It is said that imitation is the best form of flattery and also that laughter is the best form of medicine. With this in mind I hope you will enjoy the initial installment of the great detective Smithe's first case, as told by his very dear and very anonymous friend. This excellent work of satirical fiction is dedicated to one Captain Riley, kind in heart and enamoured of squirrels, to whom it owes questionable plot.
Our story opens in a dark and dreary lodging in central London where a tall and well-tailored man strides restlessly back and forth, twirling his pocket watch on its fine gold chain. The rooms in question belong to my good friend Mr Richard Smithe, a private detective by trade, who receives most of his worldly income from kindly benefactors such as myself and the odd piece of thespian work. I feel it necessary to mention my friend’s occupation in order for you to understand his somewhat questionable standard of living as well as the reason for the eminent Lord Hubert of a great estate in Derbyshire to be pacing so to and fro before my esteemed friend’s hearth.
Smithe, was late. As Smithe was want to be, for almost every appointment I had ever kept with him. Smithe saw no reason for his life to be so continually regimented by the chiming of the church clock in that dismal area of our great capital and so, more often than not, he chose simply to ignore it’s lofty bells. Lord Hubert huffed and sighed and trod down the carpet as he waited. I sat, in my usual chair, smoking as I usually did. To say that I was at home in my dear friends lodgings would be an understatement. We were, you must understand, the closest of companions. For Smithe was a perfect hermit, he confided his ingenious machinations in none, none save me, the most avid and attentive admirer of his work.
Smithe and I had met a few years back at a country club in southern England. He was a man a good ten years younger than I, a mere boy was really. Fresh faced and clean-shaven I had taken him under my wing as he strode self-consciously around the snooker table. Ever upright and assertive with that quick wit and razor sharp intellect Smithe was brash and outgoing but underneath it all I sensed a shyness and a fear that I felt it necessary to take out of the lad with my fatherly advice and friendship. From that day on Smithe, though a genius in his own right, always sought my help and guidance, and I always found it the greatest pleasure to offer it to him in all his endeavours.
It was a good fifteen minutes after the scheduled start of the appointment that I finally heard his quick light step on the stair and the door opened to reveal the petit frame of my friend. He was by no means a tall man, and extremely slim, with no shoulders to speak of. He had a small face with soft features and large pale eyes. He moved swiftly into the room, moving with a grace and poise that I always found myself most envious of, great bear that I am. Smithe laid his hat and cane on the table and removed his gloves before turning to address his guest.
‘My dear Lord Hubert,’ he said, bowing, ‘I do hope I have not kept you waiting long.’
‘You most certainly have Mr Smithe.’ The gentleman replied stiffly.
‘Then please accept my most sincere apologies. You must forgive me sir, for I was detained for some time in the courts, overseeing the conclusion of a previous case.’ Hubert was obviously deeply impressed.
‘You are most meticulous in your work Mr Smithe.’
‘I pride myself in that sir.’ Smithe had since crossed the room to his bookcase and I watched him with sly eyes and a smirk as he slipped a betting slip from the three o’clock race from his inside jacket pocket into a dog-eared volume. Smithe was, amongst many things, a man’s man. He gambled prolifically, drunk like a fish and could never be trusted around women. Even then, in our meeting with a lord, I caught the distinct whiff of whiskey as he passed the back of my chair.
Smithe gestured to the chair opposite my own and Lord Hubert sat, with somewhat affected dignity in my opinion, and slowly and deliberately crossed his legs. I opened my cigarette case and offered it to the two gentlemen. Hubert declined but Smithe, as usual, took one of the French cigarettes between his long pale fingers and stooped over my chair to allow me to light it for him. Smithe gently blew a thin stream of smoke from between his pursed lips and moved over to the window to gaze on the street below. Hubert shuffled indignantly.
‘I can tell from your countenance Sir,’ Smithe began, ‘that you are not a man to suffer fools lightly, nor a man whose time one can waste so I shall get straight down to the point. I see that you have come here in great haste, followed for some distance by a dog. I see also that you came on foot, which you are not often wont to do and that you lunched yesterday with the Duke of Kent. I can tell also that you have been recently disturbed by some great tragedy that happened late last night and you wish to consult me on the most mysterious circumstances of you late wife’s death.’ Smithe turned with a flourish and smiled jovially at his client’s ashen face.
‘What kind of trickery is this?’ cried the Lord. ‘Are you a spy sir or something more sinister?’ The stricken lord had risen from his seat but Smithe shushed him back down with a dignified air and a simple wave of the hand.
‘I am nothing sir, merely a detective. It’s all really very simple you see. I examined you the minute you walked through the door. I can tell from the restless way you paced up and down and you attitude to my tardiness that I must not waste your time and I can see from your general apparel that you dressed in great haste this morning. Your waistcoat is, I am afraid to say, incorrectly buttoned. Your boots are dusty from the street and the hem of your coat is soiled from the many hands of paupers and beggars that have been laid upon it this morning. This is a common problem for a finely dressed Lord I would imagine and so I would assume that a man such as yourself would more often than not travel by carriage. There is also a single strand of dog hair on the back of your trouser leg, not enough surely to indicate the presence of a dog in your home but sign enough that you have encountered one recently. I can see from the crumb of cheese on your lapel not yet dusted away that you dined yesterday and Stilton is an old favourite of the Duke of Kent, is it not? As for the tragedy it is plain from your pallid appearance that you have not slept. Also, when I stepped out this morning on my usual early rounds of the streets I heard from that great untapped resource of maids and footmen that most policemen choose to ignore that the wife of a certain Lord Hubert had been brutally murdered in the night.’ Hubert slumped slightly in his chair.
‘Good Lord,’ said I, ‘in England?’
‘It is all exactly as you say Mr Smithe. Brutally, most brutally murdered. My darling angel.’
‘And the police?’
‘Completely at a loss.’
‘Fools,’ spat Smithe from the corner.
‘You’re my final hope Mr Smithe. Without our help this foul fiend will get away scot-free.’ Smithe turned back to the window.
‘Tell me everything,’ he commanded, ‘omit nothing.’
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