The Adventure Of The Rose-Tinted Spectacles

by Martin Palazzotto

“Are you sure about this Superintendent?” the DCI asked into the phone. “No sir of course I’m not questioning you. It’s just that–well–he’s not the first detective I would consider putting in charge of a high-profile case.

“What’s that? No he’s not incompetent. In fact he’s very hard-working and has a decent enough pedigree. The eighth generation in his family to make detective, yes, but that is as far as any of their careers ever reached.

“The problem is he shows no inclination to be any different than his forebears. His rate of closure is nothing spectacular. At last review it was slightly above the MIT average but in my opinion — and it is my job to know sir — he simply lacks the necessary intuition and imagination to take command of a major case.”

The DCI winced as the voice on the other end took on a stern, urgent tone, then raised his eyebrows in surprise at the last communication.

“Straight from the top sir? Are you certain?”

The voice at the other end fairly exploded causing the DCI to yank the receiver away from his ear. “No sir! Of course I don’t think any such thing! It’s just–well–the idea the Commissioner would have any reason to have heard of the fellow seems ludicrous on the face of it.”

The voice at the other end delivered one last strongly worded command. The DCI blanched but as his lips parted to deliver a hasty “Yessir!” the line went dead. Gently, he returned the receiver to its cradle and stared at it for nearly a minute. There has to be some mistake, he thought. After further serious consideration, he decided it wasn’t worth eighteen years on the job to discover whose. Taking a deep breath he pushed a button on the intercom.

“Lestrade? My office. Now.”

Thirty-seconds later a shadow appeared on the other side of the door and a set of knuckles rapped on the opaque glass.

“Come.”

The door opened and a tall, reed-thin man entered. His suit was nondescript, his hair slightly tousled, and his complexion sallow. Dark eyes were narrowly set on either side of a thin aquiline nose. His lips were thin and he was known to be in the habit of running the tip of his tongue over them rapidly whenever he was nervous or struggling with a particularly difficult problem. It made him look, the DCI thought disparagingly, somewhat like a ferret.

Dropping a folder on the edge of his desk within Lestrade’s reach the DCI relayed the orders he had just been given. “I want you to transfer your current caseload to Toby Gregson and concentrate solely on this.”

Lestrade bristled at the idea. “To Gregson sir? He’ll just bungle them all and arrests are imminent in two or three. Why –”

The DCI cut him off, happy to forward a portion of his own recent tongue lashing to his insubordinate subordinate. “I don’t want to hear it Lestrade! I’m about sick of you and Gregson sniping at each other. Arresting and convicting murderers is not a competition. It’s serious business. What’s more this is a high-profile matter. It will demand one hundred percent of your attention. I daresay if — IF — you’re able to close the case a promotion might even be in order.”

“Sir!” At the mention of possible advancement Lestrade’s reluctance vanished like a tenner in a gypsy’s fist. He took the folder off the desk, opened it, and began reading as the DCI briefed him.

“The MP for Bunkton-Macclesby, Dexter Scrunch-Higgins, was found dead in his car, having apparently driven over an embankment and into a large road-side pond on Peckham Road in his district last evening. The forensic lads have been over the site with a fine tooth comb but nothing definite is known as yet.”

“Toxicology?” Lestrade inquired, unable to locate the paper in the mass of documents in his hand.

“Inconclusive,” the DCI replied, then continued. “Nor were there any tyre marks on the road, which was poorly lit. Two of the three street lamps at the bend where Scrunch-Higgins left the road were out-of-order.”

“Signs of tampering?”

“No. They were on the Highways Agency’s repair list. Had been for over a month.”

Lestrade snorted. “Probably would have been another two or three before a repair crew was dispatched. Anyone might take advantage of that but it’s going to be impossible to prove.”

“Yes well it’s your job to find the proof, isn’t it?” The DCI snapped.

“You have reason to believe there is some sir?” Lestrade asked, failing to note the irritation in his superior’s tone.

“No I don’t. Why would I?” The DCI raised a hand angrily when Lestrade attempted an answer. “It was a rhetorical question Detective. However the MP was spearheading a consumer advocacy campaign against LensCorp, who are the UK’s–and the world’s–number one producer of optical lenses. His group was beginning to make some headway in their efforts and that might have eventually proved costly to LensCorp.”

“Motive,” Lestrade noted. “I’ll need access to their records sir, and permission to speak with executives if I’m to establish a connection.”

“If there’s reasonable cause you’ll have it,” the DCI assured. “Anything else?”

Lestrade shook his head.

“Then get to it man!”

Lestrade nodded, turned smartly, then fumbled with the door knob in his eagerness to begin. Once he had the door open he passed through and pulled it shut behind with such energy that the glass rattled loudly. He opened it again and stuck his head back in sheepishly.

“Sorry sir.”

As the detective shut the door with less noise on the second effort the whole sequence put the DCI in mind of Peter Sellers. His stomach began to feel a bit queasy. No wonder, he thought, If I wanted this investigation to end up in the cold case files Lestrade would be the man I’d place in charge. Eighteen years, he reminded himself, opening the side drawer to his desk, and removing a bottle of Scotch and a glass.

Unaware of the lack of confidence he had inspired Lestrade breezed through the squad room to his desk and snatched his jacket from the back of his chair. Another desk faced his. A hard-looking fellow built like a tank, his clean-shaven head emphasizing his angry eyes, looked up from its seat.

“Call the motor pool Dunphy,” Lestrade ordered. “We’re off to Bunkton-Macclesby.”

Without another word Lestrade made for the door. “Christ!” Dunphy swore, reaching for the phone and trying to pull on his coat at the same time. “What’s the bleedin’ rush?”

Dunphy caught up with Lestrade at the motor-pool and got behind the wheel of an unmarked unit. Lestrade settled in the passenger seat, fastened his belt, then outlined the case for his partner. As Dunphy raced along the M towards the crime scene, Lestrade read the background package on the Right Honourable Dexter Scrunch-Higgins.

It seemed the politician was a crusader who hadn’t made many friends, even in his own party. He was a champion of the everyman, however, and as such had won re-election to a second term. Of late he had set his sights on LensCorp. Lestrade read the transcript from a parliamentary session in which Scrunch-Higgins had sought to introduce legislation which would ban a LensCorp product he deemed unsafe:

“Mr. Speaker, it has come to my attention that one of the United Kingdom’s most prestigious and successful companies, LensCorp, earns a significant portion of its revenue from a single product the use of which has proven both harmful and dangerous to consumers. What is worse this product is not sold directly to the consumer but is in fact distributed to intermediary agencies which use subliminal advertising and other forms of covert techniques to distribute this highly addictive and harmful product. In fact the general public isn’t even aware this product, which an overwhelming majority of men and an ever-growing portion of the female populace use, is real, believing it to exist only in the metaphorical sense.

The product I refer to is rose-tinted eyewear. In its early stages of development spectacles were the prevalent device in which the lenses were housed. This of course limited distribution, as the user must first have been diagnosed with an optical affliction in order for glasses to be prescribed. With the advent of the contact, however, it is now possible to deliver rose-tinted lenses to every football, rugby, and cricket fan in the country.

As such it is not difficult to explain the sudden resurgence of hooliganism. The unchecked drink culture in portions of the country also makes it easier to pull the wool over consumer’s eyes, if you’ll pardon the pun, not to mention providing a convenient distraction from the true cause of fan violence.

Loyalty to one’s club is all well and good but the public and the sports they love are suffering from the side effects of rose-tinted lenses. Otherwise rational people are exhibiting startlingly bad judgment as a result of their ignorance to the danger in which they have been placed. The pitch invasions at Birmingham/Villa and West Ham/Milwall matches in the past year or so are prime examples. A more subtle and sinister proof of the irrationality these lenses invoke is the recent declaration of Prince Charles that he is a Burnley supporter. The issue has even spread as far as Italy where, significantly, LensCorp’s market share rose by twenty-three percent in 2010.

Legislation needs to be introduced to stop this practice, Mr. Speaker, and…”

Lestrade couldn’t believe what he was reading. The whole thing seemed ridiculous. In fact MPs from both sides of the aisle had railed against Scrunch-Higgins’ allegations and attempts were made to censure him. For just the second time during the current government all three party leaders joined in a unanimous resolution labeling Scrunch-Higgins’ allegations as “absolute twaddle.”

Just as Lestrade murmured his agreement his eyes fell upon a press release which had somehow failed to make either the front or back pages. The MP claimed to have irrefutable documents–on disc–which not only proved the existence of rose-tinted lenses but detailed the insidious methods of distribution in which not only federations and clubs were compliant but television and media conglomerates as well.

Whistling in amazement Lestrade read the last out loud to Dunphy. “If we can find that disc we could blow this case wide open!”

“If it even exists,” Dunphy countered, “and if whoever did in Scrunch-Higgins didn’t recover it -or pay to have it recovered. If the bloke wasn’t mad and was on to them, anyone who has that disc stands to make a bloody lot of dosh.”

Lestrade mulled that over in his mind then made a note to schedule an interview at the earliest possible convenience with the LensCorp CEO. Dunphy seemed to have his thinking cap on as well. A reflective quiet settled on the car until it at last arrived at the bend in the road where the victim had met his untimely end.

Dunphy parked the vehicle on the safe side of the road. Both men got out and walked across to the gaping hole in the guard rail. Lestrade looked over the edge, gauging the sheer drop to the murky water to be at least twenty feet. As he considered the implications Dunphy wandered up the road in the direction from which Scrunch-Higgins had approached.

“Definitely no tyre marks,” he called out. “Odd he didn’t hit the brakes. At least one street lamp was lit so he should have seen the reflectors on the rail. As well there are road signs warning of the danger just up the road. We passed them on our way.”

Lestrade looked and Dunphy pointed them out.

“Could have been suicide,” the junior man suggested.

Lestrade snorted his derision. “You give up too easily. One, there was no note and two, if he had proof against LensCorp why would he pack it in?”

Dunphy shrugged. “He made it up and couldn’t bear to look the fool?”

Lestrade glared at him. “Now you’re just being lazy!”

The pair cast around for another hour both up and down the road but found nothing forensics had missed. Personally Lestrade was disappointed by that. He had an innate dislike for the scientific method. His family history, drummed into him by his father and grandfather, had begun its long malaise with the rise to fame and fortune of the first forensic investigator, the immortal Sherlock Holmes. Worse, the long line of Inspector Lestrades who had succeeded the original had never been able to overcome the shame of his being Holmes’ obvious inferior and thereby redeem his name. If he could find that disc, the family curse might, after a century and a half, finally be lifted.

Dusk gathered and as the lone lamp overhead came on he admitted defeat. There was nothing to be found here. Disappointed but unbowed he turned to Dunphy. “Let’s find a place to eat then a decent hotel. We’ll search his house and office in the morning.”

The next day it turned out the MP had lived in a modest cottage in a cul-de-sac on the edge of his district. The two detectives picked up the key from the local station house and arrived just after ten.

Dunphy narrowly missed clipping a grey sedan with black-tinted windows exiting the cul-de-sac just as they entered. The driver of the other car weaved to avoid him then sped off with squealing tyres. Lestrade looked back but didn’t get a view of the license plate. Muttering, Dunphy circled at the end of the road, intent on giving chase.

“No!” Lestrade ordered. “We won’t catch him. Besides, the traffic cameras should pin him down for us. Let’s have a look at the house.”

Dunphy shrugged. “Alright guv.” He circled again and pulled into Scrunch-Higgins’ drive. Dunphy’s hand was still on the emergency brake when Lestrade leapt out of the vehicle, making for the front door. He pulled up short. It was ajar with the police seal broken.

“Bloody hell!” Lestrade cursed. He pulled out his phone and called the station house, issuing an alert for the sedan. “Get on to the traffic video,” he ordered. “This is a suspect in a murder investigation… What…? Bloody hell!”

Dunphy looked at him. “Traffic cameras have been out all morning,” Lestrade explained. “Computer malfunction.”

“We should have went after him,” Dunphy complained.

“How was I supposed to know?” Lestrade protested. “And it would have been too late in any event. By the time you got us turned ‘round they’d have had a half-mile lead. Best forget it. Let’s see if they left anything behind for us.”

Inside, the house was a shambles. Every room was turned upside down. It would take forever to determine if anything had been taken. The pair waited for forensics to arrive before they headed for the politician’s headquarters. Lestrade none too happy about that.

The small storefront office was on the village high street, not far from the common. Scrunch-Higgins’ aide, who identified himself as Davis, was waiting for them along with several somber volunteers who were busy answering the phones. Lestrade began to question the aide immediately. Davis informed him he and the volunteers had arrived around seven-thirty and the phones hadn’t stopped ringing.

“A few well-wishers,” Davis informed Lestrade, “but mostly the press looking for a headline.”

No, there had been no signs of illegal entry when they arrived; a constable had been stationed outside overnight, at any rate. No, he didn’t know why the same arrangements hadn’t been made for the MP’s residence, wasn’t that the Inspector’s job?

Lestrade glared at the man’s insolence, then barked an order to Dunphy. “Get on to the station house. Find out why they had a unit here but not at Scrunch-Higgins’ place.”

“Right,” Dunphy replied, pulling out his cell.

As Lestrade continued to question Davis he spared one eye for a look at the outer office. There was a row of file cabinets on one wall. He made a note to have them picked up for the forensic accountants to sift through. He absolutely hated having to use that word, forensic, but it was being attached to everything these days. The opposite wall was lined with campaign posters hovering above two very expensive-looking copiers likely capable of printing out flyers, pamphlets, and other literature at a moment’s notice, as well as an electronic postage meter for mailings. Signs, ready for distribution during election campaigns, were piled in a corner. The back wall held doors to two offices, a storage closet, and the loo.

Davis was going on about how difficult it would be to find a candidate who shared the MP’s agenda to take over his seat. Lestrade nodded his sympathy sure in his mind the fellow was plotting for the job himself.

“Mind if we take a look at the MP’s office?” he asked.

“Not at all Inspector,” Davis answered, startled out of his narrative in mid-stream. “Not at all. Right through here.”

Scrunch-Higgins’ inner sanctum was backed by a wall of photos, the politician posing with all manner of celebrities and colleagues. His desk was a large mahogany, the surface cleaned and polished, with empty in and out trays to one corner, and a photo of the man himself with an elderly woman. Likely his mother. Lestrade sat in the high-backed leather chair behind the desk, while Davis stood uncomfortably on the visitor’s side, his hands resting on two nicked and scuffed wooden armchairs.

“There doesn’t seem to be anything here,” Lestrade remarked, spreading his hands across the desk’s immaculate surface.

Davis’ face reddened slightly. “Well,” he stammered, “I packed the active files into boxes and carted them over to my office to work on. Didn’t really feel comfortable here you know. Shall I fetch them?”

“Please,” Lestrade replied.

The man hurried out, leaving the door half-open in his wake. The Inspector took the opportunity to look through the desk drawers. The bottom was empty, the contents probably also in Davis’ office, while the top held pens, paper clips, the MP’s official seal, a post office box key, and a book of postage stamps with just the one missing. Frowning, he slipped the last two items into his coat pocke and surveyed the outer office once again. His tongue flickered over his upper lip momentarily. Then he smiled, reaching for his phone. Davis came back in, huffing under the weight of two boxes of files.

“This is everything,” he announced.

“Thank you,” Lestrade said, coming to his feet. “Just place them on the desk. I’ll have someone pick them up. If you’ll excuse me a moment, I must attend to something. I’ll leave you in the capable hands of my partner. “

Rounding the desk, the Inspector went to the outer office to conference with Dunphy. Standing close and keeping his voice low, he held up his phone. “Just got a text from the missus,” he lied. “Can you keep an eye on this lot while I find an ATM?”

“Sure mate,” Dunphy nodded. “Not a problem. Everything alright?”

“Oh yeah yeah,” Lestrade said. “School trip has to be paid for and she forgot. Overspent on some frilly things.”

Dunphy’s eyebrows went up in shock and surprised admiration. “Nice!” he whispered.

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders humbly, then nodded towards the office. “Davis has some boxes in there we may want to look through.”

Dunphy nodded. “I’ll get on to the station house.”

“Great. Won’t be long.”

Lestrade went out, looked in both directions, then strode briskly towards the village common. Standing at the entrance he gazed up at a statue of Wellington. Everyone comes to their Waterloo sooner or later, he thought. He turned, making a visual circuit of the shops. Locating the post office, he cut across the sleepy street and entered to the sound of a jingling bell. He bypassed the counter and went straight down a hall leading to the back.

A moment later he re-emerged, looking to either side, and licking his upper lip. There was a dark blue sedan, the same make as the one he and Dunphy had seen fleeing the MP’s cottage, with identical dark-tint on the windows. It hadn’t been there when he’d gone inside. Walking over to the car, Lestrade opened his jacket and flashed his ID at the dark window. The vehicle’s engine revved loudly, then spun its wheels as it sped away from the curb. Smiling grimly, he made his way back to Dunphy.

Over the next few weeks the partners pored over evidence, reports, speculation in the media, and minutes from parliamentary sessions. Beyond the one press release, which was hardly conclusive proof, there was nothing to suggest LensCorp had committed any crime, entered into any conspiracy, or even had been manufacturing rose-tinted lenses. The DCI pointed these facts out to Lestrade every time he begged for permission to interview anyone at the company.

After nearly two months of futility Dunphy was assigned to a new partner. That it was Gregson only made Lestrade push harder, but the DCI would not relent. On his own, Lestrade began taking his work home. He researched LensCorp extensively. The executives made very few public appearances. After Scrunch-Higgins’ death they expressed their regrets at the “tragedy”, extending their condolences to the family, but refused to comment on the speculation over any cover-up. In short order public interest shifted to other scandals and the story fell off the map. Yet the executives’ personal histories suggested to Lestrade that none of them were pulling the strings.

Lestrade began focusing on the stockholders. A large bloc of shares, over 50% of the company’s offerings in fact, traced back to a single entity. It took the determined detective another month of digging to locate the principal. The name staring back at him was startling, revelatory, and extremely intimidating. He almost abandoned the investigation but after thinking it through decided that eight generations of caution had yet to pay off. Perhaps it was time to be bold.

The tip of his tongue rested on his upper lip as he composed a daring email. He proofed it three times then, finally satisfied, held his breath as he clicked send. Looking over his shoulder he saw the missus was sound asleep in her frumpy gown. He got to his feet and slipped into the loo to shower. Afterwards, he thought, I just might manage three hours of rest before leaving for the office.

Fifteen minutes later he returned to the bedroom and was surprised to see his email alert blinking. He sat back down and opened his inbox. The message was from the principal. He whistled softly and clicked on the link. The message was succinct.

We should meet. Be at my office at ten am.

There was an address included. Lestrade logged off and slipped into bed. For the next three hours he lay awake staring at the ceiling. When the first rays of sunlight peeked into the window and his alarm clock sounded he dressed, sipped coffee, pretended to read the paper, and generally ignored his wife and children. When he reached the office he clocked in, checked his messages, then informed dispatch he would be out of the building until after lunch.

Lestrade’s destination was only six blocks from New Scotland Yard. There was a steady drizzle but he took his umbrella, using the time it took to walk to order his thoughts one final time. Arriving at the address, a tall glass and steel structure, he shook out his umbrella under the canopy and walked through the revolving door. Stepping over to the security desk, he spoke the name of his appointment, and was directed to an isolated elevator at one end of the enormous lobby. Two burly men with radios on their hips stood on either side of the doors. Inside, a third waited to escort him up.

“Detective Lestrade.” The man’s tone was one of professional respect. Lestrade acknowledged the greeting as the doors closed. The lift rose with a smooth hiss, carrying and carried them straight to the top.

When it arrived the doors opened straight into his appointment’s office. There was no reception, merely a massive room lit softly by a large vaulted skylight. Two luxurious sofas faced each other, perhaps fifteen feet from the lift. The space around them was dotted by priceless sculptures and dynastic vases. The walls alternated between fine tapestries, priceless paintings and immense bookshelves. At the far end of the room, behind a large ebony desk adorned by two shaded ivory lamps, waited a man in a smoking jacket.

Lestrade stepped out of the elevator and the doors slid closed behind him. He and his appointment were alone but the detective was certain bodyguards were close to hand if needed. He took in the room then slowly strode across it to greet his host, who waited impassively.

When he arrived at the desk the detective sized up the man. He was of average height and features although his blonde hair, just beginning to turn grey at the temples, was long and wavy, sweeping back from his face but reaching down to his shoulders. Lestrade guessed the man had about fifteen years on him. It was difficult, though, to discern the color of his eyes; they were somewhere between blue and green, and flecked with silver. They danced in the dim light, filled with an intelligence that filled Lestrade with dread and doubt. The detective felt uncomfortably exposed under their glare. He gathered his nerve and spoke however.

“Moriarty?”

“Indeed detective,” came the reply. “Well met. Please sit.”

An immaculately manicured hand sporting a single ring set with a glittering black stone gestured to a chair obviously made to match the desk. Lestrade sat.

The chair was comfortable but he was hardly at ease in the presence of this scion of his ancestor’s — and the immortal Holmes’ — greatest nemesis. The more the Inspector thought about it the more he was sure this man was even more dangerous than the original. After all he had managed to build his own criminal–and legitimate–empire with Scotland Yard, the Crown, and the whole world in fact none the wiser.

“You have something for me?” Moriarty inquired. The man’s voice was as smooth as velvet and as relaxed as the leather upholstery Lestrade was currently occupying.

“I do,” Lestrade nodded, managing to keep the tremor out of his own speech. “You understand there is a price?”

“Hmmm,” Moriarty mused. “And why shouldn’t I simply take what I want?”

“I’m sure you could,” Lestrade admitted, “but that would involve slightly more effort and risk. You seem to me a man who prefers to keep things simple.”

“This is hardly a simple matter.”

“Isn’t it?”

Moriarty smiled. It was the grin of a cat who had all the time in the world to play with the mouse whose tail was caught under his paw. “You think so Inspector?”

“I do.”

“Well, by all means then, elaborate.”

Lestrade put a hand into his breast pocket, then hesitated. Moriarty gave no sign of alarm,however, his benign smile remaining in place. The detective pulled a sheathed computer disc from his pocket and, leaning forward, placed it on the edge of the ebony desk. Then he sat back.

Moriarty’s smile grew but he made no move for the disc. “How did you find it?” he asked.

Lestrade shrugged.

“Your men didn’t have a chance to search Scrunch-Higgins’ office,” he began. “After we had searched the MP’s cottage we didn’t post a sentry but we did at the office because there were civilians there who might be in danger. In his desk I found a post office box key and a book of stamps with one missing. On the face of it that wasn’t anything unusual but there was a postage meter in the outer office. What need did Scrunch-Higgins have for stamps?

“I made an excuse to my partner and ducked out to check the box. The disc was there — as were your men. The MP knew his life was in jeopardy and felt the information wasn’t secure on his person or hidden at his home or office.”

“Well done detective,” Moriarty conceded.

Lestrade permitted himself one ironic smile. “One might say it was…elementary.”

Moriarty threw his head back and laughed. “That is rich. Yet now you place this disc with its damning contents in my hands? You’ve made copies, I suppose, although you must surely realize I have the resources to find them before they come into the public light and the power to suppress them if I can’t?”

“I made no copies,” Lestrade answered.

Moriarty’s grin finally faded and his glittering eyes narrowed. “Indeed? And why, pray tell, not?”

“The information on it is useless,” Lestrade replied. “In fact the MP’s political opponents were absolutely correct. It’s complete twaddle.”

“Twaddle?”

“Yes, it’s utter rubbish,” Lestrade affirmed. He reached for his waist and removed a small yet hefty flashlight. “If I may?”

Moriarty gestured his assent and Lestrade leaned forward, placing the flashlight next to the disc, then brought his hands up to his face. Carefully he removed a contact lens from each eye, holding each up to the light of the nearest lamp where they reflected a faint pink twinkle. Then he set them down on the desk as well. Finally he picked up the flashlight, and using the shaft as a blunt instrument, crushed both lenses.

“Very dramatic,” Moriarty murmured. “Your point?”

“Rose-tinted lenses,” Lestrade said matter-of-factly, “are only a danger in the metaphorical sense. Like the Emperor’s new clothes. They exert no influence over the person who wears them nor do anything to distort one’s perspective. People’s emotions are their own sir, their actions their own responsibility. Fan violence, hooliganism, and blind loyalty are not brought about by magic glass anymore than they are by alcohol.

“What you have done, brilliantly I might add, is swindle the clubs, broadcasters, and likely the betting establishments as well, into spending billions of pounds collectively on a completely false product. Therefore the disc holds no value. The knowledge in my head, and placed in several very discreet but sensitive, difficult to reach places, in the event of my untimely demise, however, does have some worth to you I believe.”

Moriarty gazed at him for several moments saying nothing. Finally he took a seat on the opposite side of the desk and tented his fingers. “It would seem I and a great deal of others have underestimated you Inspector. You have certainly proven to be cut from a far finer cloth than your ancestry would suggest.”

The detective nodded, accepting the compliment he had longed to hear for so long with humility and grace.

Moriarty seemed even more impressed by the reaction. “Obviously you have not come here to arrest me. What is it you want then?”

Lestrade smiled. “Not much sir, not much at all. From your perspective in fact barely a tuppence.”

When, a fortnight later, Inspector Lestrade submitted his final report in the Scrunch-Higgins affair, stating there was no evidence of foul play in the MP’s death and whether it was merely an accident or suicide could not be determined, the DCI only wondered why it had taken so long for the man to give in to his own shortcomings. He supposed Lestrade deserved some credit for dogged determination even if he lacked the requisite intelligence to get the job done. Still the massive loss of man hours chafed at his sensibilities. When he passed the report up the chain of command he was even less surprised that neither criticism nor acknowledgment was forthcoming. The matter was well and truly buried.

A month later the DCI was unperturbed when Lestrade tendered his resignation. The man had gone as far as he could in the Service after all. Not long afterwards he sat in the office, his copy of the Times opened to the Business page. His eyes scanned quickly over an article announcing “billionaire investor William R. Moriarty had been awarded the MBE for service to the nation in the arenas of business, media and sport”, but stopped abruptly when he read “Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of the MIT, retired, had accepted the position of Vice President in charge of Security at LensCorp”.

Having crumpled the page in shock, he smoothed it out, then read the report again to be entirely sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Stunned, he leaned back in his chair and stared into space. His hand reached for the telephone to order an inquiry but changed direction in mid-movement, instead yanking open the bottom drawer of his desk and removing the bottle and glass stored therein. He poured a full glass of the amber liquid and gulped it down. His throat burned, but he poured and swallowed another just as quickly. As he filled the glass a third time and set it on top of the paper, one thought ran through his mind repeatedly.

Eighteen years. Eighteen years.



The Adventure Of The Rose-Tinted Spectacles by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.