I authored over 100,000 words of narrative set in the Sherlock Holmes universe for the mobile game app, Sherlock Mysteries (see the link under the comic menu for more on this IP). Although written true-to-style based on the original Arthur Conan Doyle source material, the script was set with a more accessible, lighter tone for execution in the game app.Below are two excerpts from the series.
Phantom of London
Bart’s Hospital
The side entrance to the mortuary of Bart’s hospital, our preferred method of entry, is wide open upon our arrival. We take a moment in the doorway to shake the rain from our persons.
Just as we prepare to enter, a thin man in a white apron races toward us, hacking up a lung. With barely a second to get out of the way, the man barrels past us, bracing himself on the door, wheezing in and out with great big heaves.
“Great Scott, man… you’re sick as a dog,” Wiggins exclaims with a tone of familiar compassion. “You should be resting in one of the beds upstairs, Thomas.”
Thomas Blood has a spasm of coughs that nearly take him to the ground. At their conclusion he brings a soiled handkerchief to his mouth, then across his now rain spattered forehead. He looks to us from eyes lost in dark rings and a particularly pale pallor.
“Nonsense. Nonsense, gentlemen. Just a bit of the bad air last week’s caught up with me is all. I’ll be right as this rain in a couple of days.” He brushes past us with haste, motioning for us to follow. As he disappears into the dark stone hallway, we fall in behind and walk toward the single source of flickering light spilling from his examination room.
“Are you sure you should be down here, working today?” Wiggins inquires.
Blood looks back over his shoulder and smiles wide, revealing a full, though well-stained set of teeth. “One of the perks of my line of work, the patients never get on if you’re sick. Now, allow me to speculate… you’re here for the Composer they pulled out of the Thames this morning, correct?”
Wiggins nods, “It’s a bit of a puzzler this one. We were wondering if Mr. Kimble died from his burns or drowned…”
The coroner shakes head with a slight grin. “Understandable assumptions, but I’m afraid gentlemen, they’re both incorrect.” He stops before a body atop a gurney covered in a white sheet.
Wiggins tugs on his coat, half insulted by Blood’s remarks. “I looked at the body myself, Thomas. While it may have been possible to survive the burning, clearly, he did not survive the Thames.”
Blood turns away to hack up the something sitting at the very bottom of his lungs, when he returns, he draws back the sheet over Mr. Kimble. Focusing the light of the room on the body with a small rectangular mirror, Mr. Blood points to a missing section in the chest cavity. “I’m afraid he was not alive to face either of the calamities you mention… you see the open wound here…”
Wiggins peers in, “Where the crabs consumed?”
Again, Blood smiles. He reaches to a side table and picks up a glass vial, and proceeds to shake it violently, sending a small metal sphere rattling around in a tizzy.
“Gunshot!” exclaims Wiggins.
“No way you could have noticed the wound, the crabs made a fine mess of it.” He hands Wiggins the vial, then proceeds to roll the body up onto one shoulder. “That’s a ball from a .45 Enfield you’re holding. In through the back here, straight into the heart. I found the bullet lodged on the interior side of an upper ribs.”
Trying to assimilate the new information, Wiggins stumbles for clarification, “Anything else you can tell us?”
“For what it’s worth,” responds Mr. Blood, “The bullet was on a low to high trajectory and came from the right side. No powder on the clothes or wound, but it was most certainly close quarters.”
We thank Mr. Blood for his time and depart, but before we leave the examination room, Wiggins pauses and calls back, “His height and weight, if you will, Thomas.”
“Five foot ten inches, twelve stones.”
###
Antonio Visconti
86 Mint Street is a lavish house in a proper part of high society London. The rumors of Antonio Visconti no longer being a man of means since the loss of the Carlisle, appear to have been grossly exaggerated.
Our knocks are immediately answered by a middle-aged man desperate to fit in the suit of his youth. “Simon Heffler,” he says in a drawl.
“Wrong chap, governor. The name’s Wiggins,” Wiggins retorts.
“I, am Simon Heffler, gentlemen. As I open the door and begin the introduction, it seems only right I introduce myself first, no? I’ve never understood the contrary.”
Stepping past the butler, Wiggins surveys Visconti’s home, “Sounds as good as etiquette as any. My associate and I would like to call on Mr. Visconti.”
“Your coats, gentlemen,” Simon says, holding out his left arm erect to receive them. We comply, gently hanging them over the fellow as he continues, “I’m afraid Mr. Visconti is not present at the moment. He left in a bit of a hurry, earlier in the day. Bad news I’m afraid, something about the death and unknown whereabouts of some previous employees.”
Wiggins steps in and out of the adjoining rooms to the small foyer, “This really is an exquisite home, pardon me for being blunt, but I didn’t think Mr. Visconti’s theater days had left him this well off.”
The butler responds as he folds our coats neatly and attaches them to a hooked board. “Hardly, gentlemen. I don’t claim to know Master Visconti’s finances, but the home is not his. He rents the home from my Lord. Lord Dunbar owns a number of homes and estates throughout London, all of which he rents or offers to friends in need.”
As Wiggins surveys the rooms he suddenly stops distracted by something on the far side of the room. He storms into the chamber, driven to the far wall as if lured by a siren’s song. “Sir!” the butler shouts as he chases after him.
“Excuse my manners Mr. Heffler, but the pistol here. Isn’t that a military pistol? My brother’s in the service and has one just like it.” Hanging above the mantle of the parlor fireplace sits an intricate wooden display, with gold hooks for two pistols. Only one sits seated on the hooks, the other space remaining vacant.
“Fascinating,” the butler says sarcastically. “An Enfield, .45 caliber. Not a particularly remarkable firearm. Standard military issue I believe. Now, gentlemen, if there’s nothing else I can do for you, I must ask you to leave.”
“Thank you, my good man,” Wiggins holds up his pipe in recognition. “Any idea where might we find Mr. Visconti at present?”
The butler holds his hand out in the direction of front door. “You may try the Southwark Park Theater, his current place of employment as I understand it.”
On the way out of the chamber, Wiggins passes an end table, next to a reading chair. He signals, touching his finger beneath his eye, then drops his hat to the floor. “Ohh, I’m all thumbs today.”
Without word the butler bends down to retrieve the hat, and instantly Wiggins turns and quickly fans out a collection of papers on the table. In the blink of an eye, he releases the papers and turns back to accept his hat from Heffler, without drawing the slightest attention. We exit 56 Southwark St without further word with the butler.
The dark day and cold rain greet us outside to which Wiggins enthusiastically throws open his umbrella. “A collection letter from Thames Warehouse,’ he blurts out. “Looks like Mr. Visconti has been spending all his money on Lord Dunbar’s fine home and not keeping up with his warehouse bills.” •
A true mystery is narrative clockwork; one structural gear out of place and the entire puzzle fails. Beautiful art cannot save a broken foundation. If you are a publisher, studio, or funded creator preparing to move a high-stakes project into production, ensure your blueprints are flawless before you hire your art team.
I may be biased for having wrote a good number of the Sherlock Mystery cases, however, I highly recommend you play the audio based mobile app, if you enjoy the setting. The game is extremely well done.
Also, if you happen to love Holmes, check out the Victorian London map I produced in conjunction with the graphic novel, in the Story to Script store.