Oscar Kingsley lived out of his own blacksmith in the west end. When we found him, he was making horse shoes outside.

“His father died when David was an infant, his mother when he was twelve. Care for the boy fell to me.”

“That must have been traumatic for the boy,” Murdoch observed. Kingsley did not seem to be the warm fuzzy type.

“He uh, he withdrew into a fantasy world. The obsessive reading was one thing, but when he started thinking he was Sherlock Holmes… My wife couldn’t cope. We had him committed.” Mr. Kingsley doused a freshly hammered shoe into a bucket of water.

“When was he released?”

“Six months ago. The doctor said he was cured. Obviously he was wrong. Is he in trouble?”

There was no easy way to say it, and the Detective wasn’t one to beat around the bush. “We believe he may have been involved in a robbery.”

“Oh dear lord. How?” Kingsley asked.

“That’s what we’re attempting to find out.”

“May I see him?”

Constable Crabtree fetched David from the constabulary carriage we had ridden out in. He hadn’t been happy to be forced along with our investigation instead of out on his own, and had complained vociferously about the waste of a trip to the west end.

“Hello David,” Kingsley greeted him.

David looked blankly between Crabtree and Murdoch, avoiding direct eye contact. “I’m sorry you’re mistaking me for someone else.”

“David, it’s me, your Uncle Oscar–“

David cut him off. “I have no Uncle. Detective, you must release me. Let me help you solve this case.”

“David, please.”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes!” David shouts. It was clear the meeting would not produce any results.

Do you have a circled N?

“Does the word aurora mean anything to you?” Crabtree asked.

Oscar seemed confused. “No. Why?”

“We found it on a note Edward Hopkins left in his safety bank deposit box. It may be relevant to the case.”

He paused, then seemed to think of something. “Sunrise. Aurora means sunrise.”

Oscar could not answer any further questions, and seemed preoccupied.