The Strange Return of Sherlock Holmes by Barry Grant Page A

examined the man who sold the bicycle in some detail, Mr Coombes. He said the purchaser had thick sandy hair and bushy eyebrows, and he was dressed in blue jeans, a white shirt, a green suede jacket. He seemed to be about fifty but the sales clerk was strangely uncertain about this, and said he might have been younger. This customer bought the bike, paid cash, gave no indication of where he was from or where he was going. The salesman thought the customer was English and very upper class. No foreign accent at all.’
    â€˜Excellent work, sergeant,’ said Coombes. ‘And what of the victim’s computer?’
    â€˜You were right again. The victim received a number of emails from someone who said she was Lydia Languish and who claimed to live here in Hay-on-Wye. We have not gone through all the emails yet, for there are hundreds, if not thousands. But it appears that the girl lured him here, just as you suggested. Unfortunately, we have not been able to connect the email address of Lydia Languish with the name of a real person. Our experts say that we may never accomplish this, although they are still working on the problem.’
    â€˜You will never find her,’ came the reply, ‘for Lydia Languish is a character in a play by Sheridan, called The Rivals , first performed in 1775.’
    â€˜Is she now?’ said Bundle, nodding wisely. He shrugged with his big face. ‘Also, sir, I found out the meaning of the Pashto words that were impressed into the dust jacket of the book. I passed them on to our mutual contact at Scotland Yard – you know who I mean—’
    â€˜Yes, yes of course . . .’
    â€˜And with the many resources of Scotland Yard, he called me back within the hour with the translation. The words mean, “God is great but we must do our own work”.’
    â€˜We might postulate,’ said Coombes, ‘that our suspect is an actor fluent in English and also in Pashto.’
    â€˜That ought to narrow the field,’ suggested Bundle.
    â€˜Perhaps,’ said Coombes. ‘But there are a great many people in Britain who to some degree or other fit that description. They may be professional actors, amateur actors . . .’ He shrugged. ‘What else have you discovered, sergeant? I can tell by your manner that you are saving the worst news till last.’
    â€˜Well, sir, I’m afraid your theory is refuted. You imagined that revenge might be a motive for this crime, am I right?’ said Bundle. ‘And this was suggested to you by the book about Abu Ghraib.’
    â€˜The thought had crossed my mind,’ said my friend.
    â€˜The trouble is, sir,’ said Bundle, ‘Mr Hawes served in Afghanistan only. He never was anywhere near Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq.’
    I could see that this information disappointed Coombes. He nodded slowly, frowning slightly. Silence fell over both men. They were statues.
    To fill the void I volunteered, ‘What of Mr Jenkins? Has he been seen recently?’
    â€˜A very good point,’ said Bundle. ‘We cannot be perfectly sure that Mr Jenkins was in Scotland as he said he was.’
    â€˜Naturally,’ I said, ‘if he lured the American and murdered him, he would want to make it seem he was elsewhere.’
    â€˜But if it was Jenkins, how do we explain the book and the phrase in Pashto?’ asked Bundle. He looked first at Coombes, then at me.
    Coombes said nothing.
    â€˜Perhaps the book was only a prop,’ I suggested. ‘A deception. Elaborate, yes. But plays are elaborate. You said he was a theatrical manager.’
    Bundle and I looked at each other hopefully. Coombes seemed uninterested.
    â€˜And one thing more,’ said Bundle, ‘the Heigh-ho on the mirror. I hardly know what to make of it . . . do you, Mr Coombes?’
    Coombes suddenly snapped out of his reverie. He blinked, looked at Bundle. ‘It, yes . . . it