A Study in Sherlock

The police sergeant left the desk, making his way along the corridor, where he entered the inner sanctum via wood-framed glass doors. The boy—who was now very hot and flushed—seated himself on the dark wooden bench. Soon the sergeant returned.

“This way, son.”

The boy was slightly disappointed in Detective Inspector Stickley. He had hoped for a ferret-featured Lestrade, who would be suitably impressed by the findings of a new and potentially important consulting detective. This man was tall, checked his pocket watch as he entered the room, and seemed to treat the visitor as if he were the day’s light entertainment.

“Right then, tell me what makes you think someone’s been murdered on my patch.”

The boy took a deep breath and recounted the story from the time he was sent home from school. And though he did not mention Holmes, the detective inspector appeared to have a sixth sense.

“Been reading a bit of old Sherlock, have we, son?”

The boy blushed but feigned ignorance. “Sherlock? I beg your pardon, sir, but I do not know what you mean.”

“I thought all boys read Sherlock Holmes.” He sighed. “Anyway, I’ll do this for you. I’ll go round and see your Mrs. Richmond, and I’ll take a gander at the front bedroom, and we’ll see if what you say gives us cause for concern. We’ve had a bit of trouble on that road in the past fortnight, what with reckless drivers of motorcars and what have you.”

“Thank you, Detective Inspector Stickley.”

The detective stood up and put his arm on the boy’s shoulder as he guided him along the corridor.

“Thought about policing when you leave school, son?”

The boy turned to the man; the thought had never occurred to him. “Well, I thought I might like to study law at university, but my uncle has suggested the civil service examinations.”

The policeman raised his eyebrows, but said little else, except to ask the sergeant if they had the young man’s correct particulars on file.

Now the boy was more concerned with catching up with Algebra, Latin, and the Elizabethans than the mystery that had occupied the worst days of his sickness. He read a little Mark Twain and William Makepeace Thackeray—both favorite authors—and on Sunday morning skimmed through The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor for good measure. Clearly the police had not investigated the crime he’d witnessed, or perhaps they had not considered him man enough to keep him informed of their progress. Then, on Sunday afternoon while napping in his room, he was woken by voices at the front door. Though he had been allowed up since the day before, weakness left in the wake of the bout of measles—and his secret excursions—had sent him to his bed with fatigue. The doctor had already decreed that he could not return to school for another three days at least. Upon hearing an exchange between his mother and a man whose voice sounded familiar, the boy left his bed and made his way onto the landing to eavesdrop.

“A message for your son, madam—would you tell him that Detective Inspector Stickley called?”

“Oh dear, is there some sort of trouble?”

“Not at all, madam. He was most helpful in the matter of an investigation. Most helpful.”

Clearly Stickley wasn’t alone, for the boy heard another man begin to chuckle.

“Please inform him that we have completed our inquiries, and we would like him to have this as a mark of our gratitude for his sharp skills of observation.”

The boy leaned around the wooden banister and could see his mother take an envelope from the man. She was flustered and—fortunately, he thought—simply thanked the man and bid him good-bye. The boy rushed back to bed and closed his eyes.

He heard the bedroom door open, and his mother’s quiet breathing as she watched her sleeping son. Later she conducted her own investigation, and the boy managed to persuade her that he had only left the house once, to inform the police of the gunshots he’d heard on the day he came home from school sick with measles. She scolded him, but as he opened the envelope, she admitted she was proud of him.

“What does the letter say?”

The boy frowned. “The inspector thanked me for reporting what I saw on Margaret Street, and he says he hopes we enjoy ourselves.” He held four tickets in his hand. “They’re for Alexandra Palace on Wednesday.”

The mother took the tickets. “It looks like a music hall comedy troupe. Let’s see if you’re well enough, shall we? It’s quite a way across London, you know.”

The boy made sure he was well enough by Wednesday evening and, together with the women of the house, set off for Alexandra Palace in his uncle’s motorcar. In an uncharacteristic offer of generosity, Ernest had provided a chauffeur to take his mother, sisters, and nephew to Alexandra Palace and bring them home again.

The family thoroughly enjoyed the music hall acts, from the songs to the slapstick. Then, close to the end of the show, the scenery was changed again to stage a drawing room in a grand house. A man and a woman took to the boards, and began a farcical exchange, whereby the man defended himself, with great aplomb, from verbal attack by the woman. The audience cheered and called out, and soon the man was turning to the crowd to ask for their support. More cheers, more calling, as men took the actor’s side, and women called out in favor of the actress. And as the back and forth went on, so the boy began to slide down in his seat, covering his face with his hands. It would not take the mind of a consulting detective to predict the outcome. It was elementary. Voices on the stage were raised again.

“You are nothing but a philanderer, a thief, and a … a … a thoroughly nasty piece of work. I wish I had never met you.”

“And that, madam, is a sure case of the pot calling the kettle black!”

“Don’t you ‘madam’ me, you lout!”

The audience erupted again, as the man brandished a gun and fired into the air. The boy blushed, as his mother turned to him and smiled.

“Oh, Ray,” she whispered in his ear. “I wish I had not doubted you—you were right all along. You did hear a gunshot.”

The following morning, on his way to school, the boy called at the police station to see Detective Inspector Stickley, knowing that an English gentleman would offer an apology where one was required, and take a goodly bite of humble pie.

“No apologies needed, son.” Stickley paused, regarding the boy. “But a bit of advice. Deeper questioning. You should have asked a few more questions about the lodger; you might have discovered that he was an actor and the troupe were moving on to Alexandra Palace after a run at the Empire down the road—and like many of his ilk, he tried to slip out without paying his rent. And the bloke was only practicing his lines for a new act with the girl who was playing opposite him—mind you, he shouldn’t have broken the rule about women in his room. And if you’d’ve looked up, son, you would have seen a nasty black mark where the blank gunpowder wad hit the ceiling.”

The boy left the police station and went on his way. Clearly detection was not for him. It was time to put all thoughts of Holmes, his silly backward thinking and his pacing, his magnifying glass and his tape measure behind him. He preferred poetry anyway.

Mr. Hose, the English master, stood at the blackboard, chalk in hand. He regarded his class. For the first time in weeks, all were present. The outbreak of measles had swept through Dulwich College—a noted school for well- bred boys—like the plague. His lessons would be a source of pleasure again, especially as his favorite pupil had returned and was well enough, if not yet hearty.

“Chandler, glad to see you in class again. I trust you have kept up with the Elizabethans?”

The boy stood up to answer, as was customary. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, if you would be so kind, do tell the class which of the learned gentlemen you chose as subject for your essay.”

“Philip Marlowe, sir.”

The class snickered.

“Still measled, are we, Chandler?”

“Sorry, sir. I meant to say, Sir Philip Sidney, sir.”

“Didn’t care for Marlowe, Chandler?”

The boy shook his head. “I rather prefer Sidney’s verse, sir.”