“The Somnambulant Assassin”
I
t is at the behest of Professor Hoyle that I began to transcribe the events that shook the socialite scene of London, that certain things might be clarified. I hope that you may also derive some enjoyment from my tale at the same time, but I must warn you, say my publishers, that it is a dark tale, a tale of villainy, deceit and forbidden arts, so, if you are of a weak disposition, I urge you not to read on. For those of you brave (or foolhardy) enough to continue, allow me to regale you with the tale of THE SOMNAMBULENT ASSASSIN. The story begins with me in my town house in London. I was in the drawing room, discussing my latest invention with Professor Hoyle, a friend of longstanding and a well respected resident at the British Museum . “And so you see, if I open the right hand valve, it extends the outer barrel, and if i open the left hand valve, it extends the inner,” I explained, twisting the wheels in turn. “What if you turn both at the same time?” “This device here,” I tapped a box underneath the main assembly, “prevents you from doing that, otherwise it could be problematic, as I have found to my cost.” “Ah, do you mind if I give it a try?” “Not at all, my dear professor.” I stood aside and motioned him towards the eyepiece. Steam hissed as he toyed with the mechanism. “May I be so bold as to make a couple of observations?” “Not at all,” I said, confident in my invention. “Firstly, with the lack of effort required to operate a telescope of this magnification, a steam powered one is somewhat redundant.” “Go on,” I said, a little reticently. “Secondly, the fact that the steam generator requires either a hand cart or rather cumbersome harness, whereas a mundane telescope can be stored easily about the person. And finally,
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the steam from the engine obscures the view somewhat.” “Well, it’s a work in progress, I don’t expect to have all the answers at once,” I replied, a little testily, if I am to be honest. All too often, people fail to see potential in a design, even people as learned as the Professor. Before he could respond, there was a sharp rapping at the door. “Come!” I barked and my manservant Jarvis entered. A sturdy fellow of indeterminate age, his family had served mine for as far back as I could remember. “Sir, there is a gentleman to see the Professor. He claims to be from Scotland Yard and is demanding to see the Professor.” “Well then Jarvis, show him in,” I commanded. A short, ruddy fellow with a thick beard entered, flanked by two gentlemen in police uniforms. “Mr. Smythe, my name is Inspector Greaves. My apologies for the intrusion, but I’m afraid that Professor Hoyle is under arrest. Officers, take the Professor into custody.” “This is preposterous!” exclaimed the Professor, attempting vainly to free his hands from the two police officers as they cuffed him. “What am I being accused of?” “The murder of Lord Lionel Pettigrew,” replied the inspector. Both the Professor and I were shocked by this terrible news. “This is preposterous!” I cried. “The Professor and Pettigrew are close friends, why, only this very morning, the professor was telling me the wonderful job Pettigrew was doing in sponsoring the museum’s exhibition of anthropological curiosities.” “That’s as it may be, Smythe, but, according to witnesses, the Professor was the last person to see Pettigrew alive, and we found a blood stained antique knife, of the sort used by jungle explorers, in Hoyle’s quarters.”