Devon Holmes: The Code In The Mirror by BONITA HIGHLEY - HTML preview

Devon Holmes

By Bonita Highley

Copyright©BonitaHighley2023

The Code in the mirror

The trial of the century would have been better entitled, as been called just a mere mystery. The newspaper cited ‘a code of evidence that could not be solved.’ All the detectives called in to decipher the unusual inscription written on the Chief Inspector Detective McMahn’s closet mirror apparently were not qualified in breaking that kind of decoding. One by one, setting their sight onto the mixed-man like semaphore images on these symbolic like decodings like something from cave-man designs, then leaving the chief inspector’s office as puzzled as he was. Another set of detectives from other police departments came as the other detectives even close to deciphering, came to inspect the most trivial decodings, then with a respectful of gesture left the room, leaving the chief inspector to question, to his wits end, with frustration of ‘ How did these men get this far in

the first place’? E ven in the helping advice of three in training rookies of the likes of the Bakerstreet Kids was baffling to the point of them leaving back to their studies in twelve steps of criminology.

The chief inspector of detection knew of only one last person that could give even a bit of important information, but only as his last resort. With his cringing bit lip, and a hard swallow, he knew his only last choice, against his better judgement, to go into the lion’s den.

There, he stood next to two guards, set his sight on three imprisoned jail mates playing a board game. One of them with short dark hair and shady eyes wearing a black suit . The Inspector, swallowing his pride for the better of oath and all people. With dread, the Chief Detective stood

in tall dignity . “Moriarty. I will give to you a plea deal. A grant of reduced sentence in exchange for important information.”

Moriarty, taking a good look at him as if prepared game of Chess, scathingly taking the dice, rolled the dice onto the center of the board game, placing his fingers on his game piece, counting five spaces, then stopped. Picking up a small card from the deck of cards, then showing the Inspector his card depicting a figurine of a rich man tycoon imaged with the words: ‘Get Out Of Jail free’ card, as the Inspector read the quote for himself, with dread.

Moriarty fiendishly smirks back at him.

The door bell rang at 2251, BakersfIeld Street.

Detective John Watson, with broken focus, looked onward. ”What an extraordinary set of events. And with no release of name of that man.” The door, ringing twice as John placing the newspaper down, stood to open the front door to be greeted with the mailman and telegram in hand…”Yes,Frank, and has your day sir?”

Frank the mailman, “Am good. This is for you.”

Handing him the telegram.

Little John Sherlock Hamish Holmes Watson, with his hand clutched into his little brother’s hand, Hamish Mycroft Holmes Watson, excitedly rushed to the door, stood next to their father to see for themselves.

John, taking the telegram from him. “Thanks, I’ll give it to her.”

Frank the mailman, ”Have a good day.”

John, “You too.” Closed the door. “Devon! A very important letter has arrived!”

Devon, entering into the room, taking the letter from him, observed it.

Clara, taking the hands of the boys. “This sounds important Devon. You and John need to investigate this. The kids will be ok with us.”

Devon, “Has Uncle Harold gone to the police station to visit his old colleagues?”

Clara, taking little Hamish into her arms. “Yes, Let’s go boys.” leading them out of the room.

Devon, “Its a letter from Chief Inspector McMahn attached with a photo of a mirror of rather strange set of unusual letters. Symbols perhaps. It reads:

‘Dear Devon Holmes, you have been summoned by me, Chief Inspector McMahn to use your deducement in deciphering these hard to crack codings. Your gracious service would be much appreciated.’

Signed,

Chief Inspector Detective, McMahn.

Devon, with heavy focus of attention on the note with photo. The penmanship is dreadful.

The words, and the way it’s worded, a bit of short pen strokes on paper all going from one direction to the other like a wayward person.

This person was obvious in a hurry. Otherwise, the pen strokes would be slanted to the right.

Shorthand perhaps. With puzzlement upon her face. “ Looks familiar. But I can not ascertain it.

Did I miss that day of school?”

John, “That reminds me. The boys obviously will be taught at home, I suspect.”

Devon, “Right you are there, as I was.”

John, “As our son’s will be properly taught the finery of Sleuthing as electives.”

Devon, “Well of course. Planned as scheduled.

Right after they learn about the fine technique of the precision of angle in math for picking locks.”

John, giving her a funny look. “Right. And don’t forget the education in fine English literature studies, of full immersion I presume.”

Devon, looking at him. ”Right. The

Comprehension of deduction of solving clues from unsolved police reports, Gotchta.”

John, giving her a strange look.

Clara, suddenly appearing before them in grief.

“Devon my brother I have just been told, my brother has gone missing! The authorities can’t find him!”

Devon, with alerted eyes. “ Mom, you said Uncle Harold went to the police station only for an hour to visit. How could it be that short of time for him to just disappear without anyone seeing him?”

Clara, visibly upset, but kept her calmness .”I don’t know.”

John, “ Clara you must stay calm.”

Clara, looking straight at Devon, sat down.

Devon, taking her hand to comfort her. “Mom, everything will be fine. Me and John will find him.” She sat with her.

Lestrade, standing at the doorway. “I came as I heard the news.” He entered the room. “Greg Lestrade at your service Clara, as usual. I believe I was told of a peculiar note that Devin has in her possession.”

Lestrade, taking his steps to Devon, sat in the chair next to her, as she gives him the note, he takes the note to read.

“A bit rough, but on the writing, but.” He translates it as, “Its Semaphore Ciphertext.”

Devon, john look at each other.

Devon, “Greg Lestrade. Do you know semaphore Ciphertext?”

Lestrade, taking small glances at them, with prideful smirks.

Devon, intrigued by him, turned to him. “You do know!”

Lestrade, “The top of my class.” He smiled with pride. This kind of inscription was used with the end of the nineth1800’s

Devon, “Why you old genius sleuth you.”

Lestrade, “Well there’s only one thing left to do now. Devon. Go put on your deerstalker hat my dar’lin, you are about to be taught the fine art of decoding.”

John looking at them in intrigue.

Devon, grasping Lestrade arm in honor.

Lestrade, standing the chalk board for hours instructing Devon on each letter of decoding.

“Each image represents a letter. For example, this image here represents ‘A’.:

Devon, with chalk in fingers, extremely focused on his instructions, as John carefully inspected certain aspects of the strange letters.

Lestrade, kept his wits seeing the first part of the decoded answer of:

Devon, John with Lestrade in cold stare to the answer.

Lestrade, with sternness for the rest of the other half of answer. “Right. So we keep going. Devon, the next line please.”

Devon, taking the note, chalk in fingers, she adds the next line of semaphore of:

Later that day…

Devon, standing next to the bookshelf, looked under the book, ‘The Dancing Men.’ Pulling the book from the shelf, a disc fell from the book, onto the floor. Picking up the disc from the floor, she began to flip the pages in search of the dynamics of Ciphertext Semaphore, to which Sherlock once used to crack a case.

Then, taking the book with her to her computer. Turned it on, placing a disc into the machine. She sat onto her chair seeing her reflection on the computer screen, as the old film footage of 1901 began to play. Seeing the images of people walking around in Victorian times, her eyes caught onto something familiar.

A lovely woman in victorian stylish dress with hat-pin attached to her chestnut hair. Then, a man with the same image dressed dapper as it appear to be the likes of her Great-Great Grandfather, stood together in courtesy of a special event in honor of them. Then, a third person enters into the scene, who is recognized as Mycroft Holmes.

Humbled , she sat, her eyes slightly wetted.

Lestrade, bent down to her side, his hand held onto her chair. ”Wonderful isn’t it. I’ve forgotten about this film. My Grandfather had hidden this film for many years. Brings back wonderful memories of your Great-Great Grandmother,

Violet Hunter and Your Great-Great Grandfather, The Great Master Detective, Sherlock Holmes on their wedding day. Now.

You have your answer you seeked for. And Now It is time to move forward, yes?” Lestrade kissed gently upon her head. “Come on Love, we are almost there. Let’s do this.”

Devon taking her hand to wipe her teared cheeks, rose from her chair to join him.

The next day…

Devon, in ever-so endeavor to prepare to leave with John, stopped at the front door, reaching for her coat, placing it on. “I looked up the information from the canons, under, the book

‘The Dancing Men.’ Apparently, Lestrade’s Great Grandfather had undertook the assignment with much knowledge of semaphore. A game of wits.

That’s what this is.”

Watson, placing on his coat. ”So what is the connection with Moriarty?”

Devon, finishing fastening her coat’s buttons.

“My dear Watson. Now if I knew the answers to all, I wouldn’t need you.” She lovingly smiled at him with a tender kiss upon his lips. Then placed her deerstalker hat onto her head for a tease.

“This, I know for sure. The game is afoot!”

John, taking her into his arms as he kissed her back, giving her a much passionate kiss on her lips. “ I’m really looking forward to tonight.”

Devon, giving one last kiss to back. “Mmm, the feeling is mutual.”

John, opening the door for her. “And out we go.”

Inside the office John stood beside Devon as they looked upon the hidden message of:

John, taking in his sigh. “The trail of clues stalled. My only guess. From the looks of it, you’d think it almost appears to be some kind of ransom note, you would think to find this person before the time allotted elapses. Right.

Break time. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He leaves the room.

Devon, in her full spectrum of focusing on the inscription code. While most of the words deciphered, the decoded words on most of the letters in place, but not all.

But in her mind, something did not add up, something not clear. Recalling the statements, the illustrations from the canon book,’The Dancing Men’, Sherlock used to unlock that last few letters of semaphore. Then, reused the same method of her Great Great Grandfather, something familiar from the case came to her mind as she wrote the final suspicious last letters. Devon, taking a step backwards to seize her insightful vision upon the answer of what it read. Her response to the message unfolding before eyes as she stood in her astonishment of unexpected answer, but satisfied, her finger-applied-pressure on the chalk, snapped in half, the chalk dust in swirls as she views the truth in front of her, she smiled with a sly, wry smirk-Code Cracked!

Quickly disengaging from the board of suspects, leaving the room in haste and into the corridor.

John, seeing her flight. “Devon, where you going love?” Entering into the room, he takes a quick look at the board, to his surprise, he spies, on the board, the cracked code of :

In astonishment, suddenly becoming clear, the answer right in front of him. “Oh, Bloody Hell.”

As he quickly dart out of the room going after her down the hallway walking side by side, together.

Devon, “They have captured my Great Uncle. My blood inheritance by kinship runs powerful in the Holmes family in focus of deduction. He has

the stout ingenuity of Mycroft and the stamina of intuitive insight of Sherlock. He alone held the most insightful answers,I seeked for, but which now, I hold all to. The very knowledge Moriarty wants, but now too late for him.

My Great Uncle Harold and Moriarty. They knew of each other well enough to throw a stone across the road, even through the woods, close enough as they cross each other’s paths from time to time, the reason my family left England to America to settle. But it was Moriarty that ensued my uncle…...”

They suddenly stopped to both of them hearing hollering from inside the Harold’s room, as they swiftly went towards the door.

Devon, grabbing the doorknob, but found it locked. “Watson! He locked the door on us! She swiftly went to the door, knocking on it. “Uncle Harold!!!” With no answer, she crouched down to the lock, taking out a wire from her pocket,

embedding it into the lock prying to no avail, she pulled back …”He jammed it!”

Watson, taking out his pistol from his hidden jacket, aiming it directly at the lock, pulled the trigger as the bullet hit hard, releasing the mechanism, then taking his angry foot, slamming it hard onto the door, once, twice, thrice as his foot bashed through the wooden door, as Devon, moved around him to see for herself, Lestrade, following behind them, stunned at first, then questionable puzzlement spread upon all their faces. Nothing at that point in time could prepare her for this kind of impact as she fixed her eyes upon the only man she knew to be as her guardian as a child, on the floor, as he fell from the above window trying to get in.

Devon, in unbelievable eyes, “ Uncle Harold?”

Harold, getting up from the floor. I forgot my key, I rang the doorbell, must have been ten times, no one let me in. Then I forgot the

doorbell needs to be fixed. I had a great time at the party of former detectives, a real blast!”

Devon, John, Lestrade stood staring at him in huge astonishing puzzlement.

Harold, staring back at them. ‘WHAT??? Is there something wrong?”

Lestrade, went to him.”No, my dear friend.

Nothing is wrong. You are here and well. We are all happy to see you. That’s all.”

Devon, John stood unamused, ready to go to the Police Station to file the report of case closed.

In the office of Chief Inspector McMahn.

Watson, Devon, Lestrade stood present next to the Inspector McMahn, presenting him with the reappearance of her Great Uncle Harold scot Holmes, as she gave him her knowledge of answer he seeked.

Devon, stood in final Explanation. “Bamboozled.

That’s what happened. A big run around for nothing. It was just a matter of time to find it was all just a ploy of Moriarty deceiving us into thinking that he would help by telling the inspector of my whereabouts, in order to get the very knowledge I possess now. He will never get.

The bloody stupid, foolish git. Right. My mission is done now. Inspector McMahn. It was a pleasure to serve under you sir.”

Inspector McMahn, with pride. “Well now I would say Moriarty is now in for forgery under faking Harold’s indentification, perjury under decievement. Devon Holmes. In honor to you and in the memory of your Great- Great

Grandfather Sherlock Holmes, I will grant you the last word for this villain.”

Devon stood honored. “Thank you Inspector McMahn. Your name will for be forever inducted in the halls of fame of Detection.”

Detective John Watson with Lestrade, following Devon and Inspector McMahn, enters into the jail cell with them.

Moriarty, unleashed, once again stood at the same table preparing to take his last few hours of his reduced sentence as if valiant in his game.

Devon, taking a silent look at him, taking on his game of bluff, goes to the table, picks up the dice, shakes the two pieces in her fist like hand with vigor, then rolled them onto the center of the board game, as dice landed onto the table showing five dots on each one. A total of ten in all. Taking his opponent’s game piece, tapping each count, as like a game of Chance, stopped exactly onto his space knocking his game piece

out of the game. Moriaty, giving her an unexpected snared look of defiance.

Devon, then taking a card from the deck, taking a look at it, in her own game of ‘Justified,’ turns the card around to show it to Moriarty, as he read the card,:

‘Go To Jail! Do not Pass Go.’, then flops it back onto the table.

Watson, staring at Moriarty like a hawk to a kill, about to pounce on his prey. ”Now I ask you.

Imagine the odds of that happening. He smiled with a sly smirk at him.

Devon, in her avenge. “You thought you were so cleaver in your endeavor to win this game. Don’t for one minute, dare to even try to outwit me or to insult my intelligence again.”

Inspector McMahn “Devon Holmes. What is your prognoses? ”

Devon, placing her hands behind her back in contempt for him. “The number on the dice should be sufficient for this crime.”

Inspector McMahn ,looks at the dice. “Is that in days, weeks, months….”

Devon- “Years.” He inserted.

Moriarty stood in protest, clutched hard his chair of imprisonment.

The police taking ahold of him, putting his hands behind his back, placing handcuffs on both his wrists.

Moriarty, grumbling at her, shifting his stronghold from the police as they began to take him away from the room, to take him back to his jail cell.

Watson, Devon, keeping their eyes on him as they watch him leave the room. Mr. Moriarty.

The Great-Great Grandson of The Napoleon of

Crime, this fiendish foe has been foiled once again!

John, looking at his wife, with sly smile. “Ten years of prison, just for insulting your intelligence. Not bad. You can’t go wrong with that.”

Devon, in sly smirk. “And that was only with my observation to his penalty The rest was for Inspector McMahn’s to see fit. Could you think of anything better, my love?”

John, giving her that ingenious look.

Devon, giving it back to him.

Later that night. The softness of candles burned in their bedroom. John came to their bed only wearing his pajamas, as Devon wore his pajama Top.

John, in admiration to her. “My wife. You always strive to surprise me. Don’t you. There is no words in the human dictionary to describe you.

He lay his head down softly on his pillow. I could try to describe you but it’s too infathomable.”

Devon, laying her head down next to his. Taking her hand to caress his face in love and care.

“Before you keep babbling on about me, I shall tell you this time. I’m with child. And she will indeed be very proud of her daddy.”

John, with an adoring look , slowly smiled, taking her into his loving arms as they playfully hugged in bed.

Letter of Endurement

In the times we live. The time of all times has come. As our family once again gather to see as I see my best friend, my wife, my confidant, my partner in life, as the love of my life lay in our bed presented to me with our darling little daughter. Catherine Clara violet Holmes Watson. Her two older brothers in such delight to see a tiny fingers of beauty, how they learnt the wondrous of life. She, no doubt will have the same power of deductions as her mother. Devon’s face glowing with such joy, as I joined with her. In her own announcement of much early retirement to care for our now three children. As the many months that have come and gone by, the office that continues only by me, memories of past assignments slowly fading into the past as a by-gone era, yet, even while Devon holds our one year old daughter in her loving arms, she looks upon her Great-Great Grandfather, Sherlock Holmes painted portrait in pride, but now also with her Great-Great Grandmother’s painted picture, Violet Hunter,

‘Nee, Holmes, next to his. She had found more than closure, she found all the answers in her heart and her mind, of true happiness.

Signed,

Detective. John Hamish Watson

Bonita Highley lives in Oregon, USA