Sherlock Holmes (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle) short stories

Found

London, June 15th, 1896
It was a warm June evening, humid and hazy. The temperatures gently dipped as dusk settled down on the London streets along with the ever present fog, making the welcoming glow of the streetlights fuzzy. I walked along the sidewalk, the collar of my overcoat turned up and my leather portfolio under my arm. I had been good at avoiding much attention so far. I was rather shy and preferred to be alone over crowds and streets, but I also hated being cooped up inside. I had just moved into the Camden house on Baker Street. It was small, and had been rundown and dark when I first came, but with a woman's touch I had made it into a home.
The furniture had been a gift from my loving uncle, who had supported me beforehand anyway when I needed help covering the down payment. I had always paid him back, but I wasn't so sure he never sneaked some extra banknotes in with what he gave me. He spoiled me, that is true, but my parents had passed when I had been eighteen. I politely declined his offer to come and live with him, for I didn't want to be a burden, and went about the world on my own. I taught music where I could and tutored children elsewhere to make ends meet. But, living alone as a young lady and having inherited the handsome looks of my father, I more than once had to confide in Remington to scare off unwanted admirers. He gladly took the role of protective father. I rarely addressed Remy as 'uncle' for the reason that he was only seven years older than me, much more of an older brother than an uncle.
I fumbled with my key, then turned the doorknob with a gloved hand and entered my home. It still smelled as musty as when I first moved in about three weeks ago, but I didn't mind all that much. After locking the door behind me, I tossed my small satchel I used as a purse onto the kitchen table. I paused in front of the door on the other side of which stood a conservatory grand Baldwin piano —also a gift from Remy— but resisted the temptation telling myself it was too late and I would disturb the neighbors, thus marching up the stairs and to my writing desk. I fell back into my rolling desk chair and glided up to my desk, smoothing my rumpled skirts out. I pulled off my trilby hat and dropped it beside the sprawling papers.
I routinely spent the last hours of the day emptying my head onto paper so as to leave it clear for whatever I dreamed up in bed and the early hours of the morning. Rather than using the typewriter as usual, I dipped my pen in the ink and began to write by hand.

"There had to be a reason somebody killed her," she insisted. "There has to be a reason he or she is killing these women. No investigation is complete without motive."
Inspector Harley nodded. "You have a point." He stared down at the twisted body of the victim, his sensitive green eyes reflecting his thoughts as they always did.
And he wondered how she read his mind so often.

I paused, hearing a knock on the door behind me. "Coming," I said, returning my pen to the ink. I stood, annoyed at having to move again after having sat down so recently. I ran the possibilities of who could be at my door through my head as I descended the stairs. A peddler? Maybe. Remington? Less likely.
An investigator from the Scotland Yard coming to ask if a crime fiction author-in-the-making could help them solve a baffling case?
I shook my head.
Stop it.
I had to admit my heart fluttered a bit at the idea of a guest. I had yet to have the chance to show off my household to anyone other than my uncle. I wondered who it was I was about to entertain.
I unlocked the door and pulled it open.
To my disappointment, there was no one. Just a yellow envelope with the name Iris on it.
I huffed in annoyance. More than once in my lifetime had I been called "Iris", but my name was Ivory. The publishers for the Strand Magazine often mistook me for Iris in their rejection slips.
I bent down and picked the letter up, turning it over in my hand. There was no return address or postmarks for that matter. It had evidently been left here by someone. I looked around, but saw no one other than a few passersby.
Probably another suitor. I know it sounds vain to say that was what first came to mind, but it was the truth. I couldn't think of anyone else —realistically, anyway— that could have left this here.
I shrugged and went back inside. I took a few unconscious steps away from the door and to the front window with the table I threw grocery packages on when I returned from the store. Opening the envelope, I pulled out a small slip of paper and unfolded it.
Two words protruded off the paper, the sharp penmanship harsh and angry. The hateful curves of each letter bore into their white background.