The Case of the Black Arrow-Chapter 4

As an author's note before we begin, "hawkshaw"= old timey word for a detective


For the second time in less than a week, I was gazing up at a run down building. The neighborhood was slightly better than the location of the shoe maker’s shop, at least. Basil was looking at the abandoned newspaper printery (located inside an abandoned human newspaper printery) with a fire in his eyes that gave me pause. While Basil was normally voracious in his pursuit of justice, and I no less enthusiastic in accompanying him, standing in front of another seedy building without a clearly laid-out plan had me doubting (not for the first time) his mental stability.

“You know, you never told me what we’re going to do if we find this fellow,” I grumbled. “We don’t have backup yet to help us”. Something told me Basil himself didn’t even really know. Either that or he did have a plan and the notion of something going awry hadn’t occurred to him. Both scenarios left me with a sense of impending doom.

“Details, details,” Basil replied nonchalantly, more or less confirming the former scenario, which did exactly nothing to alleviate my reluctance. “Come, come, Doctor. If our vigilante has taken up residence inside, we should have a look before he becomes wise to our presence and flees”.

Without ado, we entered the abandoned printery. The inside was in even greater disrepair than the outside. Giant human linotype machines in varying states of decrepitude lined the place from front to back. The scent of ink, metal, dust, and old paper assaulted our noses as we crept between the machines. Because we did not know where The Black Arrow was residing in the building, or if he was currently present in the first place, we took extra care to investigate as quietly as possible, barely speaking to each other at all. We traversed the massive expanse of the printery in search of any sign of our quarry, but as the minutes ticked by into hours, neither hide nor hair of The Black Arrow was apparent. Basil kept his eyes to the dusty floor looking for footprints or other clues, his eyebrows knitting further and further together in his every growing frustration. It was a sentiment that I fully empathized with at the time.

We rounded the corner of a linotype machine near the back wall. Basil still had his eyes on the floor in front of him. I, on the other hand, had my attention focused on the area around us. It was quite dim inside the printery with only tiny streams of light filtering through the dingy windows, and I had to squint my eyes to see. But along the far wall, coming out of a well shadowed crack in the baseboard that led outside, I could see them clearly: footprints in the dust. Despite my earlier apprehension, a surge of excitement coursed through me, and I tugged on Basil’s coat sleeve to alert him of my findings. Furor etched its way across his face, and he dashed toward the footprints with me trailing not too far behind him. He kneeled on the floor, pulling out his magnifying glass to get a better look.

“These are definitely from our vigilante,” he whispered while panning the magnifying glass over the footprints. It was difficult to distinguish some of them, as there were several sets going in and out from the crack in the wall. “The newest ones are only a few days old”.

The excitement I had felt mere moments prior was suddenly dissipated, “That means he hasn’t been here”.

“Or he he hasn’t left since last returning,” countered Basil. “Or there is another entrance we have yet to find”.

As always, Basil thought of possibilities I hadn’t, so I simply nodded in agreement as he took a few more moments to examine the footprints. Once he was finished, we began to follow the trail. It led past and around the machine we were standing by toward the adjacent wall and disappeared around the corner. The footprints continued toward the baseboard along the wall.

And then abruptly stopped.

“What the devil?” I cursed. Basil remained silent, leaning in close to the baseboard with his magnifying glass to get a closer inspection.

“Dawson, I believe we found the entrance to the printery run by our people,” he declared.

I glanced at him skeptically, “How could you possibly know that?”

Basil grabbed my wrist with one hand, and with the other gestured at a spot along the baseboard, “Feel here, along this part,” I did, and was surprised to feel a seam in the wood which extended up, over, and back down. It was a hidden door, not so different from the one Basil and I used to access Mr. Holmes’ flat above our own.

“Give it a push, old man. I suspect it will open easily enough,” said Basil, looking pleased with himself.

I did as Basil asked, and gave the door a decent heave. It opened with only minor resistance, and within moments we were peering inside a room that looked exactly like the printery behind us, only mouse-sized. The only difference was that there were no windows, so several lamps were scattered about the place, some lit and some not. What caught our attention, however, was the large collage of news articles tacked to the wall to our left. Basil immediately rushed to have a better look, grabbing one of the lamps as he went.

“These are articles pertaining to the cases he’s solved,” Basil observed when he got close enough. “See, here’s the one about the smugglers. Here’s one about the Chattoways. And look! Information about the criminals! My, my he really is thorough. Names, aliases, criminal history, last known location. There are a few here I haven’t seen in the news. Hmm. Dougal Campbell. I haven’t heard of him. This says he’s suspected of trafficking. Trafficking what, I wonder. Dawson? Dawson, are you listening?”

I was listening, but only distantly. My attention had been caught by a group of articles that were separate from the rest.

They were articles about Basil and me, about the cases we had solved together.

“Basil,” I called, “I think you should take a look at this”.

Reluctantly tearing himself away from the other articles, Basil came over to look at what I had discovered.

“Well, that’s disconcerting. I wonder why he’s interested in us,” Basil mused, sounding only mildly unnerved.

“You don’t--you don’t think he’s after us?” I asked, disturbed at the thought.

Scoffing, Basil said, “Don’t be absurd. He goes after criminals, and we are no such thing. No, I’d imagine what our vigilante is doing is sniffing out the competition. Though what he plans to do with this information remains unclear”. He narrowed his eyes at the group of news articles, and we continued examining the other clippings on the wall until we reached the back of the printery. There, we were astonished to find, was a more homey looking space, if one could call it that. In the corner was a mattress made of shredded bits of paper, and covered with a shabby looking blanket. Beyond that was a pile of dark clothing, a small table with a chair, stacks of torn blank newspaper, a few bottles of ink and pens, and about half a dozen boxes filled with logs keeping track of different degenerates in the city. All the things that didn’t fit on the walls, Basil guessed.

“He’s clearly only using this place to sleep and further his investigations,” Basil turned this way and that looking about the place. “There isn’t even any food here. No personal possessions. Nothing”.

“Yes, but he’s also clearly not here either,” I pointed out with a sigh. “I think we should leave. This place is too sparse for any clues to be forthcoming”.

Basil dropped a piece of paper back into the box he’d taken it from, and set down the lamp he’d been holding, “You’re right, Dawson. I hoped we’d find something that could give us some insight into who this man is. I thought…,” he trailed off but didn’t continue. He just sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets looking utterly dejected. “Come. Let’s go. It seems we’ve come up empty”.

No sooner had we started making our way back to the door that Basil and I both heard it: the sound of wood creaking somewhere near one of the linotype machines. The Black Arrow was there. He’d been there the whole time, watching us. I squinted my eyes to see through the dimness of the room, but it was an effort in futility. The shadows were too perfect a place for a black mouse clad in black clothing to hide.

“See here!” Basil called with an air of authority, “We know you’re there! Show yourself at once!”

A few beats of thick silence passed. I thought for a moment that we had been mistaken, that maybe The Black Arrow wasn’t in the printery with us, but then the sound of movement among the machines could be heard. In the darkness, I could see a hooded figure appear. He slowly advanced toward us, the light from the lamps casting an eerie glow on his dark form. Black as the devil. Whitmore hadn’t been exaggerating.

“I was wondering if I was ever going to meet you, hawkshaw. To what do I owe this truly high honor?” Basil and I froze when we heard The Black Arrow speak. His voice was higher pitched than I was expecting, and filled with an unsettling tone of childish delight. But what grabbed my attention was the one characteristic both Mr. Crispin and little Hazel Chattoway thought was of note: his accent. To me, it was distinctly American. East coast, if my ears served me correctly. This answered the question of where this fellow was from, but as Basil says, when one question is answered, ten more are asked. Now we needed to find out how on earth an American ended up in London on a crusade to save children.

The Black Arrow stopped walking a few metres in front of us. His hood obscured most of his face and the poor lighting was more than advantageous for the effect. The only things that were not obscured, though, were the long lead pipe in his left hand and his infamous steel-capped boots. Both were a pressing reminder that Basil and I had come unarmed.

“Have you come to arrest me?” asked The Black Arrow, but he didn’t sound at all worried about the prospect. Skilled as he was at fighting, he didn’t need to be.

“Why, of course not, old fellow. We’ve simply come to talk,” said Basil in his characteristic pleasantly aloof tone that he reserved for delicate situations like this, “You’ve made quite an impression on both sides of the law here in London. I suppose my associate and I are curious. We have a few questions for you, if you’d be so kind as to indulge us”.

The Black Arrow didn’t say anything for a several moments. He just held Basil’s gaze, or at least, I think he did; his hood made it difficult to tell. Then, his head turned in my direction, and a bit of light illuminated his eyes as they met mine. They were a sharp, piercing, pale brown color, like amber, and held no warmth in them. I gulped nervously as The Black Arrow stared me down. I got the feeling that the man was appraising me, and the sensation only unsettled me further. This man seemed like the exact opposite of the kind and respectful person Mr. Crispin and Miss Chattoway described, and I couldn’t help but wonder what aspects of The Black Arrow were genuine and which were an act.

He turned his head back to Basil, and let out a sharp breath through his nose, “That’s not why you’re here”.

“I beg your pardon?” questioned Basil, his expression falling slightly.

“Well, that’s not the whole reason why you’re here. I do have my guesses though. But! That’s not important. You have questions, and because I am a considerate, generous person, I will indulge you. Ask away, hawkshaw”.

“Very well. First off, would you mind removing your hood? I would much rather have a conversation with a man who’s not afraid to show me his face,” said Basil, some of the pleasantness gone from his tone.

Another beat of silence. The Black Arrow seemed hesitant, but then shrugged, “I suppose that’s fair,” and with the hand that wasn’t holding the lead pipe, he pulled down his hood, revealing a face with features that were soft, but still quite handsome, if a tad gaunt. His snout, shorter than Basil’s but longer than mine, was tipped with a beige nose that matched the insides of his large ears. The rest of his fur, true to description, was black as pitch.

He held his arms out in presentation, “Well? Is this more to your liking?”

Basil gave The Black Arrow a once over, taking in his features and memorizing them, “Your weapon,” he said instead of answering, “dispose of it, if you please”.

A grin broke out on The Black Arrow’s face, something wicked and smug, like he was privy to something we weren’t. He looked down at the pipe in his hand, “I don’t think so”.

“We mean you no harm,” I said reassuringly.

The Black Arrow looked at me skeptically, “I can’t know that for sure. You’re the ones who barged into my abode. I’m well within my right to be armed”.

“Spoken like a true American,” Basil commented distastefully under his breath. “Consider it a gesture of good faith,” he said loud enough for The Black Arrow to hear.

“Fine,” the vigilante relented with another shrug. He crouched to place the pipe on the ground, then stood and nudged the pipe off to the side with his boot. “I suppose if it comes down to it, I don’t need a weapon to hurt you”.

Basil narrowed his eyes at The Black Arrow while I audibly gulped. We both knew the man was right. I had combat training in the army, but I had not seen much active combat as a doctor. My time had been spent in triage trying to save lives, not take them. Basil, though his human idol was a skilled boxer, was absolutely useless in a physical fight. He had the scars from his confrontation with Professor Ratigan to prove it. The truth of the matter was that we were outmatched, and all I could do was hope things didn’t go downhill.

“You were hiding,” Basil remarked, his eyes darting to the linotypes behind the vigilante. “How did you know we were here?”

Smirking, The Black Arrow said, “Afghani catgut. Such an odd thing to smell in an abandoned newspaper printery, and, good lord, does the stench permeate a room, even with the door closed”.

Basil shot me an irritated look and heat flooded my cheeks in embarrassment. On more than one occasion, Basil had said that I needed to stop mending my own clothes with my surgical thread, as the catgut I had acquired in Afghanistan had such a distinctive smell it could potentially interfere with our investigations in any number of ways. I wouldn’t say it interfered in this instance since we still ended up finding The Black Arrow, but I couldn’t help feeling like a scolded child nonetheless.

“And you knew my associate had spent time in Afghanistan, and so knew it was us,” Basil extrapolated. “Impressive”.

“It wasn’t that hard to figure out,” The Black Arrow dismissed. “Aren’t you going to ask me any difficult questions?”

Basil’s lips turned down as he thought of a response, then settled on asking, “Who are you?”

“Now that is a hard-hitting question, hawkshaw! And one I’m afraid I can’t easily answer for you”.

“Your name will do fine for a start,” said Basil.

The vigilante gestured to the clippings on the wall behind us “Your newspapers call me The Black Arrow. Seems as apt as anything”.

“Your real name,” Basil demanded through gritted teeth.

“If you honestly think I’m going to tell you that, then you’re woefully and hilariously mistaken”.

“Would I be mistaken in thinking your name is Vincent?” Basil asked pointedly. “We know it’s one you’ve been using”.

I don’t know what reaction Basil was hoping to elicit from the The Black Arrow. The one he got was a complete, albeit brief, stripping of the vigilante’s bravado. The smile died away from The Black Arrow’s face, and he looked down at his boots with an indiscernible expression on his face.

“What’s the matter, old boy?” Basil taunted. “Didn’t think we’d discover any of your aliases?”

“It’s not that. I find it unfortunate that someone as kind as Mr. Crispin got pulled into this”.

There was something about that statement didn’t sit well with me: how with the mention of his alias he knew we had spoken to Mr. Crispin, “The shoe maker is the only person you’ve given your name to?” I asked.

“He’s the only person I’ve given that name to,” he replied.

“But the name does mean something to you, doesn’t it?” Basil began pacing back and forth in front of the vigilante, who tracked Basil’s movements with a sharp look. “I originally thought it was a family name. Your father’s name or your mother’s maiden name”.

“You’d be wrong in both cases”.

“Oh, I know it! I didn’t put the pieces together until I heard you speak,” said Basil, a smug look creeping onto his face.

The Black Arrow’s tail twitched, but his expression remained devoid of emotion.

Basil continued, “You are from Baltimore, are you not? Oh, don’t deny it, my good man. Your accent gave you away. Mr. Crispin mentioned it, as did Hazel Chattoway, so we knew that you were a foreigner. What I didn’t understand when I first walked in here was how someone could leave their family behind for a life like this, but now I know that you don’t have a family. You’re an orphan. I’ve read that St. Vincent’s Infant Asylum is quite the institution in rodential Baltimore. Am I correct so far?”

The continued silence was all the confirmation Basil needed.

“That brings me to your signature you have used in your letters: the bow and arrow. Now, assuming that your surname is St. Vincent, as it’s quite common for foundlings to be named for the orphanage at which they are left, that leaves your first name. I am convinced that it’s Archer”.

A laugh burst forth from The Black Arrow. It was sharp, unattractive, and condescension dripped from it like venom from a viper’s fangs, “Oh! Oh, you’re so close. So close. I would almost be impressed, if you weren’t still wrong”.

Frowning, Basil said, “Then enlighten me”.

“Why would I want to do that?” The Black Arrow asked mockingly. “This game is fun”.

“Then a hint, perhaps?” I suggested. “Certainly there’s no harm in that”.

The Black Arrow considered my words for a moment, “I suppose a hint couldn’t hurt. You are right in assuming foundlings are named after their orphanages, but names can be changed. The bow and arrow is a symbol of the mouse I am now”.

“And who is that?” questioned Basil.

Stepping into Basil’s personal space, The Black Arrow got right in his face. He was just about Basil’s height, if not a hair taller, “If you’re so clever, hawkshaw, then you can figure it out”.

Basil didn’t flinch, “I fully intend to”.

“You will try. I doubt you will succeed”.

“Why not?”

“Because all you really have is speculation. You have nothing other than your over-inflated sense of superiority to tell you that you are right, because I’m not going to outright confirm anything. You know nothing about me except what criminals, a grateful shoe maker, and a young child have told you. I can speculate about you too, you know. And I have a lot more information at my disposal”.

“You believe your deduction skills are on par with my own?” Basil asked in disbelief. “Then, pray, give us a demonstration! I think it’ll prove to be entertaining, at the very least”.

The Black Arrow simply smiled his wicked smile, and started circling around Basil in a predatory manner, “You come from a wealthy family, wealthy enough to give you a good education. Judging from the fact that you aren’t the heir to whatever venture your family is involved in that got them their money, I think it’s safe to assume that you have an older brother to fill that position. I’m also going to go out on a limb and say that you also have an older sister, making you the baby of the bunch. Am I on the right track so far?”

“I won’t confirm anything until you’ve finished,” Basil said with a look on his face that suggested he was surprised, but was trying to hide it.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Anyway, you showed the makings of a brilliant mind at a young age, something that was valued and encouraged in your family, but ended up alienating you from your peers as you grew up. You didn’t have many friends as a child, except your siblings who loved their baby brother unconditionally despite how insufferable he could be. No, you didn’t make any real friends until you went to university. I had to look up where: Oxford. It’s surprising how easy enrollment records are to come by if you ask the right people, but that’s neither here nor there. Oxford was where you thrived, absorbing all the knowledge you could about any and every subject, and it’s also where you finally found people who appreciated your genius instead of ostracizing you for it. You graduated top of your class with honors. After that, you relocated to London because you had a dream of becoming a high-ranking detective with Scotland Yard”.

So far, to my knowledge, The Black Arrow was completely spot on with his deductions, and all I could do was stand there in shock, mouth agape. It felt wrong hearing intimate details about Basil’s life come out of a stranger’s mouth. Basil himself looked rather disquieted by the proceedings.

“Scotland Yard didn’t appreciate your intellect, though, did they?” The Black Arrow continued, “the police force is an institution where you have to  pay your dues and brown-nose to get ahead. There’s this expectation of keeping your head down and doing what you’re told no matter what. A policeman’s heart is usually in the right place, but they generally care more about finding someone to lock up than actual justice and truth. Your superiors found your skills insolent and counterproductive to their ends, so you were relegated to desk duty. You could not abide this, so you left the police force to make your own way. You happened upon the human, Sherlock Holmes, independent consulting detective, and found your true calling. That brings us to where we are right at this very moment”.

“I don’t see how this proves anything. You could have found that out from anywh--”.

“You’re right,” The Black Arrow agreed, “details about someone’s background aren’t that hard to get, are they, Sherringford? But who you are as a person? There’s the challenge!”

Basil’s hackles rose upon the use of his first name, the one that no one ever used when speaking to him, not even me. “Get on with it, then,” he sneered.

The Black Arrow took a deep breath, and began, “You are quite a multifaceted, complicated person. When you are investigating a case, you are fearless, determined, driven, and singularly focused in your task, so much so that you do not stop until your task is done, often neglecting your own personal needs in the process. You fancy yourself as a proper English gentleman, and so you conduct yourself with dignity, honor, honesty, respect, wit, and charm. And, really, it should go without saying that you are incredibly intelligent. Being able to find me is proof enough. Nearly everyone in London knows these things about you; I’ve read it in the newspapers and heard it on the streets. What they don’t know are the downsides to operating at an intellectual level far above everyone else. It breeds obsession. You need a case to occupy your time otherwise you get bored, and slip into bouts of depression until something that ignites your spark comes along. During these times you become distant, aloof, rude, maybe even cruel if the mood persists long enough. You live an isolated life, a lonely life, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything, because what else is someone as smart as you supposed to do with themselves? So you immerse yourself in your work, pushing and driving yourself in an effort to stave off the loneliness and depression, constantly teetering between not caring how others perceive you, and being pathetically desperate for acknowledgment and praise”.

“That’s enough!” I shouted. The man circling Basil may have been able to discern many things about him, and I could not deny that it was all true, but this man didn’t know Basil, not the way I did. He had not seen Basil in his element, and so had no place criticising my friend.

I marched right up to The Black Arrow to give him a piece of my mind. Poking a finger at my opponent’s chest, unheeding of any danger from him, I began to rage, “How dare you. How dare you! Basil is an upstanding, respectable citizen who helps people. You too have a brilliant mind, and you use it to brutalize criminals. I dare say that you are barely better than they are! You hooligan, you ruffian!  You have no right, no right, to pass judgement!”

Stunned, The Black Arrow stared down at me a tad wide-eyed with an expression that suggested he was surprised by my outburst, but not so much by its content. He quickly recovered, however. Narrowing his eyes, he leaned down so he and I were at eye level.

“What your friend does is perform a service for a fee, and who does that really help besides those with the coin to pay it? If he wanted to ‘help’ people, he could have become a scientist and made discoveries about the universe, or become a doctor and made advancements in medicine, but he dedicates most of his time to trivial matters like finding lost jewelry for rich, vapid women. We all have our failings,” he straightened his posture with a scathing gaze at both Basil and me, “I think it’s time for you to leave”.

“Now, why would we do that?” asked Basil. “We were just getting star--”

Basil never got to finish his sentence, for at that moment we heard Inspector Pine’s voice in the distance shouting at his team of constables, who had finally arrived to offer us back up.

“In here!” Basil called. The Black Arrow jerked his head to look at us with an expression that was mixed with confusion and, to my surprise, fear.

“Yes, they are here to arrest you,” Basil confirmed with a smug grin. “Mr. Hawthorne didn’t appreciate the beating you gave him, and is pressing assault and battery charges against you”.

The vigilante frowned at this news, and then he insulted Mr. Hawthorne in a way that conservatism and good manners dictate I not repeat here.

“It would be in your best interest if you cooperated,” I urged, not wanting this to get any messier than it had to.

“You lied to me,” The Black Arrow said, sounding stunned, betrayed, and a tad impressed all at once. Looking back in the direction of the oncoming sounds of Pine and the other police officers, The Black Arrow considered his options for a moment, and uttered a flippant “Well then”.

Before either of us could do anything, he leaned back, and with the sole of his boot, kicked Basil right in the solar plexus. Basil stumbled backwards, then landed flat on his back, knocking the wind right out of his lungs.

“Oh, dear,” The Black Arrow said airily, his expression wholly unconcerned, “I believe that man needs medical attention”.

And then he dashed off in the direction he had originally come, toward another concealed door in the far wall that I could only assume led outside. I momentarily entertained the idea of following him, but the sound of Basil gasping for air as he regained his breath stopped me. I rushed over to check on my friend, who was curled in on himself in pain.

“Basil, you need to take slow, deep breaths. Come on, there’s a good chap,” I soothed. Within a few moments, Basil’s breathing become more even and calm as his diaphragm ceased spasming. With my help, he stood up and dusted himself off just as Pine was approaching us.

“Well, where is he?” Pine demanded. Upon seeing how shaken Basil was, added, “What happened to you?”

“He got away. Kicked Basil in the chest before doing a bunk,” I explained and pointed to where The Black Arrow had fled, “he went that way, if you want your men to see if they can figure out what became of him”.

Pine let out a sharp whistle, and gestured to three nearby constables to go where I had indicated. He then instructed the remaining officers to collect The Black Arrow’s belongings, from the news articles on the wall to the lead pipe still laying by its lonesome on the floor by the linotype machines, and they obediently complied.

“It took you long enough to get here, Pine,” Basil groused once he completed righting himself. “The fiend was just about to have us leave”.

Pine only glared in reply, not being able to deny that it had indeed taken him a long time to arrive at The Black Arrow’s hideout, “Why don’t you explain to me what exactly happened”.

So we did. Basil recounted to the inspector how he discovered where the vigilante was hiding and all the events leading up to The Black Arrow’s escape. Pine jotted down Basil’s statement in his little notebook, nodding and humming where appropriate in Basil’s story.

“An American? This bloke keeps getting more and more interesting. It’s too bad you let him get away,” Pine said when Basil finished. “I have a feeling finding him again is going to prove most difficult”.

Basil scowled at the inspector, “I didn’t let him do anything, but you’re right. He knows we’re after him, and is going to take extra care in not being found”.

“Any idea where he might go?” questioned Pine.

“None,” Basil replied dejectedly.

“He was keeping track of a few people. There might be some clues in his records,” I said.

“Perhaps. All the more reason to get it all back to headquarters as quickly as possible,” Pine replied.

“Um, excuse me?” came a timid voice. It was one of the constables, a short, tawny mouse whom I had seen around Scotland Yard, but whose name I didn’t know.

“Yes, Dalton, what is it?” Pine asked the constable irritably.

“Well, sir, it ,um, seems there’s no sign of The Black Arrow, sir”.

Pine looked up sharply at Dalton, who visibly winced, “You interrupted me to tell me that?”

“I’m sorry, sir!” Dalton exclaimed, fidgeting where he stood, “I did find something though, on the ground outside. I think it might belong to The Black Arrow! Here!” he opened his hand at Pine, who snatched whatever it was.

“What is it, Pine?” Basil asked in interest, trying to get a look.

“I’m,” Pine’s brows knit together in thought, “I’m not sure. Here. What do you make of it?”

Pine held out the object for Basil. Upon taking it, I could see that it was a necklace. The silver was tarnished to black, but, the pendant, however, was far more noteworthy. At first glance, it wouldn’t be hard to mistake it for something abstract, but to a trained eye, it was clear what the pendant had been fashioned to look like.

“Those look like antlers,” I observed.

“Yes,” Basil agreed, “stag antlers, if I’m not mistaken”.

“Dalton, what makes you think this belongs to our suspect?” Pine asked.

“I-i-it was just laying in the middle of the alley. Seems like a strange place for a necklace, if you ask me,” Dalton answered.

“Basil, what do you think is the significance?” I asked my friend.

Basil gazed down at the necklace with a thoughtful look, “I don’t know, Dawson, I--” a look of dawning realization suddenly passed over Basil’s face. He grabbed my arm and pulled me along back the way we had come in, completely oblivious to Pine’s protests. We rushed back to Toby, waiting a block away from the printery.

“What is it, Basil? Where are we going?” I asked, wondering what on earth had come over him.

“To the post office,” Basil answered without elaborating.

“What for?”

“I am going to send a telegram to St. Vincent’s in Baltimore. We may learn the identity of The Black Arrow before the day is over!

After giving instructions to Toby, we were off. At the post office, Basil composed his telegram, giving a description of The Black Arrow and asking for any information. When he was done, he paid the clerk, and then we left.

Now, the only thing we could do was wait for an answer.

We went back to our flat in the meantime. I was content with reading to pass the time, but Basil was far too agitated to stay still for that long. He paced all around the sitting room, The Black Arrow’s letter in one hand and the stag necklace in the other, mumbling under his breath about “who The Black Arrow is now”.

A reply didn’t come until several hours later. Basil had been so lost in thought he nearly jumped out of his fur when there was a knock on the door, but he quickly answered it and tipped the delivery boy. He dashed back to his armchair and tore open the envelope, a triumphant gleam growing in his eyes.

“A-ha! I knew it! Here, Dawson, read it”.

I took the telegram from his hand, fishing in my pocket for my glasses. Once I got them in place, I began to read:

DETECTIVE BASIL

ONLY MOUSE MATCHING YOUR DESCRIPTION WAS A GIRL PUP WE NAMED URSULA ST VINCENT STOP WAS ADOPTED AT AGE TWELVE BY PROF JAMES FLETCHER AND WIFE EDITH OF NOTRE DAME OF MARYLAND STOP CHANGED HER FIRST NAME TO ARTEMIS STOP LETTER OF EXPLANATION TO FOLLOW

SISTER BERNADETTE

Suddenly it all made sense: the soft face, the higher pitched voice, that smug look when The Black Arrow revealed their face to us and we didn’t notice a thing.

It was a good thing my armchair was behind me, because I was so shocked, my legs gave out from under me.

Girl pup.

Artemis Fletcher.

The Black Arrow was a woman.