LITMIR.BIZ

      “Here is a dead man,” said inspector Lestrade to Holmes and me, as we were getting down to the river. July night was clear, the full moon was shining deadly in the cloudless sky, getting its mercury ghost light to the landscape. A mist smoked over the river, spreading on the wet banks that made an illusion of broader water stream. At the water there were two policemen and a police doctor, awaiting for us. A body of the drowned man was near their feet.

      Frankly speaking we altogether with Lestrade came to Leeds town for another reason – we were providing with an investigation of the Bank Of New York company’s black deal.

      Police inspector Sherman had met us at the station and said about just founded a drowned man. Although it was urgent case Lestrade made us go to the place – he was always sure the police was helpless without his assistance.

      “Aha!” Lestrade crouched over the body, turned his head covering his nose by the palm. “Shit! The smell is hard. For how long is the body here in the water?”

      “About two weeks,” answered the police doctor. “Pretty long.”

      I was standing in the distance, Holmes stood near Lestrade, looking down at the body in the light of kerosene lamps of the policemen.

      “Yes, two weeks,” said Holmes. “Could you light the face once again? Well, thank you… What do you think of that?” Holmes turned to the police doctor, pointing out to the wounded head of the drowned man.

      “This? It was hit by some hard object. A rock for sure. This hit for sure was a fatal. Then they did push the body in the river.”

      “I got it too,” nodded Lestrade. “I feel by my nose such cases.”

      Lestrade was saying this covering his nose and moving back of the body.

      Out of the Lestrade’s back I saw the body in the grass. It was a man of about 40, in the unbuttoned jacket, all wet an in the river mud, in dark trousers and former white shirt. Now the shirt was the same color as his face – dirty-grey. This scene was awful, I turned away.

      Inspector Sherman walked down to us from the road.

      “The case is getting a little bit clear,” said the inspector. “I was told the dead man is probably Edward Kelvin, an engineer of textile factory in Leeds. He has disappeared two weeks ago. His family informed us about it, but we could not help. Kelvin had gone to London where he was selling his hereditary house. He had to be back with money just two weeks ago. They saw him leaving London for Leeds. They saw him in Leeds railway station, getting off the train. Then he vanished. And now… here he is!”

      “Did you examine the body?” asked Holmes.

      “For sure,” answered Sherman. “We did find no any money although a big sum had to be. His pockets are empty, turned upside, nothing at all. I think they killed him because of the money.”

      “Wish I had found this bustard!” Lestrade’s voice sounded. “I would… I would…”

      “Please give light over here!” Holmes addressed to the policeman.

      Kerosene light spotted left hand of the dead man. Fingers were clenched. Holmes squatted down trying to unclench fingers.

      “What is it?” asked Sherman surprisingly.

      “Some mud,” echoed Lestrade.

      Staying around we watched at wet grass in the body’s hand.

      “That is not river mud,” said Holmes. “Kelvin turned out to be in the water after the death.”

      “Well,” shrugged his shoulders Lestrade. “Then what is it?”

      Using pincers Holmes took a wet piece of grass, looked at this closer. By his other hand Holmes got out a magnifier to examine the grass.

      “This is clover.”

      Holmes returned the piece of grass back to the hand of the body, put magnifier and pincers in his pocket and turned to the inspector.

      “Now, let’s remember where is a clover field near by?”

      Sherman fell to thinking. He said: “Nowhere. There are no such places. But one…”

      The only clover place was one mile from us, up to the river…

      “That is the very place,” said Holmes as we turned out in the clover meadow in 30 minutes later. “Kelvin was killed, robbed and push into the river. Who lives there?” He pointed out to the only house near by. Sherman asked the same question to the local policeman.

      The answer was:

      “This is Michael Porter house. He runs local consumer goods shops. His business goes not well, he is almost ruined. This house is already for sale.”

      “Porter… This name is familiar to me,” murmured Sherman. “Got it! Porter is the only witness! The man who was in the same train with Kelvin while coming back to Leeds! Wonderful!”

      “Come on to talk to him”, Lestrade advised. “I feel by my nose he is in the deal.”

      “Is it good?” asked I. “Deep night. One o’clock AM…”

      But Lestrade and Sherman laughed.

      “Just at night time the predator catches its game, my friend!” Lestrade said solemnly and clapped my shoulder. “People can’t lie right after sleeping.”