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“As you wish,” Holms said, “Let us consider the course we have traversed. I originally conjectured that Henderson might have been taken ill, but Wilson disabused me of that notion.”
“I have my uses,” I said proudly.
“Or perhaps that some friend had fallen ill and required his aid. But this would not give him a reason to cease all contact with his club.”
“Man United is a family,” Alexander said equally proudly.
“A surrogate family perhaps,” Holms continued . “However, we next considered the jealousy of Tommy Balfour, but decided that he did not have the mental capacity for such a dastardly deed.”
“I never took to that theory,” Alexander commented, “If Balfour wanted Henderson out of the road he'd have broken his leg on the training ground. That's the way footballers operate.”
Holms cast me a glance which indicated that this was bad form and I had to agree, but Holms continued with his analysis. “We then considered whether Henderson might have been kidnapped by his opponents.”
“Liverpool!” Alexander volunteered while I added, Spain!”
“And through a process of investigation and deduction decided that these were not the guilty parties. We turned then to the prospect that Henderson had been abducted by an older woman, yet the evidence did not support this. Henderson left that training pitch of his own free will.”
Alexander seemed to sense that the finger of blame was turning towards him for he cried out, “It may just have appeared like that. He could have been under some threat.”
“I considered that,” Holms acknowledged, “but nothing supported the theory that he was under any kind of coercion.”
“Get to it, Holms,” Alexander cried impatiently, “Where is he, and why did he leave?”
Holms smiled grimly. “Patience, Alexander. As I have said, ultimately you are guilty.”
“I deny it, I had nothing to do with it,” Alexander claimed.
Now, there occurred the unexpected. We heard the noises of a loud struggle from the hallway and jumped to our feet. The door flew open and Mrs Houston and Cynthia La Crème, locked in combat, fell into the room.
“What in the name of ..?” I cried.
Miss la Crème broke away from her adversary and advanced on Holms. “Where's Jimmy?” she demanded.
Mrs Houston rearranged her clothing and attempted to apologise fro the intrusion. “I couldn't stop her, Mr Holms.”
Holm waved the young woman into the company. “Permit! Permit! She has a right to be here.”
“Trollop!” Mrs Houston vented.
“Off with you, Mrs Houston,” Holms commanded and the old woman retreated.
“Please, Miss La Crème, be seated,” Holms offered. “I have been going through the process of deduction I have employed.”
Oh, the boring bit. Glad I missed that. Where's Jimmy then?”