is a chimneysweep called Patch. In his pocket he
had the piece of paper that was in the dead boy’s hand which
Inspector Bird chased without success down the Shambles. One of the
younger boys, the one who vomited, Boz, had caught hold of the
paper and passed it onto Patch. The dead boy, by the way, was
called Gin-Jim. Anyway, the paper appeared to have been the remnant
of the top left-hand corner of a page. I could have sworn this
morning that it was larger and had more writing on it, alas, the
only thing you can see now are the initials BB.”
“The initials
of his killer?”
“That’s what
Mr Corbie suggested but I cannot see how Gin-Jim would know his
killer in advance. And, besides, the writing was beautifully
executed using a fountain pen with a wide nib. Not the sort of
thing a penniless boy is likely to possess. I have the paper in my
bag and can show you when we get back to the inn. I don’t want to
risk losing it in this jostling crowd.”
“What about
the quality of paper? Sherlock prided himself on being an expert
with paper. He could recognize at a glance where it came from.”
“All I can say
with certainty is that it was of middling quality. The colour was
what I would call white-white. It is quite common.”
They reached
the door of the Mousehole and paused under the over-hanging
eaves.
“I will only
get in your way,” announced Dr Watson, “so I will bid you farewell
for now and take a bite of lunch at Ye Olde Minster Teashoppe then
pay a visit to the police station to speak to Inspector Bird about
what we have learned so far. I might even call in to see Dr Pertwee
and see if he can tell us anything about the unfortunate boy who
was killed this morning, although I agree with the inspector that
his death is unlikely to be related to the five murders we are
investigating.”
“That’s what I
would have said this morning but while you were with Panglossian
checking the printing presses in the basement I returned to his
office where I was privy to an interesting exchange between Mr
Dicksen and Mr Thrypp.”
“When you went
back for the bag you contrived to forget?” he quipped.
She laughed
lightly. “Bravo, doctor! A few more crime cases and we will be able
to read each other’s minds!”
He decided to
move on swiftly. “What conversation?”
“Mr Thrypp
heard about the death of the boy in the Shambles while he was out
buying crumpets and he said he thought it would be of interest to
Mr Dicksen because the boy was a courier between Panglossian and
Gladhill, the place where Dicksen lives. The boy was paid to carry
a parcel from Panglossian to Gladhill on a regular basis. Mr
Dicksen poo-pooed the idea but Mr Thrypp then added that there had
been a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string on the
corner of his desk for the boy to collect. The parcel had gone,
meaning the boy picked it up as usual and was delivering it to
Gladhill, but there was no such parcel in the Shambles as far as I
could see.”
“The killer
would have taken it. It may even have been the motive for killing
the boy. The killer may have been a thief who thought the boy was
carrying something valuable.”
“That’s what I
thought too, at first, but Mr Dicksen leapt out of his chair like a
jack-in-the-box when you and Panglossian showed up. I got the
distinct impression he wanted to be the first to break the news
about the dead boy to Panglossian, rather than leaving it to
Thrypp.”
“For what
reason?”
“I don’t know.
It was only an impression, and a brief one at that, but if Dicksen
wanted to pre-empt Thrypp it could only be because he wanted to
direct the way the news was conveyed or control the way it was
understood by Panglossian.”
He shook his
head. “I cannot agree. Dicksen jumped up because he likes the sound
of his own voice. He struck me as a born showman.”
“Show-off, you
mean?”
“That too!” he
laughed. “Have you read any of his books? I have always considered
them to be
had the piece of paper that was in the dead boy’s hand which
Inspector Bird chased without success down the Shambles. One of the
younger boys, the one who vomited, Boz, had caught hold of the
paper and passed it onto Patch. The dead boy, by the way, was
called Gin-Jim. Anyway, the paper appeared to have been the remnant
of the top left-hand corner of a page. I could have sworn this
morning that it was larger and had more writing on it, alas, the
only thing you can see now are the initials BB.”
“The initials
of his killer?”
“That’s what
Mr Corbie suggested but I cannot see how Gin-Jim would know his
killer in advance. And, besides, the writing was beautifully
executed using a fountain pen with a wide nib. Not the sort of
thing a penniless boy is likely to possess. I have the paper in my
bag and can show you when we get back to the inn. I don’t want to
risk losing it in this jostling crowd.”
“What about
the quality of paper? Sherlock prided himself on being an expert
with paper. He could recognize at a glance where it came from.”
“All I can say
with certainty is that it was of middling quality. The colour was
what I would call white-white. It is quite common.”
They reached
the door of the Mousehole and paused under the over-hanging
eaves.
“I will only
get in your way,” announced Dr Watson, “so I will bid you farewell
for now and take a bite of lunch at Ye Olde Minster Teashoppe then
pay a visit to the police station to speak to Inspector Bird about
what we have learned so far. I might even call in to see Dr Pertwee
and see if he can tell us anything about the unfortunate boy who
was killed this morning, although I agree with the inspector that
his death is unlikely to be related to the five murders we are
investigating.”
“That’s what I
would have said this morning but while you were with Panglossian
checking the printing presses in the basement I returned to his
office where I was privy to an interesting exchange between Mr
Dicksen and Mr Thrypp.”
“When you went
back for the bag you contrived to forget?” he quipped.
She laughed
lightly. “Bravo, doctor! A few more crime cases and we will be able
to read each other’s minds!”
He decided to
move on swiftly. “What conversation?”
“Mr Thrypp
heard about the death of the boy in the Shambles while he was out
buying crumpets and he said he thought it would be of interest to
Mr Dicksen because the boy was a courier between Panglossian and
Gladhill, the place where Dicksen lives. The boy was paid to carry
a parcel from Panglossian to Gladhill on a regular basis. Mr
Dicksen poo-pooed the idea but Mr Thrypp then added that there had
been a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string on the
corner of his desk for the boy to collect. The parcel had gone,
meaning the boy picked it up as usual and was delivering it to
Gladhill, but there was no such parcel in the Shambles as far as I
could see.”
“The killer
would have taken it. It may even have been the motive for killing
the boy. The killer may have been a thief who thought the boy was
carrying something valuable.”
“That’s what I
thought too, at first, but Mr Dicksen leapt out of his chair like a
jack-in-the-box when you and Panglossian showed up. I got the
distinct impression he wanted to be the first to break the news
about the dead boy to Panglossian, rather than leaving it to
Thrypp.”
“For what
reason?”
“I don’t know.
It was only an impression, and a brief one at that, but if Dicksen
wanted to pre-empt Thrypp it could only be because he wanted to
direct the way the news was conveyed or control the way it was
understood by Panglossian.”
He shook his
head. “I cannot agree. Dicksen jumped up because he likes the sound
of his own voice. He struck me as a born showman.”
“Show-off, you
mean?”
“That too!” he
laughed. “Have you read any of his books? I have always considered
them to be
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