The Adventure of Miss Anna Truegrace

by Arthur Hall

Despite the continuing rain, I had decided on a short walk after breakfast. Sherlock Holmes was in the blackest of moods, hardly consenting even to acknowledge my greeting as I descended from my room, and causing me to seek the open air in order to steel myself against his morose demeanor. After walking the wet pavements for half-an-hour, I resolved to return to Baker Street, and it was as I approached our lodgings that I saw two people beneath a large umbrella standing uncertainly nearby.

Folding down and shaking my own umbrella, I opened the door and stepped inside. I turned to face the couple, and it was indeed a man and a woman as I had supposed, now watching me with enquiring eyes. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” the man enquired.

“No, but this is his residence. I am his associate, Doctor John Watson, and I’m sure Mr. Holmes will see you. Please leave your umbrella in the hallstand there, and follow me.”

They did so, the lady closing the front door before they climbed the stairs behind me. I stepped into our sitting room with something of a flourish, watching with relief and pleasure my friend’s surprise on seeing that I was accompanied.

“Ah, Watson. You have bought me new clients, I perceive.”

“Conceivably, though I have not yet enquired as to their difficulty.”

Holmes smiled quickly and introduced himself, having shed his rueful expression. “I have high hopes that they will present me with an interesting problem. I saw them alight from a four-wheeler as I looked down from our window, and noted that it took fully four minutes of discussion before they decided to approach our door. Surely, a simple matter would have required less consultation.” He gestured towards the armchairs near the fire. “Pray let Doctor Watson relieve you of your outer garments and come to sit near the fire while I call for tea. Then, when you are ready, you can tell me how I can assist you.”

I saw relief in the faces of both our visitors as I hung up their coats. Holmes shouted down to Mrs. Hudson and closed the door, before we took our seats.

“I’m Mr. Cedric Truegrace,” the young man began rather stiffly before either Holmes or I could speak, “and this is my sister, Miss Anna Truegrace.”

“You work in a clerical capacity and your sister has great fear of you,” Holmes finished.

Mr. Truegrace appeared shocked. I had seen Holmes perform this feat many times before, but on this occasion it held no mystery for me. Our visitors glanced at each other, astonishment written on their faces.

“How in the world . . . ?”

“Come now, Mr. Truegrace,” my friend continued. “The ink on your shirt cuff tells its own story, also revealing that you are left-handed, and anxious glances from your sister have been directed at you since the moment you entered the room.” His stare grew hard. “Do you beat this lady, sir?”

I half-rose from my chair, horrified at the prospect of this innocent-looking girl being subjected to such treatment.

“No, gentlemen,” she said quickly. “That is not the situation at all.”

“I swear that I would never do any such thing,” her brother protested. As he spoke, I heard the rattle of teacups outside our door and immediately intercepted Mrs. Hudson and relieved her of the tray. I placed it on a side-table and poured for the four of us before Mr. Truegrace continued. “No, things have occurred differently. It is a strange story.”

“We are quite used to those.” Holmes assured him.

“Anna saw herself in a vision, as the victim of a murderer. She could not see his face, but heard herself call my name.”

Holmes surprised me by not receiving this with incredulity. He looked at Miss Truegrace with a thoughtful expression on his face. “You could not be mistaken? For example, could it be that you were calling to your brother for assistance?”

“Truly, I cannot say, for the vision was no more than a blurred image. I only know that I have been in mortal terror since. It is only with the greatest effort that I can bear to be in the company of Cedric, such is the pain of my apprehension.”

The next few moments were passed in silence as we drank. I spent the interval in observing our visitors’ appearance.

Mr. Truegrace, I believed, was in his late twenties, while his sister was perhaps two years his junior. They were of average height, he with whiskers dark along his jawbone and almost reaching his chin, while her auburn tresses hung shining below her bonnet. From their speech, I formed the impression that their education had not been neglected.

Miss Truegrace spoke again suddenly. “Such things have happened to me before, over the years, but never like this. That Cedric would harm me I cannot believe, and yet it is what I saw.”

At once disappointment crept into my friend’s face, yet I also sensed that he was mildly amused. He had anticipated a confrontation with a problem of complexity or intrigue, only to be faced with what he would surely regard as little more than a fairy story.

“I have encountered a ‘visionary’ before,” Holmes said in a slow voice of forced tolerance. “I accompanied a client of a few years ago to a meeting, where a woman who called herself ‘The Enlightened One’ would retire to a locked room and experience visions with messages for members of her audience without. She appeared to be remarkably successful and profited greatly, until I discovered that another onlooker left the chamber at the same time with the selection of each new subject. He turned out to be her accomplice, who disclosed to her information he had gleaned through overheard conversations while mingling with the spectators, communicated through a parallel window by mirror flashes using a pre-arranged code.” He fixed our visitors with a stern gaze. “You will see then why I find the concept incredible, even humorous, in its way.”

“Was this during your residence in Montague Street?” I asked, not having heard this account before.

“It was well before your time, Watson. I had almost forgotten the affair. It was a ridiculously simple matter, which I solved quite quickly. The woman’s stipulation that she was open to these experiences only on fine days, gave it away at once.”

“My experiences are not rooted in trickery!’ Miss Truegrace retorted. “They have troubled me all of my life.”

“She speaks the truth,” her brother confirmed. “There have been many instances during our childhood when such happenings have caused her distress, especially when our parents and other adults in whom she placed her confidence humored her or responded with mockery. She informed a neighbor that his horse would run off, never to be seen again, and that very thing occurred within a week. A child disappeared and was found alive and well, exactly as Anna had described. As with all the other instances, her ability was never acknowledged.”

“And recently? I cannot think that you would be here today, were there nothing more.”

“There is indeed, Mr. Holmes. Two weeks ago our elderly maid, Ellen, collapsed and died while in our village on an errand. Four days before, Anna told me that this would happen. We confided in no one, not wishing to attract again the ridicule of years before. One of the reasons that we gave up our home in the center of Worcester to move to Courtney Dale was to escape this.”

“And when did your latest experience occur?”

“This morning,” Miss Truegrace said in a subdued voice. “During the early hours.”

“But no crime has actually been committed?”

Her brother looked suddenly uncomfortable. “None, which is why we cannot avail ourselves of the protection of the official force. We have heard however, that you specialize in throwing light on the inexplicable.”

“I have said before that I have no belief in the supernatural, and you must surely realize that even if that were not so and such things were a reality, I would have no power against them. Perhaps a priest would be of more use to you than I.”

There was a long silence, during which our visitors took on a look of despair. Doubtlessly, I reflected, Sherlock Holmes was their last hope of preventing a crime that had yet to happen. I reviewed the words of Mr. Truegrace, and the fate of the maid, Ellen, troubled me. An incident from long ago came into my mind.

“Holmes, I have to tell you that I, also, have met something like this before.” He turned his head towards me, as I continued. “I once had a patient, a most down-to-earth young woman whose honesty I would have staked my life upon, who often professed to have visions. She also had some success with her predictions, although she never attempted to profit from them. Neither were any of her revelations harmful.”

From his expression, I saw that my interruption had not been welcomed. It was clear to me, because I knew my friend, that a conflict was raging in his mind. Despite his rejection of the mystical, he was reluctant to return to the stagnation that had been upon him before the appearance of this curious affair.

A succession of hansoms passed along Baker Street as he collected his thoughts. The cries of the coachmen, urging their horses to greater speed, and the occasional crack of a whip floated up to us through the half-open window. The hiss of metal-rimmed wheels on the wet road surface told me that the rain had resumed.

“I will look into this,” Holmes said then, “but not from a supernatural aspect. I accept that you, Miss Truegrace, could possess an ability that we do not fully understand. The demise of your maid gives an element of truth to your fears, and if I can prevent you suffering the fate that you have witnessed then I’m bound to do so. Tell me, was Ellen’s death accepted as by natural causes?”

“Doctor Caulfield examined her thoroughly. The death certificate states that she died from heart failure, and we have since discovered that she had a history of such affliction.”

“No doubt she failed to inform you of this for fear of losing her position,” I ventured, “although I’m sure she need not have feared on that score.”

Mr. Truegrace nodded. “Not at all. She served us well.”

“I take it that you are employed within the village, Mr. Truegrace.” Holmes enquired.

“As you correctly deduced, I earn my living as a clerk. I work for our local solicitors, Craven and Hibberdson. Mr. Craven has been dead for some years, but the name has been retained. There is just Mr. Fyffe Hibberdson and myself, and a secretary that attends when required.”

“And you reside not far away?”

“Tregothan Farm, the name by which it is still called, although it has not functioned as such for many years, is situated about a half-mile further on from the village of Courtney Dale. It isn’t difficult to find, since the drive leads directly from the main Worcester Road.”

Holmes nodded. “The local inns provide fair accommodation, I trust.”

“Most certainly. There are several of good reputation.”

“Excellent.” My friend rose and we all did the same. “I don’t think that there is much else that I need to know, at this point. You may expect us on the early afternoon train tomorrow. We will visit you at your residence after some preliminary enquiries. Also,” he looked directly at Miss Truegrace, “I would reassure you as to your brother’s intentions. There can be no doubt that something is amiss here, or that some crime has been committed or will be committed, but the perpetrator will, I’m sure, not be he. We will see what comes of a few enquiries thereabouts.”

Our visitors then thanked us both and left.

“What was it that convinced you of Mr. Truegrace’s lack of malice towards his sister?” I asked Holmes as we watched from our window our clients hailing a cab.

“Did you not see the pain in his eyes as she recounted the vision and her interpretation of it?” He shook his head. “No man could manufacture such deep grief as the accusation caused him.”

“I confess that I did not, but I detected a tremor in his voice.”

He took his Bradshaw from the bookshelf. “Watson, have you sufficient time to accompany me on a brief visit to Worcestershire?”

“You do not anticipate a lengthy investigation, then?”

“I believe I have assimilated a fair idea of what we may be dealing with here. I find this result disturbing though, as I’m at a loss to explain Miss Truegrace’s vision. There are, however, several gaps in my understanding of the likely sequence of events. We will clear those up in a day or two, I think.”

“I am with you, Holmes, as ever.”

“I thought that I knew my Watson,” he smiled.

* * *

The following morning found us at Paddington Station in time for the early train. I recall little of the journey, other than Holmes’s observations concerning the countryside and, occasionally, of the waiting passengers at the various stations through which we passed. Eventually he lapsed into silence as he became lost in his own thoughts, and I think I would have fallen asleep had he not suddenly peered through the window as the train came to a halt.\

“We have arrived I think, Watson. This is Shrub Hill Station.”

We retrieved our scant luggage and were among the first to alight. No trap or cart awaited us, but Holmes quickly selected and engaged a burly, red-haired fellow from the half-dozen drivers who lined the platform. We learned that Courtney Dale was three miles distant, and Tregothan Farm a further half-mile.

We passed through leafy countryside, fresh from recent rains, and a lake in a field of uncut grass before the straight road led us to Courtney Dale. The village appeared to comprise mostly of the shops along this thoroughfare, which began and ended with a church of striking architecture. I noticed that several side streets branched off to our left, some containing warehouses and further trading establishments, while others boasted long rows of villas of local stone. Holmes instructed our driver to halt as he caught sight of an inn of impressive appearance, and proceeded to carry both his bag and my own through its door. He returned within ten minutes.

“I have secured us two good, clean rooms,” he informed me, “and in deference to you I have ascertained that the cuisine is quite edible.”

“Thank you for your consideration.”

“But now,” he said, standing beside the cart, “I think we should explore this charming village before we go about our business. I will pay this good fellow what we owe and we can visit Tregothan Farm later.”

After we had watched our driver turn his cart around and set off back to the town, I asked my friend about his sudden change of objective.

“I noticed the office of the solicitors, Craven and Hibberdson, a short way along the street,” he replied, “and thought it as well to interview Mr. Fyffe Hibberdson, if he is available, immediately as a possible way to bring this enquiry to a more speedy conclusion.”

* * *

We sat across his desk from the solicitor in a wood-paneled office that smelled faintly of cigar-smoke.

Mr. Fyffe Hibberdson had little of the appearance that one associates with members of his profession. From above the spotless winged collar a weather-beaten face, such as old sailors often have, held a critical expression. He was of no more than average height, but of stocky build with thick hair that was prematurely grey. I would have placed him in his middle years, but his gaze was of one much older. Probably, I concluded, as a result of much time spent unravelling the legal problems of others.

“I have heard much about you, Mr. Holmes,” he said with surprising friendliness. “Tell me, what has brought you to this office today?”

Holmes answered before I could speak. “I’m conducting an enquiry in which someone of your acquaintance is loosely concerned. It is not a serious matter, but it is always as well to learn something of those on the fringe of the situation in order to obtain a more complete appreciation of the circumstances. Knowing of your connection, it occurred to me that you might be prepared to furnish some basic information.”

“I understand.” Something of what might have been relief crossed Mr. Hibberdson’s face. “I will, of course, help if I can. That is to say, provided that no aspect of confidentiality is breached.”

“Capital. I understand that you have in your employment Mr. Cedric Truegrace.”

“My clerk? It is he about whom you wish to enquire?”

“To be more precise, it is his sister. Presumably you will have met her on social occasions, or perhaps she has called here from time to time.”

Mr. Hibberdson nodded. “That is so. They were among my guests for an informal evening no more than two weeks past. I had met her previously of course, and I must confess that she struck me as—how shall I put it?—a rather nervous girl. She appeared to me as the sort of person who is powerless to prevent her imagination running away with her, so to speak.”

“As a medical man, I can confirm that,” I commented, more as an encouragement of him to elaborate than from my observations.

“What, in particular, caused you to draw such a conclusion?” Holmes asked.

“I’m uncertain. After all, I am a solicitor and not a doctor, but probably it was my impression that she was possessed of a state of constant unease. As I have said, I’m totally unqualified to judge, but I sensed that she is to some extent neurotic, or even in the grip of the early stages of brain fever.”

“An extensive diagnosis, nevertheless,” I observed.

“Not as such,” Mr. Hibberdson’s expression lightened. “I say this only because I have seen similar symptoms in others before now.”

Holmes rose to his feet, and I did the same. “You have been most helpful, Mr. Hibberdson, in enhancing my investigation. I will now wish you good day sir, with my thanks.”

The solicitor accompanied us to the door and showed us out courteously. As we left, I noticed that his eyes now held a quite different expression, perhaps a hint of uncertainty or fear. It crossed my mind that, should this affair conclude with Mr. Cedric Truegrace facing some sort of criminal charges after all, then a replacement clerk might, in a country village, be difficult to come by. This possibility, I imagined, would cause a degree of concern to Mr. Hibberdson.

* * *

After a scant lunch in a nearby tea-house, we secured one of the few hansoms in the village, all of which were operated by a single company, for the half-mile to Tregothan Farm. The outhouses spread across the wide yard revealed at once the previous purpose of the place, before Mr. Truegrace and his sister adopted it as their residence. I had imagined it to boast a thatched roof, but in fact the house was adorned with purple slate. The walls, I could see, were once white, but now a creeping green moss discolored the upper floors. As our conveyance left us, Holmes strode to the door with me in his wake. It opened before he could knock, and Miss Anna Truegrace admitted us.

We were conducted to a tastefully-decorated parlor, where Mr. Cedric Truegrace rose from his armchair as we entered. Greetings were exchanged and glasses of sherry bought and consumed, before our host cautiously asked whether our enquiries had yet yielded anything of significance.

“It would be true to say that I have made some progress,” Holmes answered.

“From what source?” Mr. Truegrace asked.

“Less than an hour ago I interviewed your employer, Mr. Fyffe Hibberdson.”

Our host’s uncertain expression deepened. “But how is he involved in this?”

“He is not, as yet. He has provided information about the general situation here, which I consider essential if I’m to arrive at the solution to this most unusual case. I must now make of you a request, to the same end.”

“What is it that you wish?” Miss Truegrace enquired.

My friend turned in his chair, so that he faced them both. “I would like you to conduct me on a tour of this house, especially the room where you experienced the ‘vision’.”

Mr. Truegrace sprang to his feet instantly. “That is a condition which is easily satisfied.” He beckoned in a way that encompassed both Holmes and myself. “Come.”

We followed him throughout the building, Holmes making examinations of the walls in all rooms. There seemed nothing remarkable anywhere, but he ensured most of all that the room of Miss Gracechurch’s experience, the master bedroom, was sound.

“Well, Mr. Holmes,” our host said when we were all settled again, “can I take it that you discovered something that will throw some light on the situation?”

“You may take it that I found exactly what I expected to find.”

“And what is that, pray?”

“I found nothing. That is to say, I found nothing to either substantiate or dismiss the theory that I have formed.”

“How disappointing,” Miss Truegrace commented.

“May I ask how long it is since you took up residence here?” I asked.

Mr. Truegrace considered for a moment. “Why, it must be almost three years, by now. We hoped the change would somehow see an end to Anna’s visions.”

“Was the experience concerning the maid the first since then?” Holmes enquired.

“It was. Until that occurrence, we believed we had been successful in leaving them behind.”

“Can you recall from whom you bought the property?”

“I cannot, but that information is easily obtainable. The papers are in my study.”

He made to rise, but his sister precluded the action. “There is no need, Cedric. I remember that the previous owner was Mr. Gareth Sternwell. He had lived here but a short while, when an inheritance enabled him to move to grander accommodation on the far side of the village. I believe that he mentioned his former profession to be that of a professional gambler, in Worcester.”

“Most interesting,” Holmes remarked.

“Mr. Holmes, are we not clutching at straws here?” Mr. Truegrace asked in a puzzled voice. “After all, it was the strange vision and the resulting dread of my sister that drove us to consult you. I do not see how our history can reveal anything.”

My friend regarded him with an expression that gave away nothing. After a moment of silence he spoke quietly. “Due to the singular nature of this case, for it is one the like of which I haven’t had placed before me until now, I must approach it in a befitting fashion. From the first I had formulated several theories, most of which have been disproved by subsequent events, but I’m determined to establish whether your sister’s vision, as you refer to it, has any substance or is merely fanciful. Be content to let me proceed in my own way. Humor me if you will, for I have high expectations that the truth of this matter will be evident before long.” He rose and picked up his hat. “But as for now, I think a late afternoon walk back to the village will provide sufficient stimulation for me to consider at length the information that you have furnished. Come, Watson.”

We left Tregothan Farm then, I with the feeling that Holmes considered himself the subject of a mild insult. He was silent, staring at the grassy slope underfoot, while we walked parallel to the road for much of the way. Only once did he vary his posture, just before we came upon the outskirts of the village and then the inn, glancing suddenly towards a group of trees while a hansom and two four-wheelers passed us. He acted as if he suspected that we were observed.

Later, after changing our clothes, we enjoyed an excellent meal of roast pork, and then spent some time in conversation over pints of good ale before retiring a little earlier than was our custom.

* * *

At breakfast, Holmes asked the landlord about the whereabouts of Mr. Gareth Sternwell. Having served us bacon, eggs, and toast, the fellow scratched his head before the answer came to him.

“Ah, I know who you mean sir, now that I’ve thought about it. He was a gambler or a betting man in Worcester, I think. These days he lives in a place called Parkfield Heights, on a hill leading out of the village as you pass the old miller’s pond and the livery stable. I’m told the house looks like as Greek temple, so you can’t miss it. I say, most of the gamblers I’ve known end up as beggars, but this one must have done well for himself, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed, it would seem so,” Holmes acknowledged. “My thanks to you, landlord.”

Shortly afterwards, we were fortunate in procuring a hansom that had dropped its fare at the inn as we were about to leave. It left us near the brow of a hill covered in tall elms and flowering shrubs, within sight of a structure that did indeed resemble the abode of the Olympian gods.

“This man surely did well at the tables,” I remarked.

Holmes opened the wrought-iron gate to allow us to pass onto the steep drive. “Possibly, but from the description of our clients, I would say that his inheritance most likely determined his future.”

We were rather breathless after the short climb. Holmes lifted the heavy door-knocker, shaped like the head of a tiger, and released it. The impact echoed among the pillars that stood to each side of us, before a liveried footman opened the door and asked us our business. Holmes produced his card and we waited until the fellow returned. With a little bow, he informed us that Mr. Sternwell would see us in the breakfast room.

I confess to being overawed by the splendor of the place. Mr. Sternwell must have inherited a vast sum, I thought, to possess such a home. The footman led us along a short corridor, into a large airy room that reminded me of a hothouse such as tropical plants require to flourish in our country. I saw aspidistras and tall flowers, surrounding a large table on which the remains of a meal awaited removal. A short distance away stood several armchairs, upholstered in a garish pattern, and a matching settee where a man lounged as he watched us.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said without rising. “Tell me, what possible reason could there be for me to receive a visit from a consulting detective? I assure you, my gambling debts have long since been settled.”

We returned his greeting. I could tell that Holmes was slightly put out by the man’s lack of courtesy. Mr. Sternwell struck me as rather eccentric, reclining in a turquoise-patterned dressing gown as the time approached mid-morning. His thin face bore a moustache as red as his hair, and his eyes were filled with suspicion as much as any I have ever seen. I could well imagine facing his shifty gaze across a spinning roulette wheel or in the midst of a hand of chemin-de-fer.

“I see that you are anxious,” Holmes observed. “Pray calm yourself, for we are not the official force and have no interest in your past activities.”

Mr. Sternwell adjusted his position. “I was curious as to your intentions. That is why you were admitted.”

“We are here merely to ask questions, if you will permit us, concerning your previous ownership of Tregothan Farm,” I enlightened him.

“Ah, that place,” the wariness left his expression at once. “I lived there for but a short while, it could not have been more than a month or two, before this place became vacant and I bought it. I fear that I can tell you little about my former home. I found it to be rather uninteresting. The country life, I think, is not for me.”

“We have been aware of some unusual happenings there,” Holmes said. “The current owners are quite alarmed.”

“Happenings? Ghosts, do you mean? Hauntings? I saw or heard not the slightest suggestion of such occurrences at any time. Look, Mr. Holmes, if your clients are set on getting their money back from me, you can tell them that I won’t have it! I did warn them, when they approached me to buy, that the place was old. They should have taken notice.”

“That is not the case at all. They have no desire to live elsewhere, or to relinquish their home. It is simply that strange, or seemingly strange, events have caused some confusion which I’m attempting to clear up.”

Mr. Sternwell nodded. “Then I repeat, I cannot assist you.”

Holmes bent his thin frame in a slight bow. “You have already done so, sir. I thank you for seeing us.”

We turned and moved towards the door, where the footman had appeared, apparently without being summoned. Just as we passed a tall flowering plant that clung to the wall, Mr. Sternwell called to us.

“I am sure that the man I bought the farm from would have been bound to mention anything out of the ordinary in the house. Mr. Fyffe Hibberdson is an honorable man.”

“You bought the farm from him? The solicitor?” Holmes turned and retraced his steps.

“I did. After his wife disappeared, he seemed to be eager to change his residence. Probably he wished to be rid of unpleasant memories.” He leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion. “There were rumors, you see. It was said that she was seen around the village with Albert Ridden. Very indiscreet I’m sure, but she couldn’t hope for secrecy—the walls in Courtney Dale have eyes.”

“Was Mr. Hibberdson aware of this?”

“Who knows? If he had become so, I doubt if his behavior towards her would have changed. It is well-known that he took much pleasure in beating the poor woman, long before then.”

“She disappeared, I think you said?”

Mr. Sternwell shrugged. “So it is assumed. One morning Mr. Hibberdson reported that his wife had been away all night, and expressed deep concern. Inspector Carew of the local force interviewed Albert Ridden, who seemed as puzzled as anyone else. Enquiries were made as far away as Worcester, without result, after the farms and woods hereabouts had been thoroughly searched. As I understand it, Ridden was suspected for a while, until the case was abandoned because of lack of evidence.”

“What was the official verdict?” Holmes enquired.

“It came to be believed that Elizabeth Hibberdson had grown weary of her situation here and left to make a new start in life. There was once some talk of her being seen as far away as Bristol, but the description was so vague that no one took it seriously.”

“Most interesting. If I may trouble you once more, pray tell me about this man Albert Ridden.”

Mr. Sternwell lay back on well-stuffed cushions, as if the effort of these revelations had been too much for him. “In truth, I have never met the man, so I can say little other than what is considered common knowledge.”

“Nevertheless, please continue.”

“According to local gossip, he was always something of a tearaway. Elizabeth Hibberdson was not his first conquest by far. At the time, he was employed as a laborer at Elleston Farm, five miles or so north of the village, but he suffered some sort of injury and now lives in the alms houses along Cardinal Way. I think there is no more that I can tell you, Mr. Holmes. As I said, I have never set eyes on Ridden.”

“Again, my thanks to you, sir,” my friend said. “You have been of immense help, after all.”

* * *

Having taken our leave, we set off down the hill. By the time we regained the inn, we had become breathless and a little weary. The landlord had already begun to serve luncheon and I had no hesitation in ordering a portion of what turned out to be an excellent fish pie, while Holmes would take only a small amount of bread and cheese.

We were surprised when the landlord served wine.

“My good sir, we did not order this,” Holmes remarked.

“It was delivered by a boy who is not known to me,” the fellow replied. He searched in a pocket of his apron. “It was accompanied by this card.”

My friend glanced at it before showing it to me: From a grateful client.

“From Mr. Truegrace and his sister,” I concluded.

“I think not. At no time did we inform them as to where we are staying.”

“Who, then?”

Holmes scrutinized the bottle carefully, before pouring some of the contents into a glass. He swirled the liquid around. Smelled it and observed the sheen that had formed upon the surface.

“Landlord, there has been some negligence here. This wine, I can tell you for a certainty, was exposed to the air too soon. Pray dispose of it, but on no account let anyone drink, since the result would doubtlessly be a severe illness of the stomach.”

The astonished man removed the bottle and glasses and withdrew.

“A pity, Holmes,” I said. “A glass would have been welcome, before we set out.”

He glanced at me with an amused expression. “I doubt you would have enjoyed it for long, Watson. I wished to avoid alarming our friend the landlord, but unless I’m much mistaken it was laced with a deadly poison, probably some easily dissolved alkaloid.”

“Good heavens! Who would do this?”

“We will discover that soon, I think.”

Afterwards, my friend again consulted the landlord regarding local knowledge, to discover that Cardinal Way was within easy walking distance. We set off shortly after receiving directions.

“It is the next street on the right,” I said as we strode past the Post Office, “if the landlord is to be relied upon.”

“I have no doubt that he is,” Holmes replied, “for I can see the sign already.”

“Why are we seeking out this man Ridden? What has he to do with the vision experienced by Miss Anna Truegrace?”

“Unless I’m mistaken, this case has taken a different path, quite unlike its apparent nature at the outset. At the root of it is a very real crime.”

He said no more until we were confronted by a row of identical brick-terraced houses, in a long and narrow street. These, I knew, were inhabited by people who were, for various reasons, unable to support themselves. They were maintained by charitable donations, and tenants were expected to do what work they were able towards their upkeep.

Holmes rapped upon the first door with his cane. He bowed courteously to the elderly lady who answered his summons and asked if she knew the address of Albert Ridden. She nodded and pointed further along the street, giving elaborate directions. He thanked her and we continued for perhaps fifty yards until we came upon a wide arch which we entered. After a sloping path with high walls, we found ourselves in an enclosure. I saw a small patch of ground to the right, evidently used for growing vegetables, with a small brick structure nearer to the path. Its door hung open to reveal a deep copper bowl set atop a low wall, which I presumed was for the communal washing of clothes. To our left were three houses, two with drawn curtains, and no sign of life. Holmes approached the third and again rapped with his cane.

At first there was no response, and Holmes was about to repeat his action when we heard trudging footsteps from within. The door opened, barely an inch.

“Who is it?” A hoarse voice, no more than a whisper.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. My friend is Doctor John Watson.”

“What do you want?”

“I am a consulting detective. I wish to speak to you concerning Mrs. Elizabeth Hibberdson.”

A long silence intervened, and then a breathless croak. “She is gone.”

“That is why I’m here.”

“She disappeared. No one knows where.”

Holmes paused, as if deciding how to proceed. Then: “My investigation has brought me close to discovering the truth. I’m hoping you will assist me.”

“That is unlikely. What can I tell you?”

Mr. Ridden, let me make it clear that I know what transpired between you and this lady. I’m not here to judge you or Mrs. Hibberdson, only to bring her murderer to justice.”

The door opened a few inches wider. “You are certain that she was murdered, then?”

“I’m in no doubt of it.”

There was silence again for some moments, before a faint murmur. “You had better come in.”

The door swung fully open and the meagre light from within framed a slightly stooped figure. As we entered, the man’s features were revealed to us and I sensed Holmes grow tense, as I fought to prevent myself from recoiling with horror and revulsion.

Mr. Ridden’s face was distorted. Along the left side of his head was a wrinkled brown patch that ran from above the ear, past the jawbone, and across part of the throat. The affected eye seemed to be set deeper than its companion, and was covered with a milky sheen. I understood at once his reason for living behind closed curtains: He wished to spare the world from the sight of him.

“We will not disturb you for long,” Holmes assured him.

Mr. Ridden gestured that we should all sit down on the worn armchairs. “That is unimportant, sirs. I see few people these days. If I can throw any light on the fate of Elizabeth, I will be pleased to do so.”

“You no longer work at Elleston farm,” I presumed, “because of your injuries?”

He shook his head. “I cannot work, although God knows I have tried. What you see of me is but part of the burden I bear, for I’m in constant pain and cannot abide the pity or the gaze of others.”

“I’m truly sorry for you predicament. We were not aware of it.”

“This is my punishment, my judgement for taking the wife of another man, despicable though he is. You say you know of my friendship with Elizabeth as, I dare say, do many others by now. None of it would ever have happened had not Fyffe Hibberdson driven her away with his cruelty. His appearance does not betray it, but that man is a monster. I saw the marks of his excesses on her flesh and heard the pain in her voice, many times. The condition I’m in now was brought about by a fellow who concealed his face behind a mask as he splashed me with vitriol. I have always suspected that this was Hibbertson’s revenge, taken personally or by means of an agent, but I cannot prove it. Even if I could, his position in the community and my poverty would keep the case from the courts.” He lowered his head, lost for a moment in recollection and regret. “But I digress. Please ask what you will.”

“You have already answered most of my questions by means of your most interesting narrative,” said Holmes. “But there is one more issue on which I remain uncertain.”

Mr. Ridden leaned forward to catch my friend’s enquiry, then squirmed at the painful result of his movement. “I’m at your disposal.”

“Please do think I am making light of this, when I ask: What was the color of Mrs. Hibberdson’s hair?”

Astonishment crossed the disfigured face, but the answer was immediately forthcoming. “Why, Elizabeth had long tresses of a rich brown luster.”

Holmes rose from his chair and I followed.

“That is all I wish to know. My thanks to you, sir. And I apologize again for the intrusion.”

* * *

Holmes said nothing until we had left Cardinal Way. “We will take the long route back to the inn, I think. The exercise will be beneficial as I review my findings.”

“I cannot help but feel sorry for that poor fellow, Holmes. He has paid a terrible price for his indiscretion.”

“And continues to do so, since he now has little choice but to live the life of a hermit.”

“You are sure that Mrs. Hibberdson was murdered, and did not simply flee from her husband’s cruelty?”

“Yes. It seems certain that she and Mr. Ridden had come to have considerable affection for each other. I cannot imagine her leaving the village without asking him to accompany her, or at least informing him of her destination.”

Little else was said between us until we reached the inn. Because of our longer walk, it was now almost time for dinner. At my friend’s suggestion, we each enjoyed a pint of good ale as the landlord and his wife made their preparations, and then sat down to a meal of braised steak. For once, Holmes ate with relish.

“Your appetite has improved,” I observed. “A sure and certain sign that you have arrived at the solution of a case.”

“I had not realized that I’m so predictable, Watson,” he smiled. “But you are not quite correct. There is a final piece to be fitted to the puzzle, and then my case will be complete.”

“That is for tomorrow, then?”

“Not at all. What do you say to another, but much shorter, walk after dinner? If I’m right about what I expect to see, this affair will be cleared up before mid-day tomorrow, and when we will be on the late morning train to London.”

When our plates had been cleared away, I indulged myself with a thick slice of the landlord’s wife’s apple pie, while Holmes looked on with some amusement as he sipped a cup of strong coffee. At the moment I finished my own coffee, he got to his feet and we emerged into the street as the light faded.

Holmes was as good as his word. The work was indeed short, to the extent that we passed but a few shops and paused outside the closed establishment of Mr. Fyffe Hibberdson. Holmes bent to peer at something displayed in the window and turned abruptly.

“That is sufficient. If you wish, Watson, we can now return to the inn to sit and reminisce about our past experiences together over a glass of brandy. I’m quite sure that you will derive something to over-dramatize and add to your journals.

I was surprised that our excursion was of such short duration, but the opportunity to discuss our previous adventures was a rarity with Holmes. I readily agreed to his suggestion and we retraced our steps.

“You are now satisfied then, that you have solved this curious affair?”

“It is now all clear to me,” was all that he would say.

* * *

Holmes entered the inn as I sat down to breakfast, seating himself opposite me as I awaited the landlord’s attention.

“There is a slight tinge of color in your face, Holmes. Clearly, you have enjoyed a bracing walk.”

“I have been to the local police station to see Inspector Carew, who seems to be a most agreeable fellow. Doubtless, we will see something of him later.”

I was served a hearty meal, and Holmes contented himself with coffee and a single slice of toast. Already I had noticed the glitter of anticipation in his eyes, which betrayed his eagerness to savor the last act of this affair and bring it to a successful conclusion. Indeed, I had hardly consumed the final mouthful of food before he rose abruptly.

“Come, Watson, let us complete our work here.”

I stood up and hesitated. “There is much about this that I fail to understand. Before we proceed, perhaps you could enlighten me.”

“I have come to realize that there is much that I, myself, failed to comprehend at its beginning, but all is now plain to me. As for explanations, see what you can make of this morning’s activity and I will furnish a full account as we return to Baker Street.”

I knew that he would say nothing more until then, so I followed him out into the morning sunshine. We walked the short distance to the office of the solicitors, Craven and Hibberdson, and paused before entering.

“You are armed, I take it?” my friend whispered.

“My service revolver is never far from me.”

“Excellent.”

He pushed open the door, to reveal Mr. Fyffe Hibberdson speaking to a young woman, presumably his secretary.

“Mr. Holmes. Doctor Watson!” His surprise was evident, and a hint of wariness crept into his face. “I had not expected to see you again. Is there something new?”

“We have made some progress,” said Holmes. “But one question remains before we return to London.”

Mr. Hibberdson said something to the young woman, who nodded. He gave us a suspicious glance before ushering us into his office.

When we were all seated, he looked at us uncertainly. His weather-beaten face held a rather fixed smile.

“And so, Mr. Holmes, you have reached the end of your investigation. May I ask, have you achieved your objective?”

“It would be more accurate, I think, to say that events took an unexpected turn. As I said, one aspect is still unresolved.”

Mr. Hibberdson nodded. “It is something that you believe I’m able to assist with, or you would not be here.”

“It is indeed.”

“Then what is it, pray?”

Holmes stood up quickly. “We wish to know where you have hidden your wife’s body.”

All expression left Mr. Hibberdson’s face, and as he rose from his chair his breathing became labored. A stray lock of grey hair fell across his forehead.

“What do you mean?” he stammered.

“Pretense is useless. We know all.”

Fury crossed Mr. Hibberdson’s face then, and desperation. He quickly pulled out a drawer and produced a pistol, which he lowered immediately as he saw that my own was pointed at his heart. He dropped his weapon and slumped into his seat, leaning across his desk with his head in his hands.

“I was desperate,” he looked up at us for understanding or sympathy, and found none. “My wife had taken up with another man, a filthy farm worker.”

“She found your cruelty repugnant,” I told him.

“A small measure of the whip now and then does no harm, but reminds a woman of her place. I’m not an evil man, gentlemen.”

Holmes fixed him with a steely stare. “Then it would be interesting to hear your explanation as to why you lay in wait for us as we returned from the Truegrace’s residence. I was aware that we were followed as we left, but not that it was by yourself. The sun glinted on the barrel of your pistol, but the passing of several vehicles obscured your line of fire. Subsequently, you attempted to murder Doctor Watson and myself by sending poisoned wine to the inn.”

Hibberdson hammered on his desk with his fists, completely distraught now. “Do you not see? I had to protect myself! I knew of your reputation, and it was certain that you would soon uncover what I had so carefully concealed. The risk was too great.”

I let my eyes stray to a portrait above him. A stern figure, possibly the late Mr. Craven, looked down.

“And it was you, of course, who disfigured Mr. Ridden?”

“I could not bear to think of him escaping unscathed after affecting my life so.”

“I ask you again,” Holmes said harshly, “where is the body of Elizabeth Hibberdson?”

Hibbersdon went very still. “She is at the bottom of Merren Lake, near the county border,” he said in a quiet voice. “I could bear the humiliation she brought upon me no longer.”

“Your confession solves an old mystery,” said the tall sharp-faced man who had quietly entered the room. “I must now ask you to accompany me to Grovell Police Station, where you will be formally charged.”

“Ah, Inspector Carew,” Holmes said lightly, “arriving exactly as we arranged. I trust that what you have just witnessed, together with the full report I supplied earlier, will suffice for your purposes?”

The inspector smiled briefly, the expression appearing out of place on that harsh countenance, before replying. “It will be more than adequate, I am sure. My thanks to you and Doctor Watson for your timely assistance on this unsolved case.”

My friend, looking away from Hibberdson, inclined his head in acknowledgement. “We are pleased to have been of service.” He consulted his pocket-watch. “But now I see that we scarcely have time to return to Worcester for the morning train. We wish you good morning, Inspector.”

* * *

We departed after sending a short message to your clients, as Holmes felt that there was no need to explain in person. The return journey was without mention of the case. As was sometimes his custom, Sherlock Holmes expounded on several unrelated subjects, so that my frustration had reached unbearable heights by the time we were but a few miles from London.

I turned from the window, as the train plunged into the heavy fog that had quickly settled. “Holmes, I must say that you surprised me by taking the brother and sister Truegrace seriously.”

“I wondered whether you would be able to restrain your curiosity as far as Baker Street,” he laughed. “I found it amusing to watch your expressions as I spoke of other things.”

“Am I so obvious?”

“Not always, old fellow, and never, I would think, to the untrained eye.”

“Thank you for your reassurance. Perhaps you will now furnish me with an explanation.”

The train came to a halt at the last rural station before approaching the capital. On the single platform, passengers and porters moved about like grey ghosts. The fog showed no signs of lifting.

“You were surprised that I agreed to take the case, because of my aversion to the belief in the supernatural,” he began. “In fact, I started with the assumption that no such thing was involved here. At first I thought, quite wrongly, that there was something sinister about the predicted demise of the maid, and that either or both of the Truegraces were somehow responsible. I was only certain of the identity of the murderer of Mrs. Hibberson when I saw the injuries inflicted on Mr. Albert Ridden.”

As the train began to move again, I thought about this. “I can see no connection.”

“That is because you failed to notice the old burns on Hibberdson’s hands when we first encountered him. They meant nothing to me at the time, but on seeing the vitriol burns on Mr. Ridden, it became apparent that Hibberdson had accidentally spilled some on himself as he transferred the chemical from a large container to a portable-sized jar. At the same time, a possibility occurred to me. What if this vision of Miss Truegrace’s were not of herself and her brother, but of two other people? I then asked myself who else it could have been, and recalled that we had learned of the disappearance of Hibberdson’s wife after many violent clashes with her husband. I then looked for similarities between Miss Truegrace and Mrs. Hibberdson—you will recall my asking Mr. Ridden about the color of Mrs. Hibberdson’s hair—and discovered that my theory was sound.”

I could follow his reasoning, but detected a flaw.

“Holmes, are you forgetting that the woman in the vision actually named her murderer?”

“That was the final confirmation. You will recall our short walk, last evening?”

I nodded. “As far as Hibberdson’s office.”

“Precisely. Displayed in the window was his certificate of qualification to practice in the legal profession. It bore the name ‘Fyffe Jonathan Peter Cedric Hibberdson’.”

Suddenly, it was all clear to me. “So Hibberdson also had the name ‘Cedric’, as did Mr. Truegrace.”

“I doubted our client’s guilt when I saw the genuine fear in the sister’s eyes, and the hurt at being thought of as a likely murderer in those of her brother. That something was amiss was a certainty, and curiosity impelled me to investigate.”

“But none of this,” I observed with a curious satisfaction, “explains the vision of Miss Anna Truegrace. Since it was that which led to this affair, may I take it that you now acknowledge such occurrences as reality?”

The train slid to a gentle halt at Paddington Station and passengers, soon made indistinct by the smoke from the engine and the fog, streamed out onto the platform. My friend rose steadily, retrieving his bag and handing mine to me.

“No,” he said then. “The supernatural, if it exists, remains as much a mystery as ever. But you can take it, Watson, that I am truly amazed when new capabilities of the infinitely complicated human mind reveal themselves.”