“Murder is easy, as long as you don’t make it look like a murder.” He said. Using his left hand to scratch his crotch fervently, in a dog like frenzy when it’s trying to bury a bone.
“So, you mean that it’s easy to commit a murder as long as you make it look like an accident, suicide or illness.” I spoke, seriously concerned about his hygiene while he ardently moved on to scratch his butt cheeks now, a look of relief stole his face as his lips parted slightly in bliss. He then cleared his throat and spoke, “Took you long enough to catch up, detective.” He looked at me from head to toe, his expression, disdainful. As if his East London lodging was any better than my Irish accent.
“In that case, Mr. Holmes, if the death of Dr. Watson is not an accident; I’d be loathe to tell you this, but you would be considered the primary suspect. Because you were the last person to see him.” I said.
“Also, I am loathe to tell you, Detective, while I might be your primary suspect, I am also your greatest ally, because I am after all ‘the Sherlock Holmes’.” He said that while tipping his hat and awkwardly itching his long beard with his right hand. He coughed up something awful, a ball of mucus with traces of red and removed his tell tale hat that looked like it had tiny holes burrowed by very hungry mice.
“You see Detective….” he continued, looking at me and murmuring about my Irish origins. His scraggly beard more grey than black, moved with a life of its own, as though it housed its own eco system right there.
“Boyle…I am Detective Boyle.” I offered.
“Yes Detective Boyle…A common Irish ancestry, I presume. You see Dr. Watson here had invited me over for tea this evening, while his wife Mary and their son has been visiting some old crone of an aunt in Watford. We had an hour-long tete-a-tete about this and that, in which he mentioned that just last week he had cleaned his shotgun. Therefore, I honestly don’t think he would feel the need to clean it again.”