The Final Page of Baker Street by Daniel D. Victor Page A

three holes in the cloth?”
    Holmes walked over to the curtain in question and pulled the fabric taut between his two hands so that the material appeared flat and the holes were readily apparent. Then he folded the velvet in such a way that he could demonstrate with the little finger of his right hand how the tiny projectile would have to penetrate three different layers, leaving a trio of holes in its wake.”
    â€œI get it now, Mr Holmes,” Billy said. “But let me tell you about the statue. I did study classics, after all.” He pointed at the small bronze figure on the table, a woman draped in robes standing under a leafy tree. “This Roman statue,” Billy explained, “represents the woman Thisbe of Babylon. She is part of a pair. Without Pyramus, her lover, the statue has no meaning. Therefore, the mate has obviously gone missing.”
    â€œJust a moment,” I said. “How do you know it’s Thisbe and not some other woman from mythology?”
    â€œGood question, Doctor.” It was suddenly easy to picture Billy teaching in a Dulwich classroom. “As you can tell from the tiny clusters of fruit, the tree next to the woman is a mulberry; and according to Ovid, when Thisbe stabbed herself to death upon discovering the body of her lover Pyramus, her blood mixed with the roots of the nearby tree and turned the mulberries deep red.”
    â€œPrecisely,” Holmes observed.
    â€œLike Romeo and Juliet,” I mused.
    â€œAnd not like Terrence and Sylvia Leonard,” Holmes said. “Judging from the weight of Thisbe here, Pyramus must have made a formidable truncheon.”
    Billy shook his head. “I know Terrence. First shoot her? Then mash her head to pulp? He couldn’t have committed this appalling atrocity; he didn’t contain the rage that could produce so heinous an act. No, I’m sure he’s innocent.”
    â€œWhen we find him, we’ll know more,” Holmes observed. As he spoke, he was already drawing the drapes across all of the windows in the room except the one he’d examined. “In the meantime, let us offer the police, if they choose to return, the opportunity to reach the same conclusions I did.” With this pronouncement, as if about to close the final curtain on some macabre stage play, he raised his hand to the side of the velvet drapery that contained the bullet holes and dramatically pulled it across the window. Immediately, the room grew dark again. Last to exit, I closed the door, which allowed me one final look at the three tell-tale lines of light and the tiny motes of dust that were now dancing in the parallel beams.
    * * *
    Having secured a fellow-apiarist to look in on his bees before he’d left Sussex, Sherlock Holmes appeared determined to see the case through to its conclusion. My dear wife, on the other hand, who’d always looked slightly askance at my frequent visits to Baker Street, and who, I suspect, must have subdued some feelings of delight upon hearing of Holmes’ permanent move to the South Downs in 1903, threw up her hands when she learned of his plans for an extended stay at our home. She took the opportunity to visit her cousin in Kent.
    Thus, it was only Holmes and I who were in my sitting room savouring a glass of port Saturday evening when Inspector Youghal was ushered into our presence by Mrs. Meeks. His sombre mien indicated he was anything but pleased.
    â€œGood evening, Inspector,” I said. “I’d offer you some port, but your expression suggests you’re here on business.”
    â€œTrue, Doctor Watson, but I will sit down, if you don’t mind.”
    I offered him my favourite wing chair; Holmes and I shared the settee.
    â€œI’m afraid I have some disturbing news,” he said, drawing an official-looking paper from inside his jacket. “This is a report from the Inverness police constabulary near Loch Ness.”
    Holmes perked up at