The Baker Street Jurors Read Free

in the mail that absolutely required her attention. As she sat down, she heard the office door creak open. She didn’t bother to look up. She heard a sigh, and then what might have been a slurp, and then the sound of bare feet walking down the corridor to the loo.
    Lois focused on the two in-baskets on her desk. One was for the law chambers. That in-basket contained no more than half a dozen letters, and there was no hurry about those, given that Reggie Heath, Q.C., was away.
    But the other incoming basket, the one not for the law chambers, was overflowing.
    And every one of those letters was addressed to Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street.
    Or to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, at 221B Baker Street.
    Or to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, or to Mr. Sherlock Holmes c/o Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, or to any number of combinations thereof.
    Lois began to sort through them all. This was mandatory. The lease agreement with Dorset House made it so. Because of its address, Baker Street Chambers was required to respond to the letters that people from around the world wrote to Sherlock Holmes, despite the fact that even if he were real, he would be long since dead and buried.
    Most of the letters—like the one from an elderly woman whose cat had gone missing, or the ones written by schoolchildren because their teacher told them to—required only a form letter in response, saying that Sherlock Holmes had retired to Sussex to keep bees.
    But now Lois saw one that was different.
    She gasped.
    This one she did not set aside. This one could not be ignored.
    It read:
    â€œDear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
    You have been selected for jury service.
    Her Majesty’s Royal Comprehensive Database service lists you as residing at 221B Baker Street in Marylebone, and shows that you are more than eighteen years of age and that you are an English citizen with no felony convictions within the past ten years. You are therefore eligible for mandatory service as a juror.
    Mandatory means that your service is not optional.
    You are required to attend on Monday, the 24th of March, at the London Central Criminal Courts building.
    You are not merely invited. It is not a party. It is jury service. You are required to attend.
    If you feel that you have received this summons in error, or if any of the details of your eligibility are incorrect, you may file a letter of appeal within five (5) days of the postmark of this letter.
    Please be prompt.
    Warning: A failure to appear is a criminal offense punishable by imprisonment and/or a fine of up to £1000.
    Lois stared back at the jury summons, picked it up, read it again, checked Her Royal Majesty’s seal at the top to make sure it was real, checked that the same seal existed on the envelope that had contained this dreadful missive, and sighed—yes, it was real.
    And, of course, the narrow deadline for objecting to it and filing an appeal had already passed.
    Someone would have to deal with this.
    Lois looked up from her desk. Nigel’s office door was open now. He was back from the loo. Quite possibly more or less awake. Lois picked up the Sherlock Holmes jury summons—and also a handful of mail addressed actually to Nigel—and she walked down the corridor to his office.
    She paused at the open doorway and looked in. Nigel wasn’t a tidy man by nature—but Lois could see that he was making an effort. There were only two or three Mars bar wrappers on his desk.
    Nigel looked up. He hadn’t shaved yet this morning. Or yesterday morning, either, apparently. He was thirty-six years of age, somewhat under six feet tall to the same extent that his brother Reggie was somewhat over, never quite as successful with the ladies as his brother was, but not bad looking, either—and if Lois, perpetually optimistic, had not been twenty years his senior, she would have at least entertained a notion.
    Nigel’s desk was covered in legal documents—wills and