Paul Gilbert - The Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

It was in vain that I called his name once more and I stood before him, demanding a display of life. There would be none. I remained still, as if frozen to the spot, in a state of utter incomprehension. Thankfully my years of professional training and experience then overcame my initial shock and I checked his pulse and searched for the cause of death. This was not hard to find, for the crown of his head had received a massive blow from a large blunt object which had cracked the skull, caused internal bleeding and, therefore, instantaneous death.

Before raising the alarm I decided to rationalize this calamitous event in my mind, perhaps employing Holmes’s method in my own inadequate fashion.

The blood that rimmed the gaping wound was still moist, so I deduced that the ghastly deed had occurred shortly before my arrival. Evidently all had been well when the footman had settled Stamford into the booth, so therefore I assumed that the murderer must have acted on impulse without having prior knowledge of when we were scheduled to meet. As to whether the murderer had intended to implicate me I could not tell, nor would I be able to until I had questioned the footman. I summoned him at once and noted that he was at least as shocked as I had been at this awful discovery. I asked him how long Stamford had been waiting for me, and when he informed me that it had been for no more than ten minutes I realized just how bold the murderer had been.

I dispatched the aged servant to summon the police and then froze at the thought of how Lestrade or perhaps Bradstreet would view me in a situation so compromised. While I awaited the arrival of the authorities, I speculated that the murderer was undoubtedly a club member as I knew, only too well, how rigidly the Holborn managed their membership. The footman then returned to inform me that the arrival of the police was imminent and I thought it prudent to ensure that no one was allowed to leave the building before they came. My pulse quickened when he also informed me that there were no more than a dozen members taking lunch there that day and that none had departed since Stamford’s arrival. The culprit was still in the building!

A few moments later the detective who had been put in charge of the investigation strode into the room, flanked by two constables. My relief upon realizing that the investigation was to be undertaken by neither Lestrade nor Bradstreet was to be short-lived. Inspector Daley spoke with a broad Ulster accent and was evidently recently arrived from a rural constabulary, for his attire had not yet been urbanized.

Inspector Daley was a tall, broad-set man in his early forties whose ruddy pallor told of long days spent out of doors and long evenings spent within the confines of his local saloon. His suit and matching waistcoat were made of a colourful broad check tweed, his shoes were a full tan brogue, seldom seen in town nowadays. His hat, which he had promptly removed upon entering, was a green woollen thing with an absurd feather adorning its rim. Before addressing me he eyed me long and quizzically, his raised eyebrows almost touching his red tousled fringe!

‘So, I understand that you are the inventive scribe for the infamous Sherlock Holmes,’ Daley began, somewhat sarcastically.

‘If you are suggesting that I am the chronicler of the world’s foremost amateur detective, then I can confirm that I do, indeed, have that honour!’ I responded indignantly. ‘If you had researched your facts thoroughly you would have discovered that during the last three months alone, Mr Holmes has successfully closed eighteen of the Yard’s open files and that he has received his due recognition on but one occasion. Even then, it was only the involvement of the press that brought Holmes’s name to the fore.’

Daley glanced towards his constables who gravely nodded their confirmation. ‘Right, so …’ Daley tried to cover his embarrassment by rubbing his face roughly with his broad fingers.

‘Right, so what have we here?’ Daley’s question was redundant, for he was already standing over the body. ‘Quite a blow, would you not say, Doctor?’

‘As you say, quite a blow, but more significantly delivered to the exact spot where it would do the most damage,’ I suggested.

‘Ah, so you are implying that the murderer might possess some medical knowledge?’ Daley asked, still rubbing his forehead.

‘Either that or incredible luck. As you can see the victim has only received a single blow. Quite often in these cases it requires multiple blows to bring about instantaneous death. However, I am certain that you do not require me to tell you this!’ I added maliciously, for I had still not forgiven Daley for his slight on Holmes.

‘No, no of course not. Now, to business.’ Daley cleared his throat and whilst withdrawing his notebook and pencil from his inside pocket.

‘What was your exact purpose in meeting the victim here this afternoon?’ he asked. Despite his abrasive manner and the somewhat uncertain beginning to our interview, I began to realize that there was more to Daley than met the eye. Upon hearing of my friendship with Stamford and the nature of our proposed meeting, he immediately summoned the footman to confirm the time of my arrival and that of Stamford. He then dispatched him to obtain a list of those members still present within the building.

The footman’s evidence had surely convinced Daley of my innocence, and his manner visibly relaxed towards me. It was then, whilst we were awaiting the list that we both noticed the strange-looking crutch sitting unobtrusively in a corner of the room.

In a state of excitement Daley raced over to grab the unusual object and would surely have done so had I not cautioned him.

‘Inspector!’ I called. ‘It might be best to examine it before we obscure any possible clues with our bare hands.’

Daley glared at me quizzically for a moment, but then relented and stood away from the crutch. ‘Right you are, Doctor. See here now, there appear to be traces of blood down this side.’ As he pointed, I smiled at how deliberately he refrained from touching it.

I bent down to join Daley and observed that there was little in the way of indentation in evidence. I voiced my surprise at this. ‘It is most unusual when you consider the crushing blow that poor Stamford’s head has received.’ Daley nodded gravely in agreement, but he appeared to be as puzzled as I was at this discovery.

Our perplexity was increased further when the list of a dozen names eventually arrived, for there was not one name upon it that I could associate with Stamford nor one that was prefixed with ‘Doctor.’

Daley laid the list down thoughtfully upon the diningtable and lit his gnarled old pipe whilst I lit a cigarette and we both stared down at the names, hoping for inspiration, but in vain. Slowly Daley turned his head towards me and then, somewhat sheepishly he suggested: ‘I suppose this is the kind of problem that might inspire your friend Mr Sherlock Holmes?’

‘Very likely it is; however nobody seems to know his precise whereabouts.’ I then decided to put Daley out of his misery.

‘I suppose,’ I continued slowly, ‘that should you decide to dispense with my services for now, I might discover more about Holmes’s whereabouts once I return to our rooms in Baker Street. I am certain that were he to be presented with the unusual set of facts now facing us, it would not be difficult to entice him to come here.’

‘Oh, but you are a fine fellow, Dr Watson. It would be grand if you could,’ Daley responded, his mood visibly lightening. ‘In your absence my men here and I will begin interviewing the remaining members. Who knows, I may have something to report upon your return!’

‘Who knows?’ I repeated quietly as I took my leave, although reserving my own private doubts.