Sherlock Bones 1: Doggone

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  It was a human body, facedown, and quite obviously dead.

  You never do forget your first, do you?

  When I say it was my first, I don’t mean it was my first dead creature. In the Cat Wars, I’d seen far too many. But I’d never seen a dead body like this. This dead body hadn’t been killed in conflict or as the natural result of being part of the food chain. This body had been murdered.

  As I said, it was my first. And as such, completely unforgettable. In fact, it was so startling, I couldn’t look away from it, couldn’t take in anything else in the room.

  Murder—it’s just wrong, somehow.

  I wanted to run as far away from it as possible. I also wanted desperately to find out what had happened to cause it to be in this state. And I also really, really wanted my nap. So overdue.

  “Well, what do you think, Bones?” Inspector Strange repeated.

  “What do you think, Dr. Catson?” Bones asked, turning to me and causing the others to turn to me as well.

  Me?

  “Well, he’s dead, of course,” I said.

  The others continued to look at me.

  “Well, come on.” I pointed at the corpse before us. “Just look at the man! I mean, he’s really, really dead.”

  Still, they waited.

  “I don’t think it’s possible for a man to be deader than that,” I said.

  I could be wrong, but I think all three rolled their eyes at me.

  “Yes, that part is obvious,” Bones said. “But what can you tell us about the murder?”

  Now that my initial shock was lessening, I found I could think more clearly. Tilting my head, I considered the body.

  I may have mentioned that I don’t pay too much attention to humans. As far as I’m concerned, they’re all just stick figures with round heads attached at the top. But if this was a murder investigation, and I was meant to help, I supposed I should at least take notice of what the dead chap looked like.

  He looked to be in his forties, as human ages go. He was medium in most ways, but had wide shoulders and dark hair—on his head, of course. He had a suit on, so for all I knew his shoulders could have been hairy too. He also had a close-cropped beard. And was very, very dead.

  I tilted my head to the other side, considering something else.

  “But how do we know it was a murder?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?” Bones said.

  “There’s no blood, no obvious wounds, no signs whatsoever of a struggle. I mean, couldn’t he have just died there right where he was? Like that?”

  “Because death doesn’t happen like that!” Bones said.

  It doesn’t? I thought. One time, I knocked a goldfish bowl over, and the fish died where he was, exactly like that.

  Having apparently decided that I was of limited use, at least for the time being, Inspector Strange turned to Bones once more.

  “Well?” he said.

  “There’s what looks to be blood over there,” Bones said, pointing toward a space on the carpet several feet away from the body, which he now nudged until it was lying on its back. It looked even worse in this position. “And yet there is not a single drop on the body itself. So, not shot, not stabbed, not a whole lot of other things. Not strangled either. See? There are no marks on his neck.”

  “What then?” Inspector Strange demanded, as though growing impatient with the dog. “Is it possible that your furry little companion is right?”

  His furry little what?

  “Is it possible,” Inspector Strange pressed, “that this man wasn’t murdered at all?”

  “Of course not,” Bones said. “He was murdered.”

  And then, before the dog could say it, I said it myself:

  “He was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?”

  The two public detectives spoke the word at the same time as they turned to stare at me.

  “Of course,” I said, wrinkling my nose at the smell. “Don’t you detect the scent of almonds around the body?”

  Bones sniffed the air and then nodded in agreement. The public detectives sniffed the air but then only looked puzzled.

  “Yes,” I said, “almonds. And unless this man had some kind of bizarre almond habit, I’d say he was given cyanide. One of the characteristics of cyanide poisoning is the scent of almonds. The foaming at the mouth is a bit of a dead giveaway too.”

  “I knew I was right to select you as my partner,” Bones said, and it was impossible to tell from his smile whether he was more pleased with me or with himself.

  I was about to object to his words—he selected me? and, “partner” again?—when he added, “You know, we two are somewhat alike in our strengths, are we not? For what is a great doctor—a surgeon, no less!—but a detective of the human body. You are presented with mysteries of a medical nature, and you solve them.”

  Despite my reservations where the dog was concerned, I couldn’t help but be flattered at this. My own family had never recognized my strengths so accurately.

  “What can you tell me about the victim?” Bones asked Inspector Strange. “Have you identified the body?”

  “Well, it’s a man,” Inspector Strange started.

  Now it was my turn to roll my eyes.

  “Yes, but a name would be a better place to start,” Bones said. “If you don’t have one, I’m sure I can find out.”

  “No, that’s quite all right,” Inspector Strange said. “He had I.D. in his back pocket.”

  “And?” Bones prompted.

  Inspector Strange said the name. It was one of those particularly confusing human names, a German one from the sound of it, Something Drebber or Drebber Something, I forget which.

  “Everyone OK if we just refer to him as John Smith from here on in?” I interrupted.

  The others looked surprised but then shrugged. At least no one objected. Well, I thought it was a good suggestion.

  “After you found the identifying papers,” Bones asked, “did you look in any of, er, John Smith’s other pockets?”

  Inspector Strange and Inspector No One Very Important looked dumbfounded.

  “Perhaps,” Bones prompted, “you’d care to do so now?”

  “Oh. Right!” Inspector Strange said. He pointed toward the body, indicating that Inspector No One Very Important should do the search. Good. If the man wasn’t going to talk, he might as well contribute by doing something useful.

  Inspector No One Very Important’s search of the remaining pockets yielded a half-empty pack of gum, a torn stub from the theater, a wallet that still had plenty of cash in it—causing Bones to conclude that the motive was not robbery—and lots of lint. Oh, and also a document indicating that John Smith had been traveling in the country with his secretary, some other man whose name I didn’t immediately get. I was about to suggest that we just call this other man John Smith, but then realized how that might get confusing.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Bones said. “He also has two letters—one addressed to him and one to the secretary—and some jewelry, a book with the secretary’s name in it, and tickets home to his own country.”

  “I agree,” I said, “that is all curious—not to mention, the man has some very crowded pockets. Does the theatre stub say which performance he saw?”

  “Yes,” Bones said, considering, “but that’s neither here nor there. After all, we do have a motive.”

  “We do?”

  The three of us regarded the dog.

  “Or, at least, the murderer wants us to think it’s the motive.” Bones shrugged. “It’s revenge.”

  “How,” I said, “do you know that?”

  What was the dog talking about?

  “I know it because it says it right there.” Bones pointed at the far wall. “Don’t you see? It’s written on the wall, plain as day.”

  “Well, it doesn’t say ‘REVENGE’ exactly,” the dog amended, regarding the letters, which were indeed written in drippin
g red.

  How had we all missed that?

  Was that blood?

  I went over to the wall and sniffed, but my sniffing did not detect the metallic scent of blood I’d learned to know all too well during the Cat Wars. This was mere paint, as the stain on the carpet turned out to be as well, once I went over and sniffed at that too.

  “Too right,” Inspector Strange said. “It says ‘RACHE.’ Probably, the victim, this, er, John Smith didn’t have time to write the whole name, which would have undoubtedly been RACHEL, a woman’s name.”

  “But see, that’s where you’re wrong!” Bones said. “That’s just what someone else wants you to think! Someone is relying on some stupid flatfoot to go barking up the wrong tree—always a waste of time, no matter how pleasurable—and turning over every stone in town to find the right Rachel.”

  “Right,” Inspector Strange said, blushing. “What a silly thing it would be, to do that.” Pause. “And why would that be exactly?”

  “Because it’s not referring to a woman’s name at all,” Bones said. “RACHE is the German word for REVENGE.”

  “Ah!” Inspector Strange said. “Helpful, is it? Being multilingual like that?”

  “It comes in handy,” Bones allowed.

  “But wait,” Inspector Strange said. “You’re saying it was someone other than the victim who left that note on the wall?”

  Bones nodded.

  “Why would someone do that, though?” Inspector Strange said. “No, I’m sure it would have been the victim. You know, trying to tell us that’s why he was killed?”

  “Do you not remember,” Bones said, “that the victim had no red on him, no marks at all? And this word written in red—it was, I am quite certain, written with a human finger. And yet the victim has no red on his hands.”

  “Oh. Right.” Inspector Strange appeared stumped. “Then who … ? Why … ?”

  “That, my good Inspector, is what is known as a mystery.”

  Then, Bones did an astonishing thing. Based on observations I could barely understand or follow, he somehow gave a full physical description of the murderer along with details about the mode of transportation the murderer had used to get to the scene of the crime. He made these deductions, he said, based on evidence he’d seen outside the abandoned house as well as evidence on the dusty floors inside—length of stride and its relationship to height, followed by a whole bunch of other things. Then he mentioned a cab, as he had to me earlier, and said something about two men arriving as friends but not remaining so.

  “I wonder what happened?” he mused, paw to lip, considering.

  I suppose I could have paid more attention, but I was very hungry. Not to mention that the body was still right there, and I was so far overdue for my nap I couldn’t think straight.

  “Didn’t anyone else notice this?” Bones said, shifting the body a bit more to uncover a bright, shiny object.

  I must confess, I’ve been known to get distracted by bright, shiny objects. By squirrels, too.

  “What’s that?” Inspector Strange asked.

  “Obviously,” Bones said, “it’s a woman’s gold wedding ring. You can tell it’s a woman’s from the size of the ring hole.” He held it up to one eye, peering at us through the hole, showing us it was a simple gold band with no further adornment.

  “Great,” I said. “So a woman was here too.”

  “Not necessarily,” Bones said. “Just because a woman’s ring is here, it doesn’t necessarily follow that the woman was.”

  “Right,” I said. “Now that that’s settled, I think I’ll go home for my nap.”

  “Not so fast,” Bones said. “I need you to come with me.”

  “Not another dead body,” I groaned.

  “Of course not,” Bones said, which he quickly amended to, “at least, I hope not.” He turned to Inspector Strange. “Can you tell me the name of the person who first discovered, er, John Smith?”

  Inspector Strange named some constable, a constable being what your basic police officers are called in this part of the world. But honestly, at this point, in my sleep-deprived state, it was just gibberish to me.

  “Come along, Catson,” Bones said with an annoying level of energy.

  “Where are we going now?” I grumbled.

  “To see Gibberish, of course,” Bones said.

  Did he really say that, or did I just imagine it?

  We found Constable Gibberish at home.

  He was even less helpful than one would imagine a man named Gibberish might be.

  He was also wearing a tasseled sleeping cap and striped nightshirt and rubbing his eyes when he answered the door.

  “I’m sorry,” Bones said. “Did we wake you?”

  “Yes, but that’s all right. I tend to sleep during the daytime.”

  Don’t we all, I thought, stifling a yawn.

  “I am Sherlock Bones,” Bones began.

  “I know who you are, sir,” Gibberish said.

  He did? And “sir?”

  “Everyone knows who Sherlock Bones is, sir,” said Gibberish.

  They did? Everyone? I’d never heard of him before today. Huh. Perhaps I did need to pay more attention to the newspapers?

  “And this is my partner, Dr. Catson,” Bones continued.

  Partner. There was that annoying word again! I was about to correct Bones when he continued with, “And we are here to question you about, er, John Smith.”

  “Who?” Gibberish said.

  “The dead body you found in the abandoned house earlier today?”

  “Oh. Him.” Gibberish was puzzled. “But I thought his name was … ” And here he said the complicated German name.

  “Yes, well,” Bones said, “we’re all calling him, er, John Smith now.”

  “Huh.” Gibberish scratched his head. “I’m not sure what I can tell you. What is it you want to know?”

  “For starters, how did you discover him?”

  “I was just passing by, making my rounds, wasn’t I?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me. Were you?”

  Gibberish appeared startled at this. “Yes, I just said, didn’t I?”

  “Actually, your words contained an upwards inflection at the end, as though you were posing a question, so I thought perhaps you were asking me.”

  Once again, Gibberish appeared puzzled. All I could think was, Oh, Bones. Must you try to word play with him? Can’t you see he’s just a simple man?

  “At any rate,” Gibberish said, “I was passing by, saw the door was open, and thought it looked suspicious. So, I went inside, found the dead body, phoned it in, waited for the inspectors to arrive, and that was it.”

  “That was it?” Bones was incredulous.

  “I’m not sure what more you want me to say. The inspectors arrived, and I came back here and immediately laid down for a nap. I was that tired.”

  “But didn’t you see anything else worth mentioning?” Bones pressed.

  Gibberish appeared to consider this, then shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Really?” Bones pressed some more.

  More considering, more head shaking. “Nope.”

  “Really?” Bones simply would not let this go. “Nothing? Nothing at all? Nothing in the least way suspicious?”

  Not even a consideration or a shake this time. “No.” Pause. “Well, unless you include the man who tried to gain entry while I was guarding the door…”

  “The man who…” Bones echoed.

  “What man?” I said, unable to contain myself. Was this Gibberish an idiot? Did he not see where this might be important?

  “He wasn’t anybody.” Gibberish waved his hand dismissively. “He was just some confused person stumbling about. He came to the wrong door, thought it was his. So I sent him on his merry way. That’s all.”

  “That’s all?” Bones was incredulous. “Tell me, what did this harmless man look like?”

  Gibberish
considered then held up his hand about six feet from the ground. “He was about this tall and he smelled funny.”

  “Nothing else?” Bones pressed.

  “Oh!” Gibberish said. “Almost forgot. He had the tiniest feet for such a tall man.”

  Bones looked at me, his eyes filled with meaning. He stared at me so long, I became uncomfortable. “What?” I finally said.

  “Do you not see, Catson?”

  “See what? If I could, would I be asking you?”

  “Back at the abandoned house?” Bones prompted.

  I thought about it, shook my head. “Still got nothing here.”

  “I gave a description to Inspector Strange of what my deductions led me to believe the murderer looked like.”

  “And?” I said.

  Bones was clearly having trouble containing himself. “And it exactly fits the person Gibberish has just described!”

  “You mean … ” Gibberish couldn’t bring himself to complete the sentence.

  “Yes, Gibberish,” Bones said. “You were the only person to see the murderer—and you sent the murderer on his merry way.”

  “What does this mean?” I asked Bones.

  We were back on the street again, having left Gibberish behind to return to his nap.

  “Isn’t it the usual order of things,” I went on, “for murderers to flee the scene of the crime?”

  “Yes, it is,” Bones agreed.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Why would this murderer go toward the scene?”

  “Because he forgot something.”

  “That makes no sense either. What could he have forgotten? He certainly didn’t forget to kill his victim. We saw the body. We know he remembered to do that part.”

  “Forgotten. Lost. Pick any word you like. What it boils down to is that he left behind something at the scene, and he wanted it back.”

  I stopped walking and stared at the dog. “Oh, right. And now I suppose you’re going to tell me what that something is?”

  “Of course. The woman’s wedding ring.”

  “The … Oh. Oh.”