I saw a smile escape him. If I had wagered a guess, his vocal resistance to going out for the day came more from the struggle against the mire of his mind, and less so from an aggravation towards me. He even deigned it necessary to hold my hand down the steps until we were out in the sunshine of London. Whilst walking aimlessly, I took it upon myself to take the lead in our conversation. For the first few blocks, Holmes did not answer much. It was only when I began to discuss the ailments of my patients did his spark return to him. He began asking me details of every one of my fever cases, mentally comparing them, as if to find a discrepancy that he might unravel as a medical mystery. Although we both very much knew there was nothing to be sussed out in these particular cases, it was enough to get his mind working again, and so I entertained the notion that these particular fevers were extraordinarily curious.

We reached a pond on our travels, and decided to rest at a nearby bench. By this time of year, ducks and their young were a common enough sight, and we watched them paddle through the blanket of watermeal. I had opened my mouth, perhaps to suggest a cafè for lunch, when Holmes spoke abruptly.

 

“Thank you.” I turned to him. Though his tire was still present, it had relented a great deal, and I was looking once again at my dearest companion. “Your diagnosis, as usual, was spot on, Dr. Watson, and the treatment even more so.”

 

“Think nothing of it, my dear fellow. I am only glad that you let me help.” He chuckled. As we were alone from the masses, Holmes dared to rest his hand beside mine on the bench. Our furthest fingers hooked together, and for a moment, all was well and peaceful.

 

“Tell me something,” Holmes said suddenly. “We’re at Saint James park, are we not?”

 

“Oh?” I looked around. “Yes, now that I look at it. I believe we are.”

 

“Splendid.” Apropos of nothing, Holmes sprung to his feet and began to walk. “Come, Watson! I may have an itinerary for us after all.”

 

“Itinerary—?” My question died on my lips as I hurried after him. We crossed the street to our east, and down a crowded alley. It was only when I saw the looming brick walls of Scotland Yard did I realize Holmes’ ploy. I doubled my pace in order to catch up to his large stride. “Have we been called in by Lestrade recently?”

 

“Not that I’m aware,” said Holmes with glee. Like a man with his name on the building, Holmes strode in through the front doors. I scrambled after him as he craned his neck. “Though I’m sure there may be something for us.”

 

A group of passing constables crossed our path, which stalled Holmes just long enough for me to stand in his way. “Holmes, we cannot simply march up to the Inspector and demand a case.”

 

“Why not?” Holmes danced around me and continued to walk deeper into the station.

 

“Because we—!” I narrowly avoided collision with a transferring prisoner, which put a considerable space between Holmes and I, as he hadn’t bothered stopping. I rushed after him and we climbed the stairs. “Because we are not officers of the law.”

 

“Quite right. We are better.”

 

“It may do you well to learn humility someday.”

 

“Someday, perhaps, but not this one.” Finding ourselves on the second floor, Holmes brushed past a few questioning faces and made his way to Lestrade’s office. “Besides, you know as well as I how incompetent they all are. If we are any more of a blessing to their department I dare say they’d nominate us for sainthood.”

 

“Sherlock—!”

​

Holmes went to open the door, but to our surprise, it opened just before he could reach the knob. Stepping out into a hall was a man with whom at the time I was not properly acquainted, but who would quickly become a thorn in our sides for many cases to come.

 

In my previously published collection of stories, I did not write once about Inspector Elliot Malory. Frankly, I did not want to grant him space on my adventures with Sherlock in almost any capacity. There is only one reason I have decided to include him in this collection going forward. A reason I shall not go into great lengths here, my dear reader, but rest assured, I had just cause for not including him thus far. 

 

Inspector Malory was, by all accounts, a horribly pugnacious fiend with no great love for Holmes nor I, regardless of how often we helped Scotland Yard in their investigations. His frame was square, with a face that often reminded me of a sanded brick. His fingers were thick and squat, and his eyes beady beneath the fringe of his unkempt, yellow hair.

 

“Holmes,” Malory greeted with a hiss.

 

Holmes cocked an eyebrow. “Inspector Malory.”

 

“Something I can help you with?”

 

“I highly doubt it.”

 

Malory grunted and turned his ire towards me. “I see you brought Mr. Dawson with you.”

 

“Watson,” I corrected. “And it’s ‘Dr.,’ if you please.”

 

“I do not please,” said Malory. “Now if you’re in need of proper help, I’m sure the boys downstairs can handle whatever puzzle you got what needs solving. Otherwise, we’re quite busy here.”

 

“Yes, I can see that your hands are full indeed, detective,” said Holmes. “So busy perhaps that you had no time to change into a clean shirt since last night?”

 

“A guess,” said Malory.

 

“An observable fact,” Holmes insisted. “Unless of course you have not had that shirt laundered for more than a week? The grease stain on your collar is unsightly, but I suppose a man with low standards may find it acceptable not to bother with. Given its viscosity, I can only conclude that it was from last night’s meal eaten alone at your local pub. May I assume capers? I believe I shall, given the odor of your breath. For breakfast I am sure you have retained a liquid diet, judging from the state of your eyes.”

 

“My eyes?”

 

“Your eyes, yes, sir. I cannot imagine you have been holed away in any kind of darkened room for long. I can always confirm the time you began your day here at the Yard, but a man of your disposition often does little work before noon time. Therefore, given the abundance of sunlight on this lovely spring morning, the dilation of your eyes can only be caused by rye alcohol. A lukewarm glass or two to start your morning with, I wonder?”

 

Malory sneered, laughing as an attempt to cover up his embarrassment. “So clever, Mr. Holmes, so clever. Alas, true police work requires more than circumstantial guesses. Though if I may play your game, I’d not be so quick to judge, given the twitch in my fingers.” 

 

Malory’s observation stalled me, and I turned to Holmes. My friend’s face had not changed. “Twitch?” I said, eyeing Holmes’ hands.

 

“Perhaps you are supplying your patient with too high a dosage of medication, Dr. Watson,” Malory replied. “Or is Mr. Holmes’ over-observance an attempt to compensate for your inattention?”

 

As I said, I had very little reason to include Mr. Malory before.

 

“Malory? Who’s out there?” Lestrade stepped out from his office, and the tension cracked somewhat. Not that it distracted me entirely from watching Holmes’ hands. Indeed, since Malory had mentioned it, I saw the finest twitch of Sherlock’s ring finger. As a medical professional, I could guess that it was a consequence of a substance vacating the body. As a friend, I could conclude that Sherlock had had a very difficult weekend.

 

“Holmes.” Lestrade’s voice brought me out of my worry, and the conversation resumed. “What are you doing here? Something wrong?”

 

Holmes cleared his throat. “Not at the moment, Inspector,” he said. “Thought I’d pop in, see if you’d had any need of me.” Malory scoffed. As he excused himself, he brushed past me with little care, thumping my shoulder with his. I glared after him.

 

“Not currently,” Lestrade confessed. “Afraid it’s been a rather slow few weeks, Mr. Holmes. Though I’ll certainly call if the need arises.”

 

“Come now Lestrade, there must be something—”

 

“It’s been all back alley brawls and pick-pockets, I’m afraid. One murder, but it’s an open and shut case. Nothing in your department.”

 

“Inspector? You’re needed.” A voice from down the hall interrupted our conversation, and Lestrade fixed his waistcoat buttons.

 

“Pardon us, lads.” With a nod, Lestrade left the conversation to attend to his constables.

 

“Ah, that’s a shame,” I sighed. “Well, there certainly was an attempt, wasn’t there, Holmes?” I turned to console my friend, as I was sure he was drowning in disappointment, only to find him strutting down the hall toward the opposite stairs. “Holmes—!” With a quick glance over my shoulder, I rushed after him, and down we went again. “Holmes, where are you going? The exit is behind us.”

 

“Marvelous.”

 

Already we passed the first floor. “Please tell me you don’t intend to go rummaging around Scotland Yard in broad daylight?”

 

“Very well. I don’t intend to rummage.”

 

“Are you lying to me?”

​

“Undoubtedly.”

 

“Holmes, you’re going to get yourself arrested.” Soon enough, we were back on the ground floor. 

 

“Shall that not be an adventure in itself then, Watson? What a way to spend an afternoon.”

 

“Your mania—”

 

“I think the holding cells are there.”

 

“—is getting out of hand.” Holmes made his way right, and I hurried close behind him. “Just an hour ago I could barely get you out of the house, man!”

 

“Change is swift, doctor. It stands to reason that only by being agile can we be ready for it.” Suddenly, Holmes skid to a halt, grabbed me by the collar, and shoved us both into an empty corridor. I heard the tell-tale voice of Inspector Lestrade as he passed us without a glance. As we kept flat to the wall, a second voice caught our attention. It was the echo of a man in distress from at least four doors down. It was difficult to make out more than every other word.

​

“...please…! I swear…!”

​

“...hung on principal…”

​

“No…!”

​

The argument muddled, and Holmes narrowed his eyes. Clearly, there was a nibble at the line, and Holmes was ready to reel in his catch. A great sob signaled the end of the conversation, and from down the corridor, we saw Detective Malory step out. We were careful not to lean too far out, but even from our perch, we could each clearly see the bruising on his knuckles.

Malory flagged down an officer and spoke quietly. The officer nodded at attention, and stood guard beside the door. Malory made his exit down the opposite end of the hall.

 

“That must be him.”

 

“Who?”

 

“The murderer that Lestrade mentioned. The ‘open and shut’ case. Did that sound like the plea of a guilty man, Watson?”

 

“It’s impossible to tell from the distance.”

 

“Is it? I beg to differ. The man in question is no older than twenty five years, given the octave and vibrato of his tone. Uneducated, I believe. I doubt even Malory would strike a man of wealth. Striking a lower man, however, comes with little to no consequences. And considering his desperate profession of innocence, I dare say this ‘shut’ case has sprung open.” Holmes paused to listen. “Do you hear him sobbing? Is that the cry of a cold blooded killer to you?”

 

The wailing was in fact shrill and unmeasured; a helpless, gasping panic of a man in a corner. Of course I could not hear exactly what Holmes did, but I would be a fool not to trust my friend’s instincts. “Well? There is still the case of the guard. How do we get past him?”

 

Holmes flashed me a smile. “Oh, I may have something…” He held me to the wall with one hand, indicating that I stay. I nodded in understanding, and off he went to speak to the guard. He jogged with purpose, and gestured wildly behind him. The guard’s eyes widened, and after a few follow up questions, scuttled down the corridor and out of sight. I took my cue to follow Holmes as he picked the lock on the door.

 

“Goodness me,” I said. “What on Earth did you say to the poor man?”

 

“That his wife has fallen and is in critical condition,” said Holmes simply.

 

My eyes widened. “My word! How did you know he had a wife?” After all, at the angle we had been facing him, there had been no way to see his left hand. 

 

Holmes answered me with a smile. “I guessed.”

 

Click.

 

The lock gave way and Holmes stashed the pick in his pocket. With one last check for unwanted guests, we entered the room to meet with our crying murderer. I was sure to lock the door behind us.

 

The first thing I noticed was that the man was barely that. Holmes may have in fact overestimated his age, at first glance. His dark hair had a bounce of boyhood, unburdened by pomades. He wore a workman’s attire, a sailor’s ascot loose around the collar of his stained shirt. He was a scrawny thing; so much so that had he been inclined, he might have been able to slide his whole foot out of the loose fitting chain at his sockless ankle. So deep was he in his own misery that he didn’t notice Holmes and I until my companion sat across from him at the table.

Holmes cleared his throat, which caught his attention. He looked up, drowning in tears. “Wh-who are you—?” I detected a blunt, Manchester accent, filtered through snot.

 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my friend, Dr. John Watson. We’ve come to ask you a few questions, Mr…?”

 

“I told them,” the young man gasped. “I told them I didn’t kill no one. You tell them! Tell them I didn’t do it!”

 

“I’m afraid I can’t. Not unless I hear the whole story from you.” Holmes gestured at me. “Notes, Watson.”

 

I paused. “Holmes, I don’t have my notepad with me.”

 

Holmes eyed me. “That’s your tweed coat.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Inside left breast pocket. You have your notepad.”

 

I checked. Just as Holmes said, I found my pad and a pen awaiting me. “How…? Nevermind.” Holmes stood to allow me the chair, and perched on the side of the table instead.

 

“Start from the beginning, young man. Your name?”

 

“Everett. E-Everett Young, sir.”

 

“Very good, Mr. Young. Let us first establish that you are a sailor of a steam trawler in the English Channel, most likely. I would wager you are strictly a fisherman, as I don’t think you possess the swimming strength to dive for mollusks.” Mr. Young looked as many did when Sherlock Holmes unraveled their lives. Taking that as confirmation, Holmes continued. “May I deduce, then, that this murder happened while you were out to sea? You are still in your worker’s clothes, clearly splattered with a man’s blood. The murder must have therefore been quite a visceral one. A stabbing? I can see the dried blood beneath your nails. You must have tried washing your hands, but clearly you weren’t very successful. Nor were you able to perhaps abandon the body before you were discovered by—?”

 

“No!” Mr. Young sprang to life, slapping his hands flat on the table. That youthful spirit took hold, and he was determined to set the record straight. “No, sir! I wouldn’t’a done that to Mr. Shawley, not no how! It’s what I keep saying—!”

 

Holmes held up his hand, calming Mr. Young. “Now we are getting somewhere. Tell me then, what did happen while you were out working with this Mr. Shawley?”

 

Mr. Young trembled, but spoke directly. “It wasn’t no different than any other day, sir. Just a normal start of the week. I met Mr. Shawley at the docks. We was to bring home some wrasse and mackerel. Fishing’s been bad of late, you see, and Mr. Shawley was getting a might anxious about our take. It’s been so bad that Mr. Shawley had to let go of his crew. His whole crew, save myself. I’m sure he coulda done it all on his own, he coulda, but he know’d me since I was a wee one. Wasn’t about to turn me away, not when I don’t got nothing. He was like a father to me, he was. Met him at his ship. Arcadian Queen is her name. Years he’s had her. We take her out like normal, and all's well. Then… then he… he just…” Mr. Young’s eyes cast aside, and he began to gasp for air.

 

“Take a breath, my boy,” I said, quietly. “You must tell us what happened.”

 

“Oh God… Jesus.” Mr. Young clutched his head, his dirty nails digging into his scalp. “He starts… Christ, it’s like he went mad. Gets all twisted he does. Screams at me. At no one. Spins around and around, like we got us enemies on all sides. I tried to talk him down. Tried to see what was wrong. But he just wouldn’t… he wouldn’t, he…” Mr. Young trembled and clutched his hands together, as if in prayer. “The boat was rocking by then. I was frightened that he were about to fall out. So I grabs him. Tried pulling him back. He swung at me. Said he was—said I was meaning to kill him. No, I says! No, sir, no, I’m trying to help! But he wouldn’t listen. By God, he wouldn’t listen and he—he—!”

 

Holmes leaned forward, hanging onto every word. “He what, Mr. Young?”

 

Mr. Young wailed. “He fell! Tumbled in front of me and straight onto his own harpoon! By God, it was all I could do to sit there and watch him bleed! Jesus, Mary, I didn’t know what to do! I was so frightened I… Some leagues away, I spotted another ship. Flagged her down. Begged for help. I told them what happened. But no one… no one believes me and I… I…” He collapsed into his hands and curled forward, once more falling into despair.

 

Holmes and I exchanged glances. I could tell by his thoughtful expression that he believed the poor boy. I implored him further. “We want to help you, Mr. Young.”

 

Mr. Young lifted his heavy head. “You do…? B-but the detective… he told me I’m to be hung for this.”

​

“Inspector Malory is no longer the only man on this case,” said Holmes. “We believe you, Mr. Young. And we shall do all we can to prove the truth.” The young man nearly collapsed at the news, thanking us both profusely as we stood to take our leave. “Our time is short, so please tell us. Where can we find Mr. Shawley’s vessel?”