An AI-generated Sherlock Holmes Mystery

 By Bruce Shawkey

I asked ChatGPT to write a Sherlock Holmes mystery story in the style of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and it appeared in seconds complete with dialogue. Amazing stuff.

The Case of the Sapphire Tally

It was in the first chill weeks of October when the affair of the Sapphire Tally unfolded—an incident which, though small in outward circumstance, revealed with astonishing clarity the delicacy of Holmes’s observations and his peculiar delight in trifles.

I had just returned to Baker Street after an errand in Kensington to find Holmes deep in one of those singular reveries which overtook him whenever a case dangled just beyond the reach of certainty. He sat cross-legged upon the floor, the morning newspaper spread about him like fallen leaves.

“A most vexing business, Watson,” he murmured without raising his eyes. “A theft, yet nothing of monetary value appears to have gone missing. A man wronged, yet there is no villain.”

I seated myself opposite him. “If there has been a crime committed, Holmes, surely there must be a culprit.”

“You speak as the magistrates do,” he replied drily. “It is by no means established that the law finds offense in every mischief of the human heart. Consider, for example, the matter of Sir Alistair Wicks.”

He slid the paper toward me. A tiny notice sat wedged between the accounts of an omnibus accident and a charity concert.

Lord Chesswick offers a private reward for information regarding certain sapphire beads of sentimental import, mislaid at his London residence.

“Beads!” I exclaimed. “What possible importance could such trinkets hold?”

Holmes smiled. “Just so. Why publish an inquiry in the Times for an object of such modest description—and why omit entirely the location of the house, the hour of disappearance, or the circumstances?”

He rose abruptly, shrugged into his greatcoat, and took up his stick. “Come, Watson. Lord Chesswick awaits our elucidation.”

Lord Chesswick proved a man of impeccable manners and dismal spirits. His house in Belgrave Square smelled faintly of tobacco and stale anxiety. On a small escritoire lay several sapphire beads arranged in a curious line—four in number, each no bigger than a pea, yet polished to a mesmerizing gleam.

“These were all that remained,” Lord Chesswick declared. “Sixteen once hung in the ornament—an heirloom belonging to my late wife. Twelve have vanished.”

Holmes bent low, bringing a magnifying glass to the nearest bead. “There are faint numerals engraved upon the facets,” he said. “A ‘7’ here… and this one bears a ‘14’. A tally, perhaps—yet to what purpose?”

The nobleman hesitated. “My wife was a prodigious maker of codes and riddles. It was a private amusement of ours when she lived.”

“A delightfully inconvenient habit,” Holmes replied. “And the theft—when did you observe it?”

“Yesterday morning. The case was opened, and twelve beads gone, though the lock bore no mark of tampering.”

Holmes closed his eyes. “You employ a valet, I presume?”

“Two. But I vouch for their honesty.”

“And does Miss Wicks reside here still?”

Lord Chesswick stiffened. “My daughter—yes. Though I cannot think her involved.”

Holmes stirred. “On the contrary, I can think of little else. Watson, shall we?”

We found Miss Eleanor Wicks in the conservatory amidst ferns and music sheets. She did not appear the least surprised to see us.

“Father sent you,” she said quietly.

Holmes inclined his head. “Your mother, I gather, was fond of puzzles.”

“As am I,” she replied. Her eyes glistened, though no tears fell. “The beads are not stolen. They are simply gone to their work.”

Holmes’s brows rose. “Indeed? And what work is that?”

“To remind Father of Mother’s wishes. Each bead bore a number—the date of a charitable subscription, a visit to a hospital, a reading for the blind. Mother knew Father to be a good man, but one who required… encouragement. Her final months were spent arranging this little campaign.”

“And the missing twelve?”

“Placed in envelopes and posted throughout the city,” she said. “To institutions my mother favored. The remaining four were left as a clue, that Father might decipher what she desired.”

Lord Chesswick, who had followed us, released a long, shuddering breath. “Why conceal this from me, Eleanor?”

She looked upon him gently. “Because Mother feared you would never begin if she merely asked. But a mystery—oh, she knew you could never resist one.”

Holmes smiled—a rare, warm expression. “A theft of sympathy, Lord Chesswick, not of gemstones. I leave you to your investigations.”

As we departed, I could not help but remark upon the oddity of the case. “Hardly one for the record books, Holmes.”

He lit a cigarette against the fog. “On the contrary, Watson. Most crimes concern money or blood. It is invigorating now and again to meet a conspiracy solely in the service of love—and to see justice accomplished without the need of the law.”