A Study in Sherlock

A SPOT OF DETECTION Jacqueline Winspear

The boy was ill. He knew he was ill, and the fact that the school matron had sent him home—and Matron rarely sent anyone home—meant his demise could be imminent. The spots on his chest itched, worse than the itch caused by crushed rosehips when Weston—the sniveling rat, Weston—pushed a handful down the back of his collar. This morning he’d scratched and itched throughout Latin and into Algebra. And then after lunch the itch went from his chest to his legs, and then began to be apparent above the collar of his cornflower-blue-and-black uniform blazer. He’d wheezed and coughed well into Geography, and finally laid his head on the desk as if begging for mercy. But at least that was better than home, where there would be only his mother, Aunt Ethel, and his grandmother for company, with the occasional visit from his ill-tempered Uncle Ernest, who only ever talked about money and how much the family was costing him. He sighed and the sigh made him cough again. It was a long walk from school to the house and no one had offered to accompany him; he was, after all, expected to act like an Englishman, and the stiff upper lip—even one with a giant teasing spot on it—was not permitted to wobble. Once home, his mother would send him to bed and that would be that. The school would not let him rest though; work would be sent in a brown paper parcel for him to complete from his sickbed. He was second to last in his class to come down with measles, so he knew what to expect.

The sweat beaded across his forehead and trickled in rivulets from his neck down the gully that was his spine. Not long to go now, he thought. He rubbed his eyes, which were running as much as his nose, and he swayed a little, trembling with fever. As he lingered on Margaret Street trying to garner fortitude for the last half-mile, raised voices seemed to ricochet past his aching ears. At first he thought he had experienced some sort of hallucination. He cupped an ear and listened. Yes, he had definitely heard some level of discord, and the point of origin of the fracas appeared to be the upper floor of one of the three-story terraced houses that flanked his route. He shook his head to clear a mind befuddled by blocked sinuses. The voices, coming from somewhere above and to the left of him, were raised again, and now, as he looked up, squinting in an endeavor to ascertain the source of the row, he saw the shadows of a man and a woman silhouetted at the window of an adjacent house. One of them had raised a hand, but as the fever made everything around him seem disjointed, he was not sure if the hand belonged to the man or the woman, or whether it was simply something that floated in the air. Then the voices reached a crescendo.

“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 boy crinkled his eyes and pushed back his woollen school cap. It itched across his forehead. Silly, these English school caps—and at his age. Tiredness seeped through his being like waves at the seashore, and it made him think of the ocean; cool, cool water lapping over him, and how it might feel as it washed across his hot, sticky skin. Itch-itch-itch, scratch-scratch-scratch. Then there was a scream. A scream so loud, he thought everyone must hear. But there was no one else on the street to be alarmed, though at that very moment a brand-new shining motorcar bumped and blasted its way toward him, barely allowing margin for a costermonger’s horse and cart. That’s when he thought he heard a gunshot. Crack! Crack! it went, into the air. Then it was gone, and there was no more screaming and yelling. And no more shadows.

“Fell down right in front of me, he did, missus. Luck’ly, he knew where he lived, told me the address right off when I asked him—mind you, I had to shake him a bit. Looks like he’s got a touch of the measles. Nasty, them measles. Had ’em when I was a lad.”

The coster helped the boy across the threshold, whereupon the mother took charge, her manner of speaking causing the man to look up as she pressed a few pennies into his hand.

“Long way from home, aren’t you, missus?”

“This is our home now, sir. Thank you for assisting my son—now I must get him to bed.”

She closed the door, and at once she and the boy’s aunt—there was no father present—helped him upstairs to his room at the front of the house. Having removed his school uniform, they laid him out on the bed, washed him with warm water and carbolic soap, and daubed the livid rash with calamine lotion before sending for the doctor. The boy remembered little of this, though he could, when he was on the mend, remember trying to press the point that he thought someone had been shot on Margaret Street. His words served only to convince the women of the severity of his fever, and the dangers inherent in a bout of childhood measles, which, they thought, would never have come to pass had mother and son remained in America. This was the 1900s now, after all, and London seemed a backward place to an immigrant from across the Atlantic, even though there was family here to help. It was to be some days before the illness became a source of boredom for the boy and a slight nuisance for the mother and aunt.

“He’s on the mend, but I do wish he’d stop going on about hearing a gunshot on Margaret Street. The coster said he saw him collapse after the motorcar backfired and the horse shied, so of course it must have sounded like a shot from a gun to a sick boy.”

The aunt had returned from a walk to the shops, ready for the mother’s complaint. “This might feed his appetite for murder, Florence.” She placed a brown-paper-wrapped book on the table.

“The Boys’ Sherlock Holmes?” said the mother, her eyebrows raised just a little. “I’m not sure the masters at school would approve, and he has a mountain of prep to finish—he mustn’t slip behind, you know.”

“He’s a good pupil, so a little something light might be just what the doctor ordered—and I think the nurse trumps the teachers in the management of convalescence.”

“Hmmm,” said the boy’s mother. “I’ll take it up with his tea.”

Turning the pages proved to be a problem, given the white cotton gloves his mother insisted adorn his hands so that if he attempted to scratch the spots, which were becoming even more itchy and crusty as they dried out, he would not break the skin. The calamine lotion helped to a degree—already his mother had sent out the maid for two more bottles—and he’d been encouraged to take a hot bath with a copious amount of Epsom salts added to the water, but still he’d taken off the gloves in a moment of frustration and scratched his forehead so much it bled. He licked a gloved finger and fumbled the page until it turned.

Without doubt, the adventures of Sherlock Holmes offered some respite from the Elizabethan authors he’d been studying, though he enjoyed the rhythm of the more ancient English employed by Shakespeare, Sir Philip Sidney, and Christopher Marlowe. He liked Sidney above all, having considered himself something of a poet; indeed the boy had made a vow to have his work published by the time he came of age. He could readily imagine himself lingering in an oak-lined study at Penshurst Place in Kent, where Sidney penned sweet rhyming letters to his love. It was said there was no more noble character than Sidney, in his day, and the boy thought that in itself was something to aspire to, for he wanted to be considered a noble Englishman. The endearing thing about Sidney was that he wrote about love, and the boy rather liked the idea of writing romantic verse; it appealed to him. He brought his attention back to Sherlock Holmes, though as thoughts danced and wove in his mind, he began thinking, again, about what he had seen and heard as he’d walked home from school with a raging fever. Was it his imagination? Had he really heard the altercation between the man and the woman—the lovers, as he now considered them to be? He suspected that, had Holmes been on the street, he would have uttered the words, “The game’s afoot!”

There’s a point, as sickness leaves but before a return to good health can be claimed, that a young male, in particular, will become bored and may resort to mischief to entertain himself in the long hours of convalescence. The discomfort of healing skin did not help matters for the boy, but the itch was now one of attention, of a desire for something more exciting in the day than his mother’s footfall on the stairs as she brought a tray with breakfast, luncheon, tea, or supper. She assumed he read, wrote, or slept when alone, and to a point this was true. But now he wanted to move his limbs. And he wanted to indulge his curiosity.

A thought occurred to the boy when he had come to the end of A Study in Scarlet, so he took up his notebook and pencil, and began to turn the pages. He reread a snippet here, a sentence there. He copied whole paragraphs, and then tried to index them into some sort of order. According to the book, which included a serviceable biography of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, together with a few pages on the man who had inspired the character of Sherlock Holmes, the detective could solve a crime in three days. Three days. Today was Tuesday, so if he dedicated Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday to the case—he now considered his experience a “case”—he would have all the answers he needed by the week’s end. It was crucial that the fledgling idea must work in the allotted time, for the doctor decreed that he could get up from his bed and remain downstairs on Saturday and Sunday, ready to return to school on Monday next. Three days.

He consulted the book again. Holmes had instructed Watson—the boy rather liked Watson; he seemed warmer, more affable than the cold, calculating Holmes—that it was important to engage in reasoning backward and analytically. He wasn’t sure how he could put such a process into practice with regard to his case, but he began to write down everything he remembered, backward from the time he arrived home from school. This was somewhat tricky, as he had been brought part of the way in the back of a coster’s cart, among an array of wilting vegetables. The cabbage had been particularly pungent. Of essence, he realized, as he read on, was Holmes’s dictate that the detective must examine on foot the property where the crime was committed. The boy began to scheme.

His mother and aunt walked after lunch each day, a perambulation that would extend for several hours, so having left the house at, say, one o’clock, they would return no later than four, when it was time for tea. During that time his grandmother would nod off in her chair, and be, to all intents and purposes, dead to the world. Since he had taken to his sickbed, his mother had called up the stairs as she left, then brought him a cup of tea and two plain oatmeal biscuits upon her return. Sometimes his aunt would come to his room, too, and together they would discuss his schoolwork, or an item in the newspaper of national import, and as they left, his aunt would be heard to say, “He’s such a sensitive boy, isn’t he?” or something of that order.

He decided to leave the house as soon as they had departed following luncheon on Wednesday, but he must be certain to return by teatime. Three days, three hours each day. Holmes would indubitably be able to find a solution in such a period of time—why couldn’t he?

Tools were gathered with some stealth. Sherlock Holmes always had at least a tape measure and a magnifying glass, and these items were procured with ease—the former taken from his mother’s sewing basket, and the latter from his grandmother’s bedside table. And it was clear that he needed a disguise—not least to conceal the livid spots dotting his face. Cosmetic powder on his aunt’s dressing table worked admirably, and soon it seemed as if he had been afflicted by no more than the odd pimple considered normal on a boy of his age. Having gathered everything he needed according to the practices of Sherlock Holmes, the boy sat on his bed and caught his breath. In truth he felt just a little dizzy, and droplets of perspiration had formed on the pale fluff above his lip. He reached for a glass of water, quenched his thirst, and slipped into bed again.

“See you later, dear. We’ll be back by teatime.” His mother’s voice echoed up into the stairwell.

“Bye,” replied the boy.

He waited until the door closed and he’d given the women enough time to walk to the end of the road, then pulled back the covers, leapt out of bed, and as an afterthought, shoved a pillow between the sheets so that it seemed as if he were there, but asleep. “The game’s definitely afoot,” he whispered, as he crept past the drawing room, where the sleeping grandmother snored and smacked her lips.

It took a good twenty minutes at not a very good pace to reach Margaret Street. Think backward, thought the boy. He referred to his notes—that morning he had recorded everything he could remember from the time he left school to the time he arrived home on the fateful day. Closing his eyes, he recalled the motorcar approaching, and the horse taking umbrage. Yes! It clipped the fence as it shied. The boy took out the magnifying glass and began to walk very slowly along the fence that ran the entire length of the terrace. There it was—though in truth, he could see the broken wood with his naked eye; there was no real need for magnification. Several slats were missing, and it was evident that the occupant of the house had pulled away the broken pieces and laid them to one side in the garden.

“What’re you looking at?” The voice came from an open door. A woman, wearing a floral pinafore over a gray woollen dress, stood before him. As a rule he would not have noticed much about her, but now he could see that she had bunions on both feet—why else would she cut into her slippers at the joint of the big toe? She had been reading the newspaper, likely by the window—which had enabled her to see him inspecting her broken fence—because her fingertips were black. She might also be a widow, for a house of this size would not warrant a housekeeper or cook, so if she were married, she should be peeling potatoes or some such thing, not reading the newspapers. It was clear to see that this woman pleased herself. The fact that the wood had been left in a pile and the fence not mended also suggested a woman alone, for surely any man worth his salt would have done something about the gaping hole by now.

“I was just wondering about your fence. I assume that’s where the motorcar caused the coster’s horse to shy.”

“You saw that, did you, lad?”

“Not really, madam. I was taken ill in the street, but I heard the noise, and I heard the coster, who kindly took me home, telling my mother about the disturbance.”

“Disturbance? I’d like to find the blighter what did that to my fence; too right I would. I’d give him a disturbance if I knew where to find him. And if you come across him, you come and tell me about it.”

“Yes, Mrs.…”

“Tingley. Mrs. Tingley. Mr. Tingley passed away last year, otherwise that there hole would have been put right by now.”

“Were you not at home when the event took place, Mrs. Tingley?”

The woman shook her head. “The one day a week I go to the church hall for a game of whist. All the ladies on the street go, so it’s quiet around here—otherwise the blighter wouldn’t’ve got away with it.”

“Ahhh, I see,” said the boy. “Well, good day to you, Mrs. Tingley.”

He walked on, stopping after a few paces to make a note in his book. He could have walked and penned at the same time, but if he did so, he might miss a detail. A good consulting detective would not miss a detail.

Holmes was a stickler for the measuring and counting of strides to ascertain the height of a man. Though at this stage the boy had no reason to do so, the idea of taking account of his pace, and then logging the details in his notebook appealed to him in case something could be deduced that might be of use as the plot thickened. Trusting he wouldn’t be seen, he went back to Mrs. Tingley’s house and, using the broken fence as a starting point, he stepped out, hopefully toward the house from which he had heard the argument and the gunshot. Frankly, he really didn’t know what he might discover in the pacing, but he was sure it would come in handy. He stopped to glance back every three strides. Yes, it was just about … here. He looked up at the terraced house. Was this the one? He tried to remember the day, to recall his feelings, then he began to feel a bit sick. He swallowed and wished he’d brought a flask of water with him, for his mouth had gone from moist to dry. But the sensation gave him an idea. He walked along the path, keeping his eyes peeled in case he saw a footprint in the soil, or something hidden in the hydrangeas. Nothing. He knocked at the door and waited.

Two locks were drawn back, and the door opened only to the extent that five inches of chain would allow.

“What d’yer want?”

“I am sorry to disturb you, madam, but I wonder—I have just recovered from a sickness and feel quite unwell. Might you have a cup of water?”

The boy thought the woman had recently enjoyed some sort of hairdressing experiment that caused small curls to form all over the scalp, so clearly she wasn’t short of a shilling or two. Her eyes, though, revealed a person who might be a good deal more accommodating than one might believe at first blush. She was older, he thought, than the woman he’d seen silhouetted at the window—much older, for this woman before him was of an age somewhere between his mother and grandmother. And it occurred to the boy that she might be scared.

“You do look a bit peaky. Wait here, I’ll get you the water.” The woman closed the door, opening it again after three minutes had passed. Leaving the door on the chain, she handed a cup of water out to him.

“Thank you, madam.” He drank the entire contents without taking a breath.

“You was thirsty, that you were.” Now the woman was smiling.

The boy handed back the cup.

“Madam, do forgive me, but as a gentleman, I must ask—do you have cause to fear? You appear very cautious, as if you are expecting an unwanted visitor.”

She shook her head. “No, not at all. Not at all.” She pressed her face toward the open door, as if to see along the street, though the chain prevented a good look.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

The woman sighed. “You look like a good boy.”

“My mother says as much, though she may have some bias.”

“You at the College?”

He nodded and hoped she would not ask why he was not in uniform.

“It’s that lodger of mine. Well, lodger as was. Not any more. No rent equals no board or lodging in this establishment. I lay down my rules when they come, and if the rent’s not paid, then they get chucked out. Bloke hadn’t been here long, but I had to give him his marching orders because I hardly saw the color of his money. He left sharpish enough, and without paying me a farthing of his arrears. You can’t be too careful though; you never know if they’re going to come back and give you a fourpenny-one and leave you with a black eye.”

“Was he not a good man?”

“Oh, he was all right, I suppose. But he kept late hours, on top of the arrears, and he brought back women.”

The boy blushed. “Did he?”

The woman looked up the street again without answering, then announced that this would never do, and she couldn’t stand there talking all day. The boy consulted his watch and realized that he couldn’t stand there either—for his mother and aunt would return to the house before him if he didn’t cut along.

Florence and Ethel checked his homework after tea, and then read together—passing Sherlock Holmes from one to the other as they made their way through The Sign of the Four. The boy was fast coming to the conclusion that Holmes was not as interesting as he considered himself to be; then he remembered that the man was a fiction and probably didn’t think of himself at all. But the detective’s adventures inspired him, and he planned another excursion on the morrow, when he would go to the house on Margaret Street again. It occurred to him that, in the meantime, he must discover the name of the nearest detective inspector. He may not have a Lestrade waiting in the wings, but he was beginning to believe he was on to something—a murder, perhaps—and he would need a trusted policeman to apprehend the perpetrator of the crime. Alone in his room, the boy recalled details of the overheard argument and gunshot, and feared that the lodger at the house in Margaret Street was a criminal to be reckoned with.

“Back at four, dear!”

The front door closed behind the two women, and the grandmother could be heard padding along to her chair in the drawing room, the one by the window where a warming shaft of sunlight soothed her bones as if she were an old dog. The boy rose from his bed fully clothed, shoved the pillow under the covers, and set off on his quest for truth. It was day two of his investigation, and he had much to accomplish. He stopped at the bakery and bought four jam tarts, then went on his way again.

“Madam!” He smiled as the woman opened the door and peered at him over the chain. “You were so very kind yesterday, I thought I should repay you with a small treat. Do you like jam tarts?”

Her eyes lit up. “I most certainly do.”

He held out the bag, and she wavered as she reached to take it from the boy. “I thought you looked like a nice sort of boy yesterday. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”

Indeed he would.

Mrs. Richmond—she had revealed her name as he followed her along the passageway—busied herself in the kitchen. It was a kitchen not unlike the one at the house in Auckland Road where he lived with his mother, aunt, and grandmother, though the kitchen at home was more spacious and better appointed. In Mrs. Richmond’s kitchen a kettle boiled on a black cast-iron range, above which various towels and cloths were hung over a wooden clothes airer. A vase of paper flowers, now faded and brown, had been set in the center of a wooden table that was bowed in the middle from, he thought, many decades of use. Mrs. Richmond laid out two chipped cups and a plate with the jam tarts, and poured tea from a brown pot. She put milk and sugar in his cup without first asking.

“Do you live alone, apart from lodgers, Mrs. Richmond?”

The woman nodded. “Since I lost my Jim in the first Transvaal war. He was out there at the beginning. Regular army.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What’re you sorry for?” She reached for a jam tart. “Weren’t your fault. And I get a bit of a pension, just a few pennies, but it helps. We never had any children, and Jim was a good one for putting something away, so I’m not for the workhouse yet.”

They sat in silence for a moment, then the boy spoke again. “I was wondering, after we spoke yesterday, if the room was still available. A friend of my mother is at this very moment looking for accommodation, and I thought it might be serendipitous that I was so taken with thirst yesterday, and in knocking at your door discovered you had a room to let.”

“What with all the trouble that last lodger caused me, I only take gentlewomen of good standing now—no men.” She looked at him as if weighing up his social station.

“I would imagine your mother’s a fine woman, and any friend of hers would be cut from the same cloth.”

“Might I see the room, so that I can best describe it to my mother’s friend?”

The woman sighed. “I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm.”

She took a key from a hook on the wall above the sink, and motioned toward the passageway along which he had walked to the kitchen from the front door. As they reached the staircase, the woman leaned on the banister and sighed.

“Young man, I’m not as nippy on those stairs as I was, and I don’t feel like running up and down more than once or twice a day. Here’s the key. It’s the room at the front; the door’s directly behind you when you get to the landing. Don’t be more than five minutes, or I’ll think you’re a thief.”

The boy laughed, if somewhat nervously. “Can’t imagine my struggling downstairs with a chest of drawers, Mrs. Richmond.”

“I can.” She gave him the key and ambled back toward the kitchen.

The boy could not believe his good fortune. Having made his way up twenty steps to the landing, he unlocked the door to the front bedroom. He was about to walk in and begin his investigation, when he stopped. Holmes would perhaps linger, he would consider the room. He would clear his mind. After all, didn’t he tell Watson that most people allow too much clutter to invade the clear processes of deduction? A large sash window at the front of the house needed a good clean, that was the first thing he noticed. Dust motes hung in the sunlight, which also served to draw attention to smears across the panes. He took out the magnifying glass in anticipation. The walls were clad in anaglypta, known for its sanitary properties and ease of cleaning, though it appeared that they had received only a cursory wipe of late, decorated as they were with tidemarks of nicotine.

A bed—wide enough for two, he noted—was set against the wall in such a way that anyone languishing there would be able to look out if the curtains were drawn back. A green-tiled washstand stood adjacent to the wall on the right, with a bowl and ewer atop the marble. A single grayish white cloth was hung on the towel rail. A fireplace directly opposite had been laid with newspaper and kindling, and a scuttle filled with coal placed alongside. Next to the bed, a dressing table supported a goodly layer of dust and in a recess in the wall neighbouring the fireplace stood a wardrobe of plain oak. The carpet had seen better days, but had been swept, though he recognized another hallmark of less than vigilant housekeeping—there were dust balls under the cast-iron bed. He stepped into the room and went straight to the window and looked out onto the street. This was the room. This was where something untoward—perhaps a murder—had taken place.

The problem was that there was precious little else for him to use as evidence. With the glass in hand he inspected the walls, the bed, under the bed, in the wardrobe, in every drawer of the dressing table, along the windowsill, under the windowsill, in the folds of the curtains. Nothing to suggest a murder. He was perplexed. The villain was clearly well versed in his trade, and a crafty sort. He would have to question Mrs. Richmond to a greater degree, perhaps tomorrow. As he completed his notes and made his way downstairs, he had the distinct feeling that he had missed something, but he could not imagine what it might be.

Mrs. Richmond took the key and returned it to the hook above the sink.

“I will definitely tell my mother about the room. I think it might do very well, though I might be late with the news, as the lady in question could already have secured accommodation.”

“Well, if she comes, you just remember to tell her to remind me who sent her. There’ll be a special consideration for a friend.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Richmond.” He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece above the stove. “Oh dear, I must be on my way.”

Having bowed to Mrs. Richmond, the boy ran all the way back to his home in Auckland Road, and having washed the powder from his face and hidden the magnifying glass and tape measure under the bed, he was betwixt the covers looking suitably flushed and feverish by the time his mother came in with tea and two oatmeal biscuits. Taking stock of his countenance, she sent the maid out to summon the doctor. This case of measles appeared to be taking quite a toll.

The following day, the aunt and mother decided that they would remain out for only one hour rather than take their customary long walk for good health. The boy sighed. There was precious little to be done in one hour, so it appeared the only course of action would be to alert the police to his suspicions before all necessary evidence was to hand. Such a leap of faith would be unacceptable to Sherlock Holmes, who would have had all the facts—no suppositions, no ifs, no buts—to hand before calling upon Lestrade. He could imagine Holmes chastising him: You need more data!

“Back in an hour, my dear—we’re going out now,” the mother called from the bottom of the stairs.

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.

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.”

The class laughed.

“That’s enough! Indeed, more than enough of your particular strain of humor, Weston. A joke’s only a true joke the first time. Now, what sort of Faustian pact have you made with the gods of true literature?”

Chandler, the boy who had, in his own estimation, made rather a hash of detection, even though he had been tutored at home by the esteemed Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, cast his eyes down to his notebook and doodled a name in the margin. Philip Marlowe. He wondered about the name, and after a while thought it might one day provide a good nom de plume for the man of verse he aspired to become. He suspected it might prove useful in time.

Jacqueline Winspear—author of the award-winning New York Times and national bestselling novels featuring ex–World War I nurse turned psychologist and investigator Maisie Dobbs—is a UK native but has made California her home for more than twenty years. Sherlock Holmes first came to her serious attention when portrayed by Jeremy Brett—on whom she admits having had a bit of a crush—in the critically acclaimed Granada Television series.

Raymond Chandler, acclaimed mystery novelist and screenwriter, creator of the iconic detective Philip Marlowe, was born in Illinois in 1888 but moved to London in 1900 with his mother. He attended a local school in Upper Norwood and after attending public school at Dulwich College, London, he became a naturalized British citizen and entered the civil service. In 1912, he moved to Los Angeles, where (with brief periods of absence) he resided for the rest of his life.