As Mouse Avenger kindly pointed out, I seem to have acquired a character that isn't mine and isn't available for fanfiction either. So I've made up my own inspector who will serve just as well, it's only a minor role anyway.


CHAPTER 3.

Inspector McFarlane, Basil's and my sometime associate, sometime adversary, was waiting for me at the entrance to Scotland Yard, and upon seeing me he rushed forward and clasped my hand warmly.

"Ah, good doctor, how excellent to see your face here again! The inspector who was put on the case is sick with worry and even my superiors are anxious to see it laid to rest. We can do with the least bit of scandal possible."

"But surely you're not afraid of scandal from a few disappeared West Enders? Don't mean they're unimportant, but in the eyes of the public…"

McFarlane smiled sadly. "I'm afraid things have taken a very bad turn, Doctor. After your note arrived, I received another telegram from Inspector Blythe. Hershel Adler was found dead just a block from the Yard."

"Our client's business partner?"

"Yes. And in his pocket, we found this."

He handed me a small, heavy object, and I turned it over and over again in my paws. It was a miniature figurine of a raven, cast in bronze, its surface dull and in need of polishing. Presently Inspector McFarlane asked of me, "Does it mean anything to you, Doctor?"

"Not a thing," I replied. "How exactly was he killed?"

"We're not entirely sure— the symptoms are unclear, but we suspect some kind of poison."

"I assume the doctor on the case is Shackleton?"

"That it is," came a loud voice behind me. Unnoticed by either of us, Lansbury Shackleton had come into the room. Shackleton resembled Basil in many respects, being thin and long of face, but was considerably less dour. He was also in the habit of wearing a hat even indoors, to hide his missing ear. He had lost this in the Afghan war. We had served in the same army medical unit in those days.

"My dear Doctor Dawson! To what do we owe this greatest of pleasures? You haven't been ensnared in this wretched affair, I hope?"

"I'm afraid so, Shackleton," I replied. "The inspector was just telling me of the murder."

"Poor chap. No idea what he died of. His body was cold by the time we found him. No marks on the body, no sign of foul play at all."

"Then why do you even suspect it?"

"I expect because of the circumstances. He'd been missing, then out of the blue his body—which his physician informs us had been in the best of health—turns up dead. It just seems fishy."

"Quite so… might I have a look at the corpse myself?"

But there was no need to ask, for not a moment later someone wandered into the room. Shackleton's face suddenly went slack and gray, and he looked as though he might faint.

"But… it can't be! It's Adler!"

I felt a thrill of fear grip my spine. "Hersel Adler, Zisman's business partner?"

"Who's he?" the stranger asked.

"Don't be thick, man!" Shackleton snapped. "You're Hershel Adler."

"Am I?"

"Perhaps amnesia?" I suggested. "What year is it?"

Adler hesitated, then answered, "Nineteen hundred and six."

"Not total amnesia then."

"No-o…" Shackleton was still adjusting to his error; discovering one has wrongly diagnosed a living person as deceased must wreak considerable havoc on one's psyche.

"Well, there's nothing to be done now then. I can't tell much from someone who's apparently hale. If you gentlemen don't mind, I must get word to Basil at once. Shackleton, you know what's to be done with amnesiacs, kindly wire me with any changes."

With that I left Scotland Yard. The day was warm, the kind of warmth that clings to one's fur and makes every exertion twice as difficult as usual. Basil had not yet returned when I arrived at Baker Street, but Mrs. Judson was there to let me in.

"Any word from Basil?" I asked her.

"No, but that Hebrew's back again. He won't speak to anyone but you or Basil though."

Greatly puzzled I went into the living room. Zisman was sitting hunched over a cup of tea like Atlas with the weight of the world borne on his shoulders. When he saw me his face brightened, if only briefly.

"Doctor, thank heavens you're here! I simply didn't know what to do."

"What's happened?" I asked, already dreading what the answer might be.

"it's my wife, Doctor Dawson— she's gone missing!"