Doctor Watson picked at the last bit of fish and chips stuck in his incisors. He straightened his afternoon edition of The Sun and sighed.
“Manchester United lost again to Barcelona. Damn that Lissi.”
Professor Sherlock Holmes remained silent, never looking up from the microscope through which he studied the drop of blood.
Watson said idly, “I say, these WikiLeaks emails from those Yank reprobates on the Hillary Clinton campaign are rather unseemly.”
“Tell me, Watson,” said Holmes. “Who’s missing from those emails?”
Watson covered his face with the newspaper and hummed. “Someone’s missing? Perhaps it’s . . . I don’t know. Mr. Wolf Blitzer. For sure.”
Holmes turned the focusing knob on the microscope for more detail. “Hillary, dear bloke. None of the emails so far are hers. Why?”
Watson lowered the newspaper and looked at Holmes over his half spectacles. “Sir?”
Holmes glanced at his assistant and recognized the usual look of muddle so familiar every time an investigation took an unexpected turn. “Why have we not seen any WikiLeaks emails from the former Secretary of State who wants to be president?”
“Because WikiLeaks is waiting to drop them the week before the Yank’s election,” Watson asserted.
“No my dear Watson,” said Holmes removing the glass plate from the microscope and inserting another. “Because WikiLeaks doesn’t have them.”
Watson shifted uncomfortably in the Queen Ann chair with the calico comforter draped over the back. “Pish posh. Then who does?”
“Putin. Vladimir Bloody Putin.”
Watson folded the paper on his lap. “Irrational, Professor.”
“Quite the contrary my dear Watson.” As usual, Holmes knew he had to go slowly, or risk going beyond the ability of Watson to comprehend.
Holmes reached for the meerschaum pipe and struck a match. Smoke billowed around his head like a halo. “What would dispirit Mrs. Clinton to her core? Really to her soul. For the sake of argument, let’s pretend she has one.”
“Losing the election.”
“No! Never!” bellowed Holmes as he pounded the table. After an awkward silence, Holmes continued. “It would be winning the election, parking her rather prominent arse in that infernal White House Oval Office and then having it taken away.”
Watson said nothing. The Professor filled the silence.
“Sacking her, Watson. The Yanks call it impeachment,” Holmes coughed having swallowed pipe smoke. “Putin wants her to be elected president only to create a drama in which any rational legislator will have no choice but to remove her from office.”
“Preposterous, Professor. Be real.”
“Hear me, old fellow. Two, three months after she’s ensconced as president – making sure it’s after the World Series, the Super Bowl, and well before the finals of ‘Dancing with the Stars’ so there’s no distractions — Putin sends the Clinton emails he’s holding to WikiLeaks, or the National Enquirer, or that Limbaugh chap. Actual emails showing her orders for destroying evidence, shakedowns, bribes, government secrets, my dear sir.
“Create a train of evidence so egregious that the Trumpers will surround the Capitol building with their torches and pitchforks. Then the Jello-spined Republicans in Congress will soil their bloomers and will have no choice but to put Mrs. Stalin-In-A-Pantsuit through a Senate trial.”
Watson wasn’t following, as usual. “But why?”
“The American government will be paralyzed in the impeachment process. Weeks, months go by and nothing gets done, not even feeding the bears at Yosemite or subsidies to NPR. That’s when Putin makes his move. His tanks roll across the Ukraine; he puts nukes on the Polish border, and he isolates the Balkans by threatening to turn off the oil spigot. All of them will have no choice but to rejoin a reconstituted Soviet Empire.
“Meanwhile, the Chinese will move in the Pacific and declare the entire ocean a Chinese lake. Hillary will be too busy paying off her mega bundlers so they will loan their pre-teens to her defense attorneys. Then Gloria Allred can bring them forward with allegations of child pornography against Paul Ryan, George W. Bush and Sean Hannity. Muck up the process.
“With the whole of the America society frozen in its tracks, there will be no response whatsoever to stop Putin’s aggression. Not from our Mrs. May, not from the Germans, and not from the French president, that cavalier fellow, even if they succeed in pulling him off his mistress.”
Watson snapped the newspaper open and turned to the Page Three Girls. “Bah, Professor. You’re daft.”
Holmes returned to the microscope. “There appears to be enough metal in this blood sample to afford us with many clues. I believe Mr. Vince Foster was murdered not by the butler with a gun in the library, but by Sydney Blumenthal in the parlor with a monkey wrench. Elementary, my dear Watson.”