First-Case Scenario

I have a confession to make. More of an admission, really, for ‘confession’ implies wrongdoing, and I have done nothing of the sort. On the contrary, I have achieved much in my decades-long career and will leave behind a legacy that endures long after I have breathed my last.

So what if it was all based on a lie?

Is it better to do the right thing for the wrong reasons, or the wrong thing for the right reasons? That is a question that plagues me now in my retirement, with nothing to occupy my mind but the deeds of the past and the actions of a young man that now seem questionable in the distorted shadow of memory.

I don’t seek absolution, nor even understanding. No, I will tell of my tale purely in the hope of finding some comfort in the healing power of confession. If I come to be judged as a result, as I surely will, I ask only that my revelations not tarnish my life’s work and all the good I have done along the way. None of which would have happened, were it not for that fateful day, nearly 50 years ago…

London, in 1874, was a magical place; the beating heart of a mighty empire with no shortage of opportunities for the young and ambitious. Being both, I knew greatness awaited me, which made being booted out of the Royal College of London partway through my second year as an undergraduate something of a setback. It could only have been the doing of the cunning Professor Moriarty. I suspect he felt threatened by my remarkable intellect. That my grades were consistently below-par and that I spent most of my time in pursuit of wine and women seemed to me, a mere 20 years of age at the time, largely beside the point. Blame, I felt, lay squarely with the perfidious professor.

Newly untethered from the textbooks, I resolved to find a way to put my unique talents to use. With the gift of being able to make commonplace assertations sound profoundly meaningful, I was able to convince anyone of anything. It was to my chagrin, then, that I discovered such abilities were not in high demand. I may well have become a con-man, or, better yet, a government official like my brother, had I not stumbled my way into a murder investigation in early December of that magical year.

Mycroft, seven years my senior and well on his way to a successful career in public service by then, took pity on his younger brother and found me temporary employment with the General Post Office. 1874 was the year they decided to repaint all the mailboxes in London red, and as a result, the GPO needed extra hands to see the mail was delivered on time. So, I became a postman.

With my gift of the gab, I quickly befriended all the residents on my route, including the charming young Mrs. Westerby who lived in the mansion on the prestigious Hawthorne Estate. The lovely lady took something of a liking to me, so it came as quite a shock when I arrived to deliver the mail on that cold, blustery morning and, instead, found her hanging from a ceiling beam, as dead as a doornail.

I’ve seen my share of dead bodies in the years since, even put a few in the ground myself when required, but that was my first encounter with death and the experience was quite unnerving, to say the least. I did what any upstanding citizen in my place would have – I told a passing cyclist to summon the authorities at once and waited around to assist the law in any way I could.

A detective arrived within minutes. His prompt response, however, was the only impressive thing about him. He had the unmistakable look of lumbering incompetence that clung to policemen who’re counting the years to retirement. Accompanying him was a young doctor, as required for the attendance of any unnatural death. The man appeared closer to me in both age and intellect.

The detective, who introduced himself as Haldon, took one look at the late Mrs. Westerby, muttered something about an obvious suicide, then thanked me for doing my civic duty in summary dismissal. Had I not known the deceased, I would have gone on my way without another word, but I felt somebody had to speak for the poor woman, and the lumbering lawman before me didn’t look up to the task.

“Excuse me, detective,” I volunteered, “with all due respect, I believe we are looking not at suicide here, but a clear case of murder.” The man regarded me as one would a talking canary, unable to credit what he was hearing. “If you would be so good as to grant me a few minutes to explain, I will enlighten you.” Noting his hesitation, I added, “Thereafter, you can make up your own mind and do with my information as you see fit.”

The request was unusual, no doubt, but Haldon must have concluded there was no harm in hearing what I had to say. If nothing else, it would allow him to claim he’d conducted a preliminary inquiry into the matter. “You’ve got 10 minutes,” he barked. “Better not be a waste of my time.”

Taking the floor for my audience of two, I tried not to look at the ghastly sight of the corpse above me. Easier said than done. I puffed myself up, put on my most distinguished English accent, and, in my element, prepared to work my magic.

“Good sirs,” I began, “I can see how this appears at first glance to be nothing more than a case of suicide, but the job of a detective is to do more than just glance, isn’t it? If you look closely, really open your eyes, you will see the hallmarks of cold-blooded murder before you.”

If Haldon registered these veiled insults to his professional ability, he didn’t show it. He merely gestured for me to continue.

“How high would you say the ceiling is?” I asked the pair. “Ten feet? More? If this dear woman took her own life, how ever did she get way up there on her own? I see no ladder in evidence, so unless she flew, we have here unmistakable proof of the involvement of another party.”

I could tell Haldon wanted to argue in a face-saving effort to distract from his having overlooked the obvious, but he couldn’t deny my logic and so settled for a stiff nod.

“And, if that isn't proof enough,” I continued, “where is the dog?”

“What dog?” Haldon asked irritably. “I don’t see any dog.”

“Exactly my point, detective. Sometimes, the fine art of deductive reasoning relies as much on what you don’t see as what you do. This woman, a lonely housewife, would certainly have had a canine companion. Notice how her slippers are chewed? And the scratches on the front door over there? Judging by those, I believe Mrs. Westerby owned a dog. A small terrier, most likely. An indoor pet, to be sure. So, where is it?”

“Are you saying the killer stole her dog?” Haldon asked.

“No, detective. I’m merely pointing out further evidence of additional involvement. I can’t say what happened to the hound, but, I’m sure you agree, it’s conspicuous in its absence.”

The detective apparently didn’t like being made to look a fool on the job - an admittedly easy task, as I was discovering – and he offered me a hostile glare that suggested friendship didn’t lie in our immediate future. “Okay, mister, if you’re so good, who killed her then?”

“Excellent question, detective, but we need to reason it through. It wouldn’t do to jump to conclusions.” I showed admirable restraint in not adding ‘again’ to the end of my statement. I didn’t want to antagonize the man. More than I already had, that is. “First, we need to identify the murder weapon.”

“Oh, come on,” Haldon laughed, “she’s hanging by her neck! If the rope isn’t the murder weapon, I’ll eat my ha – “ He stopped there, seeing my knowing grin and concluding, no doubt, that his homburg would not make for appetizing midday fare.

“The hanging was done only to mislead the investigation,” I stated. “Mrs. Westerby is a natural blonde. The dark, reddish shade of her hair, therefore, must be a result of blood - a clear sign of blunt force trauma to the head. That, and the post-mortem lividity, indicate that she was killed elsewhere and merely strung up for misdirection.”

“Post-mortem what-now?” The man was clearly out of his depth and had no business in police work. 

“Post-mortem lividity,” the young doctor said, speaking up for the first time. “When someone dies, their circulatory system ceases operation and all the blood in the body collects at the lowest point, due to gravity.” He pointed to the corpse. “Since there’s no discoloration on her feet and legs, detective, it is my medical assessment that the gentleman is, indeed, correct. She was killed somewhere else.”

“Thank you, doctor.” I was pleased to have my arcane knowledge – acquired from a detective novel I’d read – confirmed by a professional, but I was eager to regain the spotlight. “So, we need to identify the murder weapon.”

“Okay,” Detective Haldon conceded with a sigh, “I’ll get some uniforms to comb the area – “

“Why waste time and energy when we can use logical deduction?” I asked. I then feigned contemplation, extracting my pipe from my coat pocket and nibbling thoughtfully on the stem while regarding the familiar room. “Ah, yes, I see it now. The candelabra.”

“But there is no…”

“Which, like the hound, is curious, don’t you think? Upper-class folk like these, who frequently entertain at home, wouldn’t be caught dead without an antique candelabra on the dining room table.” I winced inwardly at my poor choice of words but pushed on. “Like owning a small terrier, it’s considered de rigueur for their ilk. Ergo, it’s absence is strongly indicative of the fact that it was the object used to bludgeon poor Mrs. Westerby to death.”

“So we’re looking for a candelabra?”

“An antique candelabra. A Louis XIV, sterling silver antique candelabra, I believe, based on the vintages in the wine cellar.”

The doctor gave me a peculiar look, but it was Haldon, more out of his depth with every passing minute, who spoke. “And when we find it – “

“No need for that, detective. It will surface in good time, but the value of identifying the object for us lies only in that it points squarely to the identity of the culprit. We have premeditated murder with an attempt to disguise the act as suicide, no forced entry, which means the killer was known to the victim, and the murder weapon suggests he’d been here before, therefore…” I trailed off, letting the suspense build. I wanted Haldon to ask the question outright.

He did. “Come on, man, out with it then! Who was it?”

“Why, detective, you’ve been looking at him this entire time.” Thoroughly enjoying myself, I let him gape like a goldfish in a bowl before continuing. “That portrait there above the fireplace, see? That is none other than Lord Westerby himself – prominent politician, owner of this fine estate, and husband to the late Mrs. Westerby. He, I think you will find, is the man responsible.”

“Impossible! He’s a public figure! He would never – “

“No, not impossible. Unlikely, yes, and I’m sure that’s why he thought he could get away with it. But, detective Haldon, once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. If you follow my careful line of reasoning, you will see that there can be no doubt that Lord Westerby killed his poor wife.”

“Who are you?” the detective asked, suddenly looking at me as if for the first time.

“Me? No one important. Just a concerned citizen lending a hand. Call me a consultant, if you will.”

“And, if we arrest Lord Westerby – “

“Not if, detective. When. When you arrest him and he confesses, you’ll know I’m right. And yes, of course you can call on me to consult on future investigations. I’d be happy to help.” I added this last on a whim, but Haldon appeared to weigh the consideration carefully. Clearly, the offer of assistance – and the career boost the resulting increase in his solve-rate would provide – proved irresistible to the man.

He nodded, saying, “I just might take you up on that.” He then removed his notepad and began scribbling away, adding, “Alright, off with you boys then. Time for the professionals to get to work.”

I was about to dart in one last quip at that, but the doctor had already walked over and was guiding me to the door. “I’ll see out our friend here, detective,” he said over his shoulder, leading me out into the cold morning air.

We walked in silence towards the gate, where I paused to light my pipe, the doctor glaring at me all the while. When at last I’d succeeded in igniting the match in the howling wind, I took a few long drags, then addressed my companion. “So, what gave me away?”

“The wine cellar. You couldn’t know what vintages were down there. Or that they even had a wine cellar!”

“Ah, yes, I thought I’d erred in mentioning that. You’re quicker on the uptake than Detective Haldon, I’ll grant you that.”

“Before I march right back in there and expose your little charade for what it was,” he said, setting his jaw and glaring all the harder at me, “I wanted to hear your side of it. The truth, if you’d be so kind.”

“Good doctor, of course. The truth, that elusive creature. So ephemeral, and always subject to interpretation. Let’s see then…” I paused for another drag on my pipe. “Consider this, if you will. A purely hypothetical scenario, mind, yet an interesting one nonetheless. If, doctor, you were a lowly postman and you were having extramarital relations with a certain wealthy woman. A married, wealthy woman. And if, in the course of the affair she’d told you she feared her husband was planning to kill her, and, since the man had the habit of talking in his sleep, she knew exactly how he would do it. And if you dismissed these claims only to later find yourself in the midst of the investigation of that very woman’s death, and learned that the whole matter was going to be dismissed as suicide, might you not have done the same to ensure justice was served?”

I puffed away as I watched him mull over what I’d just said. He thought it through, before asking the key question. “Fair enough, but why make yourself look like a detective in the process? Why not just tell the truth and let the police take it from there?”

“And, what, be taken into custody as a suspect? Or, worse, be ignored? Oh no, doctor, that wouldn’t have worked. I had to get Haldon to take me seriously. Making it look like I was solving the case for him seemed the best way.”

“But, this case is going to be huge! It’ll be a media sensation. After this, Scotland Yard will be calling on their new consultant every time they have a difficult case! What will you do then?”

“Mmm, good point. I suppose I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. But,” I added, an idea having just come to me, “I could use a capable assistant. Someone at least as smart as I. A relative rarity, I’ve found.” I stretched out my hand. “What do you say, doctor? Partners?”

The man hesitated only a moment before grinning and shaking on the deal. “I suppose you’ll need someone to keep you out of trouble.” He then formally introduced himself, before asking, “So, what do we do now?”

“Elementary, my dear Watson. Now we go shopping. Image is everything and, if I’m to look the part, I’m going to need a deerstalker hat. You’ll need a pipe as well. Tally-ho, my friend. Greatness awaits!”

And with that, we walked out of the gate together and into the pages of history.