Young Writers Society

Persons of Interest
Rhodera Margaret “Margot” Perkins-Swift – detective, wife of Oliver Swift, godfather of Charlie
Oliver Swift – journalist, husband of Oliver Swift, godfather of Charlie
Elizabeth “Lizzie” Mayson – Rhodera’s secretary, wife of Charles Mayson, mother of Charlie
Charles Mayson – works with Rhodera, husband of Lizzie, father of Charlie
Charlie Mayson – Rhodera and Oliver’s godson, son of Lizzie and Charles
Sherlock Holmes – sleuth, husband of Mary
Mary Russell-Holmes – sleuth, wife of Sherlock, at one time professional bee-keeper
Irene Adler - sleuth
Annie Paulson – child bride, client

The Adventure of the Missing Clerk for Jack's Famous Figures Contest

Rhodera Perkins-Swift stepped into the hansom cab on Regent Street and handed over the fare. It amounted to two shillings even. The office in Lincoln’s Inn was not far away but she knew there was no moment to waste. She had known that the minute she had opened the note handed to her by young runner, apologies to the shop owner already formed on her wet tongue.

As she sat in the dark cab, Rhodera twisted the note in her hands as if the ink would sweat and run burning its elements into her skin. But she didn’t need to have the black ink tattooed into her skin to remember what it said. When she closed her eyes, she could see in her husband’s frenzied, practically illegible script: Bring a bottle for old father Tom. She did not even have to think about what the cipher meant; come to Lincoln’s Inn, someone is in trouble.

Her heart fluttered a bit, and she clenched her fists tighter to clamp down on the fear.

The sky was a never ending expanse of grey—like the shell of a dingy oyster. When Rhodera stepped into the offices in Lincoln’s Inn, she had to shade her eyes from the bright strike of lamplight. Her boots made staccato rap that mirrored her steady, deliberate breaths as she made her way down the hall towards the back rooms. The offices were silent, vacant and dark, and as they should be on a Sunday evening.

When Rhodera reached the back door, she twisted the knob and pulled.

“Oh thank God, Margot, you are here.”

Rhodera blinked at the scene in front of her, and tried to smile at the woman who addressed her by her nickname. The woman was thin and pale, as she had been most of her life; her blond hair brought up and back from her heart shaped face.

Rhodera nodded at her. “Lizzie.”

She then turned to survey the rest of the room and its other occupants: two women, and a man; all middle age. The dim light in the room flickered. Rhodera turned to look at the man, who was in notable distress apparent on his clean-shaven face, and his hand in hand, fingers fidgeting like the hands of a broken clock uneasy with inaction. His dark eyes met Rhodera’s. She sucked in a breath.
“What happened Charles?” Rhodera asked; mostly wondering where her husband was.

“He went back.” The brunette farthest from Rhodera spoke harshly.

Rhodera scrunched her nose; and looked from Lizzie Mayson to her husband, Charles. “He went back where?”

“This is Irene Adler, Margot.”

“I know. Hello, Irene.”

Rhodera did not flinch when Irene Adler’s sharp gaze locked with hers; and the corner of her mouth started to twitch.

A voice sliced through the tension, calm yet demanding. “Sherlock and Charlie went missing; Oliver,” she licked her lips; “Oliver thought he knew where to find them.” Rhodera twisted her gaze to stare at the woman who had to this point been silent. “Irene, here, came to find me when Sherlock failed to turn up.”

“What about Watson?” Rhodera asked.

“He’s out of town.” Irene answered curtly.

Rhodera watched as a Charles reached out and clutched Lizzie’s gloved hand. She wondered how calm they really were. Right now, all she felt was slight annoyance, but she knew her husband could handle himself, but if it was one of her children that had disappeared, she knew that she certainly would be in more apparent anxiety.

Rhodera sighed. “Right. Mary, where do we start?”


Rhodera clicked her tongue. Why couldn’t the boys stay out of trouble? Why did they fly off willy-nilly without telling anyone where they were running off to? She secretly hoped that Holmes, her godson Charlie, and her husband were holed up in some pub sharing stories and badgering customers and the help. But, Rhodera knew—knowledge born of a lifetime’s worth of intuitions—that it wouldn’t be the case.

Rhodera was going over with Mary Russell Holmes her husband’s case notes when Irene Adler swept into the room; her stern face all sharp angels and dark shadows.

“My sources say that Charlie Mayson and Mr. Holmes were last seen crossing over from the Strand with a woman. No one knows her name, only that she was new and a widow. Someone faintly matching Mr. Swift’s description was seen a few minutes later.”


Rhodera huffed. “Damn.”

“What?” Irene barked.

Mary chuckled. “Our boys can never resist a pretty girl in distress.”

Irene shook her head and fluttered her hand at both Rhodera and Mary. “Oh. That thing.”

“Yes.” Rhodera [said], sharing a sad knowing smile with Mary, “that thing.”

“Is it possible that one of your sources gave you an address for this woman?”

“Why?”

“Take a look at this?”

Rhodera tossed a sheet of paper at Irene.

“Lord, help me,” came through Irena’s pretty red lips.


Annie Paulson had been a child bride, and it did not bother her much because all she ever wanted, all she ever needed, and all she ever through she could be was a good wife—and she liked that.

So when her husband failed to return from his job as a clerk in London proper, she became suspicious. And for three nights she had the house clean, dinner on the table, and the linens pressed, yet no husband rested in his favorite chair near the fireplace. Perplexed, she had asked, but no one would answer questions from a child bride; especially one with regular hair and regular eyes and regular face. After her questions met with staunch silences and cold shoulders, Annie screwed her courage to the sticking place, and asked a quite unregular man to get some answers.


Her hands hurt and her head hurt; and each time Annie twisted her bound wrists, they stung. She sniffled. All she wanted to know was what happened to her husband.

She turned to the man tied up next to her. “I am so sorry, Mr. Holmes. Sorry, I got you into this.”
“No worries, Mrs. Paulson. I have had worse.” The man replied, his voice deceptively cheery.

The young man, Charlie, struggled a bit with his confines. He grunted, and then spoke. “Mother is going to kill me.”

“I doubt that Charlie.” Holmes responded.

“I agree. If I know your mother, Charlie, and I dare say I do, she has, as the Americans say, circled the wagons, and when we are free of this, she will be overjoyed to see you again.”

Charlie huffed. “Saved by my mother’s sewing circle.”

Oliver chuckled. “I would watch what you say, son. I happen to know that your mother’s sewing circle has really sharp teeth.”

Charlie sighed; he could just make out the wide smile on his godfather’s face.

“Quite right, Oliver.” Holmes had a smile on his face too. “Have you seen your godmother’s needlepoint?”

Charlie cracked a lazy grin while Holmes and Swift laughed. Annie smiled. She was glad these men were here. She felt oddly comforted by their banter. They would find her husband. She knew it.


With each step and strain, Rhodera felt excitement thrum through her fingers. They had broken into two groups. Lizzie and Charles had returned to his office to wait for any news that would come, and Irene, Mary, and her herself now stalked down the strand. They had first gone to the new widow’s house, but apart from gaining her name: Annie Paulson, nothing else was illuminated. Now they were approaching a warehouse on The Strand. Rhodera checked her derringer it’s spring clip-rig, and felt the familiar weight against her arm.

Rhodera inched through the door of the warehouse, Mary behind her. The hair prickled on the back of her neck, and she had to blink her eyes twice to clearly see through the muck. Her calf itched from where the hilt of her blade rested, ready to use, just like her gun.

As Rhodera and Mary made their way through the building, Rhodera spotted a group of boxes stacked in the far corner; the dust spiraled and sparkled around them in the air. She gestured for Mary to follow her towards it.

Sherlock Holmes watched as the lock on the door turned. He let his untied hands rest at his side. Time, clearly, was against them.

Rhodera closed in on the boxes. She felt the familiar up beat of her heart.

Suddenly Irene Adler was right beside her. And her gun was out. “We should move these boxes.”

Rhodera nodded in response. She breathed in and out slowly to slow her beating heart.

The wood was cool and rough under her hands as Rhodera helped move boxes. After the six or seventh one, staring at the wall, she realized something was off about it.

“Wait,” she called out to Mary and Irene, “there’s a door.” Both stopped and turned to stare at where Rhodera was gesturing.

Rhodera edged towards the door, and slowly wrapped her hand around the cold handle. She twisted the metal in her hands, and with a crack and a groan the door came free.


Sherlock Holmes looked up when door finally opened. In the darkness, he could make out a man’s figure in the darkness. He braced himself ready to strike. He spared a glance at Swift, and there was confirmation in his eyes too. They were ready.

As the figure came clearly into the gas lit room, Sherlock could see his face—a disfigured piece of flesh with a long, thin scar traversing its length. He had a gun in his hand, and was pointing it straight at Sherlock. But it seemed like just a mere inconvenience.

“Any last words, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock Holmes tried to affect his best, charming smile, and stood up.

Rhodera was bent over, dry heaves rippling through her body. The sweet, tang of blood still crawling up her nose. After another crippling scenario, Rhodera unbent herself, and muttered. “Who is it?”
Irene Adler took one more glance at the garroted and gutted body on the floor of the small warehouse room and sighed. “If I hazard a guess, I would say, Mr. Morris Paulson.”

Rhodera knew it was uncharitable of her to say, but the only think she could think of was: “Good. At least we found him.”


A shot rang out, and Rhodera immediately went for her own gun. It sounded like it had come from above, and she glanced up, at the vacant stairwell, and landing above her. Adrenaline spiraling through her, Rhodera raced for the stairs as fast as her skirts would allow. She could hear the clacking of heals; Mary and Irene behind her. When she reached the landing, there was a narrow passage way, and she followed it.

There was another shot.

It sounded close. Eyes wide open, and fingers wrapped securely around, she could see a door at the end of the hallway. She slowed her pace as she approached it, gun at the ready. She tried the lock, but it would not budge, so she braced her body, stuck out her foot and kicked. The door cracked and crumbled under the pressure.

And, when the debris cleared, a grinning face

“I believe you owe me, Charlie Mayson,” Sherlock Holmes barked out; smile on his face.
From behind him, she could hear the familiar laugh of her husband, and her godson muttering something about sewing circles and needlepoint.

Rhodera finally breathed a satisfied sigh when Holmes drew back his arm and gallantly helped a young lady through what was left of the door. A ruffled looking Charlie followed; and at last, Oliver. They shared a smile. He reached out and their fingers touched. She looked back at her godson.

“Let’s get you home, Charlie. Your mother’s going to kill you.”