Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder by Luke Benjamen Kuhns

explosive.
    â€œAny luck?” said I, standing behind him while he mixed solutions.
    â€œNone,” he replied. “Maybe you shouldn’t stand that close while I’m doing this.”
    I took a few steps back. “Is there no way to trace the chemicals?” I asked.
    â€œI’ve been trying. I’ve got nothing. Whoever did this is a chemical genius.”
    â€œI need you to find me some answers!”
    White put his work down and spun around in his chair to look at me. He removed the protective frames from his face and slid them upon his head. “I know you want answers. I assure you, I’m doing whatever I can to find them. Find out where the train terminates at night. That would be the best place to attach the bomb. Wouldn’t have happened in between stops.”
    â€œSay again?”
    â€œDo I really need to?”
    â€œExplain your logic,” said I.
    â€œWell, the bomb wasn’t inside the carriage, was it? It was underneath,” White said. “Doesn’t seem likely that a bomb would be attached while passengers were boarding. No, it would have been put in place sometime in the night when the train was not in use.”
    â€œAnd so whoever did it must have had an informant to know which train to put the bomb on to. That is, unless they stole that information.” I paused, captured in thought. This attack was being written off too quickly by the Yard. I needed to find the motive.
    â€œYou got it.”
    Chapter 8
    Doctor Watson
    A Swift Drop And Sudden Stop
    Autumn 1890
    Back at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes was attempting to gain any clues he could from the bullets Daniels had given him. His attention was so fixated upon his task that he ignored several of my summons for food. For hours, my friend studied each and every bullet. Then, with a bang, he smacked his hand down upon his worktable. I, sitting reading in my chair, jolted and turned to look at him. He sat slouched, with a look of agitation upon his face, rubbing his forehead and quietly mumbling to himself.
    â€œWhatever is the matter, Holmes?” I asked.
    â€œThere are no other fingerprints upon these bullets,” he snapped.
    â€œBut there are some?”
    â€œYes, but only Daniels’.”
    â€œThe hour is late,” said I. “Start afresh tomorrow, perhaps?”
    â€œOff you go, Watson. I shall remain here a while longer.”
    ***
    I was awoken by a pounding on my door. The sun had not yet risen.
    â€œWatson, wake up. We must go back to Daniels immediately!”
    â€œGood Lord, Holmes. What time is it?” I called back. He opened my door and poked his head in.
    â€œThe time is of no importance. We are summoned at once. There was an incident in the night.”
    â€œI’m not sure night-time has passed,” I mumbled tossing my sheets away.
    â€œHurry, Watson!” said Holmes before dashing away.
    I quickly readied myself and found Holmes at the bottom of the stairs. The street lamps were still lit and the sun had yet to rise as we jumped into a cab. Holmes told me that Lestrade had sent an urgent message saying that Mr Daniels had hanged himself and our assistance was needed.
    We arrived to find a couple of officers standing near a police maria at the front of Daniels’ house. The morning air was cold, and the freshly rising sun revealed a thin layer of frost upon the ground. Holmes and I were ushered in and greeted by Lestrade.
    â€œGood of you to come so quickly, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade.
    â€œTell me what happened,” Holmes said.
    â€œMy men saw you leave the house, and they kept a close watch. Everything seemed quiet and normal. About three thirty this morning, they heard a commotion. Daniels was shouting at someone. My officers swear on their lives that no one had entered the house, nor did they witness anyone leave. They heard the breaking of glass and rushed in to find Daniels hanging by the neck.”
    â€œIt