No. 1272: The winners
Jaspistos reports: Competitors were asked for a short detective story in which Sherlock Holmes reaches a typically brilliant solution of the crime.
I did say 'crime', so Basil Ransome- Davies's wicked scene between Holmes and Michael Foot, whose only crime appeared to be his existence, couldn't qualify. T. Griffiths had the great detective coolly analysing his own murder — 'Listen carefully. We have only four minutes before my grey matter becomes a mere por- ridge. You need only ask yourself one ques- tion: why did the alarm clock continue tick- ing?' Among incidental pleasures I rate P. W. R. Foot's para: 'From his jaw-line he was trained to speak without opening his mouth — as at Cambridge. About fifty and country bred, for although he is wearing city clothes observe the string tied below each knee — a rural custom forty years ago, to prevent rats running up the trousers.'
Crime pays well this time. The three win- ners printed below get fl 5 each.
'Some fiendish dog is at large,' I said, seeing the mangled corpses of the Dartmoor sheep, 'one 'I hate to see grown men making fools of themselves.'
akin to the Baskerville hound, maybe.' Holmes stood up from his inspection. 'A more exotic creature, I fancy,' he said. 'Had there been 3 wild animal abroad,' I protested, 'surely by nnw it would have been observed by the police or the soldiers.' Unless it were in disguise,' Holmes said cryptically. He set off briskly across the moor and presently halted before a flock of gray ing sheep. From an inside pocket he took a flute,' which he handed to me, bidding me to play it had scarcely begun my rendering of 'Green' sleeves' when a strange thing occurred. A large sheep lifted its head and howled like a lost hound. Holmes bounded forward, seized the baying animal from behind and tugged at its fleece, which came away in one piece. A grey Pei; was revealed beneath. When I saw its muzzle realised with horror that the howling animal was in fact a small wolf. 'What a dastardly prank! I cried. 'This was no joke,' said Sherlock Holmes' having secured the evil creature. '1 suspect that we shall hear soon of camouflaged wolves being infiltrated into other flocks. There are those across the Channel who will stop at nothing to hinder the export to Europe of British mutton. Holmes was explaining his recovery of porch' noi's socks when Lord Shoulder(sRaarlrpihveSda.d141e: Lordship's obvious distress was caused by the disappearance of a remarkable collection i stones, the Shoulders Diamonds. 'I'm at my wits' end, Holmes,' he said Pae.iilig distractedly through the wreaths of shag. 1"eYd wife's room was completely sealed. She doz d briefly and when she awoke the stones ha gone!' 'Then perhaps the servants ...' I ventured. 'No, Dr Watson. There were no servants in the house. It was Butterworth's yearly half-day f and I'd just had Malice shot for syphoning PL:I.,,r)1 'That is irrelevant,' interjected Holmes. `le me, Lord Shoulders, does Lady Edna keel) - budgerigar?'
'By Jove, yes!' 'A small feather is lodged in your hair. Sind
'A were wearing a hat, it must have settled5 before you left Staffordshire. As it corresPda with engravings in an interesting paper °de budgerigars by Professor Shoggov, I condo that Charleston ...'
'How do you know his name?'
'Never mind. Charleston was of a type rin-0tc: for its lack of perspicacity and was flying frce4 the time. The sort of stones you described e°7 ,c1 easily be taken for millet by a slow-thinking bi. excited by unaccustomed freedom.'
'Indeed they could!' an 3 'Then the application of a mild laxative a- b: little patience should return them to nightfall. I should, however, recommelwhis speedy return. Ladies who suffer losses of1 nature have been known to externalise their gri
by disposing of previously favoured pets.' "' „i
'Doubtful?' I wondered whet(hNe.whetherjrn. yWarburt° iltisfriend's powers of deduction were attenualliini, 'It brooks no argument! Sir Giles' faitihfniteri:1: panion and secretary, Margaret Knightley' of lady with the parasol, confirms his bouts by melancholia. He attempted to palliate these his means of stimulants. He was depressed his Liberal rival, Pegham, looked likely to vvrestber, constituency from him. The flask in his ga dine pocket was empty. The police testify it teat tamed dregs — Bell's whisky. Doubtless the Mrs of the night exacerbated his inebriation' 001 Knightley says he lurched suddenly into the 'bed, when Pegham's campaign barouche aPPrc)a,c;cle. as if to belabour his hated rival's `lei" Pegham saw his chance. He trampled Sir Giles to death. 'It was Peg—', his dying words, demonstrate this.
'Ere, 'ere,' said the constable. Mrs Knightley was silent. Pegham paled. 'My dear Watson, likelihood may intimate such inferences. Three points, however, perplex- ed me, and alerted my suspicions. No aristocrat drinks Bell's. Sir Giles would drink Malt. The flask, I surmise, was planted in his pocket to Mislead me. "It was Peg —" he said; Peggy is a familiar appellative of Margaret. Why, Watson, should a lady carry a parasol on a dark night? There we have our final clue. Its tip was poison- ed. She stabbed Sir Giles in the foot — he lurch- ed, note that — and pushed him beneath the barouche. Faithful companion? A jilted lover, I declare! Stop her, constable!' Too late! Unmasked, Mrs Knightley had seiz- ed
-er parasol and plunged its fatal point into her uosorn.
(Ron Jowker)
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