Frank Thomas: Sherlock Holmes and the Treasure Train

"What a strange saga!" I said.

"But definitely connected with the death of Ezariah Trelawney. It gives us two potential suspects with more motive for murder than many assassins might have," was Holmes' comment.

Chapter 3

The Blue-Eyed Dog

HOLMES SEEMED content with the preliminary review of facts. He rose, restlessly. Gone was the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street, and instead there was the great detective intent on the chase. His eyes shone with a steely glitter and his whole body seemed to cry for action.

"The hour is late, but is it possible for us to examine the Trelawney house now?"

"I was hoping you would suggest it," answered Bennett. "I have been staying there to make sure that sensation-seekers don't disturb the premises."

Leaving the Queens Arms and crossing the town square, we found ourselves at the door of a stately mansion set well back from the tree-lined street. No lights were visible in the small village and the silence was broken only by the sound of night crickets and the infrequent hoot of a distant owl. As we approached the house, our arrival was acknowledged by excited barks.

"Lama," said Constable Bennett. "The maid will keep the place in trim until there is a disposition of the estate and together we try and take care of the little tyke."

As he unlocked and opened the outer portal, a small terrier with a long, heavy coat rushed out, continuing to bark. The little dog sniffed at Holmes' boots, and then mine, to learn what he could. Evidently, he detected nothing suspicious and preceded us into the house. As Bennett led me through the large hall toward a side door Holmes paused to let the dog smell his hand and then took the liberty of stroking its long hair. Allowing Lama to show him the way, Holmes joined us in the room where Ezariah Trelawney had breathed his last.

I admired the beautiful wood paneling on the walls of the study, which must have dated back to the time of Cromwell or before. Bennett carefully explained that nothing had been moved, though the maid had insisted on opening the windows and airing out the room. Nevertheless, I could still detect the acrid odor of the Indian cigars to which the deceased was evidently addicted. The study was a man's room with hunting trophies adorning the walls. An ancient suit of armor was standing in one corner.

Holmes inspected the chair in which Trelawney had been sitting, noted the attendant ashtray, and finally seated himself in the chair. An unusual affinity seemed to have sprung up between Lama and the great detective. After some urging and a couple of suggestive pats on his knee, Holmes was able to coax the creature onto his lap, where the little fellow made himself quite comfortable and appeared to sleep. Holmes remained immobile so as not to disturb the dog as he offered a suggestion.

"Let us recreate the crime casting you, Watson, in the sinister role of assailant unknown."

"As you wish, Holmes," I replied, knowing that the little games that my friend chose to play frequently climaxed in amazing revelations. "What actions are called for in your manuscript?"

"You approach me from the door—stealthily, of course." I did so. "Now, I am sitting here, with a lighted cigar. I take a puff and place the cigar in the ashtray, with my right hand, as presumably, my left hand is holding a book."

"The fallen book was on the left side of the chair," interjected Bennett.

Holmes continued his fantasy. "Watson, you have a wooden weapon in your hand and you deliver a resounding whack to the back of my head." In dumb show, I followed directions. "Now," continued Holmes, "I presume that the path of the blow that you just delivered would bash me on the right side, since you happen to be right-handed."

"You are correct, Holmes," I agreed.

A keen glance from Holmes prompted Bennett to produce a pocket notebook, which he riffled quickly and then read from: "The right occipital and parietal bones of the victim's skull were shattered by a blow from a heavy weapon." He flipped his notebook shut. "That was the statement of Dr. Devon Almont," he continued.

There was a sardonic smile on the detective's face. "And, my dear Bennett, while you made reference to the Silver Blaze incident, I rather fancy that you considered another matter with which I was once occupied. May I hazard the guess that young Charles Trelawney is left-handed?"

The constable nodded, a gleam of admiration in his eyes. "I did not wish to muddle your thought processes with my own ideas, but you have arrived unerringly at the point that has bothered me."

"I'm delighted that you are both in agreement," I said, with a touch of asperity in my voice. "Would someone explain this to me?"

"'Black Jack of Ballarat,'" quoted Holmes. "Come now, Watson, if you were left-handed, would you have delivered the same blow that you just did in dumb show?"

"Of course not. How stupid of me." My mind flashed back to another time and a baffling mystery that had also taken place in rural surroundings. "But wait just a minute," I continued, prompted by another thought. "If Charles is ruled out as the murderer, we are left with Horace Ledbetter and Vincent Staley as suspects. Would the dog now dozing in your lap, Holmes, have allowed either of them to enter the house, much less this room, without raising a row?" I turned to Constable Bennett. "What breed of canine is Lama anyway? I don't recall ever seeing one like him before."

"Mostly terrier, I would imagine," was Bennett's answer. "A mixed breed."

"Let me disagree on that point," stated Holmes.

Suddenly, while gently stroking the subject under discussion, Holmes' lips pursed and he emitted a shrill whistle. The dog lay undisturbed on his lap.

"Good heavens, Holmes," I stammered. "What was that for?"

"Merely an experiment, old boy." Holmes' glance returned to Bennett. "As to Lama's ancestry, let me assure you that he is a pure-bred and blue-blood indeed. As Watson well knows, following the incident at Reichenbach Falls, I placed myself in voluntary exile for several years, since two most vindictive enemies of mine, who were part of Professor Moriarty's gang, were still at liberty. During that period I traveled to Tibet and visited Lhasa to confer with the head lama. Sitting in my lap, gentlemen, is a Lhasa Apso, also known as a Tibetan terrier. They are bred in that country as watchdogs. I suggested that the breed might be introduced to England, but others, more knowledgeable on the subject, felt that our lowlands might not prove suitable to the strain. Anywhere in England is the lowlands to Lama here, since his native habitat is at sixteen thousand feet above sea level. However, our comparatively heavy atmosphere doesn't seem to have bothered this little chap, so perhaps my original thought was not without merit."

"This is all very interesting, Holmes," I persisted, "but you still haven't answered my question."

"The Lhasa Apso is peculiar in that it is the only dog, to my knowledge, that frequently has blue eyes. Oh, occasionally a Dalmatian may have one blue eye, but not two. Consider for a moment, both of you, how many blue-eyed dogs either of you has seen."

Bennett and I exchanged a glance and then a shrug. "I don't usually make note of the color of a dog's eyes," said the constable, "but I daresay you are right, Mr. Holmes."

"Both of Lama's eyes are blue," stated Holmes, as though this brought the matter to an end.

"For the life of me I fail to see what the little fellow's eye coloration has to do with this case." Possibly my tone was somewhat testy.

"Blue-eyed dogs are very subject to congenital defects, Watson. The most common one is deafness. Lama is as deaf as a post."

"But he barked his head off when we arrived."

"His sense of smell, dear boy, more acute in a canine than his sense of hearing. On the night of the murder, I picture Lama peacefully asleep at his master's feet in his soundless world. You noted, of course, that my shrill whistle of a moment ago did not even make him flinch. Trelawney was smoking one of his Indian cigars, the odor of which Lama has become unwillingly accustomed to through the passage of time. But the cigar smell effectively smothered the dog's ability to raise a scent. The acrid smoke anesthetized Lama's olfactory sense. Through no fault of his own, the poor dog was completely incapable of performing the task he was bred to do. Namely, to be a good watchdog."