Sherlock Holmes sat in his old love seat with his pipe in his mouth, obviously in deep thought. His thick, sharp eyebrows were scrunched together, as they usually were while he scoured his “mind palace,” as he had recently settled upon calling it, for a logical answer to even the most complex of problems.
“Has someone come to you with another case?” I asked.
“Yes,” he responded simply, and carried on putting pieces of his elaborate puzzle together in his magnificent mind.
Realizing my friend was not planning to provide me with any additional information I waited a few minutes before telling him to elaborate. Holmes let out a small sound of irritance before turning to face me and blowing his smoke in my face, adding to the already poisonous atmosphere of tobacco.
“Watson,” he said, scrutinizing me as he spoke. “What do you know of Blair Academy?” The name rang a bell, but I could not recall much from it.
“I have heard the name before but I am not completely sure what and where it is,” I said calmly, not sure what my friend meant to do with the information.
Holmes’ face returned to its original observational expression. I sat in anticipation as Holmes quietly mulled over the information.
He finally broke the silence stating, “There have been a series of murders in Manhattan recently. Over an expanse of about four months, a number of bodies have been found in obscure areas such as beneath bridges and behind large trash receptacles. Mr. Blair, founder of Blair Academy, wrote to me recently. He mentioned that he believes his son, whom he has not seen in over three years, might be involved in the case. According to Mr. Blair, his son, Mason Blair, showed signs of violence before he went off to Ithaca College for music. As said in Mr. Blair’s letter, ‘He had a tendency to break things when he was angry. Mason would even attempt to hit me while he was being reprimanded.’” Holmes paused. “What do you make of this, Watson?” he said, finally.
He continued to observe me, as I attempted to come up with a conclusion myself. I tried to follow the same set of steps my friend so magnificently executed in his own deductions.
“Well,” I started carefully. “Is it possible that he is simply acting out against students that have either bullied or even hazed him in the past?” My friend looked me over a few times.
“Yes.” said Holmes monotonously, letting out another puff of smoke. “Only,” he continued, “if it is infact Mason. It is completely possible that Mr. Blair’s son is uninvolved.”
“Oh well,” he said, standing. “ We will find out when we get to Manhattan on Saturday.” His statement caught me off guard.
“What?” I exclaimed. “We are taking a boat to Manhattan and then a train to Blairstown later in the week.” As Holmes started for his room, he turned to me and said, “Since when do you smoke?”
“I would never-”
“Don’t even try to deny it.”
“Fine,” I said glumly. “I borrowed your pipe a few days ago. I can't seem to find the appeal, if it so pleases you to know. But how did you find out?”
“Your inexperience was your downfall. You dropped much of the tobacco while filling the pipe. I also noticed the stain from the tobacco on your fingers as you explained your theory.” And with that my friend left me to sit alone in shame.
