‘He must be wrong!’ exclaimed Lestrade. ‘That cannot be right.’
‘Why not, pray?’ asked my friend.
‘Well, he’s not remembered it properly,’ said the inspector. ‘He says that there was a smell of smoke and then there was a gunshot. Numbers of other persons have told my officers that they heard the shot and then they saw smoke drifting from the shrubbery. He’s got it wrong.’
‘I would agree with you, Lestrade, that it is of the utmost importance to keep events in the correct sequence, but can you tell me if any other witness was as near the shrubbery as Freddy, or noticed a man there before the gunshot?’
‘Well, no,’ said the little policeman. ‘The boy was the nearest one to the shrubbery that we could find, but he must be wrong.’
‘It is also,’ said Holmes, ‘of the utmost importance to avoid disbelieving a witness simply because their evidence does not fit a preconceived theory of the incident.’
I began to have some slight idea of where Holmes was taking us.
‘You said earlier,’ I recalled, ‘that the story told by Kyriloff and the count would only make sense if there was no shot. Is that what you believe, Holmes?’
‘Excellent, Watson!’ exclaimed Sherlock Holmes. ‘That is not only what I believe, it is what I know.’
Lestrade was gaping in amazement. ‘But umpteen people heard the shot,’ he said.
Holmes shook his head. ‘No, Lestrade. A large number of people, every one of whom was concerned with something else and not expecting a shot from the shrubbery, heard what sounded like a pistol shot.
They looked and saw smoke drifting from the shrubbery. Meanwhile, Count Stepan had made his
dramatic plunge out of the saddle and Kyriloff had leapt to assist him. The onlookers heard a sound, saw smoke drifting and a man fell from his horse. What more natural than that they should believe a shot had been fired - as indeed they were supposed to do.’
He knocked out his pipe on the grate. ‘I have told both of you, on numerous occasions, that the most likely explanation is usually the correct one. This is an interesting example of that argument being turned on its head. Someone who understands the processes of investigation has played on that factor to produce a false impression, to create a body of completely honest witnesses who will assert that a shot was fired.’
‘Who would have done that?’ I asked. ‘Kyriloff? But he was in full view, on horseback alongside the count.’
‘It has a certain smack of the major about it,’ agreed Holmes. ‘He probably planned the event, but someone else carried out his instructions.’
Lestrade had been silently absorbing Holmes’ explanation. Now he burst out. ‘Are you saying, Mr Holmes, that all this was some kind of a joke? Do you mean no shot was fired and that me and my men have been wasting our time?’
‘I do not think I would call it a joke, Lestrade. The major has never struck me as a man with much sense of humour, but it is certainly a ruse of some kind.’
Holmes reached into his pocket and tossed something across to the inspector. It was a small cylinder of coloured pasteboard, burned at one end - the remains of a small firework.
‘A Guy Fawkes banger!’ exclaimed Lestrade. ‘I shall have my superiors make a stiff protest to the embassy!’
‘Only to be told,’ said Holmes, ‘that the Russian ambassador cannot be held responsible for the actions of every prankster in London. Far better to let Kyriloff believe that you accept his story. That may lead us to discover what it is that really frightens the count.’
‘What about,’ I asked, ‘the description which Kyriloff gave of the perpetrator? It sounded very much like —’
Holmes shot me a fiercely warning glance.
‘—a complete invention,’ I went on. ‘Surely, such a man would have been easily noticeable among the crowds in Rotten Row?’
‘Certainly,’ agreed Holmes, ‘but he was not there. He was not even the man who ignited the firework.’
‘How do you know, Mr Holmes?’ asked Lestrade.
‘Because young Freddy saw the man who was in the shrubbery and who left it just after the explosion.
He was able not only to provide a very good description, but also to identify a picture.’
‘A picture!’ Lestrade exclaimed, open-mouthed. ‘You have a picture of the perpetrator?’
Holmes reached into the inside pocket of his coat, withdrawing a folded sheet of paper.
‘Not until young Freddy had given me a complete description of the man that he saw, and until I had formed a theory as to who that man might be, did I show him this picture. His response was immediate.
“That,” he said, “is the cove what lit the banger.” He was completely sure.’
He passed the paper to the little detective, who sat and stared at it for some minutes.
‘Might I ask, Mr Holmes,’ said Lestrade eventually, ‘who this picture represents and how you came by it?’
‘As to who it represents, Lestrade, it is a picture of one of Major Kyriloff’s aides, I suspect. It is certainly a young man who has been seen about a great deal in Kyriloff’s company. I imagine that you will find him among the Intelligence operatives at the Russian Embassy. As to the picture’s origin, that is a matter of confidentiality between myself and a client.’
Lestrade went to speak, but Holmes forestalled him with a raised palm.
‘Before,’ he said, ‘you remind me that I could be arrested for obstructing the course of justice, I would say that my client has no idea of the name of that man, nor of his purposes. You would gain nothing by interviewing her.’
‘Then I suppose I must accept what you say, Mr Holmes, but it’s a pretty rum affair. If you’re right, the Russians have faked an attack on one of their visitors to the Jubilee, but for what reason, Mr Holmes, for what reason?’
‘I have told you what happened in Hyde Park today,
Lestrade. I rather think it is up to you to discover why it happened,‘ said Holmes, with a perfectly straight face.
The little inspector emptied his glass, thanked us for dinner and for Holmes’ views on the case, and showed himself out.
When he had gone I turned to Holmes. ‘Why,’ I asked, ‘did you not explain the business of the man in the striped blazer?’
Holmes lifted an eyebrow at me. ‘Because, Watson, you and I know that no such person exists. It would be a shame to send poor Lestrade along a trail which will take him nowhere.’
Mrs Hudson tapped on the door and entered. ‘While the inspector was here,’ she said, ‘this was delivered for you, Mr Holmes,’ and she handed him a large brown envelope.
‘Very good,’ he said, and laid the packet down without opening it. Taking out his pocketbook he scribbled a few lines and gave the page to Mrs Hudson with some coins. ‘Perhaps you will be so good,’
he said, ‘as to see that this message is sent as soon as the telegraph offices open.’
When she was gone he turned to me with a broad smile. ‘Now, Watson,’ he said, ‘we seem to have discharged our obligations for the day. Would you object to a little music?’
When an investigation was frustrated, Holmes would vent his feelings on his violin, usually in a series of angry and dissonant phrases repeated indefinitely, but when in a good mood he was a delightful player with a considerable gift for improvisation. I made myself comfortable in my chair as he picked up his Stradivarius and launched into the first of a sequence of low, dreamy melodies. Soon the music had lulled me to sleep.
The brown envelope lay unopened on the table.
Eleven
A Visit to a Relative
Holmes and I were at breakfast next morning when the reply to his wire arrived. He slit the envelope, glanced briefly at its contents, and passed the form across the table to me with no comment. It said: MR SHERLOCK HOLMES, 221B BAKER STREET, LONDON.
