The Expired Stepbrother
Grimacing, Sherlock Holmes sat pondering the tale before him. His body slumped into the thick green chair and his pipe hung from the side of his lip at an angle. Miss Knightsfield sat before him, unbuttoning her jacket at the collar, and glancing quickly towards her twiddling fingers in front of her.
“Yes, your account of the story is quite intriguing, yet I fail to understand the entire meaning of your brother’s murder.”
“My stepbrother, Mr. Holmes.”
“Pardon me. Miss Knightsfield do you recall the precise time in which you heard the sound of your brother crashing to the floor?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I woke from a light slumber to the wind rattling upon my window when I startled with the sound of a drum-like thump. From where the noise came, I did not know, until I brought myself to rise and enter the corridor connecting my room to my stepbrother’s. Forcefully turning the knob, I tried to open the door, but my attempt was stopped by something large; the body of my stepbrother. The door turned his stiff body over and his pale face revealed a blank expression and a vacant stare.
“And you said earlier that his mouth was open wide, is this correct?” said I, Dr, Watson, as I recorded the account of Miss Knightsfield’s story. With this, Holmes reshifted his body into a position of deep thought upon the chair before me.
“Yes, Dr. Watson that is correct,” replied Miss Knightsfield as if she was annoyed with my question.
“Miss Knightsfield, who else in your family was with you during the night of the murder,” questioned Holmes.
“I recall that my stepfather and mother were present in their rooms that evening. My younger sister was there as well, her room just on the other side of mine not adjacent to Paul’s room. She, however, did not wake to the thump of my stepbrother’s fall. Of course our maid, Annie was there too, but I believe she retires to her room quite early and should have also been asleep at the time.”
“May I ask why you refer to your stepbrother as just your stepbrother?” I asked not knowing how she would react to the personal question placed in front of her.
“He has just recently come into the family when my mother remarried. He is also old enough to work so he is rarely around the house. My sister and I have never really connected with him, for he was a very secretive man, far too much for my liking, but that was how it was.”
“Do you happen to know your stepbrothers profession?” asked Holmes.
“Again, he was a very secretive man, and I failed to ask him,” answered Miss Knightsfield.
“Well it has been a pleasure to hear your story, and I will soon speak to you, but for now I must think and uncover as much information as I can. I wish to return to your house and see for myself your stepbrother’s room. Mr. Watson, please show our kind guest to the door, please,” said Holmes.
For days, Holmes’ state of health became concerning. He failed to pick up his needle with which he so freely injected himself before he was presented with this case. After almost three days of thinking, Holmes was ready. He pulled the small and wrinkled slip of paper handed to him three days earlier, which read 63a, Carnaby Street, Miss Knightsfield.
After a horse ride and a flight of stairs to the top of the building in London, Holmes and I found ourselves at the door of 63a where in the center of the door hung a label with printed letters spelling KNIGHTSFIELD. I knocked softly 5 times in a repetitive melody until footsteps were heard opposite the door.
“Who is it?” questioned a weary voice sounding much like that of Miss Knightsfield’s scratchy speech we heard before.
“Dr. Sherlock Holmes and my assistant, Dr. Watson. We wish to speak to Elizabeth Knightsfield and we’ve come to…” The door swung inwards wildly and the tall pretty lady that Holmes and I saw three days before, stood there eyes gleaming, “I knew you would come!” she exclaimed gesturing inside and moving out of the way so we could enter her home. The walls were lined with portraits. Some of kings, others were family, and most of all, they were all just there.
“Please, Miss Knightsfield can you show us your stepbrother’s room, for we don’t have much time?” said Holmes.
“Ah, yes. Follow me please. His room is right next to mine and there is a service room on the other side,” replied Miss Knightsfield eagerly. She lead us down a long corridor also filled with portraits of history’s greatest, and we stopped at the second to last room where she hesitated slightly and then opened the door to her stepbrother’s room. “I’ve kept everything the same as when the murder was committed said Miss Knightsfield almost proudly, and we’ve taken the body to the local cemetery down the road where he will be informally buried by the end of the week. I’m terribly sorry that you won’t be able to see the body for yourself, but we couldn’t keep it here any longer,” said Miss Knightsfield.
“Very well, for now I must be left alone to search the room and may I please have admittance into your room as well Miss Knightsfield?”
“Oh. Well why in the world would you need to search my room? Of course you don’t think that I murdered my brother?” she replied quite hastily.
“No, Madame, pardon me I just wanted to see if there were any signs of contact between the two rooms,” said Holmes.
“Oh, you shouldn’t worry there is nothing of the sort.”
“Well, I wish to check,” insisted Dr, Holmes.
“Very well, you have one hour, for I need to get dressed for the rosary ceremony,” said Miss Knightsfield.
With that, Holmes and I drifted from room to room searching each and every item, until I could not understand a thing. I sat down with Miss Knightsfield for a cup of tea as Holmes continued his investigation. One hour later, just as the young lady retired to her chamber to get dressed, Holmes accompanied me at the table.
“Dr. Watson, I believe I know who the killer is, but for now we must leave,” said Holmes eagerly, and he and I returned to our flat.
“I don’t understand. Who killed Miss Knightsfield’s stepbrother?”
“Watson, I will answer that soon, now I must ask you a few questions to perfect my answer. Do you remember when we were searching Miss Knightsfield’s room, there was a vent connecting the two chambers?
“Yes,” I replied, “But that was only to transfer air.”
“Ah, yes but Watson this was not air, it was helium. I found a strong piece of wood underneath the shelf, in which I presume Miss Knightsfield had used to close the vent.
“But why would she want to close the vent?”
“In the stepbrother’s room, I found a paper with his work record. He apparently works for a dirigible research group here in London. The paper was an account of three missing helium tubes from the worksite. The helium was identified as three large cases of metal tied together with a rope labeled the following: Dirigible helium research set #4. In our fine lady’s room, I found this, and he reached deep into his coat pocket and pulled out a rope labeled with the same exact print as the helium tube rope had. There could only be one possible answer, and that is that Miss Knightsfield has killed her stepbrother.”
“But it can’t be!”
“Yes, she emptied the three tubes of helium into her stepbrother’s room through the vent at night. The room had no other means of airflow. The helium rose to the top of the room, for it is less dense than air and that night when the lady’s stepbrother was elevated by a ladder to reach the top of his bookshelf, he was asphyxiated and fell to his death, hitting his head on the bottom of the shelf.
“But why? What about all she had previously told us?”
“Miss Knightsfield, since the first time I laid eyes on her, seemed very cautious and nervous. She has been lying to us the whole time, but I must say, that she has failed in her attempt to cover up the murder by acting as the victim. When I asked to search her room did you hear the fear in her voice and her attempt to get me out? That was one of a murderer not wanting to be found.
Dr. Watson, we are finished with this business,” said Holmes and we retired to our flat nearby, Holmes quickly injecting himself with poison of his own sort.