Hello everyone! Happy Thanksgiving! I'm not going to say too much to introduce this, but I thought that now would be a good time to share a story with whoever wants to read it. You can read it over Thanksgiving Break or wait till Christmas, or whenever you want (I mean, or you don't have to read it and you can just skim...)
This is a short story (by 'short' I mean about 10 pages in size 12 font, so BE WARNED) about a child Sherlock Holmes. I wrote it a year or so ago and it was really the only fun school assignment I've had in a long time. I tried to keep in the spirit of the original books, but I felt it was a fall-ish, cozy sort of story. Please enjoy! Let me know what you think, either positive or negative--I am planning to submit this to my school's journal to see if they'll publish it, but we'll see! I would appreciate feedback from any Sherlock fans (or non-fans)! Anyway, here it is.
Note: Please don't steal this....it is my own original work and that would be supremely rude. If you steal it I'll send Watson after you with his revolver.
The Case of the Doubled Violin
Dear Dr. John Watson,
Doubtless
you remember meeting me during these years of your involvement in my brother’s
escapades. During the term of our short
acquaintance, it has come to my attention that perhaps you, Doctor, would wish
to hear more particulars of Sherlock’s youth and upbringing. My brother, as you very well should know,
does not often speak of himself, and even more seldom is the time when he
speaks of himself before the age of thirty; there is no reason for him to tell
you of his youth. However, seeing as you
are really the only man I could honestly call a friend of Sherlock, I am
determined to tell you at least what I consider to be the beginning of my
brother’s career. It did not begin, as
he thinks, in the case of the Gloria
Scott in his college years. I have
seen your own account of my brother’s tale of the case—“the first in which I
was ever engaged”—and the absurdity of this statement nearly makes me
laugh. Excuse me, Doctor, but I simply
must speak my mind, and my brother is quite wrong about this. Though it is true that the Gloria Scott was perhaps the first case
Sherlock formally undertook and was asked to partake in, the very first case in
which I recall his input took place when he was perhaps fourteen or fifteen
years old.
At
that time, my brother and I lived together (seeing as I was his legal guardian,
I could not escape that) in a small apartment—the street and address are
unimportant, and it is far too much work to bother recording them. In these days, I did hardly anything to
interfere with Sherlock’s education; he schooled himself and took care of
himself without my help. If one of us
were to go out and be away from home for the day or even several days, the
other would never worry; in this way, it hardly seemed that we lived together
for all that we interacted. Nobody
bothered us, and we went about our simple lives, I working and Sherlock
studying in his own manner, for many a year.
However, it was impossible for us to remain completely detached from the
world and people around us.
I
had received an invitation from an old friend of our late father’s, a certain
Mr. William Harris, who was at that time the owner of the finest theatre in
London, of which I am certain you are aware, but which I do not feel inclined
to waste ink explaining. Mr. Harris
wished us to be his guests on that Friday afternoon to tour the backstage of
his theatre and be introduced to the guest performer; a very virtuosic
violinist named Giovanni Andolini (he is still a musician of great renown
today, Doctor, if the subject interests you).
Mr. Harris, and the theatre at large, was in that day in possession of
one of the finest and most valuable violins in the world; an instrument made in
1725 by Antonio Stradivarius, who as perhaps you will recall, is the greatest
of all renowned stringed-instrument makers.
The instrument’s worth was estimated to be in the vicinity of eight
hundred thousand pounds, and of course any performer invited to play upon that
violin considered it a great honor. From
reading Mr. Harris’s invitation, it sounded as if the owner of the theatre was
as excited (if not more excited, ridiculous fellow) than the performer.
I dislike my parents’ old friends in general,
but there was no very respectable way for me to evade this invitation. Mr. Harris stated that his son and grandson
were to accompany us on our tour as well, and speculated that my brother and
the youngest Harris might enjoy each other’s company. This is the most foolish speculation about
Sherlock that I perhaps have ever heard, but the prospect of seeing his
interaction with an average schoolboy amused me, and as a result I agreed to
come, bringing my brother with me.
When
I opened the curtains in Sherlock’s room to wake him at noon on Friday (he had
already developed queer sleeping habits as you must know—staying up nights in a
row to work on some project and then sleeping for over twelve hours to make up
for it), he opened one eye in curiosity, looking very displeased with me and
with the sunlight. I said nothing until
he asked, “What on earth do you have planned?”
“It
is our sad obligation,” said I, “to visit an old friend of our parents’ at the
theatre.”
“Mr.
Harris, then?”
“Yes,”
I replied. “Now get up and make yourself
presentable.” Despite my brother’s
grumbling and my own displeasure, we were soon on the way to the theatre. It was not a long distance from where we
lived and the weather was fine that day, so we walked. The theatre was a very grand affair, tall and
impressive from the front entrance—one could tell simply at a glance that great
pains were taken to preserve the appearance of the place. As instructed in the invitation, we walked
around to the back entrance and were shocked—I can honestly say it was one of
the most surprising moments in my life—to see several police guarding the door,
along with another group arriving at that moment, alighting from a cab. A tall, grey-suited gentleman with a brisk
step was speaking to the guards and directing one of them to take a large
parcel from the delivery-boy. It was
evident from this man’s bearing that he was in a position of authority, but he
was not old enough to be the owner of the theatre, and so it was evident that
he was the younger Mr. Harris, and the well-dressed young man following him was
his son.
They
took notice of us as we watched the scene and quickly approached. “You must be Mr. Mycroft Holmes,” the
gentleman said in a refined tone that reflected his appearance. “I apologize for your surprise at seeing the
police here, but we are all in an uproar.
Please, let me introduce myself.
I am Brendan Harris, and this is my son Eliot. My father is inside waiting for you.”
We
shook hands as I introduced myself and Sherlock. “There has been a theft of some sort?” I
questioned.
“I
can explain once we are safely indoors,” said Harris. Trying to engage my
stony, silent younger brother in some pleasantries, he asked, “Have you any
interest in the musical arts, Sherlock?”
He spoke in the tone of kind condescension which is most often used by
adults trying to flatter or intrigue children.
“At
times,” my brother replied with cool disinterest. I had not bothered much to teach Sherlock how
best to interact politely in society, because he had never needed
teaching. Simply from observing other
people, my brother had learned how to behave well (as well as how to behave
badly) and, as you yourself know, Doctor, he now has the skill to act in any
way which becomes his surroundings. From
this kind of self-teaching, he has acquired a strange sort of nonchalance in
his everyday manner, and even at the time of this story, this attitude was
developing. “I see you have just come
from a piano lesson,” he commented to Eliot.
Young
Eliot Harris blinked in stupidity (please excuse my rudeness, but that is the
very first thing that I decided about the young man: how very indistinct and dull his character
was). “How can you tell that?” he asked
Sherlock in a voice that was still the high, unchanged voice of a lad
approximately twelve years old.
“It’s
quite obvious,” my brother returned.
“You carry a folder filled with music and, from the corner of that page
sticking out I can see that it is a page of piano exercises. Your fingers are tapping restlessly as if you
are taking great pains to remember something your teacher taught you. And further, that clay-like mud on your shoes
and your father’s shoes is the unmistakable mud of Ainsley Street, which of
course is where your music school is located.”
Sherlock could have continued, I knew, but it was not the time or the
place, and Harris seemed eager to go inside.
“Bright
young fellow,” he laughed. I was in a
terribly bored and bothered mood, but it was made even worse by his laugher;
people who laughed at intelligence and at my brother irked and wearied me. “Come, follow me,” continued Harris. “I will take you to my father.” He led us through the backstage entrance and
through several cluttered, dimly lit hallways.
The theatre was surprisingly dingy in the places not frequented by
paying guests.
Mr.
William Harris was sitting in his office, surrounded by guards and a police
inspector. Sherlock and I were obliged
to wait in the dim hallway while the younger Harris, along with Eliot, went in
to speak with his father. He and his son
returned, both pale faced and visibly shaken.
“Something
has been done in that office that I can hardly bear, and that I know my father
cannot,” Mr. Brendan Harris said, shaking his head. “You doubtless know of the valuable violin of
which our theatre was in possession?”
“Yes,
the Brancaccio Stradivarius,” I replied.
“We are familiar with it. It has
been stolen?”
“Not
just a theft took place,” he said, shaking his head, “but a murder as well.”
Eliot,
who had been shocked and quiet so far, quickly spoke. “Yes, and the body is still lying just inside
the office!” he cried, shuddering. “The
inspector says that the criminal came in and shot the guard, and then opened
Grandfather’s safe before running away.”
“Eliot
is correct, unfortunately,” Brendan Harris said. “They have no way to track the thief, or the
instrument for that matter. I’m sorry
you have come at this unfortunate time, but if you wish to come in to see my
father, you may.”
“Yes,
we shall come in,” I said. “It would be
a pity to leave without seeing him.”
This I said, as you may imagine, not out of sincerity, but obligation.
Brendan
Harris nodded. “Come then.” The guard posted outside of the door opened
it and we were led inside. There were
only two guards and one police inspector inside, as well as a stout, pale old
man with very grand moustaches sitting at his desk with his head in his
hands. The room was a fine,
well-decorated one, quite tidy and smelling strongly of pipe-smoke. There was nothing unordinary about it save
the large safe which was left open on the wall just behind the desk and the
seated man. It seemed that the only
thing of interest in the room was the dead man’s body which lay upon the floor. It was lying upon its face, with arms bent
beneath the heavy chest and legs stretched out behind it.
“Is
this how the body was found?” my brother suddenly asked, breaking the silence
of the office.
The
eldest Mr. Harris looked up with a very strained and weary face. “Oh, Mr. Holmes,” he said to me. “And your brother. It would be very good to see you if we were
not faced by such circumstances as we are this day. Please forgive me if I do not seem
pleased.”
“Quite
all right,” I said, glad of an excuse for myself to seem less pleased as well.
“Eliot?”
Brendan softly said. “Would you run down
the hallway and see if Mr. Andolini is in?”
The boy nodded and, after depositing his folder of music on his
grandfather’s desk, and with one last white-faced glance at the corpse on the
ground, left to do his father’s bidding.
Sherlock
was looking about the room, irritated that nobody had answered his question a
moment ago. “Has the body been
inspected?” he asked.
“Yes
it has,” the police inspector replied.
“We put it back into the position in which it was found after inspection
and we are waiting for an official detective from Scotland Yard. In my eyes, however, it appears that he was
guarding the room as Mr. Harris went to speak with the stagehands and the thief
saw his opportunity. He shot the guard
and entered the room to steal the violin.”
Sherlock
almost gave a snort of contempt, but restrained himself. So that he wouldn’t
seem to be excessively presumptuous, I asked, “What is your name, sir?”
“Inspector
Johnathan Hillston,” he answered, and shook my hand.
“Mycroft
Holmes,” I said. “And this is my brother
Sherlock. Has the general public been
told about the crime?”
“No,”
the inspector told us. “Mr. Harris is
hoping to go on with the concert this evening even if the violin is not found.”
The
theatre owner raised his head. “It would
be a terrible pity to cancel when Giovanni has come all this way and after all
our preparation. Think of the guests who
have already purchased tickets—no, I am determined that the concert must go on,
though Giovanni will have to play his own instrument instead.”
I
nodded, and Sherlock looked up at me quizzically. “Mycroft?” he asked. I simply looked down at him, and that gave
him the answer that he needed. We did
not speak much to each other, and had the peculiar ability to understand what
the other meant without speech. (Even
now, a look or an expression is enough for us to communicate, as you yourself
have perhaps observed, Watson.)
My
brother stepped forward. “Do you mind if
I look about?” he asked the inspector.
“Just
so long as you do not touch the body,” Inspector Hillston answered, and
Sherlock began prowling. He did not seem
to care that the police were watching him with something between amusement and
amazement.
Brendan
Harris moved closer to the desk where his father sat rubbing his head in
dismay. “Father, can I get you
anything?” he asked in a low voice.
“What is to be done?”
“There
is really only one course of action to be taken,” Mr. Harris said, both to his
son and to Hillston. “The general public
shall know nothing of this at present.
Keep the police working day and night to find the criminal, and above
all, we must go on with the concert.”
“Excuse
me, Mr. Harris,” Sherlock suddenly interposed.
“Inspector Hillston, this man was not shot from the hallway.”
“What?”
cried the inspector. “What on earth are
you speaking of?”
“If
this is how he was found,” my brother continued, and suddenly he was the center
of the attention in the room, “he must have been shot from inside this
office. You doubtless see how he has
fallen over upon his hands and the bullet wound is not visible from his back,
therefore he must have been shot from the front. However, if he had been shot in this way by
someone outside, in the hallway, he would have fallen either onto his back or
out into the hallway. As we can see, he
fell upon his hands into the room, which naturally means that he was shot by
someone close to the desk, perhaps even in the act of removing the instrument
from the safe.”
The
inspector, guards, and both Harris men looked at Sherlock in amazement. “I had not thought of that,” Inspector
Hillston said. “Now that you mention it,
however, it makes perfect sense.
Wonderful lad!”
“Then
who could have stolen the violin?” Brendan asked. “Who was able to get in and, by mere chance,
find my father not in his office?”
“An
even better question,” the elder Harris said, “is how they could know where the
key to my safe was kept.”
“Where was it kept?” Sherlock asked. “There are many
places in this room suitable for a key to be hidden.”
Mr.
Harris lifted a wearied hand and pointed at his coat, hanging upon a peg on the
wall. “It is in the inside pocket,” he
said. “I could not imagine how the thief
found out about it; he could not simply have found it at that moment. The theft had to be planned by someone who
knew where it is.”
“Very
true,” said Sherlock.
At
that moment, young Eliot Harris burst into the office, breathless and quite
excited. It was unnecessary to ask what
the matter was, for he quickly exclaimed, “They’ve found the violin! It was Mr. Andolini all along!”
“Come,
then!” ordered Inspector Hillston, and started for the door. All followed him save two guards and the
elder Mr. Harris, who remained at his desk, rubbing his face with great
agitation. He asked that we go on
without him, as he was far too distraught to keep up.
Sherlock
and I followed the others to the Italian musician’s dressing room, where
several policemen were standing about, both inside and outside the room. On entering, we were greeted by the
violinist, who sat upon a stool under close guard, with a long, open box upon a
table before him and his wrists cuffed.
He had a young, olive-coloured face and looked the epitome of an Italian
with his dark eyes and great mass of curly black hair.
“Here
it is, Sir,” one of the policemen said, stepping back so that our party could
see the box. “The thief is here as
well—he will not admit to the crime, however, and—”
Before
the policeman could speak further, Andolini interrupted. “I can swear that I did not steal the
instrument!” he cried in his accented, flute-like voice. “I was to play it at the concert tonight; can
I have had any possible reason for stealing it before the performance? If I had planned a theft, I would have stolen
it after tonight.”
“He
has an excellent point,” Sherlock remarked in an offhand way when the Italian
had finished.
Inspector
Hillston looked as if he was becoming rather irritated with my brother. “Who do you think you are, lad? You imagine you could solve this case better
than the London police?”
“Oh,
no,” my brother demurely conceded.
“Carry on.” It was such an ironic
moment for myself, Doctor, hearing my young brother tell the police to carry
on, as if giving them permission, that I nearly burst out laughing. However, I did not, and sat down in one of
the several chairs about the room, waiting for them to finish their
investigations. By this time, I had come
to a conclusion about who the thief and murderer truly was, but it would have
taken far too much effort on my part to prove the fact and I did not feel in
the least bit inclined. I knew that
Sherlock would solve the case and so I let him handle matters, Watson. I could at this moment tell you exactly who
the culprit was and how the person managed everything, but I believe you would
rather hear the story exactly as it unfolded so as not to overshadow my
brother’s part in this case. Therefore,
I will keep my own conclusions to myself and the only comment I will make about
them is that I was correct, as you shall see.
The
interrogation of Giovanni Andolini resumed when Mr. Brendan Harris asked, “Do
you know where the key to my father’s safe is hidden?”
The
violinist’s face became flushed at this.
“I do,” he replied honestly. “I
heard where it was kept on accident when Mr. Harris’ door was open and I passed
by yesterday. You and he were talking of
where he kept it; joking about how the best hiding places were seemingly the
least safe, but in his coat pocket it was safer than the safe itself. You must not have heard me walking by.”
“I
see,” Hillston said, continuing the questions.
“Mr. Andolini, you knew the violin was kept in Mr. Harris’ safe, did you
not?”
“I
did,” replied Andolini. “May I—I wish to
say that I understand this looks as if I was indeed the thief and the murderer,
but I swear upon anything in the world that I had nothing to do with any of
this. A messenger arrived at my door
several minutes ago with this box you see on the table and when I opened it,
there was the missing violin.”
The
inspector looked up from his paper.
“Sir, the evidence we have is impossible to disprove. This is the aforementioned violin, is it
not?”
Young
Eliot Harris had his eyes fixed upon the instrument. With the box lying open upon the table
throughout the conversation, we had all been able to get a very careful look at
the precious violin, though to my eyes it had no great beauty. “It certainly looks like it,” the youngest
Harris remarked. “But I think—it has
been a long while since I saw it last—but I think that perhaps the wood was a
rather different colour.”
“A
different colour, what do you mean?” his father asked. “Indeed, I do not think so.”
“Neither
do I, though I wish I could agree with the boy,” Andolini sighed.
“It
was only a very slightly different shade,” Eliot said when Inspector Hillston
gestured for him to continue. “There is
something about it that looks a very little bit different to me.”
“Different
light, perhaps?” the inspector suggested.
Eliot looked intently at the instrument again and gave the inspector a
small motion of agreement or indifference.
Sherlock
sighed, interrupting the interrogation.
“To ensure that it is in fact the violin, you may wish to ask Mr.
Harris. He would most certainly
know.” It was agreed to do as my brother
suggested, and a policeman was sent to fetch the elder Harris.
“I
do wish we would stop disturbing my father,” Brendan commented. “He’s quite undone by this; I believe he has
aged more today than in the past five years altogether.” Nonetheless, Mr. Harris was brought and
lifted the violin from its box to inspect it.
His fingers were shaking and he looked terribly gaunt. Even I pitied him, Doctor, and it takes a
very sorry sight to make me pity anyone.
With
a great, tormented sigh, Mr. Harris replaced the instrument. “This is the very one,” he said, before
giving such a cry of astonishment that everyone in the room nearly jumped.
“What
on earth is wrong?” Inspector Hillston asked.
Harris
was shaking his head in disbelief and his face was white. “No, no, it is not!” he cried. “It is not the real thing! See—the colour of the wood! It is not quite the same. And here, just on the back of the scroll, the
small scratch is not where it always has been, there is no scratch!” He turned the violin upside-down to indicate
the spot, looking nearly faint, and I stood to let him sit in my chair.
Andolini
leaned over from his stool to look at the instrument. “Santo
cielo,” he said in a very soft tone of awe.
“It is true, now that you say that, I see that this is not the
violin. It is a nearly perfect copy,
though—who could possibly have made such a fine replica?” He looked both relieved and worried at the
same time at this discovery.
“If
this is not the real violin,” the inspector said, “then may I ask where the
real one can be found?”
Silence
filled the room until my brother spoke once again. “If you wish to find it,” he said quietly, “I
believe you would go to the back room in the pawnbroker’s of Ainsley Street and
search about.”
“What
can you possibly be talking about?” Brendan Harris cried. “How could anyone know anything of the
location of the violin?”
I
settled myself into a corner with a smile, quite glad that my brother was
willing to be so bold. This would be an
excellent show, I was sure, and waited for the first act to begin.
Folding
his arms over his chest, Sherlock spoke again in a very calm tone. “It is evident from what we have seen and
heard today where the violin is—as well as who the criminal is. Think in this way: who is the only person who could possibly
know where the violin is kept, how to get to it (or where the key is hidden),
and who has been around long enough to know when it is safe to sneak in and get
it? Who could make an excellent getaway
by framing another person? The evidence
points only to one man.”
“It
is not me!” the Italian exclaimed. “I
assure you with all my heart and soul!”
“I
know it is not you, Sir,” Sherlock broke in with that peculiar mixture of
boredom and satisfaction (satisfaction, of course, at his knowledge and the
other’s lack of it) so unique to himself.
“Then
who in this great wide earth is it?” the elder Mr. Harris asked.
A
very sly look came to my brother’s face and he said, “If you would be so good
as to accompany me to the pawnbroker’s and retrieve the violin, I shall show
you. Mycroft?”
“Yes,
I shall stay here,” I said, knowing he wished me to stay for certain
reasons. “If you have no objection.”
“None.”
Mr.
Brendan Harris was in a fit of suspense by this time. “How can you tell this?” he continued to
say. “How can the evidence point to
anyone except for Mr. Andolini?” Young
Eliot was quiet, perhaps due to a respect for his elders that my brother chose
not to have in general.
I
remained in my spot, listening to the Italian’s attempts at conversation with
myself and the guards but not speaking a word.
The elder Harris had left and I was thinking quite listlessly about this
or that until, about half an hour or so later, Mr. Brendan Harris came striding
into the room and, without any preliminaries, dealt the violinist a heavy blow
across the face. Andolini, still being
cuffed, was unable to retaliate, and was knocked to the floor with a cry of
pain.
It
was not my job to intervene; however, I helped the policemen break the two
apart. “My,” I heard my brother’s
casual voice say. “Such a ridiculous outbreak of violence.”
“Mr.
Brendan Harris?” came Inspector Hillston’s voice from the doorway, “you are
under arrest for theft and manslaughter.
Please do not resist.” Though Mr.
Harris, the younger, was visibly angered and looked as if he very much wished
to resist, he had the sense to realize that he was greatly outnumbered, and
grudgingly allowed himself to be cuffed.
The pale-faced, bruised Andolini was helped back to his stool, but not
released yet.
“Where
is Mr. Harris?” Inspector Hillston inquired.
“In
his office, Sir,” replied a policeman.
“He is greatly overwhelmed by the outcome of the case.” He laid a long parcel on the table next to
the counterfeit instrument. “Here is the
authentic violin.”
Inspector
Hillston looked at my brother in wonder.
“May I be permitted to hear how you came to this conclusion? Of course, I believe it—his identity and his
dealings were revealed by the man in the pawnbroker’s—but how did you know so
far beforehand?”
With
his arms still crossed, Sherlock replied, “It is so wonderfully simple, once
you stop to think. My brother and I met
Mr. Brendan and his son as we arrived here this morning, and I immediately saw
that they had come from Ainsley Street; the roads in that area have such a
peculiar propensity for soiling the cuffs of a man’s trousers in just a certain
way. Mr. Harris directed the deliverer
of this parcel, the forged violin, to Mr. Andolini’s room and that, would seem
perhaps to be a coincidence. But it is
not.
“As
you will remember, the body of the guard was lying in a way that clearly showed
he must have been shot from inside the office.
The culprit must have been someone close enough to Mr. William Harris,
on trusted terms enough to be left alone in the office while Mr. Harris went
out to speak with the stagehands, leaving his coat (and the key) in the office
with the thief. When the guard came in
to inquire after Mr. Harris, the culprit was equipped with the pistol and,
seeing no other way to escape discovery as he was in the midst of the thievery,
shot the guard. Shocked by his own
unintended murder, the thief took the instrument and fled from the building
with the violin, so as to switch it with the completed replica. What a better excuse for leaving than to take
his son to a piano lesson and returning after the theft and murder were
discovered. Now, may I direct a question
to Eliot?”
The
boy raised his head in surprise. “Of
course. I was not instrumental in this
crime in any way of which I am aware.”
“No,
I believe you are innocent,” my brother said.
He seemed far older than Eliot, yet the two were nearly the same age—I
found it an amusing fact. “Was your
father carrying a parcel on the way to your piano lesson?”
Eliot
thought a moment. “Yes,” he said. “I thought nothing of it, for he often
returns and borrows instruments from the music school. He left his parcel there, at the school,
today during my lesson. That I
remember.”
“This
is preposterous!” sputtered Brendan, his very tone of voice and attitude
declaring him the criminal. “How do you
expect to prove that I went to the pawnbroker’s in Ainsley Street? How do you prove that I went there at all?”
“Sir,”
Sherlock said, “If you will observe the colour of your trousers’ cuffs and
mine, of everyone’s who went to Ainsley Street several minutes ago, and compare
the dirt to the cuffs of my brother Mycroft’s trousers, as well as Mr.
Andolini’s, you will see it is evident.
As to your presence at the pawnbroker’s, why, the violin was there and
the man at work attested to your business, that they were replicating an ‘old
family instrument’ for decorative purposes.
It is a very shameful thing for you to have done to your father.”
I
smirked, while the others looked rather shocked at my brother’s behaviour. “All that is left, I suppose, is the
confession,” I ventured to say, and all eyes turned to Brendan Harris.
He
looked around himself with a remarkably disappointed demeanour. “Yes,” he finally cried. “Yes, it was my fault all of this has
happened. I see that there is no way to
escape this now, and I can bring my confession to you all.”
“Why,
though?” Inspector Hillston asked. “What
motive could you possibly have had for such a crime?”
Mr.
Brendan Harris looked from his son to the inspector in shame. “I’m afraid I am not the sort of man you
believe me to be,” he said. “In the past
few years I have accumulated such a great pile of debts that I have begun to
despair of ever acquiring the money to pay for them. To prevent myself from being exposed as a
gambler and a spendthrift, I needed to come by a great deal of money in a very
short time; I knew of this violin and of its worth, which is enough and more
than enough to pay my debts. If I could
replace it with a replica in my father’s safe for a while and keep the real
instrument, in a way renting it to certain groups for a price, I would soon be
able to pay off my debts. I planned to
return it once I was finished.
“And
so I began joking with my father about the location of his key and took the
instrument with me to Eliot’s piano lessons nearly every week. Everything went smoothly, no one had any
suspicion of me, and I was just taking it for the last time when the guard
caught me in the midst of removing the violin from the safe. I panicked and shot him, and then escaped
before anyone could find out, returning once the replica was safely on its way
and I had been able to recover my nerves.
The delivery-boy is an accomplice of the pawnbroker’s, and they believed
that they were replicating an old instrument for family purposes. I knew they were very skilled woodworkers and
renowned for replicas of wooden items, and so I engaged their services. I did not intend to murder anyone.”
Inspector
Hillston stepped forward. “You did all
the same,” he said, and looked at the door.
The eldest Mr. Harris had been standing in the doorway, unnoticed by
most, for some time now. “There you are,
Sir. With your permission, we will be
taking the criminal to jail for now, until a trial can take place, and we shall
hush the matter up so that your business can continue. Good day.”
Mr.
Harris had no energy to respond except to say, “Good day,” in a rather faint
voice. As the police left with his son
in custody, there was a very unpleasant silence in the room. The policemen were gone and had taken the
forged violin with them, and the only people left were Andolini, Mr. Harris,
Sherlock, and I, as well as Eliot. It
was he who first spoke.
“Grandfather,”
he said quietly, with a glance at the clock, “the orchestra will be arriving in
half an hour. Had we best go on with the
concert?”
“Yes,
Eliot,” the old man said wearily.
“Yes.” All in a sudden movement,
he seemed to jump back to vibrant life and to business. “Nearly time and there are so many things to
be done!” he cried. “I hope you will
forgive the excitement, Mr. Holmes, Sherlock—and will you still be joining us
for tonight’s performance?”
“There
may be a slight issue,” Giovanni Andolini suddenly spoke. He had been released from the handcuffs
before the police left, and had been walking about—once he had lifted his own
violin as if to play it but set it back down before even lifting the bow. He was now seated upon the same stool,
cradling one arm in the other with a very white and fearful face.
“The
world conspires against me today,” said Mr. Harris sadly. “Will you still play?”
Andolini
shook his head. “I cannot,” he
said. “I’m afraid it’s quite
broken. Will someone please go fetch a
doctor?”
“Yes,
of course,” Mr. Harris said, and a servant was sent. Perhaps if I had been a man of your
profession, Watson, I could have been better help—medicinal men are possibly
among the most helpful ones to have around you.
However, an idea had presented itself to me as Mr. Harris went on about
canceling the concert.
“Excuse
me,” I interrupted, endeavouring to be polite, “my brother is himself an
excellent violinist and I am sure he could easily perform in Mr. Andolini’s
stead.”
“Mycroft!”
interposed Sherlock, and I can easily say that I have never been able to
startle and alarm him as much as I did then.
Andolini
almost laughed. “The violin is ready and
my music is spread on the table,” he said, shaking his head. “Let us see what he can do.” Though he hardly wanted to play, we insisted
on hearing him, and scarcely had Sherlock put the bow to the strings when it
was settled; he was to play instead of Giovanni Andolini that evening. It was a very subtle triumph for myself that
I had twice succeeded that day in making my brother do something that he did
not want to do, and you will understand what a difficult task that is.
Several
hours later, after an excellent meal and a moment or two of rest, I was seated
in the auditorium of the theatre, in seats where I was surrounded by the rich
citizens of London, those who could afford the best seats. Concerts do not naturally hold much pleasure
for me, but as the orchestra warmed their instruments and an announcement was
made that, due to an unprecedented injury, Andolini would not play, I felt very
satisfied.
I
do not know much about musical interpretation and I had never heard the piece
before. However, I believe I can say
that the audience, critics and non-musicians alike, were awestruck by my
brother’s performance. As he bowed at
the end of the concerto and after playing a select encore (you may be familiar
with the selection, he made it up a year before this performance and has
elaborated upon it even to this day), a gentleman behind me cried, “Who is this
young man?”
Slowly,
I turned in my seat and looked him in the eye.
“That, my dear Sir,” I replied, “is Sherlock Holmes.”
I trust you will find this narrative satisfactory, and remain yours
faithfully,
P.S. Do not mention
this letter to Sherlock if you can at all help it. He is very sensitive about his past and I do
not think he would appreciate my telling you of this event.
