Schear - A Biased Judgement

Title Page

A BIASED JUDGEMENT

The Sherlock Holmes Diaries: 1897

Geri Schear

Publisher Information

Published in the UK by MX Publishing

335 Princess Park Manor

Royal Drive, London, N11 3GX

www.mxpublishing.com

Digital edition converted and distributed in 2014 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

Copyright 2014 Geri Schear

The right of Geri Schear to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious or used fictitiously. Except for certain historical personages, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and not of MX Publishing.

Cover design by www.staunch.com

Quote

Love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment.

(Sherlock Holmes: The Sign of Four)

Prologue

For his one hundred and tenth birthday, Lucy gave John a cardigan and his family legacy. The cardigan took six months of knitting, swearing and dropped stitches. The legacy took eighty-four minutes.

Arthur wants us to come to Sussex, John said one day over breakfast.

For your birthday? Lucy said. What a good idea. Id love to see the cottage.

John made a face. Its ancient. Dull. Miles from anywhere.

You mean it isnt London.

Well, it isnt.

As she handed him his pills and checked his pulse, Lucy said, Not to put too fine a point on it, but how many more annual visits do you think youll be able to make down there? Ten? Twenty?

He laughed and patted her hand. Oh you are good for me, Luce. Best idea I ever had was hiring you.

So they went to Sussex.

By the time they pulled up outside the cottage it was already dark and she could see nothing of the Downs. The air tasted of sea and promised snow.

They were all there. Johns brother, Arthur, one hundred and eight years old and still walking two miles a day. Harry, Johns son, who did something hush-hush for the government but who seemed too jolly to be a spy or a bureaucrat. And Johns grandson, Jack. Dear Jack. Newly home from Afghanistan and the camera still attached to him like a papoose.

Lucy, Harry said, kissing her cheek. Thank you for persuading my dad to come.

And thank you for driving, Jack said. I would have been happy to pick you up, but we thought Gramps would prefer it this way.

I did, John said. He shook his head at Lucy in a long-suffering manner, and she laughed. He refused the wheelchair and the cane, but readily took her proffered arm. They slowly climbed the haphazard steps and went into the cottage. The sitting room was small but cosy. A generous fire burned in the hearth and the armchairs were soft and well-cushioned. Lucy stared at the pock-marked wooden beams that crossed the ceiling. Are those bullet holes? she said.

Of course, Arthur said as if shed asked if theyd have kippers for breakfast. My father liked to use them for target practice. Alas, one day the report shattered a gift from Queen Victoria. Mother made him stop after that.

Dinner will be at eight oclock, Harry said, pouring tea. You dont mind waiting?

Not at all, John said. Well, Lucy. Does it measure up to all your expectations?

Its bigger than I expected, she said. You hear cottage and you think tiny.

A family joke, Arthur said. Elizabeth the First slept here, so did Walter Raleigh. Not at the same time.

And Churchill, John added. He was a friend of fathers, you know. And he adored mother.

Speaking of mother, Harry said. We put you in Parliament, Lucy.

Im sorry, Parliament?

My mothers bedroom, John said.

Arthur said, When John and I were boys, whenever there was a family disagreement or a major decision to be made, wed discuss it in mothers bedchamber. Hence, Parliament.

Best room in the house, Lucy.

Ill say, Jack said with a comically tragic sigh. Ive never been allowed to sleep there.

I consider myself privileged, Lucy said.

I have such fond memories of that room. Of mother and father... John said, and fell suddenly silent.

Lucy squeezed his hand. You okay?

His smile was unconvincing. There are so many things I want to know. We have the stories, of course, but its not the same.

Was your father really like that, the way he is in the books?

Oh no, Arthur said. He was much worse.

And better. John added, laughing.

Tell us about him, Jack said. Like, how did he end up married? Come on, Gramps. I want a story.

I honestly dont know, John said. Every time I asked, Mother said I was too young for such a lurid tale - her idea of a joke, I have no doubt - and that shed tell me one day. That story, all their stories, were to be our legacy, you see. Mine and Arthurs. Only as with so much else about my father, it was all shrouded in mystery.

It was all going to be told us one day but it never happened, Arthur said. All we got was a cryptic hint from father that the owls were guarding the tales.

Owls? Lucy said. What owls?

Well, if we knew that we wouldnt be sat here seventy years later still wondering. Silly beggar took the truth to the grave.

He was mourning our mother, John said. I wish you could have known him, Lucy. Youd have liked him. Women did, for some reason. Does that surprise you? Of all of us, Jack is the most like him. They look so much alike: that strong profile and especially the hands.

Hed be very proud of you, Harry said. Of the work youre doing in Afghanistan.

This was all very sweet, but Lucy was dying to know about the owls.

Im afraid we know no more, Luce, John said. Arthur and I searched from rafters to cellar looking for the rotten things.

The nearest we came, Arthur said. Was when we found a nest out by the stables. We came tearing in, all excited, and father laughed so hard he cried.

Mother too, John said. The pair of them, chortling right here in this room. I was, how old, about fourteen, so it must have been nineteen eighteen. Yes, the war had just ended and father wasnt long home from Europe.

We begged them for years to tell us more, to give us another clue, but they wouldnt budge, Arthur said.

So what happened? Jack asked. Now and then he focused his camera and clicked the button.

We forgot about it, more or less, Arthur said. We grew up, went to university, went to war... I suppose it started to feel a bit like a fairy tale, a story to entertain us children when we got too noisy.

I dont think it was, though. One of the very last things father said to me was, Dont forget to look for the owls, John. That was at mothers funeral. He died the next day. I should like to know the answer before I pass on. Id hate to be embarrassed when I face the old beggar in whatever afterlife there may be.

The sat by the fire and Harry poured brandy to toast Johns big day. A hundred and ten tomorrow, the birthday boy said. I shall soon have to start behaving like a grown-up.

Lucy sipped her brandy and felt hypnotised by the fires flickering and sparking. She was half-asleep when she heard herself say, Isnt parliament the collective noun for owls?

One hour and twenty-four minutes later they found it.