Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight,
Walk round about an oak, with great ragg’d horns;
And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle,
And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain
In a most hideous and dreadful manner:
You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know
The superstitious idle-headed eld
Received, and did deliver to our age,
This tale of Herne the Hunter for a truth.”
I shook my head in disbelief and asked, “Holmes, did you just quote Shakespeare at us?”
Yet my own wonder was nothing compared to Lestrade’s, who added, “Did you just accurately quote Shakespeare at us?”
Holmes harrumphed. “I have always been a lover of theater, you know that. And did you hear? The verse references Windsor Forest! That’s where we are! Right now!”
“We know where we are, Holmes,” Lestrade grumbled.
“Oh, then did you also know this is far from the only thing our beloved Bard teaches us about fairies? We also learn that fairies sometimes take an interest in a comely man-child, if ‘fair virtue’s force perforce’ do move them. And I don’t know if you’ve met James McCarthy yet, but let me tell you: he is a smoking-hot pile of fair virtue’s force. Might not they have acted on his behalf?”
“Yes, I saw,” I conceded. “Though I would ask that you entertain—just for a moment—the idea that the cloak might belong to a mortal man.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t though.”
“Well, it might.”
“Except that it doesn’t.”
“Holmes! Look. Let us say the cloak belonged to the man who Charles McCarthy was scheduled to meet at Boggart Pool—a man who wished him ill, and whom he met in Australia. Let us presume the man is in the area to keep his appointment. Yet, as he draws near the appointed place, he is surprised to find the two McCarthys arguing. Perhaps something that was said set him off. Perhaps the unknown man always intended ill. Whatever the cause, when James leaves, the criminal sees his chance to strike Charles. The old man is distracted—kicking bushes, making threats and not paying attention to anything but his retreating son. Our murderer grabs the closest weapon he can find—likely a good-sized rock—approaches Charles McCarthy from behind and does the deed. But here is the catch: he discards his cloak so it is not in his way. The sounds of the scuffle bring James back. The murderer has time to conceal himself, but not his cloak. He had to wait until James was occupied with his dying father before reclaiming the cloak and making his escape.”
“It is possible,” Lestrade admitted, “but not probable. So much stealth on the part of the murderer. Such a particular course of events; if even one element is out of place the whole story collapses. Here is a much more likely answer: James McCarthy bashed his father’s head in with the butt of his shotgun.”
“Bah!” Holmes shouted. “’Twas a fairy that did it! They can be quite mischievous, you know. Have you ever been walking down a deserted country lane when suddenly a pebble thwaps you in the back of the ear? You turn to look to see who threw it, but no one is there! That is how the mysterious boggarts let mortal man know they have not yet abandoned this world!”
I rolled my eyes at him. “Except he didn’t get thwapped in the ear, did he, Holmes? He got the back of his skull crushed.”
“Well, it must have been a big one, then.”
“It wasn’t a big fairy,” said Lestrade, his voice pregnant with strained patience. “It was the back of a gun.”
“Except,” I said, raising one finger, “that it demonstrably wasn’t. The gun was clean. No blood on the stock. No bits of hair and skin. The idea that it inflicted so terrible a wound and stayed pristine is risible.”
“Oh, you think it was a rock, I know,” Lestrade countered. “So then, why did we not find your blood-and-hair-covered murder rock, eh?”
“Because the murder took place next to a pond. If you had just killed a man and found yourself standing with a bloodstained rock next to a pool of water, what would you do? Rocks are not known for their buoyancy, after all, and let us remember that James McCarthy reported hearing splashing.”
“Your mysterious Australian murder-man theory makes no sense,” Lestrade complained.
“Oh, I think it makes a great deal more sense than James McCarthy killing his father,” I scoffed.
“Why? They often fought.”
“Then let me ask you, Lestrade: did James intend to murder his father by the pond that day?”
“Why not?”
“Because, if he had planned the murder, he’d have planned his story. And yes: full points for bizarre creativity with this disappearing, reappearing cloak and all. But here’s what his story does not do: it in no way exonerates him. Instead he keeps saying, ‘I probably deserve it,’ and, ‘I can’t explain what happened.’ Does it seem like a prepared alibi to you?”
“Well…” said Lestrade, “he is a bit… stupid.”
“Not that stupid,” I laughed. “He’s not an imbecile. He’s just a plain fellow. And I suggest we consider the notion that he may be dealing plainly with us.”
“Yah! Torg think so!” Grogsson bellowed, giving me a supportive shoulder slap that sent me sprawling against Holmes.
Lestrade gave a little smile at my rough treatment and suggested, “Or perhaps his story is so rudimentary because he did not have it prepared. Perhaps it was a crime of passion.”
Pushing myself off Holmes and gathering as much dignity as I could, I said, “That makes even less sense. A crime of passion? If that were the case, then in his moment of fury James would not only have had to resist shooting his father with the loaded gun he was currently holding, he’d also have to have had the foresight to avoid clubbing him with it. Do you think that’s what happened? Do you think he set his gun carefully aside and went to look for a rock?”
“Or a fairy,” Holmes pointed out, eager to keep his theory in the debate.
“And let us
