A Study in Sherlock

Within ten minutes the boy was closing the front door with as much stealth as possible, and was soon on his way to visit the Upper Norwood constabulary. A police sergeant was on duty at the desk as he entered, though it was the latest edition of the Daily News that claimed his attention, and not the doings of the local criminal element.

“Yes, young sir, what can I do for you today? Lost your dog?”

“I would like to see the detective inspector on duty, if I may.”

The sergeant’s eyes grew wider, and he grinned. “Oh you would, would you, sonny? Our Detective Inspector Stickley is a very busy man, so I’m assuming your purpose is genuine.”

The boy straightened his shoulders. “I am here to report what I believe to be a genuine murder, witnessed by myself a week ago. I have been in my sickbed since then, however, I would like to see Detective Inspector Stickley as a matter of some urgency.”

“Right you are. Sit yourself down over there, you’re looking a bit peaky, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

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

“This way, son.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Detective Inspector Stickley.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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