A Study in Sherlock

He heard the bedroom door open, and his mother’s quiet breathing as she watched her sleeping son. Later she conducted her own investigation, and the boy managed to persuade her that he had only left the house once, to inform the police of the gunshots he’d heard on the day he came home from school sick with measles. She scolded him, but as he opened the envelope, she admitted she was proud of him.

“What does the letter say?”

The boy frowned. “The inspector thanked me for reporting what I saw on Margaret Street, and he says he hopes we enjoy ourselves.” He held four tickets in his hand. “They’re for Alexandra Palace on Wednesday.”

The mother took the tickets. “It looks like a music hall comedy troupe. Let’s see if you’re well enough, shall we? It’s quite a way across London, you know.”

The boy made sure he was well enough by Wednesday evening and, together with the women of the house, set off for Alexandra Palace in his uncle’s motorcar. In an uncharacteristic offer of generosity, Ernest had provided a chauffeur to take his mother, sisters, and nephew to Alexandra Palace and bring them home again.

The family thoroughly enjoyed the music hall acts, from the songs to the slapstick. Then, close to the end of the show, the scenery was changed again to stage a drawing room in a grand house. A man and a woman took to the boards, and began a farcical exchange, whereby the man defended himself, with great aplomb, from verbal attack by the woman. The audience cheered and called out, and soon the man was turning to the crowd to ask for their support. More cheers, more calling, as men took the actor’s side, and women called out in favor of the actress. And as the back and forth went on, so the boy began to slide down in his seat, covering his face with his hands. It would not take the mind of a consulting detective to predict the outcome. It was elementary. Voices on the stage were raised again.

“You are nothing but a philanderer, a thief, and a … a … a thoroughly nasty piece of work. I wish I had never met you.”

“And that, madam, is a sure case of the pot calling the kettle black!”

“Don’t you ‘madam’ me, you lout!”

The audience erupted again, as the man brandished a gun and fired into the air. The boy blushed, as his mother turned to him and smiled.

“Oh, Ray,” she whispered in his ear. “I wish I had not doubted you—you were right all along. You did hear a gunshot.”

The following morning, on his way to school, the boy called at the police station to see Detective Inspector Stickley, knowing that an English gentleman would offer an apology where one was required, and take a goodly bite of humble pie.

“No apologies needed, son.” Stickley paused, regarding the boy. “But a bit of advice. Deeper questioning. You should have asked a few more questions about the lodger; you might have discovered that he was an actor and the troupe were moving on to Alexandra Palace after a run at the Empire down the road—and like many of his ilk, he tried to slip out without paying his rent. And the bloke was only practicing his lines for a new act with the girl who was playing opposite him—mind you, he shouldn’t have broken the rule about women in his room. And if you’d’ve looked up, son, you would have seen a nasty black mark where the blank gunpowder wad hit the ceiling.”

The boy left the police station and went on his way. Clearly detection was not for him. It was time to put all thoughts of Holmes, his silly backward thinking and his pacing, his magnifying glass and his tape measure behind him. He preferred poetry anyway.

Mr. Hose, the English master, stood at the blackboard, chalk in hand. He regarded his class. For the first time in weeks, all were present. The outbreak of measles had swept through Dulwich College—a noted school for well-bred boys—like the plague. His lessons would be a source of pleasure again, especially as his favorite pupil had returned and was well enough, if not yet hearty.

“Chandler, glad to see you in class again. I trust you have kept up with the Elizabethans?”

The boy stood up to answer, as was customary. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, if you would be so kind, do tell the class which of the learned gentlemen you chose as subject for your essay.”

“Philip Marlowe, sir.”

The class snickered.

“Still measled, are we, Chandler?”

“Sorry, sir. I meant to say, Sir Philip Sidney, sir.”

“Didn’t care for Marlowe, Chandler?”

The boy shook his head. “I rather prefer Sidney’s verse, sir.”

Hose nodded. “Yes, something of a poet, aren’t we, Chandler? Great things are expected of you in that field of endeavor, young man. Well then, read on, if you will.”

The boy cleared his throat, scratched the remains of a spot on his cheek, and proceeded to read his essay to the assembled class. He took his seat again, and following a discussion, it was time for another boy to read. Hose called upon Weston. Rotten Weston.

“I’ve chosen Philip Marlowe, sir.” He looked across at Chandler and grinned. “Oh—oh dear, oops, I mean Christopher Marlowe.”