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

us.
    â€œMy name is Martin Hewitt, I’m an investigator. I’m looking into the disappearance of Phillias Jackson.”
    â€œHas he disappeared?” the man asked.
    â€œA concerned party believes him to be missing. What, pray, can you tell us?”
    â€œDo you have any credentials on you?” the man asked suspiciously. “For all I know you could be anyone.”
    â€œAnyone can be anyone, sir,” said Hewitt as he took out his identification with slight annoyance. The man took it into his hands and examined it thoroughly.
    â€œVery well. I am satisfied,” he responded, handing Hewitt’s property back.
    â€œTell us what you know of Mr. Jackson, while you lead us to his rooms,” Hewitt requested.
    The man turned and we followed him inside.
    â€œMr. Jackson was a businessman, not a very good one, though. He was never too much of a bother to anyone. But he did keep some unruly hours which made some feel uncomfortable.”
    â€œWhat do you mean by unruly?” I asked as we followed our guide up a narrow staircase.
    â€œUnruly; quite self-explanatory, is it not? Well, that is to say that his work kept him in and out at all hours. In order to not disturb the other lodgers he, for a small fee, did some of his experiments out in the shed.”
    â€œWhat experiments was he doing in the shed?” Hewitt asked.
    â€œNot entirely sure, tinkerings of some kind.” The man paused. “Mr Jackson said he’d be away some time, so I’m finding it most strange that you are here looking for him.”
    The man stopped in front of a door and withdrew some keys. Selecting one, he slid it into the lock. The door opened and we stepped into Mr. Jackson’s living quarters. The room was average in size. There was one single window that faced the back of the house through which one could see the shed. A small bed with a trunk at the end of it; a few stacks of books; a desk, cluttered with papers, a pen, and a jar of ink. There was a cabinet with some clothes, and a small washroom as well. Hewitt spent some time wandering around while our guide and I watched.
    â€œWhen did you last see Mr. Jackson?” Hewitt asked.
    â€œOh, he’s been away a short while. He said something about going to the continent for business.”
    â€œHow long ago was that?”
    â€œI suppose two months, maybe three?”
    â€œSo you haven’t seen him in all that time?” I questioned.
    The man shook his head. “But he paid his rent, so I’m not worried as long as he is up-to-date.”
    â€œDid he ever have any visitors here?” Hewitt asked.
    The man paused and thought a moment. “A woman,” he said in a low voice. “She’d come around several times a week. I could often hear him speaking to her in his room, but it sounded like they were speaking in foreign gibberish. Is she the one who is worried about him?”
    â€œWhat can you tell me about her?”
    â€œOh, not much. I only saw glimpses of her.” He lowered his voice. “But she did stay over with him quite a lot. There’s only one kind of woman who will stay with a man without hesitation or care for decency.”
    â€œSo she was a lady of the night?” I asked.
    â€œI’m not one to judge,” said the man. “I did tell Mr. Jackson he needed to think about his actions as this was meant to be a respectable lodging. He assured me that he meant no harm, but did tell me that he and this lass had big plans together.”
    â€œDid he ever tell you what these plans were?”
    â€œAfraid not, no.”
    â€œMight you take us to the shed where you said he did other work... tinkerings as you say.”
    We followed the man down the stairs and out into the back garden. The shed was a decent size, ten feet by five feet. The man opened the door and a few gardening tools fell out.
    â€œWill you allow us some privacy while I look around?” Hewitt asked.