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Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes and the Resonant Roar of Reichenbach!

An abducted policeman, a hunted woman, a mysterious invitation; all this and more awaits Aurthur Conan Doyle’s immortal detective, Sherlock Holmes! The year is 1891, and a grim shadow looms over the future of Sherlock Holmes. The diabolical Professor Moriarty has given a promise to the detective, a promise that by the end of the week he will be dead. Following a trail of clues and a series of gruesome murders, Holmes and his friend Dr. Watson set out on a race to end the Professor before his plan comes to pass, a race that ends with the daunting conclusion at Reichenbach Falls!

The Riley’s Farm Sherlock Holmes Mystery Dinner will have you on the edge of your seat as you watch the evening unfold  on and off stage. The evening includes a fine feast, live music, an exquisite dessert, and a chilling mystery. Don’t miss Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s timeless characters come to life in Sherlock’s newest, original case!

Do not tarry any longer, purchase your tickets while they last! The Game’s afoot!

*For additional background on Holmes’ current case, recommended reading of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s ‘The Final Problem.”

And read notes on Sherlock’s previous case last year found on the details page!


Join us for Sherlock Holmes’ 6th case at Riley’s Farm.

Event Nights: March 11th, 12th, 18th, 19th, 25th, 26th and April 1st and 2nd.

Make certain you show up early so you don’t miss a thing!


Saturday Event Itinerary


Check-in begins in the Packing Shed General Store

Appetizer Service, Hayrides, and greet the characters.


Act 1 – ‘Data, Data, Data…’


Dinner Service & Clues


Act II – ‘Forming bricks.’


Dessert & Final Clues


Act III – ‘The final fall.’

Note: Friday performances take place one hour later than Saturday performances


Appetizers – Tea and Scones with Clotted Cream


Spring Salad

Beef and Ale Pot Pie

Chicken Puff Pastry Parcels

Roasted Asparagus

Ginger Honey Carrots


English Trifle

Dr. Watson’s notes on Holmes’ case last year, “The Sanguinary Siege of 221B.”

“…Holmes and I retired to a leisure pipe and fire for the remainder of the evening. Enjoying the first moment of peace we had the whole day. With the dastardly Alistair Harvey arrested and our ‘guests’ leaving, we sat resting in our flat, to our disappointment, Mrs. Hudson informed us of yet another caller…”
“Pardon sirs, but there is a gentleman caller who-”
“No!” Interrupted Holmes, his right hand waving the annoyance away. He sat collapsed in his red arm chair, pipe in his mouth, smoke fleeting upward in a lazy flow. He was tired, I noticed. His whole frame spread outward in complete surrender to fatigue. Evidently the nights erupting excitement had taken its toll, and the remains that sat in the chair were the battered remnants of the great detective.
“Most urgent sir, says it’s in the regards of a…Mr. Scullen?” Mrs. Hudson had managed to get out, anticipating Holmes’ interruption once more.
“What?” My friend said, springing upward, his back arching straight and ridged as a board.
At this I was a little confused. “Who?” I asked, walking forward and taking a seat next to my companion. All his attention had been pulled to Mrs. Hudson and the name she had uttered.
“Show him in! Show him in!”
“And so I shall, but I warn you Mr. Holmes, if even so much as a scratch appears on any article of furniture-”
“Yes, Yes.” Holmes dismissed the objection. “Of course, please show him in.”
Mrs. Hudson deciphered his patronizing, which chased away any ounce of good humor toward my colleague. Her eyes narrowed. “Mark my warning, Mr. Holmes.”
And with that, our landlady turned on her heel and marched back toward the door, the audible and unnecessary slam of our door punctuating her departure. As she left, Holmes’ eyes whirled around to meet mine. I took a few puffs on my own pipe, my bewilderment ever growing. “Mr. Scullen? You know him Holmes?”
“The fellow who sent me the death note. Take caution Watson, we are about to have a most sinister visitor.”
Earlier in the evening, Holmes had received a message of death, a picture of an albatross hung lifeless by a noose around a man’s neck. In spite of the dangerous undertones of the grotesque art, Holmes had appeared unaffected, moving on through the night without hint of being pressed. At this point a young woman, a Miss Catriona Scott had called upon us, insisting we locate a Mr. Alastair Harvey, supposedly a lost suitor of hers. Upon investigation, it had come to light that the young man had misled the little thing in order to gain access into our flat and murder Holmes.
‘Catriona let slip it was you who advised her to see me in your absence, this way you could gain access to my home without arousing suspicion!’ Holmes had barked at Harvey, as Lestrade and his men hauled him to the dock. As the villain was being carried away, he uttered some offense to Holmes and knowledge of his employer, one Colonel Moran. Such were the actions that invaded our home not more then two hours prior. Now however, it appeared as though another bad omen had dawned our steps.
“Mr. Holmes?” A dark figure uttered from within the black hall beyond our threshold. It was a low scratchy voice, one of malice and unnerving measure wrapped into a hum of precision.
“Indeed, and you are this Colonel Mr. Harvey informed us of?” My friend asked, beckoning the shadow forward.
And so the man entered, the sound of deep steps echoing through the hall and into our room. He was dressed all in black, from his tall top hat to his leather shoes, and back to the ends of his gloved fingers. He wore a pressed dressing suit of similar shade, a charcoal vest saluted with a golden watch chain smiling to either pocket, and a pungent green curvet that decorated his collar in a fashion a military man wears his medals. His tall forehead domed out in a white curve, and his two eyes were deeply sunk in this head. He was clean-shaven, pale, and ascetic-looking. His shoulders were rounded from much study, and his face protruded forward, and was forever slowly oscillating from side to side in a curiously reptilian fashion.
He took a few more steps forward and was obliged to perch himself on our small study chair to Holmes’ right. The casual way in which he made himself at home had sent a tingle of gooseflesh up my back and Holmes’ hand to steady my shoulder. The man tipped his hat to us both, and took his unwanted leisure.
“Moran? Oh no, I am afraid not. The Colonel, like Mr. Scullen and Harvey, are…friends of mine. They are not of my nature, but merely the same breed.” He snickered with the hint of a smile that never truly took wing.
Holmes sat himself down, as did I, never taking his gaze off the dark fellow. “How interesting, you were the one who targeted me?”
“Indeed, I must say you are quite resourceful. If my will had been carried out, we would not be having this discussion now.”
“So sorry to disappoint you with my still breathing personage.”
At this I had lost what little hold I had on my temper. With legs that barley felt my own, I was on my feet in a moment, hands pressed into fists. “What goes on here? You openly admit to trying to kill my friend here? You are mad sir!”
The man’s head whipped to mine, his brow lowering into a perturbed curve downward, teeth bared. “Mad? No, I am not. I am many things, been called many things: cruel, heartless, ruthless, cunning, genius, even a snake. But not mad.”
“Your head…it oscillates from side to side…just like a snakes!” I calmed myself, Holmes gesturing me to reclaim my seat.
“Might I ask why you targeted me?” Holmes asked.
Our visitor took a moment to compose himself, his shoulders sinking back into the small ladder back of his hostage chair. In an air of charismatic annoyance he crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands on his lap.
“One of your more recent cases, The Engineer’s Thumb, it has…disturbed me. You forced a colleague to move away from his testing, his home. He is without resource now.”
“You refer to Colonel Lysander Stark.” Holmes recounted. “Quite the number of Colonels you have.”
The man smiled. “They are necessary. As you know he was harvesting uh…metallic deposits not-”
“Not fullers-earth like he claimed.” My friend interrupted.
The gentlemen narrowed his eyes, his head ever moving from one side to the other, in what might have be construed as a threat. “Yes. His research was invaluable to me, and now because of your meddling, I am without that resource.”
Holmes looked to me, then back to our intruder, a faint smile resting on his thin lips. “So sorry to interfere.”
“I found the late Mr. Harvey, learned of his traveling, his ‘unique’ studies of the countries abroad, and made him an offer he could not refuse. Took him under my employ, told him to find a way in secretly and slit your throat.”
Holmes’ slight smile dropped. “Late Mr. Harvey?”
“Come now, I cannot leave loose ends where they lie. I attended to the fellow.”
“Indeed, and you are to do away with me as well?”
At this the fellow pulled away, hands raised at the false accusation was hurled at him. “Me? No. I am not one for getting my hands dirty, there will be other times, other men, other opportunities.”
Once again my temper took control and I was standing, but this time Holmes followed me. It was all I could do to not lurch forward in consuming aggression. “You are a varlet sir!”
“Varlet? Perhaps you are getting closer Dr. Watson. I am a Professor of sorts, perhaps…a Napoleon of Crime. But I am sorry I must be on my way.”
The man took to his feet, carefully placing his chair back to it’s home. Holmes crossed his arms and furrowed his brow in a manor that suggested he was seizing a closer look. My friend often did so whenever his mind probed for more information into a matter. The naked eye could be deceiving he knew, and it was times like these he needed a stronger grasp on the problem that was presented. Often times he would remark, ‘Data, data, data, I can not form bricks without clay!’ Evidently, and to my disappointment, this was one for those times.
“I am devastated we enjoy your company for so little a time, you must drop in again sometime, Professor.” He said, offering a hand to the man.
“Oh rest assured you shall hear from me again.” The Professor remarked as he studied my friend’s gesture. Slowly, in a careful pace, the man took Holmes’ hand in his.
“Professor! Heh, professor of what?” I mocked.
“Mathamatics. Perhaps you have heard of me?” His suggested smile finally took shape on his tight lips, revealing glimpses of straight pearls within. I thought I had seen Homles’ shoulders stiffen as if he braced for something at the mention of mathematics. He knew something, something at present I did not comprehend, something that only the inner workings of Holmes could piece together.
The Professor’s black gloved hand retreated into his inside breast pocket and retrieved a lone slip of paper. “Perhaps my card?” He handed it to Holmes, his smile never leaving his swaying face. “Goodnight, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Goodnight.”
And with that the man departed, disappearing into the darkness beyond our door. Like a bad dream he was gone, vanishing into the night, into the streets, into the black.
Holmes stood silent, eyes fixed on the small card the sinister man had left him with. For a few tension fused moments, we stood there, barley breathing. The clock on the wall was the only presence breaking the silence with its’ tireless tick-tick-ticking. Finally, without any prelude, Holmes took a breath and spoke.
“Goodnight…Professor Moriarty…”