The man lay face down in the gutter. Dark rain splattered onto him and my companion, who stood silent. Then, he spoke. “Watson, what do you make of this?”
I contemplated, wondering what Holmes wanted me to deduce. “He was well to-do given his pocket watch and the cut of his vest.”
“And?”
“He was stabbed in the back.”
“What do you make of the weapon?”
I had examined the wound. It was triangularly-shaped, as if an awl had been driven into the man’s back I ventured, “An ice pic, I would say.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “And what of the cage?”
It was a small cage of wood, suitable for a small bird. “Obviously, a bird cage, by the looks of it.”
“And what of the bird, Watson?”
“It’s flown its coop, so to speak.”
“Good man, Watson. You are wrong in almost every aspect.” I grumbled under my breath. Holmes had a way of getting under my skin. The man is indeed well to-do but not rich. The bird cage, as you put it, is a cage that housed a chicken given the plethora of feathers.” I saw the feathers, as if for the first time. Holmes went on. “The murderer stabbed the man in the back with the beak of the still-live chicken.”
“Holmes! That’s barbaric! How do you know it was alive?”
“The body of the bird is nowhere to be seen, and the murdered would have no reason to take is with him once the deed had been done. Ghastly, murder, this.”
I shook my head. “Indeed, a fowl deed, Holmes.”
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