Inspector Daley was a tall, broad-set man in his early forties whose ruddy pallor told of long days spent out of doors and long evenings spent within the confines of his local saloon. His suit and matching waistcoat were made of a colourful broad check tweed, his shoes were a full tan brogue, seldom seen in town nowadays. His hat, which he had promptly removed upon entering, was a green woollen thing with an absurd feather adorning its rim. Before addressing me he eyed me long and quizzically, his raised eyebrows almost touching his red tousled fringe!
‘So, I understand that you are the inventive scribe for the infamous Sherlock Holmes,’ Daley began, somewhat sarcastically.
‘If you are suggesting that I am the chronicler of the world’s foremost amateur detective, then I can confirm that I do, indeed, have that honour!’ I responded indignantly. ‘If you had researched your facts thoroughly you would have discovered that during the last three months alone, Mr Holmes has successfully closed eighteen of the Yard’s open files and that he has received his due recognition on but one occasion. Even then, it was only the involvement of the press that brought Holmes’s name to the fore.’
Daley glanced towards his constables who gravely nodded their confirmation. ‘Right, so …’ Daley tried to cover his embarrassment by rubbing his face roughly with his broad fingers.
‘Right, so what have we here?’ Daley’s question was redundant, for he was already standing over the body. ‘Quite a blow, would you not say, Doctor?’
‘As you say, quite a blow, but more significantly delivered to the exact spot where it would do the most damage,’ I suggested.
‘Ah, so you are implying that the murderer might possess some medical knowledge?’ Daley asked, still rubbing his forehead.
‘Either that or incredible luck. As you can see the victim has only received a single blow. Quite often in these cases it requires multiple blows to bring about instantaneous death. However, I am certain that you do not require me to tell you this!’ I added maliciously, for I had still not forgiven Daley for his slight on Holmes.
‘No, no of course not. Now, to business.’ Daley cleared his throat and whilst withdrawing his notebook and pencil from his inside pocket.
‘What was your exact purpose in meeting the victim here this afternoon?’ he asked. Despite his abrasive manner and the somewhat uncertain beginning to our interview, I began to realize that there was more to Daley than met the eye. Upon hearing of my friendship with Stamford and the nature of our proposed meeting, he immediately summoned the footman to confirm the time of my arrival and that of Stamford. He then dispatched him to obtain a list of those members still present within the building.
The footman’s evidence had surely convinced Daley of my innocence, and his manner visibly relaxed towards me. It was then, whilst we were awaiting the list that we both noticed the strange-looking crutch sitting unobtrusively in a corner of the room.
In a state of excitement Daley raced over to grab the unusual object and would surely have done so had I not cautioned him.
‘Inspector!’ I called. ‘It might be best to examine it before we obscure any possible clues with our bare hands.’
Daley glared at me quizzically for a moment, but then relented and stood away from the crutch. ‘Right you are, Doctor. See here now, there appear to be traces of blood down this side.’ As he pointed, I smiled at how deliberately he refrained from touching it.
I bent down to join Daley and observed that there was little in the way of indentation in evidence. I voiced my surprise at this. ‘It is most unusual when you consider the crushing blow that poor Stamford’s head has received.’ Daley nodded gravely in agreement, but he appeared to be as puzzled as I was at this discovery.
Our perplexity was increased further when the list of a dozen names eventually arrived, for there was not one name upon it that I could associate with Stamford nor one that was prefixed with ‘Doctor.’
Daley laid the list down thoughtfully upon the diningtable and lit his gnarled old pipe whilst I lit a cigarette and we both stared down at the names, hoping for inspiration, but in vain. Slowly Daley turned his head towards me and then, somewhat sheepishly he suggested: ‘I suppose this is the kind of problem that might inspire your friend Mr Sherlock Holmes?’
‘Very likely it is; however nobody seems to know his precise whereabouts.’ I then decided to put Daley out of his misery.
‘I suppose,’ I continued slowly, ‘that should you decide to dispense with my services for now, I might discover more about Holmes’s whereabouts once I return to our rooms in Baker Street. I am certain that were he to be presented with the unusual set of facts now facing us, it would not be difficult to entice him to come here.’
‘Oh, but you are a fine fellow, Dr Watson. It would be grand if you could,’ Daley responded, his mood visibly lightening. ‘In your absence my men here and I will begin interviewing the remaining members. Who knows, I may have something to report upon your return!’
‘Who knows?’ I repeated quietly as I took my leave, although reserving my own private doubts.
I was much relieved at finding my friend’s coat and hat once again, adorning their customary hook in the entrance hallway and I raced up the stairs in eager anticipation. However my excitement upon making this discovery, was soon quenched by the sight of Holmes’s exhausted form lying, dishevelled, across our settee! Obviously his recent exertions had left him spent and I was certain that it would be many hours before he might be disturbed.
It was not unusual to find Holmes so incommoded. Whenever he sensed the conclusion of a difficult case, or realized the urgency of tracking down an elusive clue, his energy and willingness to extend himself knew no bounds. On this occasion, however, his indisposition presented me with something of a dilemma, for I did not feel that I could rely on Daley to detain the witnesses long enough for Holmes to be able to examine them, I decided that to await Holmes’s return to consciousness would be to waste valuable time. So I instructed Mrs Hudson to direct Holmes to the Holborn with all urgency should he awaken before my return. Then I hailed a cab to the same destination.
Daley’s forlorn demeanour led me to deduce, correctly, that his interrogations had borne little or no fruit. Distraught would be an accurate description of his expression once he had realized that I had returned to the Holborn alone. I hurriedly explained the reason for Holmes’s absence, although this was of little consolation to the despondent Inspector.
‘Oh dear, upon my word this is a puzzle to be sure, Doctor. Nobody here seems to have heard of the late Stamford, much less to have borne a grudge against him.’ Daley shook his head slowly.
‘Well, they would hardly admit as much under the circumstances, now would they?’ I suggested, somewhat impatiently.
‘Now, now Watson, I am sure that the good Inspector is doing his best.’
With a sense of relief that I could hardly suppress I turned to find my friend standing in the doorway, looking as fresh and alert as if he had remained on that settee for a further ten hours.
‘Well, upon my word!’ I exclaimed.
‘Watson, if you had wished me to remain undisturbed, you might not have stomped around our rooms like a wild herd of water buffalo. A keenly trained mind, albeit an unconscious one, is always alert to the slightest disturbance of any significance. Mrs Hudson had me on the road here in next to no time!’
‘My dear fellow, a thousand apologies! I would not have disturbed you for all the world, although your arrival is well-timed, I must admit.’