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  The Circle Code Conundrum

  The Second Holmes & Co. Mystery

  Allison Osborne

  Copyright © 2020 Allison Osborne

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: Art Painter

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  Holmes & Co. Stories

  Collection One:

  A Study in Victory Red

  The Circle Code Conundrum

  Coming Soon:

  The Impossible Murderer

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  About The Author

  What one man can invent, another can discover.

  -Sherlock Holmes, The Dancing Men

  Chapter I

  A Man with A Message

  Irene Holmes tapped her desk in an impatient rhythm, counting the beats, desperately trying to remember the melody of the old Wagner piece before it escaped her head. 221B Baker Street was quiet for the time being, both Miss Hudson and Joe were out for a few hours, giving her ample time to recall the piece. Or try to at least.

  Frustrated at the missing note, she spun in the chair, pulling her housecoat tight, and glared at the small flat. At times like these, she wished she still had her violin, but she'd tossed the instrument into the river in a dramatic tantrum last year when she'd lost the sheet music to her father's favourite Paganini piece. She'd desperately tried to remember the tune without the notes but failed.

  So, over the bridge the violin went.

  She regretted it the following day and was grateful she'd took her anger out on an old practice violin and not the Stradivarius passed down to her. That one was kept at her father's farm, far away, and she had no desire to retrieve it any time soon. Perhaps she'd purchase a replacement for the practice one at some point, now that she was settled back at Baker Street.

  She drummed her fingers on her knee, now a rhythm of agitation rather than a piece of music. The front door downstairs opened and the voices of Miss Hudson and Joe drifted up through the open door of the flat.

  Joe Watson climbed the stairs, heavy wet shoes thumping on each of the steps. Irene counted them out of habit and when Joe reached the seventeenth step, he rounded the corner, taking off his hat. He hung it on one of the small hooks outside the open door, right above his jacket.

  He entered the flat, bringing with him the smell of the warm damp weather outside. His hair turned more ginger as the summer got underway, and sat like a ruffled mop on his sweat-covered head. His sleeves were pushed up in his typical fashion, the silver square scar on his forearm glinting in the light.

  A white powder dusted his brown waistcoat, small amounts clouding around him with every step he took. The substance dotted his sleeves and the top parts of his trousers, adding to his whole dishevelled appearance.

  "Did Miss Hudson seek you out?" Irene asked. "Or did she catch you as you walked by the bakers?"

  Joe raised an eyebrow in confusion as he headed to the small kitchenette. "She called to me in line at the bakers. How-"

  "I wonder why she needs extra flour?" Irene mumbled to herself. "It's neither mine, yours, nor Eddy's birthdays coming up, so it's not for a cake. Any clue would help, Joe."

  Joe filled a glass with water and took a few sips. "What are you talking about?"

  Irene sighed. "Miss Hudson bought extra flour today at the shop and had you carry the bags home. I am curious as to why."

  He stared at her and nodded slowly. "You're right. As I passed by the baker's, she called me in. She had me use my own ration book to get as much flour as the baker would allow. And she did the same. She heard rumours that they were going to ration the wheat due to all the rain, so she wanted to have everything she needed in case that happened. I told her it would be a very grave time should they announce bread rationing, especially with the war now ended. Wait, how did you know I carried extra flour home?"

  "You are out of breath," Irene said. "The tendons in your arms are bulging from carrying something heavy, and... you're covered in it."

  Joe looked at his clothes and let out a surprised gasp. He set his glass on the counter and hurried into the hall, leaving the door open.

  "Why did you not mention all the flour before I stepped into the flat?" he asked, smacking his clothes as the white powder circled all around him.

  Irene shrugged, watching him from her desk. "You were thirsty and I didn't want to interrupt your drink."

  He kept wiping his clothes, twisting and bending about himself, making sure he got all of the flour off. Once satisfied, he entered the flat again, even more dishevelled than before.

  "Sometimes, I'm genuinely impressed with your observations and your ability to deduce facts," he said. "And other times, the observation is so simple that I don't feel like awarding you praise."

  "Your astonishment at my simple observations," she said. "Are all the praise I need."

  They exchanged sly smirks between one another. Their teasing had become commonplace quite quickly as their first few weeks as flatmates went on. Irene was pleased that they'd each slid into their own routines so swiftly and efficiently.

  Miss Hudson cooked and tidied. Joe read his novels and had taken to passing by an animal shelter being built a few blocks away. Irene, herself, spent the dreary days moving from the couch to Joe's chair, and back to the couch, staring at their new investigation board taking up space by the door.

  Joe walked by the board and rapped his knuckles on the few pieces of paper stuck in the corner.

  "Still nothing?" He sunk into his chair, crossing his ankles.

  "Still nothing." Irene scooted her desk chair to the board and looked up at the papers. The tall American lady with the fake accent who'd been a part of those murders a few weeks ago remained a mystery that wouldn’t quit puzzling Irene. Neither would the numbers on the back of the American's pin. She'd made no headway on either mystery, so the papers, one with the lady's description and the other with the code, were pinned to the board for her to ponder over day after day.

  Irene pushed herself back to her desk and stood, gazing out the window. The rain started two weeks ago and the dreary weather hadn't let up since. The dull weather didn't bother her much, but everyone else seemed to hate the grey clouds.

  She traced the path of a rain drop down the cool glass, sighing.

  Miss Hudson entered the flat with a tray of tea and Irene turned to her. She took the tea tray from the landlady and set it on the coffee table, eager to pour herself a cup.

  "Thank you, hen," Miss Hudson said. "You get up to anything exciting while we were out?"

  Irene frowned, recalling her attempt at humming the Wagner piece in its entirety. "Not a damn thing, Miss Hudson. I do hear, though, that you believe they're going to ration flour and bread?"

  "Please don't curse, dear." She wagged her finger at Irene. "And yes, I do. There have been whispers through all my lady friends that the rain ruined the wheat and they're taking a
way our flour. Mrs. Keller told me straight to my face and she would know all about what they're doing with the food."

  "Why would she know?" Joe asked.

  Irene hid her smile behind her teacup, watching poor Joe walk right into a disaster.

  "Well, have you seen her?" Miss Hudson said.

  "No," Joe said. "What does she look like?"

  Irene choked on her sip of tea, drawing the attention to her.

  "Thank you, Miss Hudson," she said between coughs. "That's quite enough gossip for today."

  "Don't get too smug, Missy." Miss Hudson wagged her finger again. "Next week we're all getting as much as our rations allow. I will not have my jelly rolls going thin because of some foul weather."

  Irene took another sip of tea as a car door slammed closed in the street below. Irene spun, tea still in hand, and pressed her nose to the window.

  "If you have any jelly rolls," she said to Miss Hudson. "You'd better fetch them. DI Eddy is here."

  Irene squinted through the water droplets, wiping the fog her breath created. Eddy stepped onto the pavement and waited. A small man stepped out behind him, pulling his collar up.

  "Oh, dear," Irene said. "He's brought someone with him."

  Joe sat straight and pushed his hair to one side, trying to make himself presentable. Miss Hudson threw her hands in the air in a panic.

  "Irene Holmes," she snapped. "This is why you must always get dressed in the morning, regardless of your plans. Now shoo. Put some clothes on."

  Irene shot the rest of the tea down, scalding her tongue, and hurried to her room.

  She kicked the door shut, pulling off her robe and tossing it on her bed. Who had Eddy brought with him? A client? A new friend?

  In a way, Irene hoped it was a client. The murder a few weeks ago had been entertaining, but she hadn't had a case since and the weather put her in a restless mood. She tugged on her brown top, then hopped across her room, pulling on dark pants. She grabbed a few hair clips and looked in her mirror. She scooped her dark loose curls back, securing the frizzy mess with the clips.

  She heard Joe greet Eddy and his companion as she applied some lipstick, her now favourite Victory Red. She looked one more time in the mirror and frowned. Pale bags under her eyes, and hair still a halo of frizz, no matter how many times she ran a comb through the strands.

  She turned away from the mirror and headed out of her bedroom. If Eddy indeed brought a client and he cared more about how Irene looked rather than her abilities, then he could shove off and find someone else to handle his case.

  Joe sat in his chair, his leather notebook opened on his lap, pen at the ready. Eddy studied the board, brows furrowed, while his companion sat on the couch across from Joe, his back to Irene.

  Eddy noticed her and a big smile fell across his long, pointed face.

  "This is Irene Holmes," he said. The man stood and turned to her as she walked around the sofa.

  "Good day," she said, holding out her hand. He shook it, then sat back on the couch.

  The armchair closest to the fire was still piled high with blankets and cushions to deter anyone from sitting there, so Irene perched on the armrest of Joe's chair, ready to hear what excitement Eddy had brought them.

  "This is Mr. Robert Grouper," Eddy said. "He has a matter in which he needs help, but unfortunately it's not a crime the police can oblige with right now. It's not even a crime at all. So, I steered him toward you. I've informed him of your fee and let him know that I trust you more than some of my own men."

  "Thank you, Inspector Lestrade," Irene said.

  "I must be off," he said. "Back to a busy day. You're in good hands, Mr. Grouper. Good luck."

  He met Miss Hudson at the door and snatched a biscuit off the plate she carried, then hurried down the stairs.

  Irene smiled at Mr. Grouper, sweeping her eyes over him, noting how at odds his clothes were with each other. His hat was new and looked expensive, same with his trousers. Yet his shoes were covered in country mud, and his jacket was old and well-worn. He'd come into money recently and was slowly updating his wardrobe, perhaps? His clean-shaven face was plain-looking, except for a scarred bit of skin along his sideburn that moved to a gnarled ear.

  Joe leaned forward, ready to write in his notebook. "Why don't you start from the beginning, sir."

  Grouper nodded and fidgeted on the couch. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his sweat-covered forehead, then shoved the damp cloth back into his pocket.

  "Mr. Grouper," Irene said, attempting to keep the impatience from her voice. "We cannot help you if you don't speak."

  "Apologies," he said. "I am just so worried about my wife."

  "Then tell us what the problem is," Irene said. "So that we may help you."

  "Yes, of course." Grouper nodded and took a long breath. "About three years ago, I met the most beautiful woman, Henriette. She captured my heart with every word she spoke and occupied my mind until there was no room for even my own thoughts. You must know what it's like, falling head over heels for someone."

  He looked between them, his assumption hanging in the air. Joe looked up at Irene and she felt the curiosity radiate off of him.

  "I do not," she said. "Please continue."

  "Oh, right." Grouper turned his hat in his hands, around and around. "Henriette and I talked for almost a year, wrote letters, met maybe once per month. I had returned from the war early, see, and-"

  "Why did you leave early?" Joe asked. He'd scribbled some notes, and his pen hovered over the paper, awaiting Grouper's answer. When Grouper hesitated, as was becoming his habit, Irene answered for him, hoping to speed up his story.

  "You were next to a mortar," she said. "The thing blew and destroyed your eardrum and left you with a mangled ear and hairline. A ticket home if ever there was one."

  "Precisely," Grouper said, gently touching his disfigured ear. "So, you can imagine that I was quite unoccupied and naturally wandered to where the women were, which was near Bletchley Park. That's where I met Henriette. She worked for Bletchley, you see."

  "What was her job there?" Joe asked.

  Grouper shrugged. "I'm not sure. She said she'd been ordered not to talk about the operations there. I always assumed she was a secretary, but she's a smart woman, so perhaps she did more in there than I'll ever know."

  Irene started piecing together Mrs. Grouper's life immediately. Bletchley Park was a collection of small buildings shrouded in secrecy. Rumours spread about what went on in those buildings, but even now, a year after the end of the war, no one discussed the work that came out of Bletchley. It didn't take a genius to put two and two together, though. At least, Irene put it together easily enough. Observing women with ink stains and pencil markings on their hands, a look of dogged determination on their faces, scuffs on their shoes, all pointed at a more serious job than a secretary typing at her desk all day.

  Mr. Grouper prattled on. "I saw Henriette and followed her for three days before I worked up the courage to speak to her. We'd communicate by letters, and see each other as much as we could. She was quite busy doing God knows what in those buildings, and I had to heal and find employment. Eventually, her work slowed, and we couldn't wait until she was done her assignment, so we were married at a small ceremony."

  "She had no other suitors?" Joe asked.

  "Of course she did," Grouper said. "But they soon backed off because she told them to. There were two chaps who were quite persistent and one, in particular, was a stern-looking fellow. She was good friends with him, seemed like she knew him for a long time. He fancied her quite a bit, but she never reciprocated and soon he fell away too. I learned that Henriette was actually from Petworth, the smallest village to the south, and came to London to help with the war efforts. She hated talking about her home town and spoke of it even less than her work at Bletchley, said the town was full of horrors she wanted to forget."

  Irene curled her fingers into a fist and rested her arm on Joe's shoulder. He read
her impatience and patted her hand. Grouper seemed not to notice and continued with his story.

  "Just before the war ended," he said. "She fell pregnant, and we were delighted. Now, Miss Holmes, my family has plenty of money, but all of it, including the large family estate up north near Finedon, was to go to my older brother. Well, he was killed very early in the war, so all of the fortune came to me. With a wife and baby on the way, the estate was ours. Henriette was pleased, as the manor was even farther away from Petworth than London was. We decided to wait until after the cold of winter to move, and in February she had our little baby girl."

  "Congratulations," Joe said.

  "Oh, thank you," Grouper said. "She is as beautiful as her mother. Soon after Molly was born, we started readying for our move. Here is where the strangeness starts, Miss Holmes."

  "Finally," she mumbled. Joe shushed her, giving her a small nudge with his elbow, but he pursed his lips together, clearly hiding a smile at the whole situation.

  "A few weeks before our final move," Grouper said. "Henriette became frazzled and unnerved at every turn. Dropping silverware, startling at small noises, staying indoors, worrying like I'd never seen her. She'd always been such a confident and strong woman, but it was like she became someone completely different. She said she needed a night away before we moved. She'd visited her parents before Molly was born, and she said she wanted to check on them again. I was worried, of course, but I let her go. She deserved a night to herself and the nanny we'd hired was simply brilliant with Molly. So, Henriette left, and the next day when she returned she was back to her old self but with even more happiness behind her"

  Irene straightened on the chair arm. "What day was this?"

  "March," Grouper said. "March fourteenth, I believe, a Thursday. She returned on Friday. But there's more, Miss Holmes. We moved into our new house and lived our best lives up until a week ago. Henriette went into town like she usually does, to the grocers because she likes to handpick the vegetables herself instead of sending the housekeeper. When she returned later in the afternoon, she seemed a bit nervous. Perhaps someone got fresh with her or something, but when I asked, she said she couldn't put her finger on it—just an uneasy feeling. The next morning, the nanny took the baby outside for some air, and when she returned, she handed a note that she found on the front step to Henriette. I've never seen anyone so scared as my wife was, Miss Holmes. She went white as a sheet, clutching the note in her hand. All she said was 'it's the work of a ghost.'. Since then, I've had the nanny stay with her at all hours. I promised her I would burn the paper she had in her hands, but I didn't. I feel incredibly terrible for lying to her but-"