Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Greenbriar Ghost

Chapter 1

In late November of 1896 I had the pleasure of accompanying my good friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes on a cruise to America. Rather discretely he had been approached by a representative of the American government to help with a matter concerning a suspected forgery of the Declaration of Independence. Although this was a very grave matter, and one that could easily have shaken the foundations of the young and mighty nation, it took Holmes less than a single afternoon to put the matter right and to hand over the notorious Canadian forger DesBarnes to the authorities.

It was all hushed up and I allude to it now only to establish that Holmes and I were indeed in America at the end of that year, and we decided to take the opportunity to enjoy a rail trip from Washington D.C. throughout the southern States, which were enjoying fine weather despite the time of year.

Our plan was to return to Norfolk in Virginia in late February and from there take ship back to England. The weather and relaxation had done Holmes a world of good and he was more animated and less laconic than he had been in recent months. It did nothing but raise his spirits to discover that crime was rife in the American south — and indeed throughout much of this vast country. As states were being settled and industry introduced to all quarters there was as much room for corruption, treachery, theft and murder as there was for the more placid and commonplace pursuits of growth and settlement.

On the sixteenth day of February we found ourselves in the shipping office at Norfolk making arrangements for several large trunks of chemicals, specimens and books to be shipped back to our lodgings at 221-B Baker Street when a young man in the livery of a telegraph employee came running toward across the wharf calling Holmes’ name. The young fellow skidded to a stop, knuckled his cap and thrust out a message.

Holmes took it with a bemused expression. It was neither the first nor the tenth such urgent communiqué he had received during our journey. As he tipped the boy and unfolded the message I murmured, “Holmes, our ship sails with the dawn tide. We don’t have time for any—.”

He cut me off with this singular question, “Do you believe in ghosts, Watson?”

I hesitated, for Holmes had tricked me more than once with such a question only to trounce any credulity I had with some fact or scientific proof. “Many do,” I said vaguely.

“You are getting careful in your dotage, Watson.” There was mischief in his eyes as he handed me the note. “Read this and then decide if you want to catch our boat or wait for another tide.”

I stepped into a patch of sunlight to read the letter, which was short and enigmatic.

I looked up and saw that Holmes was staring, not at me but at the shadows clustered under the eaves of the shipping office, his lips pursed, eyes narrowed to slits.

“Her daughter’s ghost has revealed the identity of her killer?” I said with half a laugh. “Surely this is the rant of a distressed and overly credulous woman, Holmes. We’ve heard this sort of rubbish before.”

“And yet, Watson,” he said as he took back the letter, “and yet….”

Holmes left it hang there and turned on his heel and marched across the shipping yard to the rail transport office. With a resigned sigh and weary shake of my head I followed.