Ron Kelley

My Sherlock Holmes Mystery Excerpt

Posted: Sunday, February 05, 2012

by Ron Kelley

This was NOT written by Arthur Conan Doyle, but IF he had written about Sherlock Holmes in 1824 along the Erie Canal in northwestern New York State, USA, then I imagined an excerpt from the story would have gone like this:

… “But I have it all figured out, Holmes,” smugly replied Watson as he was half dragged by Holmes into the vacant supply cabin. “I can tell you that MacGregor is a tall man, originally from Scotland, smokes a pipe, and wears tall boots that are scuffed up. Oh, yes, and he’s probably not married since his clothes are fairly smelly,” he added, quite proud of the results of his observation of the man they had just been talking to at length out in the town square.

“No, no, you miss all the important items. I’m surprised as it’s quite elementary, my dear Dr. Watson. To start with, the man is obviously a muleskinner on the canal as they are the only ones who ride their mules in this area.”

“Why do you say that?” questioned Watson.

“Oh, my, haven’t you learned anything from my tutelage yet?” replied Holmes showing some disappointment as he pulled his long, curved English manor style pipe from his mouth and banged it on the sides of an empty shelf—ashes bouncing out of the bowl and onto Watson’s already dusty shoes. He turned towards the window, gesturing with his pipe, which he held loosely in his hand, and continued, “Did you not notice how the inside of his britches were stained from the regular contact with the mule’s perspiration while riding? And then his right hand. He held it with fingers slightly bent from years of holding reins from the lead mule. Had he been a muleskinner on a wagon, he would have had both hands equally calloused and, of course, different stains on his britches. Then there was the fresh gash on his right boot. Obviously fresh as there was no dirt yet accumulated in the crease. Normal dismounting would have been on the left and a gash like that from a mule’s hoof would be on his left boot as it would be closer to the mule. I also noticed that he clutched his right side, yet there was no tear in his clothing. He kept touching his tongue to his left jaw, too.”

“I guess I missed those things,” apologized Watson. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Oh, that’s not all. Did you notice his right cheek? Part of it was all red. That’s an important clue to what happened.”

“Well, why should we care what happened?”

“Watson, you know we have a responsibility to look out for the citizenry in our area.” Holmes was thinking of how he was often employed by the local constable to investigate difficult cases. His ability was beginning to be known in more distant locations, which often meant days away from his double room above the dry goods store. He loved being there with his “articles” as he called them. He often marveled at the wide selection of new materials available from other countries in recent years, and used one room just for his samples of items of curiosity. It was easy to experiment here, also, without complaint from other tenants as there were none. This could be a case to solve without even leaving town. How intriguing, he thought.

Watson plumped down on an empty barrel. “I guess that’s all we have to go on.”

“No, there’s more. I’m quite sure the man is out to kill someone.”

“Now how could you know that? He said nothing of the kind. I know. I was there with you the whole time and recall that he only talked of someday getting back to his homeland.”

“Precisely, but you miss the reason, Watson. Here’s what happened. MacGregor was on a normal pull when some bandit approached him from off the canal bank out of the bushes and swung on him with his musket hitting him in the left jaw, knocking him off the right side of his mule. The mule, not used to this dismount, or this kind of action by his rider, bucked sideways with his front legs and one hoof scraped Macgregor’s right boot as he swung around the mule’s neck. The vagabond then grabbed under Macgregor’s loose shirt and tore off his money belt which caused the pain in his right side, although doing no damage to his clothing. As the robber departed, MacGregor hurried to the second mule, grabbed his musket and hurriedly fired before positioning the weapon all the way up to his shoulder. The flint spark flared out while the gun was still below his face, which is why his lower right cheek was slightly burned.”

“So what is the reason to be concerned? The robber got away.”

“But didn’t you notice how MacGregor kept clutching at his knife? The man is out for revenge, and I would say, with some good reason. He must not know the man or he would not keep looking around. Someone familiar would have a known home base which would have been staked out. And then he plans on leaving town as soon as he makes his kill.”

“How can you know that?”

“In our conversation, he never mentioned his work, only his old country. That’s where his mind is—it’s on his destination. That’s why we must act quickly if we want to see justice done. Remember, Watson, this is a modern civilized world, isn’t it? Unregulated killing is very unseemly. We must do our part.” …

Ron Kelley
The journey for Ron Kelley isn't over yet. Some may have wished it were, but now he's got it in his head that he's got some things left to say.

At one point or another, he's been (not in any particular order) a teacher, hiker, biker (motor & pedal), skier (down & across), jeeper, ATV rider, photographer, canoeist, sailor, cowboy action shooter, Marine, plumber, painter, ride operator, tour guide, bus driver, carpenter, and on and on. Nowadays, writing short stories and poems fill parts of the days in western Colorado or western Arizona.

Frequently, he wonders how he had time for all that stuff.
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