CHAPTER 4

PERFECT CRIME

The next day, at 8'o clock sharp, there was a hasty, repetitive knock on our door. I was barely awake, and the heavy wooden sound caused quite a tumult in my poor old head. "Holmes!" I shouted. "That must be for you!" It was lucky indeed for our disturber that my friend was already up and busy in the kitchen. Holmes' hours were typically so irregular that I myself had a hard time of it finding him both awake and at home. "Humph!" Came Holmes' reply from the kitchen. He stormed through our sitting room to the door, not bothering to put down the chemical stained tweezers and scalpel he had in his hands. Hardly had my companion unlatched the door when it sprang open, and a long man with eyes too close together stormed in and removed his hat.

"Lestrade," I announced. "Whatever is the matt-"
"I'll tell you whatever is the matter!" He puffed, throwing his hands in the air. "There has been a murder, with no weapon, and no suspects! No motive, no signs of violence, nothing!" He glanced at Holmes, who had quietly closed our door and was watching Lestrade with one eyebrow raised.

"Mock all you wish sir!" Lestrade cried passionately. "But the truth is, the truth is- well, the truth is I suppose I need your help Mr. Holmes, if you and the good Doctor would be so kind as to lend your services." The inspector had, seemingly, calmed down during this speech and Holmes graciously bid him sit down.

"There is no such thing as the perfect crime, Inspector Lestrade. You may cheer yourself with that knowlege." Holmes said factually, as Lestrade positioned himself on our sofa.

"Do tell us of your quandary, sir." I said.

"It is Mr. Ward Greyland," Lestrade sighed. "He was a rich gentleman who lived a few miles from Aiplendare. His wife died a few years back, but their son, Rikael, still lives here in London. Mr. Greyland was an average, well-bred, sixty-five year old man; once a director of the largest bank in Aiplendare. He ran the bank well, and had many friendly acquaintances. His habits were regular for a man of his station, and I'd say his only fault was stubbornness. Apparently Mr. Greyland was prone to moving heaven and earth to see that his opinions were realized." Holmes nodded slowly, lacing his fingers under his chin and gazing intently at the Inspector.

"And the murder?"
"Right," said Lestrade, sighing once more. "Mr. Greyland's body was found in his private office at six-fifteen this morning, by the maid that usually serves him breakfast. He had been dead a number of hours, presumably since last evening, and was still positioned in his chair with a lamp burning and an inked quill near his hand. No signs of a break in, or any wound to his person."

"Poison then," Holmes stated.

"Undoubtedly," the Inspector sputtered, "but how was it ingested? There was no evidence of food or drink, or even cigar ashes."
"The murderer could have carried the evidence out," I volunteered.

"No Sir," Lestrade shook his head firmly. "There was no sign of forced entry and no clues supporting an inside job. It is utterly exasperating, and I must implore you to examine the situation for yourselves. I take a cab to Mr. Greyland's estate in fifteen minutes, do I have your help here, Mr. Holmes?" Holmes and I looked at each other, and I shrugged my shoulders.

"I suppose I see no harm in evaluating the scene," said Holmes quietly. "However, we will leave after a quick while. There is a client coming at three this afternoon"