The Sherlockian

CHAPTER 26 Ron Rosenberg Theorizes

January 10, 2010, cont.

With great effort Ron Rosenberg heaved himself onto his feet. He still clutched his knee, his hands rubbing at the spot where Sarah had kicked it. While Ron took a deep breath, Sarah stepped back, giving him space. She continued to hold the knife in her hand, however, its blade outstretched and at the ready.

“Why are you following us?” said Harold.

“And more importantly,” said Sarah, “what the hell are you wearing?”

As if suddenly remembering his disguise, Ron reached up to his face and pulled off the costume nose. He removed a pair of fake gray eyebrows and a very convincing gray wig. Bits of leathery fake skin had been dislodged from his cheeks and forehead. They hung off him, making it look as if his face were melting.

“Maybe I should be the one asking questions of the two of you!” he said. “What have you done with the diary?”

“Jesus, Ron, we don’t have the diary. Stop.” Harold turned to Sarah, addressing her. “The costume, the old man bit… It’s a Sherlock Holmes thing. When he was trailing suspects, Holmes would go out in disguise a lot. He often dressed as an old man, or even an old woman. It’s in a bunch of stories.” He turned back to Ron. “Which doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

“I had hoped not to reveal my hand this early, Harold, but you leave me no choice. I think you killed Alex Cale and stole the diary. I think you’re in league with Sebastian Conan Doyle and that the two of you planned it together.”

Sarah smiled.

Harold rubbed his temples with his hands, more irritated than angry. “Why would I kill Cale?”

“Because you wanted to be number one, Harold. Don’t pretend you’re not ambitious. You’ve been an Irregular for, what, a week now? You’ve already published an article in the Baker Street Journal. You’ve befriended all of the group’s luminaries, including me. You made sure to meet Alex Cale the night before his death. Jeffrey Engels sponsored your investiture, you must know that. But did you think he was going to help you cover up the murder, too? Don’t be stupid, Harold.”

Harold didn’t even know where to begin his response. Ron was embarrassing, not just to himself but to Harold. Detective work was serious and difficult and not something to be dabbled in. Ron wasn’t cut out for this. This wasn’t a time for amateurs.

“I didn’t kill anybody,” Harold said wearily. “If I was the murderer, then why was I the first person to discover his body? Why am I out here trying to find the murderer? Why not go home and enjoy my new tenmillion-dollar diary, the one that I just stole?”

“To draw suspicion away from yourself, of course!” replied Ron. He spoke with equal parts professorial condescension and rueful acknowledgment of a skilled adversary. “No one ever suspects that the detective himself is the murderer. It’s a brilliant device, but an old one. Agatha Christie used it first, not Conan Doyle. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Remember, I’ve read all the same stories that you have, Harold. I know what you’re up to.”

“Well, if that’s true,” said Harold, “then since you’re the one investigating me, since you’re the one playing detective, maybe you’re the one who killed him.”

Ron stood motionless, thinking this over. Harold nodded toward Sarah, who gave Ron a polite smile as the two walked out into the street. Alone, Ron was lost in thought.