Sherlock Holmes and the Engineer's Thumb 1 | Page 22

chocolate coloured hair hanging like strands of silk, and her eyes searching and
twinkling like stars with restlessness.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr Holmes,” she said unsurely her voice barely reaching the
volume of a whisper. Her hand briefly touched his, it retreated back under her
sleeve, like some sort of wild animal returning to it’s den. “I’ve come to talk to you
about a case.”
“What case?” Sherlock spoke excitedly, his eyes becoming more alive and alert, his
mood lifting dramatically at the prospect of work. I told you he was not a usual man,
for most would cower at such an opportunity. He had not had a case in several days,
and this was just about breaking him. That was the probably the reason he had
intended to sleep this early; he wasn’t tired, only bored. I knew him well enough to
know the difference. “You’ve no doubt seen it in the news,” she began again. “But an
engineer was murdered just a few days before.” At this, the air pressure in the room
changed, the oxygen suddenly weighing more than it had just a moment ago. I
noticed that the woman’s mouth drooped slightly, being Sherlock's companion had
taught me always to observe. This man, this man she was mourning-“He was my
husband,”she finished, right before I could predict it myself. The grief was not
properly registering in her face, but instead in the constant shaking of her right hand.
“Yes,” Sherlock sighed. He was not interested in this case, the same one being
presented to him just this morning by a local policeman. There were no clues, no
leads , nothing. I knew that he did not wish to spoil his perfect record. Just as he was
about to dismiss her out of the door, she muttered something under her breath.
“Well…….. I found something. Something I think you ought to see.”
“And what may that be?” Sherlock asked in response, absent-mindedly, as if he
already knew the response. The woman paused for a moment, as if considering the
option of her not being believed. She should know better, we’ve seen a great deal at
this establishment. “ A thumb, Mr Holmes. One I can clearly recognise as my
husbands.”
***
On the granite kitchen counter was a thumb, pale, lifeless, lonely, not accompanied
by it’s usual quartet of fingers. The blood surrounding it was dry, suggesting to me
that it could be what she unwittingly accused. There was no nail however, and the
pure redness of exposed skin made me tear my eyes away at a glance. “Where did
you find this?” Sherlock asked, as if he could be no happier, no happier than
standing over a crying woman pondering over a rather disgusting clue. “Inside my
pillowcase,” she stuttered, tears caught like grains of sand in her eyes. Sherlock
raised his eyebrows, perhaps debating whether she could be making it up. But what