The Singular Case of the Three Witches

By Serg Koren

When the body of a cowboy is discovered in London while Sherlock Holmes is incapacitated, it's up to Watson to fill his shoes. He discovers a mad genius and three beautiful women bent on killing the world's leaders and rendering all of humanity slaves to love. Tired and filled with self-doubt, Watson must find the confidence and inner strength to solve the case.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667884905

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Copyright © 2022 Serg Koren

All rights reserved.

Print ISBN: 978-1-66788-489-9

eBook ISBN: 978-1-66788-490-5

Other Books By Serg Koren

Puffin and Griswold in the Tunnel of Darkness

The Roland Targus Series

The Treasure

The Curse

The Kingdom

The Couple

Last Call

Scavenger Hunt

More information can be found on the author’s site:

https://auteureist.com

and wherever books are sold.

Based on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s characters

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John H. Watson.

To life, to joy, to success, to you.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

Chapter Eighty-Four

Chapter Eighty-Five

Chapter Eighty-Six

Chapter Eighty-Seven

Chapter Eighty-Eight

Chapter Eighty-Nine

Chapter Ninety

Chapter Ninety-One

Chapter Ninety-Two

Chapter Ninety-Three

Chapter Ninety-Four

Chapter Ninety-Five

Chapter Ninety-Six

Chapter Ninety-Seven

Chapter Ninety-Eight

Chapter Ninety-Nine

Chapter One Hundred

Chapter One Hundred One

Chapter One Hundred Two

Chapter One Hundred Three

Chapter One Hundred Four

Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes stood at one of the two windows in the single large airy sitting-room of 221B Baker Street gazing at the falling snow. I sat in one of the comfortable chairs that I gravitated to whenever I was in Holmes’ room, watching a dust mote float, balloon-like, in the warm air of the fire. Without turning, my friend and companion spoke. Watson, you seem out of sorts today. Is anything amiss?

I frowned. My friend had confronted me before I was ready. I gave in and with a sigh, replied. I’m tired, Holmes.

You’ve been working too hard. You should take a holiday. Fresh air would do you good.

No, Holmes. I don’t mean I’m physically tired. I’m tired of running around, being chased, shot at, and rushing after you on your adventures.

Oh? Holmes turned away from the window to face me, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Yes, Holmes. It’s all well and good for you to run about on your cases—but they are, after all your cases, and I’m not as young as I used to be.

Nonsense, Watson. You’re not that old, and what would I be without my Watson?

I flinched, then raised my voice. That’s just it. I’m not your Watson. I’m my own man. I need my own life. I’m not your shadow. I want to grow into my old age, have a family, and children to look after me.

I’m sorry, Watson. I didn’t mean anything by the expression. It was merely an expression of friendship and admiration. What would you do? Start up your medical practice again?

Yes. I miss helping patients.

Holmes stood silent, watching me a long moment. You are set, I see.

Yes, Holmes.

And when would you like to depart?

The sooner the better. I noted sadness on his angular features. We’ll still be friends and I will visit, of course.

Of course. I will be sorry to see you go, dear friend. Who will chronicle my adventures?

A pang of guilt moved through me. I shook it off, because I knew Holmes too well to fall for his ploy. I’m sure you’ll make do without me, and I’d think you’d be glad to see me get out from underfoot.

Holmes turned back to the window. I’ll miss you, dear friend. You have been of invaluable assistance to me beyond your writing. Before I could respond, he continued. We seem to have a visit from Lestrade, Watson. A fresh case, no doubt from his pace.

I caught myself before asking what it might be. I’ll leave the case in your capable hands, Holmes. I should go.

Stay, Watson! It was more command than request as he turned back to me. His voice softened. One last case and adventure—for old time’s sake. I was about to refuse when he added, We’ve been through so much together, you and I. I promise this will be the last one. For friendship’s sake. Please, Watson. Seeing my hesitation, Holmes clapped me on the back. Watson, you’ll see. This will be a memory we’ll look back and celebrate when next we meet.

Chapter Two

A short while later, Holmes knelt beside and examined a most unusual victim. I picked up a piece of metal from the rug of the hotel room; a thin piece of steel, thicker than a needle and flat with a crooked-head.I say Holmes, what do you make of this?

He looked up at me with his aquiline countenance, peered a moment at the item in my hand and said, A lock pick, Watson.

It’s like no lock pick I’ve ever seen, I mumbled.

It’s a style common to the United States. The mechanisms there differ somewhat from our own locks. My companion looked down at the dead man whose blood seeped into the rug under him. No doubt, our friend here brought it with him. He’s a cowboy from the looks of it. Holmes examined the body.

Poor chap. Shot in the back. Who would do such a thing? I’ve never met a cowboy before. Didn’t think I ever would.

Well, I don’t think you’ll meet this one, in any case. Look here, Holmes pointed to the man’s vest just below the neckline. What do you make of this?

I moved closer, pocketing the strange implement as I surveyed the outfit. It’s a well-made, well-tailored outfit. Not at all what I would expect from a cowboy.

Quite. What do you deduce as a result?

He was well to do. Quite fashionable, I’d say. His clothes have a Spanish flair about them.

Well noted, my friend. He has the South American gaucho about his style. And what do you make of this here below the neck? Holmes pointed to a small crease.

Strange place for a fold, I’d say. It seems a bit out of place.

Look here. Holmes used a fingernail to lift the top of the fold. It’s a small pocket. And if I’m not mistaken, it’s just the right size for the lock pick you found.

By Jove, you’re right. What a strange thing. Why would he carry a lock pick on his back?

It’s an unlikely place for one, and that in and of itself is a good reason to have one there. I assume he did not wish it found if he were searched.

What a clever thief! I exclaimed.

Thief? I doubt that.

Our investigation was interrupted as the tall form of Inspector Lestrade strode into the room. His bowler was pushed back on his head, his hands in the pockets of the long overcoat he wore. Well, I’ve questioned the hotel staff. They all claim they heard a shot ring out around 9:00 p.m. No one saw anyone unusual leave the premises.

Holmes stood up from the body. And the guests? Did you question them as well?

Lestrade grimaced in annoyance. Of course I did, Mr Holmes. The hotel proprietor gave me a complete list of ’em and I say with the Queen’s birthday coming, every room is filled. I talked to everyone in the hotel. They all say the same thing. They all heard a shot about the same time. I’d say this is an open and shut case. He pointed to the deceased on the floor. The poor bloke was shot in the back, so I’d say robbery was the motive, him being from the States and all. Someone thought he’d be an easy mark.

Can I inspect the body, Inspector?

Go ahead, for all the good it will do you. My boys have their examination. The coroner will be here shortly.

I watched as Holmes knelt and rolled the body over onto its back. The face of the victim was pallid, but even in death he was quite handsome, as if asleep. Watson, give me your professional opinion, please. What do you make of the coloring? I looked closer to be certain of my deductions.

I’d say he has been dead for about five hours. That would put his time of death at about 6PM. He was dead before he was shot.

Quite. And the color of his skin?

I knew Holmes was driving at something. I got closer and peered. It is more blue-grey than usual in death. It’s almost ashen; argyria, maybe. Holmes nodded and gave me a thin smile of approval.

What are you going on about? Lestrade interrupted. What is this argyria?

The man has been poisoned, Holmes announced.

Poisoned? Come on! What makes you think that, Mr. Holmes?

Argyria is caused by excessive contact with silver or silver dust. Its main symptom, apart from death, is giving the skin a bluish tint.

Poisoned by silver? You’re pulling my leg. The man was shot in the back.

He was shot, as is obvious. What is not so obvious, unless you are a trained medical professional, is that he was poisoned. He died as a result and was shot, no doubt to hide the real cause from the casual observer.

Maybe he was a silver prospector, I looked up at Holmes for approval. That would explain his well-off appearance.

I doubt it, Watson. He is too well groomed. Lestrade, did you find anything of note in his possessions?

Nothing out of the ordinary, and certainly no great amount of silver, Mr. Holmes.

And what of his identity?

The inspector scratched his head. That’s the peculiar bit. He registered as Mr. James Easton of Denver, Colorado—that’s a state in the States. But we found this, Lestrade pulled a metal cigarette case out of his pocket and handed it to my companion.

Quite remarkable craftsmanship with the initials ‘ACD’ inscribed on the top cover.

That’s the peculiar bit. My guess is he registered under a false name.

Maybe he’s a thief. That would explain the lock pick, Holmes.

Perhaps, Watson. But if he were a thief, he was a rich one, but I doubt it. Note his shoes.

I examined the dead man’s footwear. Dear me, one of his shoes has a hole in the sole.

Yes, and that precludes him from being rich.

But he could still be a thief, I ventured.

Unlikely. The cigarette case is his.

How can you tell? Lestrade asked as he bent to survey the worn shoes.

The tobacco stains on the man’s fingers point to the fact he was a smoker. Also, note the class ring he wears. The initials ACD are engraved on the outside of the band.

I squinted at the circle of gold around the dead man’s finger. You’re right. I didn’t see that until you mentioned it. But what makes you think he’s not a cowboy? He’s dressed like a cowboy. Gaucho, you said.

"True, but a gaucho is a cowboy from South America. He is not, however, from that continent since he is wearing shoes made right here in England. In fact, I’d go as far as to say, he is an Englishman.

Lestrade’ s eyes widened. Then why the getup, Mr. Holmes?

That, Inspector, is the real puzzle. Why would a man from England dress as a cowboy, a South American one at that, and be murdered by an excess of silver in his system?

Perhaps he was on the way to a costume party, I suggested. I haven’t been to one in ages—quite fun, those.

Maybe, Watson. Lestrade check around and find out if any costume parties have been announced. What with the Queen’s celebration, there are bound to be one or two. In the meantime, are these all the victim’s effects? Holmes pointed to a small case that lay on the otherwise undisturbed bed.

That’s all of it as far as we can gather. We went through it, of course, but didn’t find much. Just a hat and some gloves.

May I look?

Of course, Mr. Holmes, but I’m sure you’ll find nothing else.

Holmes walked over to the bed and opened the case. He peered into it a moment before pulling out the aforementioned hat and gloves. The hat was like the deceased’ clothes, clean and of high-quality. Unlike the inspector’s bowler, the victim’s hat was flat-topped and flat-brimmed. A quite unusual hat. It’s not the typical hat of a western cowboy. Note the leather band embossed in gold. Also, the brim isn’t as wide, upturned, or pronounced as what one imagines a cowboy hat. Holmes next examined the interior of the hat. Ah ha, as I thought. The initials JmE are emblazoned on the liner. Holmes turned to Lestrade, who had been watching. Inspector, while you’re searching out parties, be so kind as to also see if anyone has been reported missing with those initials as well as ACD. Holmes turned his focus back to the interior of the case. Odd.

What’s odd, Holmes?

This case. It seems bigger on the outside than the inside. Holmes tapped the sides and then the inside bottom of the dead man’s case. I watched as he then felt the inside with his long slender fingers. Ah ha. A catch. Lestrade and I moved closer as a slight click signaled the catch being released. Holmes reached in and removed the false bottom. What do we have here?

I looked down at a long piece of metal to which two leather loops, one smaller than the other, were attached. A spring was fastened to the center of another metal strip and anchored to the first. The second metal strip was flat and perforated across its center. A small derringer pistol was bolted to the other end of the flat strip.

What is this contraption? I asked, perplexed.

It’s a sleeve gun. It’s a pistol hidden under the long sleeve of a coat or jacket and brought out when the spring is released by muscle tension, Holmes explained lifting the mechanism out of the case. He proceeded to demonstrate by strapping the contrivance to his forearm, latching the strip of metal with the spring so that the derringer sat against his wrist. With a quick flick of his hand, Holmes, his forefinger on the trigger, was pointing the derringer directly at me.

Holmes! I started in a panic.

Don’t worry, Watson. The weapon is unloaded. See? Holmes broke the pistol in two to display the two empty chambers.

Fiendish device.

Who would need such a device? Lestrade scratched his head under his pushed-back bowler.

Someone who likes to appear like anyone else to the casual observer, but if the need arises, he needs to be prepared—or an assassin.

Assassin? I paused. The Queen! Her celebration!

That appears likely. It appears whoever this person is, pretending to be an American, wanted to kill the Queen to create a political crisis.

Holmes! Thank God, he was stopped. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Indeed. But we cannot breathe a sigh of relief yet. I cringed. Holmes could be infuriating. We should not make the assumption he worked alone?

What makes you think he didn’t? Lestrade looked at Holmes.

It wouldn’t be safe to assume otherwise, would it?

I guess you’re right, Mr. Holmes.

Lestrade, I suggest you send a telegram to the US government as quickly as possible to ascertain our victim’s assumed identity and the purpose of his visit. Make sure to reference the two sets of initials we found. Our victim is not who he appears to be. His shoes say he is British. His clothes and equipment say he is an American. Logic tells me his worn shoes tell the truth of him more than does his attire. Also, check around to see if anyone of note has gone missing here in Britain.

Quite a puzzle, this.

Yes, Watson. This is no costume ball we are dealing with. I fear something more sinister and deadly is happening behind the scenes, and we must disclose it.

Chapter Three

I t looks like we are getting some new neighbors, Holmes and I climbed the steps to 221B Baker Street. A large carriage laden with household goods stood several doors down at 202. Haulers moved between the conveyance and the building, unloading the contents. Holmes paused at the door to our flat, glancing at the commotion several doors away.

So it would seem. Strange. I hadn’t heard the building had gone up for rent.

Quite lovely neighbors, too. I felt my spirits rise at the sight of the three lovely women who directed the movers with their task. Gazing out at the three ladies, I couldn’t make out their features, but I saw one was blonde, one black-haired, and one of flaming red hair that competed with the sunset. The women stood watching as the movers took boxes, furniture, and crates from the back of a lorry.

What do you make of our new neighbors, Watson?

I broke my gaze from the three women to look at Holmes, who stood by me. Quite lovely, I’d say.

That’s obvious, Watson, and you already said that. I meant what can you deduce about the kind of people they are?

I turned my attention back to the activity. They are well to-do, judging by their furnishings. Also, the amount suggests they are very well to-do.

Very good, Watson. And what does that tell you?

I stood, feeling unsure and confused. What did Holmes see that I did not? What have I missed, Holmes?

Why would someone as wealthy as their furnishings choose to live in our part of the city?

It does seem out of sorts, now that you mention it. A thought struck me. They aren’t related. The dark-haired woman doesn’t appear to be of European origin.

Very good, Watson. Eastern, I’d say. Holmes paused to reflect. They are either hiding or they are trying to be seen—the latter, I would think. He stared out across the way as the men unloaded a large, bulky case the size of an average man.

The blonde-haired woman yelled, Be careful with that! Keep it upright! It’s precious, when the men allowed the edge of the container to bump against the pavement. The other two women stood aside as the haulers carried the case up the steps and into the building, then followed. The blonde turned and glanced around the street. The sight of her face caused me to catch my breath. I recovered and turned to Holmes, who watched the proceedings in intense interest as I opened the door.

Coming Holmes? I dare say I won’t mind having a bit of fluff in the neighborhood.

My companion’s attention snapped away from our new neighbors. Yes, Watson, although I am more interested in their possessions than our new neighbors. Did you note the case?

I preceded Holmes up the steps. A voice called out from the back room. Is that you Mr. Holmes?

Yes, Mrs. Hudson, it’s us, I responded.

I’ll bring up some tea, shortly,

Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Holmes and I entered the flat. The clutter of Knick-knacks, books, and equipment that were in his abode never failed to amaze me. How he knew where anything was, was beyond me to fathom, but Holmes’ meticulous memory always rose to the occasion. The flat smelled of books, chemicals, and tobacco. How Mrs. Hudson dealt with the clutter and odors was beyond me, but she did none the less. As Holmes settled into his favorite chair, Mrs. Hudson arrived carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. Holmes thanked her and poured each of us a steaming cup. Now Watson, what do you make of our victim-apart from what we’ve already noted?

I sipped the hot liquid and thought a moment before replying. If, as you say, Holmes, the man was an assassin, his appearance must have something to do with Queen Victoria’s celebration.

Perhaps. On further thought, I think there may be another answer. The man’s dress has been bothering me. If he were an assassin, he would need entry to the Queen’s proceedings—an invitation. I’m thinking the victim was intent on posing as an envoy of the United States. But it is unlikely the United States would send such a lowly official, and one so unknown, as it were, as the only representative. Think, Watson. What is the primary duty of an agent of the government? Any government?

I pondered and sipped. I have it! To protect the government, or a representative.

Quite right. And in this case, the US Secret Service is in the employ of the president of the United States. My guess is the president will attend the celebration, and our murdered victim was assigned here to protect him, or was posing as that man.

The president of the United States? And his agent murdered? I leapt to my feet. Maybe his target isn’t the Queen, but the president.We must tell the US embassy at once!

Sit down, Watson. Holmes motioned to my chair with the cup in his hand. I’m quite certain the President is well aware of what has occurred, if indeed the man was an agent. And if he wasn’t, the US will know once Lestrade’s wire reaches them. I still believe our victim to be British.

At that point there was a knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson poked her head to announce, There’s a young woman here to see you, Mr. Holmes. She seems quite put out.

Please send her in, Mrs. Hudson. Holmes and I stood to greet his visitor, who entered a moment later. I immediately recognized her as one of our new neighbors. Her black hair was done up quite high, as was the fashion of the time, and her clothes were well tailored and clean, and did nothing but compliment her appearance and figure. One thing that I had noted before, and Holmes had deduced, was that her features were those of someone from the Far East despite her Western clothing. Holmes’ guess was spot-on. She held a parasol in one hand and a kerchief in the other. A heavy waft of perfume, spiced and earthy, filled the area about her. Some memory was triggered in my mind, but before I could recall it, her voice broke the silence.

Mr. Holmes? she asked, looking at my companion.

And this is Dr. Watson, my friend. She gave me a perfunctory nod. Won’t you have a seat, Miss? Holmes prompted.

I am Cynthia Sing. Our visitor took the proffered seat.

Quite a lovely name. Very melodic, I commented, but she ignored me and continued addressing Holmes.

Mr. Holmes, I have a personal problem, I hope you would help me with. Her eyes began to tear, and she dabbed the corner of her eye with her kerchief.

Dear, dear. No need to cry. I’m sure Holmes and I will help you, I reassured.

What is it you want me to do? Holmes’ tone was as even and clinical as ever. He was eyeing the young woman just as clinically.

I… My husband… He’s disappeared. I’m at my wits’ end, Mr. Holmes. I—I want you to find him for me. The raven-haired woman broke down, sobbing.

There, there, I consoled. Perhaps some tea would help. I poured a third cup from the pot.

Tell me, Miss Sing. Who told you I could help you?

She glanced up at Holmes, startled. Why—a—a friend.

I see. And you say your husband has disappeared? Tell me the details, and leave nothing out. Holmes was being commanding and more rude to a guest than I had seen him to be.

Why—he’s—he was supposed to go to Boston on a business trip last month. He—I never heard back from him, even though he promised to send a cable. I fear the worst, Mr. Holmes. Please, Mr. Holmes, please help find my—Charles. Our lovely visitor collapsed into full-blown tears and cries.

And in what sort of business is Charles?

Yes—Charles—he is a clerk for a bookseller.

Holmes walked over to his work table and retrieved his pipe, which he filled with tobacco from the pouch that had lain next to it. He lit the filthy thing and then walked to stand in front of our distraught visitor.

No, Miss Sing. I will not help you.

Holmes! What are you saying? I was aghast at his behavior.

He ignored me and continued, You said he was supposed to go to Boston—not that he had. A minor slip, but a significant one. Also, you’re not married, as the lack of a wedding band indicates. You only wear a cheap glass ring meant to appear to be a diamond. Your clothes appear to be worth a bit more than what a clerk could afford. Also, if you were concerned about a husband, you would not have moved in with two other women as I saw you doing. You, Miss Sing, are a liar. I am in the middle of another investigation and cannot waste my time by being sent on a wild goose chase. Whatever scheme you had planned is of no concern to me. Normally, I would have played along to unravel your scheme, but I have more vital interests at this point. I stood there, my mouth agape as I followed my friend’s logic. "Now, Miss Sing, please be so kind as to remove yourself from the premises. Mrs.