Mad King Ruprecht: A Study in Scarlet.
Created | Updated Sep 14, 2002
London, 1878.
The hanson cab came to a rattling standstill along the cobbles of Brixton Road.
I alighted in an instant, repositioned my deerstalker hat rakishly over one eye, shook the creases from my tweed frock-coat and reached automatically for my briar root pipe and matches.
Just visible through the perpetual London smog was the silhouette of Number Three Lauriston Gardens, the scene of a foul deed of murder that had the cretinous Inspector Lestrade at a complete loss to solve. His arch rival at Scotland Yard, one Inspector Gregson, had dispatched a telegram to my residences at 221B Baker Street requesting the assistance of the worlds greatest amateur consulting detective in unravelling the mystery of this most taxing case.
I nodded across to my constant companion, Doctor John Watson and gave a wry smile,
"The game's afoot!"
"Wonderful!" interjected Watson.
I regarded my colleague blankly and sighed. If the man had a failing it lay in his insistance on interjecting every time that he opened his mouth. It rankled me almost as much as his penchant for ejecting and on one unpleasent occasion where he had ejaculated at a retired sergeant of the Royal Marines. It had taked a half sovereign, a hasty apology and a stiff clothes brush to prevent open hostilities between the two and now Watson was required to carry his special medication wherever he travelled.
Striking out along the path I observed keenly for any signs of footprints that may have provided some evidence of the murderer's route, but alas, it appeared that Scotland Yard were still adhering to their policy of inviting a marching band and a herd of tap dancing wilderbeest to carouse across the crime scene with gay abandon. I stepped carefully over an abandoned trombone slide and rapped smartly on the door.
A tall, white faced, flaxen haired gentleman, clutching his notebook as if it were the only real thing in the world, answered the door and wrung my hand with effusion. I extricated myself from the enthused inspector and raised a theatrical eyebrow.
"Good day to you Gregson. I deduce that your wife is still suffering from that yeast infection."
The detective reeled with astonishment and blurted,
"Incredible Ruprecht! How the deuce did you perceive that?"
I grinned broadly, winked and waved an admonitary finger.
"Now, now Inspector, you know my methods. Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however unlikely, must be the truth. Beyond that I cannot promulgate my secrets."
I swept past the perplexed Gregson feeling a pang of self reproach at this unashamed parlour trick. If he ever did attempt to follow my advice and eliminate the impossible then he would be faced with the very real truth that I had been conducting an illicit liaison with his spouse for several months; but fortunately the inept fellow was possessed with just sufficient grey matter as to fit snugly into his snuff box. I beckoned for Doctor Watson to follow and strolled into a large square room, devoid of furniture and decorated with ghastly flaring wallpaper, stained and blemished with mildew. Opposite the door there stood a mock marble fireplace with a single candle on its surface and the entire room was blanketed in a thick layer of grey dust. All this was as background detail in comparison to the body that lay motionless upon the floor, a rictus of horror forevermore etched into his lifeless features.
"Good Lord!" conjectured Watson, fumbling for his medicine bottle.
I approached the corpse and began my analysis as Lestrade and Gregson regarded me with puzzled interest. I rapidly inspected clothing, fingernails, tissue damage and the overall posture of the cadaver. A study of his personal inventory yielded calling cards bearing the name Enoch J Drebber, a gold fob watch etched with the initials E.J.D, a likewise heavy neck chain, an expensive ring with masonic device and loose coinage to the value of seven pounds and thirteen shillings. I then went on to examine the telltale footprints in the dust, fastidiously retrieved a small pile of ash with the aid of my magnifying glass and tweezers, made numerous measurements and calculations with my tape measure and dexterously pocketed seven pounds and thirteen shillings. On the cracked plaster of the wall above the candle I discovered the hastily scribbled word 'RACHE' authored in fresh blood by some imbecilic individual who was obviously ignorant to the benefits of the humble fountain pen.
Finally, I rounded on Gregson and Lestrade and flashed them a quick, toothy grin.
"Gentlemen. I have had time to assimilate the evidence and can tell you that your man has been poisoned and that the murderer is male. He is approximately six feet in height, aged between thirty and forty five, wears square toed boots and smokes a briar root pipe. He arrived here in a four wheeled cab drawn by a black horse with three old shoes and one new one on its right foreleg. I believe the horses name to be Dobbin. I would speculate that the killer has long fingernails on his right hand, is of slim build and plays the violin on his weekends off. Furthermore, your suspect has an encyclopaedic knowledge of chemistry, occasionally dabbles with cocaine and has an accomplice who in all probability has a medical background."
"Phenomenal Ruprecht!" interpolated the two detectives in unison as Watson proferred his receptacle of mysterious sedatives.
As Scotland Yard's finest raced from the scene to track down their villain I let out a relieved sigh and threw a furtive glance across to the good doctor.
"Come Watson. I observe that we ought to push off before they figure it out."
The hanson cab came to a rattling standstill along the cobbles of Brixton Road.
I alighted in an instant, repositioned my deerstalker hat rakishly over one eye, shook the creases from my tweed frock-coat and reached automatically for my briar root pipe and matches.
Just visible through the perpetual London smog was the silhouette of Number Three Lauriston Gardens, the scene of a foul deed of murder that had the cretinous Inspector Lestrade at a complete loss to solve. His arch rival at Scotland Yard, one Inspector Gregson, had dispatched a telegram to my residences at 221B Baker Street requesting the assistance of the worlds greatest amateur consulting detective in unravelling the mystery of this most taxing case.
I nodded across to my constant companion, Doctor John Watson and gave a wry smile,
"The game's afoot!"
"Wonderful!" interjected Watson.
I regarded my colleague blankly and sighed. If the man had a failing it lay in his insistance on interjecting every time that he opened his mouth. It rankled me almost as much as his penchant for ejecting and on one unpleasent occasion where he had ejaculated at a retired sergeant of the Royal Marines. It had taked a half sovereign, a hasty apology and a stiff clothes brush to prevent open hostilities between the two and now Watson was required to carry his special medication wherever he travelled.
Striking out along the path I observed keenly for any signs of footprints that may have provided some evidence of the murderer's route, but alas, it appeared that Scotland Yard were still adhering to their policy of inviting a marching band and a herd of tap dancing wilderbeest to carouse across the crime scene with gay abandon. I stepped carefully over an abandoned trombone slide and rapped smartly on the door.
A tall, white faced, flaxen haired gentleman, clutching his notebook as if it were the only real thing in the world, answered the door and wrung my hand with effusion. I extricated myself from the enthused inspector and raised a theatrical eyebrow.
"Good day to you Gregson. I deduce that your wife is still suffering from that yeast infection."
The detective reeled with astonishment and blurted,
"Incredible Ruprecht! How the deuce did you perceive that?"
I grinned broadly, winked and waved an admonitary finger.
"Now, now Inspector, you know my methods. Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however unlikely, must be the truth. Beyond that I cannot promulgate my secrets."
I swept past the perplexed Gregson feeling a pang of self reproach at this unashamed parlour trick. If he ever did attempt to follow my advice and eliminate the impossible then he would be faced with the very real truth that I had been conducting an illicit liaison with his spouse for several months; but fortunately the inept fellow was possessed with just sufficient grey matter as to fit snugly into his snuff box. I beckoned for Doctor Watson to follow and strolled into a large square room, devoid of furniture and decorated with ghastly flaring wallpaper, stained and blemished with mildew. Opposite the door there stood a mock marble fireplace with a single candle on its surface and the entire room was blanketed in a thick layer of grey dust. All this was as background detail in comparison to the body that lay motionless upon the floor, a rictus of horror forevermore etched into his lifeless features.
"Good Lord!" conjectured Watson, fumbling for his medicine bottle.
I approached the corpse and began my analysis as Lestrade and Gregson regarded me with puzzled interest. I rapidly inspected clothing, fingernails, tissue damage and the overall posture of the cadaver. A study of his personal inventory yielded calling cards bearing the name Enoch J Drebber, a gold fob watch etched with the initials E.J.D, a likewise heavy neck chain, an expensive ring with masonic device and loose coinage to the value of seven pounds and thirteen shillings. I then went on to examine the telltale footprints in the dust, fastidiously retrieved a small pile of ash with the aid of my magnifying glass and tweezers, made numerous measurements and calculations with my tape measure and dexterously pocketed seven pounds and thirteen shillings. On the cracked plaster of the wall above the candle I discovered the hastily scribbled word 'RACHE' authored in fresh blood by some imbecilic individual who was obviously ignorant to the benefits of the humble fountain pen.
Finally, I rounded on Gregson and Lestrade and flashed them a quick, toothy grin.
"Gentlemen. I have had time to assimilate the evidence and can tell you that your man has been poisoned and that the murderer is male. He is approximately six feet in height, aged between thirty and forty five, wears square toed boots and smokes a briar root pipe. He arrived here in a four wheeled cab drawn by a black horse with three old shoes and one new one on its right foreleg. I believe the horses name to be Dobbin. I would speculate that the killer has long fingernails on his right hand, is of slim build and plays the violin on his weekends off. Furthermore, your suspect has an encyclopaedic knowledge of chemistry, occasionally dabbles with cocaine and has an accomplice who in all probability has a medical background."
"Phenomenal Ruprecht!" interpolated the two detectives in unison as Watson proferred his receptacle of mysterious sedatives.
As Scotland Yard's finest raced from the scene to track down their villain I let out a relieved sigh and threw a furtive glance across to the good doctor.
"Come Watson. I observe that we ought to push off before they figure it out."
