The Wall Lake Mystery

Chapter 1: The Game's Afoot in America

It was late January of 1886 when the sitting room door closed behind our most affluent client yet, and I could hardly contain my joy.

"Three thousand pounds!" I exclaimed, reading the figure on the cheque over Sherlock Holmes' bony shoulder.

"I daresay it will cover my half of the rent for quite some time," he said with a dry chuckle.

"The Duke really should not have," I said, still attempting to fathom that figure.

"Perhaps not," Holmes replied with a shrug, "but I am not about to turn down such a sum from one who can afford it."

"No indeed," I replied.

Silence fell for a short time, each of us lost in our thoughts. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I was imagining all the ways I might spend a cheque as large as this one. For starters, I would travel somewhere warmer—or at least more interesting—than dreary old London in the chill of winter.

"Holmes," I said tentatively. I hoped I was not intruding on some important train of thought.

"Hm?"

"Have you ever thought of travelling?"

Holmes stared quizzically.

"You know, like a holiday?"

My friend shrugged. "You know I enjoy nothing that does not stimulate the brain, Watson."

"What about for a case?" I asked, crossing to the breakfast table and picking up a letter with a return address of Paris.

"If the case is of sufficient interest," Holmes replied, casting a glance toward the letter in my hand and the rest of the unopened post on the table. We seated ourselves again, and I set to work finishing my toast, now cold. Holmes ate nothing as was often his way. I, as his friend and doctor, never liked this habit, but I could not compete with my friend's will of iron.

Holmes shoved a pile of four or five letters across the table. I eagerly obliged the request, despite the lack of verbal instructions, and began to read them. The one addressed from Paris, which had first captured my attention, was written entirely in French. Rather than embarrassing myself by demonstrating my ignorance of the tongue, I tossed the letter back to Holmes to peruse. He did not seem to notice; his focus was on the missive in his own hand, postmarked America. I glanced down at my stack and saw that the next letter in my pile also originated in America.

Noting this coincidence, and the postmark of January the thirteenth, I carefully tore the envelope and began to read.

Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

My name is Ernest Anderson, and I am in dire need of your assistance. My closest friend, Deputy Hugh Hieman of the Sac County law enforcement, died last Friday (the eighth) under circumstances that can only point to murder. The Sheriff believes it was only an accident and refuses to bring any detective into the matter, not even the official ones out of Des Moines. I am at my wit's end!

Hugh was unmarried, living in the small town of Wall Lake with his mother and siblings. He travelled often to the county seat, Sac City, both for his work and to visit his beautiful fiancée, Lena Hallstrom. Hugh left for Sac City on the first train that morning, returned by train that evening, and was found dead yesterday, Saturday, morning. The sheriff insists he drank himself into a stupor and took a fall out of the bay window, but Hugh drinks wisely, and I don't know how a fall like that (it was only one story up) could kill someone so hardy and young.

I have a fair bit of money saved; I hope it is enough to cover your travel expenses as well as your fee. I truly appreciate your assistance, and owe my knowledge of you to my neighbor, Mrs. Pattison, who acquired a copy of A Study in Scarlet and was impressed with your talents.