The dark silhouette of a man stood in contrast to the gray night sky, a plume of smoke rising above his head. He leaned against a weathered railing, the only thing standing between him and the winding harbor. The water carried streaks of yellow light from the surrounding buildings, creating a mesmerizing light show of sparkling columns.

The man watched the sea intently, the lights glimmering in his own pupils as he took another deep pull from his cherrywood pipe. A gentle, salty breeze blew what hair wasn't shielded by his deerstalker cap. He closed his eyes and inhaled the seaside air, clearly so lost in thought that his body was just going through the motions.

He heard footsteps approaching, and although he had heard them a thousand times before, he had no control over his mind indulging in the deduction it so desired. They were boots, three point five centimeter soles worn down from three point eight. Military issue. Along with the thumping of boots on cobblestone was the tapping of a cane. Metal tipped, rare in this area where rubber was more prevalent.

When the person approaching was within a few meters, the man leaning against the railing called out without turning his head, "It's time then, Watson?"

Dr. Watson stopped where he was and rolled his eyes. "Yes, they are ready for you now. But I wouldn't mind sharing a pipe before-"

"No time, doctor. We must return to the palace," Sherlock said, knocking out the remaining tobacco from his pipe against the railing.

He spun around quickly, which left his cape and scarf trailing behind him in a flourish, and passed by Watson without so much as a glance. Watson rolled his eyes again, and leaned on his cane as he turned around, already thirty paces behind his disputatious partner.

…

The building that the doctor and detective were headed for was a mockery of the word palace. It was far beyond what could be described as such. The lavish sprawling property would have put the kings of old to shame. Entire cities did not have as much wealth as the Poretico Estate. There were enough guards outside to defend the estate from a foreign invasion.

…

The royalty stood around the parlor, sipping on cocktails from crystal ware that cost more than most tradesmen in the surrounding city made in two lifetimes. Two guards flanked each door, looking overly attentive as beads of sweat began to form at their brows. Whatever this so-called detective was going to say would have extreme ramifications on their way of life. The politics of the palace were a deeply woven web of favors, lies, and backstabbing. If one of the family members went down, that would mean a faction of guards that had devoted their life to serving that one family member and allying with them would have been for naught, and they’d be as good as kitchen boys.

The newlywed princess clutched at her pearls, fidgeting with the beads between her fingers. She wished her husband wasn’t away on business, she needed his finesse to get her out of any predicaments if this louse of a detective became suspicious of her. She clenched her teeth, angry that she had to answer for anything, to an upjumped journalist or whoever the hell he was.

One of the middle brothers, a lord with a very curly mustache, squeezed the golden duck that acted as the handle to his cane. He clenched his teeth and roared at the rest of the family. “WE HAVE ALREADY IDENTIFIED THE CULPRIT, OUR HEATHENOUS BUTLER! HE IS IN CHAINS DAMNIT, IS HE NOT? WHY WOULD WE ALLOW SOME MIDDLING DETECTIVE TO QUESTION US… US!? THIS IS UNDER OUR STATURE. THE BUTLER HIMSELF-”

“The butler himself, you say,” said Sherlock, cutting off the Lord Brother’s tantrum.

The Lord Brother’s face was stunned. The other family members looked on in horror as Sherlock walked to their mini bar and grabbed two of their crystal glasses, helping himself and Watson to some generous pours of a top shelf cognac.

Sherlock continued, “Yes, the heathenous butler… What was his crime again? To have fecal matter on his stark white french cuff?”

The family began to protest, but with a slam of his cane, Dr. Watson settled them down.

“You see,” Sherlock paused as he took a large gulp of the cognac, “hmm, very good year. 1885 Hermitage Paridis?”

Dr. Watson let out a grunt, urging Sherlock along as he so often had to do.

“Ah yes, thank you Dr. Watson, I may have found myself overly enamored with the provenance of this glass. Let me continue. You see, I have already deduced exactly who committed this crime, and exactly why the crime was committed.”

“You ingrate! You interloping, dusty scarecrow of a man! You wouldn’t dare accuse anyone in our royal family of this crime. The butler… it all points to the butler!” yelled out the Princess, still tightly clutching her pearls.

“Am I dusty today, Dr. Watson? I hadn’t realized. Though I suppose I have been wearing this coat for a few months straight. It has been cold, howe-”

Sherlock was cut off by another grunt from Dr. Watson.

“Always keeping me on track, my dear Watson. Ah, your majesty, I mean not to offend. I intend to lend exoneration to your inculpated butler. For when the rich pass judgment on the poor, without going through the proper channels of law enforcement and courts; there are questions… And consequences… That might arise,” Sherlock continued calmly.

The family began folding their arms, averting their eyes, checking their fingernails, anything they could to avoid this painfully awkward encounter in their own palace. The Lord Brother blew out his mustaches.

“Please continue, you… I err.. Mr. Holmes,” the Lord Brother said, trying very hard to maintain his composure.

“You see, I know exactly what happened. And why. All fingers point to the butler, but why? Because he was framed. And in any other world, and if you would have just gone through the proper legal channels, you would have gotten away with it. But instead, you falsely imprisoned this man, with no trial, using your own palace guards as jailers. Now, why wouldn’t he be blamed? When your eldest sister fell, sent spiraling to her death out of the grand stained glass window overlooking your rose gardens, there was a perfectly reasonable explanation. She had, in fact, slipped on a pile. Rare, I think, for a pile of defecation to be sitting on the marbled floor of your fourth story, specifically on the level of the palace where your eldest sister’s powder room was located. In fact… This steaming pile of dung was just around the corner, out of view of anyone in a rush to get to said powder room. And only a mere five paces from the largest, grandest window in the palace itself,” Sherlock said, allowing for a pause to see how the deduction was playing thus far.

The family members were pale, nervously sipping at cocktails and patting the sweat off their brows. Watson looked completely stoic, but Sherlock knew him well enough to see the tiniest of smiles on the furthest corner of his lip. Sherlock took a sip of cognac himself and continued.

“Now you all may breathe a sigh of relief, because nobody in this room murdered your dear sister,” Sherlock said.

Gasps, hoots, tears, sneezes all came from the family as they listened.

“In fact, it was your executive chef who supplied the means to murder your sister. You see, I looked over the dinner menus for the last two years, and only in the last three weeks has your cook been adding some of the most slippery oils and ingredients to the dishes. A suspicious change occurred: eel slime, olive oil, coconut oil, lauryl alcohol, isocetyl alcohol… The list goes on. But only for three weeks. And apparently, in these three weeks, he has had a kitchen boy posted on the fourth floor, for no given reason, with a perfect view of the stained glass window. When I questioned the boy about this, he provided me with a journal. The contents of this journal, you ask? Well, it was the bathroom habits of the Lord Brother here, who had a penchant for using his elder sister’s powder room when he craved his sweet relief. The exact second, the exact amount of footsteps it took, everything in this journal marked the exact length of time it took our Lord Brother here to run up the stairs, use her toilet, and reappear among the family.”

The brother’s face was stone. He was puttering his lips but no words were coming out. His mustache had uncurled and was now hanging off his face like an unwashed fu manchu. The family was looking at him with disgust. Watson raised his chin high, attempting to withhold genuine laughter.

“Now, on the fateful night that your lovely sister had her fall, your Lord Brother ran up the steps with an intense urgency. It's all here, in the journal. For that night’s menu, an ingredient that specifically targeted our Lord Brother’s stomach had been added. Oysters, from the Spanish bay of Ostras de Cambados, had been added specifically to his dish. The notes from that night’s dinner menu indicate that Lord Brother specifically requested this. However, that is in no way true. Asking some of the waitstaff and guards, I came to learn that one of your family’s worst vacations was a visit to this same Spanish Bay, where Lord Brother fell ill after eating thirty six of these oysters. Now it was only a pinch of this oyster meat, however enough of a pinch that caused Lord Brother to evacuate his bowels about five steps too soon, leaving the steaming pile of slippery defecation. Now I assume that Lord Brother has been feeling rather guilty about the slipping of his sister and her deadly fall, but after inquiring with the servants, I found that he immediately asked one of his most trusted staff members to quickly clean up the reeking pile.

Not only did he do this, but he did it with haste as his embarrassment was beyond measure. However, when Lord Brother slipped into his chambers to change pants, his servant was intercepted and stopped from cleaning. One of the family members stopped this servant, and used two household guards as assurance that the faithful servant would not clean the mess his master had asked of him. And as the servant protested, a scream, followed by a loud shattering was heard. The guards, the family, the waitstaff, the butler all ran for the fourth floor where the noise had come from, only to find a shoe print in a steaming pile of sliding mud, heading right towards the window. It was too late, for your sister was lost. Our young princess here pointed and screamed that night, it was her, correct? She pointed directly at the butler and exclaimed that his french cuff was spattered with fecal matter. Her guards immediately grabbed him and detained him, and here we are. The butler did it! Easy and wrapped with a bow for your family.

Interestingly enough, many of the staff reported that our lovely princess had met with the executive chef around ten times in the last month. Her and her missing husband concocted this plan, looking to inherit this entire estate and oust the remaining family members. She even had a fallback plan if the butler didn’t work, her own brother, blamed for leaving the steaming pile in the first place.”

The sound of pearls hitting marble echoed in the room, the princess had clutched too hard and broken her necklace. Her face was contorted, and she ran towards the door as quickly as she could. Dr. Watson slipped his cane between her ankles and she fell, sliding on her silk dress towards the boots of fifteen police officers. They poured a bucket of freezing water on her and put her in hand and ankle cuffs. She was screaming at the top of her lungs, her makeup running over the marble as the family watched on, their jaws dropping to the floor.

Sherlock smiled at Watson, and looked at the family. “Someone free that butler, it is not against the law to be bad at wiping.”

….

Dr. Watson smiled to himself as he finished writing the memoir for this adventure. He loved documenting the cases he and Holmes completed together. When he set his pen down on his writing desk, Watson realized he had somehow gotten fecal matter on his crisp white sleeve. He looked around and then scratched it off with his fingernail. He then brought the fingernail up to his nostril, inhaling a huge whiff. Gladstone, Waton’s dog, barked at this behavior. Watson grabbed his chest and took a sigh of relief that it was not Holmes himself that caught him. Watson leaned over to scratch behind Gladstone’s ear, not noticing the eyes on his favorite painting as they blinked.