Brief: Some of our assignments can be mind-bogglingly challenging. For this one, we were expected to include a telestich (no, I didn't know what it was either - it's poem like an acrostic but the hidden word is to be spelled out in the last letter of each line rather than the first), a poem in a style we've never done before, and a city scape.
The Case Of The Poetry Murders
‘What do you make of this, Watson?’
I had been writing up some case notes when Holmes interrupted me with these words. He deposited today’s Times, open at the obituaries page, on my desk and pointed at a particular article with his pipe.
‘Brigadier Sir Carstairs Etheridge,’ I read. ‘Aged 72. Aneurysm. Should we know him, Holmes?’
‘We should now,’ said the great detective. ‘Look at his obituary.’
I skimmed through his military career, which had been exemplary, and noted that his most recent responsibility had been the protection of the Queen herself. But my attention was caught, as must have Holmes’s, by an accompanying poem. Or perhaps I should say ode.
In service of the queen and realm
A brave and fearless hero
He fought our foes whate’er the danger
And earned respect of you and I
Patron of our great Britannia
Her steadfast loyal defender
Long may his legacy persist
May it never fade away.
‘Standards are slipping at The Times,’ I said. ‘However did this piece of doggerel get past the editor?’
‘This is no doggerel,’ said Holmes. ‘This is a clue. Within this poem lies the identity of the murderer!’
‘Murderer?’ I ejaculated. ‘But he died of an aneurysm. Surely, there is nothing suspicious about that.’
‘Oh, my dear Watson. Have you learned nothing from your time with me? Look at the poem again. See where the culprit has signed his name? Typical of the hubris of the man.’
‘I see no name. Holmes, you haven’t been taking opium again. I have frequently counselled against it.’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake! Why cannot people see the things that glare before their very eyes. Read the last letter of each line.’
I returned my gaze to the newspaper, and did as he bid. ‘Moriarty?’
‘Master criminal Professor James Moriarty, and my nemesis. The poem is a message for me. He takes pleasure in tormenting me and knows that I will not be able resist the temptation to investigate. Very well, I shall play his game, for now. Watson, we shall attend the funeral.’
*
The day of the funeral was befittingly dismal. The London fog flexed its biceps and put on a show of strength, as if in competition with the billowing smoke from the looming factory chimneys. Familiar buildings became strangers, intimidating like the henchmen of a criminal gang leader and eyeing us in suspicious observation. Our carriage limped over Waterloo Bridge, where ragged shrubs stalked like feral dogs, slightly perturbing the nervous horses. The grey water beneath us was flecked with ghosts of boats, or hopeless waifs adrift in a sea of no salvation. It was the sort of scene that would inspire even Whistler to stay indoors, and paint his mother instead.
A fine drizzle tormented the remainder of our journey to Southwark Cathedral, the final resting place for Brigadier Sir Carstairs Etheridge.
Holmes had not spoken for the whole journey, nor had I interrupted his silence. I knew that at moments like this, his great mind was on a journey of its own - one that I could not even speculate about.
The Brigadier had attracted a large and distinguished congregation. The great and the good had all come to give their last respects. But it was one not-so-good that Holmes was interested in, and I could see by his vexed expression that his internal deliberations were not proceeding to his satisfaction.
‘Do you think Moriaty is here, Holmes?’ I inquired.
‘Oh, he is most definitely here, Watson. But he is a master of disguise. He could be anybody. It is imperative that we remain vigilant.’
I looked at the order of service and saw that a number of prominent dignitaries were to speak. The hymns and readings were appropriate for a man who had served the empire well, but what seemed somewhat out of place was an elegy commissioned for the event, penned by an author who had wisely chosen to remain anonymous.
O Brigadier! My Brigadier! Defender of the nation.
Worthy of your honours and all men’s adulation
Who fought against the foreign foe, with bravery unbound
To slay our fiendish enemies, their plans he did confound.
Beloved champion
’Tis time to end your quest
With gratitude and homage
We lay you now to rest.
Brigadier, your light expires - who will take your mantle?
And keep the empire shining, a never ending candle.
A darkness falls upon our land, demons lurk abroad
Our glorious sovereign now sustained by the grace of God.
Gone the white knight, loyal guardian
Gone the royal retainer
God save her gracious majesty
For here are unseen dangers ...
Holmes had also been drawn to the poem. ‘Your thoughts on this one, Watson?’
‘Dreadful and derivative,’ I replied.
‘Watson, at times you dumbfound me with your ignorance,’ he chided me. ‘I was not asking for a critique. I was referring to the blatant message within.’
‘Another clue, Holmes?’
‘No clue here. This is a statement of intent.’
‘Another murder, you think?’
‘The murder has not yet taken place. I believe the Brigadier did indeed die of an aneurysm. Tell me, what is the Queen’s schedule for the day?’
‘I’m sure you read the royal engagements as I did this morning. Her Majesty is due to attend private chapel at Windsor.’
‘Whenever that is published, it is a cover for an appointment that would be a risk to her safety were it announced publicly. Surely, the Queen would wish to attend the funeral of her loyal protector. It is my belief that she will be arriving here at Southwark Cathedral in about . . .’ He took out his fobwatch and I exclaimed:
‘Holmes! You cannot be suggesting that the intended victim is . . .’
Then we heard gunshots outside.