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Fiction. © Copyright 2000, Jim Loy
My name is Inspector Richard Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Yes, I do consider "Inspector" and "of Scotland Yard" to be parts of my name. You probably know me as a bungling fool. I am rather notorious in that respect, thanks to the writings of Dr. Watson. Mr. Sherlock Holmes certainly seemed to have little respect for my talents, talents which have brought me some small measure of success at Scotland Yard. The arrogance of the man irked me. And I often found myself belittling his great talents in return.
Although I cannot pretend to understand the mental processes of Mr. Holmes, I have learned much from him. I am now much more meticulous and thorough in the collection of physical evidence. Although I cannot distinguish one kind of tobacco ash from another, I now routinely call upon forensic scientists who can. Although I would not admit this to Mr. Holmes, I have even found myself crawling in the dirt in the search for footprints and other small clues.
I was investigating the death of Sir Reginald McHenry. He died in his study, which is on the ground floor of his house, while he was seated at his desk. He had been shot once in the left temple, in front of and slightly above the ear, with one of his own favorite pistols. There were powder burns on his head, all about the wound. Sir Reginald was right-handed, a fact that seemed to have no importance, since the pistol was nowhere to be found in the room. The door was closed but not locked. The window was also closed but not locked. Death occurred sometime after midnight. His body was discovered by Goodman, the butler, the next morning. Goodman then locked the door, and admitted no one until the police arrived.
The house is extremely large, with extensive grounds. The servants sleep in the opposite end of the building. Sir Reginald's wife and six-year-old son Reggy sleep upstairs in the same wing of the house that the study is in. Neither the mother nor the boy claims to have heard the shot, although Lady McHenry said that she awoke from a "dead sleep" and wondered what had disturbed her sleep. She had the impression that she had heard a sound. She heard nothing more, and went back to sleep.
The pistol, which was proven to have caused Sir Reginald's death, was found next to a large bone, inside a doghouse around the side of the house. The doghouse was occupied by a large, friendly German shepherd named Fuzzle. Lady McHenry explained that the dog was quite fuzzy when it was small. And little Reggy had named the dog Fuzzle. Little Reggy seemed to know nothing of importance pertaining to the crime. He was a member of the species that I call "spoiled brat." In fact, he shot me in the left eye with a squirt gun. After that, we prudently kept out of each other's way.
The child's tutor, a Mr. Anders Johansen, lives in the servant wing. He is a handsome young man, obviously highly educated. His fingerprints were found on the pistol. He said that he had handled the weapon a few days before Sir Reginald's death. This is his statement in that regard: "Sir Reginald invited me into his study. He offered me a drink, which I declined. He opened a glass case on the wall, and pulled out a gun. I was shocked, and feared for my life, although I had no logical reason to fear Sir Reginald. He handed the gun to me and asked, 'What do you think of this?' I told him that it looked like a gun. He exhaled abruptly and shook his head, as if disappointed with a slow student. He then told me, at some length, the noble history of the disgusting weapon. I do not remember the details. He then told me to aim the pistol at one of the knickknacks on the mantle, and asked me if I could not feel the 'magnificent balance' of that cursed lump of steel. The gun frightened me. I fled from the room in irrational panic. I could hear Sir Reginald laughing as I left. It was very embarrassing."
Lady McHenry is a young, attractive woman, less than half the age of her husband. "No, my husband had no enemies, certainly none who would kill him." She and her husband were on good terms. She did not mention "love." They slept in separate rooms. They had been married for six years. She smiled whenever she mentioned her son, Reggy. She did not smile when she mentioned her husband. But she did hide her grief well. Lady McHenry said that she assumed that she would inherit the estate. Once, during my investigation, I saw Lady McHenry and Mr. Johansen walking in the garden, holding hands. Once I saw them embracing. At other times, they were distinctly cool toward each other.
Besides the bare facts, Goodman the butler was extremely uninformative. Did your master have enemies? "I couldn't say, sir." What do you think of Mr. Johansen? "He seems pleasant enough, sir." Did Sir Reginald have a happy marriage? "I'm sure I couldn't say, sir." Goodman had worked for the family for over thirty years.
There was a great deal of gossip, among the other servants, about Lady McHenry and Mr. Johansen. Everyone, except the butler, Sir Reginald, and presumably little Reggy seemed to know that they were having a love affair.
We discovered that there was a very large insurance policy. Upon the death of Sir Reginald, Lady McHenry became much more wealthy than she had let on. "Yes that is my signature. I don't remember signing it, though. My husband sometimes had me sign documents. I don't remember this one." She seemed to always say, "my husband," never "Reginald."
I was reminded of Mr. Sherlock Holmes' famous clue, for the dog did not bark in the night. No one claimed to have heard the dog barking. Someone had placed the pistol in Fuzzle's dog house, and the dog did not bark. Despite his less than imposing name, Fuzzle is large. And I am sure that he is capable of attacking and disabling an intruder, if he so desires. Lady McHenry had every faith that Fuzzle could protect the family. I found that, friendly by day, the dog was highly territorial by night. I approached the house at night, and Fuzzle warned me away with growls and barks. I did not risk my life and limb by getting close enough to his doghouse to throw a pistol into it.
The evidence pointed very strongly at Mr. Johansen as the murderer, perhaps with the knowledge and assistance of Lady McHenry. It was certainly tempting to arrest Mr. Johansen. And yet, something was wrong. We all have hunches, now and then. Policemen, myself included, sometimes rely upon them quite heavily.
Mr. Holmes has helped my career a great deal. I think that it is to my credit that my own pride in my abilities has not prevented me from seeking his help on occasion. As reluctantly as always, I again went to visit Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson was not at home. Holmes agreed to come out to the McHenry estate. In the carriage, I filled him in on the details of the case. When I was done telling the story, Holmes asked, "And what is wrong with your case, Lestrade?"
"I do not know. The case is so strong against this Johansen fellow ... It's ... It's almost too strong."
Holmes sat there for some time, regarding me with those intense eyes of his. "Excellent."
You cannot imagine the effect that that one word had upon me. "Excellent." A tingle rushed through my body. Did I respect this man that highly? Did I actually strive to please him, as I had for my own father? Then I remembered how cruel Holmes could be with his sarcasm. "Mr. Holmes, are you perhaps joking."
He seemed puzzled by my question. "No ... No, excellent. Your instincts have been very good in this case."
We arrived at the estate. In the study, Holmes opened a desk drawer and pulled out a ball of twine. I asked him, "You knew that was there?"
"No, but I expected something of the kind." He didn't explain that further. He examined the end of the twine. He said, "Johansen may indeed be guilty, Lady McHenry too." He picked up a letter opener from the top of the desk. "But we may be able to clear up your misgivings about the case..." He tested the letter opener by easily slicing a sheet of paper in half. "...And my misgivings." He examined the window sill, where there was a small amount of brown dirt. He opened the window and looked out. He squawked in a most undignified manner as the window fell down upon his neck. He laughingly assured us that he was uninjured.
I asked him if he wanted to interview the household. He replied, "That will not be necessary. My case is nearly complete. We must merely interview Fuzzle." We went out to the doghouse. There Holmes and Fuzzle got along as if they were old friends. Holmes examined the bone which seemed to be the leg bone of a sheep or calf or some such animal. It had no meat on it, and was covered with teeth marks. I wondered if Mr. Holmes had ever written a monograph on teeth marks on dog bones. Then, still carrying the bone, he beckoned for Fuzzle to follow him, as we went back indoors. Holmes ignored the butler's objections that the dog was not allowed into the house. Fuzzle happily followed Holmes right into the study, as if he had been there a hundred times before.
I watched, trying to puzzle out what Holmes was doing, as he measured out a rather long length of twine and easily cut it with the letter opener. He then tied one end of the twine around the bone. He made a loop of the other end, and linked it onto Fuzzle's collar. Then he opened the window, and positioned the dog's bone so that it held up the window. Then he said, "I will need to borrow a pistol."
I had the butler open the gun case. Holmes selected a pistol, "Is this similar to the pistol that killed Sir Reginald?" I responded that it was the twin of that pistol. Holmes showed me that the pistol was not loaded. He cut off a smaller piece of twine. He looped it through the finger guard of the pistol and then through Fuzzle's collar. Then he tied the ends of this twine together to complete the loop.
Then Holmes sat down in Sir Reginald's chair, at the desk. He summoned Fuzzle, who had a pistol and assorted twines dangling from his collar. Fuzzle placed his front paws upon the arm rest of the chair. The pistol dangled near Holmes' left ear. I gasped as Holmes grasped the pistol and pointed it at his own head, even though I knew that the pistol was not loaded. Holmes said, "Bang!" And he dropped the pistol.
Fuzzle trotted to the window and leaped through it, taking the pistol with him. Soon the bone was pulled through the window, and the window crashed shut. Holmes and I raced out of the house and out to the doghouse. There we found Fuzzle chewing on twine.
I turned to Holmes, "Incredible. But no pieces of twine were found in the doghouse."
Holmes lifted his finger to the air, and said, "Patience."
Fuzzle had chewed through both pieces of twine, thereby freeing them from his collar and from the pistol. He was now busy chewing on the knot of the twine that was tied around his bone. Soon we followed him out to the garden, where we watched him bury the pieces of twine.
I said, "Sir Reginald McHenry taught Fuzzle to do all that, didn't he?"
Holmes nodded silently. Then he said, "Lestrade, your hunch has saved at least one life." He shook my hand.
Author's note: I don't know Lestrade's first name, so I made one up (Richard).