For the Sake of the Game

by Laurie R. King

  “You kissed him?” Brett asked his daughter.

  “Do shut up, Papa,” said Mademoiselle Brett. “Mr. Holmes, let us say for the sake of argument that you are correct: That he stood—there, and that I struck him—there, and that he fell—there. Does that tell you anything about why I might have done so?”

  “It does not,” conceded Holmes.

  “What if I told you that I struck him to prevent him from forcing himself upon me? Would that make a difference?”

  “It would be completely consistent with the evidence and what little I know of his character,” said Holmes.

  “And therefore not murder.”

  “I never said murder, Mademoiselle. For what it’s worth, I believe that is what happened.”

  “For what it’s worth,” she said bitterly. “Then it is still your intention to go to the authorities.”

  “The disposition of the body remains a crime,” said Holmes. “That man, any man, should be treated at death with more dignity. His family should have knowledge of his demise, and the chance to make peace with the circumstances.”

  “Then there is nothing more to be said,” she said.

  “The inquest is on Monday at one at Daughtry’s Pub,” said Holmes. “Make your case to the coroner, not to me. Good night.”

  He placed the Stradivarius gently in the box, rested the bow next to it, then walked past them and out of the theatre.

  The next day was Sunday. Had he been a churchgoing man, he might have found something to reassure him that his actions were the correct ones. Surely a woman was justified in defending herself against such an attack. But could he be certain that it wasn’t murder, her protestations notwithstanding?

  Why hadn’t he gone directly to the police?

  Because she had kissed him? Was he that credulous?

  How could he have faith in a woman’s kiss when he had faith in nothing that could not be proved?

  He could have let it go. Had he never investigated what no one asked to be investigated, then none would have been the wiser.

  And he never again would have been able to look into her eyes without suspicion.

  He wanted very much to look into her eyes.

  On Monday, he rose and made himself as presentable as he could. By mid-morning, he could no longer stand the sight of his office, so he walked to Wapping.

  The theatre was on the way to Daughtry’s. On an impulse, he turned onto Dock Street, only to be greeted with a rude shock when he came to the Admiral’s Rest.

  A crude poster had been slapped over the sign for Brett’s Variety. “CLOSED FOR ONE WEEK. WILL REOPEN UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT. ALL NEW ACTS! WATTS’ VARIETY!”

  Holmes dashed into the tavern, which was nearly empty. One of the bartenders waved him over.

  “You left this here,” he said, reaching under the bar. “Mr. Brett told me to make sure you got it.”

  He pulled out a familiar-looking box and placed it before Holmes. Inside was a violin case, a jar of powder, and a pair of envelopes addressed to him. Holmes opened the one from Brett.

  “Now I understand what a consulting detective is,” read the letter inside. “All we knew of Scarpelli was that he was on the run from the authorities in Italy. We never knew his real name. If you can find his heirs, return the violin. Until then, it might as well be yours. I bought it a better case. It’s not rosewood, but it will serve. I am also giving you a jar of sunburn, and recommend you continue your lessons with Mr. Harper, a former apprentice of mine at the Lee Theatre. One last thing, Mr. Holmes: There is a difference between Law and Justice. I hope that you come to appreciate that in time. B.”

  His hands shaking slightly, Holmes opened the other envelope. It contained a photograph of Mademoiselle Brett. There was nothing written on the back, but she had left an imprint of her lips in the strawberry color that was burned into his memory of her.

  “Where is Brett?” asked Holmes, his heart sinking.

  “Gone,” said the bartender. “He and the girl. Offer of a new venture somewhere, didn’t say where. Said you were all paid up otherwise.”

  “He owes me nothing,” said Holmes.

  He walked outside and looked around.

  They could be anywhere, he thought. They could be anyone.

  His shoulders sagging, he walked away in the direction of Daughtry’s Pub.

  An elderly couple passed going the other way. The woman turned and watched Holmes from under her veil.

  “It’s too bad, Papa,” said Mademoiselle Brett. “I liked him.”

  “It never would have worked,” said Brett. “Now, where shall we go next?”

  “Someplace where fools are treated with respect,” she said.

  “America, it is,” he said. He offered his arm. She took it, and they walked away.

  ONE MONTH LATER.

  Mycroft emerged from the Diogenes Club, refreshed from two hours of reading the evening papers uninterrupted by anything other than the replenishing of his glass of sherry. Thomas was waiting with the brougham, glancing up and down the street. There was no one in the vicinity other than a drunken sailor lurching along the opposite side, bellowing “The Tale of the Rat-Catcher’s Daughter,” painfully off-key.

  “Drink, Thomas, is the great equivocator,” observed Mycroft. “It inspires one to sing while destroying one’s intonation.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the driver.

  “That was meant to be witty, Thomas,” said Mycroft.

  “Then it was entirely wasted on me, sir,” said Thomas, holding the door for him.

  Mycroft sighed and stepped in, bolting the door after it was closed. He settled back contentedly in his seat as the brougham lurched forward.

  There was a cry, a thud, and the horse neighing in terror. The brougham rolled to a halt, and the door jolted under the repeated blows of a sledge hammer. Mycroft drew his Webley and waited.

  Then came a second series of cries and blows, accompanied this time by several sharp cracks. Then there was silence.

  “Mycroft, don’t shoot,” shouted Sherlock from outside. “I have the situation under control. You can come out.”

  Mycroft cautiously unbolted the door and opened it. The sailor, no longer drunk nor singing, stood over three men who were sprawled on the street. He looked up at Mycroft and held up a wooden baton.

  “As you see, I brought my stick this time,” said Sherlock. “Don’t say that I never listen to you.”

  “I wasn’t expecting them for another three days,” said Mycroft.

  “They moved up their timetable,” said Sherlock. “Long story, I’ll tell you later. Your driver needs medical assistance. I take it you can hold these three while I get help?”

  “I should be able to do so.”

  “Good,” said Sherlock. “Is there a reward for their capture? I’m a bit out of pocket on this one.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Mycroft.

  “Right. I’ll be back shortly.”

  And he ran down the street, blowing a whistle as he disappeared around the corner. Mycroft watched and shook his head.

  “Very well,” he said. “You can stay.”

  SHERLOCKED

  by Rhys Bowen

  The room was becoming hotter and more unpleasant by the minute. It had been unusually warm for May in the Thames Valley and the meeting room that had been selected at the local posh hotel was really too small for the number of people who had shown up for the demonstration. And not all of them had been over-generous with deodorant, Clare Patterson thought as she moved as far back from the offending odor as possible. There was an expectant buzz of conversation and Clare heard a voice behind her wondering how soon they could go to the pub. She had positioned herself in a far corner, as befitted a lowly detective constable, and examined the crowd. There were Thames Valley police top brass, looking uncomfortable if smart in their uniforms; the plainclothes branch distinguishable from the forensics lot and the press, because they were wearing ties and had neat haircuts. The forensics
boys sported longer hair and a few untucked shirts, while the pressmen were identifiably most shaggy and casual of all. The female reporters, on the other hand, wore impressively high heels and smart, short skirts.

  “Such an interesting mix,” Clare thought and studied faces. She was determined to make a success of her new career and had been told by an old sergeant that you could learn more from a face than any amount of forensic evidence. “You’ll pick up right away if someone’s uneasy, or cocky. If you watch carefully, the cocky ones will allow themselves a little grin because they think they’ve pulled one over on you. A dead giveaway.”

  She had observed about half the room when the door opened. A hush fell as Chief Superintendent Barclay walked in.

  “Welcome,” he said, looking around the crowd. “Good of you all to come on this momentous occasion. First of all, a warm welcome to our fellow officers from around the British Isles. And to our various forensics teams, our technical geeks—or should I say geniuses—without whom this would not have been possible. And last but not least, to our friends in the media. I feel I’m safe in saying that what we are going to show you today will blow you away.”

  He paused. He had the sort of face that always looked smug but at this moment he looked positively self-satisfied. “And,” he went on, “if everything progresses according to plan, we may all find ourselves out of a job soon.”

  A nervous titter ran around the room.

  “I wish he’d get on with it,” a voice said behind Clare. “Always did like the sound of his own voice.”

  “Some of you have caught whispers of what we’ve been doing, here in the Thames Valley,” the Chief Superintendent went on. “And finally I’m happy to unveil something that will revolutionize policing around the world. Ladies and gentlemen.” Another long and dramatic pause. “May I present to you Sherlock.”

  He looked toward the open door. All eyes followed his gaze, and in through the door came what looked like a rather superior vacuum cleaner. Again there was an uneasy titter from parts of the crowd. The robot moved easily over the carpet and came to a halt in the middle of the room. It could not have been called handsome or even impressive. It was about three feet high with a round base, a long neck ending in a glass ball, upon which someone had placed a small deerstalker cap. The ball rotated from side to side, giving the impression that while the crowd took in the robot, it was equally examining them.

  “Doesn’t look like much, does it?” CS Barclay went on. “We discussed making it more human looking, or even more like what we’ve come to expect a robot will look like. C-3PO? Is that what it was called in Star Wars? But we’ve kept the design pared down so that it’s easily transportable in any police vehicle—and frankly, it can do the job.”

  “And what is that job, exactly?” one of the braver press boys asked.

  “Sherlock is the ultimate crime scene investigator,” Barclay said. “When we send out a CSI team to a crime scene there’s always a chance of contamination, of destruction of minute evidence, of things that will be overlooked. That will never happen with Sherlock. He will move across the crime scene, disturbing it as little as possible, and examining every inch of the floor as he goes. He can pick up the smallest trace of evidence—say, a soil particle carried in on a shoe—and tell us where that soil came from. Likewise plant fibers, clothing fibers, even dandruff. He can examine footprints and tell us when they were made and what kind of footwear made them.”

  Someone must have pressed a remote because the robot started to move silently across the floor.

  “What about evidence that isn’t on the floor?” one of the female reporters asked. “Not all murder victims fall to the ground. Some might be killed sitting in a chair.”

  “Good point.” CS Barclay nodded appreciation. “Sherlock is equipped with two arms, just like us. And the end of each arm has a powerful sensor on it.”

  Two metal crane-like arms extended. Sherlock went over to the reporter in question and one of the mechanical hands skimmed over the female reporter’s skirt. This got a chuckle from some of the younger men.

  “Sherlock will be able to tell you where you have been recently,” CS Barclay said. “What you might have brushed against. Where you sat. And when it comes to analyzing a murder victim, he’ll tell us the time of death and be able to make a fairly reliable assessment as to what killed the person. His all-seeing eye will examine the walls for blood spatters and tell us how far away the gun was fired, what type of weapon . . . He’ll examine fingerprints and send data to be matched. Things that would normally take ballistic and SCI experts hours or days can now be accomplished almost instantly.”

  There was a pause as the audience took all this in.

  “Any questions at this stage?” Barclay asked.

  “What about psychological profiling?” an older officer from another police jurisdiction asked. “What about the human element? What about experience?” It was his turn to look smug.

  “We’re working on that,” Barclay said. “I’m told by the technical team that Sherlock will have a companion up and running within a year. Naturally we’re calling him Watson. He will be able to examine facial expressions, detect a rise in pulse or temperature from suspects, in short do what the most accomplished and experienced of police investigators can now do.”

  Another pause. Sounds of shifting feet as if people were now uncomfortable or impatient to leave.

  “Have you actually tried this thing out on a real case?” a young reporter asked.

  “We have run simulated crime scenes but no, we have not used Sherlock on a real crime scene yet. We don’t get many juicy murders in the Thames Valley, you know.” And he gave his self-satisfied chuckle. “As soon as we’ve tried him out, you can be sure we’ll let you know!”

  They were dismissed. Some of the reporters surrounded Sherlock and Barclay with more questions. Photographs were taken. The top brass hung around conferring with one another.

  “Well, that’s me out of a job. I suppose I’d better go and sign up at the labor exchange and it will be behind the counter at Starbucks.” Charlie Tanner, a young CSI agent, fell into step with Clare as they left the room. He gave her a friendly grin.

  “Me too,” she agreed. “They won’t need as many people on the force, will they?”

  “Only one or two to look important like Barclay or to oil little whats-his-name.”

  “You mean Sherlock?”

  “Sherlock.” He grimaced. “How pretentious. I bet the thing doesn’t even work.”

  “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

  Clare’s governor, DI Hammond, was equally skeptical when she returned to police HQ. He was a comfortable, middle-aged man with three daughters and he treated Clare like a fourth.

  “What will they think of next?” he said. “What a load of old codswallop! I bet someone’s modified a vacuum cleaner and got a large grant to do this.”

  “It might be a useful tool if it actually works, sir,” she said hesitantly.

  “Then I think it’s up to you and me to prove that it doesn’t,” he replied.

  “You’re not suggesting sabotage?”

  He chuckled. “No. I’m suggesting we show that you can’t beat good old human intelligence and intuition, Clare. I’m hoping that test case will be on our patch and that we’ll be assigned to it. Then we’ll see: man versus machine and may the better man win!”

  As it happened they were in luck. Two weeks later Clare was summoned to the incident room as soon as she reported on duty.

  “This is it, Patterson,” he said, grinning at her. “The game is afoot.”

  “Pardon, sir?” Clare looked blank.

  Hammond gave a sigh. “Don’t tell me you haven’t read Sherlock Holmes.”

  “I tried him once, sir. I’m afraid he annoyed me with his supercilious, know-it-all attitude. I mean, ‘I deduce this spent match was struck by a left-handed librarian!’ Give me a break!”

  DI Hammond chuckled. “You do have a point there, bu
t now you may have to change your attitude. You’re about to see Sherlock in action.”

  “You mean the robot?” Clare’s eyes lit up. In spite of herself she was excited. “There’s been a murder?”

  “There has. At one of the Oxford colleges. St. Clement’s.” He picked up his phone from the desk. “Come on. Grab your notebook and get in the car. I’ll fill you in on the details as we go.”

  Soon they were heading through the outskirts of Oxford, the drab suburban streets giving no indication of the glorious buildings that lay ahead.

  “So who is dead?” Clare asked.

  “A professor of English called Orville. Theodor Orville. He lives in faculty rooms at the college, as do several other unmarried dons, one gathers. His body was found this morning when the college servant couldn’t get into his sitting room. It was apparently locked from the inside. She alerted the college porter, who has a master key, and they found him lying on the floor.”

  “So he was alone in a room locked from the inside?” Clare asked. “Then how did his killer escape? Out of a window?”

  “Apparently not,” DI Hammond said. “The building dates back to the fifteenth century. The windows have small leaded panes.”

  “Then how . . . ?” Clare started.

  Hammond interrupted her. “No doubt Sherlock will have it all sorted out by the time we get there.”

  St. Clement’s was situated between Magdalen and St. Edmund Hall facing the High Street, with meadows leading down to the Cherwell behind it. It was built in mellow cream-colored stone, aged with centuries of coal fires and passing cars to a dark gray. Like all of the ancient Oxford colleges, it was constructed around a quad, with the only open entry through the central gateway, manned by a porter. As they arrived a group of undergrads were coming out, their gowns flapping out in the stiff morning breeze. The porter met them, saying that a Chief Superintendent was already at the scene and implying that since such a senior man was there they needn’t have bothered. He grudgingly led them along the cloister on one side of the quad. A groundsman was mowing the lawn in perfect lines. At the end of the cloiser they were led up an ancient stone staircase, its tread worn down by centuries of feet.