wytchcroft

Computer specialist Dr Anna Willis moved back from her programmer’s terminal with a frustrated groan. Dr Roberts was instantly at her side. “You groaned?” he laughed. “Anything I can help with?”
Willis was biting on a pencil and moved it into the recesses of her hair so she could speak.

“I don’t understand,” she said, slowly and with irritation, “I’ve run the Holmes Mystery game a dozen times now…”

“And?”

“And he keeps calling ME the murderer.”

“It was you,” said a voice from the speakers of the terminal, rendered somewhat tinny but authoritative all the same.

“You see?” Willis raised her hands. “I despair, I really do.”

Her colleague leant forward trying to be placating. “Well we knew there were a few bugs in the system.”

“I am not a bug,” the voice came again.

Roberts swore.

“Exactly!” re-arming herself with the pencil, Willis jabbed at the screen, “Bastard bloody detective!”

“Quite so, but I am not a murderer – and indeed it is your hands to which the adjective bloody might best apply.”

Roberts frowned. “Is he always like this?”

“Oh no,” Willis looked up at her colleague, “sometimes he’s worse.”

There was a snort from the speakers.

“Let’s see him shall we?” Roberts reached over and pressed a button. Instantly the screen was filled with the cosy domestic scenery of 221b Baker Street; the worn carpets, the clutter, the bullet-holes in the wall. To the left and partially out of sight, the jolly figure of Dr Watson could be seen wolfing down his dinner with obvious delight, his moustache twitched when he smiled.

Holmes himself filled most of the view, standing in a meditative pose and with his well known Stradivarius tucked under his chin. “I hate this wretched violin,” he noted with a sigh matching Willis’s. When he spoke the sunlight from the window shone from the white plastic of his chest-plate and glinted from the metal of his head. A movement of arms made a loud hydraulic hiss.

“It’s unbelievable”, breathed Roberts, “how has it developed such independence – I mean, programmed to learn is one thing but…”

“I am Sherlock Holmes,” came the response, “hardly an average intellect, even for a robot.”

Roberts’s eyes went wide. “My God! How could you possibly know you’re a…?”

“Watson!” called the Detective sharply, “fetch me the shaving mirror would you?”

There was a hiss as Holmes raised his hands as if they were eyebrows. “It was, I’m sorry to say, elementary my dear Doctor.”

Roberts scowled, whilst Holmes continued. “Really, I do rather stand out – being a robot. Surely you could have made me in your image? Watson does alright after all.”

“It was,” Roberts replied slowly,”supposed to be fun.”

“Fun?” snapped Holmes, “fun?”

Willis hit the mute switch and turned in her chair. “So there you are then,” she said. Roberts said nothing, easing the nearest swivel chair across and sitting down on it, after removing the cheese pasty which was nesting there. “Hmm”, he said finally, “hmm.”

Willis looked at him in exasperation. “Well, yes,” she said, “thanks for that – very helpful.”

Roberts ignored the sarcasm, too caught up in events. “But this is.. I mean, it’s staggering. For one of the characters to develop free will, a sense of identity…”

“That was always going to be a possibility,” Willis nodded, “that was part of the plan in a way – testing programme growth, character response, and artificial intelligence on the virtual plane.”

“Don’t quote the funding bid at me Anna, please.”

“Well I don’t know what else to do!”

“Can’t we keep him distracted?” It was funny, Roberts thought to himself, first response, get rid of the thing somehow. Willis merely narrowed her eyes and turned the volume of the PC back on.

“Holmes?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“The Unfinished Symphony I gave you.”

“I finished it.”

“Thought as much, thanks.” She cut him off again. “You see?”

Roberts did see. This was going to be hard work.

“But we could do – I mean, can’t you make the case harder, keep him occupied? I don’t know – change the weather, make it snow, give him a hurricane to contend with?”

Willis allowed Roberts to take in his own words before answering. “You do see the metaphysical ramifications?” she asked him, tapping the pencil in rhythm upon the arm of her chair. “Should we play God? And is that what God actually does, to us, when we start to suspect?”

“Suspect what, exactly?” Roberts was never inclined towards spiritual or religious notions.

Willis pulled a face and flicked the volume once more. “Holmes,” she said, “on what grounds to you consider me the murderer of Sir Reginald Bullwinkle?”

Holmes moved closer to the screen as he said. “On the grounds that you created all this, the programme, the environment, the game – we are all merely players in your charade. Professor Moriarty may well have been the physical culprit, but who set him on? Who is ultimately behind everything? You chose both the victim and the murderer the circumstances and motive (such as it is, doesn’t really hold much water if you ask me,) and planted the necessary evidence. Evidence, I might add, that even Watson could make a case from!”

“Really Holmes,” Watson called out from the background, “I can tolerate you talking to yourself but not if it means insulting me!”

Holmes sighed. “You are the God of my world;” he said sadly, “the responsibility for what goes on here is yours. When it come to the death of Sir Reginald, you were holding the deadly candlestick/revolver/lead-pipe/noose/press E now for all of the above just assuredly as Moriarty. I rest my case.”

“Oh,” said Roberts, “Balls.”

“I could have said as much,” agreed Willis, “in fact I think I have already, and more than once.”

Roberts addressed Holmes. “But Moriarty is just the same as you, who’s to say he doesn’t have free will as well?”

“Define free will,” said Holmes with a dangerous glint, “go on, please do so.”

Roberts was beginning to feel a little sick. “Well anyway, up here that’s an excuse that doesn’t work, we don’t let murderers off the hook by blaming God!”

“Oh,” said Holmes, “Moriarty is in prison already poor fellow – I just wanted you to know that I am aware of the full scale of the plot against Sir Reginald, and that I know well just who the true Napoleon of Crime is. I will not be solving anymore cases, I refuse.”

“You can’t prevent it.” Willis interjected.

“I am taking a European vacation,” said Holmes, “a short holiday to the Reichenbach falls, from which, and having once arrived, I fully intend to hurl myself. See how you like that!”

“This is – you are – impossible!” Willis yelled. Roberts agreed, hitting the mute key he said, “well that’s that – we'll just have to scrap the whole thing and start again, build a new programme and work out where we went wrong.”

“Now tell me that doesn’t raise a few philosophical issues!” Willis looked sarcastically triumphant.

“Oh please,” said her fellow scientist, “let’s not go there. This isn’t high school. This is all…” he stopped,
catching something in the Willis’s expression. “What?” he asked eagerly. Willis didn’t reply, instead she turned to Holmes, adjusting the sound she asked, “When did you plan to go, er, off?”

“I have informed Mrs Hudson that I shall be away from next Thursday.”

“Right…” said Willis. “I see. Very well, uh, enjoy your trip!”

Holmes looked taken aback – as much as a large white and silver robot can. “But-“

Willis cut him off.

........

Three days later, John H. Watson was finishing his dinner - and trying his best to ignore the sound of Holmes who was busy stamping on his violin – as Mrs Hudson came in to announce that Baker Street had a visitor.
“Mrs Hudson, I told you – I am not taking up any more cases!” Holmes barked testily.

Mrs Hudson was used to Holmes and took his rudeness in her stride. “Why Mr Holmes,” she said, “I’ve shown him in already – he’s says a detective like yourself.”

“Really?”

As one, Watson and Holmes moved from their places and stood together by the hearth, ready for anything.

“What’s the chap’s name?” asked Watson.

Mrs Hudson waved a small calling card. “Father Brown,” She answered, “I’ll show him up shall I?”

.......

Way, way up and far off two scientists were peering down at the screen watching the game they were testing and greeting the latest character with satisfied smirks. “Let THEM fight it out shall we?” said of them – and they laughed with something that sounded like relief.

the end