roman nose and the full deerstalker-and-pipe outfit, the other shorter, moustached, and looking altogether more pugnacious, wearing a loose-fitting shirt in a vaguely Victorian style. Niles recognised the second from recent movie posters – he was a more action-packed, violent Holmes, who’d been dreamed up by the Nestor Brothers studio to put a new spin on the mythos. He vaguely recalled another, earlier Holmes working as a consultant on that film – probably the taller one, who looked more like the classic model.
“Mr Holmes,” the reporter turned towards the shorter Holmes, before pausing to rethink the question. “Mr Holmes of 2009... I understand you’ve been discussing the situation with the investigating officers –”
“I have been discussing the situation with the officers,” the taller Holmes said in an icy tone. “My companion has been taking notes on the deductive process. Unfortunately the budget for his translation did not extend to inculcating him in utero with the proper degree of intelligence to apply my methods –”
“Steady on, old chap,” growled the shorter Holmes in a wounded tone. Niles noted that his accent had some American undertones – either poor programming in the voice, or an attempt to sway the US audiences.
“My dear fellow, each to their own,” the taller Holmes said, sucking contemplatively on his pipe for a moment before removing a magnifying glass from his cape and studying the asphalt beneath his feet. “Were we engaged in a situation calling for use of the fistic arts, or the commandeering of a runaway horse-and-carriage, I would gladly cede authority to you. But this is a matter of deduction and in such matters I remain your superior... ah!” The taller Holmes paused, bending down and studying the ground carefully for a long second.
The reporter opened his mouth to ask another question, but thought better of it as the taller Holmes rose to his feet again, holding what looked like a human hair. “Almost invisible against the tarmac. Sherlock, my good fellow” – he nodded to his fellow Holmes – “what do you make of this?”
The shorter Holmes peered at it, frowning. “A thread of some kind. Tweed, I’d say. Where do you suppose it came from?”
“First, consider the murder weapon. A large, heavy object, almost certainly metal, but also containing enough glass to provide the slivers we found by the body earlier. If we add that to the grains of pipe-tobacco we discovered on the dead man’s clothes...”
The shorter Holmes shook his head impatiently. “The thread, man! Where did it come from? A blazer, perhaps?”
The taller Holmes smiled paternally. “Who would wear a tweed blazer in Los Angeles in the middle of an unusually hot spring? No, my dear fellow, it’s quite elementary. In fact, I can answer you off the top of my head.” He calmly lifted off his deerstalker, holding it next to the thread. “You see? It could almost be from this one. It’s not, of course – the pattern is subtly different – and besides, you are my alibi.”
The shorter Holmes took a step back, staring in horror. “Holmes, you’re not saying the murderer is –”
“One of us, my dear Wat –” The taller Holmes hurriedly corrected himself. “My dear fellow. We have eliminated the impossible and what remains must now be the truth. The killer smoked a pipe, he wore a deerstalker hat, the murder weapon was a heavy magnifying glass – ergo, either he was engaging in a particularly outré means of throwing the police off his scent... or the killer was none other than Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
He turned back to the reporter, but the reporter was unable to do anything but stare.
“Jesus,” Bob said, and Niles realised that he’d returned from the toilet a minute or two before. He’d been so absorbed in the drama unfolding on the screen that he hadn’t noticed. He quickly looked around for the red-haired woman, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“It doesn’t seem
“Mr Holmes,” the reporter turned towards the shorter Holmes, before pausing to rethink the question. “Mr Holmes of 2009... I understand you’ve been discussing the situation with the investigating officers –”
“I have been discussing the situation with the officers,” the taller Holmes said in an icy tone. “My companion has been taking notes on the deductive process. Unfortunately the budget for his translation did not extend to inculcating him in utero with the proper degree of intelligence to apply my methods –”
“Steady on, old chap,” growled the shorter Holmes in a wounded tone. Niles noted that his accent had some American undertones – either poor programming in the voice, or an attempt to sway the US audiences.
“My dear fellow, each to their own,” the taller Holmes said, sucking contemplatively on his pipe for a moment before removing a magnifying glass from his cape and studying the asphalt beneath his feet. “Were we engaged in a situation calling for use of the fistic arts, or the commandeering of a runaway horse-and-carriage, I would gladly cede authority to you. But this is a matter of deduction and in such matters I remain your superior... ah!” The taller Holmes paused, bending down and studying the ground carefully for a long second.
The reporter opened his mouth to ask another question, but thought better of it as the taller Holmes rose to his feet again, holding what looked like a human hair. “Almost invisible against the tarmac. Sherlock, my good fellow” – he nodded to his fellow Holmes – “what do you make of this?”
The shorter Holmes peered at it, frowning. “A thread of some kind. Tweed, I’d say. Where do you suppose it came from?”
“First, consider the murder weapon. A large, heavy object, almost certainly metal, but also containing enough glass to provide the slivers we found by the body earlier. If we add that to the grains of pipe-tobacco we discovered on the dead man’s clothes...”
The shorter Holmes shook his head impatiently. “The thread, man! Where did it come from? A blazer, perhaps?”
The taller Holmes smiled paternally. “Who would wear a tweed blazer in Los Angeles in the middle of an unusually hot spring? No, my dear fellow, it’s quite elementary. In fact, I can answer you off the top of my head.” He calmly lifted off his deerstalker, holding it next to the thread. “You see? It could almost be from this one. It’s not, of course – the pattern is subtly different – and besides, you are my alibi.”
The shorter Holmes took a step back, staring in horror. “Holmes, you’re not saying the murderer is –”
“One of us, my dear Wat –” The taller Holmes hurriedly corrected himself. “My dear fellow. We have eliminated the impossible and what remains must now be the truth. The killer smoked a pipe, he wore a deerstalker hat, the murder weapon was a heavy magnifying glass – ergo, either he was engaging in a particularly outré means of throwing the police off his scent... or the killer was none other than Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
He turned back to the reporter, but the reporter was unable to do anything but stare.
“Jesus,” Bob said, and Niles realised that he’d returned from the toilet a minute or two before. He’d been so absorbed in the drama unfolding on the screen that he hadn’t noticed. He quickly looked around for the red-haired woman, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“It doesn’t seem
Similar Books
