CONAN DOYLE (2025 Edit)

Wrote this just before the Dr Bell Mysteries were released, so never submitted till now

It was a cold morning in January 1927. The wind whistled through the trees outside, and the rain pelted against the four small panes in the upstairs window of the two-storey Sussex home.
A local G.P. of little renown, Dr Theodore Carringbush, I had at first cursed my luck at being called out of my warm bed so early on such a desolate morning, until finding myself in very illustrious company indeed. Across from me, while I bent over my patient, stood a literary giant and renowned spiritualist, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Beside Conan Doyle, looking almost as haggard as the man I had been called out to treat, was seated Doyle’s co-author of many years, Dr John H. Watson. Upon the small bed, the greatest consulting detective of them all, Sherlock Holmes, lay dying.
Fighting for the life of my patient, a victim of a common stroke, I had little time to notice my surroundings, other than to note the small wooden bedside table, a large cupboard near the foot of the bed, and the high-back chair upon which sat the stout figure of Dr Watson.
Having done as much as I could for the grey-haired detective, I stepped back from the bed and stretched to ease the ache in my back from having been stooped over the bed for more than two hours.
As I straightened and rubbed at my back with one hand, I caught the gaze of Conan Doyle, who raised a questioning eyebrow. I shrugged my shoulders in reply, admitting that I could make no promises.
Hearing the sound of tea cups jingling, I turned around to see the short, plump figure of Mrs Hudson, carrying a tray holding a bowl of broth, a teapot and four cups and saucers. Familiar with the name, from the narratives by Dr Watson and Sir Arthur, I had at first been surprised to find the good lady still alive, imagining that she would have to be more than one hundred years of age. However, during the course of my administrations, I had overheard enough scraps of conversation to enable me to deduce that the grey-haired matriarch who placed the cane tray upon the small bedside table was named Eileen, and was in fact the daughter-in-law of the famous Mrs Hudson, who had died nearly a decade earlier.
Eileen Hudson and her husband, Tom, had taken up residence with the famous detective fifteen years earlier, when he had retired from his Baker Street lodgings to pursue the hobby of bee-keeping here at Sussex Downs.
Mrs Hudson lifted the bowl from the tray and tried without success to make the great detective swallow a few spoonfuls.
“Come on now, Mr Holmes, you really must try to eat something,” she coaxed, as though talking to a naughty child; however, her tone was more plea than admonition.
She tried to feed Holmes, without success, for a few moments, before turning to Dr Watson to say, “You really must try to get him to eat something, Doctor.”
Watson looked up, startled, and muttered, “What? Oh yes, yes, of course, Mrs Hudson. I will see what I can do.”
Mrs Hudson retired from the room, and Dr Watson took over the task of trying to persuade the great detective to eat.
For a few moments, there was a calm, and so I took the opportunity to study the other three men more closely. Sherlock Holmes was very tall, perhaps six feet three, deathly thin, with the famous beak nose which had been chronicled so faithfully by Watson and Conan Doyle, and was almost grey-skinned with age. Dr Watson was nearly a foot shorter than his long-time companion, and very much overweight, although no doubt if brought to task over it he would insist that he was the ideal weight for a man of his age, and wore a thick, bushy, grey moustache, as did Sir Arthur. Like Holmes, Conan Doyle was considerably taller than Watson, but not nearly so thin as Holmes, although he was far from stout. All three men had short, grey hair, as did I myself, although I was no more than forty years of age at the time.
Things had quietened down, and for a moment it seemed as though Dr Watson was going to succeed where Mrs. Hudson had failed. But then Sherlock Holmes began to thrash his arms about like a man possessed, and knocked the bowl of soup out of Watson’s hands, coating the bed, Watson, and the nearly new floral carpet with chicken broth.
“Watson! Watson!” called out Holmes in a feeble voice.
“Here I am, Holmes,” answered the good doctor, lightly taking hold of the great detective’s shoulders.
Sherlock Holmes’s eyes gaped wide open, then partially closed again, as his vision seemed to come into focus and he recognised his long-time companion.
“Moriarty! Professor Moriarty!”
“Dead, Holmes,” reminded Watson.
“Dead?” echoed Holmes, clearly puzzled.
“That’s right. Don’t you remember, Holmes, you threw him over the Reichenbach Falls?”
“Reichenbach Falls?”
“Yes, Holmes, you threw him over.”
“Threw him over?”
“Yes, Moriarty. You threw Professor Moriarty over the Reichenbach Falls,” explained Watson.
“Threw Professor Moriarty over the Reichenbach Falls?” echoed Holmes listlessly, clearly not comprehending.
“Yes,” said Watson softly, obviously close to tears. Watson bent across his long-time companion and buried his head in the bedclothes for a few moments. When he finally looked up again, the good doctor was openly crying.
I hurried across and clutched Holmes’s wrist to search for a pulse and found none. As I fought futilely to restore life to the great detective, Watson cried unabashedly.
When at last I gave up the fight, Watson looked up at me, tears streaming down his pudgy cheeks and said in a weak voice, “Do you know what his last words to me were?” I shook my head, and Watson said, “‘Don’t let word out about my death. It will create an unhealthy excitement among the criminal class.’”
I walked around the bed to put a comforting hand upon Watson’s shoulder, and he looked up to ask, “Would you ... would you leave me alone with him for a few moments?”
“Yes, of course, John,” said Conan Doyle, and the two of us walked out into the tiny alcove which led through to the sitting room.
I had marvelled at the room briefly upon being herded through on my way to my patient earlier in the evening. To all intents and purposes, it was a sitting room-cum-library-cum-laboratory. Large wall-to-ceiling length bookcases lined two walls, housing literally thousands of hard-cover books, journals and files; some fiction, but mainly non-fiction -- many of them bearing Holmes’s name as author. They seemingly covered every known subject, from the more traditional sciences through to the esoteric and even occult sciences. I well knew of Arthur Conan Doyle’s interest in the occult and spiritualism, and could not help wondering whether Sherlock Holmes had shared his biographer’s preoccupation. In the middle of the room were two plush, leather armchairs, facing toward a large open fireplace. Behind the two chairs, near the door to the bedroom, was a long wooden bench, covered with a wide assortment of chemistry apparatus: glass tubing, burners, and a large array of test tubes containing all manner of brightly coloured chemicals.
Conan Doyle poured two glasses of sweet sherry from a small spirit cabinet a few feet in front of the laboratory bench, and then we settled down in the armchairs to enjoy the warming glow emanating from the open fire.
We sipped our wine in silence for a few moments, then Conan Doyle said, “Poor Watson, I don’t know what he will do now. Holmes has been such an important part of his life since they were brought together by young Stamford in 1881.”
“Have you known them long?” I asked.
“Oh yes. Watson and I go right back to the mid-1870s, when we did our medical studies together at the University of London. I first met Holmes in the mid-1880s.” He stopped to sip his sherry for a moment while pondering. “1886, I think. Watson had been pleading with Holmes for a couple of years to allow him to write up some of Holmes's investigations, since invariably the credit for Holmes’s work always went to Lestrade, or Hopkins, or Athelney Jones, or one of the other Scotland Yard boys.
“By that time, I had already had a handful of short stories published. So, after a botched attempt to transcribe one of Holmes’s cases by himself, Watson approached me to help him prepare A Study in Scarlet, from Holmes’s notes.”
“And instant fame and fortune?” I asked.
“On the contrary, no one wanted to have a bar of the book. In the end, out of desperation, we let it go to Ward, Lock and Co., for the paltry sum of twenty-five pounds. Which did not stretch very far between the three of us, even in those days. And even then, they held it over for a year before releasing it as Beeton’s Christmas Annual. Of course, they made a mint on the deal, but we never saw a brass farthing more than the original twenty-five pounds.
“So we went our separate ways for a while. Myself to write The White Company; Watson to write up a few of Holmes’s briefer case histories. It was in early 1889 that we began to write together again, and, of course, went on to write up another three major cases, The Sign of Four, The Hound of the Baskervilles, and The Valley of Fear, along with another fifty or so shorter cases.” Conan Doyle paused for a moment to sip his sherry, basking in the warming glow of the open fireplace, then said, “So you see, Holmes has been a major part of my life too for the last forty years or so. Of course, I have written other stories: The Marcot Deep, Sir Gerald....”
At first, I was puzzled by Conan Doyle’s sudden silence, but then I noticed the portly figure of Eileen Hudson standing beside my armchair, peering across at the famous author.
“I am terribly sorry to disturb you, Mr Conan Doyle,” said Mrs Hudson, “but there is a young lady downstairs, who insists that she must speak to Mr Holmes.”
“Mr Holmes is dead, Mrs Hudson,” said Conan Doyle quietly.
“Oh dear me, poor Mr Holmes,” said Mrs Hudson. “Whatever shall I tell the young lassie?”
“Did you tell her of Mr Holmes’s condition?”
“No, sir. Only that the poor man was indisposed.” For a few seconds, we sipped our wine, Mrs Hudson standing beside my armchair, while Conan Doyle contemplated the best course of action.
“Well, I imagine...” began Conan Doyle, who was interrupted by the sound of running footsteps upon the stairs outside the room.
A young woman raced into the room and had almost reached the opposite door, leading to Holmes’s bedroom, before she realised that we were seated by the fire. For a few seconds, she stood a few feet away from the doorway, peering across at us, before running across to stand behind the small cane table which stood upon the floor in front of the two armchairs.
She peered at Conan Doyle, then at me, before asking: “Mr Holmes?”
I was too spellbound by her beauty to reply. She was very tall and beautiful. Long red hair hung down well past her shoulders. Like many redheads, her skin was very pink, and freckles lined her face. Yet, somehow, they added to her beauty rather than detracting from it. She had bright, sparkling green eyes, high cheekbones and full, red lips. She was remarkably tall, nearly six feet, yet despite that her body seemed very well curved and feminine.
I was still studying the young lady’s figure when the portly Mrs Hudson strode forward purposefully to take her by one arm and announce, “Here now, young lassie, didn’t I tell you to wait downstairs?”
Mrs Hudson started to half lead, half drag the young woman away from the hearth, toward the door to the staircase.
“Mr Holmes, oh Mr Holmes, you have just got to help me,” pleaded the young woman, trying desperately to break free from Eileen Hudson’s surprisingly strong grip. “I don’t know who else to turn to....”
“Now, now, my girl, that will be quite enough of that,” chastised Mrs Hudson, as she opened the door to lead the young woman out into the corridor.
Conan Doyle cleared his throat loudly, then announced, “That will be all right, Mrs Hudson. The least that we can do is hear the young lady out, since she has taken the trouble to come calling on such a miserable morning.”
Thinking of the recent death of the great detective, I thought, Miserable in more ways than one!
Mrs Hudson glared toward the great author, obviously disappointed that she would not have the opportunity to throw the young woman back out into the teeming rain. However, reluctantly, she released the arm of the young woman who scurried back across to stand with her rather shapely behind almost inside the large, open fireplace, as she warmed herself and tried to think of an opening to her tale.
Although her clothing seemed dry enough, the young woman’s long, red hair was soaked through, indicating that she had come out with an overcoat, but without a hood or umbrella. She warmed herself for a couple of minutes before the blazing fire, obviously revelling in the glorious warmth after the chill night air, before speaking.
“I...I don’t quite know where to start,” she confessed.
“Perhaps you could start by telling us your name, my dear?” suggested Conan Doyle.
“Margaret Douglas,” she answered, before leaning forward slightly, peering almost expectantly toward Conan Doyle, as though awaiting his next question.
I thought, ‘This could take all day, if we’re going to arrive at her story by a series of questions and answers.’ But then, entranced by her beautiful profile, I decided that I might not mind if it did take all day.
As the young woman hesitated further, I stood and offered her my armchair, announcing, “I had best be on my way now.”
“No, no, Dr Watson, don’t leave,” pleaded Margaret Douglas. “You must hear my story too.”
She refused the offer of my armchair, preferring to stand in front of the large fireplace; however, she gladly accepted
Conan Doyle’s offer of a glass of warming sherry, which she gulped down in two mouthfuls, before blushing at her unladylike conduct. However, we hurriedly assured her that we would make allowances for the wretched morning.
At last, Conan Doyle said, “Now that we are settled, suppose you tell us what brings you to our doorstep on such an abysmal morning, Mrs Douglas?”
‘Mrs?’ I thought, then followed Conan Doyle’s gaze to the slim band of gold on her ring finger and thought, ‘So Holmes wasn’t the only one!’
“Murder!” said Margaret Douglas, rousing me from my reverie.
“What?” I asked, deeply shocked.
More calmly, Conan Doyle asked, “Murder of whom, pray tell?”
“My husband, Ian.”
“Do you have any idea who the murderer is?” asked Conan Doyle, amazing us both with his incredible calmness.
“No, none at all,” assured Margaret Douglas, fixing Conan Doyle with a long gaze from her beautiful green eyes, “but the police think that it was Andrew.”
“Andrew?” I asked.
“Andrew Douglas, Ian’s younger brother,” explained Margaret. “But it cannot be Andrew.”
“Yet the police must have some reason for suspecting your brother-in-law,” said Conan Doyle. “The police don’t go around arresting people on mere whims...any more.”
“Well...yes,” agreed Margaret hesitantly, “you see Andrew and I were engaged to be married...before I met Ian that is...and so the police seem to think that Andrew may have been nurturing a secret hatred for Ian these past five years, until finally it burst forth, causing Andrew to commit cold-blooded murder.”
“Hardly cold-blooded under those circumstances,” I said.
“But Andrew didn’t do it!” insisted Margaret. “I know he didn’t do it!”
“How do you know?” asked Conan Doyle.
“Because...” said Margaret, hesitating. She took a step forward and rubbed with one hand at her posterior, which had obviously got a little too warm from the heat of the open fire, then stammered, “Because Andrew was with me at the time that Tan was murdered.”
“Then I fail to see what your problem is,” said Conan Doyle. “All you need to do is go to the police and vouch for your brother-in-law’s whereabouts at the time of the killing....”
“I’m afraid that it is not quite that simple,” Margaret said, fixing Conan Doyle with a look from her beautiful green eyes. “You see, Andrew and I are lovers.”
“You mean that you were lovers?” I asked.
“No, no, Dr Watson, I mean that we are lovers,” corrected the beautiful redhead. “You see, Mr Holmes, Andrew was with me at the time Ian was killed; in bed with me.”
“I say!” I said, decidedly shocked at this revelation.
With infuriating calmness, Conan Doyle said, “Well, that does somewhat complicate matters.” Ruminatively fingering his bushy, grey moustache.
I looked at the great author in amazement, then at the beautiful redhead, and saw that she too was astounded by Conan Doyle’s cool-headedness. She fixed her glorious green eyes upon my face for a moment, then looked away, blushing, obviously remembering the admission which she had just made in my presence.
“There is no way that you could vouch for Andrew without informing the police of your relationship,” said Conan Doyle.
“But if she does that, the police will accuse her of being a biased witness,” I pointed out.
Conan Doyle nodded his agreement.
“But there must be something that you can do, Mr Holmes?”
Conan Doyle took a fob watch from his trousers, clicked the watch open, then said, “Let me see. It is a little after five a.m. now, so I assume that the murder occurred sometime last night?”
“Just before midnight,” confirmed the redhead, “but the police did not take Andrew into custody until half an hour ago.”
“You were with him when he was arrested?”
“Yes, however, I stayed in the bedroom and eavesdropped on their conversation,” admitted Margaret. She blushed again, then said, “Perhaps it would have been best if I had made my presence known to the police there and then. Then I could have explained why Andrew could not have murdered Ian.”
“Still, there would have been more than enough time for Andrew to kill your husband, then flee to your warm bed,” suggested Conan Doyle, making the beautiful redhead blush becomingly.
“But he didn’t!” Margaret almost shouted at the great author. “He was with me all the time from about 7:30 p.m.”
“You went to bed at 7:30?” asked Conan Doyle.
“Well...um,” stammered Margaret Douglas, blushing again.
Watching the beautiful redhead, I could well understand the reason for their early night; however, to my amazement, I noticed that Conan Doyle kept a perfectly straight face as he repeated the question.
“Yes,” admitted Margaret, “we did.”
“Then the first thing that we must do is have a few words with Andrew,” suggested Conan Doyle. “I don’t suppose that you managed to overhear the name of the police officer who arrested your lover?”
“Oh yes, yes I did,” said Margaret. She scratched at her left temple with an index finger for a moment, then said, “Now let me see...Oh yes, of course, Lestrade. Inspector Lestrade.”

Half an hour later, Lestrade, Conan Doyle and I stood in a small hallway outside the underground cell where Andrew Douglas was being detained. We had taken Margaret Douglas back to Andrew’s Campdenhouse Road dwelling first, then had set out immediately to speak to the accused.
Lestrade was a tall, deathly thin man, balding, with snowy white hair and hard features, seemingly chiselled out of marble. However, his features softened considerably for a moment as he said, “So Sherlock Holmes is dead?”
“That’s correct,” agreed Conan Doyle. “He was struck down by the greatest killer of them all.”
“Professor Moriarty?” asked Lestrade. His hard features suddenly lined with surprise and just a hint of fear.
“No, no old age.”
Lestrade audibly heaved a sigh of relief, then said, “You had me worried for a moment there...It’s nearly forty years since I dispatched Moriarty over the Reichenbach Falls.”
“You dispatched Moriarty?” asked Conan Doyle, calmly enough, but with just the trace of an edge behind his voice.
“Er...well, with a little help from Mr Holmes, of course,” admitted Lestrade. Then, as Conan Doyle continued to stare, Lestrade added, “Actually, it was Mr Holmes who threw the villain over the falls....”
“Perhaps we can see the prisoner for a few minutes, now,” suggested Conan Doyle. “If you don’t mind, Inspector?”
“It’s Chief Inspector now, if you don’t mind,” said Lestrade. “Actually, I could have retired years ago, but they just couldn’t spare me from the force, so I agreed to stay on, in exchange for the promotion.”
Conan Doyle shook his head ruefully and raised an eyebrow for my benefit, then said, “Well, at any rate, Chief Inspector, I have agreed to help Mrs Douglas to clear the name of her brother-in-law.”
“You’ll have a hard job doing that, Mr Conan Doyle,” said Lestrade, taking a large key chain from an inner pocket of his heavy overcoat. “He’s as guilty as the day is long. It seems that his sister-in-law was an old flame, before she dropped him to marry his wealthy brother.”
“Wealthy brother?” asked Conan Doyle, as Lestrade examined the key chain ruminatively, trying to decide which of the one hundred or so almost identical keys was the one which would open the heavy metal door to the cell that we stood before. “Margaret Douglas did not mention that the deceased had been a wealthy man.”
“No, well, she wouldn’t now, would she?” said Lestrade, deciding to try a key in the lock. The key fitted, but refused to turn, and for a moment refused to come out of the keyhole. Finally, Lestrade managed to withdraw the key by pulling with both hands. “Not if she were trying to protect her old flame.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed Conan Doyle, as Lestrade tried a second key in the lock. “Still, it is up to you to prove Andrew Douglas’s guilt; not him to prove his innocence.”
“And you think I can’t?” asked Lestrade, smirking for a moment, then grimacing with frustration as the second key also stuck in the lock. “Then how about this? The deceased was killed with his brother’s revolver!”
For the first time since I had met him, Conan Doyle looked startled. He asked, “Can you prove that?”
“I wouldn’t have said it if I couldn’t prove it, now would I?” asked Lestrade. Then, realising that it was futile to wait for an answer, he continued, “The handgun has been identified by the dead man’s maid, Bridget.” He tried a third key in the lock, without success, then said, “And by Andrew Douglas himself!”
Conan Doyle and I were both amazed by this revelation; it was the great author who asked, “Andrew Douglas has identified the murder weapon as his own gun?”
“That is correct,” agreed Lestrade, scratching his chin ruminatively with the third key, before deciding to try a fourth key in the lock.
“That is hardly the act of a guilty man,” I pointed out.
“Unless, of course, he were clever enough to realise that he had more to gain by admitting ownership of the gun than by denying it and then perhaps being caught out in a lie,” insisted Lestrade, withdrawing the fourth key from the lock.
“Oh come on!” I said, amazed by the Chief Inspector’s stupidity. However, Conan Doyle, who had had a lot more experience with the policeman, merely said: “Perhaps, Lestrade.”
“But the strangest thing of all is that the killing was completely needless,” said Lestrade, failing to get a fifth key to even go into the lock.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because Ian Douglas was already dying?”
“What?” I asked, staring hard at Lestrade, who was smirking like the idiot that I was beginning to suspect him of being.
“That’s right, Dr Carringbush,” said Lestrade. “Ian Douglas was already dying of ele...elephant...” He reached into an inner pocket of the overcoat and took out a small notepad, which he leafed through for a few moments before announcing, “Ah, here it is, elephantiasis.”
“What?” demanded Conan Doyle, fingering his bushy, grey moustache in consternation.
Lestrade read the single word through to himself a few times, obviously wondering whether he had mispronounced it, scratching his head with a key on the chain, then said, “Ian Douglas was dying of elephantiasis.”
“How in the world did he ever contract elephantiasis?” asked the great author. “It is not exactly the type of disease that you would come in contact with very often in Sussex, or the British Isles, for that matter. Elephantiasis comes from the West Indies. It is caused by a parasitic, hair-like worm, which invades the body’s lymphatic channels. It is spread to humans through mosquito bites and occurs only in tropical or subtropical regions. Which would seem to exclude the British Isles.” Seeing that Lestrade was obviously impressed by Conan Doyle’s monologue, I decided to put in my tuppence worth and said, “Isn’t that what killed John Merrick, the Elephant Man?”
“Joseph Merrick,” corrected Conan Doyle. “No, but it was something very similar to elephantiasis, at least in appearance.” He scratched his chin ruminatively for a moment, then added, “Multiple neurofibromatosis, if I remember rightly. Otherwise known as von Recklinghausen’s disease.” He paused again, then turned his full attention upon Lestrade and said, “But listen here, Lestrade, if Ian Douglas had elephantiasis, he must have been to the West Indies at least once.”
“At least fifty times, more like it,” said Lestrade, making us both stare at him. “That is what the maid, Bridget, claims. Apparently, that’s how Douglas made his fortune, by trading between England and the West Indies, and he made countless trips to the West Indies over a period of about twenty years.”
Conan Doyle considered that for a moment, then said, “But if he were dying of elephantiasis, his brother, Andrew, must have known about it, surely?”
“Of course,” I agreed. “It’s not exactly the sort of thing that you can hide. What, with your arms and legs blowing up like balloons....”
“Well, that’s true enough, Doctor,” agreed Lestrade, “but as I often used to say to Mr Holmes, there’s no accounting for the way the criminal mind works.”
“Rubbish, Lestrade!” said Conan Doyle, and I was tempted to add, ‘As, no doubt, Mr Holmes often used to say to you, Lestrade!’
Throughout our conversation, Lestrade had been trying various keys in the lock, and finally, he was rewarded by a loud click as the door unlocked. Lestrade held the key up in triumph, smirking as though he had just personally captured Jack the Ripper.
As Lestrade moved to swing the ancient iron door open, Conan Doyle placed a restraining hand upon the Chief Inspector’s arm and said, “One more thing before we go into the cell, Lestrade. For some reason, Margaret Douglas thinks that I am Sherlock Holmes.”
“She thinks...?” asked Lestrade. He scratched his head ruminatively with the key to the cell door, turned to face me, and said, “And I suppose that you are Dr Watson?”
“I’m glad to see that you have caught on so quickly, Chief Inspector,” said Conan Doyle. Under his breath, he added, “For a change!”
Lestrade pretended not to have heard the last remark, although his face coloured with indignation as he swung the iron door wide and herded us into the tiny cell.
Directly opposite the cell door was the foot of the slim bunk, upon which Andrew Douglas lay as we entered the cell. There was a slim L-shaped walkway around the bed, barely room for three men to stand.
We squeezed into the tiny cell, and I was pleased to see that Lestrade left the heavy iron door open behind us. I would not have liked to have had to wait while the Chief Inspector fumbled for the correct key if we needed to leave the cell in a great hurry. Not that Andrew Douglas looked like the type to give us any need to leave the cell in a great hurry.
He was tall and almost skeletal thin, with close-cropped snowy white hair, and a boyish grin -- despite his predicament -- which at first made him seem little more than in his early twenties. Until a closer inspection detected the crow’s feet around his eyes, which showed him to be aged in his mid to late forties.
We squeezed into the tight confines of the tiny cell, hardly more than a cage in reality, certainly unfit for a man to live in (‘Or a beast for that matter!’ I thought), myself first, then Conan Doyle, then Chief Inspector Lestrade.
Looking to my right, I saw that both Conan Doyle and Lestrade had propped themselves in a half-seated pose: Conan Doyle against a small wooden table; Lestrade leaning against the yellow-tiled wall of the cell. I took a step backwards to follow their example and almost stood in a small wooden bucket upon the floor. Looking down, I saw a trace of yellow liquid at the bottom of the bucket and realised that I had almost stepped into the tiny cell’s toilet.
For a few moments, we stood facing toward the accused, then Lestrade cleared his throat noisily to attract the prisoner’s attention. Although Andrew Douglas was already well aware of our presence, his keen eyes were fixed upon us, his brow wrinkled in puzzlement.
“Mr Andrew Douglas,” introduced Lestrade, sounding as though he were making a formal introduction at a society affair, “Mr Arth....”
“Sherlock Holmes,” Conan Doyle introduced himself, with a nod toward Douglas, who clearly did not know whether he should lean forward to shake hands or not. Instead, he remained lying upon the bunk and returned Conan Doyle’s nod.
“Er...what?” said Lestrade, then remembering, “Oh yes, of course,” pointing towards me, “and this is Dr Watson.”
I leant forward (there was no need to walk across, since the cell was so tiny) and offered my right hand to Douglas, who shook it, although he clearly did not have a clue what was going on.
“Er...good morning, gentlemen,” said Douglas. “I am afraid that I don’t quite understand what I can do for you?”
“On the contrary, Mr Douglas,” said Conan Doyle, “it is what we can do for you. Your...your sister-in-law has asked Dr Carr...Dr Watson and I to act on your behalf.”
“Act on my behalf?”
The great author turned toward Lestrade and said, “Perhaps Chief Inspector, you could be good enough to allow us a few minutes alone with Mr Douglas?”
“Well, strictly speaking, I can’t,” protested Lestrade. “Once he has been formally arrested and read his rights, he’s only supposed to be left alone with his nearest relatives, or with his attorney.”
“Very well then,” said Conan Doyle. He turned toward Andrew Douglas to ask, “May I inquire whether you have had the opportunity to engage an attorney yet, Mr Douglas?” Andrew Douglas shook his head, still clearly puzzled, and so Conan Doyle continued, “In that case, we shall represent Mr Douglas as his attorneys.”
“You?” asked Lestrade, now clearly every bit as puzzled as the accused. “But neither of you is a certified attorney.”
“And neither of us needs to be,” pointed out Conan Doyle, “in case you are not aware of British law, Chief Inspector.”
Lestrade considered this for a moment, then shrugged and said, “That’s true enough...Well, in that case, I suppose it will be all right.” He walked outside into the tiny corridor and closed the heavy iron door again. As the key rattled in the lock, I only hoped that he would be able to locate the correct key when the time came to release us.
“I have to be frank with you, Mr Douglas,” said Conan Doyle, “your sister-in-law has told Dr Carr...Dr Watson and I of your affair, and that she was with you at the time of your brother’s death.”
Andrew Douglas seemed shocked by this blunt approach. After a few seconds, he composed himself enough to say, “But we can hardly tell that to the police, now, surely?”
“No, however, perhaps if you had told them in the first place...?”
“What good would it have done?” demanded Douglas. “The police would have considered it to be a sordid business, and if anything would have only taken it as further proof of my despicable character. In reality, there was nothing sordid about it. We are truly in love, and Maggie was never happy with Ian....”
“Yet she threw you over to marry him?” pointed out Conan Doyle, with his usual bluntness.
Douglas blushed scarlet and stammered for a moment, “Well, no...you see, we had already broken up before she took up with Ian. She met him while she and I were going together, and then quite a fair bit while we were engaged. When we broke up, Ian went to console her, and gradually they began to see more and more of each other until they were married six weeks after Maggie and I had split up.”
For a few moments, Conan Doyle watched Douglas in silence, while I watched the great author, trying to gauge the course of his thoughts. Conan Doyle rocked on his feet slightly, while pondering, until the wooden table beneath him began to squeak alarmingly, and he wisely chose to step half a pace forward -about as much as the tiny walkway between the bed and the wall allowed. At last, Conan Doyle spoke, asking: “What caused you to break off your engagement to Maggie?”
Douglas sat up upon the inch-thick mattress atop the thin wooden board, which substituted for a bed, dangling his feet into the tiny aisle before answering, “A total misunderstanding, really. In those days, I was a junior lecturer at London University. One of my pupils was a beautiful young Scottish girl who was having major difficulties with her studies. She came to me for help, and I began to give her private tuition a couple of nights a week. Maggie found out and completely misunderstood the situation. I tried my best to placate her; however, she refused to listen and broke off our engagement.”
Douglas looked up at Conan Doyle on his left, then across to me on his right, then sat back upon the bed, yoga fashion, his back pressed hard against the tiled wall, before continuing, “Things probably would have sorted themselves out in time, if only Ian had not gone to console Maggie.” At this, Conan Doyle looked across at me and gave me a wry look, which I had difficulty interpreting. “As it was, he did, and she married Ian on the rebound.”
Conan Doyle looked toward me again, raised a grey eyebrow in silent question, then turned back to face Andrew Douglas, to ask, “Then how did you and Maggie eventually get back together?”
“It happened about a year after they were married. Maggie came to me and told me that she was frightfully unhappy with Ian. He was a tyrant and beat her mercilessly for the smallest of grievances. I explained to Maggie about my innocence with the Scots girl, whose name I cannot even remember, and so we started to see each other again. About six months later, we became lovers. Only after Ian had made it quite plain that under no circumstances would he ever consider granting Maggie a divorce. As far as he was concerned, Maggie was his property, and he refused to part with her. So we were left with a choice of either committing adultery or else starving ourselves to please a tyrant.”
Conan Doyle raised a finger to prod at his thick moustache ruminatively for a moment, then said, “You say your brother treated Maggie like a tyrant. Is that how you remember Ian from your youth together?”
Andrew Douglas considered carefully for a few moments before answering: “Well, Ian and I were never all that close as children. I cannot in all truth say that he was an out and out tyrant; however, he certainly always insisted upon getting his own way...” He paused for a few seconds, then said, “I will be honest with you, Mr Holmes. I never loved my brother, Ian, and I cannot say that I am particularly sorry that he is dead, considering the way that he treated Maggie; however, I did not kill him.”
“Yet he was killed with your revolver,” pointed out Conan Doyle with his customary frankness. “How can you account for that?”
“I cannot account for it. I have no idea how the murderer could have got hold of my revolver.”
“Had you noticed the loss of your handgun before last night?” I asked.
Andrew turned to face me and said, “Well, yes, yes I had. It disappeared about a month ago. On the first of last month, to be precise.”
“How can you be so certain of the date?” asked Conan Doyle.
“Because I noticed the loss of the weapon the day after visiting Ian.”
“Visiting your brother?” I asked. “But from the sounds of things, I had assumed that you would not have been on speaking terms with your brother?”
“That is right, I wasn’t,” agreed Andrew Douglas, “however, I had received a telegram from Ian, asking me to visit him. It turned out that he had found out, somehow, about Maggie and me, and wanted to gloat over the fact that he would never grant her a divorce.”
“And so you argued with him?” asked Conan Doyle.
“Well...yes, but nothing ever came of it.”
Conan Doyle considered this for a moment, stroking one side of his moustache with his right index finger, then asked, “Do you have any idea how your brother discovered your affair with Maggie?”
“No, none. At first, I thought that Maggie must have broken down and confessed; however, she ardently denied it. Later, I assumed that Ian had simply deduced it from the facts that Maggie frequently spent nights away from home; she had asked him for a divorce, and, of course, we had been engaged before Maggie married Ian.”
Conan Doyle fingered his moustache again for a moment, then asked, “When did you notice the loss of your revolver?”
“Around noon on the day after I visit Ian.”
“Do you always carry your revolver with you, whenever you go outdoors?”
“Yes, of course, these days you just have to.”
“So the weapon could have disappeared at any time while you were at your brother’s house, or after you returned home?”
“Yes, however, there is no way that Ian could have taken it, because he was never out of my sight, all of the time that I was over there.”
“Then you wore your overcoat throughout your visit?”
“Why, no, Mr Holmes. The maid, Bridget, took my hat and coat when I arrived, then returned them before I departed.”
“Then the maid could have taken the gun!” I pointed out.
Andrew Douglas turned to face me, his blue eyes sparkled in bewilderment as he asked, “Well, yes, yes, she had every opportunity, but what would she have had to gain by killing Ian?”
“How long had Bridget been in the employ of your brother?” asked Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Douglas stopped to think, looking down at his feet, mouthing silent calculations to himself for a few moments before looking back up at the tall, grey-haired author to say, “A little more than fifteen years by my estimate.”
Conan Doyle and I exchanged glances, then the great author said, “Fifteen years?”
“Yes, since her early twenties. My brother was in his early thirties when he first engaged her.”
“Since well before Ian and Maggie were married,” said Conan Doyle, more as a statement than a question.
“Yes, nearly a decade before that.”
“Then perhaps Ian and Bridget had been having an affair,” I suggested, “then the maid stole Andrew’s revolver and killed her lover out of jealousy? Perhaps he had even promised to marry her, then jilted her to marry Margaret....”
Conan Doyle gave me a wry look, then said, “Perhaps, Doctor, however, it is dangerous to theorise too much ahead of the known facts.”
As we were speaking, there came the sound of footsteps outside in the corridor, then a key turned in the heavy lock -- miraculously on the first attempt -- and the iron door swung wide to reveal the tall, skeletal, thin figure of Chief Inspector Lestrade.
Conan Doyle took his fob watch from his pocket, clicked the watch face open, then glanced toward the policeman to ask, “Time up, eh Chief Inspector?”
“No, no, you can stay as long as you like,” assured Lestrade. “You can make it twenty years, if you like.”
“Very droll,” I said.
“But there is another visitor here to see Mr Douglas.”
So saying, Lestrade stepped back into the slim corridor to allow Margaret Douglas to squeeze into the tiny cell.
Seeing his lover, Andrew Douglas climbed off the bunk bed and hurried across to embrace her, after squeezing past Conan Doyle and me.
They embraced for a few moments, then the redhead broke away from her lover and walked across to Conan Doyle and said, “Oh, Mr Holmes, I was hoping that I might find you still here.”
“Why, what is the matter?” asked Conan Doyle.
The beautiful redhead carried, on her left arm, an enormous handbag, almost a cloth suitcase. She delved down into the enormous bag for a few moments, her brow creasing in puzzlement as she tried first one compartment, then another.
Finally, with a cry of success, she pulled out a crumpled sheet of note paper, which she handed to Conan Doyle.
The great author perused the single sheet for a moment, then his face began to cloud over, and for only the second time, I saw him show real emotion, anger at what he had read.
“What is it?” asked Andrew Douglas.
Conan Doyle first glanced toward the heavy iron door to make certain that Lestrade had closed the door behind him, then said, “It is a note from a Mr Wentworth, demanding five hundred pounds, in connection with the death of Ian Douglas!”
“Blackmail!” I asked, shocked.
Conan Doyle handed the sheet of note paper across to Andrew Douglas, who read it to himself, then said, “But this is outrageous!”
“That is what it would seem,” said Conan Doyle, in answer to my question.
“But we have nothing to hide!” insisted Andrew Douglas. II had nothing to do with Ian’s death.”
“It could be something to do with your relationship with your sister-in-law,” I pointed out.
“But how can that hurt us?” asked Margaret. “Now that Ian is dead, there is no one whom it needs to be hidden from.”
“Except, of course, the police,” I said.
Andrew Douglas read the note a second time, then began to screw it up, until being stopped by Conan Doyle, who said, “Evidence. In case you decide to sue Mr Wentworth.”
“Sue him? Of course, we’ll sue him!” insisted Andrew Douglas, almost shouting.
The heavy iron door squeaked open, and Lestrade looked into the tiny cell to ask, “Everything all right in here?”
“Yes, Chief Inspector, I’m certain that we can solve this case without your assistance,” said Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Lestrade’s face flushed red, and his mouth opened to retort; however, obviously thinking better of it (clearly having lost many previous verbal encounters with the great author), he kept silent and swung the door closed again.
Conan Doyle uncreased the sheet of paper and examined it carefully, then said, “I wonder whether the morning papers have broken the news of Ian Douglas’s death yet?” He looked at his fob watch again, then added, “If they have even been distributed yet.” Andrew and Margaret looked at each other in puzzlement, then looked across at me for enlightenment, so I said, “Do you mean to say that this Wentworth could be the killer?”
“It would explain how he found out about the killing so soon,” agreed Conan Doyle. Then, looking toward Margaret Douglas, he asked, “How and when was the letter delivered to you?”
“I found it placed upon the kitchen table, after you dropped me off at Andrew’s house,” said the beautiful redhead, “but it could have been placed there at any time after Ian was killed, for all I know.”
Conan Doyle considered this for a moment, then said, “Well, Doctor, the game is afoot.” He walked across to tap upon the iron door, which Lestrade swung wide to allow us to leave.
I squeezed past Andrew and Margaret to reach the doorway, then stopped for a moment to look back at them. They were standing half a pace apart, obviously waiting for the door to close again, before embracing, both looking very weary.
“Don’t worry, young Andrew,” I said, although he was probably a year or two older than my own thirty-nine years, “Mr Con...Mr Holmes and I will soon have you released from here.”
“Don’t go making promises that you can’t keep, Doctor,” warned Lestrade, as he closed the heavy, iron door behind us.
“Nonsense, Lestrade,” said Conan Doyle, taking us both by surprise, “Andrew Douglas is no more guilty of murdering his brother than Dr Carringbush or I am!”

It was still pouring rain when we left the police station however, fortunately, we were able to procure a taxi immediately.
Within ten minutes, the vehicle pulled up outside a three-storeyed Gothic mansion in Goodge Street.
As we descended from the automobile, the rain began to pelt down until we could hardly see more than a few inches in front of our faces. The street was awash in murky, black water, and I was thankful that the taxi had pulled up by the edge of the footpath. Following Conan Doyle’s example, I pulled the collar of my overcoat up as high as possible, bent my head and sprinted across to the ornate iron gate -- which fortunately was unlocked -- then across to the wide porch outside the house.
The front door was opened by a grey-haired matriarch, obviously the maid. As Conan Doyle introduced us and asked to be taken to see Mr Wentworth, I could not help but think that Wentworth must be quite successful at his profession, to be able to afford to own such a great house and to staff it as well.

A few minutes later, we were ushered into a large library-reading room, upon the second floor.
The book-lined room would have put more than one lending library to shame. Three walls were lined from floor to ceiling with literally thousands of books, pamphlets, newspapers and magazines.
The centrepiece of the fourth wall was a large open fireplace, upon which a hefty log blazed. Before the fire sat a tall, dark-haired man, in his mid-forties, I imagined. He was thin, almost to the point of emaciation, yet looked surprisingly strong despite that.
Wentworth, as I assumed him to be, was dressed in pyjamas and a silk dressing gown, leaving me wondering whether he had been awakened by his housekeeper or whether he had not yet been to bed for the previous night. By his left hand was a small blackwood table, upon which sat a large crystal decanter of wine and a half-filled glass. In his right hand, he held a huge, black clay pipe, which had either gone out or else which he had not yet had the time to light. In his left hand, he held a seemingly brand new copy of D.H.Lawrence’s novel, The Plumed Serpent, which had first been published the year before, in 1926.
Upon our entry, Wentworth immediately put down both the pipe and the novel and rose to greet us.
“Mrs Cunningham said that you were Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?” said Wentworth, by way of greeting.
“That is correct.”
“Not the famous author?”
“He is,” I assured Wentworth, who immediately grasped the great author’s right hand and began to pump it furiously.
“Well, well, this really is a great honour,” said Wentworth, leading us across to the fireplace. “I have read all of your stories, Mr Conan Doyle. I particularly like The White Company and its sequel, Sir Nigel.”
Although obviously pleased at the compliment, Conan Doyle did his best to keep an even face as he said, “Most people seem to prefer my detective yarns.”
“Oh yes, well, I’ve read those too, of course, but as a consulting detective myself, they are a little bit too much like shop. Whereas The White Company and Sir Nigel seem to so vibrantly picture that wonderful period in British history.” Conan Doyle was too modest to agree, so Wentworth turned toward me for confirmation, saying, “Don’t you agree, Dr Carringbush?”
I stammered a hasty agreement, then we arranged ourselves in armchairs around the blazing fire, with glasses of a very fine Madeira sherry in our hands, before Wentworth said, “Now, then, what was it that you wanted to see me about Mr Conan Doyle?”
“We are acting on behalf of Mrs Margaret Douglas,” explained Conan Doyle. Taking the sheet of note paper from an inner pocket of his overcoat, he explained, “In connection with this letter which Mrs Douglas received from you earlier this morning.”
“Ah, my letter.”
“Blackmail is a very serious business!” I pointed out.
“Blackmail?” asked Wentworth, sounding genuinely surprised.
“Do you deny demanding money from Margaret Douglas?” asked Conan Doyle. “After all, it is right here in black and white.”
“No, no, I don’t deny asking her for the money, but I was not trying to blackmail her.”
“Then what?”
“Merely asking for payment for services rendered.”
Conan Doyle and I exchanged glances, then I said, “But Margaret Douglas claims to have never heard of you before.”
“No doubt she never has. My business was with her husband, Ian Douglas. However, since he has been murdered, his estate goes to his widow, outstanding debts included.”
Conan Doyle and I exchanged glances again, then the great author said, “I hope that you will not take offence at what I am about to say; however, it is a common enough confidence trick to claim debts of the newly dead, relying upon the next-of-kin being too broken up with grief to question them. How can you prove that Ian Douglas really did owe you any money?”
“Quite simply, Mr Conan Doyle, because I have detailed notes and tape recordings of our various conversations.”
“Tape recordings?” I asked, having never heard the term before. Wentworth explained the process to us, and that although the process was still largely unknown outside police circles, tape recordings had been invented twenty-eight years earlier, in 1899, by Danish inventor Valdemar Poulsen.
“Exactly what type of work were you engaged in for Ian Douglas?” asked Conan Doyle.
“Well, I am a private investigator....”
I saw Conan Doyle’s eyes light up a split second before he said, “Then you were employed to follow Margaret Douglas?”
Taken by surprise, Wentworth said, “Well...er, yes. Very perceptive of you, Mr Conan Doyle. Ian Douglas suspected that his wife was having an affair, so he employed me to find out with whom.”
“And did you?”
“Oh yes, I followed Margaret Douglas to her brother-in-law’s residence on eleven separate occasions and took rather explicit photographs of them together on three different occasions. In fact, I was in Andrew Douglas’s house when he was arrested for murdering his brother. Which is both how I found out so soon about Ian Douglas’s death, and also why I decided to leave the bill for my services for Margaret Douglas to find, since obviously her husband could no longer pay me.”
“How deplorable!” I said.
“Steady on, old fellow,” said Conan Doyle. “Mr Wentworth was only doing his job.”
“But what a job!” I insisted.
“No worse, surely, than the actions of Margaret and Andrew Douglas?” asked Wentworth.
“Why, yes, of course it is!”
“Steady on, old fellow,” repeated Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, making me blush in embarrassment at having lost my temper. “We are not here to judge Mr Wentworth...Or Andrew or Margaret Douglas.”
“Thank you, Mr Conan Doyle,” said Wentworth.
“But surely you cannot really expect Margaret Douglas to pay you for spying on her?” I persisted.
“I fully expect her to pay me for services rendered. Nothing more and nothing less.”
“And if she refuses to pay you, what then?”
For once, Conan Doyle agreed with me, saying, “Yes, what then? I am sure that you can understand that under the circumstances, Margaret Douglas might be somewhat reluctant to pay you.”
“Why, then, I will be forced to take the matter to the courts. That is the usual method of dealing with defaulters.”
“It would seem to me that Andrew Douglas also has a very strong case to make out against you!” I said. “For breaking, invasion of privacy....”
“Possibly so,” agreed the detective, “however, I am certain that he would not want the story of his affair with his sister-in-law being bandied about the courtroom...Not to mention Fleet Street.”
“I thought that you said that this isn’t blackmail!”
“I was hoping that you would be more understanding, Doctor. I have no wish to embarrass Andrew or Margaret Douglas. I only ask for what is my due.”
“And you shall have it,” said Conan Doyle, standing. I personally shall see that you receive payment in full.”
“Why, that is most gracious of you, Mr Conan Doyle. I am sure that you can understand that in my business, I must accept whatever work is offered me.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Still, you could attempt to steer clear of this kind of sordid business,” I insisted.
“Normally, I do try to, where possible, Dr Carringbush. However, Ian Douglas was very insistent; he offered me payment considerably above my normal fee.”
“A very moral man, apparently,” I said, as Conan Doyle and I prepared to leave.
“On the contrary, Doctor, more like a hypocrite”
“A hypocrite?” I asked. “I don’t understand?”
“Well, Ian Douglas was positively livid after discovering his wife’s infidelity, yet he himself was also being unfaithful to her.”
“Ian Douglas was having an affair?” asked Conan Doyle.
“That is correct.”
“For how long had it been going on?”
“For at least fifteen years, from what I could gather. Right up until Ian Douglas’s death.”
Conan Doyle rubbed his bushy grey moustache ruminatively with one finger for a second, then said, “Then he was having an affair with Bridget, his maid?”
Looking startled, Wentworth said, “That is right.”
“How did you uncover their relationship?”
“Well, Ian Douglas had told me to use every means at my disposal to acquire evidence against his wife, so I took the liberty of bugging their house.”
“Bugging?” I asked. “I don’t understand?”
“A bug is a small electronic transmitter which is hidden in a room, so that you may listen in on a private conversation,” explained Wentworth. “Sort of like a miniature telephone that cannot be hung up, so that it is always receiving.”
“Was Ian Douglas aware that you had bugged his house?” asked Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
“Hardly, Mr Conan Doyle, or else he and Bridget would have been considerably more discreet...I saw no need to inform him, since he had given me carte blanche to do whatever I thought was necessary to collect evidence against his wife.”
“Then he intended to divorce her?” I asked, remembering that Andrew Douglas had claimed that his brother had refused to grant Margaret a divorce.
“I don’t think so,” said Wentworth. “My impression of Ian Douglas is that he was not the sort of man to give up anything which he considered to be his property, people included. I think it was much more likely that he wanted to use the evidence to rub in her face each time he refused to grant her a divorce.”
“How despicable!” I said.

Fortunately, the rain had reduced to a mere drizzle by the time we reached the street again. We hailed a taxi and were soon being shown inside the dead man’s house by the maid, Bridget.
As we were shown upstairs to the third floor, where the murder had been committed, I took the opportunity to study the maid at length. If she had been employed by Ian Douglas for fifteen years, then she must have been employed straight out of school, since she looked hardly more than thirty years of age. She was an incredibly beautiful brunette, about five feet four inches tall, with a full hourglass figure. I found myself wondering how she could have brought herself to waste her charms upon Ian Douglas in the latter stages of his life, when he would have been hideously disfigured by elephantiasis -- but then I supposed that perhaps after fifteen years she was too much in love to worry about looks.
As though aware that she was under scrutiny, the beautiful brunette began to wiggle her shapely hips exaggeratedly as she climbed the stairs.
“Here you are, gentlemen,” said Bridget, opening the door, then standing in the doorway so that we had to squeeze past her to enter the room.
Ian Douglas’s bedroom was huge; the largest bedroom that I had ever seen; larger than many living rooms that I had seen. In the middle of the room was the largest double bed that I had ever seen. It seemed extraordinarily solid, as though specially built to cater to the dead man’s great bulk, in the latter stages of his life. A small bookcase stood beside the bed, nearest the door to the corridor. On the opposite side of the room was a large dressing table upon which sat a brass-handled telephone, a black revolver, writing paraphernalia, and a man’s white glove. Near the end of the bed was a double-doored wardrobe, whose doors were flung wide, showing the wardrobe to be only half full -- which made me wonder whether Bridget had hastily removed some of her own clothing from the wardrobe before the police had arrived.
Upon first entering the room, I was amazed at how chilly it was. Looking across the room, I noticed that one of the four panes in the small window had been broken. The glass still lay upon the carpet beneath the window.
In the opposite end of the room, Chief Inspector Lestrade stood peering down at the wooden-handled revolver upon the dressing table. Looking up at the sound of our entrance, he seemed less than pleased to see us.
“Ah, Mr Holmes, still working on the case, I see. I would have thought that you would have solved it by now.”
“Ah, Chief Inspector, still doing your own legwork, I see,” countered Conan Doyle.
“Just sifting through what the leg men have turned up.”
“The evidence, eh?” I said.
“Very astute of you, Doctor,” said Lestrade.
“Very substantial, is it?” asked Conan Doyle.
“On the contrary, very little at all. But still enough to convict Andrew Douglas, I fancy.”
Conan Doyle and I walked across to the dressing table, where I moved to pick up the revolver, then stopped. “The murder weapon?” I said. “I suppose that I shouldn’t touch it? Fingerprints and all of that?”
“Help yourself,” offered Lestrade. “The lab boys have already examined it.”
“And?” asked Conan Doyle.
“Nothing,” conceded Lestrade, “clean as a whistle.”
“No fingerprints?” asked Conan Doyle, sounding decidedly surprised. “What a pity.”
“Still, we know that the gun belongs to Andrew Douglas.”
“Who claims that the revolver went missing a month before the killing?” pointed out Conan Doyle.
“He told us that too, but, of course, it will never stand up in a court of law.”
Seeing Conan Doyle reaching, I held out the handgun in his direction; however, he ignored my gesture and reached passed me for the white glove.
Picking the glove up from the dressing table, Conan Doyle asked, “And just what is the significance of this in relationship to the killing, Chief Inspector?”
“Nothing, so far as we know.”
Peering at the glove, I noticed that it was a right-hand glove, made of expensive silk and monogrammed with the initials I.D., in gold lettering.
“Then why is it beside the murder weapon?” asked Conan Doyle.
“It was turned up by a young constable while we were looking through the dead man’s things,” explained Lestrade. “So we placed it upon the dresser on the off chance that it might be of some bearing to the investigation.”
“Did you question the maid about it?”
Sounding decidedly indignant, Lestrade said, “Yes, of course, Mr Conan Doyle. Scotland Yard does function in your absence, you know. The maid claims to know nothing about it, just says that the partner must have got lost somehow.”
Conan Doyle examined the glove closely, even turning it inside-out for a moment, then said, “And yet it is a nearly brand new glove, by the look of it.”
Taking the glove from the great author, Lestrade examined it closely for a moment, then said, “Why so it is, I never noticed. Do you think it is important, Mr Conan Doyle?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not, but it is worth noting,” said Conan Doyle. As Lestrade returned the white glove to the dressing table, Conan Doyle asked, “Nothing else, Chief Inspector?”
Lestrade scratched his head for a moment, deep in thought, then said, “Well, there is the broken glass.” He led us across to the opposite corner of the room, where the broken window glass still lay upon the carpet. “We think that this is how the killer entered the bedroom: through the window.”
“On the third storey?” I asked, as Conan Doyle stooped to examine the broken glass, careful not to kneel upon any shards.
“Well, if you would care to take a look, Doctor, you will see that there is a giant elm tree right outside the window.”
“An elm tree?” I echoed, looking out to where the tree stood, perhaps a yard away from the windowsill. And sure enough, there was a thick branch only a few inches below the level of the sill.
Straightening again, Conan Doyle took a quick look out through the window, then turned toward Lestrade to ask, “So you theorise that Andrew Douglas climbed the elm tree, broke in the window pane, reached in to unlatch the window, stepped through into the room to kill his brother, Ian, then climbed out again, and back down the tree to make his escape?”
“That is what it looks like,” conceded Lestrade.
“Really, Lestrade? You amaze me.”
“Thank you, Mr Conan Doyle,” said the tall, lanky Chief Inspector, grinning from ear to ear.
“There are only three things wrong with that theory, Lestrade.”
“Three things?”
“Only three things?” I asked. “I could think of three or four dozen.”
“Firstly, why did Andrew Douglas bother to go to all of that trouble when he could have just as easily knocked upon the front door and been admitted to see his brother?”
“Because he did not want the maid to see him enter the house,” suggested Lestrade.
“Yet he conveniently left his revolver behind so that she could identify it, after having shown it to his brother in her presence?”
“Very careless of him,” conceded Lestrade.
“Yes...unbelievably so,” said Conan Doyle. He paused for a moment, then added, “Secondly, how could he have climbed out and descended three storeys again, without being observed? Surely the gunshot would have awakened the entire neighbourhood?”
“Well...yes,” muttered Lestrade, scratching his head in a bemused fashion.
“Surely it would have been much more effective to enter the house through the front door, kill Ian Douglas, kill the maid, Bridget, then leave through the front door again...Taking the murder weapon with him as he left?”
“And the third point?” I asked.
“If you will examine the broken window glass,” we all stooped to do so, “you will notice from the way that it has fallen to the side of the room, that the window could not possibly have been closed when the glass was broken.”
“What?” asked Lestrade and I together.
Looking more closely, we could both see what the great author meant. The window was about eighteen inches away from the corner of the room, where the glass was scattered. Instead of opening upwards or outwards, as most windows do, this one opened inwards, which meant that someone could stand behind the opened window while standing in the bedroom.
After considering this fact for a moment, Lestrade said, “Then it had to have been broken by the killer, after the murder had been committed?”
“A fair enough assumption,” agreed Conan Doyle. “It is rather unlikely that Ian Douglas would have just stood by and watched while the killer went through such an elaborate rigmarole.”
“But all of these points toward Andrew Douglas, not away from him,” insisted Lestrade. “Because, if the killer did not enter the house by way of the window, then he must have been admitted by the murdered man. And it would have been in Andrew Douglas’s best interests to make it look as though the killer had climbed in through the window.”
“Lestrade, you’re brilliant!” said Conan Doyle, making the Chief Inspector look startled. “And I’m an idiot!”
“Well, there is no need for sarcasm,” said Lestrade.
“That’s it, of course! Why didn’t I think of it before?” said Conan Doyle. He paced slowly back and forth between the broken glass and the dressing table a few times, then said, “Well, Doctor, all of the pieces are finally starting to come together.”
“What?” I asked. “I have to confess that I am still completely in the dark.”
“Then you can prove that Andrew Douglas killed his brother?” Lestrade asked the great author.
“On the contrary, Chief Inspector, I believe that I can prove that he did not.”
“What? But?” Lestrade scratched his scalp again for a moment, then said, “Well? Go on then. Don’t keep us in suspense.”
“Not yet, Lestrade, try to be patient.”
“I hope you realise that withholding evidence from the police is a criminal offence.”
“I am not withholding evidence, Lestrade. Merely delaying presenting it. I think that first I will need to have a word or two with the maid, Bridget.”
“The maid? But what has she got...?”
“Don’t you see, Chief Inspector? If the killer did not gain entrance through the window, then he must have entered through the front door.”
“Ergo the maid must have seen him?” I said.
“You would certainly think so, Dr Carringbush.”
“Yet she claims to have seen no one,” pointed out Lestrade. “Well, well, well, we will certainly need to have another little talk with our Miss Bridget.”

As the Chief Inspector headed toward the bedroom door, Conan Doyle called after him, “Before you leave, Lestrade, I have been meaning to ask you about the state of this room?”
“State of the room?” asked Lestrade, sounding as puzzled as I felt. “But apart from the broken window glass in the corner, the room is in perfect order.”
“Exactly. I was wondering what state the room was in before you had it tidied up?”
“Tidied up? But we haven’t touched the room...Apart from searching through it, of course.”
Conan Doyle considered this information for a moment, then said, “Then there were no signs of any struggle between the dead man and his assailant?”
“No, none,” conceded Lestrade, “still that’s only to be expected, considering the great size of Ian Douglas, due to his illness. He probably couldn’t have moved fast enough to fend off his brother...his assailant.” With that, Lestrade turned again to leave, then stopped and said, “No, hold on, there was one thing. His left fist was partially clenched, as though to hit out at someone.”
“Partially clenched,” repeated Conan Doyle, nodding to Lestrade to indicate that he could leave to fetch the maid.
“So you think that the maid murdered him?” I asked, after the Chief Inspector had departed.
“I will reserve my suspicions until after we have spoken to her,” said Conan Doyle, “however, no, Bridget did not murder Ian Douglas.”
“But you know who did?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, I can only repeat that I am completely in the dark.”

A few minutes later, Lestrade returned to the bedroom, along with the maid. Bridget looked decidedly nervous, glancing from the Chief Inspector to Conan Doyle, and I couldn’t help wondering whether Lestrade had taken the opportunity to interrogate her in private before fetching Bridget to us.
“Now, Bridget, there is no need to be nervous,” assured Conan Doyle. “I just want to ask you a few questions.”
“Yes, Mr Holmes.” (Conan Doyle had given Bridget that name, in case Margaret Douglas were at the house when we were shown in.)
“I believe that you were the one who found the body of Mr Douglas?”
“That’s right, Mr Holmes. It was my custom to bring Mr Douglas his breakfast in bed.” Conan Doyle and I exchanged a glance, both wondering what else she brought him in bed. “Particularly since his illness had taken hold of him, making it difficult for him to move about much....”
‘Which confirms what Lestrade suggested about why he had been unable to defend himself!’ I thought.
“This morning, however, I was unable to rouse Mr Douglas after knocking repeatedly upon the door. So I used my spare key -- I have a spare key for all of the rooms, so that I can do dusting and such like at any time -- and entered the room, and found Mr Douglas dead on the floor beside his bed.”
“So what did you do then?”
“I hurried downstairs to telephone for the police.”
“Still carrying the breakfast tray?”
“Pardon, Mr Holmes?”
“Chief Inspector Lestrade has stated that the bedroom has not been tidied since the body was found,” explained Conan Doyle. “So, since there are no signs of a spilt breakfast upon the floor, I assume that you must have carried the breakfast tray downstairs with you when you went to telephone for the police?”
Bridget considered for a moment, then said, “Why yes, yes I did, Mr Holmes.”
Conan Doyle pondered for a few moments, scratching his bushy, grey moustache with one finger, then said, “You say that you ran downstairs to telephone for the police?”
“Yes, that is right.”
“Yet there is a telephone right there,” he said, pointing toward the dressing table.
“I...I thought it best not to touch anything in the room until the police arrived.”
“In case you destroyed any evidence?”
“Why yes, Mr Holmes.”
“That was very level-headed of you, Bridget. Most women would have been too hysterical to think so clearly, after finding their employer dead on his bedroom floor.”
Bridget considered this for a moment, clearly uncertain whether to take it as a compliment or a question. Finally, she said, “Why, thank you, Mr Holmes.”
Conan Doyle walked across to the dressing table, picked up the revolver and said, “This is the murder weapon, Bridget?”
“Yes, Mr Holmes.”
“Which you have identified as belonging to Andrew Douglas.”
“Why yes, Mr Holmes.”
“How can you be so certain that it is his property?”
“Because I saw Mr Andrew show the gun to his brother when he first purchased it.”
“How long ago was that?”
She had to consider for a few moments before saying, “About two years ago.”
“And yet you were able to positively identify it after all that time?”
“I have a good memory for things like that.”
“Things like what?” asked Conan Doyle. “Things like guns?”
“No, no, Mr Holmes, that is not what I meant at all,” insisted Bridget, clearly becoming flustered by this line of questioning. “Besides, you can see Mr Andrew’s initials, A.D., in the handle of the gun. That was one of the things that Mr Andrew pointed out when he showed the gun to his brother.”
Conan Doyle looked at the wooden handle of the gun, nodded, then said, “Why did Andrew Douglas show the gun to his brother in the first place? As a threat?”
Bridget considered the question carefully for almost a minute before saying, “Why, no, it just sort of came up in their conversation. They were talking about the spiralling crime rate, and how it was almost too dangerous to go out in the streets nowadays, even by daylight, and Mr Andrew mentioned that he had bought a gun for security, and Mr Ian asked to see it.”
“Then they were on friendly enough terms two years ago?”
Bridged considered again, before saying, “Well, they were never on much more than speaking terms at best during the fifteen years that I was employed by Mr Ian. However, it is only over the last six or eight months that they became openly hostile toward each other.”
Conan Doyle placed the revolver onto the dressing table, picked up the white glove and asked, “What do you make of this?”
“It is one of Mr Ian’s gloves.”
“Do you know what became of its partner?”
“Why no, Mr Holmes.”
“Yet it is a nearly new glove. Surely its partner could not have been lost already?”
“I don’t really know, Mr Holmes.”
“Yet it is your responsibility to take care of Ian Douglas’s clothing, surely?”
“Why yes, Mr Holmes.”
Conan Doyle stood staring toward Bridget for a moment, while she returned his gaze. Finally, flustered, she was forced to look away.
Conan Doyle returned the white glove to the dressing table, then walked across to the broken window, motioning for Bridget and Lestrade to follow him.
Stooping near the broken glass, Conan Doyle asked, “What do you make of this, Bridget?”
Seemingly surprised at the question, she said, “Why, broken window glass.”
“Made by the killer climbing in through the window to kill Ian Douglas?”
“Why yes, Mr Holmes.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I only assumed....”
“You assumed?”
“Why I...Isn’t that what the police believe?”
“Not at all. We have established that the window was broken from the inside, after Ian Douglas was already dead!” explained Lestrade. “The police aren’t so easily fooled, you know.”
“Then how did the killer enter the room?” asked Bridget.
“The same way that we did,” answered Conan Doyle, “through the doorway.”
“Through the doorway? Then how did he get into the house?”
“A good question,” said Lestrade, obviously deciding that as the official police presence, he should take a hand in the interrogations. “Perhaps you’d like to answer it?”
“Me? Why I...I don’t know.”
“A likely story!” insisted Lestrade.
“Indeed, Chief Inspector, if Miss Bridget was already asleep, which is highly likely since the murder was committed around midnight,” said Conan Doyle, taking Lestrade and me both by surprise. “And if she was able to sleep through the noise of a gunshot, it seems most unlikely that the mere sound of footsteps would have awakened her.”
Bridget looked toward Conan Doyle with gratitude in her large, doe-like eyes, and quickly said, “Yes, yes, Mr Holmes, I am a very sound sleeper.”
“A very sound sleeper!” said Lestrade contemptuously.
“Yes, Commissioner,” said Bridget.
‘Commissioner!’ I thought. ‘Lestrade’s been promoted!’
Turning back to face Conan Doyle, Bridge asked, “Will that be all, Mr Holmes?”
Sounding distracted, the great author said, “Yes, for now.” Then, as Bridget fled toward the door to the corridor, seeming a little too eager to leave the room, in my estimate, Conan Doyle called after her, “Oh yes, there was one last thing.”
“What was that, Mr Holmes?” asked Bridget, stopping in the doorway.
“Can you think of any reason why Andrew Douglas would have wanted to kill his brother, Ian?”
“Well, they hadn’t been exactly civil toward each other for the last six or eight months....”
“Still, lots of people aren’t civil toward each other, without going around killing each other.”
Bridget thought deeply for a moment, her brow wrinkling in concentration, before saying, “Well, no, there wasn’t anything in particular...Except that I did overhear them quarrelling about a month ago.”
“Quarrelling, eh?” asked Lestrade.
“Yes, Commissioner.”
“Would you have happened to overhear what they were quarrelling about, by any chance?” asked Conan Doyle.
“Why no, Mr Holmes. I am not in the habit of listening in on other people’s conversations.”
“That will be all then,” said Conan Doyle, and Bridget turned to leave the room.
“Oh, there was just one last thing,” said Conan Doyle.
“Yes, Mr Holmes?”
“Was Ian Douglas left-handed?”
Looking almost as perplexed as I felt by the question, Bridget replied, “Why yes, Mr Holmes.”
“Left-handed?” asked Lestrade, as Bridget finally departed.
“What in the world ever made you ask a thing like that, Mr Conan Doyle?”
“Simple deduction.”
“Deduction? Well, I have to admit that I am completely baffled by your line of inquiry, Mr Conan Doyle.”
“Elementary, Lestrade, elementary. I am merely trying to fit together all of the pieces of the puzzle.”
“Pieces of the puzzle? I go by facts, Mr Conan Doyle, clues, not by puzzles.”
“All facts are pieces of the puzzle, Lestrade; the puzzle of who killed Ian Douglas. I believe that I know the answer to that question, and it most certainly was not Andrew Douglas.”
“Then who was it?” demanded Lestrade.
“All in good time,” said Conan Doyle, making Lestrade sigh in frustration. “Before I can tell you who the killer was, with absolute confidence, I will need to have another word with the dead man’s widow, Margaret Douglas.”
‘Margaret Douglas!’ I thought. ‘Surely Sir Arthur doesn’t think that she had anything to do with the death of Ian Douglas?’
“Oh, all right,” said Lestrade. “Why not?”
The Chief Inspector walked across to the telephone upon the dressing table, telephoned the front desk at Scotland Yard, and gave instructions for Margaret Douglas to be located and brought to the Douglas house posthaste.
“We’re in luck,” said Lestrade, hanging up the telephone receiver, “it seems that Margaret Douglas is still visiting her brother-in-law in gaol, so they won’t have to waste time tracking her down.”
Although the new day had officially dawned some hours ago, the sun just now began to break through the dense, black rain clouds for the first time, giving the illusion of a late dawn. I hoped that this would be an auspicious omen: if the dismal old day had been to herald the death of the great detective, Sherlock Holmes, hopefully the sunny new day would herald the coming release of Andrew Douglas from police custody.

While we awaited the arrival of Margaret Douglas, we sipped tea -- brought to us by Bridget, who departed as quickly as possible after serving us. And Lestrade did his best to bluff Conan Doyle into giving us the name of Ian Douglas’s killer, until finally the great author walked out of the bedroom, seemingly just to avoid the Chief Inspector’s questioning.
After twenty minutes or so, the beautiful redhead was shown into the bedroom by a young policewoman, who hurriedly departed again, after receiving a curt nod from Lestrade.
“Chief Inspector,” said Margaret Douglas, “I hope you have a good reason for summoning me here like this?”
“Well, er, you see, miss, I didn’t,” stammered Lestrade, “it was Mr Con....”
“I summoned you here,” explained Conan Doyle, striding into the bedroom behind Margaret Douglas.
“Oh Mr Holmes,” said Margaret, turning at the sound of the great author’s voice, “are you any nearer to clearing Andrew of this beastly charge?”
“Nearer,” I said, “he claims to have solved the murder.”
“Solved it? Then you can clear Andrew’s name, Mr Holmes?”
“I believe so, but there are still a few loose ends which I need your help with.”
“Anything, Mr Holmes, if it will help you to clear Andrew.”
Conan Doyle walked through the bedroom to reach the dressing table upon the other side of the bed. Picking up the murder weapon, he said, “This is Andrew’s handgun?”
Margaret walked across and examined the revolver for a moment, then said, “Yes, you can see where he has carven his initials on the handle.”
“Was it Andrew’s custom to always carry the gun about with him?” asked Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
“Yes, whenever he went outside.”
“When was the last time that you can recall seeing the gun?”
“About a month ago.”
“Then Andrew noticed the loss of the gun soon after that?”
“Yes, after visiting Ian.”
“Did Andrew report the loss of the gun to the police at the time?”
“Yes, Mr Holmes, but not until after he had searched the house from top to bottom to make completely certain that he had not merely mislaid it.”
Conan Doyle turned to face Lestrade and asked, “Is that true?”
“Well, yes,” conceded Lestrade, “but if he were already planning to murder his brother at the time, it would have been common sense for him to report the gun stolen...To cover himself.”
“But Andrew is innocent!” insisted Margaret, her green eyes moistening with the hint of tears.
“Well, of course, we’d all like to believe that, Mrs Douglas,” said Lestrade, “but I’m afraid that the evidence is stacked pretty heavily against your brother-in-law.”
“Nonsense, Lestrade,” said Conan Doyle. “There is no evidence against Andrew Douglas. In fact, quite to the contrary.”
Lestrade stared in amazement toward Conan Doyle, and scratched his head in bewilderment for a moment, before saying, “I wish you wouldn’t keep saying that, unless you intend proving it!”
Conan Doyle looked from Margaret Douglas to me, then to the Chief Inspector, before saying, “Very well then, Lestrade. If you will be good enough to call back the maid, Bridget, I think that it is time for me to lay my cards upon the table.”
“Bridget? What has she...?” began Lestrade, then thinking better of it, he turned and hurried out of the bedroom.

A couple of minutes later, Lestrade returned, leading Bridget by one arm. The young maid looked highly disturbed; her eyes darted from Conan Doyle to Margaret Douglas, to Lestrade, then back to Conan Doyle, as she was led across to the dressing table where Conan Doyle, Margaret Douglas and I all stood.
“Well,” said Lestrade, “it looks as though we are all here now, so perhaps you would be so kind as to enlighten us now, Mr Conan Doyle.”
“Conan Doyle?” asked Bridget.
“But I thought that you were Sherlock Holmes!” insisted Margaret Douglas. She fixed her green eyes upon Conan Doyle, obviously wondering whether she had been the brunt of a cruel joke.
“Yes, I am sorry for that,” apologised the great author. “Mr Holmes is an associate of mine. Unfortunately, he was indisposed when you called this morning, so, since you seemed more confident taking me for Mr Holmes, I saw no reason to disillusion you.”
“Well, if we have got that straightened out now,” I said, “how about telling us who done it? We’re all ears, you know?”
“Not quite yet, Dr Carringbush,” said Conan Doyle. “You will have to be patient for a few more minutes; there is still one important person missing.”
“What?” demanded Lestrade, scratching his head in puzzlement for a few seconds, before suddenly looking inspiration-struck. “You don’t mean that Ian Douglas isn’t really dead? Like in The Case of the Five Orange Pips, which I solved!”
“You solved?” demanded Conan Doyle.
“Er, well, with a little help from Mr Holmes, of course.”
Conan Doyle smiled ruefully, then said, “No, no, Ian Douglas is quite dead, have no fear about that.”
“Then who...?” demanded Lestrade.
Before Conan Doyle could answer, however, there was a faint rapping at the front door of the house, followed by a murmur of voices, then the sound of footsteps upon the stairs.
A few moments later, Andrew Douglas walked in through the doorway.
While the rest of us stood open-mouthed, Margaret and Andrew Douglas ran toward each other to kiss and hug in the middle of the room, obviously no longer concerned with what anyone thought about their conduct.
After a few moments of stunned silence, Lestrade recovered his voice to ask, “Hey, how did he get here?”
“I sent for him,” explained Conan Doyle.
“You sent for him?” asked the Chief Inspector, scratching his head in puzzlement. “But I’m in charge of this case! He’s my prisoner!”
“I’m sorry, Lestrade, but I took the liberty of going over your head.”
“Over my head?” asked Lestrade. Clearly deciding that he would never get a straight answer from the great author, the Chief Inspector turned toward Andrew Douglas to ask, “Now, how in the world did you ever get past the police downstairs?”
“I showed them this,” explained Andrew Douglas, taking a small sheet of notepaper from his shirt pocket.
Lestrade brusquely snatched the sheet of paper out of Andrew’s hand and read it through to himself, before saying aloud, “Signed Mycroft Holmes!” Turning to face Conan Doyle, he added, “Blimey, you really did go over my head!”
Clearly amused by Lestrade’s bewilderment, Conan Doyle said, “Well, if we are all ready now, perhaps I can explain to you exactly how Ian Douglas met his demise.”
“Yes, how did he die?” asked Lestrade. “If he wasn’t murdered by his brother, Andrew, then who did murder Ian Douglas?”
“No one,” replied Conan Doyle.
“What?” asked Margaret and Andrew Douglas as one, breaking their hug for a moment to stare toward the great author.
Bridget paled noticeably, while I stared open-mouthed, and Lestrade said, “If this is one of your little games....”
“It’s no game, Lestrade. No one murdered Ian Douglas,” said Conan Doyle. “Unless you consider suicide to be a form of self-murder.”
“Suicide?” asked Lestrade, clearly as bewildered as I was. “But why would he have committed suicide!”
“To get revenge upon his wife and brother, for their love affair,” explained Conan Doyle.
“Love affair?” said Lestrade. “You mean Andrew and Margaret...? Well, this throws a whole new light on the case...But wait a minute...” He paused for a moment to consider what he had just learnt, then said exactly what I was thinking, “I can understand a man being enraged at his wife and brother for having an affair, but still, killing yourself hardly seems like a very efficient way to get revenge!”
“It could be, Chief Inspector, if you were already dying of elephantiasis, and if you could arrange it to look like murder, and to look as though your wife’s lover is the obvious suspect.”
“Sort of like killing two birds with one stone?” I asked.
“Exactly, old fellow,” agreed Conan Doyle.
Lestrade, still clearly perplexed, scratched his forehead ruminatively for a moment, then said, “But wait on, how did Ian Douglas get hold of the gun?”
“That’s right,” agreed Andrew, “I was within sight of Ian the entire time that I was here, that time when I called upon him. There was no way that Ian could have taken the revolver from me.”
Conan Doyle turned to face Bridget and said, “No, but you could have, couldn’t you, Bridget?”
“Me?” asked Bridget, in a squeak.
“That’s right. You had every opportunity to take the gun from Andrew’s coat when you were hanging it up, or at any time while he was talking to his brother.”
“But why should I want to take the stupid gun?”
“Yes, what did she have to gain by taking it?” asked Lestrade.
“Two things, Chief Inspector, helping her lover achieve revenge upon the two people whom he hated the most in the world, and helping him out of his misery.”
“Well, that’s all very well, but...” said Lestrade, before it dawned upon him. “Her lover? You mean to say that Bridget here and her employer were also at it?”
“That’s right, Lestrade,” agreed Conan Doyle, going on to relate to the Chief Inspector everything that we had been told by the private investigator, Wentworth.
“Blimey,” said Lestrade. “Well, if this fellow Wentworth were in Andrew Douglas’s house from 10:00 a.m. last night till early this morning, then I suppose that he is a perfect witness to the fact that Andrew Douglas never left his bed long enough to have killed his brother.”
“Yes,” agreed Conan Doyle, “a somewhat reluctant witness, if called upon, I should imagine, but a perfect witness nonetheless.”
“He’s a liar!” shrieked Bridget, trying to sound confident, although she had a look of fear in her eyes. “That man Wentworth is a liar and a sneak! I told Ian not to trust him....”
“Ian?” asked Conan Doyle, making Bridget blush.
“Mr Ian, I meant,” she hastened to explain.
“Can he prove it in court?” asked Lestrade. “I mean about Bridget and Ian Douglas being lovers.”
“Oh yes, Chief Inspector, he has several tape recordings that he made of Bridget and Ian together.”
“Tape recordings?” asked Bridget.
Conan Doyle explained the process to her, and her eyes widened as she began to realise the full implications.
“So what if we were lovers?” demanded Bridget. “That doesn’t prove that I helped Ian kill himself!”
“No, it doesn’t,” pointed out Chief Inspector Lestrade.
“No, however, it does give her a reason to help him,” said Conan Doyle. “It also explains how Ian Douglas could have obtained his brother’s revolver.”
“That’s a very fine theory,” said Bridget with a sneer in her voice, “but where is your proof?”
“She’s right, there’s no good saying she isn’t,” said Lestrade. “It’s all right to theorise about how he may have done it, but that won’t stand up in court. We still need to have some real proof that Ian Douglas killed himself.”
“And so we do,” insisted Conan Doyle. “The gun, clean of prints, the right-hand glove, and the broken window glass,” pointing back toward the glass on the carpet, “broken from the inside in such a manner to make it look, at first glance, as though the killer had gained access to the bedroom through the window.”
“But how do they prove that he killed himself?” I asked.
“They don’t! He’s only bluffing!” insisted Bridget.
“No, I’m not,” said Conan Doyle. “These are proofs all right. To begin with, Ian Douglas wore a white glove, so that there would be no fingerprints left on the gun when he shot himself.”
“But that’s a right-hand glove!” pointed out Bridget.
“And Ian was left-handed,” reminded Margaret, drawing a smirk from the maid.
“Yes,” agreed Conan Doyle, “this is the partner of the glove that he wore when he shot himself. He wore the left-hand glove to protect against leaving prints on the gun, then, after he was dead, Bridget carefully removed the gun from his hand -- presumably wearing gloves herself -- removed the left-hand glove and destroyed it, or threw it away. But what she forgot to do was to destroy its partner.”
“The right-hand glove,” I said, drawing a nod of approval from the great author.
“But if he had a gun in his hand when he died, his fist....” said Lestrade, stopping as inspiration struck him.
“His fist would have been clenched from holding the gun,” Conan Doyle finished the sentence. “As indeed it was, Lestrade. As you yourself said, ‘As though to hit out at someone.’ In reality, it was from gripping the gun when he died. Bridget was able to straighten his hand out enough to remove the gun and the glove, but she could not completely unclench it.”
Lestrade pondered this for a few moments, then said, “Yes, yes, I suppose that that would explain it.”
“But what about the broken window glass?” asked Margaret Douglas. “What was the point behind that?”
“To make the police suspect Andrew,” explained Conan Doyle. “Ian and Bridget took it for granted that we would see through the ruse. It was intended that we should, so that when we did, we would naturally suspect Andrew, who could have been admitted to the house by Ian Douglas, or could even have had his own set of keys to the house. And in whose best interest it would have been to make it appear as though the killer had gained entrance to the house through the bedroom window.”
“Ah!” said Lestrade. “Now I understand.” Turning to face Bridget, he demanded, “Well, young lady, what have you got to say for yourself?”
For a moment, it looked as though the maid were going to make a run for it; instead, she put her hands up to her eyes and began sobbing.
After a few seconds, she looked up from her hands to say, “Yes, yes, all right, it’s true, that’s exactly how we did it.”
Beaming with pleasure, Lestrade took hold of Bridget by one arm and said, “All right, my girl, you can come along with me! This will really be another feather in my cap, when the boys down at the Yard hear how I solved this one.”
“You solved it?” I asked.
“Er, well, with a little help from Mr Conan Doyle,” conceded Lestrade as he dragged the sobbing maid out into the corridor.
“What will they do to her?” asked Margaret Douglas.
“Well, unless Andrew decides to press charges against her, she will probably get away with a suspended sentence,” said Conan Doyle.
“No, I have no wish to hurt her,” said Andrew. “In a way, what she did was no worse than what Maggie and I have done: fallen in love. Ian has tried to frame me out of hatred, but Bridget did it out of love for him.”
At this, Andrew and Margaret began kissing and hugging again.
“Come along, old fellow,” said Conan Doyle, “I think that it is time that we were leaving.”
After a glance at my fob watch, I said, “Why my goodness me, yes, it is nearly eight a.m., and I have to be at my clinic by nine.”
“But you must allow me to pay you for your services, Mr Holmes, I mean Mr Conan Doyle,” said Margaret.
“Conan Doyle?” asked Andrew.
“No need,” assured Conan Doyle, “although you might make good to Mr. Wentworth, since I have promised to see that he is paid in full.”
“Of course, Mr Conan Doyle,” agreed Margaret.
“And if I could have permission to write this little episode up as fiction, using false names, of course?”
“Granted, Mr. Conan Doyle,” said Margaret. Then, turning back to Andrew, she began to explain to her lover that Conan Doyle was not really the author of Sherlock Holmes.
As we made our departure, the great author said to me, “If my good friend Dr Watson were to write this story up, I think the good doctor would call it, The Adventure of the Right-Hand Glove.”

THE END
© Copyright 2025 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia