Sherlock Holmes and the Dead Beatle

Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Dead Beatle
A short story by William Hrdina

You can find my novels, audiobooks and lots more stories at www.williamhrdina.com.

The legendary Sherlock Holmes stared at a large stack of album covers, his eyes darted from place to place like a pair of cocaine addled hummingbirds. While he examined the evidence, Sherlock took a long drag from his pipe. The resulting smoke billowed about his head in an aromatic cloud.
“An interesting case, I must admit.” Holmes declared, looking at his guest for the first time in five minutes.
“Indeed. So then, you will take my case?” Asked Brian Epstein.
He looked exhausted. A tentative hope played on his face.
“I think I will, yes. I’ve always been interested in scarabaeus.”
Off to the side, leaning fashionably on a Victorian chest, Watson did his level best not to roll his eyes. Poor Sherlock, he saw plausibility in even the most absurd of claims- and still found a way to be pretentious about it.
Sherlock saw the look of incredulity on his old friend’s face and felt similarly sorry for Watson- whose lack of imagination had been a millstone around his neck for well over a decade.
“Watson, I must implore you to see the plainness of the case. The scenario sketched out by Mr. Epstein is a bit unlikely, I agree, but how likely is it that there should be four musicians whose collective imaginings would change music so profoundly? Not bloody likely. Yet there they are.” Holmes pointed at the stack of album covers.
“Yes, but...” Watson began.
He was cut off by a wave of Sherlock’s gaunt hand.
“No buts. It makes perfect logical sense.”
Seeing the blank look, Sherlock elaborated, “Oh Watson, must I hold your hand and walk you to even the most apparent of truths? It follows as day follows night that an extraordinary man should have his death play out in an extraordinary way- and that is exactly what we are seeing here. What’s more, I believe I can prove the case using nothing more than anecdotal evidence and these album covers.”
“Marvelous!” declared Brian Epstein.
Watson shook his head in wonder and reached into his sock holster for his whiskey flask. He took a long pull.
“Watson, bring your pistol.” Sherlock said, rushing out of the room with a flap of his unnecessarily dramatic cape.
Twenty minutes later, they were standing in the control booth in Abbey Road Studios. Sherlock swept in like he owned the place and immediately started pushing buttons and flipping levers. Brian ran behind, returning everything back to where it belonged.
“Please, Mr. Holmes, these switches are very sensitive.”
John and Ringo came wandering into the control room in search of a ham sandwich. Ringo was drinking a grape soda.
“Who’s this guy?” John asked, pointing his thumb at Sherlock.
“This is the great Sherlock Holmes.”
John stared, grinned, waiting for someone to admit the gag. No one did.
“You’re joking.”
“No joke.” Watson confirmed.
John turned around and stuck his head back into the studio.
“You guys really need to come in here.” John called.
Paul and George came in and were introduced to the legendary detective.
“Wow. This is like when the Harlem Globetrotters met Scooby-Doo.” Ringo gushed.
“I'm afraid I'm not here for a social call and I do not anticipate any hijinks with Scooby Snacks. I am here on some very serious business.”
“What business?”
“The cover-up of the death of Paul McCartney.”
Sherlock reached out and flipped a switch on the sound board.
DUM-DUM-DAAHHHH played over the loudspeakers.
“How did he do that?” George whispered.
“Shhh.” John scolded.
“I'm sorry, but what the hell is this guy talking about?” Paul asked, looking incredulous.
“I'm talking about November 9, 1966.” Sherlock retorted.
All of a sudden, it got very quiet in Abbey Road studio.
The Duke of Deduction continued, “You know Nov. 9th- it was the night the real Paul McCartney died in a car crash. The crash that should’ve been national news- but wasn’t- because you replaced him with this guy.” He pointed at Paul, who looked a bit green.
Ringo kept looking off in whatever direction nobody else was looking and John was suddenly interested in his fingernails.
Sherlock Holmes looked at the Beatles and shook his head.
“And, just like all guilty people who do wrong even when they know better- you couldn’t live with the guilt- you begged to be caught.”
“What?”
“The clues you left. You’d have to be as slow as Watson not to see what has happened here.”
The great detective dropped three album covers onto the table, Sgt. Peppers, Magical Mystery Tour and Abbey Road.
“There is a pile of additional evidence of course- but I think we can just stick with these three albums to make our case. First, the facts that liebehind the desperate pleas for arrest seen in these images. I found a small story in a newspaper called ‘The Daily Sentinel.’ This particular issue was to be burned prior to its distribution- but I was able to proffer a copy from a particularly sentimental pack-rat I know at the paper- his uncle is my aunt- or some such thing. According to the story you boys worked so hard to squash, you were recording the Sgt. Peppers album and got into an argument over the use of a moose’s mating call on ’When I’m 64.’ According to the article, Paul got into an argument with the lot of you on the evening of the 9th- an argument that caused Paul to get into his car and go racing off into the night. On his way home, his car crashed. There is a rumor that he crashed because of a woman named Rita who he picked up hitchhiking. When she realized she was with a Beatle- she hugged him and caused the crash. This is apocryphal. I investigated the scene myself this very afternoon and I discovered a set of raccoon tracks. Rocky Racoon tracks. Paul swerved off of the road because of the raccoon- a tragic accident. His car spun into a ditch and he was killed instantly. I cannot yet say exactly how the cover up was achieved- but, reportedly, a large amount of cash was placed into a bag and dropped into the hollow of a tree in Hyde Park. I have investigated the tree and there are clear signs a canvas bag holding 2 million pounds had been sitting there in the past 8 years.”
“It didn’t say that.” John insisted.
“It did. Of course, such evidence isn’t actually necessary. All we need is the evidence you’ve provided us- evidence that proves you know Paul is dead.”
“I don’t even know what you mean.” John said.
Yet he was clearly edging towards the door.
Watson, who’d been watching the interactions with an increasing wonder, found himself reaching into his pocket and yanking out his pistol. He pointed it at John.
“I think everyone needs to stay here for the time being.” He said.
Sherlock was just getting started.
“Only two weeks after the fateful car crash, the reclusive Beatles announced- via their fan club- a Paul McCartney look-alike contest. The winner was a young man named William Campbell. A week later, this same man died in a fire. His body was burned beyond recognition. Only it wasn’t William’s body that was burned- it was Paul’s.”
“That’s mad.” George snorted.
Sherlock continued, ignoring him. “It was Paul’s body you burned- and William took his place- the new Paul. He’s been Paul McCartney ever since. Sure, it wasn’t easy- William here isn’t a natural lefty.”
Sherlock snatched the knob off of a nearby console. He threw it at Paul- who caught it with his right hand.
“You probably hoped nobody would notice. But everyone noticed. You played as a rightie while you guys were doodling around in the Tonight Show studio before a 1968 appearance. I talked to a guy named Gus via the tele- he told me he saw you playing the bass backwards. So you didn’t play in public again for a very long time. During which period you were sent to the intensive left-handed bass camp held in the Himalayan mountains, known most commonly as Bass-Sur-Ack. There you learned to play like Paul.”
“That never happened.”
“Oh, so you’d have a rational man believe the fire that burned in the Himalayan mountains, taking the Mik-Sun monastery in the spring of 1969- that was just a coincidence.”
“You’re a nutter.” Insisted Paul.
“Am I?” Sherlock took the top album from the pile. “Then why did you leave me so many clues? Let's look at Sgt. Pepper’s first. After all, this was the first album you recorded after Paul’s death.”
Sherlock lit another pipe and toked deeply on it, smoke trickled out of his nose.
“What do you have there?” John asked, sniffing the air.
Sherlock looked abashed. “You are a Beatle sir. I would assume you would know what I have here.”
“I just wanted to know if I could have some.” John said, defensive.
Sherlock passed John the pipe. It ended up going around several times before Sherlock secreted it away again into a hidden cape pocket.
Holding up Sgt. Pepper’s, Sherlock announced, “I think we’re ready to hear what it is I have to say. Let’s do the obvious one first.”
Sherlock opened the gatefold of the album cover. There was a picture of Paul in a blue jacket with a large badge on the shoulder with three letters: OPD. Sherlock tapped his finger on the photo.


“OPD: Officially Pronounced Dead.”
“Or maybe it stands for Optional Pants Day.” Ringo countered.
“Or Otter’s Penis Digest.” John said.
George: “Is there a big circulation for that one?”
“Millions.” Ringo chuffed.
Sherlock gave the Beatles a dirty look and stared at them like a stern school-marm before continuing.
Paul said, “If I remember right, the badge actually said OPP, which stood for Ontario Provincial Police, I bought the badge in Ontario.”
“That doesn't sound very likely. You’re telling me you bought a police badge in Canada that just happens to look like OPD? That might make sense if it wasn’t for the fact I’ve been through all of your customs statements- and you’ve never declared such a patch.”
“No you didn’t. That’s ridiculous. You couldn’t of done that.” Paul said.
Sherlock stared at the man, blinked. “Okay, so I didn’t do that. But never mind- what are you going to say about this?”
He flipped back to the front of the album and tapped his finger on the floral display.


“Explain this.” He insisted.
“Explain what now?”
“This clearly says Paul, with a question mark.”
He looked at the incredulous faces staring back at him- even Watson looked doubtful.
“Fine- you are too blind to see. But, what about the fact the rest of you are holding brass instruments on the cover and Paul is holding an oboe- which is black- the color of death.”


“I play oboe. I can play all of those instruments. Not very well. The oboe was just the instrument I grabbed. And black isn’t the color of death- actually black is all of the colors. It is white that is the lack of any other light of the spectrum and so should therefore be associated with death- and isn’t one said to ‘go into the light’ when they die?”
“Perhaps by some- but they are likely followers of Satan. Besides, everyone who knows anything about oboes knows that it is one of the oldest instruments- its origins date back to before antiquity- and as you are surely aware- all things of antiquity are- by their very nature- ancient- a thought connected- intimately- in the minds of us all- with death and dying- for what is antiquity if not an age passed into history?”
John looked over at Watson. “Is he really serious?”
Watson indicated his pistol- “I wouldn’t be holding this if he weren’t.”
Sherlock was positively gleaming now- his brain spinning up as he laid the pieces into place. With a flourish, he tossed down the copy of Sgt. Peppers and picked up Magical Mystery Tour. He tapped another photo,
“See here, once again, Paul is wearing a black rose while everyone else is wearing red. It's just a coincidence, again?”


All at once, The Beatles looked a little less cocky.
“And this- not exactly subtle boys.”
He flipped the album around again revealing a picture of Paul sitting at a desk in another military type uniform.


“I was.” Sherlock read. “He’s sitting in front of a sign that says ‘I Was.’”
Watson leaned forward. “I’ll be damned.”
“And in this picture, Paul isn't wearing any shoes- they’re visible off to the side- and they appear to be covered in blood.”


“It is a bit odd.” Ringo admitted.
“I can picture the four of you standing together in a hotel room somewhere. You’re trying to figure out how it’s possible nobody’s figured it out yet. At this point- somebody comes along- somebody smart- and they tell you the safest play is to take the Paul is Dead thing over the top. Make it so obvious nobody will believe it. A lie kept in plain sight. A clever, if maladjusted strategy, to weave the illusion of innocence around a crime of great cynicism- the cover up of Paul’s tragic death. And so we get the Grand Confession that is the cover of Abbey Road.”


“Cover image: four men walking across a street. No text- no album or band name. When we look closer, we see that the four men are the four of you- The Beatles. And further, John is dressed in white like a preacher, Ringo is dressed in black like a pallbearer, then comes Paul in an ill-fitting suit and once again, wearing no shoes. Why? Because as everyone knows- they never bury a man in his shoes, a custom started by the Fins in St. Albertine during the Great Death. Finally comes George, dressed in the casual clothes of a gravedigger. So there you are- a funeral procession- and for who- for Paul. I don’t have to be Karl Jung to get the message. Oh, and don’t forget- with a little squinting, you can see the license plate of the car on the road. It says ‘28 IF’- which is how old Paul would’ve been when Abbey Road was released- had he not been dead.”


“Must I go on?” Sherlock asked. “If you insist, I can give some more examples. I've barely scratched the surface- for instance, at the end of Strawberry Fields you can plainly hear the phrase ’I buried Paul’ during the song’s coda. I’ve heard the rubbish about how you claim to be saying cranberry sauce. You recorded that snippet of tape in the Spring- you wouldn’t have been thinking about cranberry sauce. Now, if you would’ve claimed to be saying ‘Cantelope,’ why then you’d have a leg to stand on. But cranberry sauce? What do you take me for sir? Now, what say you to these charges?”
Sherlock lit his pipe and took another long drag.
The four Beatles stood looking at each other.
“The jig is up boys- let’s run for it!” John exclaimed kicking out at Watson’s gun and sending it flying across the room.
A comic chase ensued- Sherlock and Watson pursued one Beatle after another- always losing them behind a door or under a table or by hanging onto a chandelier. The Beatles were well versed in this sort of escape- they’d used it in more than one film. From somewhere, perhaps another dimension, the theme to Benny Hill was playing.
The chase finally ended when Sherlock managed to herd all four Beatles into an overly complicated trap. It was a remarkable oversight nobody had mentioned the big thing set up in the middle of the studio at any previous point. John, Paul, Ringo, and George were forced over the edge of a massive circular slide. They flew down it and came out on a wide sheet of ice. They slid across the ice and crashed into a large hockey goal set directly in their paths. When they all crashed into the goal- a scoreboard counted up to 4- and then a second goal came crashing out of nowhere- trapping all 4 Beatles.
Entwining his fingers into the mesh of the goal, Paul glared out at Sherlock and his good friend Watson. “And we would’ve gotten away with it too if it wasn’t for you meddling kids.” He hit John in the arm. “And you- with your Cranberry sauce.”
And so ended what came to be known as the Case of the Dead Beatle.