I'm not Sherlock Holmes E-Book

M. J. Eden

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: I'm not Sherlock Holmes
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 390

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

In 21st century London, Alexandra Green, a young secretary with a knack for solving puzzles, often finds herself struggling under the shadow of the great detective, Sherlock Holmes. Her keen observational skills and sharp intellect frequently draw comparisons to Holmes himself, much to her frustration. Despite her best efforts to avoid the Holmes brothers - both the brilliant yet enigmatic Sherlock and the powerful, calculating Mycroft - fate seems to have other plans. When the mysterious disappearance of a young boy grips the city, Alexandra is reluctantly drawn into a complex investigation that forces her closer to the two men she's tried so hard to distance herself from. As the case unfolds, it becomes clear that Alexandra's unique talents may be the key to unraveling a conspiracy that stretches far beyond a simple missing person.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

I. The missing boy

II. The smell of menthol

III. Mycroft Holmes

IV. Goethe and Iron Man

V. M like …

VI. The trap

VII. Margaret Trevor

VIII. Hippo

IX. Scotch

X. The truth

XI. The missing piece of the puzzle

XII. The witch

XIII. The Bruce Partington case

XIV. Annabelle

I.

THE MISSING BOY

There was a sudden ring at the door.

Silence.

Alexandra Green jerked upright. Long before her eyes could focus, the stiffness in her neck made it painfully clear that she had fallen asleep on the couch. A quick glance at her wrist revealed the time - 7:00 a.m. - rubbing the remnants of sleep from her tired eyes, she wondered.

Who on earth would disturb me at this hour?

And on a Sunday, no less?

She yawned, stretching slowly before rising to her feet. The doorbell rang again, more insistent this time.

Irritated, she stepped into the hallway, her beige dressing gown - a cheap imitation of silk - loosely draped over her, revealing the white nightshirt beneath that reached just to her knees. With an air of growing annoyance, she unlocked the door and opened it.

Standing on the threshold was an elderly lady with silver hair pinned up in a neat bun. She wore a pair of round spectacles with thick black rims, and a hand-knit grey cardigan that appeared to be of her own making. The woman clutched a small dark brown handbag against her chest, as if it were a shield, her thin fingers wrapped tightly around the straps.

"Hello," the woman stammered, her voice uncertain. "Are you Alexandra Green? The detective?"

Alex suppressed an awkward smile, tightening the sash of her robe around her waist. With a polite gesture, she invited the elderly lady inside. Guiding her into the living room, she prepared a hot cup of tea to calm the visitor’s nerves. Without a word, she pressed the warm cup into the woman’s trembling hands. Then, with a measured grace, Alex lowered herself into a broad reading chair, positioned at an angle opposite the couch. The guest unknowingly seated herself where Alex had earlier been napping, blissfully unaware of the fact.

Nonsense, Alex thought to herself.

She must have realized.

Surely, she knows that if I had been in the bedroom, it would have taken me far longer to reach the door.

It's obvious I’ve just woken up, isn’t it?

No, no, she chided herself, rolling her eyes inwardly.

She’s too preoccupied, burdened with the grief of losing someone dear.

She wouldn't have noticed such trivial details.

Or perhaps it’s simply that most people - normal people - don’t follow these kinds of thought patterns.

Alex took a deep breath, her voice calm yet attentive. "How may I be of assistance?”

"It’s about my daughter, Maria Drebber. She is… no, she was…" The older woman’s voice broke, and tears welled up in her eyes. Trembling, she placed the teacup on the slender mahogany coffee table between them, her hands shaking too much to risk holding it any longer.

Alex handed her a handkerchief from the tissue box, which rested neatly in the center of the narrow table. "It’s all right," she said, her voice steady - calm, yet neither cold nor unkind. "You don’t need to say more, Mrs. Drebber. I read about what happened in the papers. My deepest condolences."

"Thank you," the older woman sobbed, her head bowed. "They told me there are no leads - nothing to trace the culprit - and that for now, all I can do is wait." She raised her tearful eyes to meet Alex's gaze directly. "Detective Inspector Doyle was kind enough to give me your address. He said you might be able to help." Desperation hung thick in her voice as she pleaded, "Please, you're my last hope."

Why, Alex thought to herself with a faint flicker of annoyance.

It seems as though Doyle is practically daring me to join him on another case.

That lazy bastard.

I have more than enough on my plate as it is.

Whenever the going gets tough, he ropes me in.

At times, he’s even worse than Lestrade.

Alex scrutinized her visitor with a keen, almost imperceptible intensity. "Can you tell me what happened two days ago?"

"Maria called me, as usual, just after dinner. She said they'd be out a little longer since they had only just left and that I shouldn’t wait up for them. But beyond that… I don't know what happened."

Alex leaned forward, her sharp eyes narrowing as though she could see right through the woman. "Did you hear anything in the background? Children, especially when they sense a parent isn’t paying full attention - such as during a phone call - tend to make themselves known. Was your grandson with her? Even if it wasn’t words, perhaps loud calls or noises?"

Mrs. Drebber hesitated for a moment, clearly grappling with her memories, before shaking her head slowly. "I… I can’t be sure. There might have been something, but it’s all so hazy now."

Alex studied her guest for another moment, her mind already working through the pieces of the puzzle.

"No,” Mrs. Drebber shook her head vehemently. But then, as if frozen mid-motion, she suddenly stopped. Her eyes widened as a memory flashed before her. "Yes,” she murmured, her hands trembling involuntarily. "They must have crossed the street during our conversation. Philip shouted 'Red' - as if my daughter was about to step into traffic without a thought. I then heard the screeching of tires and the blaring of a car horn, loud enough to make Philip cry out. Maria scolded him for it, though I suspect they kept walking after that. But beyond that, I heard nothing more.”

As Mrs. Drebber spoke, Alex’s mind was already racing, constructing the scene in rapid succession - playing out several possible scenarios with lightning speed, each one dismissed or refined until only the simplest, most logical conclusion remained. Without warning, she leapt from her chair.

"Would you be able to show me the location?" she asked, her voice sharp with purpose. "Of course, you needn’t accompany me if it’s too much for you. I completely understand. Just the address would suffice."

"17th York," Mrs. Drebber replied, visibly taken aback by the sudden intensity in Alex’s reaction. "That’s where they found Maria, at least."

Alex’s mental map of London unfurled in her mind - a vast network of streets, shortcuts, bus stops, and Underground stations. She frowned, puzzling over the details. "That’s not on the most direct route to your home." Her gaze flicked back to Mrs. Drebber, scrutinizing her with careful precision. "Does your daughter often take the York Street? The Gloucester would have been much quicker - and shorter."

She began pacing thoughtfully across the room, piecing together the facts as though assembling a jigsaw puzzle. Yet, even as she did so, the conclusion she reached seemed oddly implausible, and it unsettled her.

"What? Wait…" Mrs. Drebber’s voice quivered with confusion. "How could you know that? You don’t even know where my daughter started, or where I live."

Alex chuckled, her amusement barely concealed. "Of course, I know that." Her tone was almost too light for the gravity of the situation. "As I mentioned earlier, I read quite a bit in the papers."

"But no addresses were mentioned. Never."

"Naturally not," Alex replied smoothly. "But certain other locations were. And by connecting each known place, it’s possible to deduce both the starting point and the intended destination."

Mrs. Drebber took a long sip of her tea, her brows furrowing as she glanced up at Alex. "Then I don’t understand why you asked where my daughter and grandson were found."

Alex smiled knowingly. "To err is human." She stepped closer, her gaze meeting that of her guest with unwavering certainty. "I simply wanted to ensure I hadn’t overlooked anything." She drew a deep breath, her mind already circling the situation like a hawk over prey. "A mother, especially one raising a child alone, rarely wanders the streets late at night with a toddler. They’re tired - worn from the demands of the day. And children, even more so." She cast her eyes around the room, though her mind's eye remained fixed on the intricate mental map of London’s streets. "Venturing out late would bring nothing but unnecessary complications and stress. Particularly during the week, when both mother and child must rise early the next day. They’d avoid any detours and almost certainly take the shortest route possible." Alex paused briefly, allowing Mrs. Drebber time to digest her reasoning. "So, either they were taken to York Street by force, or they had an urgent errand to attend to before returning home." She turned her sharp gaze back to her client. "Did your daughter have any friends or acquaintances living near York Street? Or perhaps your grandson?"

Mrs. Drebber shook her head, the weight of her grief evident in the way she lowered it. "I don’t know," she whispered. "I’m so sorry."

"Please, don’t apologize," Alex said, her voice unexpectedly soft, as a strange feeling of sympathy washed over her. "Trust me, Mrs. Drebber - I will find your grandson and return him to you, unharmed."

What am I saying?

I must never make promises. Not ever.

Damn.

This isn’t like me at all.

Something about this case unsettled her. The boy... there was something peculiar.

Strange.

He reminds me of something...

Upon arriving at the designated address on York Street, Alexandra Green was immediately confronted with a problem: gaining access to the crime scene. The area had been cordoned off, and she first had to come to an agreement with Officer Tobias Gregson of the Metropolitan Police Service - commonly referred to across the country as New Scotland Yard, or simply Scotland Yard.

"What do you think this is?" Gregson asked irritably, his deep brown eyes flashing beneath his furrowed brows. "A circus attraction, perhaps?" His frustration was evident. "There’s been a murder here recently, as you’re well aware. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. This is a secured, sealed-off crime scene, full of crucial evidence. Unauthorized individuals like yourself have no business here. So, be on your way!"

"Where is Inspector Doyle?" Alex replied, her calm demeanor in stark contrast to Gregson’s irritation. She seemed entirely unaffected by his harsh tone. "Inform him that I’m here at the request of Maria Drebber’s mother."

Gregson rolled his eyes, exasperation clear in his expression. "And what exactly do you plan to do now? She’s already dead."

"But the boy isn’t. Not yet," Alex replied, her gaze piercing. "The longer you leave me standing here, when I could very well help you, the slimmer our chances of finding him alive become." Her voice was steady, but the urgency in her words was unmistakable.

"Our chances?" He widened his eyes in disbelief, then narrowed them sharply, his voice thick with disdain. "There is no our, no us, Missy, understand?" His face twisted in unmistakable bitterness. "You don’t work for the police, nor the government. You’re just some run-of-the-mill secretary for a greedy lawyer, nothing more."

Alexandra wasn’t the type to let such condescending words slide without response. In the span of a mere second, she studied Gregson with the meticulous precision of a hawk. His body language betrayed him more than his harsh words ever could. Officer Gregson had a habit of gesticulating wildly with his arms when he spoke, yet he rarely made direct eye contact. When listening or thinking, he would plant his hands firmly on his hips and stand wide-legged, like a stiff toy soldier. His feet, however, pointed away from her, a subconscious sign of his desire to be elsewhere.

His dark grey shirt, faintly worn and visible beneath the heavy black coat, bore the tiniest of dark red specks just below the collar - almost imperceptible to the untrained eye. The fabric on one side was creased, as though he had spent considerable time lying down or pressing against a hard surface, perhaps a bed or something similar. His coat, still slightly damp at the shoulders and sleeves, suggested recent exposure to the elements, though most of it had dried. Beneath the shirt, a barely visible white undershirt peeked out from just above his collar.

Interesting.

The details before her told a far more intriguing story than the man’s blusterous words ever could.

"How long?" Alexandra asked, her tone casual yet razor-sharp, after having gathered more than enough details for what was about to unfold.

Gregson stared at her, understandably confused. "What…?"

"How long has it been since you left the Royal Navy? Two years, or perhaps longer?"

His eyes widened in disbelief. "How the hell do you know that?" He was completely taken aback, though suspicion still flickered in his gaze. "Doyle must have told you, right?"

She smiled, a look of triumph playing on her lips. In that instant, Alex knew she had him firmly in her grasp. "Detective Inspector William Doyle? He’s an insufferably meticulous man, as stiff as an iron rod, and he would never, under any circumstances, utter a single word about his colleagues. If I were relying on him for information, I’d sooner have learned more from Maria Drebber herself - or perhaps your companion from last night."

Gregson’s confusion deepened. "What? How in the hell…?" The fire in his dark eyes flickered and morphed into uncertainty. "Have you been following me?"

Alex chuckled, clearly amused by his naivety. "Yes, of course! I’ve been trailing you just so I could throw this in your face and pretend to know everything, as if I’d known since yesterday that you’d be standing here today. After all, as a ‘run-of-the-mill secretary,’ I have nothing better to do, do I?" she quipped with exaggerated sarcasm.

Her wit struck him like a whip, leaving Gregson floundering, while Alex savored the moment, her keen intellect now fully on display.

"But how do you know, then? Did you speak with my girlfriend?" Gregson demanded, bewilderment clouding his voice.

"No," Alex replied with a serene smile. "I’ve only spoken with you, Officer Gregson - just now."

The man shook his head in disbelief, a deep frown creasing his brow. "That’s impossible. How could you know? I’ve never told you anything about that. We barely know each other!"

"Quite right," she said, her lips curling into a knowing grin. "I didn’t even know you had a girlfriend."

At that moment, Inspector William Doyle appeared from around the corner, his lanky frame casting a long shadow. He was a somewhat gaunt man, with a long, well-formed face and a nose that was both prominent and dignified, though it had a slight curve to it. His head, crowned with dark blond curls, was buried in his hands in a gesture of weary exasperation. But when he heard the unmistakable sound of Alexandra Green and Tobias Gregson engaged in a heated exchange, his sea-blue eyes widened in disbelief, and he reflexively rolled them in annoyance. Sighing deeply, he hurried over.

"What in heaven’s name are you two doing here?" Doyle barked, irritation etched in every word.

"Did you know that Officer Gregson used to be in the Royal Navy?" Alex was fully immersed in her game of nonverbal communication, and for a moment, she seemed as arrogant and insufferably smug as Sherlock Holmes himself might have been.

"What?" Doyle blinked, utterly lost. "No," he admitted, shaking his head and looking at Gregson with newfound surprise.

"How do you do that?" Gregson was nearly bursting with a blend of awe and frustration. His curiosity was palpable, and far from being angry, he seemed genuinely fascinated.

For a fleeting second, Alex froze, caught off guard by his reaction. She had expected rage - like all the others before him - yet here stood Tobias Gregson, almost thrilled by her abilities. It unnerved her slightly, though it also flattered her in a peculiar way.

Inspector Doyle, ever the pragmatist, rolled his eyes once more before glancing back toward the crime scene. It was clear that he found Alex's habit of drawing out people's secrets uncomfortable, perhaps even impolite. To him, her uncanny talent for reaching conclusions seemed to strip people bare, leaving them vulnerable and exposed. Yet, as much as it irked him, he couldn't help but be intrigued by how she reached conclusions that were invisible even to him. "Stop stringing the poor man along," he urged firmly. "Just tell him how you do it, or he'll never find peace again."

The young secretary smiled, clearly pleased with herself. While she had no desire to appear arrogant or conceited - after all, she was nothing like Sherlock Holmes, nor did she wish to be - she couldn’t help but enjoy the fact that she was, at this moment, far cleverer than the two men standing before her. "Only on one condition: I get to examine the crime scene."

"No!" Doyle snapped, his voice sharp and unyielding.

"Okay," Gregson interjected, his eyes wide with curiosity, almost pleading. "Fine, tell me! Go on!"

Alex sighed, a hint of reluctance settling over her features. "All right, but I warn you - the explanation isn’t as spectacular as you might hope." She took a deep breath, carefully selecting her words so that even someone unfamiliar with her often-peculiar deductions could follow. It was clear from her expression that this was no longer as enjoyable to her as watching Gregson squirm under the weight of his own bewilderment.

No magician willingly reveals the secrets of their tricks.

But this time, she had no other choice.

I promised to find the boy.

And I will do whatever it takes to keep that promise.

There are far worse things than this.

She exhaled deeply before beginning. "The wide stance you take, with your hands on your hips, is a clear indicator to me that you've spent time either in the military or a similar institution. That posture is almost instinctive among soldiers. The white shirt you wear beneath your uniform further reinforces this, and it tells me with certainty that you served in the Royal Navy. I happen to know several U.S. Navy personnel, and they all share the same habit of wearing white undershirts beneath their clothing. But judging by your accent, it’s clear you’ve never been to America, so the Royal Navy was the logical conclusion." She paused, enjoying Gregson’s stunned expression for just a moment. "The faint red wine stains on your slightly creased shirt are another clue. They suggest you were with a woman last night - had it been a typical evening with men, you’d have likely been drinking beer or something stronger. And you didn’t return home afterward to change your clothes. However, you did manage to shower and brush your teeth, which tells me you stayed somewhere you frequent often - likely a place where you keep some of your essentials." Her eyes narrowed slightly as she continued. "Your coat is still damp, which reveals even more. You must have been in a bar where smoking and drinking were prevalent, and afterward, you hung your coat outside to rid it of the smell. However, it rained last night - around 3:20 a.m. - and now your coat remains wet from the downpour."

As Alex concluded her explanation, Gregson swallowed hard, clearly astonished. He took a moment to gather himself. "That’s... unbelievable," he finally muttered, his voice tinged with awe.

"May I see the crime scene now?" Alex was utterly unfazed by his reaction. While his words and the look of admiration in his eyes were flattering, she remained focused, her promise to Mrs. Drebber hammering away in the back of her mind like an incessant drum.

I must find Philip - and alive.

Without another word, Gregson lifted the police tape, allowing her to pass through.

Inspector Doyle, visibly uneasy about allowing an unauthorized civilian into a restricted area, led her around the corner of the house and into the secluded backyard of the desolate building. "This is a one-time thing," he said sternly, his voice low. "No one must know you were here."

Alex smirked. "Technically, it’s your own fault. You’re the one who gave Mrs. Drebber my address."

"What was I supposed to do? She was distraught, and I couldn’t help her."

"Then don’t complain about me being here. In fact, you invited me yourself. I made a promise to Mrs. Drebber to find her grandson and bring him back alive. So, if you don’t mind, let’s make an exception - just this once."

The backyard was dim and eerily quiet. The forensics team had already done their work. The body was gone, leaving only a white outline marking where it had been, along with a large, dried pool of blood on the ground. Objects once strewn about - Maria Drebber’s handbag, the murder weapon - were now only represented by small white circles painted on the ground, each marked with numbered flags.

"It’s pointless," Doyle muttered, his voice resigned. "You won’t find anything here. Every piece of evidence has already been catalogued and taken away. There’s nothing left."

Alex surveyed the scene, her sharp eyes taking in every detail, no matter how insignificant it seemed. She wasn’t ready to concede just yet.

The courtyard was enclosed on three sides by sturdy brick walls, with stacks of crates piled up against them, some reaching nearly to the top. The clutter made the space feel even smaller, and at first glance, there seemed to be little of interest. But Alex’s sharp eyes caught something that most would overlook - a small, almost invisible niche tucked into one corner, just large enough for a child to crawl into. The opening was so discreet that under ordinary circumstances, it would have gone completely unnoticed. Only someone with Alex’s keen sense for the unusual and subtle could have spotted it so quickly.

"What do you do when you’re afraid?" she asked, glancing briefly at the man beside her. "When you know your opponent is bigger, stronger, and armed?"

Doyle, slightly bewildered by the unexpected question, answered, "I’d run."

"And if you were trapped, with no chance of escape?"

"Then I’d hide."

"Exactly." Alex grinned, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she approached the small recess in the corner. She knelt down on the rough asphalt, leaning forward. From her coat pocket, she pulled out a fresh handkerchief, wrapping it around her fingers before carefully reaching into the darkness of the niche. To her surprise, she felt something solid. She withdrew her hand and revealed a small toy - an action figure of a superhero, with a plush red-and-gold helmet and matching armor.

Victor.

The name flashed through her mind with a sudden intensity, though she had no idea where it had come from. It felt as though she had known it her entire life. Along with the name came a wave of deep, long-buried pain, rising unexpectedly to the surface.

"What is it? Have you found something?" Doyle’s curious voice cut through her thoughts as he peered over her shoulder.

Alex didn’t answer immediately, her gaze fixed on the small toy in her hand, lost in the sudden swirl of emotion and memory. With great effort, she tore herself away from the old, painful feeling that had surfaced and stood up. She handed the small toy silently to Doyle, who, with a latex-gloved hand, carefully accepted it to avoid contaminating any potential evidence. Without a word, she brushed past him and continued walking.

"Alex?" Doyle called after her, clearly confused. "What’s going on?"

She didn’t turn back as she marched briskly toward the exit. "There are skin flakes and short dark hairs on the doll," she said, her voice clipped. "Hopefully, they belong to the suspect, not the victim. Find him, and you'll find the boy. My work here is done." Her pace quickened, her steps growing more urgent as she neared the exit.

Who the hell is Victor?

As she approached Officer Gregson, who was standing near the police tape, Inspector Doyle hurried behind her, catching up just in time to grab her arm and pull her back, his face etched with concern. "What’s wrong with you?"

Alex tried to pull away from his grip, but the simple motion triggered an unwanted memory - something buried deep for years, long forgotten or perhaps deliberately suppressed. But now, it surged to the surface, vivid and inescapable, as if the past had materialized right before her eyes.

The memory played out before her, as real and immediate as if it were happening in that very moment.

A young boy with a mop of curly red hair and freckles scattered across his round cheeks sprinted through a knee-high grassy field, chasing after a little girl. She had two beautifully braided dark brown pigtails that trailed behind her as she ran ahead, giggling.

"Stop!" the boy shouted, grabbing the girl roughly by the arm.

"I won!" she cried triumphantly, her braids whipping in the air as she tried to wriggle free from his grip. "You're just a sore loser. You’re too slow!"

"You cheated," he retorted, sulking. "Girls can’t be faster than boys. That’s impossible."

"Oh, yes, they can! I won, and you lost!" she shot back, her voice full of defiance.

The boy, his face scrunched in frustration, yanked her arm harder, pulling her back with a sharp tug.

"Ouch!" the girl yelped. "Victor, you're hurting me."

"Cheater!" he shouted.

"Spoilsport!" she countered.

"Liar!" he barked, his voice filled with the indignation of a child who couldn't accept defeat.

"Alex!" Doyle's voice, now laced with fear, broke through the fog, and he shook her forearm gently. "Can you hear me? What’s wrong with you?"

Victor.

That name was branded into her thoughts, reverberating through her mind in an endless echo.

"What did you do to her in there, Doyle?" Gregson asked sharply, his gaze filled with concern as he studied the ashen-faced woman before them.

We were friends.

But that was a lifetime ago.

Victor... is dead.

Suddenly, Alex tore herself from Doyle’s grasp. "I won," she murmured, still lost in the vivid memory that gripped her mind. Only when she saw the bewildered expressions on the men’s faces did she realize she had spoken the words aloud. "I’m sorry," she muttered, pressing a hand to her forehead as confusion clouded her thoughts. "I... I have to go."

Without another word, she bolted, darting away like a hunted animal, leaving both men - and the crime scene - behind.

Victor.

What happened back then?

And why did I forget you?

After a restless and sleepless night, Alex dragged herself wearily out of bed. The past hours had been spent staring at the dark ceiling of her bedroom, her mind spiraling through the labyrinth of forgotten memories, trying to make sense of the sudden resurfacing of her past. But no answers came - only more questions.

Still half-asleep, she shuffled into the living room toward the small kitchenette, flicking on the kettle. She tossed on her dressing gown and slipped into her fluffy purple slippers before stepping out of her apartment. Descending the stairs, she collected her daily newspaper and a few letters from her mailbox near the entrance. Back inside, she made herself a cup of tea and sat at the dining table with the stack of mail and her mug.

The headline on the front page caught her eye immediately: it reported the murder of Maria Drebber and the disappearance of her son, Philip. In the corner of the page, there was a small photograph of the boy, smiling so innocently and sweetly that it could have softened even the hardest of hearts.

The poor boy.

I hope they've found him.

A pang of guilt gnawed at her as she opened the paper and began reading the article.

At the top of the page was a picture of the small doll Alex had discovered, placed next to a black-and-white photo of the suspect. It was none other than Philip’s math teacher, Richard Hoffmann.

His teacher?

How dreadful.

And yet... somehow predictable.

Alex skimmed the last few lines of the article, a wave of relief washing over her. It reported that the boy had been found unharmed and had already been returned to his grandmother later that same evening.

As Alex flipped the page of her newspaper, her phone rang. She answered the call, laying the paper open on the table before her. "Green?"

"Hello, it’s Inspector Doyle. I just wanted to check in and see if you’re all right." There was a brief pause on the other end. "You gave me quite the scare yesterday."

"I’m fine," she replied quickly.

Victor.

The thought of the previous day’s events made her uncomfortable. "I just suddenly remembered something urgent I needed to take care of."

Doyle exhaled audibly, a sigh of relief. "Have you had a chance to read the paper yet?"

Good.

He believes me.

Relaxing slightly, she leaned back in her chair. "I’m in the middle of it now. It looks like you’ve cracked another case. Inspector Lestrade will need to watch his back if he doesn’t want to be left behind."

"I wouldn’t count on that," Doyle sighed. "Turn to pages six and seven."

Alex did as he asked, flipping through the paper. She read aloud from the article: "A Study in Scarlet. Detective Inspector Lestrade solves an impossible case with the assistance of consulting detective Sherlock Holmes." She rolled her eyes in annoyance. "Without that bastard, Lestrade would be lost."

"Just as I would be without you," Doyle quickly retorted, his voice taking on a more serious tone. It was clear he was leading up to something. "Now, take a look at the article on page nine, bottom right."

Alex turned the page, her eyes scanning the text. "Vivienne Sawyer," she read aloud. "The only daughter of former Congressman Mortimer Sawyer was brutally murdered and nearly unrecognizably disfigured last Saturday. The perpetrator remains at large. Congressman Sawyer has pleaded for the swift resolution of the case."

"I took the liberty of placing copies of the crime scene photos and all the police reports in an envelope in your mailbox," Doyle added, his voice steady but with a clear undertone of urgency.

"I have to work today," Alex replied, glancing at her watch. She was already running later than usual. "Besides, I'm just a simple secretary."

"Please," Doyle’s voice took on a desperate edge. "Vivienne’s father keeps calling me, and I have no idea what to tell him anymore. And you’re far more than just a secretary, as we both know."

Alex sifted through the pile of letters on her table, her hand landing on a thick envelope with her name scribbled across it in a hasty, almost illegible handwriting - one that seemed more like the scrawl of a doctor than a police officer. She tore open the envelope, pulling out several crime scene photographs and pages of detailed reports. As her eyes fell on the gruesome images, she instinctively turned her head away, momentarily repulsed. But, unable to resist the dark fascination that always pulled her in, she forced herself to look again, examining the horrifying scene with a grim intensity.

"Well?" Doyle asked, trying to remain as patient as possible.

"I’ll take a look at it." Alex slid the photos and reports back into the envelope, then stood up. "You’ll hear from me as soon as I’ve found something."

"Thank you." Doyle sounded almost euphoric with relief. "You are my saving grace."

II.

THE SMELL OF MENTHOL

The shrill ring of the office phone jolted Alex abruptly from her thoughts, just as she had finally stumbled upon the solution to her problem.

"Harold Lloyd Law Offices, this is Alexandra speaking. How may I assist you?" she answered, her voice delivering the same rehearsed words with the precision of a recording, yet maintaining a warm and professional tone.

"This is Leon Tregennis. Is Mr. Lloyd available? I need to speak with him urgently," came the somewhat clumsy response from the other end of the line.

"Good morning, Mr. Tregennis. May I ask what this is concerning?"

"It’s about my sister Beth. Please... I don’t know what to do anymore," the man replied, his voice trembling with fear and uncertainty.

"One moment, please. I’ll connect you." With practiced ease, Alex pressed the button beside the display. Moments later, her boss, the renowned star attorney Harold Lloyd himself, picked up the receiver. "Leon Tregennis is on line one, Sir," Alex informed him smoothly. "It’s about his sister again."

"Thank you," Lloyd replied curtly. "Put him through!"

With a deft motion, Alex placed the receiver back, automatically connecting Leon Tregennis to her boss. She then turned her attention back to her true work - the kind that had long surpassed the realm of a mere hobby.

Spread out before her on the expansive desk was a chaotic array of papers, interspersed with newspaper clippings, police reports, and crime scene photos. Each picture bore the name "Vivienne Sawyer" in bold letters along the bottom - a grim reminder of the victim, who had been brutally mutilated just two days ago.

It’s nothing short of a miracle that they were able to identify her at all.

Alex was scanning the gruesome images once more. The woman's teeth had been shattered or violently torn out, making even dental identification impossible.

The only way her identity could have been confirmed was through her DNA, which had been found scattered throughout the crime scene. The fact that they could compare it so quickly meant that a sample of her DNA had already been on record.

Why?

Alex’s mind worked quickly, piecing together the puzzle.

Of course!

The answer’s obvious.

Just as she reached for her phone to call Inspector Doyle, his name appeared on her screen, as if he had come to the same realization at precisely the same moment. His incoming call lit up her display.

"It was the father," Alex blurted out, skipping any formality, even a greeting. Her abruptness was typical, though she rarely noticed how rude it came across. "Vivienne Sawyer was murdered by Mortimer Sawyer, her own father."

The silence on the other end stretched for a moment, as the caller struggled to process her lightning-fast deduction. "How on earth did you come to that conclusion?" Doyle's voice was tinged with bewilderment, clearly unable to fathom how she had arrived at such a shocking verdict.

"Why was her DNA already in the database?" Alex pressed on, not giving him a chance to answer. "There are, of course, several reasons for that, but two stand out as the most probable in cases like this. Number one: She herself had committed a crime before. Or number two: She was a victim in a previous criminal matter. The first option clearly doesn’t apply here, so it must be the latter."

"But why?" Doyle still sounded utterly lost, grappling with her logic.

"You saw the victim at the crime scene yourself, Doyle. Didn’t anything strike you as odd? The underside of her left forearm was covered in fine scars. This led me to conclude she was right-handed, though that detail isn’t crucial. Those scars - those tiny cuts - are several years old, some even older. The earliest ones likely date back to her childhood. Self-harm like this, Doyle, is common in more than half of the cases linked to domestic abuse." She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in before continuing. "Vivienne Sawyer was an only child. Her mother died when she was young. That leaves only one person - the father - as the source of her suffering. It’s likely Mortimer Sawyer abused her, both physically and psychologically. The signs are all there. He’s the one who killed her. It’s obvious."

Doyle remained silent for a long moment, stunned by her brutal yet methodical breakdown of the truth. "Alright, fine." He exhaled tensely, clearly grappling with the weight of Alex's deductions. "Maybe her father did terrible things to her during her childhood, but that doesn't automatically make him a murderer. I can't just arrest Congressman Sawyer without solid evidence, especially when he's the one pushing so hard to find the real culprit."

"Look more closely at the crime scene photos, Doyle!" Alex snapped, her patience wearing thin. "Vivienne Sawyer was a saleswoman at a small tobacconist’s shop, not far from her modest apartment on the outskirts of the city. The reports make it clear - her apartment was sparsely furnished, and she owned very little in terms of clothing, none of it particularly expensive or stylish. So, how do you explain the fact that, on the day she was murdered, she was wearing a designer dress? Just the shoes alone are worth more than two months' rent for her apartment. It's obvious she didn’t own other garments like that, and given their value, she wouldn’t have worn them casually. She must have had something important planned that day. Either she was going to the press to expose what her father had done to her, or - more likely - she was on her way to see a lawyer, to finally take him to court. Of course, there’s a slim chance she was just trying to get a better-paying job in a more formal business setting, but that's not something her father would have known, especially since he claimed they hadn't been in contact for years. That alone suggests something terrible happened between them in the past - why else would Vivienne Sawyer go to such lengths to avoid her only living relative? Whatever her real reason was for wearing such exclusive clothing, her father must have feared the worst. He likely assumed she was about to reveal his abuse, and in his desperation, he saw no other option but to silence her permanently."

"Good heavens, you’re quick," Doyle said, clearly impressed as he took a moment to process everything Alex had just laid out.

"I could’ve solved the case a lot faster if I’d been allowed to inspect the crime scene myself," Alex replied, a hint of resentment in her tone.

"You know that’s not possible," Doyle interrupted hastily.

"Of course not. It would never do for anyone to know that you need the help of a ‘simple secretary’ to solve your cases," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Now, if I were the great Sherlock Holmes," she added with a derisive snort, "you wouldn’t hesitate for a second to invite me to the scene."

"I’m not Lestrade, and I certainly don’t have any admiration for that so-called detective."

"You know," she continued, "Holmes and I are not so different."

Doyle raised an eyebrow. "I thought you couldn’t stand him?"

"That’s true. But isn’t it often the case that we despise those who are most like ourselves?"

"In fact, you are like him," Doyle conceded. "The same tangled thoughts running through your head as his."

Alex couldn’t help but laugh. "I doubt you have the faintest idea what’s going on in Sherlock Holmes’ mind, much less what swirls around in mine." She glanced at her watch. "Now, do you have a new case for me, or is there some other reason you’re calling during work hours? You know I only have half an hour left here at the office, and I hate being interrupted - whether it’s in my official work or my unofficial pursuits."

"I still don’t understand why you continue working for that lawyer," Doyle mused. "You earn more than enough from your ‘side job’ to leave him behind. Lloyd’s a slimy, miserly fraud. Surely, you don’t plan on sticking around much longer?"

"There are far worse people in this world than Harold Lloyd, and you know that better than anyone," Alex shot back. "And let’s not forget why I’m really here. Besides, I only work part-time, three days a week. It’s hardly a great sacrifice of my time, and, frankly, I enjoy it. Is it such a crime to like what I do?"

"You don’t just like it," Doyle countered. "You revel in it. That’s a significant difference."

A small, knowing smile crept across her face. Doyle’s words had hit closer to the truth than she cared to admit. "Are you worried that one day I might grow tired of simply solving cases and start creating my own by killing people myself?" Her voice was tinged with a peculiar fascination at the thought.

"You wouldn’t do something like that," Doyle replied firmly. "I know you too well for that. I just think it’s a shame to see you wasting your unique talents on a slimy crook like Lloyd. It’s pure squander of your abilities and your time."

"Ah," she said with a grin, "that’s only because you don’t understand the advantages I can glean from this situation." Her smile faded into something more serious as she heard hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor, approaching fast from around the corner. "I have to go. If you do have a new case for me - and I sincerely hope you do - call me back in half an hour."

She ended the call swiftly, gathered up the scattered documents on her desk, and tucked both her phone and papers into the black leather handbag that lay beneath her desk.

"What are you doing?" a voice interrupted her, and Mr. Lloyd appeared from around the corner, stopping directly in front of her desk. He leaned over, his gaze scrutinizing her closely.

With a small pocket mirror and a bold red lipstick in her hands, Alex sat back in her chair and meticulously traced the outline of her lips, as though she were a film star preparing for her close-up. She watched herself in the mirror, her tone casual yet polished. "Just refreshing my lipstick, Sir. Nothing more."

The lawyer gazed at her, momentarily entranced. "Not a bad idea, Miss Green. Red suits you exceedingly well."

"Thank you, Mr. Lloyd," she purred, her voice laced with a hint of flattery.

He grinned, but quickly reverted to his usual smug expression as he circled around her desk. Perching himself on the wooden surface directly in front of her, he looked down at her with a self-satisfied smirk. "You know you’re far more valuable to me than Sidney, don’t you?"

Alex met his gaze without a flinch, her expression unreadable as she placed the lipstick down, the atmosphere thick with unspoken tension. "Yes, I know, Sir, and that means a great deal to me," Alexandra replied with a captivating smile. "But Paige is an excellent secretary. Perhaps you shouldn't be so hard on her."

"You're probably right," Lloyd conceded. "Good employees are hard to come by these days. It's a shame you’re only part-time here. I’d love to have you in the office full-time, Miss Green. Don’t you ever get bored in the afternoons or on the other days without me?"

Alexandra barely managed to stifle a hearty laugh.

If only he knew what I get up to during that time.

Even Sherlock Holmes would be envious of some of the cases I’ve handled.

"Oh, there’s always something to keep me busy," she said instead, her voice sweet and light. "Cleaning the apartment, doing laundry, cooking, ironing - the usual domestic things. It all takes time." She felt like a delicate echo of Marilyn Monroe in one of her most glamorous scenes.

"And what about your rare evenings?" Lloyd pressed on, clearly eager to know more. "Are you as busy then as you are during the day?"

"Sometimes," she replied with a coy smile. "But most evenings, I indulge in a fine glass of Chianti and enjoy the magnificent works of Goethe and Schiller - quite exceptional company, wouldn’t you agree?"

Lloyd leaned in closer, his gaze lingering with admiration. "You’ve got excellent taste, Miss Green. I like that."

His desire to inch even closer was palpable, but fortunately for Alexandra, her colleague Paige was notoriously punctual.

The young, petite woman hurried into the office, her long dark-blonde hair tightly braided, and dressed in a sleek navy-blue pantsuit that gave her an air of professionalism. She made her way to her desk, just a few meters from Alexandra's. "Good afternoon, Mr. Lloyd. Hello, Alex," she greeted, her usual uncertainty showing as she nervously tucked a loose curl behind her ear before sitting down.

The moment Lloyd saw her, his demeanor shifted. He stepped back from Alexandra, his expression turning cold as he shot an icy glare at Paige, then walked briskly past her and disappeared into his office without a word.

"Thank you," Alex breathed, relieved. She stood up and quickly made her way over to Paige’s desk, leaning against it with a mischievous smile. "So? How was it with David last night? Come on, spill the details!"

At the mention of his name, Paige’s cheeks flushed crimson with embarrassment. "It was… amazing! He’s so kind, so funny, and just unbelievably handsome." She could barely contain her excitement. "I think it might actually turn into something serious."

"Oh, how wonderful!" Alex exclaimed, genuinely happy for her friend. "I’m so glad for you. So, any plans for the next few days?"

"You mean, like another date or something?" Paige hesitated, her smile faltering for a moment. "David’s really swamped with work right now, but next week he’s got some time off, and he wants to take me away for the weekend."

"Okay, that’s good," Alex replied, though she struggled internally to avoid analyzing the man based on the little information she had.

It’s odd.

He suddenly has so much work when before he seemed much more available.

Perhaps he’s just playing with her.

Or maybe he’s genuinely serious.

But if not, he might at least be testing how loyal she is, how much she can handle.

Either way, it wouldn't hurt to pay him a brief visit.

"What’s David’s last name again?" Alex asked cautiously.

"Moran. His name is David Moran," Paige replied, pulling out her phone to show Alex something.

Moran?

Why does that name leave me with such a bad feeling?

"Here," Paige said, holding out the phone. A photo of a young, handsome man filled the screen. "That’s him. Isn’t he gorgeous?"

"Yes, very good-looking," Alex remarked, forcing herself to conceal the discomfort gnawing at her. "Where did you two meet? I don’t think you ever told me."

"Oh, it was at The Loop in Mayfair, during the grand reopening. You really must go sometime. Their cocktails are world-class."

Before Alex could respond, her own phone rang from inside her handbag. Without another word to Paige, she walked back to her desk, rummaging through her bag until she found her phone.

The name Liz flashed on the screen.

"Hey," Alex answered, pressing the phone to her ear. "What’s up?"

"Great news!" a young woman's voice chimed through the phone. "Guess who has got two tickets to Carmina Burana at the Royal Albert Hall tonight?"

"Are you serious?" Alex leapt into the air, her excitement palpable. "When does it start? Where do I need to be?"