Chasing the Grimm Reaper: Choose Your Ending Adventure

Beware

This story is not meant to be read in linear order. Whenever you reach a link, choose which way to go to experience the different twists and turns this story can take. I hope you will enjoy the journey—maybe even more than once.

Chasing the Grimm Reaper

I turned the page, already knowing which person Holmes was looking for. The story was The Hound of the Baskervilles, and the suspect was a man wearing a fake black beard. During a chase in a previous scene, he had evaded the detective and his friends by taking a cab.

We have to find the cabman. I’ll set Wiggins on his trail. Do we have the cab number? Holmes looked up from his microscope. Also, I couldn’t find much on this boot. It’s way too new for clues. It doesn’t even smell.

Could you explain for our readers why you deem the cabman important? Watson watched him, pen poised over his notebook, admiration written all over his face.

Holmes opened his mouth to answer when the sound of heavy boots clomping up the stairs interrupted him. He went to the fireplace, took his pipe from the mantle and stuffed it. The door crashed open.

Ah, Inspector Lestrade. What reason do you propose for interrupting the reading pleasure of our current guest? Holmes picked up the lighter and waited while Lestrade fought for breath.

Reading pleasure, I wondered. His current guest?

Lestrade straightened up. King Julien III from Sagaland, the Kingdom of fairy tales, Myths, and Legends, requests your assistance.

Hold it! fairy tales in a Sherlock Holmes story?

Holmes lit his pipe. He banned me three years ago. If he is calling me now, he must be in trouble. What is it?

The smoke bit into my nose. I sneezed.

Bless you. Watson opened the window. A forlorn ray of sunlight pierced the smoky room. I looked around. Wow, Holmes owned a lot of books. They completely covered the shelves that were arranged against each available wall.

Lestrade shoved his thumbs under his suspenders. Someone murdered the Fairy Godmother.

As you are well aware, I am very busy at the moment. Holmes pointed to his microscope. I do not think that our current guest will agree to a lengthy interruption of uncertain duration.

The current guest again. I wondered to whom he referred. There was nobody in the room except himself, Watson, and Lestrade.

The Inspector wrung his hands. "But the king needs someone of your reputation, Holmes. It’s the Fairy Godmother, for Grimm’s sake."

You could ask our guest, who seems to be just as talented regarding deductions as I am.

Watson’s eyes widened. How do you know that?

My dear Watson, Holmes let out a long stream of smoke, our reader skipped half a page of my experiments and confirmed my statement about the cabman and his black bearded guest with a nod.

A Realworlder? Hmmm. Lestrade looked up at me, and his brows contracted over dark brown eyes. Startled, I sat back. The Inspector twirled his moustache and turned back to Holmes. What if someone closes the book before your current case is solved?

I am sure King Julien will have no problem finding a fairy or witch that can match the blink of an eye in Realworld to the time our guest spends in our world. If not, he can ask Fantomas for one of his gadgets.

A breeze caressed my cheek. It smelled of horse dung and hot stones. Watson held out a cup with a brownish liquid to me. I am sorry for this confusion. Care for some tea? Do you take sugar?

I knew I should close the book and forget about this insanity. Or shouldn’t I?

I slammed the book shut. The thud reverberated through my bones, leaving behind a trace of regret. I opened it again, looking for the page that had drawn me into Holmes’s world. But no matter how often I read it, Lestrade never appeared and Holmes’s study never became real again. If only I had accepted the tea.

Do you regret your last decision?

Do you want to try again from the beginning?

First End (nah-nah-na-nah-na)

I looked around. Somehow, both worlds seemed to overlap. I could see the view outside my window through Holmes’s dark velvet drapes, and I felt the comfortable cushions of my sofa through the stiff material of Holmes’s wingback chair. My throat dried up when I realized that Holmes and Lestrade were watching me wordlessly while Watson still held out the teacup. Not knowing what to say, I took it and sipped. It was sweet and hot and saved me from the need to talk. I badly needed some time to wrap my mind around the fact that I was inside my book. Was I going mad?

Lestrade cleared his throat, but Holmes spoke first.

I assume that by accepting our tea, you graciously agree to investigate the murder? He caught my gaze, and I couldn’t look away any longer. There was something riveting in his grey eyes, something that made my heart thump. He had always been my idol, and I had dreamed of meeting with him. What would he say if I pulled back now? His disappointment would be hard to face. Anyway, if the greatest detective of all time thought I could solve the case, who was I to disagree?

May I return to discuss problem I might have if necessary? I could hardly hear my own hoarse voice over the pounding of my heart.

You’re more than welcome. Holmes put aside his pipe and bowed.

Lestrade took my arm. His grip was steadfast, but his voice sounded friendly.

Let’s go.

To the crime scene? I asked.

You might want to speak to King Julien of Sagaland first, Holmes suggested. Otherwise, the time at which you return to Realworld might be much later than you expect.

I nodded, put down the teacup, and allowed Lestrade to lead me to the door.

Watson stepped closer and took my right hand in both of his. If you need someone to chronicle your endeavor, you may well ask me. If King Julien unhooks our time from the time in Realworld, there will be no new readers for a while, and I believe Holmes wouldn’t mind some time on his own.

I looked at Holmes, who gazed out of the window as if we weren’t there any more, the pipe newly ignited. Clouds of smoke billowed around his head and the sunlight lit them up until they resembled a halo.

I’d be delighted if you would come along, I said. Watson’s smile went from ear to ear as he followed Lestrade and me through the door.

~*~

Baker Street 221B in Victorian London. How much I had wanted to see this! I had been expecting fog, but on this lovely summer day nothing remained of the typical dark mood of a Holmes novel. The yellow stone façade of Holmes’s home didn’t look much different from the other houses in this street. Most were Georgian: strictly symmetrical with square, multi paneled windows and two or three stories in height.

King Julien’s private coach. Lestrade opened the door to a white and gold carriage hitched to six horses. The inside was lined with velvet, and many cushions and covers lay on the seats. I entered, awestruck, and the two men followed. The moment we sat down, the coachman cracked his whip, the horses whinnied, and the coach started rolling. I looked out of the window, fascinated by every brick or sandstone building, by every park, and by people in clothing that appeared very old-fashioned to me.

The royal coach took several twists into lanes that appeared out of nowhere when we turned into them, and all of a sudden the horses’ hoofs beat on a well trodden road way out in the country with not a human soul in sight. The only movement came from some roe deer, which fled into the nearby woods when we thundered past. I wondered a little about the sudden change of scenery but decided that, if I could step into a book, it would be easy magic to move the coach from Holmes’s world to that of a fairy tale. Ahead, a giant castle filled the sky, a tiny village huddled at its feet. Pennons and flags waved from its towers and turrets, and curtains flapped through wide open archways and windows. It looked like the sort of castle little girls dream of, and I said so. Watson chuckled.

The king does have to keep up appearances, Lestrade said. We’ll be there any minute.

He was right. Only a little later, the horses’ hooves hammered on a drawbridge decorated with flower garlands. We had barely stopped when two servants came out to greet us. They ushered us through endless corridors to the throne room, where the Grand Marshal announced us.

As we had been instructed, we stepped slowly toward the throne, but King Julien waved impatiently. Come on, hurry up. I ain’t got all day.

I stared at him in disbelief. He wore a crown but hardly anything else. His chest was bare and so were his legs. Around his rather well rounded waist he had wrapped a Scottish Kilt, and he had painted his face blue.

What are ye lookin’ at? he asked when he saw my open mouth. I had to cover for William Wallace. His reader picked up the book when Will’s wife was going into labor with their first child.

I closed my mouth and lowered my gaze. I am sorry, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean to stare.

Yes, yes, he waved me aside impatiently. Lestrade, where is Holmes?

Lestrade explained that Holmes had refused to come since the ban on him hadn’t been officially lifted, and that he had send me instead.

I see. A Realworlder. The king scratched his chin, and his fingertips came away blue. He didn’t notice and kept studying me. I tried to look more confident than I felt.

I will do everything I can to solve the case, I said. Master Holmes believes me capable enough.

After a long silence, the king nodded his approval. You might be just the kind of person we need. Advisor!

A gangly man in a dark velvet robe with a nose like a hawk’s beak and long hair tucked under a dark velvet beret stepped forward and bowed. What can I do for you, Your Majesty?

Find the magician. Tell him to unlock Realtime from Ourtime until the murder of the Fairy Godmother is solved. And make sure a public holiday is announced to our citizens. The king removed his crown. After that, prepare a bath for me. I need to get this color off.

We were dismissed, and I followed Watson and Lestrade out feeling slightly numbed. King Julien had not been the kind of person I had expected to be the king of a fairy tale kingdom.

Lestrade rubbed his hands. That went better than I had anticipated. And much faster too. Do you want to see the crime scene now? When King Julien called in Scotland Yard, we made sure that no one trespassed.

I’m not sure, I said. "Maybe I should talk to the advisor first. He reminds me of someone."

Watson twirled his moustache. "I’d rather see the crime scene first and talk to the advisor later. He won’t disappear."

I’m not so sure about that. I pointed to the advisor who scurried away from us along the corridor not far from us.

Sir, I called, I need to talk to you!

He stopped and turned to me. How may I help you?

As the king’s advisor, you will surely know most of his citizens.

He smiled. I pride myself on knowing all of them as well as time permits.

Just as I thought. So, what can you tell me about the Fairy Godmother? I signaled Watson to write down the advisor’s answers.

The Fairy Godmother inhabited an apartment in the royal household. Her rooms overlooked the city, and she is—was—the only one certified to grant wishes to King Julien’s citizens. Also, she enjoyed playing her own role as Fairy Godmother for our Realworld readers. I don’t really understand why. The grant our gracious king provided her with was more than adequate. I do not think she needed the money.

Maybe she liked playacting, Lestrade said.

The advisor ignored him. The Fairy Godmother had consultation hours from eight to ten in the morning, and from five to seven in the afternoon on weekdays only. That’s all I know.

I pondered this. Who will profit from her death?

I do not know about her personal financial affairs, but what hasn’t been used of the grant is royal property. The advisor cocked his head. May I go now?

Just one more question, I said. Who is going to take her place, now that she’s dead?

It is his Majesty’s duty to appoint a new Fairy Godmother, but her apprentice is the most likely candidate. The advisor bowed and marched off towards a side corridor.

What’s the apprentice’s name? Watson called after him, but he turned the corner without an answer.

I’m sure I’ve got it in my notes somewhere, Lestrade said.

Money is always a possible motive. We should talk to the apprentice. I started walking. "Please take us to the crime scene now."

Lestrade nodded and showed us the way.

Lestrade pulled a key from his pocket. It was old-fashioned, made for a sizable keyhole. I doubted that the lock was secure enough to prevent a determined trespasser, but it was sufficient to keep out curious onlookers. He left the key in the door and pressed the handle with both hands. The door swung open, and we entered.

The Fairy Godmother’s living room was airy and full of light. There was only a few pieces of furniture, but their quality was outstanding. I marveled at the detailed carvings in an oaken cabinet, but the blood on it spoiled my admiration.

We found her here, Lestrade pointed to the cabinet. Around the stain, someone had drawn outlines in pink crayon. Why pink? I wondered.

Lestrade went on, And here, and over there. He pointed to a bloody patch on the floor close to the door to the bedroom, and to another blot in the kitchen area. The Fairy Godmother had been butchered. Acid burned in my throat, and the cookies I had eaten earlier tried to come back up. I forced them down and looked at Lestrade. His chubby face helped to distract me from the blood. Do you already know how she died?

He frowned. She was ripped apart. Isn’t that obvious?

She could have been ripped apart after her death, couldn’t she?

His mouth opened as if he wanted to say something, then it snapped shut, and he nodded. I noticed Watson scribbling in his notebook.

Have you searched the rooms? I asked Lestrade.

He pulled himself up to his impressive, if overweight, height of five foot three. I do know my job, even if the king thinks that others…, he glanced at Watson, … know it better than I. We have searched every nook and cranny in this room.

What have you found on the white carpet near the window?

Watson’s eyebrows shot up. How do you know there was a white carpet?

The floorboards are lighter where the sunlight didn’t reach them, and there are white dust bunnies under the cabinet. I grinned, relieved that I impressed at least Watson. Maybe Holmes was right, and I did have the skills necessary to solve this murder. Still, I tried not to look at the bloody patches.

Lestrade nodded his approval. There was a rather big footprint on the carpet. Giant, I’d say. We took it to the Yard for further inspection and found out that the dirt came from somewhere in the Northern Mountains. I’ve already sent two constables there to find the giant which might have left the footprint.

That was all you found? I asked.

Yes. There was nothing else that looked suspicious.

I walked around the living room and looked at the Fairy Godmother’s belongings. Three books on accounting and a realworld Sherlock Holmes novel lay on the table beside a comfy chair. Two pictures, one of the sea and the other of a glen in the mountains, hung on the wall. A leather-bound notebook, a handful of pens and pencils, a grey box, and a desk pad were neatly aligned on the massive oak table under the window. A block of heart shaped glittering sticky notes in various colors were stuck to the desk pad, and a vase with wilted flowers stood on the cabinet. That was all. I flipped through the notebook. It held short summaries of the wishes she granted or declined during her official consultation hours.

Next I examined the grey box. It proved to be a mechanical stamp. A little logo in the handle read Manufactured by CrimeDivision.

She bought it from Fantomas, Lestrade said when he noticed my interest. It seems she loved Fantomas’s gadgets. She’s got a whole lot of them. He opened a drawer on the table to show me. I examined them closely but there was nothing suspicious about them. When I had finished, I entered the bathroom. It was devoid of personality, containing only a toothbrush, a brush, a washcloth, a towel, and a tiny bathroom cabinet filled with spare toilet paper rolls. Something struck me as weird about the toilet paper though. I looked at the rolls more closely and recognized the logo on the wrappers.

Did you notice that the toilet paper came from Realworld?

Lestrade stood in the door with his hands on the frame. Impossible. He stepped closer.

I know the brand. I’m using it myself. I handed him a packet.

Lestrade frowned. Where would she get that from? Her grant wasn’t high enough to buy in the Royal Shop, and it’s highly illegal to purchase from smugglers.

Murderers, smugglers … Somehow, the fairy tale world seemed a lot less magical than I remembered from my childhood reading. I left Lestrade to pocket the toilet paper and went into the sleeping room.

It was dominated by a king size bed and a wardrobe that was bursting with dresses of all sizes and colors. Shoeboxes were piled high in every available place, and in a corner of the room I noticed a cot. Did the Fairy Godmother have a baby?

Watson, who had followed me, noticed my frown and said, That’s the apprentice’s bed. He’s somewhat smaller than his teacher.

He? The next Fairy Godmother is male?

Watson smiled, which made his mustache dance. Gender is of no importance when it comes to granting wishes. The main qualification for the job is the strength of magical abilities.

I see. I opened a couple of boxes, but there were only shoes. A woman with a shoe tick. What a cliché, I thought. Should I tell Lestrade to get all the shoe boxes checked? Maybe he knew someone who could do it with magical speed. On the other hand, women with so many shoes often kept the boxes. That was nothing unusual. It probably wasn’t worth the effort checking them all.

I searched the bed and the cot and rummaged around the wardrobe. Lestrade entered and watched until I admitted that I had found nothing.

I could have told you, he said. My men have been through that twice. Where do you want to go next?

I scratched my head. We need to talk to the apprentice and to the owner of the Royal Shop.

What’s the shop owner got to do with this case? Watson asked.

We need to find out if the Fairy Godmother bought her toilet paper from him or illegally. Some smugglers aren’t squeamish about disposing of accidental witnesses.

Lestrade’s mouth fell open, and he took a while to digest what I had suggested. You believe she became a threat to smugglers?

I haven’t finished my investigation yet. I walked to the door. Let’s go to the shop.

Lestrade pushed his bowler hat back and wiped sweat off his forehead. I’m sorry, but I can’t accompany you. Urgent matters, you know? He fled the room.

Watson’s mustache danced again. I’m sure he’ll investigate in the same direction now. He always wants to be the first to solve a case.

As long as the murderer is caught, I don’t care who solves the case, I said. Do you know the way to the Royal Shop?

I am well versed in this country. My niece married the Royal Baker, and I visit her when my time permits. He left the bedroom, crossed the living room, and waited in the corridor outside the apartment door.

I followed him and was relieved that the key was still in the lock. Lestrade had forgotten to take it. I turned it twice. Not that it would do much good, but maybe it would delay Lestrade’s men for a while.

~*~

The Royal Shop was tiny, maybe two yards in