A Sherlock Holmes Mystery One-Act Play

THE STRANGE CASE OF THE TOO FEW SUSPECTS

LIST OF CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY:

Sherlock Holmes
Dr. John H. Watson
George Murchand, Shipping company owner
Inspector Lastrade of Scotland Yard
Teddy Volter, the assassin
Marie Hitchens, Trevor’s wife
Jason, desk sergeant
Kirk, constable

SYNOPSIS:

Scene 1.  Holmes rooms at 221 Baker Street, London; the year, 1897

Scene 2.  Volter’s cell in Bow Street Station, one day later

Scene 3.  Reenactment in front of Murchand’s villa, recounted same day

Scene 4.  Latrade’s office, same day

Scene 5.  Marchand’s property, two days later

Scene 6.  Holme’s rooms, one month later

 

SCENE 1

 (Holmes study.  Holmes seen sitting in a comfortable chair and reading a newspaper.  Pipe at hand.)

WATSON:  (entering) There’s a young woman waiting downstairs, Holmes.  Said that you refused to see her.

HOLMES: (absentmindedly continues reading) Oh, hello, Watson.

WATSON: Would you please put down that paper for a moment.  I said…

HOLMES:  I heard what you said.  (putting down paper) You know it never fails to gratify me the lengths to which the world goes in order to enliven my morning.

WATSON:  What lengths are you talking about?  The massacre of Armenians?  The assassination of the shah?  The Russian declaration of war?

HOLMES:  And the Zionist congress, the Klondike gold rush.  The vast stage of human strife.  The pageantry of it all, Watson.  Captured on paper and delivered to my doorstep. (slaps newspaper) Endlessly fascinating.

WATSON:  Fascinating?  You make it sound as though our soldiers are dying in the Sudan to amuse you.

HOLMES:  I’m sure they’re not.  But I didn’t put them there, did I?  I’m not responsible for what’s going on in the world, Watson.  If I were, I’d hang myself.  But since I’m not, there’s no reason why…

WATSON:  Dash it, Holmes.  There is a reason.  It’s called ‘propriety.’  You can at least express some regard for the brotherhood of man, you know.

HOLMES:  I don’t recall having joined.  Tell me, would the world be one whit better off if I did not take pleasure reading the paper?

WATSON:  (resignedly)  No, I suppose not.

HOLMES:  Then there you are.  (picks up paper, pauses, then sets it down again)  I don’t know why she’s still here.  I distinctly told Mrs. Hudson to send her away.

WATSON:  Didn’t work, apparently.  She pleaded with me for a chance to see you the minute I walked in the door.  Said she won’t budge until you do.   Did Mrs Hudson tell you who she is?

HOLMES:  She didn’t have to.  The young woman is Mrs. Trevor Hitchens.  Reasonably attractive.  Twenty-six or so.  And about five foot three, I would imagine.  Decently, but not expensively, attired.

WATSON:  You did see her then?

HOLMES:  No, between Mrs. Hudson’s mention of the young woman’s desperation and the newspaper’s account of her husband’s crime it wasn’t hard to guess the young woman’s identity.  Ha, I’d be desperate too if I were in her shoes.  With her husband in the dock and as good as hanged.

WATSON: But her height and all the rest…

HOLMES:  Merely supposition based on the paper’s description of her husband.  Nothing like a sordid crime to excite the press’s interest in details.  Handsome chap from the newspaper’s sketch, well built, average height, thirty years old and, until recently, a respectable member of our underpaid clerical class.  What sort of woman would a chap like that marry?  The young woman downstairs I would imagine.  Send her away, Watson.  For all her bluster, Mrs. Hudson is too soft hearted to shoo a cat off her threshold.

WATSON:  I gather she’s been here the better part of two hours, Holmes.  It wouldn’t do any harm to see her for a few minutes.

HOLMES:  Of course, it would do harm.  It’d be a waste of my time and hers.  I can’t help her.  According to the papers, the case against her husband is airtight.  Police put it together less than a week after the murder.  Inspector Lestrade must be strutting around like a stupid peacock.

WATSON: Lastrade’s been wrong before.  Nobody knows that better than you.

HOLMES:  Not this time, I’m afraid.  Too few suspects.  Too much evidence.

WATSON: Oh, come on, Holmes.  This is just the kind of crime you would have relished a few years ago.  You can’t leave her camped in the vestibule forever.  And you can’t pretend you’re too busy. You haven’t taken on a new case in weeks.

HOLMES: Because I’m fed up with detective work.  With the whole idiotic criminal business.  You may not have noticed, Watson, I’m getting old.

WATSON:  I’m afraid I lack your powers of observation.

HOLMES: We’ve proven that often enough.  (laughs)  But you’re not blind, man.

WATSON: No, and what I see is a fifty-two year old man-practically in the prime of life-down in the dumps.  And I’ve got just the right prescription. Talking to that poor woman downstairs.  She swears you’re the only one who can help her.

HOLMES:  She’s right about that.  For all the verbiage that’s been spewed out the last ten days, not one word about its most puzzling aspects.

WATSON:  Ah, you have taken an interest in this affair.

HOLMES:  Only as a disinterested observer.  Couldn’t help but be curious why a trusted shipping company employee-a bookkeeper, no less-would suddenly plunge into crime.  All those dark deeds from a member of our stalwart British, churchgoing, excruciatingly dull middle class?  What in the world got into the man?

WATSON: Maybe our middle class is more interesting than you give them credit for.  The papers seem to think so.

HOLMES: Nonsense.  If George Murchand hadn’t been so rich and his wife so beauteous, they would have squelched the story after the first day.

WATSON: If you’re so puzzled, why don’t you talk to the woman downstairs.  Maybe she has an explanation.

HOLMES: If she has, she’s certainly kept it to herself so far.  No, I won’t get any more  out of her than the reporters did.  Vacuous suburban wife, two kids, and zero interest in anything outside her flat.  It’s what she hopes to get out of me.  People think me capable of miracles.  No miracle is going to save her husband, I can tell you that.  Even Lestrade can’t be wrong one-hundred percent of the time.  Though, God knows, he tries.

WATSON: Then at least send her away yourself.  That’s the only way you’ll be rid of the poor woman.

HOLMES: And your persistent carping on the matter.  (resignedly waving his arm) Show her in, Watson, show her in.

(Watson exits and returns with Marie)

MARIE:  Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Holmes.  I can’t tell you how grateful I am.  You see, I’m Marie Hitchens, the wife of…

HOLMES: Yes, yes.  We know all that.  I’d be happy to offer you a seat, Ms. Hitchens, but you must understand that I can’t be of service to you.  I take on very few cases these days, madam.  Indeed, I’m thinking of leaving London and retiring altogether.  Besides my research…

MARIE: But you must, sir.  Trevor’s entirely innocent.  I know he is.

HOLMES: May I ask how you arrived at this certainty?

MARIE: You can’t be married to a man for nine years without knowing what he’s like.  If you saw him at our church socials, helping the parson with his charities…

HOLMES:  Oh, do sit down then, please.  This is Dr. Watson, my associate.  You may rely on his discretion.

MARIE:  Pleased to make your acquaintance, doctor.

WATSON:   Mam.

HOLMES:  I’m afraid, Ms. Hitchens, we mortals all have our weaknesses.  Could not a sudden impulse have overtaken him.  To pay off some debt, perhaps?  Those six £100 gilts were so accessible to him…

MARIE: That’s what I can’t make anyone understand.  But you’re so smart Mr. Holmes, you’ll listen I know.  No man on earth was less concerned for more than what he already had.  We’re plain folk what knows its place and don’t live above its means.  Neither of us has any use for fine stuff.  And we don’t owe a farthing to anybody.  It’s all I could do to keep Trevor from putting too much in the collection plate.  Does that sound like a thief to you?

WATSON:  Certainly not!

HOLMES:  May I ask how Mr. Hitchens was getting along at work?

MARIE: That’s just it.  He was Mr. Murchand’s favorite.  Been with him for God knows how long.  Eleven years at least.  Bonus at Christmastide and everything.  Treated Trevor like they were in the same class almost.  The poor man suffered bad flareups of gout-more so as times gone on-and it was Trevor who’d bring papers to the house so’s he didn’t have to go out.

HOLMES:  The firm, I understand, had a branch in Bristol.

MARIE:  Yes sir, Mr. Murchand had to take himself there every month, gout and all leaving Trevor to handle all the bookeeping.  You see what I’m saying, Mr. Holmes?  To hear how the late Mr. Murchand accused Trevor of stealing…why I never…(starts crying)

WATSON:  May we offer you some tea, Ms. Hitchens?

MARIE:  No, no.  I’ll be all right.  Thank you kindly sir.

HOLMES:  Your support of your husband is admirable, madam, but I’m obliged to inquire further.  Mr. Hitchens is not only being accused of theft but, as you know, of being complicit in Mr. Murchand’s murder.  Hiring a hit man to be exact.  Can you throw any light on that?

MARIE:  All the light in the world, sir.  If you saw Trevor playing with the children you’d feel exactly the same way.  Never lifted a finger agin’ me in all our years of marriage.  Nor agin’ anyone else to my knowledge.  He’s the most peaceable man on earth.

WATSON:  Not the profile of your typical murderer, Holmes.

HOLMES:  Husbands don’t always reveal to their wives every facet of their characters, Ms. Hitchens.  Might not he have had some contact with people possessed of less attractive qualities?  London is home to a very variegated set of ruffians.  A neighbor, an odd acquaintance of some sort at his tavern?

MARIE:  Tavern?  Trevor wouldn’t set foot in such a place.  And when he went out to the market and the like, don’t you think I’d be with him.  If Trevor had an acquaintance, I’d know o’ him too.  And there was none of our friends who weren’t churchgoers same as us.

HOLMES:  And, forgive me, Mrs. Hitchens, I don’t mean to pry into your personal affairs, but if I am to look into this further…

MARIE: I told you.  The most gentle man that ever lived.  When I hear other women how they’ve been beaten and all…

HOLMES:  Yes, I understand.  But you’re marital relationship…I mean no family tiffs?

MARIE:  I won’t lie to you, Mr. Holmes.  No arguments, but we weren’t as close as before.  You know what I mean?  It’s all my fault.  He’s been rising in station, no doubt, what with his friendship with Mr. Murchand, his being a bookkeeper and reading up on accountancy and all.  And me as uneducated as a block of wood.  There’d be company parties he’d go alone.  For my sake, he said.  But a little ashamed of me I think he was though he’d never say so.  Distracted sometimes at home, you know, when I wished I knowed what he was thinking.  But that says nothing against him, you understand.

WATSON: Perfectly, madam.

MARIE: Well, there I’ve told you everything.  If you’ll just talk to him you’ll see everything I’ve told you is God’s truth.

HOLMES:  I’ll admit you have piqued my curiousity, Mrs Hitchens.  This paragon of virtues of yours, on the surface at least, does not agree with the reportage I’ve read.

WATSON:  Hardly!

HOLMES.  (rising)  I appreciate your candor, Ms. Hitchens.  To be truthful, the circumstances surrounding your husband’s arrest do not appear to be auspicious.  Indeed, they look grim as I’m sure you know.  So I would not want to convey any unwarranted optimism.  I will, however, look into them further to see if I can be of some use.

MARIE:  Oh, thank you, sir.  We’ll manage somehow to pay you for the trouble.  Once he’s free and all.  It may take us a while, but…

HOLMES:  We’ll discuss my fee, Mrs. Hitchens, if and when I decide to take up the case.  I promise nothing, you understand.

MARIE:  Yes, sir.  Completely, sir.

HOLMES:  (showing her the door)  Very good.  You’ll have my decision within a week.

MARIE: (shaking their hands)  Thank you, Mr. Holmes.  Dr. Watson.  (exits)

WATSON:  Well, Holmes, you surprised me.  Agreeably, I must say.  Don’t tell me her pleas evoked your better nature?

HOLMES: Hmph!

WATSON:  I rather thought not.  Or is it our Simon-pure accused, who hasn’t a fault in the world aside from thievery and murder that’s the conundrum?

HOLMES:  That and one other rather interesting point.  I’ll have to think about it.

WATSON:  Good!  Should be right up your alley, Holmes.  Overconfident police and overwhelming evidence against an innocent man.  Everything’s just waiting for you to turn matters upside down.

HOLMES:  Not likely not this time.  Too few suspects, for one thing.  I’ll be going down to the Bow Street station tomorrow to hear the other side of the story.  Care to join me?

WATSON:  Can’t Holmes.  I’ve a full schedule.  Which reminds me I’ve house calls to make this afternoon.  So I’ll leave you to your thoughts.

HOLMES: (patting Watson on the back as he exits)  Good bye, Watson.

SCENE 2

 (The following morning.  On one corner of the stage, a spotlight illuminates the front desk at Bow Street Police Court)

 HOLMES:  (entering)  Jason, good morning.

JASON.  (brightly) Mr. Holmes, sir.  Inspector Lestrade said we were to expect you.  He asked that you drop by his office when you’ve completed your interrogations.  It’s Volter you wanted to see first?

HOLMES: Yes, the inspector had no objection to my chatting with him for a time.

JASON.  HAppy to oblige, sir, if you don’t mind sharing his accommodations.  The interrogation room is tied up at present.

HOLMES: That would be perfectly satisfactory.

(center stage is now illuminated to reveal Volter’s cell.  Prisoner sits on the edge of his bunk.  Holmes is seated on a stool facing him.)

VOLTER:  No need to introduce yourself, Mr. Holmes.  You have quite a reputation among the sort I pal around with.

HOLMES:  Not altogether unfavorable, I hope.

VOLTER:  Neither favorable or unfavorable, exactly.  Just somebody it’s best to stay away from.

HOLMES: I’m pleased you’re willing to make an exception this morning.

VOLTER:  Kills time.  Nothing to lose.  What do you want from me?

HOLMES.  I’m thinking of representing Mrs. Hitchens and you may have information that could help exonerate her husband.  The poor woman is very distressed as you might imagine.

VOLTER:  Help em!  Damn Hitchens and his missus.  I’ve already told the police everything I know and I hope they hang the bastard with it.  That’s all I got to look forward to.  The one that put me here swinging along side me.  (forced laugh)  How’s that for ambition?

HOLMES:  I can understand how you feel, Volter.  But my investigations will either cement the case against Hitchens and satisfy your understandable animosity toward the man or…

VOLTER:  Not animosity.  Hatred.  I was a free man, minding my own business, before he…

HOLMES: (sharply)  Allow me to finish, sir.  Or, if the facts point the other way, my investigations will bring to justice the real instigator of the crime.  How would you feel swinging, as you put it, alongside an innocent man while the real cause of your misfortune went merrily about his business?

VOLTER:  Hold on.  You’re saying there’s some doubt about Hitchens?  The police are dead certain he’s the one.

HOLMES:  I wouldn’t be here, Volter, if I didn’t have reason to question some of their assumptions.

VOLTER:  Now that’s a real worry, ain’t it?  If Sherlock Holmes has his doubts then so have I.

HOLMES:  Then give me whatever information you can.  Please leave nothing out.  It’s the details I need.

VOLTER:  It’s the details I don’t have.  Not about the guy behind the scene who was runnin’ the show.  But I’ll do my best.

HOLMES:  That’s all I can ask.  What was your first contact with our mysterious friend?

VOLTER:  I’m not one for steady employment you understand, so there’s always need for money.  So about four weeks ago there’s this advertisement in the Chronicle for part time work over a brief period.  Good pay, it said.  Reply with employment history.  Well, part time work never hurt anyone especially if its brief enough.  So that part was all right.  But it was the last line what caught my eye, all right.  ‘Employer a believer in God’s power of redemption.’  Those exact words.  Funny thing in an ad, ain’t it?

HOLMES:  Yes, indeed.

VOLTER:  Struck me somebody’s fishin’ for sinners and he ain’t Saint Paul.  So sin being my strong point, so to speak, I applied the very next day.

HOLMES: You mentioned your prison record.

VOLTER: Some of it, anyway.  Had a hunch it might help.

HOLMES: Which it did, obviously.

VOLTER:  Not more than a few days later-Monday it was-here comes this letter in the post.  The first thing that pops out is a £10 note.  That’s getting things off to a good start, I think to myself.  Then the letter says that my application was read with interest and there’s a job for me well suited to my experience.  The payment being very substantial.

HOLMES:  £10?  For just applying.  Your correspondent was very generous.

VOLTER:  Money was no object to him in the whole damn affair.  Privacy was, though.  Whoever I was dealing with was a shy bugger.

HOLMES:  How so?

VOLTER:  His letter says that there’s a second ten pounder to be had.  All I had to do was wear a red scarf and stroll into Regent’s Park Hanover Gate Thursday morning at seven o’clock sharp.  I was to look for a park bench with a Scottish Terrier tied to it.  Then I was to take a seat on the bench and take out what’s in a pouch tied to the dog’s neck.

HOLMES:  Ah!  Fascinating.  We’re dealing with a clever scoundrel.  I take it your interest in this part time employment remained keen.

VOLTER:  Not my style getting’ up early, but another £10 was a powerful inducement, you understand.  So I did what it said and there’s this dog friendly as could be.  And, sure enough, there’s the pouch with the money inside what was promised.

HOLMES:  Along with more instructions, I assume.

VOLTER:  That took me back some.  I figured ahead of time that it’d be some kind of job Her Majesty wouldn’t exactly approve of.  Nobody throws away twenty quid for nothing.  But…

HOLMES:  Excuse me, Volter, for interrupting.  Tell me, as you approached the bench did you notice anyone in the vicinity?

VOLTER:  Just for an instant.  The minute he saw me coming, he made a dash toward some dense bushes nearby.

HOLMES:  You keep referring to this shy figure as ‘he.’  You’re quite certain it was a man?

VOLTER:  He was wearing trousers, I can tell you that.

HOLMES:  (now pacing excitedly back and forth in the cell)  Of course.  Please go on.  The message that would earn Her Majesty’s disapproval?

VOLTER:  Like I said, it took me back some.  Committin’ murder wasn’t in my regular line of work.  But it wasn’t altogether unknown either.  It says that there’s five-hundred to go along with the twenty for knocking off some bloke.  It’s to be while he’s taking a stroll in the garden of his suburban villa.  The job’s to be done five days later.  Details to follow if I was to go ahead.  There was a pencil in the pouch.  ‘Aye, or ‘nae’ was at the bottom for me to decide on.

HOLMES:  The aye had it, apparently.

VOLTER:  It sounded like something I could do pretty easy.  And no complaints about money.  If the truth be known, I’d done much the same for a lot less.  And with him sayin’ the money’d be in advance, it looked okay.

HOLMES:  In advance, you say?

VOLTER:  He’d of knowd that’d have to be part of the deal.  And he’d of knowd too I wouldn’t cop out on ‘im.  He made it clear that’d be unhealthy for me and I believed him.  Anyway, I thought it over just a bit-couple of minutes is all-drew a big fat circle round the ‘aye,’ put the message back in the pouch, said good bye to the dog, and walked off casual like.  Like I signed on a job like that practically everyday.

HOLMES:  Did you glance back by any chance?

VOLTER:  And queer the deal?  The gentlemen had his way of conductin’ business and I had no argument with it.  Not then, anyway.

HOLMES:  What was the next…no wait.  The dog.  I can imagine it barking and jumping about the whole time?

VOLTER:  Not at all.  A little petting was all it took to keep him as quiet as you please.

HOLMES:  “Him,” you say?  It seems this well-scripted little drama called for an all male cast.

VOLTER:  (smiling) You do like details, don’t you, Mr. Holmes.  Now I really can’t say about the dog.  I didn’t take any notice.  It not wearing trousers or anythin’.  To me all dogs are a ‘he’ unless proven otherwise.

HOLMES:  I understand.  When did you get the ‘details’ he spoke of?

VOLTER:  Let’s see, it was Thursday in the park.  Not more’n a few days hence-Monday, I reckon-here comes a nice fifty pounder in the mail to serve as a deposit on an account I was to open at the Capital and Country bank in my real name.  That was his hook on me, see.  If he turned me in, I’d have a lot of explaining to do.

HOLMES:  Didn’t that worry you at all?

VOLTER:  Some, I guess.  But I intended to carry out my part of the bargain and I figured he’d carry out his.  He’d likely be even shyer after the killin’ than before.  So the next day I did like I was told.  Walking into banks like an honest man and setting up accounts wasn’t exactly what I was accustomed to.  But why not?  If somebody asked, I hadn’t done a thing except patting dogs and opening letters.  And my money was as good as the next man’s, wasn’t it?

HOLMES:  It was, indeed.

VOLTER:  My instructions were to go back to the park the day after that.  Like before, you know.  Same time, same scarf, same bench, same dog.  No message this time, though.  Just an empty pouch so I popped my new passbook into it like I was supposed to and walked off.

HOLMES:  You’re a wonderful raconteur, Volter.  Haven’t heard as interesting a story for a long time.  Brings me back to some of my earlier adventures.  Do go on.

VOLTER:  Well, wouldn’t you know.  The very next day a messenger brings a package to the flat.  There’s my passbook back but now showing a new deposit of £450.  Makes me a rich man, Mr. Holmes.  Me who’s never had more’n a few crowns in his pocket his whole life.

HOLMES:  And your new instructions?

VOLTER:  The heat was on now.  Tomorrow I was to withdraw my money in the morning and get the job in the afternoon.

HOLMES:  This was about two weeks ago.

VOLTER:  Yes, sir.  To the day.  The package contained everything I’d need for the job.  Except for the revolver, of course.  He’d know I had my own.  Like a carpenter havin’ his hammer.

HOLMES:  Of course.

VOLTER.  There was the address of the villa outside town and directions getting there.  A picture of the bloke I was to do in.  A Mr. Murchand it was.  Name didn’t mean anything to me.  A very regular gentlemen, the letter said.  Goes on his before-tea constitutional stroll around his property like clockwork every evening at 4:45.  Takes a gravel walk going right by a tool shed that had a window facing the house he comes from.  Walks slowly on account of the gout he had.

HOLMES:  Your correspondent seems to have been on intimate terms with the family.

VOLTER:  Not intimate enough, as it turned out.  The way it was supposed to work, there was this garden gate in the high stone wall running in front of the villa.  Always kept unlocked.  All I had to do was slip inside the property, walk straight ahead about fifty yards along a path leadin’ to a gravel walk-the same one Murchand takes-go left on it around a bend to a tool shed I’ll spot just aways farther down.  Then I was to get in the shed, close the door behind me so’s not to attract attention, sit by the window, and wait for him to come by from the house.  Then after the shootin,’ hightail it back through the gate I come in by and onto the road before anybody was the wiser.

HOLMES:  Sounds like a straightforward plan.

VOLTER:  Supposed to be like shootin’ ducks in a pond it was.  To make sure, he even sent a sketch showing the whole layout just so there wouldn’t be any misunderstanding.  Shouldn’t have a bit of trouble at all.  Very specific he was about followin’ his instructions exactly.  (pauses, stands, and paces back and forth in an agitated manner for the remainder of the scene)  That’s a laugh, ain’t it.  No trouble at all except for my ending up in this bloody cell.

HOLMES: What went wrong?

VOLTER:  That’s all I’ve been thinkin’ about ever since they threw me in here.  Found the villa and the shed, all right.  No problem there until I went inside.  Didn’t like the setup from the beginning.  Too closed in for my taste.  Boxed in, you know.  Spider webs all over.  Dark and smelly, it was, too.  Only view I had of what was going on was through that one little window.  And havin’ to scramble out after the shootin’ would slow me down some.  Didn’t want to hang around any longer than I had to.

HOLMES:  I can understand your apprehension.

VOLTER:  Another thing.  I figured whoever it was what planned this job knows a lot about all sorts of things.  But not about my line of work, he doesn’t.  You can bet on it.  If I’m going to do a job, I’m going to do it my way.  You understand?

HOLMES: Perfectly.

VOLTER:  Thing was, just outside the shed was a big trash cart backed up into some dense bushes.  I could just as well hide behind it, have a good look down the path and all around besides.  The cart was there to steady my arm when the shootin’ took place, and I’d be out of there in no time.  So I got out of the tool shed about as fast as I got in and took to waiting for my man in the brush.

HOLMES:  That was in violation of your instructions.  Turned out to be a mistake, I take it?

VOLTER:  My mistake was getting involved in the bloody scheme to begin with.  Mr. Regular-as-clockwork got himself wound down somehow cause when he came down the path it wasn’t from the house like he was supposed to but from the opposite way.  To the house.  You follow me?  I wouldn’t of even seen him comin’ if I was still in the shed.  I’d of only seen his back moving away from me and then I couldn’t be sure who the hell he was.  Not seeing his face at all and going the wrong way besides could be anybody.  Bein’ in outside the bush and bein’ able to see both ways I got a good look at ‘em. It was Marchand, all right.  So I shot him just like I needed to, thanking my lucky stars I was in the right place to do it.  Course if I’d aknowed what happened next I wouldn’t be so quick with my appreciation.  Well, I can’t tell you more of the rest than what was in the papers.

HOLMES:  Just one last question.  How long, would you say, did you wait in the bushes before your mark presented himself.

VOLTER:  I don’t know exactly.  Weren’t long, that’s for sure.  Ten, fifteen minutes, maybe.  Time for just one smoke.

HOLMES:  Quite so.  Thank you, Mr. Volter, you’ve been a tremendous help.  (stands and shakes the prisoner’s hand) It’s a pity that a scheme so brilliantly executed at the beginning should have ended so…em…awkwardly at the end.

VOLTER:  My thoughts exactly.  And Mr. Holmes, sir…

HOLMES:  Yes?

VOLTER:  Find the bastard for me.  The real one what put me here.

HOLMES:  I’ll do my best.

VOLTER:  And seein’ as I’ve done you a favor, maybe you’ll have ‘em do me one.

HOLMES:  What’s that, Volter?

VOLTER: Hang me second.

SCENE 3

(Same time and place.  Illuminated corner of stage reveals constable at the front desk.  Holmes standing alongside.)

JASON:  I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, Trevor Hitchens absolutely refuses to speak to any visitors.  Even his wife.  Too ashamed, is my guess.  Anyway, we can’t force him.  The constable who was at the scene is still on duty, if you’d like to chat with him.

HOLMES:  Kirk?  I know him.  Yes, by all means.

JASON:  I’m sure he’ll find the time for you, Mr. Holmes.  (goes off)

(Curtain opens on the suburban road fronting the Murchand villa.  The stone wall running the length of the forestage is, as Volter described, pierced on the far right by a garden gate.  Behind the wall, treetops and part of the roofline of the two-story Victorian house can be glimpsed on the far left.  As the scene progresses, Sherlock Holmes can be heard off stage exchanging comments with Kirk.  On these occasions all action on stage freezes during the discourse and returns to life immediately after.)

KIRK: (standing motionless in front of the set as he addresses the unseen Holmes)  I was on my regular beat, you know.  Street was quiet as it normally is.  Not much going on this end of town.

HOLMES:  (off stage)  How regular, Kirk?  Pass by the Murchand Villa, for example, about the same time every evening?

KIRK:  Pretty much, sir.  Maybe ten minutes plus or minus.  Unless something’s come up to change things.  Like it did that night.

HOLMES:  A memorable occasion I can imagine.

KIRK:  That it was, Mr. Holmes.  All of a sudden, here comes Mr. Murchand stormin’ down the road toward me as best he can with his limp.  I know him all right by name.  Exchanged pleasantries now and then through the years. He’s flustered some but coolheaded, you know, as a man in his position needs be.

MURCHAND: (running on stage from the left) Thank god, I found you, Kirk.

KIRK:  (advancing toward him) What’s wrong Mr. Murchand?

MURCHAND:  Somebody’s on my property.  Inside the tool shed.  I heard noises.  Something’s going on inside there.

KIRK:  All right, don’t be too alarmed, sir.  We’ll take care of it.  Were you seen?

MURCHAND:  I don’t think so.  I would have been if I’d taken my usual route along the gravel walk that goes around the property.  The tool shed is right on the walk and its only window faces the house.  But this evening, I wanted to take a look at some geraniums the gardener had just planted in the flower beds by the brook.  So I went down the hill behind the house, admired the flowers, and then looped around back up the hill heading for the gravel walk I always take.  By the grace of God, I went a way that took me on the far side of the shed-the blind side, so to speak.  That’s when I heard sounds coming from within.

KIRK:  Could you tell how many voices there were?

MURCHAND:  No.  All I could make out through the walls were muffled noises.  Could have even been crates being pushed around for all I know?  You’re thinking there may be a number of men in there?

KIRK:  Yes sir.  Very likely vagrants looking for a roof over their heads for the night.  Usually travel together.  Won’t be the first time we’ve run into them drifting into town.  I won’t try to tackle them until I get help.

HOLMES:  (off stage)  Pardon me for interrupting, constable, but I’m trying to get a clear picture of your run in with Mr. Marchand.  He came onto the road from the carriage drive and then ran towards you, right?

KIRK:  Yes, sir.  He said he was too frightened to go out the gate because of the noise his footsteps would make across the gravel.  So to get out of there without being noticed, he went back the way he came.  Down the hill, around to the house, and then out the drive.

HOLMES:  That’s a good deal of exertion for a man with a bad case of gout.  He must have been quite out of breath?

KIRK:  I don’t remember, sir.  Too concentrated in what he had to say, I guess.  He always was a little red-faced, you know.  Not surprising for one of his age and size.

HOLMES:  Thank you.  Those are my only questions for now, constable.

KIRK:  (turning to Marchand as action renews)  Don’t trouble yourself, sir.  I’ll summon some help and we’ll get them off your property before you know it.

MARCHAND:  (irritably) I don’t want to just get them off my property.  I want them arrested.  My villa is not going to be thought of as a hostel for vagrants-beggars, gypsies, and thieves everyone of them.

KIRK:  I understand, Mr. Murchand.  We’ll collar as many as we can.  They’re liable to scatter though.

MURCHAND:  (more angrily than before) Taking my tools with them, no doubt.  I’m not going to have it, you hear!  There’s a slide bolt on the outside of the shed door.  The door’s good and stout too.  I’m going to lock them in and then we’ll see where they scatter to.

KIRK:  (sternly)  I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Murchand.  There’s some rough characters among them and if….

MURCHAND:  Nothing to worry about, constable.  There’s lots of brush around.  I can sneak back…

KIRK:  No sir!  With all due respect you’re not to go back in there.  I want you in your house locking all the doors and staying out of our way.  I can’t spend time arguing with you.  Those are police orders.  Is that clear?

MURCHAND:  (apologetically) Yes, constable.

(Murchand watches Kirk run offstage to fetch help, then, when the officer is some distance away, hurriedly enters garden gate and disappears from view leaving stage empty)

KIRK: (off stage to Holmes)  About halfway down the block, I got suspicious somehow and glanced back to see if the fool man was following my instructions.  Instead I see him stepping through the garden gate.  He was going to try to lock them in like he said.  Like catchin’ those ruffians was the most important thing on earth.

HOLMES: An audacious gentleman.

KIRK: Too audacious for his own good as it turned out.  For a moment I didn’t know what to do.  I needed bobbies alongside me but there’d be hell to pay if I let a toff like Mr. Marchand risk his neck.  What if they had somebody posted outside to keep guard?  Only thing I could do was swing right around and rush back.

(Just as Kirk, now rushing back onstage nears the garden gate Murchand’s voice is heard from backstage shouting “No, no, I…”  His pleas are immediately followed by the crack of a revolver and screams of pain from the struck victim.  Two more shots ring out.  Kirk is just about to enter the grounds when he hears running footsteps approaching the gate.  Kirk quickly backs out and flattens himself against the wall.  After a few suspenseful moments filled by ever louder footsteps, Volter, revolver in hand, emerges from the gate and stops momentarily to look up and down the road.  At that instant he is clubbed violently from behind by Kirk.  Volter falls to the ground.  Kirk drags him close enough to the gate to secure him to it with handcuffs, blows his police whistle, and dashes onto the property.  At this point, center stage darkens and a spotlight illuminates Holmes and Kirk talking to each other in the police station’s anteroom)

HOLMES:  Quick thinking and well done, constable.  I was glad to see the papers give you due credit for your heroism.

KIRK:  Mightn’t have been so heroic if it was a fair fight, Mr. Holmes.  He was a big, ugly brute.

HOLMES:  ‘Not engaging in fair fights’ is a law enforcement maxim, constable.

KIRK:  I don’t recall hearing that during our training, Mr. Holmes.  But if you say so.

HOLMES:  Please go on with your story.

KIRK:  My hair practically stood on end, I can tell you that.  I didn’t know what I’m dealing with when I ran in there.  More men?  More guns?  But I had to see to Mr. Marchand.  What I found was what I was afraid to find.  Poor man lying dead on the grass.  One hole in his chest and two in his head.  As horrible a sight as I’ve seen on duty.  Then help arrived to secure the grounds, look for evidence, and book the murderer.

HOLMES:  I assume Mrs. Marchand was asked to identify the body.

KIRK:  Yes, sir.  There was no way around it.  Couldn’t stand to see him like that, poor woman.  Just turned away and hid her face in her hands.

HOLMES:  A terrible shock, indeed.  Excellent report, constable.  Anything you’d like to add?

KIRK:  Only my remorse in leaving Mr. Marchand alone.  I should have seen that being so angry like that he was not in his right mind.

HOLMES:  It seems to me that your conduct was commendable in every instance.  You were trained as a policeman.  Not a soothsayer.

KIRK:  Coming from you, Mr. Holmes, that comes as a relief.  Thank you, sir.

SCENE 4

(Same morning.  Inspector Lastrade’s office at the Bow Street Station.  He is seated at his desk when Holmes enters)

LASTRADE: (standing) Sherlock, come in. (pointing to a chair)

HOLMES: You asked to see me?

LASTRADE:  Right.  You’ve helped us on any number of occasions and I thought we ought to try to reciprocate somehow.

HOLMES: Oh?

LASTRADE:  It seems you’ve taken an interest in the Marchand case.

HOLMES:  A passing interest, yes.  Mrs. Hitchens is not a client of mine, but she did come by and I promised to look into the matter in a preliminary way.  She was very distraught as you can imagine.

LASTRADE:  She had good reason to be.  Her husband’s stuck his neck in the noose and in short order the law will do him the favor of tightening it.  That’s why I wanted to see you, Sherlock.  There’s no use your getting any deeper in this thing.

HOLMES:  That will be my decision.

LASTRADE:  Of course.  It’s just that I hate to see you wasting your time, is all.  Wanted to be sure you had all the information you needed.  Then you can draw whatever conclusions you will.  If you’ve read the newspapers, you know mine.

HOLMES: Without a doubt.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so certain about a thing, Lestrade.  May I ask how you came about this fixed attitude?

LASTRADE: Let’s start with Hitchen’s motive.  The very next morning following the murder, I went to Murchand’s office and interrogated a number of people on his staff.  Impressive place it was too.  Bustling with trade and all.

HOLMES:  What impression did you get as to how they felt about their employer.  Well liked, was he?

LASTRADE:  Respected would be a better word.  They all said he knew his business,  that’s clear.  And he treated them fairly on the whole.  Not over generously, mind you.  Wasn’t one to throw money about, but I suppose that was to be expected of a man in his position.  Their main complaint was that he could display a rather nasty temper from time to time.  Gout, maybe.  Who knows?  Anyway, they were pretty clear about that too.

HOLMES:  And I would guess that temper of his was on display when he discovered the theft.

LASTRADE.  You’re right about that.  None of them had seen him quite so furious as when he got them all together and told of the missing £500 gilts.  Six of them, it was!  Stolen from the office safe.  Didn’t name names but he was sure it was one of them, and he had a pretty good idea of which one and that man would be sorry the rest of his natural born days.  He’d see to that.  Those bonds had to be turned into cash and there were only so many places in London set up where a thief could bring them.  And he already had a private detective checking out that angle.  Wound up his talk saying it’d save everybody a lot of time and trouble if the thief confessed now.

HOLMES:  No one spoke up, I suppose.

LASTRADE:  No, but it was Hitchens everybody had on their mind.  And that’s what they thought Mr. Marchand had on his mind, too.  Being bookkeeper, Hitchens had access to the safe all the time.

HOLMES:  Did anyone else?

LASTRADE:  That’s hard to say.  They admitted being careless about leaving the safe open sometimes.  And there were always a lot of comings and goings.  Thing is, though, they swore that nobody but Mr. Marchand and Hitchens knew about the gilts being there.  Matter of fact the gilts disappeared the very day Mr. Murchand was to take them to the bank for safekeeping.

HOLMES:  What did Hitchen say about this?

LASTRADE:  What you’d expect a man accused of hiring an assassin to say.  Saw the bonds themselves safe and sound in the safe that very morning.  Wasn’t worried about their not being there at closing time assuming his employer took them.  It was only the next morning, he said, when Mr. Marchand asked for them.  The truth is Hitchens sallied off with them that night and stashed them somewhere.  You can be sure we’ll find out where before too long.

HOLMES:  I assume you searched his flat?

LASTRADE: Nothing there.  Hitchens’ too clever for that.  But we found something just as incriminating at Volter’s place.  Take a look at this. (reaches into his desk drawer and hands Holmes a sketch)  Shows a layout of Murchand’s villa.  Volter told us-you too, I suppose-how he got ahold of it.  The paths, the toolshed,  flower beds, everything he needed to know.  And guess who drew it.  (sarcastically)  That poor, innocent man Marie Hitchens married to.  I’ll warrant even you, Sherlock, couldn’t figure out how that piece of paper mysteriously flew out of Trevor Hitchen’s hands, floated around in London’s fog, and then sailed into the window of a complete stranger who was so inspired by the sketch that he went out and murdered the property’s owner.  Shows the power of artwork to move a person.

HOLMES:  What did Hitchens say about it?

LASTRADE:  Inasmuch signed his death warrant, he did.  Admitted right off he drew it.  In front of three witnesses too.  I made sure of that.  Claims Mr. Murchand asked him to draw it up for some gardening project.  Turns out no one else in the house knew anything about it.  Or the gardener either for all that.

HOLMES:  Did Hitchens know where the sketch was found?

LASTRADE:  He learned soon enough.  After he confessed drawing it.  Then he acted shocked as could be.  Hadn’t the faintest idea in the world how it got into Volter’s hands.  Then shut up like a clam and wouldn’t say another word.  Hardly blame him.  Every one dug him deeper.

HOLMES:  Obviously you have a strong case, Lastrade.  But I still don’t understand  why Hitchens would want to have Murchand killed.  There was no proof against him.  He had no fear of being arrested.

LASTRADE:  Put yourself in Hitchen’s place.  If Murchand fired him and word got around, his bookkeeping career in London-in all England, for that matter-was over.  And when he learned all the fences had been tipped off, he wouldn’t dare try to sell the gilts.  Not for years anyway.  Might as well use them for wallpaper.  So what’s left?  A factory job?  Spade work in the fields?  Poor choices for a man seated at a desk all his adult life.  But with Murchand out of the way, it’s a different story.  He’d be sorely needed by the owners, wouldn’t he?  Maybe be promoted.  Oh, there’s plenty of motive there all right.

HOLMES:  I take your point, Lestrade.

LASTRADE:  And I’m not even finished.  There’s more.

HOLMES:  Go on.

LASTRADE:  There’s the dog for another.  Hitchen’s dog to be exact.  One of the first things we looked at.  Volter said it was an Scottish Terrier tied to the park bench, and, guess what sort of a pet our friend Hitchens has?  Right, a Scottish Terrier.

HOLMES: With identical paw prints, I presume.

LASTRADE: This is serious business, Sherlock.  We showed the dog to Volter who recognized it right off.  I’ll go on.  Volter had a lithograph of Marchand with him the night of the murder, right?  Cut out of a company advertisement.  How’d he come by it?  It all adds up, piece by piece, doesn’t it?

HOLMES:  It does.  No question about it.  By the way, did you happen to interview Mrs. Murchand.

LASTRADE: No stone left unturned, Sherlock.  Not that it was of much use.  The poor woman had nothing new to add.  Her husband had no enemies, she said.  Even his competitors spoke well of him.  Aside from business, kept pretty much to himself.  Health problems and all.  It’s all been a terrible experience for her.  Taking several months on the continent to try to restore her spirits.  Can’t say I blame her.

HOLMES:  Nor I.  Thank you for bringing me up to date, Lastrade.  I appreciate your taking the time out of a busy schedule.

LASTRADE:  Happy to do it, Sherlock.  I’ll be honest with you.  It was you who solved this case in a way.  The whole time I was thinking what would my friend, Mr. Holmes do next, where would he look, whom would he talk to?  Wrapped the whole thing up rather neatly, if I do say so.  I’ve learned a lot from you through the years.

HOLMES: Thank you, Lastrade.  That’s very…

(their conversation is interrupted by a knock on Lastrade’s office door)

LASTRADE: Damn.  I told Jason our conversation wasn’t to be disturbed.  (steps outside)

(In Lastrade’s absence, Holmes stands and paces back and forth energetically, hands behind his back, in contemplative pose.  Lastrade returns shortly.)

LASTRADE:  Well, if I haven’t convinced you, Sherlock.  No doubt Mr. Hitchens will.  He just signed a confession.  Knew he would.  Hasn’t told us yet where the money is, but he will.  Just a matter of time.

HOLMES:  That changes things, doesn’t it?

LASTRADE:  You mean this little meeting we had?  Not much point in it was there?  (laughs)  I don’t mind.  Not at all.  Always enjoy talking to you.  This case wasn’t your cup of tea from the beginning.  Too much evidence.  Too few suspects.  Anyway, it’s all over now.

HOLMES: (Goes to window, presses his palms on its sill, and looks out.  Several moments of silence follow.  Lastrade drums uneasily on his desk, looks up at Holmes from time to time, and then busies himself shuffling papers around.  Holmes finally swings around to face the detective)  On the contrary, my dear Lestrade.  It’s just begun.  It appears another character has entered the scene.  A very cleverly concealed one.  I’m taking the case.

 SCENE 5

(Two days later, same location as Scene 3 except that the stone wall has disappeared and that views of the house and tool shed are no longer obstructed.  In the foreground is a gravel path with tall hedges planted alongside suggesting extensive landscaping.  It is dusk)

HOLMES:  Thank you for coming, Watson.  Mrs. Murchand could not see me when I called yesterday, but in response to a note I sent up with her maid, she graciously consented to our prowling around the estate this evening.

WATSON:  Dash, it Holmes.  If I didn’t know you better, I wouldn’t be here.  What do you hope to find?  I imagine the police have gone over the area very thoroughly.

HOLMES:  I’m sure they have.  Within the confines of their fixed state of mind.

WATSON:  About Hitchens you mean?  It’s not only the police who think he’s guilty, the rest of the world does as well, including, by the way, myself.  Even Hitchens himself says he’s guilty.  As far as I know, you’re the only holdout.

HOLMES:  Not only me, my dear Watson.  My friend logic has raised doubts on the matter.  We shall see.  I do appreciate your overcoming your understandable doubts and joining me.

WATSON:  If I can be of some use to you, Holmes, I’m happy to oblige.  Although I’ll be deuced if I see any point in it.

HOLMES:  The point is the same as it has been in every investigation.  To satisfy my curiosity.  I have my suspicions but its certainty I’m after.  A little industry here should decide matters.  So let’s get started, shall we?

WATSON:  I’m at your disposal.

HOLMES:  We’re standing on the estate’s circumferential gravel walk that starts at the main entrance, proceeds past the toolshed, and then loops out of sight among those trees.  We can’t see it from here, but the walk continues along the brook at the bottom of this rise and terminates back at the house.  All of that is on this copy I made of Hitchens’ sketch of the place.  Are you pretty well oriented to the layout?

WATSON:  I think so, yes.

HOLMES:  Good.  Now I’m going to ask you to retrace Mr. Murchand’s footsteps the night of the murder.  He told the constable, Kirk, that he left the house and went down to the brook at the back end of the property to admire some newly planted geraniums.  Then he climbed up the rise and past the far side of the tool shed to regain his accustomed route along the gravel walk.  But as soon as he overheard some kind of sound emanating from the tool shed, he rushed back down the hill and returned to the house by way of the far end of the walk.  At the house, he took the carriage drive to the road where he met up with the constable.  And that’s where I’ll be when you’ve finished your jaunt.  Is that clear?

WATSON:  Perfectly.

HOLMES:  Mimic Murchand’s pace as best you can.  I should think he rather sauntered his way along until coming to the shed.  After that he must have hobbled as fast as he could.  Bear in mind he was a fairly stout man with a case of gout.

WATSON: Right.  I’m off then.  (exits in direction of house.  Holmes checks the time on his pocket watch)

(While Watson is so occupied, Holmes strides into the bush, positions himself behind the trash cart described by Volter, looks right and left, and then extends his arm pretending to fire in all directions.  Scrambling out of the brush, he flings himself down on the ground in front of the shed and scrutinizes it intently.  Jumping up, he strides vigorously to the tool shed, operates its sliding bolt a few times, wipes his hand with his handkerchief, and ventures inside closing the door behind him.  Lights then dim and brighten again suggesting a lapse of time at the end of which Watson joins Holmes on a corner of the stage.)

WATSON:  (wiping his brow with his handkerchief as Holmes again ascertains the time)  That rise is steeper than it looks.

HOLMES:  Relax Watson, we have all the time in the world.  Did you hear anything when you passed the shed?

WATSON:  No, I’m sorry.  I wasn’t paying attention.  You hadn’t said I should be listening for something.  We could do it again if you like once I catch my breath.

HOLMES:  That won’t be necessary.  You’ve been a big help as it is.  Well, that completes our little exercise here.  I have all the information I need.  (lights are extinguished)

SCENE 6

(Holme’s rooms approximately one-month later.  Sherlock comfortably seated and reading the Chronicle with the requisite pipe on an end table at his side.  Watson enters carrying his own copy of the newspaper.)

HOLMES: (continuing to focus on his newspaper) Good morning, Watson.

WATSON: Morning, Holmes.  I know he deserved it, but I can’t help feeling sorry for him for all that.  (slaps his newspaper)  I thought you might have been a bit moved yourself as his former champion and all.  However, I see your usual imperturbable self.  I should have guessed as much.

HOLMES:  You’re speaking of Trevor Hitchens, I assume.  Lately departed through the good offices of Her Majesty’s government with the assistance of Dr. Newton’s force of gravity.

WATSON:  That’s one way of putting it.  Plucky chap. No last words. Just strode up and took his medicine like a man.  Volter too, surprisingly.  Even had a faint, fleeting smile on his face according to one report.  Must have dawned on them these last days what they’d done and reconciled themselves to their fate.  That’s what the newspapers quoted Lastrade saying at any rate.

HOLMES:  Yes, that sounds like him all right.

WATSON:  Do I detect a bit of surliness on your part, Holmes?  Not miffed that he handled this thing on his own?  Pretty competently by all accounts.

HOLMES:  (snorts)

WATSON:  Damn it, Holmes.  You’ve bested him a hundred times.  Give him credit for winning one, for God’ sake.  May not have been the most difficult case in the world, but he put two and two together, proved his case in court, and saw that justice was done. (assaults his newspaper again)  What more do you want?

HOLMES:  (Dismissively)  Nothing.  Nothing at all.

WATSON:  It’s no good talking to you. You’re in one of your moods.  I had a few questions about Murchand’s murder.  Some minor loose ends that occurred to me recently, but I’ll come back tomorrow. (approaches the door and starts to leave)

HOLMES: (mumbling to himself)  There was no murder.

WATSON:  (stopping at the door)  What was that, Holmes?

HOLMES: (loudly, almost shouting) I said there was no murder.

WATSON: (reentering the room and moving aimlessly around ) What would you call it then?  I take it there was some reason for their being hanged yesterday.

HOLMES: (irritably) Yes, of course.  Absolutely.

WATSON: Then what are you grumbling about?

HOLMES:  Nothing.  Nothing worth talking about.  If you’re going to leave, Watson, (emphatically) leave.

WATSON: I’ll leave when you do me the courtesy of explaining why there had not been a murder when there are three dead bodies that would argue otherwise.

HOLMES:  Convincingly, I’m sure.  Dead men don’t lie, do they?  Forget what I said.  Grumbling is all.  You’re right.  I’m not in a very hospitable mood.

WATSON:  I’m worried about you, Holmes.  Are you quite well.  Not just physically, I mean, but…

HOLMES:  Quite well, Watson.  In all respects.  May I ask what prompted your sudden concern for my state of mind?

WATSON: Well, frankly, you have behaved a little erratically of late.

HOLMES:  Specifics, Watson.

WATSON:  Your having trumpeted Trevor’s innocence for one thing.  I can imagine some emotional commitment once you promised Marie Hitchens you’d look into her wifely intuitions but persisting in the matter after his confession strikes me as, well…

HOLMES: Delusional?

WATSON: Don’t take offense, old man.  I’m a doctor you know and we look at signs out of habit.  I’ve told you long before that you’re due-long overdue, as a matter of fact-for a vacation.  Forever coping with base criminality would get anyone down.  I don’t know how you’ve stood it so long.  A good rest is what you need.  Lastrade, if you want to know, is of the same opinion.  He still can’t get over your going on-raving was the way he put it-about some cleverly concealed participant of your own imagination.

HOLMES: (abrupt laugh)  Not of my making, Watson.  Lastrade should be more careful in his choice of words.

WATSON:  Whose making then?

HOLMES:  You’d have to ask Mrs. Murchand for a definitive answer to that.  But I have my suspicions.

WATSON:  You’re talking in riddles, Holmes.  Obviously, you have a slant on this case you haven’t deigned to share with me.

HOLMES:  For your sake.  You wouldn’t want to hear it, believe me.

WATSON:  Why not let me be the judge of that?

HOLMES:  Because I know you.  Take my advice and return to your intention to leave.

WATSON:  I wouldn’t dream of it.  Not with that sort of introduction.  You’ll have to force me out bodily.

HOLMES: All right, but trust me, you’ll be sorry you insisted on it.  You’ll have the whole story from beginning to end if (raising his voice) you would be so good as to stop standing around like an idiot with your hat in your hand and sit down.

WATSON: (sets down his hat takes a seat facing Holmes)  At your pleasure, Holmes.

HOLMES:  The story-indeed the whole affair-starts with Christina Murchand.  You’ll recoil, no doubt, at my assumptions, but, mark my words, they’ll be borne out when Mrs. Murchand’s stay on the continent is extended considerably-let’s say nine months or more.

WATSON:  Nine months?  Why…

HOLMES:  When, I might add, she returns with the no-longer-cleverly-concealed babe in her arms.

WATSON:  Really, Holmes!  I’ve never known you to so jump to wild conclusions.  All we know is that she needed to get away from it all for a time.  And who could blame her?

HOLMES: Not altogether wild surely.  Isn’t that the reason women commonly give before they earnestly desire to disappear from public view?

WATSON:  Well, if you’re right-and I doubt that you are-it will at least be of some consolation for the good lady to look on her child and be reminded of the husband she was so violently deprived of.

HOLMES:  Not, I’m afraid, if it reminds her of someone else.  Oh, don’t look so shocked, Watson.  From the very first I suspected our clean-cut, respectable Mr. Hitchens of a liaison with his employer’s wife.

WATSON: Hold on.  You’re jumping from one unwarranted assumption to another.  That’s a terrible accusation to make.  And not at all like you Holmes.  I can’t imagine you have any grounds for it.  Other than, if I may say so, your morbid mental state of late.

HOLMES: Logic, Watson, logic.  The ingredients that make up such affairs were all there.  A woman of her beauty and spirits neglected by a man twenty years her senior, partially crippled by gout, and totally absorbed in his business.  At the other end, a somewhat faded wife who admitted to having little of common interest with her husband.  And, in that murky region between the two women, a handsome young man who incidentally happened to be a frequent visitor to the villa.  And, I might add, lurking in the wings, a jealous husband.  Haven’t you attended enough operas to realize the portent of such dramatic elements?

WATSON:  We’re talking real life, Holmes.  Not opera.  You can’t take a few unfounded insinuations and…

HOLMES: Even if I called upon the human heart as an expert witness?

WATSON:  Be serious, Holmes.  I pray you’ll keep your suspicions to yourself.  Even the hint of such an affair would ruin the lady’s reputation and destroy her chances for a second favorable marriage.

HOLMES: Assuming the first was as favorable as you say.  But yes, Watson, I’ll not breathe a word to anyone else.  Mind you, the possibility of such an affair was just a tentative starting point in my investigation.  Like coming upon the loose end to an incredibly tangled length of string.  Trust me.  I have not abandoned my strict reliance on facts.

WATSON:  I sincerely hope so.  Go on with your story.  In the meantime I’ll withhold judgment, if you don’t mind.

HOLMES:  You are free to withhold it as long as you like.  Let me go on to the universal rush to judgment as to Trevor Hitchens’ guilt.  I asked myself what possible motive could he have?  Stealing those bonds struck me as a inexplicably stupid thing to do for a presumably bright young man.  He had to know he would be a prime suspect.  He was under no particular financial pressure.  Why for God’s sake would he take the chance of sacrificing a promising career on such a hazardous venture?

WATSON:  A sudden overwhelming impulse, perhaps.

HOLMES:  Possibly, but one he must have resisted successfully many times before.  Gilts flowed regularly in and out of the office.

WATSON:  You’re saying then that his real motive for wanting Murchand killed was replacing him as Christina’s husband?  Not about the bonds, at all?

HOLMES:  Possibly, but then why steal them to begin with?  As her husband he’d have money aplenty.  Assuming she’d marry him.  Not that he really could be confident of such an alliance.  A lower class secret lover in bed was one thing, trotting him out in the drawing room was another.  And don’t forget he would have had to divorce Marie first.  That would have made him even less eligible in society as a suitor.

WATSON: Not for money?  Not for matrimony?  Not out of pure hatred, surely.  By all accounts he got along as well with Murchand as anyone.  Before the robbery, that is.  What reason can you give for his arranging for Murchand’s death?

HOLMES:  None whatsoever.  And an even better question, why would he confess to it?  That was a defining moment in the case for me, Watson.  It confirmed his innocence of the crime.

WATSON:  More riddles, Holmes.

HOLMES:  Not when I understood his mindset.  I imagined him sitting in his cell day after day pondering the disastrous turn his life had taken.  It all must have seemed grievously unfair and inexplicable.  The only thing he could be certain of was that he had absolutely nothing to do with the murder of his employer.  And brooding on that one fact known to him, he arrived at a heart-rending conclusion.  You can guess what it was.

WATSON:  I’m afraid not.  The more you explain, the murkier the case seems to be.

HOLMES:  I’m sorry but it will be less so at the end.  We’ve agreed from the beginning that this case has been cursed by the paucity of suspects, have we not?  And that’s the curse that weighed on poor Trevor Hitchens’ mind.  If he wasn’t responsible for the murder of Murchand, who else possibly could have?  In his mind, there was only one possible answer.  His beloved Christina.  She so desperately wanted to have him at her side for life, she abandoned every scruple, every sensibility, and every precaution.

WATSON:  You’re making the whole affair sound more and more macabre.  I pray you are not right about these speculations of yours.

HOLMES:  Well, we shall see.  Hitchens must have concluded that an attempt to defend himself, even if unsuccessful, would expose their affair, ruin her life and that of his unborn child.  Worse, God forbid, were his defense successful, it could very well mean that the noose lifted from his neck would be laid around hers.

WATSON:  But why fall on his sword so soon?  If I were him, I think I’d sit tight and see where the police investigations led.

HOLMES:  And I’ve no doubt that’s what he intended provided he could count on a bungling Scotland Yard investigation.  And, in fact, he did hesitate for a few days.  Not many of us take aggressive steps to hasten our demise.  But mark the timing of his confession.  He learned that very morning that I was on the case and realized that logic and the ultimate truth were now bound to prevail.  As he saw it, the love of his life was as good as behind bars.  Her life and that of his son were in the greatest jeopardy.  He had to seize control of the investigation before it was too late.

WATSON:  What other conclusion could he possibly have reached?  I’m glad to see that your innate modesty has not prevented you from focusing on the reality of the situation.

HOLMES:  Thank you.  It never has.

WATSON:  You’ve argued the psychological aspects of the affair pretty convincingly, I must say, but what of the facts you dote on?  What of all the hard evidence against Hitchens?

HOLMES:  You’re right, of course.  I sympathized with the man from the first but I could not rule him out completely at the initial stage in my investigations.  However, the evidence against him was not nearly as strong as Lastrade made it out to be.

WATSON:  What of Volter’s identification of the dog, for example?

HOLMES: The dog by all means.  Or the same breed dog.  It certainly wasn’t Hitchens’.  Can you imagine any animal lying contentedly still while his master was only yards away.  What dog wouldn’t be straining at his leash to be at his owner’s side and barking his head off to boot.  No, I’m afraid the dog did more to clear Hitchens than to indict him.

WATSON:  Then there was Mr. Marchand’s picture that Volter carried with him.

HOLMES:  Anyone who had the company’s circular and a pair of scissors could have managed the same thing.

WATSON:  Every case leaves a residue of disputable aspects, Holmes.  You know that better than anyone else.  On the other hand, the missing bonds and the drawing of the villa’s grounds were indisputable, were they not?

HOLMES:  Good question.  Initially, I had no explanation for either of them.  So I set them aside for the moment and addressed the larger issue of the possible involvement of Christina Marchand.  My assumption was the same as Hitchens’.  If he didn’t do it, she did.  Moreover, her motive made more sense to me than his.  This would not be the first time that a boundless woman’s love led to violence.  I tried to talk to the woman but she refused to see me.  This increased my suspicion until I realized that her dilemma was much like her lover’s.  She too was possessed of only one certainty: her own innocence.  If so, then anything she said to me would only further implicate Hitchens who, she must have been convinced, was her husband’s nemeses.

WATSON:  Good lord, Holmes.  What a twisted tale you weave.

HOLMES:  Indeed.  As it turned out the presumption of her guilt raised perplexing questions as well besides the ones I’ve already mentioned.

WATSON:  I should think so.

HOLMES:  I asked myself how her social engagements and shopping at Harrod’s would have put her in contact with the likes of Volter? Would not her comings and goings preceding the murder caught the attention of a houseful of servants?  And then there was the distracting question of the missing bonds.  Could she have accessed the office safe without being seen and would she not have known their disappearance would have cast suspicion on the man she hoped to marry?  Finally, could she be sure that her gallant would be willing to desert his family for a life with a murderess no matter how rich and beautiful?

WATSON:  So you’ve exhausted your short list of suspects, Holmes, turning this into an unsolved mystery.  I can imagine how painful to you this must be.  I can see why you were so reluctant to discuss it.  You’re right about my being very sorry to hear it.

HOLMES:  If you please, Watson, I’m not quite finished.  There’s more.  Thinking over my interviews at Bow Street, I found a striking contradiction between Volter’s account and Kirk’s recital of Murchand’s statements.  Had Murchand actually walked past the tool shed as he claimed and had Volter actually been standing in the bushes where he said, then the murder would have taken place right then and there.  In other words, Murchand would never have made it to the road and Kirk never have been spoken to.

WATSON:  You’re saying either Volter or Murchand was lying.

HOLMES:  Exactly.  I had my notion which one it was, but I had to resolve the issue to my satisfaction on the property itself.

WATSON:  I wondered why we went out there.  It seemed nothing had been accomplished but a bit of exercise on my part.

HOLMES:  On the contrary.  It proved George Murchand’s veracity had to be questioned on several counts.  To begin with you heard nothing of the fearful racket I made while you passed by that sturdily-built tool shed.  It follows then that neither could have our respectable businessman have heard sounds coming through its thick, wooden walls.  Recall, too, the exertions you made following his traverse.  At the end you were breathing so heavily it was an effort for you to speak.  And much perspired.  Kirk’s failure to recall any such signs on the part of a less physically fit  Murchand after his supposed strenuous route suggests to me it was never made.  Finally the timing of these events favored Volter’s version.  After a most vigorous search, I found only one stub beneath his post as he said.  According to my calculations, had Murchand actually executed his junket, Volter could have been expected to smoke four or five cigarettes.

WATSON:  My word, Holmes, I’m glad our study was done discretely.  Any public notice of the famous Sherlock Holmes on his hands and knees groping through the grass for cigarette stubs would cause quite a stir.

HOLMES:  Then by all means use it to color one of your accounts.  I care nothing about what people think, you know that.  The point is it lent further doubt as to Murchand’s credibility.

WATSON:  What could possibly have induced him to make up such a story?

SHERLOCK:  And while pondering that question, ask two others.  Why had he recently installed a slide bolt on the tool shed of the very heavy, robust kind one would expect to see on a cattle pen?  And was it just a coincidence that Constable Kirk happened to be on hand just when needed or, more likely, a matter of careful timing?

WATSON:  It is odd, I’ll grant you that.  We’ll never know, I suppose.

HOLMES:  But we can make a few surmises.  Imagine that you are Mr. Murchand, Watson, and your wife comes to you, as she must sooner or later, with the news that she is to have a child, and you know for a fact that it is not your own?  And that it does not take too many explosive outbursts on your part to obtain her confession that the natural father is none other than the employee you have conscientiously mentored through the years.  Terrible news for such a proud man as yourself.  Crushing news.

WATSON:  Indeed it would be.

HOLMES.  So what can you do to relieve your tortured mind?  It would provide some satisfaction to fire your employee and divorce your wife, but doing so would call attention to your own impotence.  Close your eyes for a moment.  Would you not hear the snickering of your employees?  The whispered amusements among your fellow club members.  The sly exchange of winks between your servants?  Intolerable thoughts for a proud man.  So what are you to do?  Would you not in your heart of hearts relish the thought of Hitchens lying dead at your feet and your pregnant wife, prostrated over his body, moaning her loss?  Your upbringing would not permit you to commit the deed yourself.  And there were, you knew, taverns where assassins could be found who would, for a price, exact your revenge.  But hiring one of these rough and unscrupulous men had hazards of its own.  Would they be satisfied with their front end compensation or would they later resort to repeated demands for blackmail?  How many accounts have you read in the newspapers of such undertakings gone awry?  Your mind is tortured by conflicting feelings of anger, hatred, revenge, betrayal, caution, and frustration.  You have money, prestige, and a formidable reputation built on your success in business, yet you feel powerless.

Then an innovative solution occurs to you.  A solution that leaves pride intact and torments relieved.  A solution that accomplishes all your objectives:  the death of Hitchens, the silencing of the your hired assassin, and the bestowal of great distress upon your unfaithful wife.  A solution, most ingeniously of all, that enlists the law, not as your feared adversary, but as your industrious partner.  Would not such a solution be a great temptation?

WATSON:  To Marchand, perhaps, but not to me.  Please go on with your story without my participation if you don’t mind.

HOLMES:  By all means.  So Marchand put his scheme to work.  His first step was to create the appearance of a grave conflict between Hitchens and himself which he did by filtching his own company’s bonds and throwing suspicion on his employee.  Then he hired an assassin with the ostensible purpose of murdering himself while taking the necessary precautions to thwart the assassin from carrying out his assignment.  Then it was just a matter of seeing to it that the assassin was apprehended and standing aside as the police dutifully uncovered the clues he had planted identifying Hitchens as the instigator of the plot.

WATSON: Good lord!  That’s positively fiendish.

HOLMES:  Not as Murchand would have considered it, surely.  Trevor would get no more than his just deserts.  London would not be poorer for the loss of a professional killer.  And his wife properly chastised for her infidelity.  Meanwhile he would have emerged as something as a hero in the eyes of his business associates for having survived an attempt on his life and playing a part in the culprit’s apprehension.  And then, at his leisure, he could decide to divorce his wife or, perhaps, better yet, have this lovely creature under his thumb for the rest of her dying days bearing the remorse for having indirectly endangered his life by her affair and shrinking from ever again disavowing her marriage vows.

WATSON:  Have you any proof of these suppositions, Holmes?

HOLMES:  None.  And that’s the rub.  Marchand was a clever devil.  He covered his tracks well.  I tried my damnest to garner some physical evidence to support my theory but without success.  All I can say is that no other interpretation of the events in this case fit the facts as well as the one I’ve described.

WATSON:  If Marchand was so clever, how did he manage to get himself killed in the process?

HOLMES:  The one thing that Murchand did not factor in was his own fatal conceit.  His plot would have gone splendidly had he not made the grave mistake of considering Volter one of his groveling employees rather than the independent contractor that he in fact was.  Accustomed to being dutifully obeyed, it apparently never occurred to the man that Volter would do anything but follow his precise instructions.  Had Murchand humbled himself sufficiently to put on Volter’s shoes and spent thirty seconds in that filthy shed as I had done, he would immediately questioned the validity of detaining him there for any length of time.  Such are the consequences of pride, Watson.  It led both to the concoction of the scheme’s beginnings and to its mordant conclusion.

WATSON:  So, in effect, Marchand committed suicide.

HOLMES:  Involuntarily, yes.  As I said when you entered, there was no murder.

WATSON:  Good God, Holmes.  If you’re right, we’ve hanged an innocent man?

HOLMES:  It would appear so, yes.

WATSON:  What was Lastrade’s response to all of this?  Why didn’t he prevent the execution?  At least delay it until the matter was settled?

HOLMES:  I never mentioned it to him.

WATSON: (incredulously) You didn’t?  Why not?

HOLMES:  He would never have listened to my allegations.  They would have undermined the case that had brought him so much commendation.

WATSON:  (accusingly)  You couldn’t have been certain of that.  You could have at least tried.

HOLMES:  Why?  I’m afraid you’re not sufficiently familiar with the mindset prevalent in all officialdom, Watson.  On entering government, one becomes a cog in its machinery and consecrates himself to its perpetuation.  In exchange, he expects government to care for him now and in the future.  That interdependence, then, is vital to his ambitions.  To maintain it he will cover up the inefficiency of his subordinates, the incompetence and/or corruption of his superiors, and, above all, any failings of his own.  And to accomplish these ends, there is no shameful conduct to which he will not stoop be it dissembling, cheating, bootlicking, evasion, declare war if need be.  Do you think for a moment that Lestrade, as a member of this dissolute tribe, would listen?  Tell all those reporters that he made a mistake after all?  The same smug policeman who has just solved the most noteworthy case in his career?  Not a chance of it?

WATSON:  You shock me, Holmes.  You honestly do.  I would have thought it your duty-your moral obligation-to at least attempt to save Hitchens whatever the obstacles.  A human life is a precious thing!  I would think your conscience…

HOLMES:  (sharply)  Don’t preach to me, Watson.  What would I have accomplished by trying?  Right now Christina is regarded as a respectable widow.  She’ll have a good chance of marrying into society after a time and raising Trevor’s son under the best of circumstances.  But what sort of reputation would she have if I told the police what a faithless wife she had been?  And what sort of future would her bastard child enjoy?  There’s also the not inconsequential matter of the insurance due her.  I would think Lloyds would have second thoughts about rewarding suicide.

WATSON:  But damn it, Holmes, there’s such a thing as truth.  Elemental justice.

HOLMES: Really?  Do you believe for a minute that Hitchens was the first innocent man your “elemental justice” has sent to the gallows?  I’d be surprised if half the poor devils we routinely hang are actually guilty.

WATSON:  And you’ll have Trevor’s child growing up thinking his natural father was a murderer.

HOLMES:  No, I intend to relate the entire episode to Christina when she returns from the continent.  Aside from restoring her opinion of her lover, I’m going to request that she donate a comfortable annuity to Marie and her children.  The lady will not refuse me.  I feel sure of that.

WATSON:  You will have deliberately waited until-I can hardly believe you, Holmes-until after the hanging.

HOLMES: Obviously.  Her attempts to intervene would have been just as fruitless as mine.  And more damaging.  Not to mention her anguish when they failed.

WATSON: She’ll be furious at you.

HOLMES:  Probably.  I’m not looking forward to the interview.

WATSON:  You were right about one thing, Holmes.  I am damned sorry I asked you about it.  (abruptly stands and heads for the door slamming it as he leaves.  Holmes lights his pipe and picks up his newspaper.  The final tableau reminds the audience of that seen at the play’s beginning.)

CURTAIN