The Case of the Wobbly Watcher

Sherlock Holmes stood on the cobblestones of the street, his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind his back. Around him bustled members of Scotland Yard, holding back the crowds and conferring with each other. Down the street several newsmen were clamoring to approach, waving their notebooks and shouting questions. The streetlamps had been lit and the glow of the nearest one threw Holmes’ shadow up against the rough brick wall on his right. I stood near him, my medical bag in hand, my eyes searching for something else to look at except the broken body at our feet.

Inspector Lestrade detached himself from a nearby group and walked up to us. His sharp nose and bright eyes shone in the yellow gaslight. He ignored the detective and addressed me. “What do you think, Dr. Watson?”

I sighed. “When you called me out here, Inspector, I didn’t think it was to establish time of death. What happened to your regular police surgeon?”

“Influenza. Half the force is down with it.”

“I can believe you. I’ve been run off my feet these last two weeks with patients of my own. Well, I’ve examined the body. He died from crushing injuries on his left side. From the position of the body, he fell from the top of this wall and landed on the cobblestones.”

“Jumped, fell or was pushed, Doctor?”

“That is the question, Inspector.”

“What time do you think it happened?”

I turned and looked at the body again. “It’s hard to say. What information do you have?”

Lestrade opened his official notebook. “According to witnesses Mr. Humphrey Dumfrey was in the habit of sitting on this stretch of wall observing the daily passing of the Palace Guards on their way to and from Buckingham Palace twice a day. Nothing unusual was noticed earlier this afternoon. After the parade he had tea in the little teashop on the corner. Later he was seen walking toward his flat. Little was known of his movements for several hours. Then some men coming home from the local public house found him like this just after dark.”

I nodded. “He must have died just before he was found. The cobblestones are still slick. Nothing has congealed even now.”

Holmes finally stirred. “Who found him, Inspector?”

Lestrade puffed up a little bit. “I’m very sure that it was kind of you to accompany Dr. Watson tonight, Mr. Holmes, but I want it understood that Scotland Yard has this case in hand. Any information given out will be addressed to the doctor in his temporary official capacity.”

My friend stiffened and stepped back. “Excuse me.” His voice was cold and he was clearly insulted. “Watson, I will see you back in Baker Street.”

“Wait, Holmes,” I pleaded. “Inspector, as the doctor on this case I may call in any consultant I need, may I not?”

Lestrade shuffled his feet. He clearly realized that he had been unnecessarily rude to Sherlock Holmes and now he grasped my inquiry as a face-saving move. “Yes, you may. Mr. Holmes, if I have said something untoward, I apologize. I have not forgotten the many times you have assisted us in the past.”

I stepped closer to the still figure by the wall. “Please, Holmes. Don’t leave me out here alone with only Scotland Yard.”

Despite himself, Holmes chuckled. “Very well, Watson. Proceed.”

Lestrade referred to his notebook again. “The three men were a butcher, a baker and a candlestick maker. They were in the habit of meeting at the “Three Blind Mice” to have a pint after work. They left there and were walking up to London Bridge when they stumbled over the victim.”

“Where did Mr. Dumfrey reside?”

The Inspector turned over several pages. “He had rooms nearby. I talked to his landlady and she said he spent the time after tea in his room reading a lexicon. Humphrey Dumfrey was very fond of words and spent most of his time with dictionaries, thesauruses and other publications, making notes for a definitive work he had been compiling for years.”

“Nothing strange, odd, unusual or peculiar about that,” murmured Holmes.

One of the local police called Lestrade aside for a moment. The Scotland Yard man returned in the company of a little crooked man. He wore a little crooked hat and moved with the help of a little crooked stick.

Lestrade introduced him to us as Mr. L. C. Mann. He looked up at us and I could see by the lamplight that he had been crying. “’Umphrey Dumfrey were my best friend, gentlemen. Many was the times we sat in ‘is rooms, arguin’ about the origin of the word “glory”. I still can’t believe ‘e’s gone.” Carefully Mann avoided looking at the broken body in the street.

“Did Mr. Dumfrey have any enemies?” Holmes asked.

Mr. Mann shook his head and tried to give us a little crooked smile. “There were ‘at little blond-‘aired girl what disagreed with ‘im, but ‘at were years ago. No, I’d say ‘e were the most ‘armless person I knew. ‘Is greatest joy were sittin’ on ‘at wall and watchin’ all the King’s ‘Orses an’ all the King’s Men ride past.”

A shudder shook his little crooked body. “I shall miss ‘im so!” he cried. “’E were a good egg!”

Holmes and Lestrade continued the investigation after that night but a definitive answer as to the cause of Humphrey Dumfrey’s demise was never established. I once asked Holmes if he ever developed a theory of the case.

“I have a suspect, but there isn’t enough evidence to go to court,” he admitted.

“Well, can you tell me if he jumped, fell or was pushed?”

Sherlock Holmes solemnly filled his pipe and lit it with an ember from the fireplace. He leaned forward and fixed me with a glittering eye.

“Watson, I think he was goosed!”