The Deadly Tower
Fall
brought fog and rain to London and along with it, a mystery.
Sherlock
Holmes sat in his favorite couch near the window of 221B Baker Street,
watching the rain patter against the window as he puffed on his pipe. A fire
crackled in the fireplace, bathing the room in a flickering glow. Sherlock had
been in his pajamas and slippers all day, wrapped in his scarlet robe. He was
lost in thought.
Dr.
Watson walked through the door, setting down an umbrella and hanging up a
dripping wet coat.
“I’m
back, Sherlock,” he said, removing his hat and placing it on the coat rack near
the door.
“I
didn’t realize you left,” Sherlock muttered, not taking his eyes off the rain.
“I’ve
been gone for nearly two hours, and by the look of it you haven’t moved an
inch,” Watson said, finally used to the times when Sherlock would zone out
completely from the world and into his mind-attic.
Sherlock
turned to look at Watson who had sat down in the red squishy chair by the fire,
warming up.
“I
see you’ve been to the bakery again,” Sherlock muttered.
“How
did you know?” Watson asked, furrowing his brow.
“You
have some powdered sugar on your shirt, probably from a scone which I know you
enjoy, and you stayed at the bakery a while because you took your coat off to
sit down inside. If you had been in to grab one and back out you wouldn’t have
had a need. But you stayed because you’ve had a few. Don’t deny it, you’ve
obviously gained weight. It’s starting to show.”
“Alright!”
Watson snapped before his friend could continue.
Just
then there was a knock at the door. Sherlock obviously had no intention of
getting up so Watson got the door.
A
man with black hair that was combed back and a black mustache stood at the
door. He looked young, around twenty-five or twenty-six. His gray eyes looked
slightly worried.
“Mr.
Holmes?” he asked.
“No,”
Watson replied, “The man you are looking for is inside. If you’ll follow me.”
“Thank
you,” the man said.
Holmes
glanced at the man and said, “Hello, Sir.”
“Hello,
Mr. Holmes,” the man answered, “I am William Henry, I am here in regards to the
death of my brother, Michael.”
“Please
sit,” Dr. Watson said, motioning the man toward a chair.
“Explain
your case,” Sherlock said, turning on the couch to face the man, his face a
mask of concentration, trying to bring in every detail that was available to
him.
William
began, “It was two days ago. I had dared my brother to sleep in the tower of
our estate. In the morning he was dead. But here’s the catch, there is one
window in the tower and it cannot be opened, the door was locked from the
outside and it was still locked when we came to him in the morning, there were
no marks to show how he had been murdered, we suspect poison, my family and I,
and last of all . . .” William lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned in,
“It was in what we call the ‘deadly tower’.”
A
smile had begun to form on Sherlock’s face. Watson looked at him, completely
lost at how the man could’ve died.
“When
can we come and investigate?” Sherlock asked.
“As
soon as possible,” William said, “I’ll explain the legend of the ‘deadly tower’
when we get there.”
“Get
ready, Watson,” Sherlock said, standing, “Mr. Henry, we will come with you.”
And with that, Sherlock rushed out of the room to get ready.
Minutes
later, Sherlock rushed out of the room in gray pants and a matching coat with a
white shirt under a black vest. He reached over to the coat rack and pulled off
his overcoat and deer-stalker cap, placing it on his head and adjusting it.
“Let’s
go,” he said enthusiastically.
William
followed him out the door. Watson stood up and tried to button his coat,
failing in the process, he patted his stomach, “Perhaps I should go off the scones,” he thought.
After
putting on his overcoat and going out to meet Sherlock, Watson, Holmes, and
Henry climbed into a carriage and went to the train station.
“Where
is your home, exactly?” Watson asked as they sat down in their train
compartment.
“It’s
a mansion in the country, my family has owned it since around the 1600s,”
William replied.
The
train ride lasted a couple of hours, the rain pattering against the windows the
entire time, lighting flashed in the distance followed by the rumbling of
thunder.
Once
they got out of the train station after the ride was over, they took a carriage
to the mansion taking at least a half hour. They could see the Manor from the
station. By the time they reached the Henry’s mansion, it was afternoon. The
weather hadn’t changed, however.
The
Henry Mansion was a large estate with many towers, the largest of these was at
the front left corner of the mansion. William pointed to it as they approached,
“That’s the tower my brother was killed in,” he said solemnly. The mansion was
darkened by the clouds and rain, it loomed over them eerily.
He
led the pair inside the mansion where they were met by two women and another
man.
One
of the women looked to be around her 40s, with blonde hair streaked with some
gray which was tied up into a bun. She looked the detective and his partner up
and down with her gray eyes.
The
other woman was younger, somewhere in her early to mid 20s. She had long black
hair that was put into a braid down her back. She was very pretty with blue
eyes.
The
man looked to be around his mid 30s, with dark hair and gray eyes like the
older woman’s.
“Mr.
Holmes, Dr. Watson,” William said, indicating the older woman, “This is Sylvia,
she watched over my family for years.” He indicated the younger woman next,
“This is Emily, she was my brother’s fiancée before . . .” his voice trailed off.
Finally he introduced the man, “This is Gerald, he is our family’s butler.
Everyone, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his partner Dr. John Watson.”
A
couple of hours later, Sherlock and John were sitting in the dining room at a
long wooden table.
It
was completely silent, no one dared have the first word, they only eyed each
other, waiting for someone to break the silence.
Finally,
Sherlock spoke, “Ladies and Gentlemen, my partner and I have been called here
to investigate the death of Michael Henry. I want everything you could tell me
about him. Go ahead.”
“Well,”
said Emily in a quiet voice, “He was a very quiet man.”
“Means
nothing to me right now, next,” Sherlock said, Watson elbowed him in the ribs.
“He
was the sole heir to our father’s inheritance. About two million pounds,”
William said.
“Now
there’s something. Someone would have a reason for killing him,” Sherlock said,
“But tell me, why was he in the tower on the night of his death.”
“That’s
my fault,” William said, “He and I had made a bet, you see, there’s this
legend.”
“Legend?”
Watson asked.
“Yes,
the legend of the Deadly Tower. You see, a long time ago, not long after this
mansion was built. There was a sentry posted in the tower every night. One
night, he fell asleep in the tower and they say that when it was found out he
had fallen asleep at his post, he was killed on the spot. So know, we say that
anyone who sleeps in the tower will die before the night is through.”
A
shiver ran through the entire table.
“My
brother and I made a bet that night. I bet my brother that he couldn’t stay in
the tower the entire night. He took the bet, and in the morning . . . well, you
can guess the ending.”
“Well,
I guess there’s only one thing to do,” Sherlock said, “Watson, tonight I will
sleep in the tower and find the murderer.”
The
next evening, Sherlock and John stood in the tower.
“Good
luck, Holmes,” Watson said, “Do you have your revolver.”
“Yes,”
Sherlock said simply, he and Watson were shaking hands when the door opened.
Emily
stood in the doorway, a tray in her hands. On the tray was bread and cheese
with a goblet of some sort of drink.
“I
brought some food and drink when Michael came up here, in case he became
thirsty during the night,” she said.
“That’s
very kind of you,” Sherlock said, and Emily left.
“Holmes,”
Watson said as he was about to leave.
“Yes,
Watson?” Sherlock asked.
John
was silent for a moment before saying, “Be careful.”
“Don’t
worry,” Sherlock replied, “I will.”
The
tower had only one window which was rather small. A single painting hung on the
wall of a man who seemed to eye Holmes intently. A chair, desk, and couch were
placed in the tower, as well as a potted plant next to the desk, and a
candelabra was placed on the desk which flickered. The sun had set by 7:30
leaving the candles as the only light in the tower. It was chilly up there,
causing Sherlock to button his coat. He reached for the bread on the desk,
nearly tipping over his drink in the process, he righted it quickly, though
some of it spilled into the potted plant.
He
took the bread and munched on it in bits.
“It’s going to be a long night,” he thought.
Watson
sunk into the red chair and rested his feet on the matching footstool. A candle
burned on the stand next to him as he raised a book and began to read. His
revolver was placed in his pocket, if Sherlock called for him, he was to rush
into the room and fight back against the murderer.
The
night wore on and the candle began to burn low, John’s eyes grew heavy as the
grandfather clock in the back of the room chimed two.
“It’s going to be a long night,” he thought.
Sherlock
reached for the drink on the desk, he took a small sip. That’s all he had time
to take before he noticed something, one of the leaves on the plant had turned
brown and had fallen off of the plant. He could’ve sworn that the plant was
completely healthy when he first came into the room.
The
night wore on, the candle on his desk burned lower. He couldn’t allow himself
to sleep. His pistol lay on the desk next to the empty plate. After a couple of
hours, Sherlock began to feel something weird. A small burning began in his
throat, his breathing became hard and labored.
Sherlock placed a hand to his
throat, the burning grew bigger. He went to the door and tried to yell,
“Watson!” but all that came out was a faint whisper that he could barely hear
himself.
He pounded on the door till his
fists began to hurt. He tried calling for his partner again, “Watson!” but no
sound came out at all. His vision blurred, his breathing became weak, his heart
hammered, yet began to grow soft. He tried pounding with all his might, before
he collapsed . . . unconscious.
Watson had dozed off, his snores
echoing in the dark room. The book fell out of his hands and landed with a loud
echoing thump on the floor. He
snapped awake, retrieving his gun from his pocket. He looked around, not seeing
anyone.
He did hear something, though, a
thudding sound . . . coming from upstairs!
John jumped up out of the chair and
rushed upstairs, pistol in one hand. The thudding had stopped once he reached
the foot of the steps. He hoped he wasn’t too late. He tried to open the door,
it wouldn’t budge. He pounded his shoulder against it until it swung open,
revealing Sherlock on the floor.
Watson
didn’t waste any time. He picked up his partner and threw him over his
shoulder, taking him to the spare room in the house, laying him down on the bed
carefully. Only the smallest movement of his chest proved that Sherlock was
still alive. Holmes’s pulse was weak, his heart thumping slowly, quietly.
John
opened his medical bag and pulled out different herbs and tinctures, and, by
the candlelight, began to heal his friend.
The
next morning, Sherlock woke up weakly. He tried to stand but his legs wouldn’t
support his weight. Watson pulled one of Holmes’s arms over his shoulder and
helped him downstairs to the table, where everyone was eating breakfast. Nobody
noticed the pair standing there until Sherlock spoke.
“Good
morning, everyone,” he said weakly.
Everybody
at the table jumped, they all turned to see Sherlock standing there, their eyes
wide.
“Evidently
none of you expected me to survive the night,” Sherlock said, “And if it hadn’t
been for John here, I wouldn’t have.”
Sherlock
and Watson sat down at the two empty places around the table.
“What
happened in the tower, Mr. Holmes?” William asked anxiously, as if he wasn’t sure he really
wanted to hear the story.
“You
see, Henry,” Sherlock began, “I wasn’t sure how this murderer was going to
come, the window was too small for someone to sneak in, the door was locked
from the inside so no one could just walk right through the door. If anyone
were to come in, they would’ve had to have walked through walls. It was around
two-thirty in the morning when I started to feel drowsy, I don’t remember much
after that except that I knew that I was dying. If it wasn’t for Watson I
wouldn’t have made it out of that tower alive.”
“Did
you figure out who the murderer is?” Emily asked.
“Not
yet,” Holmes replied, “But I plan to tonight. Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight,
all of us are to meet in the tower. Where the figure will reveal him or herself
to us. We will meet next at six o’ clock.”
The
time passed surprisingly quickly and before anyone realized it, they were
walking up the spiral stone staircase to the tower where Sherlock Holmes and
Dr. Watson were waiting.
Sherlock’s
arms were folded across his chest as he eyed each suspect carefully.
“Good
evening, Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said as they all stepped nervously into the
room, “Watson, please close the door.”
Dr.
Watson closed the door with a click and locked it. He nodded to Sherlock who
turned his attention back to the suspect.
“Now,”
he said, “I feel that it would be best if we started this long night with a
drink.”
Watson
picked up a bottle and poured the liquid into six glasses. He and Sherlock
passed out the drinks, taking one for themselves.
“To
Michael,” Sherlock said, raising his glass, “May his mystery be solved.”
Everyone
raised their glasses and took a drink, except for Sherlock and Watson. The suspects
eyed Sherlock and Watson strangely, wondering why they didn’t take a drink.
“Ladies
and Gentlemen,” Sherlock began, setting down his glass on the table, “The drink
you have just drunk has been mixed with the contents of the drink from my cup
last night. This means nothing to three of you, to one, it means the world.
Now, we wait.”
The
next hour passed in agonizing silence, people looked at each other, confused,
sweat beginning to bead on their forehead. Sherlock looked at everyone in the
room in turn. His face was an unreadable mask.
“My
throat’s beginning to burn,” William said suddenly, after another hour had
passed.
“So
is mine,” Emily said, placing her hand on her throat.
Everyone
had looks on their faces as their throats began to feel scratchy.
“Just a little longer,” Sherlock thought.
“My
vision’s becoming fuzzy,” Gerald said, trying to blink it away.
Sherlock
reached into his pocket and withdrew a small glass bottle with a light brown
colored liquid inside.
“This
little bottle here contains the answer to these problems. I felt the same
symptoms last night as well,” Sherlock explained, swirling the contents of the
bottle, “Of course,” he added, “Who needs them?” And with that, he threw the
bottle out the open window.
“Fool!”
Sylvia suddenly shouted, “You’ll kill us all! That could’ve saved our lives!”
“What
makes you say that?” Sherlock asked.
“Now
we only have a few minutes before the poison takes effect!”
“Right
you are! Lestrade! Come on in!” Sherlock said loudly. Watson unlocked the door
and Inspector Lestrade followed by two police officers marched into the room.
“Arrest
Ms. Sylvia here for the murder of Michael Henry,” Sherlock said, pointing to
Sylvia.
“But
what about the poison?” Sylvia asked, worried.
“There
is no poison,” Sherlock explained, “After Dr. Watson had revived me, I told him
my symptoms and together we created a concoction with his herbs and tinctures
that would replicate the symptoms without the death. I had no clue who had
poisoned me, but I knew that the murderer would know the symptoms of the poison
they were using. So if I slipped our concoction to everybody, the murderer
would know they were being poisoned,
when they went after the antidote they would give themselves away. The effects
of Watson and I’s ‘poison’ will wear off in a few minutes.”
“Brilliant,”
Lestrade said, placing handcuffs on Sylvia.
“How
did you know that it was the drink that
was poisoned?” Watson asked, “Wasn’t there also food with you spent the night
in the tower?”
“Yes
there was,” Sherlock answered, “But, as I was reaching for the bread last
night, I accidentally spilt some of my drink into the potted plant over there.”
He pointed to the plant which was now completely brown and shriveled, dead
leaves were on the floor all around it. “In a couple of hours it began to die.
I had not paid it much attention until after I had drunk it myself and began to
feel the symptoms of the poison.”
“Well,
I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Holmes,” William said, a broad smile on his
face, though his voice still sounded weak.
“You’re
welcome,” Sherlock replied, shaking the man’s hand.
“But,
why did she kill Michael?” William asked.
“I
suppose we can ask her that ourselves,” Sherlock turned to Sylvia who’s hands
were cuffed behind her. “Why?” he asked.
“I’ve
watched over Michael and Henry since they were babies,” Sylvia explained
bitterly, “No one ever noticed me, no one ever thanked me, when I found out
that Michael was going to inherit all the money, I decided that if any one
deserved it, it was me, not that little brat.”
“Don’t
you talk about my brother that way!” William shouted, raising a threatening
finger at her.
“Don’t
worry,” Sherlock said, placing a hand on William’s shoulder, “She’s going far
away now.”
“Thank
you again, Mr. Holmes,” William said.
“Of
course,” Sherlock said, “Come, Watson, let’s go back to Baker Street. I think
we’ve earned a break.”
“Sounds
good to me, Sherlock,” Watson said.
“Maybe
we can stop for scones on our way,” Sherlock suggested.
“No!”
Watson said a little too quickly, before laughing, “No, thank you, I think I’ll
take a break from the scones for a while.”
“Ok
then,” Sherlock said, “Let’s go.”
Sherlock
Holmes and Dr. Watson walked out of the large mansion and to the train station
where they caught the next train to London. As they left, Sherlock cast one
last glance out of his window at Henry Manor, where a single light glowed in
the deadly tower.
