I needed a quick story/illustration of first impressions and jumping to conclusions for an upcoming book project, and Sherlock Holmes provided the perfect persona to accomplish that. The story just poured out - I didn't know where it was headed when I began, and each paragraph fell right into place. Quickest mystery ever! Here it is, stripped of the parts that only apply to that book, except for a pair of transition sentences at the end.

The world’s most famous private detective stepped off the train onto the platform and glanced briefly at the woman waiting there expectantly.

His mind used the word “expectantly” because he instantly observed that she was three weeks pregnant, give or take a week. Not even she would realize it yet, but to his perspicacious eyes, the rosy glow gave her condition away like the Bat Signal beaming into the skies above Gotham City.

His mind did not use the words “Bat Signal,” because Batman would not be invented for another hundred years, but the general idea formed briefly in his mind, and he felt certain something like that would eventually occur. That much was obvious, elementary.

“The butler did it,” he told the woman before she could so much as introduce herself and explain why she had summoned the great Sherlock Holmes.

The woman looked momentarily flustered, but then continued as if the detective had not spoken. “Several items have gone missing from our silver collection,” she began to explain, but Sherlock immediately cut her off.

“With the candlestick, in the pantry,” he stated matter of factly.

At that, the woman blushed deeply. To Watson or any other bystander, it would appear that the color rising to her cheeks resulted from Sherlock’s lack of decorum in cutting her off so abruptly. You can hardly steal silver from a food pantry, after all!

Noting their typical obtuseness, Sherlock continued obligingly, as always, to point out all the obvious tell-tale signs of the crime committed.

“Note the flour on her dress,” he pointed out, indicating the white powder which had not been completely brushed away from her skirt, “and the way it falls in horizontal lines, rather than vertical ones as would typically occur if one were to spill it upon oneself.”

It was true, that was rather odd.

“Further note her lipstick, the way it has been smeared around the corners of her mouth, then reapplied hastily, also with a bit of flour blending with her makeup.”

Also true, but what was the point?

“Finally, note the smells of cheap cologne, and the trace of sulpher emanating from her fingertips.”

No one else had such an acute sense of smell, so they’d have to take his word for it.

“Lady Beecher is clearly having an affair with the butler, most recently in the pantry where she dropped her skirt before tipping over the jar of flour, and where she lit a candle for a tiny bit of light.”

The pink of Lady Beecher’s face drained to an ashen white as her chin dropped in astonishment.

“I can only assume,” concluded Sherlock, “that she’s paying the man for his silence with the silver.”

The woman’s eyes dropped to the platform and she began to tremble.

“Qui tacet consentire videtur,” he appended with a tone of finality, then translated for the others who had forgotten the Latin they studied as children. “Silence gives consent.”

With that, he turned and stepped back onto the train as it began to pull away from the station. Watson followed, casting a final glance back at Lady Beecher who stood clutching her purse and not knowing what else to do now that the truth had come out.

Deep inside, we’re all a little like Sherlock Holmes.

Well, maybe not so deep....