AN UNCONVENTIONAL MURDER

 

No Arrest in Sherlock Holmes Convention Murder

​

The investigation into the killing of a convention organizer following the close of the annual Sherlock Holmes Deerstalker Convention last Sunday is ongoing, say police.

 

Dale Bartlet, longtime director of the convention, was found dead from a gunshot wound in his room at the Riverside Tower Hotel last Sunday, October 3rd. According to Riverside sources, he was discovered alone in his suite with the manual deadbolt engaged. There were no signs of a struggle and no weapon was found at the scene.

 

A spokeswoman for the police states the department has been following up on numerous leads and continues to question people of interest.

 

Anyone with information about the murder is urged to call (800) NO CRIME.

 

The article in The Philadelphia Broadside caught Daisy Carruthers’ attention not only because the headline was so unexpected, but because she was presently a guest at the Riverside Tower Hotel. An anthropologist writing for the Global Human Rights Journal, Daisy had been invited to attend a panel discussion at a National Liberty Center program.

 

She had taken the opportunity to combine business with pleasure and booked two extra nights at the hotel to explore Philadelphia following the program.

 

Enjoying a leisurely breakfast in the hotel restaurant before heading out the next morning, she set the newspaper aside and unlocked her phone. She did a quick search for “Deerstalker convention murder.”

 

She found pages of hits, mostly news stories about the event, but also articles and posts about Dale Bartlet, his business, his professional associates, and his family.

 

Daisy read several of the articles as she sipped her coffee. The first detailed Bartlet’s passion for Sherlock Holmes and the Deerstalker Convention, which he called “his first love, after his family.” He was founder and director of the convention, which had been running every October in Philadelphia for seven years. Bartlet prided himself on being a fount of knowledge of both Doyle and his most well-known and beloved character.

 

A second article recounted the seed that would later bloom into the conference. Bartlet and his business partner, a friend from their time in the military, produced the event as a passion project. Both were pillars of the community—they served on various boards and were engaged with several charities. Bartlet worked in finance; his partner was an English professor. He was the one who had convinced Bartlet to turn his love for Arthur Conan Doyle’s works into a profitable venture.

 

The next hit was a blog post written by an attendee of the Deerstalker Convention the previous year. An hour-by-hour recap of the weekend-long conference, the post offered a fascinating look into the world of Sherlock Holmes and Conan Doyle devotees. The convention offered different activities and events each year. According to the blog, attendees had enjoyed trivia contests (with generous prizes), a murder-mystery dinner theater, a silent auction, and programs about everything from Conan Doyle’s childhood to life in Victorian and Edwardian London, the eras during which Sherlock Holmes solved his cases. There was a costume contest every year, short concerts of music from the time, and Sherlock Holmes skits written and performed by attendees. According to the blogger, even security personnel dressed like Scotland Yard constables.

 

On her way to the Constitution Center, Daisy meandered through Old City, charmed by the cobblestone streets, the Georgian and Federal-style architecture, and the quaint museums tucked in among the row houses. If only she had more time for sightseeing.

 

She stopped short at the word “library” on an historical metal marker in front of a building she admired. According to the marker, Dr. A.S.W. Rosenbach was a renowned rare book dealer who, along with his brother Philip, established the Rosenbach Museum and Library to share their personal collection with the public.

 

Daisy checked her watch. She had a timed ticket to enter the Constitution Center, so she wouldn’t be able to visit the Rosenbach until later. She texted the address to herself and hurried to the National Constitution Center, where she spent hours wandering through the exhibits and listening to docents talk about their areas of expertise. She raised her eyebrows in surprise when an announcement was made asking visitors to make their way to the entrance of the building, as it was nearly time to close. The time had flown.

 

Outside, a fife and drum corps on the front lawn entertained the crowds leaving the building. She sat on a low wall and listened to the music. When she looked at her watch again, it was after six o’clock. She doubted she would be able to get into the Rosenbach.

 

She tried, though. She set off at a quick pace through the streets until she arrived at the museum and library, only to find it closed. She checked the front door for their hours—tomorrow was Friday, so they opened at 10:30. She was heading back to DC Friday afternoon, so she would have to be at the Rosenbach when it opened if she wanted to cram in everything she could.

 

The next morning Daisy counted fourteen other people waiting by the front door of the Rosenbach when a staff member unlocked it. Daisy had spent Thursday night reading all she could find about the library, so she knew exactly where she needed to beeline.

 

The library’s Treasures Gallery was her first stop. Being a mystery fan and having read about the murder of Dale Bartlet following the Sherlock Holmes Deerstalker Convention, she wanted a look at the library’s original manuscript of Conan Doyle’s “The Adventure of the Empty House.” She didn’t even know if the museum had the manuscript on permanent public display, but she was going to find out.

 

And she couldn’t leave without seeing the leaf of the Gutenberg Bible in the collection, as well as the works on display by Shakespeare and Chaucer. She also wanted a closer look at the Phyllis Wheatley letters, as she was working on a history of American slave literature.

 

The Treasures Gallery felt larger than it appeared in photos online. One homey room was paneled in a sunny green, the other in a slate blue. The rooms teemed with an intoxicating number of historical books and manuscripts.
 

But as Daisy wandered through the exhibits, the space grew warmer. Bodies pressed against each other as people vied for prime viewing spots. Daisy frowned when someone stomped on her foot, allegedly by accident. She was engrossed in an exhibit of portrait miniatures when the first gasp arose from the crowd.

 

Assuming it was someone in the throes of bibliophilia, she ignored it.

 

But she jerked to attention when the gasp turned to screams of panic. She spun around to find a wild-eyed, disheveled man, maybe sixty years old, standing a few feet from her, clutching the arm of a female staff member with one hand and wielding a dagger at chest height in the other.

 

“Get down on the floor!” the man shouted.

 

Daisy joined the mass of people as they dropped to the floor, every eye focused on the man. A couple people whipped out their cell phones.

 

“Gimme those,” he demanded. “Or you’re next. No one else better even think about taking out your phones.” Dragging the woman with him, he collected all the visible cell phones. Daisy didn’t dare reach for hers, in her back pocket.

 

A few people had remained on their knees. “I said get down!” the man shouted.

 

Daisy’s heart had started beating again after the initial shock, but her mind raced in chaotic circles. She couldn’t grasp a coherent thought other than a wild hope that someone outside the Treasures Gallery had called the police.

 

Lying on the floor, she glanced around as much as she dared. While some people had their faces buried in the carpet, others were trying to peek at the man and his hostage. The woman was breathing shakily, silent tears running down her face.

 

The man held the dagger in his fist with the blade pointing down. His hand jerked, causing the woman to flinch with a look of terror.

 

“Now do what I told you to do. Hurry it up,” he growled. Daisy was close enough to hear what he was saying, though most of the people in the room wouldn’t have been able to make out his words.

 

When the woman didn’t move, he shook her until her teeth must have been ready to fall out. She whimpered. “It’s not in here.”

 

She cried out when he whipped the dagger up to her throat. “Where is it?”

 

“It’s in a different part of the library.”

 

Daisy wondered what the guy was after and if the woman was telling the truth or if she was stalling, hoping the police would arrive.

 

The man seemed undecided about his next steps. He jerked his head back and forth, scanning the gallery with a fierce gaze. Daisy dared another glance at him. Something about him looked familiar. Was it his unusual height? His long neck?

 

When sirens wailed in the distance, Daisy’s spirits leapt—hopefully they were headed to the Rosenbach.

 

The man must have heard the sirens at the same time. With a violent thrust, he pushed the woman to the floor and dashed from the room. He must have left through an emergency door, because a piercing alarm screamed through the galleries, followed by a slam.

 

The whole thing had only taken a minute. Maybe two.

 

The people on the floor started to stir as shouts erupted from other parts of the museum and library. Daisy heard the sound of hurried footsteps. In small groups of twos and threes everyone pushed themselves to their knees and then to their feet. The hostage was on the floor in a fetal position. Daisy crawled to her and grasped her hand, which shook like an aspen leaf in a storm.

 

“You’re okay. He's gone.” Daisy squeezed the woman’s hand.

 

Two librarians burst into the room and noticed the former hostage immediately. “Grace! Are you all right?” they demanded, rushing toward her.

 

Grace was slowly pushing herself into a seated position. One of her co-workers reached down to help her stand, but Grace shook her head.

 

“If I try to stand right now, my legs won’t hold me.”

 

The co-worker slid down onto the floor and put her arm around Grace, who was crying softly. “The police will be here any minute. What did that guy want? Rita was working the front desk and must have been the first person he saw. He sliced her hand pretty badly. While a couple people tended to her, he barricaded the rest of us in the staff meeting room. We just got out. You would’ve been in there with us if you had xxx gotten to the conference room thirty seconds earlier.” xxx

 

“He wanted an original manuscript.” Grace wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

 

“Any particular one?” the woman asked.

 

“‘The Adventure of the Empty House’ by Conan Doyle.”

 

Something slid into place in Daisy’s brain, like tumblers falling into place in a lock. The masked man … the murder of Dale Bartlet … the Rosenbach’s original manuscript of the Conan Doyle story.

 

“I know who that was,” she blurted.

 

As she spoke, a swarm of police officers flooded the library. In the controlled chaos that followed, she was left to sit in the gallery until the police could identify and get the contact information of everyone in the building when the masked man appeared. Anyone who saw the man, anyone who looked up from the floor, was urged to tell the officers what they witnessed.

 

Daisy needed to let the officers know as quickly as possible who the man was. She stood and held up her hand.

 

“Excuse me—” she began.

 

An officer cut her off. “Just a minute, please.” He turned back to the woman he was interviewing and wrote her contact information in a small notebook.

 

“But I know who it was. I know—”

 

The officer whirled to face her. “How do you know? What’s his name?”

 

“I don’t recall his name. But—” The stress of the situation left Daisy unable to think clearly.“

 

How do you know him?”

 

“I don’t, not personally. But—”

 

“What makes you think he’s the guy?”

 

“Listen for a second and I’ll tell you.” Daisy frowned, ignoring the officer’s stern look. “It’s Dale Bartlet’s business partner. He killed Dale, too. I’m positive of it.”

 

The officer eyed her with suspicion. “How are you so sure?”

 

“First, I recognized him from photos I saw online. He was standing with Dale at some event. I was amazed at how tall he was. The guy who came in here was unusually tall.”

 

“There are lots of tall people.”

 

“That’s not all.” Daisy’s words tumbled from her mouth so she could get them all out before the officer interrupted her again. “He wanted the manuscript of a story, ‘The Adventure of the Empty House,’ by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. They have the original here in this library. Do you know what happens in that story?”

 

“Can’t say that I do.”

 

***Spoiler alert to readers: if you haven’t read “The Adventure of the Empty House,” you might want to before you finish this one!***

 

“A man is found dead on the second floor of his home, twenty feet above the ground with no way for anyone to scale the side of the building. There are no footprints in the garden below the window, so nobody’s jumped out. The man’s locked in the room, but he’s been shot in the head and there’s no weapon to be found.”

 

The officer tilted his head, for once not saying anything. He nodded, encouraging her to go on.

 

“That’s almost exactly what happened to Dale Bartlet. In the story, the killer turns out to be someone the dead man knew well. They played cards together. The dead man had found out that his card partner was cheating. The authorities surmised that he approached his partner and told him he knew what the partner had been doing. He gave the partner a chance to pay back the money he had swindled and swear off playing cards or the man would expose the cheater.”

 

“Okay, I’m with you so far. And?”

 

“As it turned out, the cheater was unemployed and getting all his income from his con at the card tables. He’d been a sharpshooter in the military, so he was able to get a shot off from a fair distance and kill the honest partner without going anywhere near him.”

 

“And you’re saying this is the same situation.”

 

“Yes. If you check into the financial situation of Dale Bartlet’s partner, I bet you’ll find abnormalities, just like the cheater in the story. Bartlet’s business partner was in the military—in fact, that’s where the two men met—so he was probably a crack shot. He could have killed Bartlet sniper-style. And he’s an English professor, so he knows Conan Doyle’s work. In fact, he’s the one who convinced Bartlet to go into business organizing the Deerstalker Convention.”

 

“Stay here. I’ll be right back,” the officer said. He returned about twenty minutes later. “You need to come to the station with me to give your statement.”

 

“I have a train to catch.”

 

“This won’t take long.”

 

At the station, Daisy repeated her story into a phone that recorded her. The interviewing officer asked how she knew all this.

 

“I was staying at the same hotel, the Riverfront Towers, so I was interested in the story. I did some reading online. And I love Sherlock Holmes, so I’m familiar with the story in the manuscript the partner was demanding at the Rosenbach.”

 

“Why do you think he wanted the manuscript?”

 

“I don’t know. My guess? He’s very disturbed. You’d have to be to kill someone. If he killed Dale Bartlet, there’s no telling what else his mind might tell him to do.”

 

After the interview the officer requested that she wait in the hallway. As the minutes ticked by, she glanced at her watch a hundred times. She was going to miss her train to DC.

 

After an hour and a half, Daisy was startled to hear shouting coming from another hallway. A moment later three people came into view—two officers and xxx the man Daisy recognized from the Rosenbach and his online photos. xxx

 

Dale Bartlet’s business partner.

 

As the officers bundled him into an interview room, he caught sight of Daisy. He let out a bone-chilling roar. “You! You were in the library,” he shouted. He spit at her, but the yellow globule landed on the stone floor with a grotesque splat.

 

A moment later the door of the interview room slammed behind the three men. The officer who had questioned Daisy at the Rosenbach appeared a minute or two later.

 

“We picked him up, as I’m sure you saw. We’ll question him and see where it leads. You’re free to go. Someone may be in contact with you.”

 

“I’ve missed my train. I’ll have to catch a later one.”

 

“Sorry about that,” the officer said.

 

Daisy took a ride share to 30th Street Station, where a train would depart in a couple hours for Union Station in DC. Luckily she had a book with her.

 

The next morning Daisy found herself sipping coffee and scrolling the news again, this time in her pajamas, in the comfort of her apartment.

 

Business Partner Charged in Sherlock Holmes Convention Murder

 

Simon Howe has been charged with the recent murder of Dale Bartlet, director of the Sherlock Holmes Deerstalker Convention.

 

The two men, both aficionados of works by author Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, met in the military. They went on to create the themed convention years later when Howe convinced Bartlet of its commercial potential.

 

One source told reporters Howe’s behavior had become increasingly erratic in recent months, its onset coinciding with the sale of his home and his yacht. The source was aware of rumors that Howe owed heavy gambling debts and may have been embezzling from the business he shared with Bartlet. The source suspected Bartlet had confronted Howe to demand that he repay the money and retire from the business, thereby creating Howe’s motive for the murder.

 

The source also told reporters Howe had become obsessed with obtaining a Conan Doyle manuscript for his own library.

 

Howe was apprehended following a brief but tense hostage situation in the Rosenbach Museum and Library in Old City, Philadelphia. Police located him at his office, where he fled after his escape from the Rosenbach.

 

The District Attorney’s office had no comment on this ongoing investigation.

 

Daisy was sure someone would eventually have figured out the similarities between Conan Doyle’s story and the facts of the Bartlet murder.

 

Sherlock Holmes might have said it was “elementary.”

 

Daisy didn’t think so. She liked to believe that life imitates art.