LITMIR.BIZ

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as I could. I was sure the sound had come from there.”

      “At what time had Lord Morris come home that evening?”

      “Around midnight, sir. He went directly to his study without saying a word.”

      “At what time did you hear the shot?”

      “When I passed the longcase clock in the hall, it was 12:45.”

      “When you entered the study, you found it just as it is now?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “You saw no intruder?”

      “None, sir, but I was slow to act, on account of the shock. It took me a moment to walk over to the French doors.”

      “Perkins, why did you close the door behind you when you entered Lord Morris’s study?”

      “I didn’t, Mr Holmes. The wind blew it shut.”

      “Thank you, Perkins. That will be all for now.”

      Perkins opened the door for us, and our trio re-entered the hall. Holmes turned once more to Perkins and asked, “Would it be possible for you to call Dr Watson and I a cab, please?”

      However, Lady Morris immediately appeared at the banister and called down, “Nonsense, our driver shall convey you to your lodgings. Perkins, please get Boggis.”

      After thanking Lady Morris, Holmes, Inspector Nicholson, and I discussed the case outside, while waiting for the coach.

      “What do you make of it, Holmes? Was Lord Morris shot with his own gun?”

      “So it would appear, Watson. You will telegraph, Inspector, when you know for certain?”

      “Of course.”

      “Holmes, why would the killer load a second round into the gun?” I asked.

      “It is much too soon to speculate. Perhaps the killer didn’t,” said Holmes, with the faintest trace of a grin forming upon his face.

      “Nonsense, who else would have done it?” shot back Nicholson. “It could be that the murderer was trying to make it appear as though a different gun had been used, in order to deflect suspicion from someone within the household. After all, only someone familiar with the house could have found the gun.”

      “There is a germ of a sound theory in that statement, Inspector. The gun and the room’s appearance are definitely meant to deflect suspicion.”

      “I take it you are referring to the room’s being rifled?” I asked.

      “Yes, Watson. It is suggestive.”

      “How so, Holmes?” asked Nicholson.

      “An intruder could have had but a minute in which to work, before Perkins entered.”

      “That affirms my theory that it was an inside job—the killer knew where to find the papers he wanted,” Nicholson interjected.

      “In any event,” I ventured, “I think suspicion rests squarely upon this man in the broad-brimmed hat. Find him, and you’ll find your killer.”

      “Yes, Watson. Once we have this stranger’s identity, we shall have solved this case.”

      “Well Holmes, if you have no objections, after I consult with the coroner, I am going to start questioning some of the people in this address book.”

      “Very good, Nicholson. Watson and I will visit the Bagatelle Club. I shall contact you, if anything develops.”

      By this time, Boggis had arrived with the coach. Before Holmes gave him directions, he asked my friend if he was Mr Sherlock Holmes. Once Holmes had affirmed this, Boggis began to draw closer and speak confidentially.

      “Mr Holmes, sir, there is something that has been troubling me about the master, but I’m not sure if it’s something I should mention to the mistress.”

      “Go on, Boggis.”

      “You see, sir, I’m the one what always drives his lordship to the club, and sometimes, his lordship asks me to pick up some of his friends, as well. Lately, not Lord Morris, but a couple of these friends have been mentioning something peculiar—a ‘Bagatelle Shakespeare Society.’ But they always sound real oily when they say it, like lechers in a dance hall. Now I’m no better than any other bloke, but it seems to me that these two friends had some kind of corrupting influence on his lordship. Does any of this help you, Mr Holmes?”

      “Yes, Boggis. Tell me, had you ever driven Lord Morris and these friends to any destination other than the Bagatelle Club?”

      “No, sir. Just heard ’em talk is all.”

      “Thank you, Boggis.”

      Holmes said hardly a word on our drive back to Baker Street. I knew better than to interrupt my friend during such spells of silence, for he would undoubtedly reveal all at the appropriate time. Our trip was, therefore, rather monotonous, except for a quick stop at the post office, so Holmes could send a telegram. When we finally arrived at 221B, Holmes tipped Boggis most generously, and we ascended to our rooms, Holmes to await a response to his telegram and I to await the lunch which Mrs Hudson was preparing.

      After I had eaten, Holmes having elected to instead consume a heroic amount of shag for lunch, I sat down in my armchair and rested my legs upon an ottoman heaped with cushions, for the cold had been bothering my old wound terribly. It was just after I had finally gotten comfortable when two telegrams arrived for Holmes.

      “Ah, the first one is from Inspector Nicholson, confirming that Lord Morris’s derringer did, indeed, fire the fatal shot. The second is from the Earl of Maynooth.”

      “The father of Ronald Adair? Is he back in England?”

      “He has been back for some time, Watson, and has agreed to meet with us, at the Bagatelle Club. Perhaps he will be able to shed some light upon the affairs of Lord Morris.”

      Once again, we hailed a four-wheeler and were soon on our way to Regent Street. It was still quite gloomy and cold, but at least the wind had finally died, making our trip somewhat more comfortable. As we approached our destination, I felt a wave of nostalgia as I gazed upon the white façade of the Criterion Bar, for it was there that I first heard mention of Holmes, an event which changed dramatically the trajectory of my life. There was little time for reminiscing, though, for we had soon reached our destination.

      Upon entering the club, a small, elderly man in the most neatly pressed suit I had ever seen began leading us past table-upon-table of cigar-chewing nobility, all enjoying their games and their brandy.

      “Once again, we are moving in high life, Watson,” quipped Holmes with a sly smile.

      We then arrived at a comfortable, oak-paneled alcove where sat an ample-framed, florid-faced gentleman whom I took to be the Earl of Maynooth.

      “Hello, Mr Holmes. And Dr Watson, it is so good to finally meet you. Too bad about Lord Morris; terrible business that. I shall do what I can to help, but I must admit that I did not know the man terribly well. Please, take a seat,” he said, indicating two sumptuous leather armchairs. After Holmes and I had accepted and lit the cigars our host offered to us, Holmes addressed the earl.

      “I realise, sir, that you were not close to Lord Morris, but was it his custom to stay here until late in the evening?”

      “Why Mr Holmes, I, myself, no longer keep very late hours, so I could not positively answer your question.”

      “Lady Morris said her husband spent a great deal of his time here, but another source of mine intimated that he may have been here less frequently than she thought. Would you, by any chance, know anything about that?”

      “Lord knows I have enough trouble keeping track of my own affairs and could not possibly be expected to keep tabs on a veritable stranger. I do know, however, that the lord and a few of his friends were rather fond of the ladies, Mr

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