The Adventure of the Dancing Men
PREViOUS STORIES
(by Alistair Kitching )

"That is what Mr. Smith, of Cambridge, is very anxious to know. This little conundrum came by the first post, and he was to follow by the next train. There's a ring at the bell, Watson. I should not be very much surprised if this were he."

A heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and an instant later there entered a tall, ruddy, clean-shaven gentleman, whose clear eyes and florid cheeks told of a life led far from the fogs of Baker Street. Since moving to Ely we had begun to take on the same air ourselves. Having shaken hands with each of us, he was about to sit down, when his eye rested upon the picture, which I had just examined and thrown upon the table.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, what do you make of this" he cried. "They told me that you were fond of queer mysteries, and I don't think you can find a queerer one than that. I sent this on ahead, so that you might have time to study it before I came."

"It is certainly rather a curious production," said Holmes. "At first sight it would appear to be an odd prank. It consists of a bulldozer ploughing through a rather wet-looking field. Why should you attribute any importance to so grotesque an object?"

"I never should, Mr. Holmes. But my wife does. It is frightening her to death. She says nothing, but I can see terror in her eyes. She's an Archaeologist, and they're a funny lot, but I've never seen her so
agitated. She tells me some great vandalism has been delivered upon our historical landscape."

Holmes held up the paper so that the sunlight shone full upon it. "She might be right, Mr Smith," said he and fixed me with his trademark steely gaze, "and I fear that Watson's friend Mad Dog may be the key to it all."

Damn that Holmes! Damn him!

Mr Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the morning, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked up the evening Newspaper which our visitor had left behind him the night before. It was a fine, informative rag, Across the front it announced "Night Club for Ely" with the date October 1999.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"

Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of my occupation.

"How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back of your head."

"I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front of me," said he. "But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of our visitor's highly amusing little journal? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir becomes of importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an examination of it."

"I think," said I, following as far as I could the methods of my companion, "that this chap is a cheerful, scholarly member of the small but admirable Cambridgeshire community"

"Good!" said Holmes. "Excellent!"

"I think also that the probability is in favour of his being an Elean born and bred, who does a great deal of his visiting on foot."

"Why so?"

"Because this paper, though originally a very handsome one, has been so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a casual reader carrying it.  The cover is dog-eared, so it is evident that he has done a great amount of walking around with it stuffed into his pockets, clearly deep in thought, and concerned big style about this," at which point I jabbed disapprovingly at the Night Club headline, "this absurd notion of a flesh pot on our very doorstep!"

"Perfectly sound" said Holmes.

"And then again, there is the club itself. Such a dreadful den of sin can only result in a destructive criminalisation for this city. Our friend here, I'm certain, would want nothing to do with it. Even we, Holmes, did not move from the grimy despair of Victorian London to 90s Ely to be caught up in the bawdy badinage of the unwashed and unwanted jackanapes
who inhabit these establishments. No, our gentleman is just that, a gentleman. And he wants nought of this so-called 'Night Club'."

"Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said Holmes, pushing back his chair and popping a small acid tab. "I am bound to say that in all the accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own small achievements you have habitually underrated your own abilities. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in your debt."

He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had made to give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way which earned his approval. He now took the
newspaper from my hands and examined it for a few minutes with his rapidly blurring eyes. Then with an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette, and, carrying the thing to the window, he looked over it again with a convex lens.

"Interesting, though elementary," said he as he returned to his favourite corner of the settee. "There are certainly one or two indications upon the programme. It gives us the basis for several deductions."

"Has anything escaped me?" I asked with some self-importance. "I trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?"

"I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank, that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided towards the truth. Not that you're entirely wrong in this instance. This chap is certainly a Cambridgeshire man."

"Then I was right."

"To that extent. Not entirely difficult though, was it?"

"You may be right."

"The probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start our construction of this unknown visitor."

"Well, then, supposing that this person is actually deeply interested in the Night Club, what further inferences may we draw? Do none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply them!"

"I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man is vehemently opposed to the place and will carry on doing so until he shuffles off this mortal coil. After all, who wants a, a, a discotheque - as I believe common parlance would have it - in the city centre?"

"I think that we might venture a little farther than this. Look at it in this light. On what occasion would it be most probable that such a paper would be purchased? Why, the launch of the club itself! Obviously at the moment when the programme was bought an enormous self-confidence flowed through this man's being. He knew this was his moment. He was flooded by that confidence. This person knew there were many like-minded souls. This newpaper, my dear Watson, was bought here by a Night Club supporter!."

"It certainly seems probable."

"Now, you will observe that the Night Club supporter is currently down on his luck, with nothing in Ely to keep him or her happy, yes? Note also how the paper, although weathered, is not actually opened, see how some pages are still uncut at the top? This man wanted simply the front page, the knoeledge that the District Council had passed the motion to grant a licence.  He had no desire to open it after this. So, we remove your opposer and there emerges a young fellow under thirty, fanatically loved up, single-minded, a big fan of Hooj Tunes and the Ministry of Sound and the possessor of a favourite dog called Bullseye, which I should describe roughly as being larger than a terrier and smaller than a mastiff. Oh, and he's an Aries whose lottery numbers this week are 2,3,15,34,46 and 48."

I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his settee and blew little triumphal rings of smoke up to the ceiling... the git...!