It Doesn't Take a Sherlock

My brother Kenny tells the story of the day he came home from Middle School to hear one of his three older brothers suggest that they bake the pastries that were in the fridge---the kind the doughboy sells in a cardboard cylinder that magically pops open if you hit it hard against a sharp counter edge.  Kenny now says he thought it a bit odd that his brother would propose this as a sibling project, as that brother could have just baked them himself and eaten his fill.  He was right to be suspicious. 

His brother had noticed that the small transparent plastic tube of white frosting included with the pastries was very similar to a plastic tube of white glue included in his model plane kit, and he had stealthily made the switch.  After baking, they brought the pan of pastries out of the oven and Ken’s brother graciously (and uncharacteristically) offered him the first one. Kenny snipped off the corner of what he assumed was the tube of frosting and squeezed an unhealthy portion onto the first of the pastries. He took a bite, filling his mouth with both pastry and paste, and immediately perceived something was amiss.  I imagine the resulting conversation went something like this:

            “Yuck! This is nasty!”

            “What’s wrong?”

            “It tastes like glue!  How can that be?”

“Now that you mention it,” his brother said, “The little tube of frosting included with the pastries looks a lot like the tube of glue from a model plane kit.  I wonder if they could have gotten mixed up somehow.”

I suppose within a few seconds Kenny was chasing his brother (who shall remain nameless to protect the guilty) around the house.  It didn’t require the mind of Sherlock Holmes to deduce that only one person had both opportunity and motive to plan and execute the caper.

No doubt Holmes had experience with pastries, living on Baker Street. But we’ve introduced him into our story for other reasons. I’m sure most genuine Holmies know this, but Sir Arthur Conan Doyle modeled his fictional detective on someone he knew well, fellow Scotsman Dr. Joseph Bell of the University of Edinburgh.  When Doyle was a medical student, he was Dr. Bell’s assistant. He was in awe of how Dr. Bell could deduce details about his patients, such as their origins or professions. It is said that “He could tell a working man’s trade by the pattern of the calluses on his hands, and what countries a sailor had visited by his tattoos.” (Yes, the kangaroo was easiest).

The connection between Dr. Bell and Sherlock was even recognized by fellow writer Robert Louis Stevenson. Having read several Sherlock Holmes mysteries, he wrote a note to Conan Doyle, “Can this be my old friend, Joe Bell?”

To his credit, Doyle did not miss the opportunity to thank his mentor for the inspiration.  He wrote to Dr. Bell in 1892, “It is most certainly to you that I owe Sherlock Holmes.”

“It’s a shame you don’t have anything like Dr. Bell’s powers of deduction, Rusty.”

(Excuse the interruption.  I perceive this is my friendly nemesis, Tommy “Pretty Boy” Humphrey.)

“If you did, you’d wrap up your sermons when you see people dozing off or leaving, or when some of the bolder members stand together and start singing the Doxology.”

Thank you, Pretty Boy, for that unsolicited comment.

“Furthermore, if you had any power of deduction, you’d have stopped writing your Why Read books when you deduced that people weren’t buying them. And don’t think we don’t know the name of the person who tried to poison his younger brother with glue.”

They’re called Wry Bread books, and Kenny was in no danger. He just experienced momentary discomfort, like the time a brother placed a dirty sock by his nose as he was sleeping as an experiment to determine if one’s sense of smell operates during sleep. It does.

“Still, I’d be interested to know if there’s a Statute of Limitations on attempted fratricide.”

Why don’t you research that as I finish my story, Tommy?  

Getting back to the theme (yes, there’s a theme) of making valid deductions from the facts, recently the Facebook Page of “David Attenborough Fans” published a fascinating article by Pauline Gray:

Newborn foals are born with what horse lovers call “fairy fingers” or “golden slippers.” The scientific name for these soft, rubbery coverings is eponychium. They form around the foal’s tiny hooves before birth, giving each foot a padded, cushion-like appearance.

These golden slippers have an important job. While the foal is still in the womb, they protect the mother’s uterus from sharp kicks. During birth, they also keep the birth canal safe from the edges of the foal’s hooves. Without them, both the mare and foal would face serious risks.

 

Right after birth, the eponychium begins to dry and peel away. Within hours of the foal’s first steps, the soft coverings disappear, revealing the hard hooves underneath. Walking on them doesn’t cause pain—the structures are made to wear off naturally as the foal starts life outside the womb.

I don’t know about you, but I confess that I never gave any thought to how hoofed animals can be carried in their mother’s womb and make it through the birth canal without their kicking causing fatal injury to Mom. Shouldn’t any rational person deduce from the above that someone with great intelligence, creativity and power designed this wondrous process?  The evidence for a self-existent, wise creator is all around us.

British author G. K. Chesterton said,  

I suppose it’s like this.  If my children wake up on Christmas morning and have somebody to thank for putting candy in their stocking, have I no one to thank for putting two feet in mine?

And we might add, have I no one to thank for putting real frosting on the Christmas pastries?  

You might say, “It’s elementary.”

 

“The fool has said in his heart, there is no God.”  (Psalm 14:1)