“Murder is easy, as long as you don’t make it look like a murder.” He said. Using hand to scratch his crotch fervently, in a dog like frenzy when it’s trying to bury a bone.
“So, you mean that it’s easy to commit a murder as long as you make it look like an accident, suicide or illness.” I spoke, seriously concerned about his hygiene while he ardently moved on to scratch his butt cheeks now.
“Took you long enough to catch up, detective.” He looked at me from head to toe, disdainful. As if his East London lodging was any better than my Irish accent.
“In that case, Mr. Holmes, the death of Dr. Watson is not an accident. I’d be loathe to tell you this, but now you would be considered the primary suspect. Because you were the last person to see him.” I said.
“Also, I am…
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