Sherlock Holmes and the Ghosts of Bly by Donald Thomas Page A

the smile, albeit half-heartedly.
    So the ice was broken. I guessed there had been few smiles in the boy’s life recently. But Riley was now encouraged to see himself as the hero of his own adventure story with Sherlock Holmes at his side.
    â€œSit here,” said Holmes politely, drawing out a chair.
    So the interview began. Riley now looked up at us with a helpless appeal.
    â€œIt was just a joke, Mr Holmes! A bit of fun!”
    To my dismay, I thought Riley was about to blurt out a confession to the theft and plead that it had been a prank. So—I am sure—did my friend, from the expression on his face. “A joke” must be one of the oldest and certainly least successful defences to a charge of fraud.
    â€œWhat was a joke, Patrick?” Holmes asked quietly, and I held my breath. The use of the boy’s Christian name made the question somewhat more sinister because it closed his retreat into a shell of apathy.
    â€œWriting names was a joke, Mr Holmes. I don’t remember when we first did it. I sat next to Porson in class. We sat together in the evening too, when we did whatever prep the masters set. If we finished our prep before the bell went we used to mess around, writing, playing battleships on paper, all sorts of things. Porson sometimes wrote my name in my writing and I wrote his. Lots of fellows did things like that. It was a game. It wasn’t forgery or theft any more than it’s murder when you point your finger and say ‘Bang, you’re dead.’ It was just fooling about.”
    â€œVery good,” said Holmes approvingly. “And how successful were these imitation signatures?”
    â€œI don’t know, sir. How can you tell? They looked a bit the same.”
    â€œBelieve me, I can tell. How many other people knew that you were doing this?”
    â€œAnyone could watch us, if they wanted to. They must have seen but they wouldn’t think anything. Lots of fellows played games like that.”
    â€œDid they? And how many other fellows’ signatures did you copy?”
    The young face clouded with uncertainty.
    â€œI don’t remember that I did. Perhaps I did. But no one else that I can remember. I played this game with Porson because we sat next to one another. I could see his name written on his prep book and he could see mine.”
    â€œAnd Porson has always been in the same class with you? He is an Engineer Cadet like you?”
    â€œWe’re all engineers in our class. That’s why we sit together in school prep. Lower Middle Engineers. We’re above the junior engineers but below the Upper Middle and the seniors.”
    â€œHave you got a copy of your imitation of Porson’s signature that you can show me?”
    He shook his head.
    â€œWe never kept them, sir. They were thrown away. It was just a game.”
    â€œCould you do one now?”
    â€œNot without one to copy from. Nobody could.”
    â€œIt is said that you wrote a signature at the post office as you had copied Porson’s for a game. Did you?”
    â€œNo! I couldn’t do it! I was never at the post office on that afternoon!”
    It was a wail of protest and despair, uttered so often in the past ten days. No hawk-nosed cross-examiner in wig and gown could resemble a bird of prey more suggestively than Holmes just then. But Riley had returned the answer of an innocent defendant.
    â€œVery well. Now then, you must help me. Could you, for example, copy your own signature?”
    The boy sat back and shook his head slowly, not in refusal but exasperation.
    â€œAny fellow could copy his own!”
    â€œI think you misunderstand me. I do not want you to repeat your signature but to copy it exactly. As a criminal expert it is my business to know about such things. I may tell you that even in the most innocent way, no signature is precisely the same on two successive occasions. And besides, you will please write the first one with your