Sherlock Herms Master Detective – Part 3

Previously on Sherlock Herms Master Detective – Part 1Part 2.

I awoke to the sound of British accents, and found myself inside Mosey who had rolled into an alley for the night. Feeling a soft vibration beneath me, I realized he was still asleep, so I placed my chin on the tops of my paws to think.

I’d left Dori, Opie, Jack, and the rest of my W.A.D. team back in my attic office in order to find Sherlock Holmes and ask him to teach me to be a Master Detective like him. But I couldn’t find him, even when I typed 221B Baker Street, London, UK into Mosey’s control panel.

First I came to a restaurant named The Sherlock Holmes, and then Mosey took me to a museum wearing his name on Baker Street. The thing is, I couldn’t find 221B. Not even 221A! It’s like it disappeared.

I felt like a failure. But if I wanted to be a Master Detective I couldn’t give in to failure. I had to deduce like Holmes. What would he do if the address he wanted either seemed to have vanished… or didn’t exist in the first place?

I shook Mosey awake. “Let’s go investigate that museum.”

A crowd had gathered at the entrance with a guard at the door. He seemed like he knew stuff, so I asked him, “Where is the 221B address? I checked all the shops and it doesn’t exist.”

The guard laughed. “It’s a mystery even Holmes himself would struggle to solve.”

Clearly he didn’t know the answer either. I noticed those in line to enter the building had tickets. As I’d left my wallet in my other cat suit, I told Mosey “Sit! Stay!” and slipped between legs to enter the museum. There I wandered from room to room. If you have time, this is what I saw:

Clearly Sherlock Holmes didn’t live there. The place looked like everything I’d imagined 221B Baker Street to be, except there wasn’t the smells of a Master Detective in residence. No food aromas. No foul odors of cheap black shag tobacco clinging to his collection of pipes.

Maybe this place was a diversion so fans didn’t bother Holmes while he was solving cases. I could appreciate that. I would have probably been a better detective over the past year if I didn’t have Dori and my W.A.D. team bugging me while I tried to deduce clues.

Suddenly aware of the looks I was getting from the hoomons wandering the museum with me— probably thought I was the real Sherlock Holmes cuz I was wearing my deerstalker hat— I went to ask the guard where Sherlock Holmes really lived. I reassured him he could reveal the location to me because I was a detective like Holmes. After a good laugh, which I didn’t understand, the guard said, “The power of the imagination resides on the page, and in the address book of the imagination.”

Honestly, I’m so fweakin’ tired of cryptic messages. Why can’t hoomons say what they mean without dressing it up in mystery? Even us hard boiled detectives need a break every now and then.

I asked Where is 221B Baker? The guard said, It’s a mystery even Holmes would struggle to solve. Click To Tweet

Just when I was about to say that, a stranger interrupted us to ask where Sir Arthur Conan Doyle lived. Doyle! Realizing that was the name the lady at the pub had mentioned, I listened as the guard told the stranger that Doyle lived in several homes. One of them was at 12 Tennison Road in Croydon.

“Oh look!” a lady in the crowd squealed. “A kitty dressed like Sherlock Holmes! Isn’t he cuuute? Here kitty kitty kitty!”

My cover blown, I scampered back to Mosey where I typed the Tennison address into the control panel. After a moment the computer’s face appeared. It looked like a child from a Stephen King movie, peering at me through the sizzling screen. “Where exactly is your destination?”

“Sherlock Holmes’ house on Tennison Road.”

“There is no record in my data base for a Holmes on Tennison Road.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s there. I think he lives with a guy named Doyle.”

The computer screen flashed. Then after a minute it said, “I understand.”

I watched as the numbers on the screen scrolled backward. “Wait! Where are you taking me? I want to go to Tennison Road. Not—” I gulped hard as the whirling numbers stopped at the year 1894.

“I don’t understand,” I growled. “I wanted to go to Sherlock Holmes’ house. Not back in time.”

Too late! The date on the control panel stayed at 1894. Sighing to release tension, I unzipped the hood. Meanwhile Mosey rolled along the bricked street, lined with tall trees and big houses. Seemed like an affluent neighborhood, but I couldn’t picture my hero solving cases here.

Mosey rolled to a stop before a tall, double gate with the address reading Number 12. The dark bricked house had three stories with a balcony on the second floor overlooking the courtyard. I sniffed the air, but detected only fresh autumn breezes and doggy doo. Hmm.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Mosey, then slipped through the gate. The courtyard was small with sparse grass dotted with said doggy doo, and a paved walkway to the steps leading up to the red front door. I knocked, which set off an alarm. As the fur on my back bristled, I realized it wasn’t a mechanical alarm, but rather a dog barking.

“Who goes there?” a voice growled on the other side of the door.

“Excuse me,” I said in my most polite voice. “I’m looking for Number 12 Tennison Road.”

“State your business, or be gone!”

I swallowed hard. Where was the polite British hospitality when you needed it? “I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes. I was told he lives here with a guy named Doyle.”

The red door abruptly flung open to reveal a shaggy grey dog with a long pink tongue. “My master isn’t here. He’s sailed for New York.”

For a moment my throat wouldn’t work. I’d come so far and just missed him. Plus I was shocked. I’d never thought of Sherlock Holmes as being a dog person. Kinda always thought of him having a cat… that looked like me.

The dog’s gaze softened upon seeing my distress. “What business did you have with Doyle?”

“Doyle? No. I don’t want to see Doyle. I don’t even know who he is. I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes. I’ve come so far to see him. I can’t believe I just missed him.”

The dog shook his head. “Sorry. You’ve more than just missed Sherlock Holmes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sherlock Holmes is dead. Doyle killed him!”


If you like what you’re reading, here are more stories by Kimberley Koz and Herman, her mews:

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