IT'S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE! Three quick, classic cases.

UNCONNECTED COINCIDENCES, PART ONE

It had been almost two weeks since the case of the disappeared boy. Once more, our story begins late at night, which is why the man had lit two lamps for his night-time rumination; he looked around the room, a place now nearly unrecognizable from before: not only was it now clean from all dust, but the desk had also been tidied, with every document, report, newspaper scraps that had stayed taped to the wall for years, now organized and catalogued. Of course, it was a partial catalogue, as there were boxes of other items of the sort that had been rotting away in the storage – a former dining room – moved near her table, positioned perpendicularly to his own, to the right-side wall. On it was a never-ending pile of mail that was being sorted as well, between personal and work related. Needless to say, much had happened since Alice Camden had become his assistant.

Other than the mentioned occupations, she had managed to convince him to take on smaller cases, even though they were boring, by arguing that he needed more money to pay rent, an assistant and a cleaner, and by promising that every tedious task was hers to handle. He just couldn't say no, it was an excellent deal: looking for a lost dog or a stolen necklace was not so bad when all he had to do was be there, perhaps giving an opinion from time to time. However much he might have hated to admit it, that model worked excellently, it was more stable than waiting to get lucky with a rich case. He was also building a reputation, which meant more potential work.

Miss Camden was keeping herself quite busy. She didn't seem to mind all those boring bits of the job that he couldn't get himself to do. He wondered if all that eagerness to keep occupied was her way to deal with the grief of losing her brother a month earlier – it was all familiar behaviour to him. That was the main reason why he didn't question any of her projects in any way, instead upping her percentage of earning. 

In the middle of that thought, the doorbell rang. Considering the time, it wouldn't be farfetched to assume he was about to meet an interesting story. John bolted down to the entrance and opened the door.

"Mr. Alderton? Detective?" The stranger's face was illumined by the interior light: he was very young, drenched in sweat and red as a strawberry; his short breath confirmed that he had been running.

Strange how nobody seemed to be wanting to use his job title to refer to him. At least this hybrid was better than nothing. "Yes, that's me."

"I have a message from Mr. Fletcher. A murder has been committed, and he requires your immediate assistance."

Arthur Fletcher, what a man. He was a retired police officer that he knew by working with him on his last case a few years back, as an inexperienced troublemaker. He would never forget how impressed Mr. Fletcher had been with his quickness of thinking, although he tried to hide it, as well as give some fatherly advice to a fatherless youth on taming one's hubris – which he ignored, much to his posthumous regret.

"How could I say no?" the detective responded, going back inside to turn off the lights and get his coat. "We'll need to make a stop to fetch my assistant. This is non-negotiable."

Before arriving at the house, Alderton doubted for a moment whether it was a good idea to show up in the middle of the night.  As soon as the carriage approached the street any worry dissipated, since the entire first floor was illuminated. He went to the entrance, knocked, and instinctively put an ear to the wood: something fell to the ground, judging by the noise a book; a moment of complete silence followed, then steps started coming toward the entrance.

"Who is it?"

"John Alderton."

The door opened to reveal a rather dishevelled look – at least for her standards – with strands of hair escaping the pins, and a tired countenance. "Detective. What has happened?"