Chief Inspector Watson and Sergeant Holmes grilled Simon Sullivan’s three sons about their father’s murder, then left the wooded estate and headed to Albert’s Green Lantern Pub for a bit of ale and review.

    "You want the back room?" the scraggly bearded owner asked. "That way you can talk over your investigation without anyone overhearing."

    "Very kind of you, Albert." Watson said. He chewed at a corner of his gray mustache, then fastened his deep-set, brown eyes on Holmes. "Sergeant, you get the drinks and I’ll hold the room."

    "Yes, sir," Holmes said, to Watson’s large retreating backside. Damn! His first big case since transferring to Medley Vale and already Watson had him buying.

    "You gonna make an arrest soon?" Albert asked as he served up the pints.

    "Can’t say," Holmes replied.

    "Was it one of the sons?"

    "Can’t say," Holmes repeated.

    "Bet it was. Course it also could’ve been Herb Morton or his wife Althea. They put up with being old Sullivan’s gardener, chauffeur, cook and maid for more years than any sane folk could ever be expected to."

    "I can’t say," Holmes said once more. He threw a couple bills on the bar, scooped up the two cold mugs and headed to the back room where Watson waited impatiently.

    "You didn’t tell him anything, did you Holmes?"

    "Excuse me, sir?"

    "Albert. You didn’t discuss the case with him?"

    "Oh. No, sir. He wanted to, of course, but I wasn’t having any."

    Watson smiled. "Good. Wouldn’t do to tip our hand on who we think is guilty."

    "No, sir." Holmes watched as Watson drained half his mug. "Uh, who do we suspect, anyway, sir? I mean I know we spent the past hour with the three sons, but can we be sure one of them did it? Can we be sure we’re not overlooking something? Maybe jumping too fast to conclusions?"

    The Chief Inspector set down his mug and glared across the table. "I never jump to anything, Holmes. You ought to know that."

    Holmes’ round face reddened, and he tried to choose his words more carefully. "Yes, sir. I didn’t mean it to sound the way it did. I was just wondering ... well ...."

    "Spit it out, Holmes."

    "Yes, sir. I was just wondering why you – uh, we – were so certain it had to be either Mark, Wesley or Edward who clubbed Simon Sullivan with that fireplace poker?"

    "Who else?"

    "I don’t know. Maybe an outsider ... a tramp ... a drug addict looking for money. Someone did smash in that study window after all."

    "A put-up job. If the killer had entered that way he would have crushed some of those glass splinters into the carpet. But no one did – the glass lay all on top. Forensics backs me up on that."

    Holmes frowned. Damn! Old Watson was right. He drank a minute. "So which son do you favor as the killer, sir?"

    "Guess that depends on how we interpret the vital clue, wouldn’t you say?"

    "Vital clue? Oh, you mean that piece of note paper?"

    "It’s not just a piece of note paper. It’s Sullivan’s dying scrawl. The old guy was hit three times with that poker, and from three different angles. Yet he still lived long enough to crawl across the floor to his desk.  The blood trail confirms this. Sullivan got to the desk, grabbed that felt tip pen we found clutched in his right hand, scribbled on that paper, then collapsed to the floor, the paper falling beside him."

    Holmes nodded. "Yes, sir," he said. But he thought otherwise, thought the idea of a dying message more like something out of a far-fetched Golden Age detective novel.  But he didn’t dare voice such thoughts to Watson. Word had it the old boy loved Golden Age detective novels -- and dying clues.

    "I suppose," Holmes continued, "you think we ought to bring in Wesley for more intense questioning, is that right sir?"

    "Wesley?" Watson stared. "Why would you think that?"

    "Well because Mr. Sullivan ... well, he was obviously writing a W."

    "Was he?" Watson shook his head. "I’m surprised you’re accepting things at face value, Holmes."

    "Oh, but I’m not, sir. I just thought .... It sure looked like a W, that’s all."

    "Of course it did. But what if the paper’s turned around?"

    "Turned around?" Sergeant Holmes straightened his lanky frame in his chair. "But that’d mean ... that’d mean it could’ve been an M Sullivan printed. Not a W."

    The heavy-jawed chief inspector nodded, drank deeply from his mug, and nodded again. "Exactly."

    "Are you saying you suspect Mark Sullivan, sir?" 

    "Maybe. Maybe not. He was first on the scene.  Could’ve lost patience waiting for one of his brothers to discover the body and decided to do so himself. But when he returned to the study and saw the pen in his father’s hand and what the old man had scribbled .... His first thought would’ve been to destroy the paper. But then he might just have seen how he could turn it to his advantage."

    "By turning it around so it would point at his brother Wesley!" Sergeant Holmes blinked behind his glasses. "Sir, you could be onto something. If Wesley goes down for the murder, Mark’s cut of the inheritance increases. He’ll get half the old man’s estate not just a third." Holmes drained the rest of his pint and shoved back his chair.

    "Where are you going?"

    "Why back to the house, sir. We better pick up Mark Sullivan right away and give him the third degree."

    "Whoa. Not so fast."

    "But--"

    "What if it’s not an M or a W?"

    "Not an M or a W? But I thought you said ...."

    "I was just theorizing, Holmes. Now here’s another theory. What if you turn the paper only a quarter ways ‘round? Then what do we get? Not an M or a W, but an--"

    "E! For Edward. Damn! I think I need another pint!"

    "Get me a second, too."

    "Yes, sir." Holmes gathered up the two mugs, clomped back out to the bar and caught the pub owner’s eye. "Two more, Albert."

    "Figured out who done in old man Sullivan yet?" Albert asked, sliding the drinks over.

    Holmes frowned. "I’m still not at the liberty to discuss that."

    "Ah. No, I suppose not. Of course, you don’t have to discuss it. Maybe you could just drop a friendly little hint."

    "Can’t, Albert."

    "How about if I swear I’ll never let anything pass my lips ‘til you say?"

    "Nope." Holmes shook his head. Albert’s not talking was as likely as Watson paying for either of his ales.

    "I know," Albert said suddenly. He leaned forward and winked one of his big blue eyes. "What if I make a guess.  You don’t have to say anything. Just nod or shake your head and--"

    "No, Albert," Holmes snapped. "You’ll have to wait like the rest of Medley Vale." He threw a couple more bills on the bar, hefted a drink in each hand and returned to the back room.

    "Good," Watson said, taking his glass and beginning to drink before the Sergeant even had a chance to sit down.

    "We were discussing whether it might have been Edward, sir," Holmes said after a little imbibing of his own.

    "So we were." Watson set down his mug, wiped his mustache with a napkin and sighed. "Of course, that scribble of Sullivan’s may not be an E either."

    "No. I mean, yes, sir." Just who did the Chief Inspector suspect anyway? Or was he just totally lost and didn’t want to show it?

    Watson placed the tips of the fingers of his two hands together, and a dreamy look crept into his dark eyes. "Who has the strongest motive, Holmes?"

    "Uh ... they all do. All three sons, I mean."

    "How about opportunity?"

    Holmes shrugged. "Again all three. All were in the house, each in his own room, reading."

    Watson scowled. "You don’t actually mean you believe that claptrap, do you?"

    Holmes flushed. "Well they said--"

    "Of course that’s what they said, but do you really think three big-spending, good-looking, young studs would hole up on a Saturday night and do nothing more than read?  Three big spending, good-looking young studs known for driving fast cars and picking up women?"

    "Uh .... I hadn’t thought of it that way."

    "Humph!  You’re too nice a fellow, Holmes.  Too trusting. A great quality, I’m sure, but if you want to be a top copper you’ve got to question everything."

    "Yes, sir."

    "That’s better. Now then, it seems to me the reason Mark, Edward and Wesley were home wasn’t because they wanted to be, but because they had to be."

    "Had to be?"

    "Yeah. Remember what the hired help told us?"

    "You mean Herb and Althea Morton, sir? As I recall they didn’t see or hear anything. Living in that little cottage back of the big house I can see why."

    "They didn’t see anything, but they did say Simon Sullivan was furious with his three sons’ continued lack of initiative. So furious, in fact, that he’d finally cut off their allowances."

    "Ah, so they didn’t have any money to go out with, is that what you’re saying, sir?"

    "Yeah, and also that they needed to do something about it."

    "Something?"  The way Watson spoke the word sent a chill down Holmes’ spine.

    "Yeah. Like maybe murder."

    "But which one? Mark? Edward? Wesley?"

    "Think of that scrawl on that piece of note paper again, Holmes. Picture it in your mind and then turn it again."

    "Turn it where, sir? So it’s a W? An M?"

    "No. One more quarter turn."

    "E?"

    "No, the other way."

    "Other way?"

    "Yeah. So it looks like a backwards E. How an E would look in the mirror."

    Holmes shook his head. "Then it’s not any letter at all, sir. In fact .... Well, then it looks more like a 3."

    Watson bobbed his head. "Exactly."

    "Exactly what, sir? A 3 doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t fit any--"

    "How many sons are there?" Watson interrupted.

    "Huh?"

    "Wesley ... Edward ... Mark .... Use your noggin, Holmes. How many is that?"

    "Well, three. But--"

    "And Simon Sullivan was struck three times with that poker. Isn’t that correct?"

    "Yes, but--"

    "From three different angles."

    "Still ...." Holmes trailed off and stared. "Are you saying that each of them ...."

    "Three different angles ... three sons ... yes, Holmes, I’m saying each son wielded that poker once. They planned it out that way so one couldn’t rat on the another, so each would be equally culpable."

    Holmes blinked, and not just because of the crazy logic in Watson’s theory. ‘Wielded’? ‘Culpable’? Had Watson been taking night school vocabulary lessons on the sly or something?

    "You aren’t convinced?"

    "Well, sir ...." Holmes left yet another sentence unfinished as Watson beamed at him.

    "Good, Holmes. Excellent. You’re improving. You’re no longer taking everything at face value. You’re digging in your mind, questioning facts, just like I told you to." Watson gulped the rest of his ale and rose with a grunt. "Of course, this time ... these musings of mine .... Oh, they’re the goods, Holmes. The three sons did it together. But at least you’re firing up your brain a little, putting those gray cells of yours to good use for once. Now come along and we’ll put the screws to those three wastrels. We’ll get ‘em in separate rooms, sweat each a bit, then get ‘em to turn on one another."

***

    And indeed they did.

    Edward broke first. "It was all Mark and Wesley’s idea," he said, wringing his hands. "They’re both bigger than I and ... they made me go along with everything."

    And from Wesley: "I’m the youngest. No one’s ever listened to me. Edward and Mark ... they didn’t give me a choice, just hauled me in Father’s study and .... Oh, I’m so ashamed."

    And finally Mark: "I’ve always been in the middle – age, size, everything. Anyway, I really did want to stop them, but Wesley’s bigger and stronger, and Edward’s got this terrifying ability to make you do things you don’t want to do. He hypnotized me into joining them –- I swear it."

    "Looks like you hit the nail on the head, sir," Sergeant Holmes told his superior when they were alone in Watson’s office.

    Watson grunted, but it was a smug grunt.

    "There is one thing I’m still not certain about though," Holmes added. "That dying scrawl of Simon Sullivan’s. I’m still not convinced he was writing a 3."

    "Nor am I, Holmes," said Watson. He grinned. "But all that matters is that it put us on the right track, got us thinking about all three being in it together."

    Holmes stared. Had he heard right. Had Watson said ‘us’? Was he being included by the old boy as a co-solver of the case?

    "Yes," continued Watson, "we’ll probably never know what the old guy was trying to write. But that’s okay. We’ve got the sons’ confessions. We’ve closed down what could’ve become a messy case." He threw open his office door and switched off the room’s light. "Now, what do you say we go out and get us some supper. Fish and chips ... a couple of pints .... We’ve earned it, Sergeant, wouldn’t you agree?"

    "Uh, yes, sir. Yes, indeed." Sergeant Holmes dashed down the hall for his coat, then hurried after. He’d probably end up buying for both, but then again, maybe not. After all, Chief Inspector Watson was full of surprises.

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