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Authors: Carole Bugge
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something,” he said, picking it up and examining it under the lamp.
“What is it?”
“A hair, Watson.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, but not one of Wiggins’ hairs; perhaps it is the hair of the murderer. In any case, it is very light—almost white—and very coarse.”
I tried to imagine an old, white-haired man killing the unfortunate Wiggins, but it didn’t seem likely.
“Very well,” said Holmes after inspecting the crime scene thoroughly. “I shall leave the rest for Scotland Yard. Come, Watson, let us see if they have left clues for us anywhere else.”
I followed Holmes back through the cramped hallway into the front room of the shop. Bandu appeared very excited to seeus, bouncing up and down on his perch.
“B-b-be quiet!” he said loudly. “B-b-be quiet, y-y-you idiot!”
Holmes stopped where he was and looked at the parrot.
“Did you hear that, Watson?” he said.
“Yes, he said ‘Be quiet, you—’ “
“I know what he said!” Holmes hissed impatiently. “It’s how he said it that matters!”
As if to oblige, the parrot repeated his comment.
“B-b-be quiet, y-y-you idiot!”
“That’s it—do you see, Watson?” said Holmes.
“You mean, he’s stuttering?” I said.
“Yes!” said Holmes. “Wiggins never stuttered.”
“Maybe one of his clients—”
“Do you remember what Wiggins said about this parrot? That he liked to pick up new sayings, and that he was always changing his latest phrases?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Don’t you see , Watson: there were two men here, not one, and the parrot is repeating what one of the men said to the other!”
“Good God—you’re right, Holmes!”
He removed the hair from his pocket and looked at it under the light. His face darkened and he put the hair back in his pocket.
“I think it’s time to pay a visit to Freddie Stockton.”
Of all the nasty fellows Holmes and I had dealt with over the years, there were few nastier than Freddie Stockton. I had first come across him during The Strange Case of the Tongue-Tied Tenor, during his employment by Professor Moriarty before the fall at Reichenbach cut short his illustrious criminal career. After Moriarty’s death, Stockton worked for Colonel Moran for a while, and then, after that gentleman was jailed through Holmes’ efforts, Stockton turned to various pursuits: blackmail, theft, and the occasional beating. Holmes had once told me that even among London criminal society it was said of Freddie Stockton that he would strangle his own grandmother for the price of a pint. Physically, Stockton was distinguished by two striking characteristics: his profuse whitish blond hair and a pronounced stutter.
Now Holmes and I were in search of this princely character. After procuring a hansom cab Holmes gave the driver instructions to take us to the East End, where the mix of poverty and predators created a dangerous and squalid environment.
“Do you remember the Swiss tourists we saw in Cornwall, Watson?” Holmes said, leaning against the window of our cab as it swayed back and forth upon the cobblestones.
“Yes,” I answered. “One of them had whitish blond hair, just like Stockton. Do you think it’s possible that he was one of the tourists?”
“I think it not only possible but likely,” said Holmes grimly. “Unfortunately I barely glanced at him—as you can imagine, my mindwas on other things. And, as you noticed, his cap was hiding most of his face. He must have come straight back to London after we saw him—he may even have thought we recognized him.”
Our cab stopped in front of a low, unsavory tavern called The Drowned Rat. The sign hanging above the entrance had a picture of a waterlogged rodent, evidently deceased. Holmes paid the driver and we alighted.
“Watch yourself among these men, Watson,” Holmes said before we went in. “They would just as soon pull a knife on you as look at you.”
I nodded, wishing I had brought along my service revolver. I took a
“What is it?”
“A hair, Watson.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, but not one of Wiggins’ hairs; perhaps it is the hair of the murderer. In any case, it is very light—almost white—and very coarse.”
I tried to imagine an old, white-haired man killing the unfortunate Wiggins, but it didn’t seem likely.
“Very well,” said Holmes after inspecting the crime scene thoroughly. “I shall leave the rest for Scotland Yard. Come, Watson, let us see if they have left clues for us anywhere else.”
I followed Holmes back through the cramped hallway into the front room of the shop. Bandu appeared very excited to seeus, bouncing up and down on his perch.
“B-b-be quiet!” he said loudly. “B-b-be quiet, y-y-you idiot!”
Holmes stopped where he was and looked at the parrot.
“Did you hear that, Watson?” he said.
“Yes, he said ‘Be quiet, you—’ “
“I know what he said!” Holmes hissed impatiently. “It’s how he said it that matters!”
As if to oblige, the parrot repeated his comment.
“B-b-be quiet, y-y-you idiot!”
“That’s it—do you see, Watson?” said Holmes.
“You mean, he’s stuttering?” I said.
“Yes!” said Holmes. “Wiggins never stuttered.”
“Maybe one of his clients—”
“Do you remember what Wiggins said about this parrot? That he liked to pick up new sayings, and that he was always changing his latest phrases?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Don’t you see , Watson: there were two men here, not one, and the parrot is repeating what one of the men said to the other!”
“Good God—you’re right, Holmes!”
He removed the hair from his pocket and looked at it under the light. His face darkened and he put the hair back in his pocket.
“I think it’s time to pay a visit to Freddie Stockton.”
Of all the nasty fellows Holmes and I had dealt with over the years, there were few nastier than Freddie Stockton. I had first come across him during The Strange Case of the Tongue-Tied Tenor, during his employment by Professor Moriarty before the fall at Reichenbach cut short his illustrious criminal career. After Moriarty’s death, Stockton worked for Colonel Moran for a while, and then, after that gentleman was jailed through Holmes’ efforts, Stockton turned to various pursuits: blackmail, theft, and the occasional beating. Holmes had once told me that even among London criminal society it was said of Freddie Stockton that he would strangle his own grandmother for the price of a pint. Physically, Stockton was distinguished by two striking characteristics: his profuse whitish blond hair and a pronounced stutter.
Now Holmes and I were in search of this princely character. After procuring a hansom cab Holmes gave the driver instructions to take us to the East End, where the mix of poverty and predators created a dangerous and squalid environment.
“Do you remember the Swiss tourists we saw in Cornwall, Watson?” Holmes said, leaning against the window of our cab as it swayed back and forth upon the cobblestones.
“Yes,” I answered. “One of them had whitish blond hair, just like Stockton. Do you think it’s possible that he was one of the tourists?”
“I think it not only possible but likely,” said Holmes grimly. “Unfortunately I barely glanced at him—as you can imagine, my mindwas on other things. And, as you noticed, his cap was hiding most of his face. He must have come straight back to London after we saw him—he may even have thought we recognized him.”
Our cab stopped in front of a low, unsavory tavern called The Drowned Rat. The sign hanging above the entrance had a picture of a waterlogged rodent, evidently deceased. Holmes paid the driver and we alighted.
“Watch yourself among these men, Watson,” Holmes said before we went in. “They would just as soon pull a knife on you as look at you.”
I nodded, wishing I had brought along my service revolver. I took a
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