"CHECKMATE" The Beginning of Sherlock Holmes

Chapitre IV

- So, may I ask you now, where have you been this morning? You left without saying anything! I thought we were a team?!

Sherlock was sitting at his kitchen's table, trying to eat some lunch when Watson had entered the room, looking quite irritated.

- Will you sit down and eat something with me, please?

Sherlock had said this in a soft voice to his coworker, as he was aware it was the only thing that could calm him down. It seemed like the ex-veteran didn't like to be left behind.

- Only if you'll consider telling me everything, replied Watson who settled down in front of him anyway.

- Very well, I could use some advice after all.

The detective then proceeded to report the events of the morning without omitting anything. In Sherlock's mind, the key to an investigation always resided in the details.

When he finished his story, the surprise on Watson's face had replaced any sign of angriness.

- I seriously don't know what to think about this Sherlock. I would never have suspected them.

- I know you wouldn't. That's why I needed to go there alone.

- I understand now. Sorry if I was mad at you, it was very foolish of me.

- Everything's fine, said Holmes in a hurry.

Actually, it is not. We don't really have time for this right now, Grace is still missing, and we are far from finding her, he said angrily.

It was not in Sherlock's habit to lose his temper, but this case was seriously starting to get on his nerves.

- You're right, sorry, replied Watson in a little voice. The only thing that comes to my mind is to go check Grace's place again. We must have forgotten something.

- I must admit that you are right. Take your coat Watson, we're going back to where we started.

They quickly left their apartment and got into a horse-drawn carriage. Only a few minutes later, they were facing the blue building.

It was easier to get in this time, as the door had already been forced. The two men stepped into the apartment and took a quick look around them.

- Watson, I do believe it will be easier if we split up.

- As you want Sherlock, I'm going this way.

Sherlock watched him get into the kitchen as he decided to stay in the living room for now. He swept the room with his gaze and noted every detail.

The floor was even dirtier than the first time he went there, the footsteps were barely visible, and the broken Limoges Porcelain was still lying in the middle of the room. He turned around and saw the fibers of Charles's blue and grey scarf hanging on the wood knob.

It makes sense, he thought, if nobody comes here to clean up a bit, it will soon become unbearable.

However, the rest of the apartment looked quite normal. There was a little couch in front of a coffee table, the walls were decorated with beige wallpaper. The same picture as the one he had already seen twice before was standing in a frame on the buffet.

It's suspicious, it's like this photo is following me.

Except that, he didn't notice any personal effect, photo, or decoration.

Hope told me she had no friends, but I was still hoping to find something here. Maybe it's a waste of time, after all, this is not leading anywhere.

He was about to call up Watson when his voice came out of the kitchen:

- Sherlock! Come here, I think I found something!

The detective quickly made his way to the kitchen where he found his associate pointing at the two teacups.

- Well, what is it? he asked

- They're empty! Someone must have come here to clean them up.

Sherlock looked into the cups. Watson was right, there was no more black tea or foam inside of them.

- It is correct, well done Watson.

- But it can be anyone because the door was still open, so it doesn't tell us more about our suspect.

- You are quite right. However, the signs of the fight, as well as the fibers of Mr. Thompson's scarf, are still there. Why would our man erase only half his evidence?

- I don't know, Sherlock. Maybe they thought the others were too obvious?

- I'm not sure about that ... Keep looking for something here, I'm going back into the living room.

As soon as he got there, he sat on the sofa and took his head in his hands.

It made no sense. Why would someone take the risk to go back to the scene of the crime, only to clean up a bunch of cups of tea? They were missing something; he could feel it.

He raised his head and looked at the wall in front of him. There, stood a painting of Chicago's coast, it was a little tilted to the right.

Sherlock stood up in order to fix it. He crossed the room and gave a little tap on the left of the picture, but something was blocking it. Curious, he took the picture off the wall but what he saw made his mouth fall open in disbelief.

A big hole had been dug in the plaster and was filled with hundreds of letters. He took them out, went back on the sofa, and started reading them.

It was a whole conversation, spreading over years of exchanges between Grace and her mysterious claimant.

I knew there was someone, thought proudly Sherlock.

However, he didn't expect him to be her sister's husband, Charles Thompson.

It seemed like they had been maintaining a secret relationship for a while now. In fact, the oldest letter he could find dates back to 1869. He could tell by their writing that they really loved each other, it had nothing to do with the kind of love he had seen between Hope and Charles.

Poor Hope. Does she know about that?

His reading was arriving at the last letters, then he thought he had reached the end of his surprises. How wrong he was:

Grace was pregnant with Charles.

They were planning on leaving the country to raise it somewhere far away, like two teenagers besotted with forbidden love.

He finished his reading just when Watson came into the room.

He finally had his missing piece of the puzzle. He understood everything.

- Sherlock... What happened here? What are all those papers?

His gaze was passing between the hole in the wall and the letters Sherlock still had in his hands.

- I think I just solved the case, my dear Watson.