Clearly amused by Lestrade’s bewilderment, Conan Doyle said, “Well, if we are all ready now, perhaps I can explain to you exactly how Ian Douglas met his demise.”

“Yes, how did he die?” asked Lestrade.   “If he wasn’t murdered by his brother, Andrew, then who did murder Ian Douglas?”

“No one,” replied Conan Doyle.

“What?” asked Margaret and Andrew Douglas as one, breaking their hug for a moment to stare toward the great author.

Bridget paled noticeably, while I stared open-mouthed and Lestrade said, “If this is one of your little games….”

“It’s no game, Lestrade.   No one murdered Ian Douglas,” said Conan Doyle.   “Unless you consider suicide to be a form of self-murder.”

“Suicide?” asked Lestrade, clearly as bewildered as I was.   “But why would he have committed suicide!”

“To get revenge upon his wife and brother, for their love affair,” explained Conan Doyle.

“Love affair?” said Lestrade.   “You mean Andrew and Margaret…?   Well, this throws a whole new light on the case…But wait a minute…”   He paused for a moment to consider what he had just learnt, then said exactly what I was thinking, “I can understand a man being enraged at his wife and brother for having an affair, but still, killing yourself hardly seems like a very efficient way to get revenge!”

“It could be, Chief Inspector, if you were already dying of elephantiasis, and if you could arrange it to look like murder, and to look as though you wife’s lover is the obvious suspect.”

“Sort of like killing two birds with one stone?” I asked.

“Exactly, old fellow,” agreed Conan Doyle.

Lestrade, still clearly perplexed, scratched his forehead ruminatively for a moment, then said, “But wait on, how did Ian Douglas get hold of the gun?”

“That’s right,” agreed Andrew, “I was within sight of Ian the entire time that I was here, that time when I called upon him.   There was no way that Ian could have taken the revolver from me.”

Conan Doyle turned to face Bridget and said, “No, but you could have, couldn’t you, Bridget?”

“Me?” asked Bridget, at a squeak.

“That’s right.   You had every opportunity to take the gun from Andrew’s coat, when you were hanging it up, or at any time while he was in talking to his brother.”

“But why should I want to take the stupid gun?”

“Yes, what did she have to gain by taking it?” asked Lestrade.

“Two things, Chief Inspector, helping her lover achieve revenge upon the two people who he hated the most in the world, and helping him out of his misery.”

“Well, that’s all very well, but…” said Lestrade, before it dawned upon him.   “Her lover?   You mean to say that Bridget here and her employer were at it too?”

“That’s right, Lestrade,” agreed Conan Doyle, going on to relate to the Chief Inspector everything that we had been told by the private investigator, Wentworth.

“Blimey,” said Lestrade.   “Well, if this fellow Wentworth were in Andrew Douglas’s house from 10:00 a.m. last night till early this morning, then I suppose that he is a perfect witness to the fact that Andrew Douglas never left his bed long enough to have killed his brother.”

“Yes,” agreed Conan Doyle, “a somewhat reluctant witness, if called upon, I should imagine, but a perfect witness nonetheless.”

“He’s a liar!” shrieked Bridget, trying to sound confident, although she had a look of fear in her eyes.   “That man Wentworth is a liar and a sneak!   I told Ian not to trust him….”

“Ian?” asked Conan Doyle, making Bridget blush.

“Mr Ian, I meant,” she hastened to explain.

“Can he prove it in court?” asked Lestrade.   “I mean about Bridget and Ian Douglas being lovers.”

“Oh yes, Chief Inspector, he has several tape recordings that he made of Bridget and Ian together.”

“Tape recordings?” asked Bridget.

Conan Doyle explained the process to her and her eyes widened, as she began to realise the full implications.

“So what if we were lovers?” demanded Bridget.   “That doesn’t prove that I helped Ian to kill himself!”

“No it doesn’t,” pointed out Chief inspector Lestrade.

“No, however, it does give her a reason to help him,” said Conan Doyle.   “It also explains how Ian Douglas could have obtained his brother’s revolver.”

“That’s a very fine theory,” said Bridget with a sneer in her voice, “but where is your proof?”

“She’s right, there’s no good saying she isn’t,” said Lestrade.   “It’s all right to theorise about how he may have done it, but that won’t stand up in court.   We still need to have some real proof that Ian Douglas killed himself.”

“And so we do,” insisted Conan Doyle.   “The gun, clean of prints, the right-hand glove, and the broken window glass,” pointing back toward the glass on the carpet, “broken from the inside in such a manner to make it look, at first glance, as though the killer had gain access to the bedroom through the window.”

“But how do they prove that he killed himself?” I asked.

“They don’t!   He’s only bluffing!” insisted Bridget.

“No I’m not,” said Conan Doyle.   “These are proofs all right.   To begin with, Ian Douglas wore a white glove, so that there would be no finger prints left on the gun, when he shot himself.”

“But that’s a right-hand glove!” pointed out Bridget.

“And Ian was left handed,” reminded Margaret, drawing a smirk from the maid.

“Yes,” agreed Conan Doyle, “this is the partner of the glove that he wore when he shot himself.   He wore the left-hand glove to protect against leaving prints on the gun, then after he was dead, Bridget carefully removed the gun from his hand — presumably wearing gloves herself — removed the left-hand glove and destroyed it, or threw it away.   But what she forgot to do was to destroy its partner.”

“The right-hand glove,” I said, drawing a nod of approval from the great author.

“But if he had a gun in his hand when he died, his fist….” said Lestrade, stopping as inspiration struck him.

“His fist would have been clenched from holding the gun,” Conan Doyle finished the sentence.   “As indeed it was, Lestrade.   As you yourself said, ‘As though to hit out at someone.’   In reality it was from gripping the gun when he died.   Bridget was able to straighten his hand out enough to remove the gun and the glove, but she could not completely unclench it.”

Lestrade pondered this for a few moments, then said, “Yes, yes I suppose that that would explain it.”

“But what about the broken window glass?” asked Margaret Douglas.   “What was the point behind that?”

“To make the police suspect Andrew,” explained Conan Doyle.   “Ian and Bridget took it for granted that we would see through the ruse.   It was intended that we should, so that when we did we would naturally suspect Andrew, who could have been admitted to the house by Ian Douglas, or could even have had his own set of keys to the house.   And in whose best interest it would have been to make it appear as though the killer had gained entrance to the house through the bedroom window.”

“Ah!” said Lestrade.   “Now I understand.”   Turning to face Bridget, he demanded, “Well, young lady, what have you got to say for yourself?”

For a moment it looked as though the maid were going to make a run for it, instead she put her hands up to her eyes and began sobbing.

After a few seconds, she looked up from her hands to say, “Yes, yes all right it’s true, that’s exactly how we did it.”

Beaming with pleasure, Lestrade took hold of Bridget by one arm and said, “All right, my girl, you can come along with me!   This will really be another feather in my cap, when the boys down at the Yard hear how I solved this one.”

“You solved it?” I asked.

“Er, well, with a little help from Mr Conan Doyle,” conceded Lestrade as he dragged the sobbing maid out into the corridor.

“What will they do to her?” asked Margaret Douglas.

“Well, unless Andrew decides to press charges against her, she will probably get away with a suspended sentence,” said Conan Doyle.

“No, I have no wish to hurt her,” said Andrew.   “In a way what she did was no worse than what Maggie and I have done: fallen in love.   Ian have tried to frame me out of hatred, but Bridget did it from love of him.”

At this Andrew and Margaret began to kiss and hug again.

“Come along, old fellow,” said Conan Doyle, “I think that it is time that we were leaving.”

After a quick glance at my fob watch, I said, “Why my goodness me, yes, it is nearly eight a.m., and I have to be at my clinic by nine.”

“But you must allow me to pay you for your services, Mr Holmes, I mean Mr Conan Doyle,” said Margaret.

“Conan Doyle?” asked Andrew.

“No need,” assured Conan Doyle, “although you might make good to Mr Wentworth, since I have promised to see that he is paid in full.”

“Of course, Mr Conan Doyle,” agreed Margaret.

“And if I could have permission to write this little episode up as fiction, using false names, of course?”

“Granted Mr Conan Doyle,” said Margaret.   Then, turning back to Andrew she began to explain to her lover about Conan Doyle not really being Sherlock Holes.

As we made our departure, the great author said to me, “If my good friend Dr Watson were to write this story up, I think the good doctor would call it, The Adventure of the Right-Hand Glove.”

THE END