Iii. Col. Sebastien Moran

III. COL. SEBASTIEN MORAN

MR. HOLMES apologized for this distressing solution to my case. But I knew very well that it wasn’t his to blame. After being arrested, my stepfather confessed all that Holmes has accused him for doing. Hosmer’s possessions, were nothing more than shoplifted items. My stepfather also added, that he was hired by an American, known as Colonel Sebastien Moran who assisted in the infamous jewelry robberies that had occurred since the past two months. However, he had only attempted one of the jewelry robberies of last month, so his information on those crimes were somewhat insufficient. Earlier in this story, when I first met Holmes as a painter, he held a newspaper with the headline “Jewelry thief on trial”. Today, the news has been updated that the thief, whose name is Jonathan Smalls, is in the process of being released set, confirmed from my stepfather’s confession that he was truly innocent. He did, however, in the past, committed several acts of shoplifting, but his penalties were recently finished for those actions. Holmes accompanied me to my home, along with Stamford, to let me pack up my things. As we arrived at the entrance of my stepfather’s shop (My flat was a few stories above it) Holmes thumped on the concrete several times, if one wasn’t enough. He obediently waited downstairs as Stamford and I went to my room to help pack a few clothes. “Rachel, are you sure? He’s a total stranger. I’m not quite sure if—” I shook my head. “No Stamford. I don’t want to stress you in your flat.” “Darling, taking care of you is far away from stress. Scotland Yard is stress. Are you sure about what you’re saying. You’ve only met him in a day and you’re not doubting your decision a bit.” “Doubt goes with knowledge. That’s what old Goethe says.” I sat at the corner of my bed, still in an awful feeling, stroking a few cords off my guitar. Other than that, the only noise was the ruffling of clothes being packed in my bag. But when he pulled out of the closet, the wedding dress, I stood looking at it, lost in thought. Already, there was one stain on it, and a second stain as well. But he continued to drape the dress over me, took my guitar and laid it on the floor, and lead me gently to a mirror. We both stared at our faces in the reflection. “Rachel, one of these days will be your happiest day of your life. The world is glowing, the lights are sparkling at night, the music is playing, the dance is going. Once day, you will find a man out there who will make you happy, that will bring you there and marry you in this dress, I swear it.” “Marriage!” I said bitterly. “Marriage! What does marriage mean when there is divorce happening everywhere. I don’t need it anymore.” It tended to be ironic. While my step-stepfather was in control of my life, I dared to dream of making a family of my own. Now, the tables have turned. My stepfather was arrested, my fiancée, gone, and the desire of a family became nothing. Stamford looked at me in a worried look. “I’m sorry Stamford,” I apologized, explaining. “I am very sorry. It is just so funny think about it now: you’re supposed to hate men because the one who is in control of your life tells you to. And now that my stepfather is jail—I don’t know—you—you suddenly wonder why you have to hate them.” I finally noticed Stamford looking at me, silent and misunderstood. “But even so,” I continued. “I would love to spend some time in your flat, but throughout this day, It hasn’t been a good day at all and I need to detach myself away from the world for a day or two. Please understand that.” “Like the parallel line property of geometry?” I tilted my head, amused. “Probably.” And just as he leaned on my window sill, he bumped into one of my flower pots, knocking it out the window. “Oh my god! Sheridan!” We heard a crack on the sidewalk, reminding us that Holmes was downstairs and outside. Both of us raced down the stairs and out the sidewalk where we were relieved that Holmes has a foot away from being hit. “Thank you Stamford, I needed that,” Holmes said calmly, carefully picking up the pieces of clay, soil, roots, and flowers. He wasn’t hysterical or angry. “A blow that hard on the concrete has given me an accurate judgement.” “Sheridan,” Stamford questioned, quite uncertain, “what are you exactly doing?” “Testing the sound of the concrete.” “Sidewalks don’t make any sound, Sheridan.” “I’m aware of that. Why did you think I was stomping on it,” he said as he handed me the remains of my pet flower. Stamford shrugged. “Then,” he continued, “If Ms. Hughes can kindly lead us into her basement, we’ll soon discover something of use.”

We ascended to this dusty basement, colder than the shop upstairs, all types of boxes pilled into rows, and cobwebs that streamed across the ceilings and corners. The single light bulb flickered, buzzing and clinking in and out of energy, choking to keep it’s light alive. My stepfather refused to let me into the place. It was the account of my asthma that supported his reason. What was strange though, was the air. It had the stingy smell of paint, freshly painted over one wall and dried by a few days ago. “What are you looking for?” Stamford asked. “An answer,” Holmes replied. “Do you mind is we search around the boxes Ms. Hughes? It’s possible that a significant evidence is present around here.” I gave my full permission, careless about any of my stepfather’s things. Unless, he was happening to hide something of interest. At the first pile of boxes, near the stairs, we uncovered a wall and another terrible sight that constantly appeared and haunted us. Rache. We stared at it, especially me. What was this objective of that colonel? Why was he doing this and why was he targeting me. Perhaps it was the same reason as the men I avoided, due to my father’s standards. “Well now,” Stamford tried to cheer us up, but his voice was also in a state of nervousness. “It looks like a snorter. And a real snorter it is!” Every box was searched. Boxes of clothes, of furniture, of empty glass jars to extra items of the shop that was there in case of restocking. Holmes scanned one pile, Stamford, another, and me with the remaining. Not only were the boxes searched, but also the hollow insides of scratched drawers, rusty cabinets and dented tables. The hours went by, with our energy drained, and yet, there was still no sign of anything significant. Exhausted and irked, Stamford spoke out another rhyming riddle. “Four men sat down to play, they played all night till break of day, they played for gold and not for fun, with separate scores for everyone. When they came to fair accounts, they all made quite fair amounts, can you, find what the paradox explain, if none have lost, how could they all gain?” Lazy, energetic, yet thinking, Holmes began to dribble his fists against the fresh wall as he walked along it. “Stamford,” he breathed carelessly. “They were musicians.” Like before, Stamford moaned. “How in the world did you know that?” he asked. “Oh that was Elementary. You told that one to me a long time ago.” Holmes made a final thump on the wall. BONG! “Hallo! What was that!” Holmes exclaimed. We all dropped to the floor, startled. After several seconds of waiting is the noise would come back, he looked around, and looked at us questioningly. “Did you two do something?” Stamford shook his head, still shocked from the unknown noise. “We didn’t—we didn’t drop anything.” Holmes turned to the wall. Slowly, he approached it, then tapped it. It clinked a bit, like something hitting hollow metal. Then, he slammed a fist and the smashing noise uttered out again. With the full force against it, part of the wall, like a door, swung out into a dark, murky, underground area. All of us, like three frightened people, slowly peered into this dark place. It was a tunnel, a sewer, the gentle noise of trickling shallow water passing by like a stream. After what seemed like hours I jumped into the sewer and treaded into shallow waters. I turned back to the light shining from the passageway, impatient. “Well, aren’t you two coming? I thought you wanted to solve a bank robbery?” The two looked at me like I was crazy. Stamford began to look at me nervously. “Right now?” “Why not?” “Now?” I folded my arms impatiently. Never in my life had Stamford become this sheepish. “Well when are we going to go down there? Christmas?” “That’s a good idea.” Stamford replied. “Yes, but compared to window washing and standing on a five story roof—Oh come on! It’s not that bad.” “It is bad.” “Well what’s wrong with that? It’s dark, it’s cold, its a sewer—” “It’s dark, it’s cold and it’s a sewer, that’s what’s wrong,” Holmes spoke up. “So?” “So how can you possibly make your way in there…without these?” In Holmes’ hand, was a flashlight, and a map.” In silence, my mouth gaped instantly and I slapped a hand over my forehead muttering a curse at myself. Idiot.

Out voices echoed down the tunnel, over the distant rumbling of the tube and the traffic above our heads. Shafts of faint light fuzzed into the tunnel but it wasn’t any good. Even the icy, muddled waters that soaked our shoes stiffened and numbed our feet. After winding into several directions, we reached an intersection where we had three choices where to go: left, right, or forward. “Let’s try b-b-backwards,” Stamford exhaustedly chattered. “It’s c-c-c-cold, it dark, and—my god, where are we?” Holmes shined a flashlight onto the map. “Oxford Street, Park Lane, Grosvenor…A few more and we’ll be drowning into the Thames.” “That’s too far. That’s already a mile or two. Shouldn’t we g-go back?” Stamford insisted. Holmes sighed. “Oh Stamford. Cut the poetry! I’m surprised Ms. Hughes isn’t complaining, compared to you.” “Hypothermia,” Stamford shivered. “You’re not suffering from hypothermia.” “B-But—” Holmes huffed in impatience and gave in. “Fine. Go! Go ahead and return to Ms. Hughes flat. But the two of us are continuing on.” Gratefully, he headed to the opposite direction. “And by the way,” Holmes called, “be careful of the rats.” Stamford nodded and disappeared. As we faced the problem of navigating, thought for a moment. Holmes reasoned that it must be forward since all the waters from every tunnel is flowing towards the left. So the right and the tunnel strait ahead must have openings. Then, he deduced that the tunnel ahead of us couldn’t be the one since it slanted downwards, giving difficulty for the person to travel down there. As we disappeared in sight, we were followed by the rapid sound of footsteps plopping over water, and the next moment, Stamford returned. “On s-s-s-s-s-second thought,” he added. “There’s some vicious rats over there so I might as well stay with you two.” We continued on, until we reached something interesting. Piles of dirt piled onto the pools of water near an opening at the wall of a tunnel that ascended somewhere up. There was a thin ray of light, nothing more. Holmes pulled out his magnifying glass and examined the hole and it’s surroundings. “A magnifying glass,” I muttered. “Of all technology in the world, he’s nifty with a magnifying glass.” “Don’t-t underestimate him,” Stamford leaned towards my ear, despite the uncomfortable cold. “He’s clever than technology, I can be sure. The only one left in the world who is surrounded by televisions and yet, isn’t attracted to one at all.” “But why a magnifying glass.” “A good luck charm I suppose…a keepsake…a hobby of burning and torturing ants…don’t ask me why. All I know is that magnifying glass of his was one of a bunch of family keepsakes. Comes from his great grand uncle, that’s all I can say.” Following after Holmes, as we climber up the hole, we noticed the cover of the hole was a square tile, with a small, scratched button jammed between tile and the edges of the opening to create a crevice and prevent the tile from closing. With Holmes in the lead, he wiggled the button out, pushed the tile up and slid his way out of the opening. We were under a table, draped and covered by a tablecloth. Two familiar voices were heard. They were arguing about me, about Holmes, about our case. As we listened, Holmes recklessly popped out of the table and alarmed the two detectives. “Ahh! It’s the amateur!” Gregson and Lestrade, breathless, recognized Holmes and pulled him out. Afterwards, came an immediate volley of menacing faces, upset from the interruption of their lunch. “Mr. Holmes! Ugh! How dare you come from under the table! If the entire Scotland Yard finds that such a irregular like you had sneaked into this very place—” “I was with him,” I revealed myself from under the table. “And al-l-l-l-l-so me,” Stamford added. I crawled out of the table, followed by Stamford. It was Gregson’s office, a first floor one, with the same file cabinets, desks, a refrigerator, coffeemaker and papers. “The three of you?” Lestrade said astonished. “Here? How?” Besides him, Gregson piped. “Alright! What’s the meaning of this?” “We’re in Scotland Yard?” I interrupted. “Yes. Now how did you—” “How could you possibly fit under that table?” said Lestrade, who was calm with astonishment. “This.” Holmes slid the table away, revealing the hole on the tiles. “Good heavens!” The two detectives exclaimed. “Meaning to say, the robbers and criminals have been going around New Scotland Yard.” Holmes scratched his head. “Not exactly. Robbers and criminals have always been in Scotland Yard—behind bars and contained. But no. None of them are roaming around freely.” Lestrade peered into the opening. “What of the hole then?” “I’m not sure. What I can conclude so far is that someone in Scotland Yard is using the sewers as a passageway between here and Mr. James Hughes, which means, he is also associated with the Milverton’s Jewelry robbery of last month.” “Who?” Holmes shrugged, plucking one of the few sandwiches from the table and taking a bite. “That’s the mystery.”